Chapter 23

Midnight found Vivienne and Julian ensconced in the deep shadows of Southwark Dockyards, far from the gaslit respectability of Mayfair. A cold mist clung to the Thames, blurring the boundary between water and sky. Lantern light from moored ships swayed gently, casting fleeting halos on the damp wooden planks. The air smelled of brine, tar, and the pungent odor of fish, a stark contrast to the perfumed ballrooms Vivienne frequented.

She shivered beneath the threadbare woolen cloak she wore. Gone was any trace of Lady Vivienne Fairchild; in her place stood a drably dressed woman with a soot-smudged face and a coarse linen cap concealing her auburn hair. By her side, Julian looked every bit a common dockhand in a frayed coat and rough trousers, a flat cap pulled low over his brow. They had spent the better part of the evening lurking in an alley near the docks, waiting for any sign of the promised meeting.

At last, moments ago, they had observed a pair of shadowy figures slipping between warehouses toward Pier 9, just as Albert Greene's note had indicated. Now, pressed behind a stack of wooden crates stamped Munitions – Property of Crown, Vivienne's heart thundered in her ears.

Voices drifted through the fog, low and guarded. Vivienne held her breath and strained to listen.

"...payment first. His Lordship doesn't extend credit to foreigners," came a gruff voice, tinged with an Irish accent.

Another man responded in accented English, French by the sound of it, "Tell your master we come with gold, not promises. The shipment will leave as agreed."

Vivienne felt Julian's hand graze her elbow— a silent steady now. Carefully, she peered around the edge of the crates. Through the haze she could make out four figures gathered beside a covered rowboat tied to the dock.

One was bulky and broad-shouldered—likely the Irish-accented brute. Next to him stood a tall, lean man holding a lantern. The feeble glow illuminated a severe face with a military mustache: Colonel Maynard. Vivienne's stomach clenched in dismay. Julian had suspected his superior could be involved, but to see the proof was nonetheless a blow. The Colonel had been a friend to Edward and a mentor to Julian; now his presence here confirmed he was part of this conspiracy.

On the other side of the boat, two figures faced them. One was dressed like a common seaman, swarthy and pockmarked—probably the French contact. But it was the fourth man who seized Vivienne's attention. He stood slightly apart, features obscured by a hooded black cloak. Despite the poor lighting, there was an unmistakable aristocratic bearing in his posture—the straight back, the tilt of his chin as he regarded the others.

Vivienne's pulse quickened. Could that be the mastermind, "Nightshade" himself? The hooded man had not spoken yet. He listened as Colonel Maynard pulled a small wooden chest from beneath a tarp in the rowboat and pried it open. Even from a distance, the glint of coins inside was visible.

Maynard nodded to the Frenchman. "Your spies earned their keep— naval codes, deployment schedules... everything you wanted is there," the Colonel said under his breath, patting a leather satchel that lay atop the gold coins. "Use it quickly. Once the Admiralty realizes the breach, those codes will be useless. And see to it that Bonaparte's loyalists uphold their end, hmm? England will be terribly distracted by the...event we've arranged tomorrow night." A chilling smile twisted his lips.

Vivienne felt a chill unrelated to the mist. So it was true—tomorrow night's gala was part of their scheme. An "event"—likely a deadly one—was planned. Her mind raced. Could they be plotting to assassinate someone important at Lord Somerville's gala? The Prince Regent himself was rumored to attend.

The Frenchman gave a low laugh. "A little chaos in London will benefit us all, I think. The Emperor may be defeated, but France has other interests... and there are those in your country who profit from disorder." His eyes flicked to the hooded figure knowingly.

Finally the hooded man spoke, and Vivienne's blood went cold. The voice was calm, clipped, with a refined English accent: "Ensure that this time nothing is traced back to me. No mistakes."

Vivienne bit back a gasp. She recognized that voice, even masked to a lower register—it was Lucien, Duke of Rockford. The very cadence of his words, the authoritative yet composed tone, sent her mind reeling. The generous, charming gentleman who sipped tea in her parlor was the same man selling out his country under cover of darkness?

Julian heard it too; she sensed him go rigid at her side. In the dark, his eyes met hers, and she saw anger and vindication flash there. Now they knew. The Duke was the traitor, the elusive Nightshade who orchestrated treason and murder.

Down by the water, Colonel Maynard seemed to stiffen at the hooded Duke's subtle reprimand. "Rest assured, Your Grace, everything is in order," Maynard said quietly. "Captain Townsend's death was handled cleanly, and the blame laid elsewhere."

Vivienne's nails dug into her palms. Captain Townsend—was that the name of the poor soul they likely killed to maintain secrecy? These men would stop at nothing.

Lucien's hooded silhouette turned slightly toward Colonel Maynard. "I trust it is so. After tomorrow night, things will move swiftly. See that your men are ready when the time comes to restore order on our terms." Despite the covert setting, he spoke with the confidence of someone used to giving orders and being obeyed.

Suddenly, a stray beam of lantern light fell on the Duke's hand as he gestured to emphasize a point. Vivienne caught the briefest glimmer on his finger—a large ring with a crest. Even at a distance, she recognized the Hawke family sigil of a falcon with outstretched wings. It banished any remaining doubt: the man under that hood was indeed Lucien Hawke.

Her heart constricted with betrayal and disbelief. How could the man who had shown such kindness, who spoke of patriotism and grief for war orphans, also be plotting against the Crown? Had every word and smile he offered her been a lie? A means to ingratiate himself and deflect suspicion from his treachery?

Rage mixed with sorrow in her chest, but she forced herself to remain focused. They needed tangible proof or at least to survive this encounter to warn the authorities—or stop the plot themselves.

Julian leaned to her ear, his breath warm despite the chill. "We've heard enough. We should slip away and alert the Home Office tonight," he whispered, voice barely audible.

Vivienne nodded, but as she shifted her boot scraped against a loose cobblestone with a sharp crack. The sound echoed in the quiet.

At once, the quartet by the boat froze. The Irish thug whipped out a pistol, eyes scanning the darkness. "What was that?" he snarled.

Vivienne's heart plummeted. Damn. She and Julian pressed flat behind the crates, but she knew it was too late.

"Someone's there!" barked Colonel Maynard. He snatched the lantern from his associate and lifted it high, casting a probing glow across the stacks of cargo.

Julian reacted swiftly, grabbing Vivienne's hand. "Run!" he hissed.

They bolted from their hiding spot, darting between piles of barrels. A shot rang out, the report of a pistol cracking the night. A bullet splintered wood just inches from Vivienne's shoulder as they sprinted.

"Split up!" Julian urged. "They won't know who to follow."

Vivienne hesitated—she didn't want to leave him—but another gunshot whizzing past made up her mind. She veered left around a towering pile of timber while Julian kept right, overturning a small cart in the path to slow their pursuers.

Angry shouts erupted behind them. Through the fog, Vivienne glimpsed figures giving chase—two, maybe three. The hooded Duke was nowhere to be seen; likely he had withdrawn immediately to avoid being identified. For a second, she was fiercely glad the coward had fled, but the immediate danger took precedence.

Her lungs burned as she raced down a narrow wharf. Her boots slipped on algae-slick boards, forcing her to slow. Ahead loomed the hulking silhouette of a warehouse. If she could get inside and hide—

A massive shape lunged out from behind a stack of fish crates. The Irishman. His beefy arm grabbed Vivienne's cloak, yanking her to a halt so abruptly that her feet went out from under her. She crashed to the dock planks with a jarring thud, the wind knocked from her lungs.

"Got you, little spy," the brute growled, looming over her. Greasy curls framed his scarred face as he aimed his pistol at her heart. "Shouldn't go nosin' where you don't belong."

Vivienne's mind raced. In a haze of pain and panic, her hand fumbled under her cloak for the small derringer pistol strapped to her thigh beneath her skirt. Her fingers closed around the cool metal just as the man cocked the hammer of his gun.

He never got the shot off. From the shadows, a figure barreled into the thug with bone-crunching force—Julian. He must have circled back around to find her. Both men went down in a tangle of limbs and curses. The Irishman was huge, but Julian moved with combat-honed agility, driving his elbow hard into the man's throat. The thug gurgled in pain, the pistol falling from his grasp.

"Vivienne, run!" Julian shouted as he struggled with the bigger man.

But she couldn't leave him. Scrambling to her knees, she drew her derringer and steadied it with both hands, trying to get a clear line as the two men grappled on the ground. Moonlight broke through the clouds just enough for her to distinguish Julian's form on top, wrestling to subdue his foe.

The Irish brute twisted suddenly, flipping Julian onto his back by sheer brute strength. He closed two massive hands around Julian's neck, squeezing. Julian choked, desperately prying at the man's fingers.

Vivienne's blood roared in her ears. She rushed forward and pressed the barrel of her tiny pistol to the side of the thug's head. "Let him go, or I swear I'll shoot!" she cried, voice shaking with fury.

Wild, bloodshot eyes rolled toward her. The man sneered, loosening one hand from Julian's throat to swat at her. Vivienne didn't flinch. She pulled the trigger.

Click.

Her heart nearly stopped—the gun misfired or was a dud. The thug barked a laugh at her empty threat. In that split second, Julian wrenched one hand free and delivered a sharp jab to the brute's eyes with his thumb. The man howled, rearing back in pain and releasing Julian entirely.

Julian seized the moment. He rolled away, snatching the thug's fallen pistol from the dock. In one smooth motion from his knee, he slammed the pistol's butt into the side of the man's skull. The Irishman crumpled unconscious to the ground with a heavy thud.

Vivienne stood trembling, her useless derringer still clenched in her hand. Julian rose unsteadily, rubbing his bruised throat and gasping for air.

There was no time for relief. A distant shout warned that others were closing in. Colonel Maynard and the Frenchman, perhaps, armed and searching. The clatter of boot steps on planks echoed.

Julian grabbed Vivienne's arm, pulling her down the nearest alley between warehouses. They ran, feet pounding through puddles, twisting through a maze of crates and mooring ropes. The fog swallowed them from view as they ducked behind a stone wall.

For a long moment, they huddled there in the darkness, pressed close, listening. The shouts grew fainter. It seemed their pursuers lost track in the warren of docks. At last, only the distant lap of the river and Vivienne's own ragged breathing reached her ears.

Julian kept an arm around her shoulders, both of them soaked and shaking. He bent his head until his forehead touched hers, eyes closed. "Are you alright?" he panted, his voice raw.

Vivienne swallowed, nodding mutely. She realized belatedly that tears had mixed with the grime on her cheeks, hot and unbidden. The terror of nearly losing him under that brute's hands had struck her to the core.

Julian gently thumbed a tear from her face, leaving a smear of dirt. "Hush, love. We're safe for now." He cupped her cheek, his palm warm despite the cold night. In that instant, nothing mattered but that they were alive and together.

Vivienne let out a shaky breath and threw her arms around him, burying her face against his chest. He held her fiercely. She could feel the frantic hammer of his heart matching her own.

"I thought—" she began, voice muffled against his coat. "I thought he would kill you."

Julian pressed a kiss to her temple, then tilted her chin up. His eyes burned with emotion as he rasped, "It'll take more than a dock brute to rid me of you." He attempted a wry grin, but it faltered, replaced by an intensity Vivienne knew well.

Wordlessly, he claimed her mouth in a desperate kiss. Vivienne clung to him, answering with equal fervor. The adrenaline of the fight still coursed through them, transmuting into a wild, urgent passion. Each kiss was an affirmation—they had survived, and they had each other.

Julian backed her against the damp stone wall, his hands cradling her face as if she might vanish. Vivienne opened her lips to him, drinking in his taste, the salt of sweat and faint copper tang of blood from a cut on his lip. It only made her kiss him harder.

His body pressed to hers, solid and alive, and she felt the hard proof of his desire against her thigh. A fire ignited in her belly despite the chill night. She fisted her hands in his rough shirt, pulling him closer still.

"Vivienne," he groaned against her lips, a wealth of need and relief in that single word.

She answered by tugging at his shirt, wanting to feel the warmth of his skin beneath her palms. Julian caught her wrists gently, stilling them. His breathing was ragged. "Not here, we can't—" he whispered, even as he leaned in to steal another hungry kiss, seemingly unable to stop himself. "We need to get farther away… find a safe place."

He was right. They were still too exposed by the docks. Summoning her will, Vivienne broke the kiss, though her heart screamed against it. "Safe place," she agreed breathlessly, trying to gather her wits.

Together, supporting each other, they moved through the labyrinth of dark alleys until they found what they sought: a dingy tavern at the dock's edge with a placard reading The Sailor's Rest. At this late hour it was shuttered, but a few coins at the back door persuaded a bleary-eyed innkeep to rent them a tiny upstairs room without question. The man likely assumed them a pair of illicit lovers or vagrants with coin; either way, he asked no questions when Julian paid double for silence.

Within minutes Vivienne and Julian were sequestered in a cramped room barely fit for a servant. The ceiling sloped, the lone window was crusted with grime, and the straw mattress sagged in the corner. But it was shelter and privacy.

Only when Julian shot the bolt on the door did Vivienne truly exhale. A wave of exhaustion and delayed shock hit her; her knees wobbled. Julian was at her side in an instant, guiding her to sit on the edge of the narrow bed.

In the light of a single flickering oil lamp, she could see him more clearly. A purpling bruise marred the side of his throat where the thug had strangled him. His lip was split and a trickle of blood had dried on his chin. And his knuckles were raw and bleeding from the fight.

"You're hurt," she said softly, reaching up to touch the bruise on his neck.

He caught her hand and kissed her fingers. "It's nothing. Are you hurt? Did that bastard harm you?" His eyes roamed over her as if checking for injuries.

"No, I... I'm fine." Other than a likely bruise forming where she'd hit the ground, she was unharmed.

Julian let out a breath of relief and sank down beside her on the mattress, their thighs touching. For a few moments, they sat in silence, both absorbing the events of the night.

"We have our answer now," Vivienne finally whispered. "Nightshade… it's the Duke. Lucien." She still struggled to reconcile the notion.

Julian's jaw tightened, the gentle lover from moments before replaced by the hardened agent. "I suspected him, but damn it, I didn't want it to be true. Not with how close he's gotten to you." His fists clenched on his knees. "All this time, playing the concerned nobleman while plotting murder and treason. The gall of that man."

Vivienne stared at the grimy floorboards, memories of Lucien's charming smiles and kind words flickering through her mind. Each memory felt tainted now, false. She thought of the orphan donation he gave that very morning. Even that was likely calculated to lower her guard while he planned to throw the country into chaos.

"He killed Edward, I'm sure of it," she said, voice trembling with anger. "Or had him killed. Colonel Maynard was Edward's friend, invited him out the night his carriage crashed. Now we know Maynard's involved. They must have arranged it, made it look like an accident." Her eyes burned with tears of fury. "All because Edward might have discovered their plot."

Julian put a comforting arm around her shoulders. The anguish on her face clearly hurt him too. "We'll make them pay," he vowed quietly. "We'll expose them and ensure they hang for their crimes."

Vivienne wiped her eyes, nodding. "The gala tomorrow… they said something big will happen. We have to stop it, Julian. Prince George could be in danger, or other high officials."

Julian frowned in thought. "They have the naval codes—they'll deliver those to their French contacts now, but the gala plot is separate. Possibly an assassination or kidnapping of a political figure to destabilize things. Somerville's gala will gather many influential people, a perfect target."

"Lucien will be there of course," Vivienne added, bitterness creeping into her tone. "As an honored guest, he can move freely. No one would suspect the gracious Duke would orchestrate violence under their noses." Her hands balled in her lap. "I will be there too. I'll make sure whatever he plans fails."

Julian's head whipped toward her. "No. It's too dangerous. We should warn the authorities—if we can get word to the Home Office at first light, they can station security at the gala or call it off."

Vivienne shook her head. "We have no concrete proof to convince them in time. And I fear Colonel Maynard's influence could muddy the waters if we try official channels—he might intercept the warning as he's part of it."

She grasped Julian's hand, her eyes shining with resolve. "I have a way in. Lucien invited me. If I appear, he won't suspect I know anything. Perhaps I can stay close and thwart whatever move he makes—or at least signal to others if something is amiss."

Julian looked pained. "Vivienne, confronting him alone... after what we saw he's capable of? I nearly lost you once tonight. I can't bear the thought of you in his sights."

Vivienne leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. "You won't lose me. And I won't be alone. You'll be there too, somehow. Maybe not openly, but—"

He interrupted with a rueful chuckle. "I doubt I'll be on the guest list for a duke's inner circle gala."

"No, but perhaps as a footman or an extra guard? There must be a way." Her mind worked quickly. "Lord Somerville employs dozens of staff for such an event. We could find a livery uniform for you. Once inside, you can keep watch. If something goes wrong—if Lucien tries anything—we'll act together."

Julian mulled it over, then slowly nodded. "Alright. It's risky, but perhaps the only way. We'll need to get you safely home before dawn, then make arrangements for the gala infiltration tomorrow."

He brushed a knuckle across her cheek. "But for now, you should rest a little. You've been through hell tonight."

Only when he said it did Vivienne realize how utterly drained she was. She managed a small smile. "We both have." Her clothes were damp, and her body ached with fatigue and bruises.

Julian stood and poured water from a ewer into the basin on the rickety dresser. He dampened a somewhat clean corner of his discarded shirt and returned to gently dab at the grime and blood on Vivienne's face.

She closed her eyes, letting him minister to her. His touch was tender, wiping away the dirt of their battle. When he cleaned a streak near her mouth, he paused, then leaned in to place a feather-light kiss there, as if to heal the hurt.

Warmth bloomed in her chest. She took the cloth from him and returned the favor, carefully cleaning the cut on his lip and the dried blood on his chin. Julian sat patiently, though he winced when she cleaned the abrasion on his throat.

Once as much of the dirt and blood as possible was gone, Julian eased off his boots and lay down on the narrow bed, holding his arm out in invitation. Vivienne hesitated only a moment before joining him, curling into his side. There was little space; their bodies naturally pressed together.

He drew the threadbare blanket over them. In the lamplight, his eyes looked golden and weary. Vivienne snuggled against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

It amazed her that even in this squalid little room, with danger still looming, she could feel a sense of peace and safety in Julian's embrace. His fingers stroked through her hair slowly, lulling her.

"Thank you for coming back for me," she murmured, tracing a hand over the strong plane of his chest beneath his shirt.

He caught her hand and kissed her fingers. "Always," he whispered. "I'll always come for you, Vivienne."

Tears pricked her eyes once more, but these were borne of affection and gratitude. She tilted her face up to meet his gaze. "I love you," she said, her voice soft but unwavering. In all the chaos and uncertainty, this one truth shone clear: she loved him, wholly and desperately.

Julian's eyes widened a fraction—perhaps it was the first time either had spoken the words aloud. Then a slow, radiant smile spread on his face, chasing away the night's shadows. "And I love you," he replied, his voice rough with emotion. He bent to capture her lips in a gentle, lingering kiss that tasted of promise.

They fell asleep in each other's arms, a brief respite before the storm to come. Outside, the first pale hint of dawn crept over the Thames. By tonight's end, the battle would move from the filthy docks to the glittering halls of the elite.

Vivienne held Julian close, steeling herself for the role she must play. She would walk back into the lion's den of high society, mask her fury and heartbreak beneath silks and smiles, and face the man who had betrayed her country and murdered her husband. All while pretending ignorance of his sins.

It was a dangerous game, but Lady Vivienne had learned to play such games well. Tomorrow night, at the gala, she would dance once more with the Duke of Rockford—but this time, it would be a dance with destiny.