Chapter 22

Sunlight filtered through the lace curtains of Vivienne's morning room, casting delicate patterns on the plush carpet. She sat at the rosewood writing desk, the clandestine letter from last night's informant spread open before her. In the clear light of day, the words written in hurried script were stark: "Docks at midnight, two days hence. 'Nightshade' mentioned – high-level code name?" Vivienne tapped the page with a slender finger, deep in thought.

Across the room, Julian stood by the fireplace, one arm braced on the mantel as he read the letter's contents again over her shoulder. In daylight, with no mask between them, he looked every inch the determined agent. A faint bruise marred his jawline—a souvenir from their narrow escape at the docks weeks before—contrasting with the crisp white of his collar and the dark brown of his tailored morning coat. This morning he had entered Ravenwood Manor under the guise of delivering papers related to her late husband's estate, a convenient cover that fooled any curious servants.

"Nightshade…" Julian repeated, the single word heavy with possibilities. "It could refer to an operation name or the alias of the traitor. Perhaps even a shipment code." He paced a short line on the hearthrug, eyes narrowed in concentration. "During the war, the French used flower ciphers occasionally. Nightshade might signify something poisonous—an assassination plot, maybe."

Vivienne folded the letter and slipped it into a secret compartment of her desk. "It's also a flower that blooms in darkness," she mused quietly. "Appropriate for conspirators skulking in the shadows." She rose and crossed to Julian's side, placing a calming hand on his arm. "We have time to decipher more, but the most urgent part is clear: we must be at the docks tomorrow at midnight to see what unfolds."

Julian's arm tensed beneath her palm. "I don't like the thought of you anywhere near that place at such an hour. The London docks are dangerous enough by day, let alone at midnight amidst spies and smugglers." He turned to face her, worry evident in the furrow of his brow.

Vivienne tilted her head, allowing a reassuring smile. "We'll go together, as always. I can handle myself, Julian." Her mind flashed back to the fencing lessons her father had secretly arranged for her as a child and the small pistol she kept in her reticule for emergencies. "I won't take foolish risks. But I must see this through."

She stepped away to the window, gazing out at the neat hedges and early summer blooms of her garden. "Edward died because of these people," she said softly. "If I can play a part in bringing them to justice, then I have to try." Her reflection in the glass showed determination in her eyes.

Julian joined her at the window, his reflection looming protectively behind hers. "And I'll be damned if I let you do it alone." His hand brushed against the small of her back in a brief caress out of sight of any servants. "We'll need a plan. I can arrange a hired carriage that won't be traced back to you, and perhaps disguises again. Dockworkers maybe, or a pair of common travelers."

Vivienne nodded. "I'll see if I can procure suitable attire—a fisherwoman's cloak for me, and longshoreman's garb for you." A hint of a wry smile touched her lips. "I doubt the conspirators will be wearing masquerade costumes this time. We might not blend in so easily as masked revelers."

Julian's mouth quirked. "No, likely not." He gently took her hand. "Just promise me you'll be cautious. One sign of trouble, and we pull back and regroup. We can't afford to be caught—by them or by the authorities—especially not with your name and position."

Vivienne squeezed his fingers. "I promise." She knew he was right; a whiff of scandal or an accusation of treason could ruin everything. She had to remain above suspicion in society even as she delved deeper into danger.

A discreet rap sounded at the door, causing them both to break apart. Vivienne swiftly moved back toward her desk, pretending to shuffle correspondence, while Julian turned to face the doorway, adopting an easy, casual stance.

Her butler, Edwards, stepped inside with a silver salver in hand. "My lady, the Duke of Rockford has arrived and requests to call upon you," he announced, eyes respectfully downcast. Upon the tray lay the Duke's calling card, its edges embossed in gold.

Vivienne's heart gave a little start. Lucien Hawke, here? She had not expected to see him again so soon after last night's brief encounter at the ball. Her mind raced: a morning call from a gentleman was a clear declaration of interest. No doubt he had come under the pretense of checking on her well-being after her faint spell during their dance.

Julian's expression shuttered the moment the Duke's name was mentioned. He glanced at Vivienne, a question in his eyes. She managed a composed smile for the butler. "Thank you, Edwards. Please show His Grace to the drawing room. I will be with him shortly."

As the butler left, Vivienne turned to Julian swiftly. "He must not suspect anything. You should—"

"I should go," Julian finished, his voice neutral. Already he was collecting the map and notes they'd spread on a side table earlier, stuffing them into a leather folio. "Better I'm not here to arouse questions." He cleared his throat. "What shall I be to him, if we cross paths? Just an old family friend paying respects?"

Vivienne stepped closer and lowered her voice. "Yes. If you meet him as you depart, I'll introduce you as Captain Westley, a dear friend of my late husband." Technically all true. "It's not unusual, given you served together." Her eyes searched his, apologetic. "Julian...be careful. The Duke is clever. He may pry."

Julian's jaw was set in a hard line that softened only when he met her gaze. "I'll be the soul of polite discretion." He leaned in and for the briefest moment, pressed a hidden kiss to her forehead. The gesture was swift and filled with unsaid worry. "Send word if you need me. I'll be nearby, I promise," he whispered.

Vivienne felt a rush of gratitude and affection. With a last squeeze of his hand, she watched Julian slip out through the side door of the morning room that led toward the servants' corridor. He would likely exit through the back garden gate to avoid being seen by the Duke's people.

After smoothing her skirts and quickly checking her reflection in a gilt mirror (her cheeks were still slightly flushed from the memory of that forehead kiss), Vivienne made her way to the drawing room.

Lucien Hawke stood admiring a painting when she entered—a pastoral scene of the French countryside that her mother had adored. The Duke turned at the sound of her footsteps. In the mid-morning light streaming through the tall windows, he cut a striking figure. He had eschewed his mask and evening finery for a tailored day suit of deep navy, an understated gold pin glinting on his cravat. Without the disguise of night, Vivienne could fully appreciate his features: the chiseled cheekbones, a straight aristocratic nose, and lips curved naturally in an amiable half-smile. Only his eyes were the same as she remembered—keen and oddly intense as they fixed on her.

"Lady Vivienne," Lucien greeted, inclining his head in a bow. "Forgive the intrusion at this early hour. I was concerned for your health after your abrupt departure last night." He straightened, allowing a touch of warmth into his voice. "I wanted to be sure you recovered from your momentary indisposition."

Vivienne dipped into a polite curtsy. "Your Grace is very kind. It was nothing serious, I assure you. Just a passing light-headedness." She motioned for him to sit on a brocade sofa as she herself took the adjacent chair, arranging her skirt gracefully. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your personal call? Surely a man as busy as yourself has better ways to spend a morning than fretting over a lady's minor headache."

The Duke sat, one leg crossed over the other with casual elegance. "On the contrary, I could think of no more important task today than ensuring your well-being." The sincerity in his tone was flattering, and Vivienne felt heat in her cheeks. Whether it was genuine care or polished charm as part of his courtship, it was difficult not to be affected.

A footman entered with a tray of tea, scones, and jam. As Vivienne busied herself pouring a cup for her guest, Lucien continued, "I also came to offer something that might aid you, Lady Vivienne."

She glanced up curiously. "Oh? Aid me in what, Your Grace?"

He accepted the china cup from her hands, and their fingers brushed briefly—just a whisper of contact, yet Vivienne felt the slight thrill of it. "Why, in the charitable endeavors you spoke of at Lady Haverly's ball last week," he replied smoothly. "You mentioned your involvement in funding schools for war orphans, if I recall correctly."

Vivienne hid her surprise behind a polite smile. She had indeed spoken of her charity work in passing conversation at some gathering recently, though she hadn't realized he'd been listening. "Yes, that is one of my passions," she answered. "Education for those left destitute by the wars is a cause dear to my heart."

The Duke inclined his head. "A noble cause. I should like to contribute." He set down his teacup and reached inside his coat, withdrawing an envelope. "Here is a bank draft for the orphan fund. A humble donation in memory of your late husband, who served our country bravely."

Vivienne blinked as she accepted the envelope. Inside was a significant sum—far more than a token gesture. "Your Grace, this is most generous," she said softly, genuinely touched. Mention of Edward and the Duke's willingness to honor him thawed a bit of her guardedness.

Lucien offered a gentle smile. "Lord Fairchild was an old acquaintance of mine, did you know? Not close, but we had met at court a few times. His loss was felt by many. I regret that I was abroad when the accident occurred and could not pay my respects then." He paused, studying her reaction as he spoke of her husband.

Vivienne lowered her eyes to her lap briefly to hide the flash of pain that came whenever she thought of that fateful night—Edward's carriage run off the road, his body found cold in the wreckage. Officially a mishap, but she knew in her gut it was more. Clearing her throat, she looked up. "I was not aware you knew him. He rarely spoke of his connections at court." That was true—Edward had kept much of his clandestine royal work secret even from her until near the end.

The Duke nodded. "Understandable, given his duties. But enough of sorrowful things. I hope my donation can bring some small solace to those children and perhaps to you, knowing more will be helped." He leaned forward slightly, a sympathetic softness in his gaze that made Vivienne's defenses quiver. "How have you been faring, my lady? These past months cannot have been easy."

Vivienne took a breath. The concern in his voice, the way his eyes searched hers—it was unexpectedly comforting. "I manage as best I can," she said quietly. "Staying busy with good works and...and supportive friends has been my balm." She thought of Julian, though of course she could not mention him now.

As if on cue, a knock at the open doorframe announced another presence. Julian stood there—he must not have found a way out in time and was forced to exit through the main hall, inadvertently crossing their path. He played his role flawlessly, a polite smile on his lips and hat in hand. "Pardon the interruption. Vivienne—ah, Lady Vivienne—I was just taking my leave."

Vivienne rose at once, relief and a touch of nervousness flaring. "Captain Westley, allow me to introduce His Grace, the Duke of Rockford." She turned to Lucien. "Your Grace, this is Captain Julian Westley, a dear friend of my family. He served with my late husband in the army and has been a great support in recent times."

Lucien stood as well, offering a courteous nod. "Captain."

Julian inclined his head respectfully. "Your Grace. A pleasure." The two men shook hands, and Vivienne did not miss the subtle assessing glances that passed between them.

Up close, the contrast between them was pronounced. Lucien with his polished aristocratic grace and cool blue gaze; Julian with a soldier's sturdy build, a few locks of hair rebelliously out of place, and warm hazel eyes that held a hint of challenge even in courtesy.

"I was just leaving," Julian continued. He turned to Vivienne with an easy smile that belied the tension she knew simmered beneath. "Thank you for the tea and conversation, my lady. Give my regards to your Aunt Agatha when next you write."

"I will, Captain. Thank you for calling," Vivienne replied, clasping his hand briefly between hers in a gesture of friendship. "Take care on the road back."

Julian bowed to both of them. Vivienne couldn't help noticing the way Lucien watched this exchange with sharpened interest, his gaze flicking to where her fingers touched Julian's. In another moment, Julian took his leave, footsteps echoing down the hall.

The Duke arched an eyebrow as they resumed their seats. "A loyal friend, it seems." His tone was perfectly polite, yet Vivienne sensed a probe in those words.

"Yes, very," she affirmed lightly, stirring a lump of sugar into her own teacup. "Julian and my husband were like brothers-in-arms. He's been most kind to me since I lost Edward—helping with estate matters and such that are rather daunting for a woman alone."

Lucien's expression shifted to one of gentle reproach. "You mustn't say you are alone, Lady Vivienne. The whole of society holds you in high esteem, myself included. Surely you know that if ever you needed assistance, there are many—including myself—who would be honored to render it." He smiled. "Though I'm certain Captain Westley is capable, some burdens should not fall on one man's shoulders. Allow me to share the load where I can."

Vivienne felt a flutter in her stomach at the Duke's earnest offer. It was too soon to tell if his interest was purely altruistic or personal, but either motive signaled a growing attachment. "Your Grace is most gracious," she answered carefully. "I would not wish to impose. But I appreciate your concern."

He regarded her over the rim of his teacup. "Think nothing of it. We aristocrats must look out for one another, do we not?" There was a mild emphasis on we, a subtle reminder that Julian, for all his merits, was not of their rank. Vivienne caught it and inwardly bristled, but she kept her countenance neutral.

"Indeed," she said, and deftly shifted the subject. "Are you newly returned to London, Your Grace? I confess I have only recently made your acquaintance, yet it seems you know many of my friends already."

Lucien set down his empty cup, relaxing into the sofa. He seemed content to indulge in conversation. "I returned from the Continent earlier this season. Spent a year in Vienna after the war's end, and some months in Paris as well."

Vivienne's eyes lit with genuine curiosity. "Paris? How fascinating that must have been, after so many years of conflict. I've heard it's quite revived now that peace has come."

The Duke's lips curved. "Revived, yes, though the French spirit was never easily extinguished. Even under English occupation one could find grand soirées and philosophical debates in the salons." A wistful note entered his voice. "I confess I enjoyed the…freedom of it. On the Continent there is a certain je ne sais quoi—a willingness to flout convention—that one doesn't find as readily in London drawing rooms." His eyes flicked to hers at that, as if to gauge her reaction.

Vivienne offered a playful smile. "Careful, Your Grace, or you will make me envious. I might be tempted to abandon my staid life here and go adventuring abroad to seek these freedoms."

He chuckled softly. "Perish the thought. London could not afford to lose one of its brightest jewels." The compliment rolled off his tongue smoothly, and Vivienne felt its warmth. "But should you ever wish for stories of those foreign adventures, I'd be happy to share more sometime."

Before she could respond, Lucien glanced at the clock on the mantel and sighed. "Alas, duty calls—I have a meeting shortly at the House of Lords. Before I go, however…" He reached into his inner coat pocket once more and produced a heavy ivory envelope sealed with his signet. "There is to be a summer gala at Crestwood Manor tomorrow eve. A rather exclusive affair—Lord Somerville's hosting. I wonder if I might entice you to attend as my honored guest?"

Vivienne's stomach flipped. Tomorrow night—the same night she needed to be at the docks at midnight. Likely the gala would run late into the night as well. What a collision of worlds: a glittering high society ball and a dangerous midnight spying mission. How could she possibly manage both?

She accepted the envelope to buy time, sliding out the embossed invitation card. Her mind raced for an excuse that would not offend him. "Lord Somerville's gala," she murmured. It was indeed one of the Season's most anticipated events, notoriously intimate and selective. Attending on the arm of the Duke of Rockford would be a coup for any lady—and a clear statement of Lucien's courtship to all.

Vivienne lifted her eyes apologetically. "Your Grace, I am truly flattered by the invitation, and by your company. However, I…" She feigned a regretful sigh. "I may not be able to attend. I have a prior obligation tomorrow evening. A promise I made to an old family friend some weeks ago." The lie came smoothly, though she hated having to refuse.

For a fleeting moment, disappointment flashed in Lucien's eyes. He masked it almost immediately with understanding. "I see. That is unfortunate." He tapped a finger on the arm of the sofa, considering. "Perhaps later in the evening you might yet grace the gala, if your earlier engagement concludes? I would gladly send my carriage for you at whatever hour."

Vivienne felt the trap tightening. Lucien was nothing if not persistent. If she said she might come by later, he would expect her. If she said no entirely, she risked spurning him too harshly.

She offered a conciliatory smile. "If it is at all feasible, I will try. But I cannot in good conscience promise, for I would not wish to disappoint you by a late cancellation."

The Duke inclined his head, accepting that much. "Understood. I shall leave the invitation with you in hope. Should circumstances change, the offer stands." He rose then, signaling the end of his visit. Vivienne stood as well.

He took her hand once more, his thumb brushing over her knuckles in a subtle caress as he bowed. "Thank you for receiving me this morning, Lady Vivienne. I am relieved to find you well. And delighted, as ever, by your company."

Vivienne's pulse fluttered. In the morning light with no crowd to witness, his closeness felt more personal, his gaze more penetrating. "It was my pleasure, Your Grace. And thank you again for your generous donation. The children...and I...are most grateful for your kindness."

Lucien smiled, but said nothing—only raised her hand to his lips. This time, the kiss he placed on her skin lingered a heartbeat longer than propriety strictly allowed. Vivienne's breath caught as a tiny thrill skated up her arm and down her spine.

Then he released her, and just like that the moment passed. She walked him to the door, exchanging final pleasantries. Her butler escorted the Duke out through the foyer.

The instant he was gone, Vivienne let out a long exhale she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Her hand still tingled where his lips had brushed it. What an intricate dance of words and glances that had been. Lucien Hawke was charming, attentive, and persistent. He clearly sought to win her favor—and perhaps her heart, if his marked interest continued.

Yet as tempting as his attentions were, Vivienne felt a swirl of guilt. Julian. She yearned to tell Julian everything that had transpired, to reassure him that she had deftly turned down the gala invitation. And to confide the unexpected tug of sympathy she felt for the Duke, who seemed genuinely concerned for her.

She found Julian waiting in the little gazebo at the far end of her walled garden, just as he had promised to remain nearby. Slipping out unseen, Vivienne hurried across the manicured lawn to him, lifting her skirts slightly to keep the dew from soaking the hem.

Julian stood as she approached, eyes scanning her face anxiously. "I saw his carriage depart. How did it go?"

Vivienne managed a faint smile. "As well as it could, I suppose. He inquired after my health and made a donation to the orphan fund in Edward's name."

Julian's brows lifted at that. "That was…generous." A note of surprise, perhaps grudging respect, entered his voice.

She nodded, then continued, "He invited me to Somerville's gala tomorrow night."

At this Julian stiffened. "That conflicts with—"

"I know." She touched his arm gently. "I declined as best I could, though I left open the slightest possibility of appearing late so as not to insult him outright. It's a delicate balance. If I rejected him flatly, he might wonder why. Or grow more determined."

Julian's jaw clenched. He turned and punched one of the wooden gazebo pillars lightly in frustration. "Damn it. The last thing we need is him complicating tomorrow night. If he suspects anything…" Julian trailed off, then looked back at her, concern etched in his features. "Vivienne, he's clearly courting you. Possibly in earnest. Are you comfortable with that?" The question held layers—was she comfortable stringing the Duke along for information? And was she comfortable personally with the man's pursuit?

Vivienne took a moment to answer. A breeze stirred the vines of ivy curling up the gazebo lattice. "I am playing the part expected of me," she said at last. "A gracious widow entertaining a noble suitor's attentions. If Lucien— the Duke—" (she corrected herself, realizing she'd referred to him by first name in her thoughts) "—finds me interesting, that in itself isn't dangerous. Unless...unless he is truly involved in this conspiracy. Then being close to him might actually yield clues."

Julian's eyes darkened. "Just be careful. He's not a fool. If he is Nightshade or tied to it, he'll be watching you as much as you watch him." His hands found hers. "I don't like seeing you with him, false pretense or not." The admission was spoken softly, but it carried the weight of his jealousy and fear.

Vivienne stepped closer, laying a hand against Julian's cheek where the faint bruise was. "I know," she murmured. "But this is the path we've chosen. I'll tread it wisely." She offered a reassuring smile. "Tomorrow at the docks will tell us much. Perhaps we'll uncover Nightshade and none of this prolonged deception will be necessary further."

Julian covered her hand with his, turning to press a kiss to her palm—unknowingly just where Lucien's lips had touched minutes before, as if erasing the memory. "Tomorrow then," he agreed. His voice hardened with resolve. "We'll unmask this traitor in the shadows, once and for all."

As he departed through the garden gate, Vivienne watched him go, her heart divided. One part of her was firmly entwined with Julian—his devotion, his honest passion, his shared purpose with her. Another part now felt the stirrings of intrigue toward the Duke—his generosity, his cultured worldliness, the way he looked at her as if she were someone to be cherished and protected.

Shaking off the thought, Vivienne returned inside. There was much to prepare before nightfall on the morrow. Disguises to arrange, an excuse to craft for her absence from any watchful eyes during the gala hours, and her own nerves to steady for what might come.

Little did she know that the delicate balance she maintained between duty and desire, between Julian and Lucien, would soon fracture under the weight of betrayal and peril.