You Only Love Once Read Online Free PDF Page B

for his service. Making trouble for his lordship would cause immense trouble for Stafford, and therefore for her. She couldn’t kill Mr. Avery, no matter how tempting it might be or how she might threaten him. Unless, of course, Stafford gave her leave to do so.
    At least, she conceded, he looked the part of a brash American trying to bully his way into English society. From his drab, untailored clothing to his tousled hair and bold gaze, no one would ever mistake him for a proper gentleman. And his voice! Itwas a nice enough voice, rich and mellow with a hint of rasp, but it rang with the flat drawl of America—Boston, or perhaps New York. Angelique had an ear for languages and had quite a mental catalog of accents. But even if he could play his superficial part well enough, she had grave fears he could handle the clandestine parts of it. How did he intend to persuade Jacob Dixon to hand over the stolen funds? Angelique wasn’t about to bed the man just so Mr. Avery could get his money, no matter what Stafford suggested.
    She shook her head in disgust. On one hand, Stafford was set on her carrying out his mission, and his plan was much the same as the other assignments he had given her over the years. On the other hand, she didn’t feel like taking the job. It sounded tedious and distasteful, potentially messy—disposing of bodies always was—and aggravating to boot, thanks to Mr. Avery. For a moment she stood tapping her fingers on the desk, staring blindly out the window at her small garden. Like the rest of the house, it was small but lovely, and all hers. A peaceful retreat from the violent realities she faced when working. More than ever she felt the pull of retirement, the longing to enjoy what she had earned while she still could. What to do? She even asked the question out loud, trying to squeeze a rational decision from the unhappy choices before her.
    No answer came to her, of course. She had no one to talk things over with. The agents she had befriended best, the more decent men, were dropping off Stafford’s service left and right, done in by love and resurgent senses of honor. Most of Stafford’s people were rabble, common spies motivated bymoney and, sometimes, personal vendettas. She knew those agents had cost him some prosecutions, but he still used them. Perhaps that was why he wanted her in particular to do this. Perhaps his other agents would be too tempted to keep Dixon’s money after they killed him, whereas Stafford knew she could be counted on to do it properly.
    Again she wondered why he didn’t want Ian involved. Ian Wallace was a big Scot, always ready for trouble and eager to meet it. He had some honor and decency as well, and wouldn’t forget who employed him. But he would stand out, she acknowledged; if Stafford was bent on doing this subtly, Ian would be the wrong choice. Still, he was one of the few agents left in Stafford’s employ she actually trusted, and it would have made her infinitely more comfortable to have him at hand. At least she knew what to expect from Ian.
    She walked back into the hall. “Lisette,” she called, retrieving her pelisse from the hook behind the door. “I am going back out.”
    â€œ Oui , Madame.” Her maid appeared almost instantly, supremely helpful. “Will you take luncheon when you return?”
    â€œYes. In the garden.” She tied the bonnet ribbons under her chin and went out, setting off on foot this time toward the reaches of Westminster.
    His lodging was on the top floor of a tall, narrow building, not far from the bustle of Whitehall. The first floor was a boot maker, the second the boot maker’s lodging, and above them all lived Ian. She walked up the back stairs and rapped at the door. She had come here before, though rarely, and knew Ian had told people she was his sister—an amusing conceit, given how he flirted with her so outrageously whenever they worked together.