Tainted Angel Read online

  She noted that Dokes had made her way over to Carstairs, who was watching the banker with an unreadable expression. “I am sorry to hear of your sad loss, Carstairs.”

  Carstairs bowed and expressed his appreciation of her condolences while Vidia mounted the steps; she could be generous and allow Dokes a chance to interact with their compatriot—there is one advantage to having this face, she thought as she took her cloak from the hook by the door. I can always count on the fact that no matter what my circumstances, I can attract a man to care for me, if that is my desire. Other women were not as fortunate—although it was unclear if Dokes would ever consider marriage, even to Carstairs.

  Contemplating whether the advantages of beauty outweighed its disadvantages, she decided she had come a long way if she was even considering the subject. I have changed, she thought with some surprise—it is past time, I think; perhaps I will even take my old name back.

  As she prepared to slip out the door, the Vicar spoke to her from the stairway alcove. “Best look lively.” He threw a meaningful glance toward the basement where Dokes could be heard conversing with Carstairs.

  “For shame,” Vidia admonished, lifting her hood over her hair. “The man’s a grieving widower, after all—do your pandering elsewhere.”

  “If I were your panderer,” he opined thoughtfully, “I would be a wealthy man.”

  “Better off than my piano tuner, certainly—you have missed the main chance, methinks.”

  The grey eyes intent upon hers, his hand closed around her arm for a moment, and she carefully hid her alarm at the unusual gesture. “I wish that I understood this better than I do.”

  “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride, my friend,” she responded in a mild tone, meeting his eyes with her own steady gaze. “As an erstwhile beggar, you can appreciate the conceit.”

  “You are a cool one,” he acknowledged as he released her arm. “But I am afraid pressure can be brought to bear. Revelations can be made.”

  “My dear sir,” she protested as she smoothed down her sleeve. “I was under the impression pressure has already been brought to bear.” Without further remark, she opened the door, took a careful survey of the area, and left.

  As a matter of course, she took a circuitous route back to the main street and thought about what she had learned—it was not good. The Home Office was apparently starting to draw conclusions and make connections—but Brodie was Brodie, and as he had pointed out, even if they unearthed his plan there was little they could do without risking England’s monetary system. She closed her eyes momentarily as she considered the Vicar’s veiled warnings—that bakery in Yorkshire was beginning to sound more and more appealing, even though she hadn’t awakened at dawn for many years, not since the Army. Abruptly, she decided she didn’t want to think about that, and so she didn’t—instead thinking of Carstairs and how he had looked in the candlelight this evening, the shared memory of their adventure at the club reflected in his gaze. I am a hopeless case, she thought with an inward sigh. I would have no trouble awakening at dawn every morning if he was beside me.

  As though on cue, she heard her name whispered and slowed as to allow him to catch her.

  “You didn’t wait for me,” Carstairs complained, chagrined and slightly out of breath.

  With some surprise, she asked, “Was I supposed to?”

  He tilted his head toward her, his tone intimate. “I thought you’d be as eager to speak to me as I am to speak to you.”

  She looked him over for a moment, then returned her gaze to the street. “I see.”

  They walked at a brisk pace for a few moments. “I cannot bring myself to return your wrap.” His smile invited her to share in the absurdity of this weakness.

  “Why would you wish to keep my wrap?” she asked, as though genuinely curious.

  Raising his brows, he teased with a gleam, “I believe it is self-evident.”

  “No.” She returned her gaze to the street. “No, in fact it is not. It is very lowering to be treated like a stupid child.”

  He did not respond and their footsteps echoed in the silence of the night. Deciding to make it easier for him, she asked, “Do they believe I am tainted, then?”

  The role of the tender lover was quickly abandoned—much to her relief—and he gave an elliptical answer. “There is much at stake; caution is advised.”

  Eying him sidelong, she tried to gauge his thoughts, knowing all the while it was hopeless—he would only reveal what he wished, and if his aim was to arrest her he would reveal precious little. “Will you promise to give me one minute’s warning before I am clapped in irons? I would do the same for you, you know.”

  “You will not be clapped in irons,” he said immediately, but she noted he didn’t meet her eye and hid a flare of alarm.

  “No,” she replied with forced lightness. “I would simply disappear, leaving you free to give my wrap to your next mark.”

  “Don’t.” He made an involuntary gesture of protest, and the blue eyes finally met hers with a fierce intensity that she could swear was genuine. “But if you know anything of these matters, Vidia, best to say and to say immediately.”

  “I cannot decide,” she wondered aloud as they rounded the corner of her street, “whether our interlude that first night was strictly business. If it was, you did a very poor job of pressing for information as opposed to simply pressing.”

  He was not fooled by her tone. “You are angry and I cannot blame you. But I assure you it was not strictly business.”

  Coming to her town house, she wondered if she was making a monumental mistake—attempting to be honest with him. But she had decided—there on the street with his subtle insincerity grating on her nerves—that she couldn’t continue as she was; not with him. Perhaps he will be my downfall, she thought. But it hardly matters anymore—I am seventeen again, and just as foolish as I was then.

  Carstairs’s voice broke into her troubled thoughts. “Allow me to come in; we can discuss it over coffee.”

  Refusing to look at him, Vidia did not disguise her annoyance. “You are persistent—I will give you honors for that.”

  He made an impatient sound in his throat that only served to remind her of other sounds that throat had made. “That was clumsy of me—but it was honest, Vidia. I’ll not believe you if you tell me that you do not think about our night together.”

  “I do think about it,” she admitted. Best not to mention she thought of it in terms of a potential charge of treason—his feelings may be hurt. Men were sensitive about such things.

  He took her gloved hand and squeezed it, gently. “Then there is no reason to resist this attraction between us.”

  She sighed and ascended her front steps, digging for her key. “Come along—if you wish a search you shall have one.”

  He didn’t miss a beat. “I am sorry. I do have orders, Vidia.”

  “I understand; none better.”

  Chapter 10

  As it was just after midnight, Maisie had waited up for Vidia and dropped a surprised curtsey upon viewing her entry with an unexpected guest.

  Vidia peeled off her gloves. “Maisie, this is Mr. Carstairs. He will be conducting a search of the house, and you may be off to bed once he has searched your room.”

  The other woman took Vidia’s cloak and held her eye for a moment, wondering if there was an unspoken instruction. Shaking her head slightly, Vidia signaled that no heroics would be necessary and so the maidservant said only, “Right then, missy.”

  Standing in the marbled foyer, Carstairs removed his hat and gloves and set them on a side table, as Maisie hadn’t remembered to take them. Vidia indicated the curving stairway with a graceful gesture and asked as though she were entertaining a guest, “May I accompany you or would you rather be unobserved?”

  “Please come.” He shrugged off his jacket, and she could swear he meant it.

  “Is that wise?” she teased as she took the jacket and laid it beside the hat and gloves. “Perha
ps I will try to distract you so that you miss evidence of my wrongdoing.”

  “It would be well worth it.” He took a candlestick from the hall table as he passed by. “The distracting, I mean—not the evidence.”

  Lifting her skirts, she followed him up the stairs, her stiff petticoats crackling with her movements. “I always prefer a search from the top down, in the event an escape is needful halfway through—and Maisie’s room is on the top floor.”

  “The top floor, then.”

  There was something liberating about tossing aside the tension and the pretense, and she realized she felt much more at ease with him. “I should have worn my dusting smock.”

  As they ascended the second stairwell meant for the nonexistent servants, he chuckled in appreciation. “I would be willing to wager any amount of money you do not possess a dusting smock.”

  “You would lose, my friend.”

  One of his dark brows shot up in surprise and he turned his head to observe her. “I did not peg you for a domestic.”

  She smiled, pleased that he was interested—or pretending an interest, anyway. “Oh, I have dressed many a chicken, I assure you.”

  “Where was this?” he asked casually as he made his way down the narrow hall toward the servants’ rooms, the candlelight bouncing with his steps.

  It was the casual tone—a bit too casual—that drew her up. Remember what was at stake, menina; it was a mistake to fall into this easy conversation with him, wretched man—although it was perilously appealing. “Malmaison,” she responded, naming the residence Josephine had formerly shared with Napoleon.

  “A fish tale,” he pronounced. “The Empress would never have allowed one such as you to set foot on the premises.”

  They paused before Maisie’s room. “Then ask me no questions and I will tell you no tales.”

  “Fair enough,” he agreed, and stepped in.

  She leaned against the door in the narrow room and watched as he began a thorough search, tapping on walls and floors and gauging distances between. He was very efficient, she realized, and recalculated her strategy. “Should I help?”

  “Best not.” He turned to give her his quick flashing smile. “This is strange, isn’t it?”

  “That we are honest in our dishonesty? I suppose so.”

  With deft movements he opened a cupboard and ran a hand along the interior, lifting clothes and tapping occasionally. “I don’t think you dishonest.”

  Hesitating, she decided she may as well ask. “But some do?”

  He glanced at her. “You know I cannot say.”

  Tired of standing in her heavy skirts, she crossed the small room to sit on the cot and was content to simply watch him moving about in his shirtsleeves—he showed to advantage, did Lucien Carstairs. “I suppose not. I only wish I knew what has happened to make them think I am tainted.”

  He had been crouching, scrutinizing the floorboards, but now he rose to stand with his hands on his hips and contemplated the wall for a long moment, debating whether to tell her. “Marie twigged you.”

  She wasn’t certain what he meant. “Marie?”

  He gave her a significant look. “Yes; Marie.”

  Astonished, she exclaimed, “Your Marie?”

  She realized he was watching her reaction closely but it hardly mattered—if he had said the source was the mad King it would have been less surprising. “Yes. My Marie.”

  Vidia knit her brow and they regarded each other for a long moment. “What on earth did she tell them?”

  Shrugging his broad shoulders, he disclaimed again, “I cannot say.”

  Completely bewildered, she shook her head in protest. “Carstairs, I hardly met Marie—once or twice, perhaps.”

  “I am aware. And her motivation has been taken into consideration.”

  He had turned to move to the next room and she leapt up to follow close behind, sensing an undercurrent. “What motivation was that?”

  Beginning his tapping search anew, he replied, “She was not an admirer of yours.”

  Vidia was not surprised—few women were. “I see.”

  He glanced at her over his shoulder. “On the other hand, she was aware that I was an admirer.”

  This was of interest and pleased her enormously. “Were you? You hid it well, methinks.”

  Continuing in his endeavors, he ran his fingers along the window casements. “I thought you were the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”

  Making a wry face, she responded in a tart tone. “Unfortunately, that is neither original nor unusual.”

  He paused and said simply, “For me it was true.”

  The sincerity rang in his voice and she was—strange as it seemed—ashamed of her cynicism. “Thank you,” she offered a bit awkwardly.

  He placed his hands on the window casement and hoisted himself up, a boot on the sill, to take a view of the top of the curtain box. “Flanders wasn’t out of the blue; I’d been sorely tempted well before that.”

  She realized that these revelations were doing an excellent job of throwing her off-balance, if that was his intent, and so she decided to inject a strong dose of reality. “You seemed so devoted to Marie.”

  Mention of the recently departed didn’t seem to faze him, and the blue eyes met hers. “I could dream. Not that I was able to get much sleep in Flanders—knowing you were in the next room.”

  “As opposed to the ambassador’s maidservant,” she noted in a dry tone.

  Laughing, he knelt to examine the baseboards. “Unfair—that was strictly business—we had to get in, after all.”

  “And once we were in there was no getting out.” Deus, it had been a heart-stopping moment when they realized their Flemish contacts had betrayed them and it was a trap.

  “It was a close-run thing,” he agreed as he lifted then closed the window. “But all that matters is—although you smelt of lye for days—the extraction was ultimately successful.”

  They had improvised by smuggling the wretched ambassador out in the laundry bag—Vidia in a mobcap and hoping no one noticed her pink satin shoes. “Remind me never to rely upon Flemish diplomats again.”

  “Or Flemish horseflesh,” he added as he tapped on the walls.

  With a smile she disagreed, shaking her head. “On the contrary; the horses did exactly as expected, being of such poor quality.”

  Chuckling, he leaned back on his haunches, his arms resting on his thighs as he ducked his chin for a moment. “I enjoyed every miserable moment.”

  Unable to argue, she admitted, “I did too,” and met his gaze—there was nothing like shared peril to create a strong bond of intimacy. The room seemed to be warmer, suddenly. Mind yourself, menina, she thought, and dropped her gaze to the floor.

  The moment passed, and he resumed his search, tapping the floorboards. “Perhaps we will work together again.”

  Keeping her chin lowered, she glanced up under her lashes to watch him. “That seems unlikely, if I’m to be hanged.”

  Ah, that struck a nerve and she noted his reaction carefully, although his expression was unreadable. “I won’t let them hang you.”

  She offered in a teasing tone, “Well then; if you have a plan to extract me, I am all attention—as long as it does not involve a laundry bag.” Although she leaned casually against the doorjamb, in truth she continued to watch him narrowly, hoping to gauge the seriousness of the situation. There was a small silence but apparently he had nothing to offer—or, more correctly, nothing he was willing to offer.

  “It won’t come to that,” he said again. “I will see to it.”

  Shaking her head so that her earbobs danced, she couldn’t suppress a smile. “You know, Carstairs, I have no idea whether there is a shred of truth in anything you tell me.”

  He laughed aloud and she had to chuckle in turn, pleased she had cracked through his defenses. Still smiling, he rose to his feet and stepped over to rest his hands at her waist and pull her toward him, bending so he kissed her, long and hard. She di
d not resist, but caressed his head with her hands as he drew her intimately close. He murmured into her neck, “Where is your bedchamber?”

  “Would it be out of coverage?” she whispered. He paused, his hands on the sides of her breasts. “Tell me the truth, Lucien.”

  “No,” he admitted, and with a sigh set her away from him. His warm gaze became intense as he dropped the focus of his eyes to her mouth. “But there is a powerful attraction between us, Vidia. You wish to indulge it as much as I do.”

  She stood quietly between his hands and spoke without thinking. “I wish we were normal people who could indulge in a little honesty, on occasion.”

  He regarded her for a long moment, his expression shuttered, then he stepped away and walked into the remaining upstairs room without making a reply. Apparently he didn’t appreciate her attempt to pull the veil aside, and she tried to stifle the acute disappointment she felt now that he had removed his warm body from hers.

  “Are you coming?” His voice could be heard.

  “I am,” she called out, her heart skipping a beat. Mãe de Deus, she thought—I never learn.

  As she watched his search of the final upstairs room from the distant safety of the hallway he noted, “No one occupies any of the other rooms.”

  “No. I am not one who is comfortable having servants.”

  With a speculative expression, he glanced at her—she was equal parts relieved and disappointed to see that he had abandoned his role as seducer. “There are no other servants who live here?”

  “A new cook, not much in evidence,” she admitted. There was a pause while she watched him peer up the chimney. “The fewer servants, the fewer to witness those occasions when I entertain Rochon and summon the forces of darkness.” The reference was to Napoleon’s spymaster, the name he had muttered in his sleep. You are a flippant creature, she scolded herself; it comes of making such a clumsy call for honesty.

  “Very amusing,” he acknowledged easily, his voice echoing in the chimney. “What is this ‘argo’ to which Brodie refers—any guesses?”