1820
London
Angelique Martand did not particularly enjoy being a spy.
It was a distasteful job, often dirty and dangerous, and at times she feared it would leave a stain on her soul that might never wash away. But it was also a necessary job, and someone must do it, for the good of the entire country. The fact that Angelique was exceptionally good at it merely made for a convenient—and enriching—coincidence.
Still, the envelope on her breakfast tray this fine late summer morning was unwelcome. She knew what it meant, that plain envelope addressed in a nondescript hand. Her employer, John Stafford, Chief Clerk of Bow Street Magistrates Court and Home Office spymaster, had a new assignment for her.
She considered ignoring it, pretending the post had gone astray and she had never received it. She toyed with this idea while she breakfasted, letting the envelope lie where the maid had left it on the tray. She did answer Stafford’s summonses of her own volition, after all, and no one could make her answer this one. The man who had sent it would never dare approach her more directly than this, and if she did not respond, he would have to find someone else. Someone who did not mind being sent off dangerously ignorant of the true purpose of her assignment. Someone who did not mind risking her life to conceal a petty bureaucrat’s thieving ways, or the disgrace of a well-respected lord plotting to kill the king, or the embarrassment of a high-ranking army officer at the hands of a blackmailer. Someone, in short, who didn’t mind being used by those in power to protect themselves.
Angelique sipped her tea and let her eyes wander about the bedchamber. It was a lovely room in a lovely house, if she did say so herself, simple but elegant, and it was all hers—thanks to Stafford. However disagreeable the tasks he gave her, the man paid her well. If only she hadn’t caught him lying to her. What was the point of that? She knew he dealt in underhanded, shady activities. But he had lied to her, and she wasn’t eager to chance it again.
Cursing silently, she opened the envelope and read the single line inside: Half past eleven, this morning.
She flung off the coverlet and got out of bed. “Lisette,” she called. “The green striped walking dress today.”
Her maid bustled into the room a moment later, the green dress over her arm. “Oui, madame. Shall I send for a carriage?”
Angelique walked to the window and pulled back the curtain. The fresh morning breeze blew her nightdress flat against her belly, and she raised her arms over her head, savoring the feel of the fine lawn against her skin. She hadn’t worked for over two months, and had become used to lazy days spent on pursuits of her own whim. That must be part of the reason she was so reluctant to go into the city and see Stafford. “I suppose,” she said, answering Lisette’s query.
“You are not anxious to see him?” Lisette clucked under her breath and answered her own question. “Of course not. Who would be pleased to wait on the devil?”
Angelique smiled. “Pleased? No. Satisfied?” She paused. “Perhaps.”
The maid raised her brows but said nothing. Lisette was more than a mere maid; unlike the other servants, she knew precisely what her mistress was. She accompanied Angelique on many assignments, helping with disguises, cooking when necessary, binding wounds, and even spying a bit herself among other servants. She was invaluable, both as a lady’s maid and as a spy’s servant.
Angelique washed, then sat before the dressing table. Lisette picked up the brush and began pulling it through her hair. Angelique gazed into the mirror and watched the maid arrange her long hair into a fashionable twist. She smiled wryly at the dark humor of dressing like a lady when she was anything but; why, Stafford might be planning to send her out posing as a whore this time.
Then she stopped smiling, and leaned closer to the mirror, ignoring Lisette’s impatient exclamation as a thick lock of hair fell out of place. Gently she touched the skin at the corners of her eyes and between her brows. The faint lines there didn’t go away, and when she frowned, they grew deeper and more pronounced.
“Madame?” asked Lisette curiously.
She sat back. “Wrinkles,” she announced. “I am growing old.”
“It is better than not growing old.” Lisette shrugged, twisting the loose hair back into the heavy mass. “I speak from experience.”
Angelique smiled reluctantly. Lisette was probably old enough to be her mother, and looked it. What she said was true enough, particularly to someone in Angelique’s profession. Besides, she was getting old. In less than two years’ time, she would be thirty. “That does not mean I must enjoy it.” Lisette laughed. “He is making me old before my time,” she added on a sigh.
“There’s no doubt of that, Madame,” the maid replied. “’Tis a hard life. You would be well quit of it, and him.” Lisette never called Stafford anything but the devil or him, as if his very name left a bad taste in her mouth.
“Indeed.” Hair coifed, Angelique rose from the table. As she dressed, each layer of clothing tugged and smoothed into place by Lisette’s capable hands, she studied herself in the mirror with critical eyes. There was a scar on the inside of her arm from one of her first spying missions, pale but noticeable. The burn scar on her shin was more prominent, but it lay hidden under stockings and skirts. The little finger of her left hand had been broken once and healed just shy of straight, also in Stafford’s service. Her figure was still slim and her muscles still strong—stronger than the average woman’s—but Angelique began to feel old and tired. Or rather, she sensed it coming, and was suddenly more keenly aware of the passing of time.
She thought about it as the hired carriage drove her into the heart of the city, where John Stafford kept his office. She felt no tension, no anxiety, no exhilaration about whatever he might present to her. That was new. Once, a summons from him would have made her heart pound and her blood surge. It was both terrifying and thrilling to be sent off on a dangerous assignment, although the terror had waned as she grew more skilled and practiced. But now the exhilaration was gone as well.
Perhaps more than anything, that meant it was time to consider retirement. A bored or distracted spy was not long for this world, and she preferred to die on her own terms, hopefully in her own bed at a date in the distant future.
The carriage halted near the busy market in Covent Garden. She stepped down and tipped her driver generously, then walked the short distance to Bow Street. Near the Magistrates Court, she turned down an alley, walking to a plain door that looked like the entrance to the coal bin. She pulled a key from her reticule and put it in the lock, and the door opened on remarkably well-oiled hinges.
She locked the door behind her and went down the hall, her footsteps echoing off the blank walls. Stafford’s office was not back here, in this narrow passage with unmarked doors every few feet. Stafford’s deputy, Mr. Phipps, popped out of one of them as she walked past, on her way to the larger, brighter office upstairs.
“He’s been expecting you,” Phipps said, trotting at her heels.
“Has he?” she replied without looking at him. She didn’t care for Phipps, who never risked his own neck but fancied himself better than all the agents put together, and most especially better than she. Once he had scolded her for being seen breaking into the home of a suspected French spy, causing an uproar among the neighbors that alerted the man to their interest. Phipps had sneeringly suggested her sex was the reason she had been so careless. Angelique had simply smiled and offered to break into his home without being seen, promising that he would know she had been there by the knife she would leave in his throat. Ever since, Phipps had been like a dog growling at her from the shadows, always waiting for her to make another mistake. He hated her for not having done so, and she hated him for watching for it.
“All morning,” he informed her maliciously. “Now he’s tied up with a foreign visitor.”
“And yet I am here when he requested.” She climbed the stairs, and Phipps puffed his way up behind her.
“I’ll let him know you’re waiting.”
Angelique stopped in front of Stafford’s private office. She made no reply, just gave Phipps a pointed look. Although she wasn’t tall, her eyes were on a level with his as he stooped slightly to hold the stitch in his side. His pale gaze held hers a moment, then flickered down over her figure in palpable contempt.
What a pathetic little man he was. She knew he thought she was Stafford’s favorite agent only because she must be lifting her skirt for him. As if that were the only way a female could be useful. Angelique thought of the many impossible tasks she had completed for Stafford, several without Phipps’s knowledge, and wanted to laugh. For a man who thought she was incompetent, Phipps was remarkably chary of her.
She waited until he looked her in the face again. “If he wished to see me earlier or later, he should have said so in his note,” she said with acid politeness. “As it is, he will be glad to see me at all, since I do not sit downstairs and await his pleasure.” As you do.
Phipps’s mouth flattened sullenly. He knew she was right, and he hated her for that as well. Without another word he turned on his heel and walked away. She sniffed at his departing back, then rapped twice on the door. A voice called out at once to enter.
It was a large office, but furnished as plainly as a clerk’s might be. Bookcases lined two walls, and hard wooden chairs a third. Sunlight streamed through the two high windows onto the scuffed floor and cluttered desk, glittering on a small stack of coins and a thin stiletto dagger. There was something very English about Stafford’s utter disregard for any concealment of his activities.
At her entrance, he rose from his desk and bowed his head. She nodded back and waited. There was another man, also rising from his chair, but she only paid him enough attention to note his presence.
“Good morning,” said Stafford with a thin smile. “Thank you for coming.” He held out one hand. “May I introduce Mr. Nathaniel Avery. Mr. Avery, this is Madame Martand.”
“Good day.” She curtsied as the other man bowed. Again she barely glanced at him; he was hardly worthy of note, moderately tall and lanky with untidy brown hair, unexceptional features, and plain, serviceable clothing. She half expected him to excuse himself, or for Stafford to murmur a pardon and escort him out, but neither happened. He must be related to whatever Stafford wanted to present to her, then. Stafford gestured toward a chair, and she seated herself.
“I have an assignment of some diplomatic delicacy. Mr. Avery”—Stafford inclined his head politely at the other man—“is in England to find a man who has defrauded his government. You are to help him find this man, so that he may recover any funds remaining.”
She pursed her lips and said nothing. Stafford gave her a gleaming glance across the desk before turning to Avery. “Madame Martand is most capable.”
“No doubt, no doubt,” murmured Avery.
American, she guessed from his accent, and not pleased to be presented with a woman. She had certainly heard that dry, doubtful tone enough times to recognize it now. She didn’t move or change her expression, but instinctively her regard for Mr. Avery dropped the few levels it had achieved to begin with.
Stafford must have heard it, too, for he smiled in his chilly way. She knew he was savoring the joke. No one ever expected her to be any good at what she did. “Perhaps you would relate your information about Mr. Dixon’s actions for her benefit.”
Avery shifted on his chair. “Er … yes.” He cleared his throat. “Jacob Dixon served for several years as the deputy to the Collector of the Port of New York, responsible for collecting tariffs on goods arriving from abroad. Mr. Dixon had charge of the bookkeeping of the Port, and therefore of all the funds. Just a few months ago he abruptly gave notice and returned to his native England. Shortly after his departure, a sizable amount of money was discovered missing from the port accounts. An examination of the books left little doubt that Dixon is responsible for its disappearance. I’m here on behalf of my government to recover as much money as remains, and to take Mr. Dixon back to New York for trial.”
Angelique raised one eyebrow at Stafford. He met her gaze with a placid look, his eyes opaque and calm, just a clerk going about his business. She knew better. Chasing down a common embezzler? He wouldn’t send her on so ordinary an assignment. There must be something more to this, and her reluctance of that morning returned in full.
She glanced at the American. His expression was unhappy, his posture stiff. “You are certain this man is in London?”
He started, as if he hadn’t expected her to speak, and turned to her. He had shockingly green eyes, but answered with a hint of indignity. “We most certainly are.”
“Then why do you not simply apprehend him?” She widened her eyes innocently. “Send a pair of constables around to his lodging and arrest him, then retrieve your money.”
“It’s not that simple, Madame,” said Avery in the condescending tone she hated. “We are not just after a chest of coins.”
“Perhaps it’s not that simple, but that is, in essence, your object,” Stafford broke in. “Locate Mr. Dixon without betraying your true intent. He may well flee with his ill-gotten gains, or leave them so well hidden the funds may never be recovered. We hope to take him unawares. Seduce the information from him, if you will, before he suspects he has caught our attention.”
Angelique made a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat. This sounded tedious—suspiciously so. The word “no” was poised on her tongue, ready to fall as soon as politely possible. The moment the American left, if not sooner.
“If Mr. Avery’s information is correct, Mr. Dixon may be looking to establish himself in English society using his stolen fortune. You and Mr. Avery will work together to find him. He alone knows what Mr. Dixon looks like, and he alone will know the particulars of the misappropriated funds.” He nodded politely at the American, although Angelique didn’t miss the wry twist of his mouth as he did so.
That was interesting; Stafford must have wanted to know more, and been rebuffed. Perhaps this Avery fellow wasn’t quite as simple as he appeared.
It wouldn’t make her work with him, though.
She clasped her hands in her lap and assumed an expression of pained regret. “I do not think my talents are suited to this task. I am certain—”
“We must act quickly before Mr. Dixon has a chance to disappear into the country,” went on Stafford over her words, as if she hadn’t spoken. “His family comes originally from Essex, although Mr. Avery believes there are no members remaining there. The sooner he is found, the better.” The spymaster’s eyes flashed at her.
Angelique sat like a stone, her face a smooth mask. He had heard her begin to protest; he knew she would refuse. For some reason he was carrying on as if it were otherwise, which portended nothing good. She sat in tense silence and waited.
“You shall be man and wife. Mr. Avery, a wealthy American looking for investors. You, his discontented wife.” Stafford’s gaze darted from one to the other. “Between the two of you, one should be able to discover Dixon’s location and loosen his tongue.”
Angelique loosened her own tongue. “No.”
Unperturbed, Stafford rose. “Mr. Avery, would you be so kind as to excuse us? I will contact you in the morning about how we shall proceed.”
“Of course,” the man muttered, jumping to his feet. “My thanks for your time, sir. Madame.” He bowed slightly in her direction and left. The door opened, then closed behind him with a soft click.
Angelique didn’t even look after him. She didn’t care what he thought, the arrogant idiot. “How dare you,” she began coldly. “He is an amateur—and you wish me to go as his wife? No.”
Her employer held up one hand as he resumed his seat. “Do you think I just dreamed up this plan on a whim? It has been carefully crafted, I assure you. Contain your temper a moment and listen.”
Angelique raised her eyebrows, unaccustomed to being spoken to in such a manner.
Stafford leaned forward and lowered his voice. “This man Dixon is a grave menace. We want him found, and you are the person to do it.”
“All this, over money?” she snapped. “Have Ian snatch him off the street, and tell him not to be gentle. Two hours with Ian and he will desecrate his own mother’s grave to return every farthing.”
“No, it’s not about the money.” Stafford leaned back and clasped his hands on his desk. “Avery can find it, or not. I agreed to try to get his government’s funds, but if it comes to naught…” He shrugged. “I don’t care if he never sees a penny of it again.”
“So you would send me off like some errand boy, when you do not even care if the funds are returned.” She shook her head and started to rise from her chair. “Find someone else. I have no interest.”
“Wait,” he said sharply. “I need you to find Dixon.”
“Why?” She tilted her chin in scorn. “There is nothing in this task that someone else could not do. You knew I would not like being sent out with him, let alone as his wife. If I must work with someone, I prefer it to be someone who knows what he is doing. I will spend the whole time looking after this American adventurer!”
“Dixon is reputedly a man of expensive tastes. He likes beautiful women. I am quite sure you will be able to use that to your advantage.” His tone of voice intimated exactly how she could do it.
“How does that make him different from any other man?” She shrugged. “You have other spies willing to whore for you.”
“Not like you.”
“Send Ian along with one of them. He is all too willing to play a husband, and he will not look down his nose at a woman doing her job.”
“But Avery must be there, and the simplest pose is as your husband. He alone knows what Dixon looks like, what his habits and tastes are, the details of his recent life and crimes. Without his involvement we would be searching in the dark. If he’s there as your husband, he will be able to remain close to you, and offer plenty of opportunity for you to confer. Not,” he added dryly, “that I don’t appreciate Mr. Wallace’s talents as well.”
He wouldn’t send Ian. Angelique gave it up and changed her attack. “Who is this Avery?”
“An envoy of President Monroe, properly credentialed. I believe he is from a prominent American family.”
“In other words, he has a patronage post and thinks to play at being a spy.” She shook her head. “Who is Dixon, that you jump to find him on the word of such a man? And for such a motive—I see nothing in this for the Crown, nothing.” Stafford just looked at her. She knew that smooth, opaque expression, though, and was having none of it. “You have lied to me before,” she reminded him. “And I will not tolerate it again.”
He drummed his fingers on the desk, then surged to his feet and paced to the window. “I take issue with your use of the word ‘lie,’” he said over his shoulder. “But no matter. I never swore to reveal all, and you agreed to that. I need someone who will follow my orders, not question every facet of them, and you knew that years ago.”
“It almost cost two men their lives,” she retorted. “I never agreed to that. How am I to know I am not the next agent to be sacrificed?”
He stood a moment more at the window, hands tightly clasped behind him. “All right,” he growled, turning abruptly. “This is what I can tell you: you are to find Dixon as soon as humanly possible. Do what you must to keep Avery in line, but once he has his money, dispatch him on his way at once.”
“And then?” she prodded when he hesitated.
“And then…” Stafford paused again. “Kill Jacob Dixon.”
