Tainted Angel Read online

  “Not a clue,” she answered just as easily.

  Nothing more was said as he finished, brushing off his hands. “Next floor.”

  Stepping aside so that he could pass, she noted that he made no attempt to touch her again. I wonder what is pretense and what is not, she thought. And I imagine he is wondering the same thing. It would all be very amusing if only I weren’t in love with him—as it is, all I can do is follow him about—yearning—and guard every word I say. Such a sad little snail.

  Chapter 11

  Carstairs continued his search, descending into the main quarters on the second floor while Vidia watched and made the occasional comment. With efficient movements, he went through her things and tapped on the sides and base of her armoire, then examined the slats of her canopied bed without making any more allusions to lovemaking. He spent a considerable amount of time tapping on the plastered walls, looking for a safe. “Where are your jewels?” he finally asked, perplexed.

  “In the sugar box, on a kitchen shelf behind the extra tea cups,” she answered without hesitation. “Pray do not seize them—they are slated for Maisie if I do not survive this latest assignment.”

  Glancing to her, he asked, “You have no relatives?”

  “None that I would acknowledge. You?”

  “A few.” He smiled as he scrutinized her ceiling carefully, his head tilted back. “I don’t mind acknowledging them, only because I don’t see them very often.”

  “What do you tell them when they ask what it is that you do?” she asked, genuinely curious.

  Pulling a gilt chair over, he stood upon it and began tapping on the ceiling, his linen shirt pulled tight across his shoulders. “That I am doing bureaucratic work connected with the sea trade.”

  “Certainly vague enough.”

  “If they ask too many questions, I begin to speak at length about tariffs and they quickly lose interest.” He rested for a moment, his hands on his hips atop the chair. “Would you like to change out of your gown?”

  He must have noticed that she had surreptitiously slid out of her shoes. “I am quite comfortable,” she insisted, smoothing her skirts. “My shoes pinch, is all.”

  Teasing, he tilted his head. “I can help you undress again.”

  “Yes, you were very deft,” she noted dryly. “Were you truly drunk?”

  He shrugged. “No.”

  “You are extraordinary,” she said in all admiration. “I didn’t have a clue.”

  “I felt rather guilty—you were being so kind.”

  “But not guilty enough to call a halt.”

  “God, no.”

  She laughed and he chuckled in response, meeting her eyes from his perch on the chair. “This is better.”

  “I’ve never undergone a nicer search,” she agreed.

  Shaking his head, he lifted his arms to resume his overhead search. “I mean that we have a truce of sorts.” Tap, tap; tap, tap. “I wish that you would trust me more than you do.”

  An odd comment, considering he was conducting a search of her residence. Arching a brow, she asked, “What makes you think I don’t trust you?”

  Pausing in his endeavors, he was silent for a moment. Ah, she thought, reading him; he regrets the remark because he let slip that he knows I have not been honest with him. Instead, as the silence stretched out, he gave an oblique answer. “If you need help—I hope you will come to me.”

  She had trouble finding her voice for a moment; a wild, unnamed yearning welled up within her breast, nearly choking her. “Thank you,” was all she managed to say. Menina, she cautioned herself a bit frantically—have a care; he seeks to beguile you and you are not one to be so easily beguiled—remember the hard lessons you have learned, and what is at stake.

  They spoke no more on personal matters, and he finally descended into the wine cellar as the search neared its conclusion. Sighing, she settled in to sit on the last few steps, her skirts billowing around her stockinged feet as she stretched her arms over her head and watched him. “Does the name Hagar mean anything to you?”

  He raised his brows as took a survey of the cellar. “Hagar as in the Bible?”

  “Oh—is it a Bible character?” Vidia was not well-versed in matters religious.

  “That would be the only Hagar I know of—why?”

  Vidia decided she wouldn’t tell him. “I’d heard the name, is all.” As he made a circuit around the interior of the cavernous cellar with his candle, she teased, “How disappointing for you, Carstairs—nary a clue to be found.”

  “I have passed a very enjoyable visit,” he insisted, “despite the fact the lady has had second thoughts.”

  “The lady wishes to avoid any more traps,” she retorted with a smile. “The other night I thought I offered a kindness to a grieving man and this is how I am repaid.”

  But he would not be put on the defensive and responded in a mild tone as he opened the doors to one of the large wine cabinets, “I misremember, then—it did not seem such a sacrifice at the time.”

  She could not help laughing. “Lord—I am twigged. It was a very fine night, indeed.”

  “Just so we are clear.” He continued rooting around the wine cabinets, tapping on the base and walls of each one. When he finally withdrew from the last, he straightened up and whistled, a bottle in his hand. “Will you look at this?”

  She shrugged. “Would you like it? It is yours.”

  Raising his gaze to meet hers, he offered, “Share it with me—in your room tonight, and out of coverage—I promise. No one need know.”

  I am mightily tempted, she thought, resisting an urge to walk to him. Instead, she tilted her head in apology. “I do not drink, I am afraid.”

  “Oh yes—I had forgotten.” He gestured with the bottle. “Here’s as fine a reason as I can think of to change your mind.”

  “No.”

  The syllable was sharp and he spread his hands, contrite. “I beg your pardon—I shouldn’t tease you.”

  She carefully unclenched her jaw. “I had a bad experience, once.”

  He watched her, and she knew he was surprised by her loss of composure. “I’m sorry for it; you may come pour my glass and tell me the tale, if you’d like.”

  Smiling, she was herself once again. “Some other time, perhaps.”

  He accepted the rejection with good grace and made an ironic gesture that encompassed the impressive cabinets and their contents. “Quite the collection for a teetotaler.”

  “It belongs to Brodie,” she acknowledged. “He cannot keep it at his hotel.”

  Carstairs nodded and set the bottle on the floor as he closed the cabinets. “An intriguing man; his allegiances are not at all clear—although he does seem to be genuinely fond of you.”

  “I am a fine trophy,” she agreed absently. No one knew better than she that Brodie’s main allegiance was to the making of money—that and outwitting others. With some daring, she asked, “Have you a theory about what he plans? Or can you not tell me, being as I am tainted?”

  He drew his hand absently along the bricks that lined the wall and she struggled to sit calmly as he did so, but his words were as alarming as his actions. “If you know anything of this, Vidia, you must report—there is a concern that you are colluding with him against the Crown, and it does not look well.”

  “I understand.” She carefully kept her gaze away from the hand that was resting on the bricks and noted that it was the second time he had given her a warning, which seemed out of genuine concern for her. I appreciate the gesture, she thought, although I do not appreciate the meddling by his late wife, mulher estupida—she caught herself; I meant instead, God rest her soul.

  He waited for a few silent moments, perhaps holding out hope that she would confess her treason and throw herself upon his impressive chest. She did not, but instead stood on legs made stiff by the cold. “May I make you some coffee, or would you rather just go home?”

  “Coffee,” he decided, and followed close behind her as she a
scended the steps, struggling to control her inclination to lead him straight to her bedchamber—if he sought to seduce her for love of country or merely for himself it hardly mattered; it was a complication she did not need just now.

  When they entered the foyer, they came face-to-face with Brodie, who had just come in the front door. Completely unfazed by finding a much younger man in his mistress’s house well after midnight, he offered his hand.

  “Hello, Benny.” Vidia gestured to her companion with an easy smile. “Mr. Carstairs is a member of my temperance group at the church.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Brodie affably. “And if you were to fall off the wagon, you may as well do it in style.” He motioned to the wine bottle in Carstairs’s hand.

  The other man laughed in rueful acknowledgment. “It doesn’t look well, does it? It is the Vicar’s birthday, and Miss Swanson offered her cellar as he much enjoys fine wine. I assured her that heaven will hold no allure if this was his gift.”

  “I didn’t know which to choose,” Vidia demurred.

  “No—she is not well-versed in matters of wine.” Brodie bestowed upon Carstairs the kind of look men exchange around an untutored female.

  The visitor bade them farewell and Vidia put her hand in Brodie’s arm as they watched him walk down the front steps.

  “Maisie couldn’t decide if you needed reinforcements and came over to fetch me,” Brodie said in a low voice. “Forgive me, Bela, if I overstepped.”

  Feeling her color rise, Vidia disclaimed, “It was nothing like that, Benny. I think instead he was looking for an excuse to take a survey of the house.” Best not to mention she had invited him to do so.

  Raising his brows at her, he closed the door. “Indeed?”

  “I thought to allay suspicion, and I think I did—but he is a cool one, and difficult to read. Would you like some biscuits? I am starving.”

  “I would,” her companion replied, and asked her no more questions although she could feel his thoughtful gaze upon her.

  Chapter 12

  Vidia sat before her dressing table mirror, contemplating her reflection. Look at you, she thought. She felt as though she had not truly looked at herself in years, and now she decided that she resembled her mother more than she had in the past. The way my eyes are set, she thought—it is very similar.

  “There’s ocean in Yorkshire, if ye like bein’ by the ocean,” Maisie noted in a neutral tone as she gathered up the hairdressing tools. “Scarborough comes to mind.”

  Vidia met her maidservant’s gaze in the mirror. “I don’t think I can think about it, just yet.”

  Maisie nodded and said no more. Vidia’s voracious appetite had disappeared as quickly as it had come, to be replaced by a complete lack of interest in anything edible—and it was becoming more and more apparent why this was. I need a plan, she thought—but I am not one for planning; I am more likely to act on impulse and then be somewhat surprised that I have managed to survive. Brodie, on the other hand, is a master planner—but I cannot tell him of this fix. Not yet, leastways.

  “The Prince,” Maisie remarked tones of wonder. “Ye’ll be tellin’ me what he says to ye.”

  “I’ve met him twice before—mainly he tries to look down the front of my dress.”

  “Missy,” Maisie admonished her, shocked. “’Tis the Prince—ye must watch yerself.” Maisie had a great admiration for the aristocracy, although Vidia surmised that if Maisie could see her monarch-in-waiting when he was in his cups she might feel a bit differently. Brodie had been invited to Carlton House for cards and Vidia had no doubt it was connected to the precarious state of the Treasury. The news had been kept quiet, but another shipment of gold bricks on its way to the Continent had been stolen between Monday and Tuesday this week. Montagu had been removed from his position, it being discovered that the carrier pigeons Rothschild used to send messages had been replaced by imposters carrying false messages. Vidia had no doubt that Brodie would be treated with kid gloves tonight—with this latest loss, his hold over the country’s finances had just become stronger.

  Sighing, Vidia gathered her fan and her reticule after checking as a matter of course to see that her pistol was loaded. “We’ll be late, Maisie—don’t wait up.”

  “Will the other gentleman be there?” The maid made the attempt to pretend it was a casual question, but Maisie was not well-versed in deception, which was why Vidia was careful not to tell her anything remotely confidential.

  “No,” said Vidia, who then added, “I assume you mean Mr. Carstairs.”

  “He seemed a kind man.” Maisie slid her a sidelong glance.

  Vidia struggled not to laugh aloud, as Maisie’s only interaction with Carstairs had been to be informed that he was conducting a search. Nevertheless, it appeared Maisie had drawn a conclusion or two in that country-bred head of hers. “He is a bureaucrat, who monitors the sea trade,” Vidia informed her gravely. “He knows a great deal about tariffs.”

  “A good, reliable man,” Maisie suggested, then caught herself, “not that Mr. Brodie is not a good man…”

  “Mr. Brodie is definitely not a good man, Maisie,” Vidia assured her with a smile. “And lately he has been distracted—perhaps I have a rival for his affections.”

  Maisie colored up and dropped the subject, stepping over to the armoire to fetch Vidia’s silk pelisse as Vidia smiled into the mirror. She had borrowed a Bible from the lending library—much to the bemusement of the clerk—and had discovered who Hagar was.

  With a final assessment, her maid sent her on her way. “Ye look a treat, missy. See if ye can eat somethin’.”

  “I shall try, Maisie.”

  Hesitating, the other woman stood with her hands folded under her apron. “Ye’ll come about, if I may say so; look on t’ bright side—’tis Providence, p’haps.”

  But Vidia could not agree and shook her curls gently so as not to loosen any diamond-studded combs. “Lord, Maisie; you are overwrought—I cannot believe Providence takes the slightest interest in me.”

  She then left through her front door, nodding in a friendly fashion to the French spy in the shadows as the footman handed her into Brodie’s coach. Brodie had not come to fetch her, having decided—matters being as they were—that he would rather not be out in public more than necessary. Earlier he had noted, “For purposes of self-preservation, I have made certain that no one can easily determine what will happen to my bonds if I am met with a sudden and tragic death—still, it is best to take no chances; these are desperate times.”

  “They do not dare murder you,” Vidia had assured him. “You would only haunt them.”

  Nevertheless, she noted that he brought an extra outrider with him when he emerged from his hotel. “Good evening, Benny—you look very fine.”

  Settling into the thick cushions across from her, he smoothed down his side-whiskers, well-pleased. “It is a wonderful thing to be inveigled by a prince of the realm—I outdo myself.”

  “Such vanity, Benny—he only wishes your purse was more patriotic,” she teased. “Perhaps he will offer you a title as an incentive.”

  “I wouldn’t take it.” He tapped his cane to signal the driver to go forward. “The aristocracy only serves as an impediment to industry.”

  “What will you do if they try to buttonhole you?” She was genuinely curious as the coach started forward, and she clutched at the leather strap, awaiting his answer.

  But Brodie was not made anxious by the thought. “I shall stall them—the denouement of our little adventure is at hand and the final arrangements are being made for the Argo to set sail. A bit more time is all that is needed.”

  And I have little time before my own denouement, thought Vidia with an inward sigh. Aloud, she said, “Recall that you must watch your words around Henry Grant—although I doubt he’ll be there.”

  “Yes—I’ll remember. What is the world coming to when bankers serve as spies?”

  “Shocking,” she agreed in a grave tone, smoothing
a glove. “If you can’t trust the Bank of England, who can you trust?”

  He laughed aloud and reached to take her hand. “It is such an excellent plan, Bela.”

  He lived for this, and she smiled to observe his extreme pleasure. “It is such a shame that no one will know of it, save you and me.”

  But he disclaimed and shrugged with an easy gesture. “I amuse myself, only—I do not seek recognition; such a desire is counterproductive.”

  Squeezing the hand in hers, she thought of the future she had once never thought to have. “I appreciate—everything, Benny; I truly do.”

  “Bela,” her companion warned, “do not start weeping into your handkerchief, I beg of you.”

  Chuckling, she sat back into the cushions. “Well, then—I won’t. If the Prince asks me to deal the bank for Basset, who should win?”

  Sighing, he drummed his fingers on his knees. “Deal a fair game,” he decided with deep regret. “We don’t want to give anyone an excuse to lock us up.”

  “The Prince would not lock me up,” she pointed out. “Instead he would lock you up so as to have a clear field to me.”

  Cocking his head, Brodie thought this over as though it was a serious matter. “So—you honestly believe beauty holds more allure than wealth?”

  “It shouldn’t,” she agreed, “but it has been proved so many a time—it is the only reason I am successful at what I do.”

  “Perhaps,” he acknowledged, thinking about it. “But not with respect to my little plan, surely?”

  “No—here wealth has more power than beauty but only because we are not dealing with the usual man with the usual tastes.” She barely refrained from a shudder.

  “True,” he admitted. “Perhaps you have the right of it, but we should test out your theory—in Venice, perhaps.”

  She had to chuckle at his persistence—she was a valuable asset and he was unwilling to give her up. “No thank you, my friend—I imagine I shall stay in England for the foreseeable future.” Eight more months, certainly.