The Mask of Night by Tracy Grant Page A

Mélanie. “Maria Salvados. The Marquesa de Fuentes. Mélanie Lescaut. The stuff men’s dreams are made of. And the best damned agent I ever met.”
    “Bloody hell, Sam.” The woman turned a sharp blue gaze on him. She looked no more than Mélanie’s age, or perhaps younger, but she had the hardened eyes of a woman who’s learned to survive in a hostile world. “What’s the point of the guards if you’ll let any woman you’ve tumbled saunter in without so much as a by your leave?”
    “Oh, I never came close to tumbling her. Not that I wouldn’t have if I’d got the chance. But she was—“
    “O’Roarke’s,” Charles said. “That is, she wasn’t anyone’s but she slept with him. She doesn’t anymore.”
    Lucan’s gaze moved to Charles. “Who the devil’s he?”
    “My husband,” Mélanie said.
    “Bloody hell, woman, have you gone mad? Your English husband?”
    “I’ve had a varied career, Sancho, but I’ve only married once.”
    “What the hell are you doing bringing him here?”
    “Charles and I tell each other the truth these days. We find it saves time.”
    Lucan looked from Mélanie to Charles. “I’ve missed something.”
    “Quite a lot, actually,” Charles said, “but that’s between my wife and me.”
    Lucan’s gaze swung back to Mélanie. “So help me, if you’ve changed sides—“
    “I haven’t. I’ve called a truce with my husband.”
    “A truce! That’s rich. I’ve never known a marriage to end in a truce. A fight á la outrance is more like it.”
    “I was a diplomat for years,” Charles said. “I have a tiresome tendency to try to reason things out.”
    Lucan frowned at him, then turned to Mélanie. “You can do whatever the devil you want, but why the hell must you needs embroil me—“
    “Charles has given me his word not to betray any of my former associates,” Mélanie said. “He takes his word very seriously.”
    “So do you, ma belle . But I’ve seen you break it on more than one occasion.”
    The curly-haired woman was running her gaze over Mélanie as though toting up each detail of her toilette. “If you can dress like that and go about on the arm of a man like that, what the hell are you doing in Seven Dials?”
    “Lucan’s neglected to complete the introductions,” Charles said. “My name’s Fraser. Charles Fraser. Madam—“
    “Simcox. Nan Simcox.” She straightened her shoulders and pushed her mane of hair back from her face.
    Charles inclined his head. “Enchanted.”
    “Oh, for God’s sake,” Lucan said. “Enough with the niceties. How do you put up with this life, Mélanie?”
    “It has its compensations. I’m not the only one with altered circumstances. You’ve changed professions since we last met.”
    “Not really. I still deal in information. It isn’t only to steal military secrets that someone wants to find out the layout of a house. I still provide a staff who can undertake the odd job here and there. It’s a buyer’s market, now, though, and the pay’s far more erratic. Nothing like that nice stream of French gold we had pouring into the Peninsula to buy information and supplies.”
    “That’s what Charles and I need. Information.”
    “About?”
    “Julien St. Juste.”
    Lucan’s face went beautifully blank. “Who?”
    “He came to London recently. If he needed information or assistance, who better to seek out than you?”
    “I'm not an easy man to find.”
    “We managed to find you, Sancho. St. Juste could have done as well.”
    “Assuming he did—and I’m not admitting anything, mind—do you think I’d tell you what transpired?”
    “Yes.” Mélanie pulled a knife from her bodice and pressed it against his throat.
    “Damnation. Tom was supposed to search you.”
    “He did. You need to train your men better. Raoul would rip you to pieces for employing such shoddy guards.”
    Nan gave a gasp that might have been either shock or appreciation. Charles kept a careful eye on her in case Mélanie