“Oui.”
I rise and pick up my clothing. “All right, then. Whether or not Miss Jenkins believes Andrés is safely in York, someone told her to pass along that story. Presumably, it was her uncle, but we must determine that for certain. You shall need to seduce her.”
I catch his look of horror and shake my head. “I am not asking you todoanything, Nico. I mean you must flirt with her.” I glance over at him. “Unless you are telling me you have never played on a lady’s interest, however gently, to your advantage.”
He sighs.
“You are an expert in the art of flirtation,” I say. “Handsome, charming, well spoken, witty and respectful.”
He arches a brow. “Respectful? I am not certain that turns a lady’s head quite as much as the rest.”
“Then you are mistaken. Of all the weapons in your arsenal, Nico, that might be your sharpest. What woman cannot help but swoon for a man who takes such care to treat her as an actual person?”
“That is a depressing sentiment, crécerelle.”
“But true.” I walk over, rise onto my tiptoes and kiss his cheek. Then I kiss it again. “I am going to like doing that.”
He puts an arm around me, pulling me to him. “And I am going to like you doing that.”
I adjust my cap. “Perhaps not while we are out, though, at least not while I am dressed like this.”
He grins. “I would not mind. You do make a very pretty boy.”
He tucks my hair under my cap and pats my rear. A low growl, and he moves in front of me, both hands on my rear as he presses me to him.
I set my hand on his chest. “None of that, sir. If I must play the coquette today to keep our mission on track, I shall do it. Perhaps you will like that better than my boldness.”
“Never.” Another growl as he kisses my neck. “I adore your boldness. It is one of your eleven most attractive traits.”
“Eleven?” I say as he begins pulling on his clothing. “That is very specific.”
“I have given the matter great thought. There are at least eleven distinct traits I adore about you.” He tugs on his shirt and then says, “Would you like to know what they are?”
“Of course.”
He hefts his satchel and tosses me an apple that seems to appear from nowhere. I take a bite, and then he says, “J’adore ton esprit, ton sens de l’humour—”
I glare at him, take a bite of my apple and march from the cave.
20
We walk to a break in the cliff where it’s an easier climb. At the top, we emerge in a small stand of trees and pause to catch our breath.
When I open my mouth, Nicolas lifts a finger. I notice he’s gone still, his gaze skipping over the trees.
“Who is there?” he calls.
Two men step out, both armed with pistols. Nicolas backs in front of me, arms out, as if to shield me.
The men step closer. They are the two who ambushed Nicolas on Hood’s Lane.
“So it seems the stories are true,” a man’s voice says from behind the other two. A figure steps out. It is a man in his thirties, with a knife-slit of a thin-lipped mouth and a sleek white wig. I recognize him from the boat last night. Lord Norrington.
Norrington continues, “Rats really do flee a sinking ship.”
“As a former admiral, you should know that,” Nicolas says. “Though I have heard you spent more time behind a desk than on a deck.”
“Is that supposed to insult me, boy? Only a fool wants to be aboard a ship, a thousand miles from home, eating salted meat and sea biscuits.”