Tainted Angel Page 11

  On cue, he materialized up ahead on the pavement and waited for her to catch up to him. Deus, she thought. The moment is upon me.

  “Thank you, Lucien,” she said. “I wished to speak with you privately.”

  He bowed his head in acknowledgment and offered his arm. “I am at your disposal—lay into me as you will.”

  Chuckling at the pun, she disclaimed, “I have no intention of laying into you, one way or the other.”

  They began walking together. “Why are you all on end tonight? You do yourself no favors by antagonizing him.”

  “I am out of sorts,” she acknowledged. “It comes from not being certain I would be allowed to emerge from that basement with a whole skin, I suppose.” She shot him a look but he did not return it; he would give nothing away, even for her. “What on earth did Marie tell them to put me into their black books?” It had occurred to her that she should make more of an effort to discover this, as it could have a bearing on Brodie’s plan.

  “You can appreciate that I’d rather not say,” he replied in a mild tone that nevertheless was a rebuke.

  She was instantly contrite—he wouldn’t be disloyal to his dead wife, and particularly to his new lover who may well be a traitoress. Acknowledging her tactlessness, she took his arm and squeezed it. “I beg your pardon, Lucien—the Vicar has made me irritable and I so wanted to be calm and rational when I spoke to you.”

  He gave her a searching glance as their footsteps echoed in the silent street. “This does not bode well, I think. There are to be no more card games?”

  “I did enjoy the card games,” she admitted, smiling at the euphemism, “but I have received the type of unsettling news that requires immediate action.”

  “Then let me help you.” He bent his head to hers, his expression serious.

  Realizing he thought she was going to confess her treason, she quickly disabused him. “You have already helped enough, my friend—I am increasing.”

  As the words sunk in, he stopped abruptly and she walked on a few paces before turning to face him. They regarded each other for a long moment, their breath creating clouds in the chill air.

  “I see,” he finally said.

  She made a wry mouth. “This is one of those conversations one does not think one will ever have, is it not? I am sorry, Lucien.”

  He began to walk again and when he came abreast of her, took her hand and tucked it in his arm as she fell into step beside him. “The fault is mine.”

  “No,” she insisted, matching her pace to his as they walked forward. “The fault is mine—I should know better.”

  He was silent and she took a breath. “I plan to wait a month or so and then retire to Yorkshire to play a war widow—Maisie’s people are in Yorkshire.” Picturing it with a show of good humor, she lifted her chin and gazed into the starry sky. “I would make a very good war widow—brave and kind with just a trace of pathos, I think. I would do good works and wear kerseymere.”

  He struggled to ask the question she had been expecting. “Can you be certain—I mean, if the child is Brodie’s, it will want for nothing.”

  She said simply, “Brodie and I have never had that type of relationship. I am afraid you are the sole candidate, my friend.”

  The silence stretched out a minute or more, which she had expected. News like this must be digested and possible avenues reviewed—it was never productive to make rash decisions or accusations in their business. She allowed him his reverie and then noted that his pace had slowed. The next question she expected was now to be asked.

  “And what would you have from me?”

  Turning to face him, she met his eyes in the lamplight. “Nothing,” she said with emphasis. “I have my father’s pension from the Army and plenty in savings—although not at the Bank of England, which appears to be a good thing. And a small fortune in the sugar box, besides—I need nothing from you; I just thought you should know, is all. If I were a man—” To her horror, her voice started to break. Pausing, she ducked her chin for a moment to regain her equilibrium. She took a breath and her voice was steady again. “Were I a man I would want to know.”

  “We will marry tomorrow.”

  Utterly astonished, she stared at his face, which was now set in grim lines. “No, Lucien—I truly would like to go to Yorkshire and try my hand at a quiet life.”

  He pulled her hand through his arm again and began walking, his words clipped. “What you would like or what I would like no longer matters. We will marry tomorrow.”

  “I will not,” she protested, thoroughly annoyed with his high-handedness. Mãe de Deus, but this was unexpected.

  “The child needs a father.”

  “I had thought to look among the local gentry and find one,” she assured him.

  He stopped so suddenly that she stumbled, and he then pulled her around rather roughly so that she faced his anger head on. “No other man is going to raise my child.”

  Seeking to soothe him, she continued in an even tone, “I shall write you as often as you like, and I will not marry if it would upset you. Please, Lucien—you must see it would be for the best.”

  He leaned toward her, his voice tinged with accusation. “Best for whom?”

  She answered calmly, “For this child, Lucien. Recall who its mother is.”

  This gave him pause. “You can change your identity—after all, you have done it before.”

  Now it was her turn to be shocked, and they stared at each other for a few moments. He turned abruptly. “I will call a hackney—you should not be walking.”

  Covering her eyes with her palms, she felt as though she was a player in a very bad melodrama. “Lucien. Please, please consider.”

  But he was implacable. “There is nothing to consider. I shall call at ten o’clock tomorrow and you will be ready to be married.”

  While he hailed a cab, she stood beside him in silence. Emotions were running high and she would allow him to settle—to think it through. It was complete foolishness to think that the two of them could marry and raise a child together. More than one, perhaps. Blue-eyed children. In acute dismay she reined in her unguarded thoughts and concentrated instead on her careful plan that appeared to be unraveling at the seams. She hadn’t informed Brodie of it because he would almost certainly try to argue against it—now it seemed that perhaps she should have asked for his advice. Assessing Carstairs from the corner of her eye she thought, he thinks to rescue me—it is in his nature and I must assure him no rescue is required or even desired.

  After handing her into the hackney, he directed the driver and settled in beside her. He must have decided he needed to calm himself because when next he addressed her the words were conciliatory. “You will not regret it, Vidia—I promise you. I shall devote myself to your happiness.”

  The formal words were sincere but so jarringly out of place that she couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity. He joined in with her and the tension was broken as they enjoyed the joke together, his hand taking hers.

  “If nothing else,” he teased, “we shall be abed whenever possible.”

  “That would be to the good—I much enjoy being abed with you.”

  “Then we are agreed?”

  She sighed. “I only ask that you think on it, my friend. There is no need to race to the altar, after all. If you are of the same mind in a few months you may visit me at my cottage in Yorkshire in the guise of a suitor—an old Army friend of my dead husband, I think. The old biddies will weep into their handkerchiefs upon witnessing such high romance.”

  She could see his flashing grin in the dim light but his response remained the same. “We will marry tomorrow. I will call at ten.”

  She shook her head, bemused by his stubbornness. “I hope you will come to your senses before morning, Lucien. Use those senses, if you please—you do not have a special license.”

  “I shall have one by tomorrow.”

  “If you mean to procure the Vicar’s services, I must warn you that I susp
ect he is not truly a vicar.” She didn’t know if Carstairs was as familiar as she was with the variety of disguises the man assumed.

  “He is a vicar, as a matter of fact. But I will not procure his services—I would rather present them with a fait accompli; you can appreciate the concern.”

  Once again she covered her eyes with her palms, thinking of this mad scheme and the certain repercussions from those they worked for. “Yes. They will slay you then slay me then slay you a second time for being so foolish.”

  He chuckled and they rode for a moment without speaking, the horse’s hooves clattering on the cobblestones and the hackney’s cab creaking in the silence. Vidia found that her resolutions were fast ebbing away and so instead she turned over possible scenarios in her mind. “Perhaps we needn’t announce it—not immediately,” she suggested.

  “No, we will announce it immediately.” He took her hand in a firm grip.

  But she persisted. “If we revealed a secret marriage at a later date it would prevent everyone from counting the months on their fingers.”

  “Not exactly,” he reminded her in a dry tone. “I am recently bereaved.”

  “Oh—I forgot,” she breathed. “Oh, Lucien—what a tangle.”

  “We shall come about,” he assured her. “I will not have a hole-in-corner marriage; everything will be aboveboard.”

  “Your assignment will be compromised,” she warned. “You will be removed forthwith.”

  Grinning, he disagreed with a tilt of his chin. “On the contrary—I will have given my assignment my all.”

  She couldn’t help but laugh. “Such a sacrifice—and here I thought you wouldn’t even remember in the morning.”

  “Anything for God and country.”

  As he seemed disinclined to be serious, she gave it one more attempt. “Think, Lucien—you may be furloughed for this rash act; they may not trust you again.”

  But he was resolute and did not waver. “It cannot be helped—some things are more important than others.”

  Vidia wasn’t sure this was one of them. “Are you certain?”

  “I am,” he said firmly. “Leave me to have my way in this.”

  She sighed in resignation. “That was what caused the problem to begin with.”

  Chapter 17

  Mãe de Deus, it is all of a piece, Vidia thought crossly as she held aloft her candle. “May I assist you?”

  It was late at night and she stood in the cellar of her town house, facing a footman who appeared to be supremely unconcerned by his discovery in such a compromising position. Vidia had been unable to sleep—what with the momentous decision to be made—and decided to wander down to the kitchen to forage for something to eat; she had a sudden desire for brined cucumbers. Thinking she could hear Maisie stirring upstairs, she stole away to the cellar to enjoy her repast but found—much to her astonishment—that the cellar was already occupied. Setting down the candlestick, she sank down upon the step in her nightdress, the cucumbers set aside. “It is Brodie’s wine, you know—you would be stealing. I have a good mind to summon the Watch.”

  The footman stood in the light of the lantern that he had placed on the floor, the grey eyes thoughtful. “I wondered that Brodie would keep his wine in your cellar.”

  So, she thought, he and Carstairs have compared notes. “There is no place at his hotel, after all—and he needn’t fear that I would tipple the more expensive bottles when he was not looking.”

  “You do not drink?” He opened one of the wine cabinets and surveyed the interior.

  “No—I learned my lesson at San Sebastian.”

  He glanced at her over the cabinet door, and she thought she could discern a grudging admiration in the grey depths. “You are a cool one.”

  “So you say,” she acknowledged humbly. “What is it you seek?”

  “Answers,” he replied, moving bottles about. “And perhaps a fine Cabernet.”

  Stifling a yawn, she said, “I am of two minds; shall I go back to bed or shout for Maisie to bring my pistol?”

  He raised his head and eyed her. “Not the most loyal of maidservants.”

  Vidia lifted her chin. “I disagree. She is exactly what she seems—a true rarity, in my experience.”

  “And as you do not service Brodie, you do not begrudge another the task.”

  “More like I do not delve into what is none of my business.”

  “Everything is my business,” he replied without remorse. “Make no mistake.”

  They measured each other for a moment or two, and Vidia decided it was time to make a home thrust. “Do you believe I am working hand in glove with Rochon, then?”

  If the question threw him, he betrayed no discomfiture. “What I believe is not your concern.”

  “I beg your pardon,” she apologized. “It is cold and I thought to cut the conversation short.”

  Closing the doors, he moved on to the next cabinet. “I remain curious as to your unexplained disappearance in France this past fall—I believe it was three days you were out of coverage.”

  “I was very busy measuring the draperies for Napoleon’s summer house.” There it was again—as had happened at the meeting, she had a tendency to be insolent when she should be treading warily; it appeared her spymaster brought out the worst in her.

  Fortunately, he chose to be amused and returned to his search within the wine cabinet. “You will be the death of me.”

  “God forfend,” she offered piously.

  A chuckle could be heard reverberating among the bottles and Vidia began to entertain cautious optimism that she might escape the cellar unscathed. To this end, she redoubled her efforts to appear calm and unfazed—he did seem to admire her coolness.

  As he moved bottles and held them up to the light she watched him, saying nothing, and he seemed unconcerned that she was a witness to his search. He noted, “You managed to beguile Carstairs into an escort home—I rather thought the two of you would be occupied upstairs and I could search undetected.”

  “You are mistaken—I am faithful to a fault.” She gave him her slow smile, daring him to find a double meaning. Although she was playing with fire, again he chose to be amused and only shook his head in appreciation.

  Placing a bottle on the stone floor next to his lantern, he asked, “How did you know I was here?”

  “You are very noisy—you need to work on this, methinks.” It wasn’t true and he knew it, but the last thing she wanted to do was tell him why she could not sleep. She watched as he opened another cabinet and surveyed the inventory. “Whose livery do you ape?”

  He gave her an admonishing look. “Brodie’s.”

  Laughing she exclaimed “Oh—is it indeed? I should know, I suppose.”

  Crossing his arms on the top of the cabinet door he leaned his long frame upon it and contemplated her. “I note you have no footmen to hand, yourself.”

  “No, only Maisie. And a cook, for those occasions when no man is plying me with fine food; in truth, I am a simple soul.”

  “Simple like a succubus,” he noted without malice, and resumed his inspection.

  Curious, she asked, “Did you leave a means of entry when you tuned the piano?”

  He gave her a look over his shoulder that indicated she should know better. “I’ll not reveal trade secrets.”

  She sighed and rubbed her cold arms. “I shall give you a key, if you’d like—it would save a lot of bother.”

  But he was not to be teased. “Who else has a key?”

  She considered. “Brodie; other than that, no one.”

  “Hagar?”

  Her tone suddenly sharp, Vidia retorted, “Her name is Maisie, and I’ll not hear you disparage her.”

  “Your pardon.” He straightened up to face her. “You are indeed faithful to a fault.”

  Vidia pressed her lips together and vowed to give him no more insights. She wished she had thought to bring a robe—her nightdress was only thin cotton. “If you would give a key to the man who watches a
cross the street he could come in to warm himself occasionally.”

  “He is not mine.”

  Wondering if he knew, she asked, “Then whose?”

  “I’d rather not say, I am afraid. It does seem that you have many admirers.”

  “A pox on you all,” she retorted crossly. “I need my sleep.”

  “I do not keep you from your bed,” he reminded her with a small smile. “Far from it.”

  Returning his smile, she acknowledged the jest. “All the more reason to catch some sleep when I may.”

  After standing in place for a few moments, thinking, he clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace, his manner suddenly serious. “What is Brodie’s game? I cannot believe he seeks to bring down England.”

  “No,” she agreed. “I cannot believe such a thing, either—perhaps he holds some grudge, and enjoys driving you to distraction.”

  The other made a sound of impatience. “No—it is not in his nature to seek attention, or even vengeance.”

  This was undeniably true, and Vidia was impressed by the shrewd observation. She ventured, “He does like having you all on a string, though—he much enjoys the outwitting.”

  Tossing her a look, he chided, “Have done—you’ll not convince me he is bringing about a national crisis for the sport of it.”

  “No, I suppose not,” she agreed in a meek tone.

  With an exasperated chuckle, he repeated, “You will be the death of me.”

  “Or vice versa.” She gauged his reaction.

  “Perhaps,” he agreed, matching her in coolness. “The only thing that stays my hand is that I can’t imagine you would support the enemy—not with your history, Libby. When did you change your name?”

  Without a tremor she confessed, “San Sebastian.”

  “Is that where your father was killed?”

  “No,” she replied. “My husband.”

  He nodded as if he had already guessed this. “And now you are Invidia—the goddess of vengeance.”