Tainted Angel (9 page)

At the appointed time, Vidia squared her shoulders and tapped the code on the church door. Earlier, a messenger had come around her house with a ciphered note, stating there would be a temperance meeting that evening. Brodie had thought there would be no harm in attending, despite the attack at the Prince’s residence.

“Truly?” she had asked doubtfully as she put the note into the fire. “What if I descend into the basement never to be seen again?”

With a patient manner, he explained, “Come,
Bela
—think on it. They are trying to make you doubt your allegiance to me; the best tack for you to take is innocent outrage.”

“I can do innocent outrage,” she had agreed. “None better.”

“Besides,” he pointed out, “the Prince’s supper party has softened my stance—I have agreed to rework the bonds, remember?”

“Ah—I had almost forgotten,” she said dryly. “But what if instead, they are trying to get to you through me—force you to act by threatening me; have you thought of it from that angle?”

But he had discarded such a notion out of hand, “No one would even think it—I am not a sentimental man and would easily put another in your place. No; they are trying to make you doubt me.”

So now she prepared to face them all down—although she did look forward to seeing Carstairs again—she hadn’t heard from him since the night of their card game. While Brodie is not sentimental about me, I am definitely sentimental about Carstairs, she thought, and it’s a weakness they have already attempted to exploit; foolish snail—look where it’s landed you. But she couldn’t regret it—there was such heat and such an attraction between them that it had been another blissful night of making love, this time interspersed with laughter and soft words. Lying in his arms, she had resolved to tell him of her condition but she had fallen asleep instead—she didn’t have the stamina to stay awake anymore. In the morning, Carstairs was gone and Maisie had opened the curtains without comment, but Vidia could sense the maid knew more than she was letting on—only this time she didn’t tease Vidia about it; she knew it was not a teasing matter anymore.

The church door opened to reveal the grey-eyed man posing as a vicar again, dressed in black vestments. Affecting a brash air, she surveyed him, head to foot. “You again—where is your curate? I am beginning to think you are running some sort of a rig.”

“Speaks the master,” he replied, and bowed.

“Am I beneath his notice, now? Should I beg for an appointment?”

The Vicar gestured her in. “He sends his apologies—a trifling matter at the Treasury; perhaps you have heard.”

She removed her cloak and he took it from her and hung it on the hook. “I do hope he finds the misplaced gold.”

“I imagine it is his dearest wish.” He lifted the candle and led her within.

She followed him down the stairs to the basement, trying to gauge his mood. “You must come visit—we shall play a duet again.”

“My own dearest wish.”

Not good, she decided. Whatever Marie Carstairs had told them, it was definitely not to her credit. Who would have thought the woman could cause so much trouble? It occurred to her that she was not aware of the circumstances surrounding the late Mrs. Carstairs’s unexpected death, and resolved to ask Carstairs—that is, if they were still on speaking terms after she gave him the news tonight. She was determined to give him the news tonight; there was no sense in putting it off and apparently Brodie’s plan would come to a conclusion soon—she may need to leave quickly.

“How many have we?”

“We speak of Brodie tonight and so it is Dokes, Carstairs, and Grant.”

“Is Droughm back from Algiers? I thought I saw him riding in the park.”

“Lord Droughm has indeed returned.”

Eying his back, she subsided. Apparently he wasn’t going to tell her how the assignment went in Algiers or why Droughm, of all people, had been chaperoning a schoolgirl in the park.

As she passed before him into the basement, she remarked, “I am amazed you tolerate Grant—the Bank of England must be in dire straits indeed.”

His face in the shadows, the Vicar said only, “He is uniquely qualified for the position.”

The others had already arrived and she greeted them, her gaze meeting Carstairs’s only briefly so that she gave nothing away—they had agreed that the other night was out of coverage, but the grey-eyed man was notorious for uncovering secrets; only see how he had found out about San Sebastian.

“Swanson,” Jenny Dokes greeted her with her dry smile. “How goes your life of ease?”

Vidia spoke with her for a moment, relieved. Whatever the Vicar suspected, it seemed it was not generally known among her compatriots. It doesn’t truly matter, she acknowledged. I do not have the luxury of pride—not anymore.

The meeting was called to order and the Vicar began without preamble. “I needn’t tell you that matters are grave; it is clear there is a breach—that supposedly secure information with respect to the gold shipments was not, in fact, secure. To counter this problem, all personnel who were privy to the information have been dismissed from their positions and there are even fewer with access.”

Too little, too late, thought Vidia; Brodie has all the gold he needs,
por
favor
Deus
.

“Treason,” pronounced Grant, his arms crossed before him in disgust. “Infamous. We can only hope those who are behind this plot are made to pay.” His gaze slid to Vidia, and she barely refrained from flinging her blade at him.

But the Vicar paced across the small room thoughtfully. “There is always the possibility the perpetrators have no political motivation; recall that there are rumors Napoleon’s people have also lost shipments of gold—we may be dealing with international thieves who have no particular loyalty.”

“France can afford the losses even less than England,” noted Dokes. “Their currency is guaranteed by gold, while England is not on the gold standard.”

“Brodie has agreed to rework his bonds,” offered Vidia, thinking to steer the conversation toward more productive channels. “There is that, at least.”

“You are misinformed; I understand the little contretemps the other night has caused him to balk once again.” The Vicar rested his unreadable gaze upon her.

Surprised, Vidia replied honestly, “I was not aware of this.”

“Apparently,” the Vicar answered slowly, “he was very unhappy you were injured and blames the Government to no small extent.”

So; thought Vidia with interest, Brodie is not so unsentimental after all—I shall have to tease him about it.

“What contretemps?” asked Dokes.

There was a pause, and Vidia remembered she was supposed to be outraged. “We were attacked, Brodie and I, on the street outside Carlton House, of all places. The attackers were not caught but it seemed that I was their object.”

“Heavens,” exclaimed Dokes, her pale brows lifting in surprise. “And you were injured?”

“A scratch or two,” Vidia disclaimed. “Brodie was furious that security was so lax, all things considered.” She met the Vicar’s eye, daring him to make a comment.

He did not disappoint, but replied in a mocking tone, “Deplorable; who would do such a thing?”

“Cowards,” she flung at him.

Carstairs had remained silent to this point, but interjected, “Perhaps it was a group of common felons—after all, Brodie is famously wealthy.”

Taking control of her temper, Vidia subsided. It would do no good to antagonize the spymaster, and so she followed Carstairs’s lead. “Perhaps.”

But apparently the Vicar was not yet done and he addressed her in a dulcet tone. “It is impossible to control such lawlessness—surely you understand?”

It seemed to Vidia that this remark was a thinly veiled threat, but she was not one to be cowed by threats, as Rochon himself could attest. Lifting her chin, she retorted, “Indeed; many things are impossible to control.” There—let him make what he would of her counterthreat.

Before blows could be exchanged, Carstairs interceded once again. “Can we look into Brodie’s financial dealings for the past few months—see if everything is aboveboard? Perhaps we can discover some leverage to apply to him.”

“The situation is extremely delicate,” the Vicar conceded, reluctantly pulling his gaze away from Vidia’s angry glare. “Brodie has done nothing unlawful—at least that we are aware. If he is mishandled it may compel exactly the behavior we are trying to prevent; it is not clear if he has any particular loyalty to England and we do not wish to create the very disloyalty we fear.”

Everyone is stymied—just as Brodie said, thought Vidia; say what you will about him, you have to give the devil his due. Offering an olive branch, she asked, “Shall I conduct a search of Brodie’s rooms?” She would show that she could cooperate if she wasn’t being attacked by Englishmen pretending to be Frenchmen now being passed off as common felons.

“Too risky,” pronounced the Vicar. “What have we discovered from the bank’s records?”

“I see no major discrepancies,” said Dokes. “The debts are as they appear—no worse.”

“A small piece of good news,” said the Vicar, nodding. “Now we need only find the missing gold.”

“It is nothing short of amazing we can find no one who knows
something
,” Dokes offered with a knit brow. “This much gold would be heavy and could not be easily transported or stored.”

“It is indeed a mystery,” said the Vicar, a slight edge to his voice. “But there has been no indication that any attempt has been made to cash it in, so we are without clues in that respect, also.”

“What is the timeline?” asked Carstairs.

Nine months, Lucien—or eight, now, thought Vidia, and wished she didn’t feel so nervous.

“Matters are grave,” was all the Vicar would say. “Brodie can alleviate the immediate pressure if he does not seek to cash in his bonds immediately, but if he does, a financial crisis could easily ensue—a panic which could collapse the economy.”

While they all absorbed this unwelcome assessment, Vidia caught Carstairs’s eye briefly, then returned her attention to the Vicar as he adjourned the meeting. Hopefully he would know she wished to speak to him in private.

“Swanson,” asked Dokes in a low voice as they stood to leave. “What was that all about?” she indicated the Vicar with her eyes.

Having cooled down, Vidia decided she should downplay the display of open hostility. “He is unhappy with my efforts—thinks I may be a bit too comfortable in my assignment.”

“The men in this business are always doubting the resolve of the women,” the other woman observed without bitterness. “They think we are easily swayed and therefore weaker, so we are held to a higher standard.”

Vidia knew she was offering support and appreciated it. “I think you have the right of it, Dokes. Tell me—how is your investigation at the
Académie
coming along?” Vidia had forgotten the name of the former French aristocrat they had marked as a suspect.

“Nothing new,” Dokes replied in a neutral tone. “Tell me what the Prince was like—did you speak to him at length?”

Although she was willing to allow the change of subject, Vidia noted with some dismay that even Jenny Dokes had been warned to tell her nothing.

After speaking with Dokes, Vidia emerged from the church onto the quiet street and began to walk in the direction of the main crossroad, her senses surveying the surroundings for any hidden dangers. It was second nature to make such a survey and she wondered if she would shake the habit anytime soon, now that her future would entail a different kind of life altogether. I shall have to try to make friends, she realized, which was a novel idea. As Carstairs had pointed out, they had learned to stay alive by not trusting anyone, and women of her acquaintance tended not to trust her for fear their menfolk would succumb. Another disadvantage of beauty, she thought, then could not help smiling when she remembered an advantage; how Carstairs had given her such pretty compliments the other night—when he could manage to put two words together, that was.

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 suspect 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.”