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PartOne
Anthony
A brothel in the middle of Paris.
Anthony shook his head as he made his way through the streets, keeping his chin lifted and his pace steady. He wanted to appear lost in thought. The kind of gentleman one might glance at, then not remember because he was so insignificant—or if a lady glanced, she might only remember seeing a handsome man passing by.
Though there were not too many ‘ladies,’ as such, on the streets he was entering. Personally, Anthony preferred women who were not ‘ladies.’ While his parentage was high enough as the second son of an English viscount, he eschewed the social obligations of that world. He had very little patience for the many vagaries of Society, much less their rules.
Which was why the army had been such a good fit for him. Then he’d been recruited by England’s Spymaster, the Marquess of Camden. His grandmother had been French, and Anthony had ‘the look,’ as well as being fluent in the language. It had made him an ideal spy, which took him to such interesting places.
Madame Dupont’s was hardly the oddest or most interesting location he’d been to, but he had to admit he had not expected to be sent to a brothel as part of his service to his country, even if it was also a gaming hell. Who would he be meeting there? He did not know, but that was hardly unusual.The note with his instructions had been necessarily vague since he was in enemy territory and had been for quite some time. He adjusted the red cravat he was wearing and the blue flower in his lapel, which he’d been instructed to wear so that he could be recognized.
The streets were becoming darker, less well-lit, and the people he passed more mixed in appearance. There were others dressed like himself, regular gentlemen who had made their money from trade and the like, as well as rough laborers and workers. Scattered among them were a few groups of the aristocracy who had come to visit the more dangerous parts of the city.
Anthony appeared to ignore them all, while in actuality, he was noting each and every one, assessing them as a threat.
The entrance to Madame Dupont’s appeared at the end of the street, and his pulse picked up, anticipation quickening his step. Anyone watching would think his faster gait was for a different reason entirely, which suited him well enough.
The main room was filled with rowdy patrons, drinking and playing. Lightskirts were scattered around the room, some walking, some sitting on a patron’s lap, and one was heading up the back stairs with a rather inebriated man. Likely, the rooms for ‘entertaining’ were located at the top of those stairs.
“Monsieur, bienvenu.” One of the lightskirts came swaying up to him, eyes bright with the welcome that was echoed on her rouged lips. The lowcut gown she was wearing was made of such thin cloth, it was nearly transparent, and he could see her rouged nipples through the pale fabric. Despite the delightful distraction, Anthony’s brain effortlessly translated her French to English. “What kind of entertainment are you looking for this evening?” From the thrust of her hip and the way she leaned toward him, she was obviously offering a particular kind.
“I thought to start with a drink,” he replied easily in French, smiling at her to take the sting out of his refusal of her services.
She did not seem at all perturbed by his rejection, fluttering her eyelashes at him.
“Very good, sir. This way.” Hooking her arm through his, she led him toward the side of the room, where there were tables and chairs with quite a few patrons sitting and drinking. Some of them had feminine company, some were with their friends, and there was one man drinking alone.
Anthony’s gaze caught on the man sitting alone—possibly his contact? Tall and thin with an angular face, the quality of his clothes and boots were a cut above most of the other patrons. As Anthony had never met another agent who did not possess the ability to blend in, he was uncertain.
Wait for your contact to approach you.
So, when the other man lifted his head and met Anthony’s gaze, Anthony did no more than nod politely and look away, returning his attention to the lightskirt, who had decided to keep him company.
* * *
Evie
Watching Captain Anthony Browne—English agent in service of the Crown and second son of Viscount Browne—being led through the French whorehouse, Evie felt a very odd stirring in her body.
Arousal? Why? And why him?
There was nothing immediately attractive about him. He was dressed not to be noticed, and while he was handsome, she’d met far more beautiful men. He hardly stood out, yet… the attraction was there. Something indefinable and unexpected.
Evie was used to the unexpected in her life. She wasnotused to it from her own body. Especially when she was working. No matter what else happened to her, her reactions had always been hers to command, and she resented discovering there was an exception to the rule.
As Birgitte led the captain through the main floor of the brothel, she glanced over at Evie, who nodded at her.
Red cravat. Blue flower in his lapel.
The spy from England who General Moreau had boasted he would capture tonight. That one had appeared was the biggest surprise. Evie had not actually expected to see any of her uncle’s agents enter Madame Dupont’s this evening, much less one attired as the general had claimed he would be. She’d thought the general to be boasting in an attempt to make himself seem more important than he actually was, but she had not wanted to leave one of her uncle’s agents in a trap if there had been even a kernel of truth to the general’s claims.
Which was very lucky for Captain Anthony Browne. If she had not been here, he would likely be dead by dawn. Even luckier, she knew who he was. Though Evie made it her business to know as many of her uncle’s agents by face as she could, not all of them had visited him while she was at-home. And her uncle certainly did his best to keep her out of his line of work.
Unfortunately for him, Evie was not comfortable being the proper lady her uncle was trying to mold her into. She’d spent too much time on the streets of London after the death of her parents left her orphaned and alone. By the time her uncle had come to claim her, she’d already fled the cruel woman her parents’ solicitor had put in charge of her care and disappeared. Uncle Oliver had found her four years later, mudlarking with a street gang and doing her best to hide her identity as a female.
It had been a miracle he’d run into her. Only her bright green eyes had allowed him to recognize her. She’d recognized him immediately but would have fled if he hadn’t seen her eyes and grabbed hold of her.
