Of all those in the army close to the commander, none is more intimate than the secret agent.
Sun Tzu, The Art of War
For Anaïs, the evening at the Vicomte de Lezennes’ began as a strained affair, and did not much improve.
Geoff arrived home just in time to dress and go across the street after a fruitless trip to Mechelen to find a man who apparently did not wish to be found. Based on what little she could learn amidst his scowls and grumbling, Anaïs concluded he and Petit had been taken on a merry chase, in the end learning little save for the whereabouts of all the back lanes between Brussels and Mechelen.
At Lezennes’ they were received warmly by Charlotte and with overpolished charm by the vicomte. Throughout the first half of dinner neither gentleman said a great deal, leaving Anaïs to lead the conversation. Lezennes did not seem to mind, choosing instead to lavish an almost cold, relentless attention on Charlotte.
Anaïs did her best to be witty and flirtatious, albeit in a lighthearted, almost silly way. It seemed to smooth the evening, by the time the last course was removed, she had succeeded in deflecting some of the attention from Charlotte, thereby allowing their hostess to relax and make light conversation with Geoff.
Afterward, Lezennes declined the bottle of whisky Geoff had brought, suggesting that perhaps they should accompany the ladies into the salon for cards.
Geoff was happy to oblige him.
“Shall we play bouillotte?” Charlotte proposed, taking out the deck.
“Oh, I’m afraid I do not know that game,” Anaïs lied.
“Just a rubber of whist will do,” said the vicomte in a blasé voice. “That is what the English prefer, n’est-ce pas?”
Anaïs caught Lezennes’ arm, and insisted they partner—which they would likely have done in any case. But the move coaxed a doting smile from the vicomte, and she proceeded to play like a featherbrain amidst a vast deal of giggling—and a little more flirting. Geoff, however, merely got quieter, his eyes colder.
They were ten tricks into the last hand when Charlotte raised the topic of their holiday. “And you will never guess, Anaïs, what Lezennes has planned for Giselle!”
Seated at the card table, Anaïs tossed down a deuce by way of a sacrifice.
“No, no, Charlotte, I am sure I cannot,” she replied, cutting a deliberately warm glance at Lezennes. “Something splendid, I am sure, given the gentleman’s exquisite taste.”
“Splendid, indeed,” said Charlotte as Lezennes trumped the hand, snapping down his card victoriously. “He has taken a beautiful cottage by the sea for a whole fortnight—just for the three of us.”
Anaïs tried to hide her alarm. “How lovely,” she said, turning to Geoff, who sat at her elbow. “Perhaps we should do that, my dear, if Brussels becomes a little dull?”
“Why should Brussels be dull?” Geoff’s tone was cold, his attitude at breakfast having followed him across the street for dinner. “Brussels suits my purpose admirably. Besides, a cottage by the sea would come too dear, I am sure.”
Anaïs feigned a little pout. “Tell us, Lezennes, all about this cottage,” she said wheedlingly. “Is it quaint and charming? Shall you have sand and sea at your doorstep?”
“Yes to all those things,” said the vicomte in obvious self-satisfaction, “or so I am told. And it is a little more, Charlotte, than just a cottage. We’ve been given the loan of it by the French ambassador himself.”
“See, my dear?” Geoff interjected. “Lezennes is well-placed in the government. We may not look so high, I fear, in our amusements. You’ll have to content yourself with an afternoon stroll along the Senne.”
Lezennes laughed. Anaïs wrinkled her nose. “Charlotte, when do you go?” she asked. “I shall miss you both, for the two of you are my only friends here in Brussels.”
“The day after tomorrow.” Charlotte turned an almost brittle smile upon her benefactor. “I am so happy for Giselle. She has never really been to the seashore.”
The play was finished with Geoff taking the remaining tricks. He and Charlotte had beaten them soundly, but at Anaïs’s dithering apology, Lezennes tossed his elegant hand and said, “Oh, it scarcely matters.”
Nonetheless, the vicomte kept one eye upon Charlotte at all times, and once the cards had been put away, he suggested she might go to the pianoforte and play for them. She agreed a little shyly, and went to choose her music.
It was time, Anaïs realized. She mightn’t get another chance.
Her hand shaking a little, she reached up and removed a strategically placed pin from her hair, then edged up alongside her hostess.
“Oh, drat!” she said. “Might I trouble you, Charlotte, for a place to repin my hair? Really, I must have the silliest maid in all Christendom, for she cannot keep a curl of it in place.”
As if it were second nature, Charlotte flicked an uneasy glance at Lezennes. “Why, I daresay you might use my room,” she finally said. “It is on the next floor, the last door on your right.”
“Oh, thank you,” said Anaïs.
After exchanging a quick, knowing glance with Geoff, she started up the steps just as the opening notes of a Chopin waltz rang out.
Upstairs she went straight to Charlotte’s room, a small but comfortably fitted chamber at the back of the house. At the foot of the bed a small traveling trunk sat open, soon to be heaped with clothing, no doubt.
Moving swiftly, Anaïs shut the door, unlocked both windows—just in case—then went to the mirror to twist up her hair. In less than two minutes, she started back out into the corridor, glancing surreptitiously in both directions.
Just as she moved to pull the door behind, however, she felt a presence stirring. Someone very near. Not Lezennes, said her instincts. She breathed a sigh of relief. Just then the door across the passageway swept open to reveal a large, far more lavishly furnished chamber. A slight, well-dressed man came out.
Upon seeing her, his gait hitched, then he gave a small bow. “Bonsoir, madame,” he said before moving swiftly past her and up the next flight of stairs.
Lezennes’ valet. It had to be. He had the downcast gaze and quick step of a much-harried servant. Still, his eyes had been furtive, and Anaïs trusted no one.
When his steps had faded, she drew a deep breath, willing her nerves to settle, then hurried about her business.
The first door she opened was a sort of maid’s pantry filled with linen and housekeeping supplies. The next was a small, obviously unoccupied bedchamber. Thwarted, Anaïs looked up and down the passageway, trying to figure where she’d gone wrong. Petit had been sure Giselle’s room fronted the house.
Beyond the staircase the corridor made a sharp turn. There had to be another room, but the corner would make it far harder to hear anyone’s approach.
Downstairs, Chopin still tinkled from Lezennes’ piano keys. Surely no more than three minutes had passed. With a quick glance at the stairs, Anaïs passed them by and turned the corner. There was but one door beyond. Swiftly she opened it.
It was a small, narrow room. Giselle lay curled in a tiny wrought-iron bed to the left of the single window. A lamp burned low near the sill, and on the opposite side an upholstered chair held a basket of darning. One sock lay across the arm, as if someone had just walked away for a moment.
It would be just like Lezennes to never leave the child alone, Anaïs realized.
Peeking behind the door, she indeed saw another bed, this one not much larger than the child’s. She shut the door, drew aside the drapery to unfasten the window lock, then looked hurriedly around the room. A basket of toys sat near the hearth. Anaïs hastened toward it, rifling through in search of something small, soft, and well-worn.
A stuffed dog with a tattered ear and one missing eye looked promising, but it was a trifle too large for her pocket. It was just the thing, though, that a doting mother would have given her child.
Thinking quickly, Anaïs snatched it, hitched up her skirt, and stuffed it down her drawer leg such that it hung just behind the crook of her knee. Then, gingerly readjusting her garter, she secured both stocking and drawer leg as one.
But when she straightened, every hair on the back of her neck prickled.
Anaïs went perfectly still inside. Closing her eyes, she opened herself to the space around her. There was a presence. Something moving through the house. Very near. It felt . . . malevolent. And this time it was not Lezennes’ valet.
There was no point in hiding. The vicomte had seen her go up the stairs. He would search until he found her. And situated around the blind corner as she was, with only the one door . . .
Hastily she jerked a handkerchief from her pocket, and thought of the most painful thing she could bring to mind. She thought of Giovanni lying cold in his coffin in the Grand Salon at San Gimignano. Of Raphaele standing in the doorway, his hat in his hand, his brown eyes pleading.
She yanked open the door, and slumped against it. She had no more drawn breath when she was seized with a violence, and hauled into the passageway.
“Madame, how dare—”
Anaïs cut him off with a hideous, sniveling sob.
Lezennes’ words broke away, but his grip did not relent. “Nom de Dieu!” he uttered. “What are you about here?”
“Oh, my lord, do forgive me!” she whimpered into her handkerchief. “But I just slipped round for one quick peek!”
His hand fell away, but Lezennes stood so near Anaïs could feel the heat and the anger that emanated from him. “You have no business here!” he hissed. “Where is the girl?”
Anaïs widened her eyes and felt a tear leak out. “Why, she is right there, my lord!” she whimpered. “Asleep in her own dear little bed! And I did not wake her. Indeed, pull the door shut, pray, before we do so! Children must have their rest.”
A shade of red passed over Lezennes face as he reached past her. “I meant the servant girl,” he gritted, closing it.
“Why, I’m sure I do not know, sir,” Anaïs whispered. “I peeked in just this instant to have a look at the poor, wee thing, and she was quite alone.”
“And why would you do such a thing?” he demanded, his eyes narrow slits in the gloom.
Anaïs let her face go slack. “Why, as I said, I j-just wanted to see her,” she whimpered, “for the little mite does put me so in mind of my own dear Jane, and I am s-s-so afraid . . . Oh, bless me, sir! I’m so afraid I shall never have her with m-me again—!” This last was said on a sob as Anaïs clasped the handkerchief to her face again.
“Mon Dieu, madame, what can you be talking about?”
But Anaïs was trembling now. “Oh, my lord!” she whispered. “Pray do not tell my husband!”
“Your husband?” At last Lezennes was looking more irritated than angry. “What can your husband have to do with any of this?”
“Oh, it really is too terrible!” Anaïs said it witheringly, dabbing at her eyes. “He does not love her. Indeed, I really don’t think he wants her at all!”
“Who?” he demanded. “What are you babbling about?”
“I’m n-n-not babbling,” Anaïs wailed softly. “I’m talking about Jane, my lord! Did Charlotte not explain? My father arranged my marriage without telling him about Jane. And I ask you—how can I be blamed for it? How can little Jane be blamed for it? But you—oh, you have taken little Gisette in, and loved her like your own!”
“Giselle,” said Lezennes, an edge of suspicion still in his voice. “And a child, you say? How old is this child, Madame MacLachlan? Surely not so old as Giselle?”
Anaïs felt his gaze drifting over her, assessing her age. “No, Jane is just four, my lord, but her coloring—well, ’tis so very like Giselle’s.” Here, she paused to dab at her eyes. “Or perhaps my grief has made me fanciful. But Geoffrey does not miss her at all, I vow.”
She sensed Lezennes begin to relent. “Perhaps in time he will grow fond of the child.”
“Perhaps, but why can he not be more like you?” asked Anaïs. “Here you are, so very good! So kind to dear Charlotte and her little angel. Indeed, you are quite put out with me just now, but how could I be angry about that? You love Giselle. You have her best interests at heart.”
The last of the anger had fallen from his face.
Perfect timing.
Anaïs launched herself at him, and fell into his arms. “Oh, how can she be so fortunate as to have you, sir!” she whispered, throwing an arm around his neck. “What poor widow would not account herself lucky indeed to have your broad, good shoulder to lean upon?”
Lezennes let his hand snake up her spine, then gave her a perfunctory pat between the shoulder blades. “You are too kind, madame, I am sure,” he said.
Anaïs released him, giving him a generous view of décolletage as she did so. “Oh, no. I speak with a mother’s heart.”
An awkward silence settled over them. The vicomte opened his mouth as if to say something, then apparently thought better of it.
Anaïs dabbed away the last of her crocodile tears. “There, I believe I am presentable.” She managed a watery smile. “Will you show me back down, my lord?”
Lezennes offered his arm, and they fell into step with one another. “Perhaps you might explain to Charlotte how fortunate she is, Madame MacLachlan?” he suggested as they neared the bottom of the stairs. “I sometimes fear for her welfare. I am not entirely certain she understands how very hard life can be for a widow alone.”
“I shall tell her, of course, and most strongly, too.” Then Anaïs feigned a look of chagrin. “Oh, what a watering pot I am!” she whispered just beyond the drawing room doors. “I will make you think very ill of my husband, I fear. I daresay he is a very good man.”
“You daresay?” The vicomte crooked one brow as they went in, still arm in arm.
The piano music was mounting toward a crescendo now. Geoff, who was turning pages for Charlotte, glowered at her. She shot him a quick nod to let him know her mission had been accomplished, then turned back to Lezennes.
“The truth is, I hardly know him,” Anaïs quietly confessed, edging nearer so as to afford him a better peek down her bodice. “It was arranged—though once I introduced him to Jane, he turned three shades of red and I thought, truly, that he meant to call it off! What can Papa have been thinking?”
“I’m sure I do not know,” said the vicomte, his gaze warming. “Children are a blessing.”
“Just as I always say, sir!” Anaïs softly exclaimed. “Well, there’s nothing to be done about it just now. I promise never to peek at Gisette—Giselle—again if you really wish it.”
“She is delicate.” But the vicomte’s attention, Anaïs noted, was not on her face. “Giselle has a—a nervous condition. I fear I must . . .”
“Yes—?” Anaïs prompted him.
The vicomte lifted his gaze back up. “Er, insist,” he finished. “I am afraid I must insist.”
“Very well, then.” Anaïs cut him a slightly suggestive smile. “But you must promise to tempt me with some other sort of entertainment instead. Something which might distract me from my lonely plight.”
“Indeed, madame?” Speculation kindled in Lezennes’ eyes. “What did you have in mind?”
“Oh, la, sir!” she said breathlessly. “I really could not say. Perhaps you might tell me of something exciting—your life in Paris? Or some of your adventures?”
“Adventures?” he murmured.
Anaïs leaned into him. “Surely, my lord, a sophisticated gentleman such as yourself has had many adventures?”
“Bien sûr, madame.” A smile twitched at his mouth. “One or two.”
She laughed a little too loudly and again Geoff shot her a dark look. Anaïs ignored him, and reminded herself of her goals. To delay Lezennes from forcing his proposal on poor Charlotte. To convince him she was as empty-headed and harmless as possible. Perhaps if he came to trust her, she might even kindle a relationship with little Giselle, though that still seemed unlikely.
And perhaps—just perhaps—she was enjoying Geoff’s fury just a tad too much.
Anaïs did not wish to think too hard about that.
Instead, she nodded in the direction of the piano. “Well, they seem happily occupied with one another,” she said with a teasing smile. “Might we have a little stroll in your garden? I find the darkness so very . . . refreshing. You do have some smallish sort of garden, I daresay?” She knew from Petit’s reconnoitering that they did not.
Lezennes was beginning to look at her as if she were a tasty morsel. “I fear, madame, that we have none,” he murmured, pointing at a very small, plumply upholstered settee. “But why do we not sit just there, and I will tell you stories of my time in the French army?”
Anaïs widened her eyes. “The French army?” she said, drawing him toward the seat he had indicated. “Which regiment, sir? Oh, do say it was a cavalry regiment! I always say there is nothing so enjoyable for a woman as to look up and see a handsome man mounted atop . . . well, almost anything, really.”
For an instant Anaïs feared she’d played her cards too boldly. But once the shock had faded from Lezennes’ eyes, the heat returned threefold. He urged her into a chair and regaled her for a time with his war stories—a process that involved very little war and a vast deal of pomposity.
It also involved a great deal of laughter, and increasingly intimate glances.
From time to time, however, the vicomte glanced at Charlotte, too, as if measuring her reaction to his having turned his oily charm elsewhere.
But Charlotte was not looking, and by the time her long piece had ended and Geoff could excuse himself from the pianoforte, Lezennes had hold of Anaïs’s hand, and was proposing they might ride out together the following day to the village of Waterloo, near the Grand Armée’s last stand.
Anaïs was willing to bet he meant to make it no farther than an inn on the outskirts of Brussels.
Geoff, however, was willing to bet they would not go at all.
“I’m afraid it is out of the question,” he said. “I mean to go sketch the interiors of the Kapellekerk tomorrow. Perhaps we might all go together at another time.”
Anaïs shot an exasperated look at him. “But you do not need me for sketching,” she said. “And Charlotte is not interested in military things, are you, Charlotte?”
Charlotte agreed that she was not.
“But I wish you to accompany me,” said Geoff coldly. “I’m afraid I must insist.”
Anaïs managed to thrust out her bottom lip a tiny fraction, then bite it ever so slightly as she swept her lashes downward.
Lezennes reacted, his eyes warming again. But all the while, he also watched Charlotte from the corner of his eye. He was taking a malicious enjoyment in this, Anaïs realized. And if he could not make Charlotte jealous, then he expected to get—at the very least—a good tumble out of the bargain, and at little inconvenience to himself.
Anaïs was willing to offer him that—or rather, to seem as if she might.
“The hour grows late,” said Geoff, still standing. “Anaïs, get your shawl. We have kept our hosts dancing attendance on us far too long.”
After a flurry of shawls and kissed cheeks, followed by good-byes said at the front door, Anaïs and Geoff crossed the Rue de l’Escalier to their house. She could feel Geoff radiating almost unbridled anger.
Well, let him stew in it, Anaïs decided. She went up the steps, rummaging for the key in her reticule. In response, Geoff extracted his own, and shoved it roughly into the lock. “Don’t you ever pull a trick like that again,” he said, his voice cold as the grave.
“We had work to do.” She pushed past him when he opened the door. “I was getting it done.”
Anaïs went inside, and tossed her shawl onto the foyer table. Behind her, the bolt clicked shut. After that, everything was a blur. Geoff caught her shoulder, forcing her around. In a trice Anaïs found herself imprisoned against the door.
His handsome face twisted. “Damn it to hell, Anaïs,” he rasped. “Do you mean to drive me mad?”
She felt her eyes flash. “Is that even possible? I thought you were so—”
“I’ll tell you what I am,” he cut in, giving her a little shake. “I’m tired of watching you throw yourself at Lezennes. I told you not to do it. And to go off with him in a carriage—?”
“Geoff, he caught me in Giselle’s room,” she whispered. “I had to do something. Besides, I knew you would never agree to that drive, nor am I stupid enough to go. Now kindly take your hands off my arms.”
But he had no intention of that. By the faint light of the hall lamp, she could see his eyes, colder and more implacable than ever before. The weight and the width of him pressed her back against the solid slab of oak. She could smell the mix of irritation and lust rising from his skin; the scent of citrus and warm tobacco mingled with sweat, teasing at her nostrils.
She looked up, far up, and knew he was about to kiss her. And—shame of all shames—that she was not going to fight it. Not really. Not in the end.
Perhaps not even in the beginning . . .
Slanting her head ever so slightly, she let her lashes drop half shut, and heard him curse softly beneath his breath.
Geoff watched Anaïs’s long black lashes fan across her cheeks and felt himself fall a little deeper. Fear and frustration and desire run rampant still warred inside him. Shoving his fingers into the soft hair at her nape, he stilled her to his kiss, his tongue sliding deep, invading her.
Anaïs opened to him, and made a low, soft sound in the back of her throat. Dimly, he heard a hairpin strike the floor. Geoff eased his hand beneath her hip and did not hold back. He felt incapable of it. He needed her to understand that she was his.
They parried kisses as they had parried blades, taunting and a little dangerous. Tongues slid like warm silk round one other. And when it seemed as if the swell of passion might drown him, Geoff lifted his mouth to slide his lips down her throat. Whispering her name, he nipped and tasted, then trailed his tongue across the sweet throb of her pulse point.
“Anaïs,” he murmured against her skin. “Oh, love, ’tis too late.”
“Too . . . late?”
“We can’t escape it, this thing between us.”
His cock was pressed into the softness of her belly, hard and insistent. It was as if he were someone hot and crazed, not cool and dispassionate. He burned for this woman; wanted her as he had wanted nothing in his life. Watching her tonight—watching Lezennes ogle her—it had maddened him. For surely a man was mad to do this.
Nuzzling his face into the turn of her neck, he skated his hand upward to weigh the soft orb of her breast. Anaïs gasped. Geoff caught the ruched edge of her décolletage with his thumb. He dragged it down until the lush mound was free to be tasted.
After that, everything happened in a lust-fueled rush.
Still holding her prisoner with his body, he took her nipple into his mouth. He suckled deeply, then slid the tip of his tongue back and forth over the resultant peak. On a soft cry, her head fell back against the door.
Madness, yes. Roughly he fisted up her skirts. Now. It had to be now.
Later he was unable to recall that moment when he had released himself. He knew only one need; the need to be inside her. The fact that a bed was little more than a staircase away—that a servant might come upon them at any moment—none of this came to mind. He knew only the fierce, dark desire to thrust. To lay claim to her. To spill himself deep inside.
He didn’t ask permission. He found the slit in her drawers. Pressing his fingers into her wetness, he felt his entire body tremble. “Leg—” he rasped. “Put it—ah—”
And then he was pushing himself deep inside her, scarcely realizing how it had come to be.
Oh, he had done this before—a quick, furtive coupling stolen at some opportune moment, with a woman who knew what she was doing. But burning in the back of his consciousness was the fact that this was Anaïs.
Anaïs, who deserved better. The woman he was falling heart over head in love with.
And still he could not stop.
He was not sure Anaïs wanted him to.
“Aah,” she sighed. “Yes . . .”
He held her perfectly balanced, his hand cupped beneath the swell of her bottom, her spine set to the door. Anaïs had curled one leg about him, lifting herself eagerly. In his arms she felt no more than a feather, as if she were a part of him. As if this was something perfect, instead of something tawdry.
He lifted her another increment and shoved his entire length into her warmth. She was slick with need, her passage tightening against the invasion, and he thought at that moment he might explode. He thrust and thrust again, impaling her against the door, Anaïs’s breath ratcheting up with his every stroke.
Her lashes were nearly closed, her mouth slightly parted. “Yes,” she whispered. “Like that—Geoff, oh—don’t stop . . .”
Her climax came swiftly, in the heat and rush of the moment. Geoff felt the release shudder through her, watched in delight as her head fell back against the door, and her lovely throat worked up and down. Around his cock, she pulsed and tightened, her leg curling hard about his hips as she urged herself against him.
He felt his release surge forth, pumping into her stroke after stroke, the pleasure like the parting of the heavens. As if he were being drawn body and soul into that glorious white light.
Long moments later he became dimly aware of a sound. The doleful tock-tock-tock of the longcase clock at the turn of the stairs. He still held Anaïs to him, bound chest to chest in his arms, their foreheads damp and lightly touching.
“Geoff?” She fell back against the door, gasping for breath. “Are you . . . finished?”
“Hell, no,” he growled. “Not by a long shot.”