Tainted Angel (12 page)

When Vidia broke the news to her maidservant the reaction was not unmixed. “He married ye?” Maisie breathed, and sat down abruptly on the dressing room chair, staring at her mistress in dismay and unconsciously twisting the corner of her apron. “Are ye sure?”

Laughing, Vidia protested, “Lord, Maisie—of course I am sure. And I have the ring to show for it.” She displayed it with some pride—truly, it was a very pretty ring.

“Gar,” said Maisie, much taken aback. “Yer wed.”

“Indeed,” agreed Vidia. “The deed was done in two shakes—he proposed immediately upon hearing my news, which was chivalrous of him and not at all what I expected.”

“An’ me all unknowin’.” Maisie was having some trouble assimilating the change in Vidia’s circumstances, her eyes fixed on the ring as though it was a venomous reptile.

“We thought it best,” Vidia soothed. “We didn’t want word to get out.” Vidia diplomatically didn’t specify who would have carried word to whom. Smiling, she teased, “So now I suppose I must learn to be respectable, and hold house.”

The other woman raised her eyes to Vidia’s, dubious. “Can ye, d’ye think?”

Laughing again, Vidia observed, “Well, if I can run a rig to keep the Flemish ambassador from stealing the weapons he was supposed to be sending to Wellington, I suppose I can organize linens. After all, the ambassador’s extraction did involve the laundry chute.”

“If ye say so,” her henchwoman agreed, twisting the other corner of her apron.

“Now—here’s faint praise,” Vidia chided her gently. “You do not seem very happy about this turn of events, Maisie—and I thought you were urging me to find a fine husband who would appreciate me.”

“I’m that happy fer ye, missy,” Maisie offered in a doubtful tone.

“Missus,” Vidia corrected her with a fond smile. “Mrs. Carstairs.” She said it with relish; such a nice sounding name, it was.

Maisie swallowed, pale of lip.

Hiding a smile, Vidia decided to be merciful. “I have already broken the news to Mr. Brodie and he is very pleased.”

Lifting her brows, Maisie sat up and was cautiously optimistic. “Is he?”

“Drank a toast to my future happiness,” Vidia assured her. “I honestly believe he is relieved to have me off his hands—he is a restless soul and doesn’t like to stay in one place very long.” This said as a veiled warning, in the event Maisie was under any misapprehensions about Brodie’s nature.

Belatedly realizing that she sat while her mistress stood, Maisie rose to her feet, folding her hands under her apron so as to consider the situation. “Are ye sure he’s not hidin’ a broken heart?”

Vidia was blunt. “Brodie has no heart.” Best that Maisie be aware—although she did not seem the romantic sort.

But her henchwoman insisted stubbornly, “He is that fond o’ ye—I am sure of it.”

“Yes,” Vidia agreed. “He is—I am a valuable asset.”

Maisie knit her brow, not understanding her meaning, but Vidia had moved on to the next topic. “Mr. Carstairs is taking me to Sussex to meet his family and I believe he plans to leave in the morning, so best get us packed.”

“Sussex,” mused Maisie, thinking over the practicalities. “How long a stay?”

“No more than a week, with any luck.” Vidia crossed to her armoire and, opening the doors, reviewed her extensive wardrobe. “I cannot play the blushing maiden, but I can certainly play the respectful and grateful daughter-in-law.”

“If ye say,” said Maisie agreeably. “Wearin’ what, exactly?”

Vidia made a wry face. “
Touché
, my friend—I shall leave it to your capable talents.” Maisie may not be the most satisfactory of maids but she was an excellent seamstress, having learned the skill as a necessity, patching together uniforms taken from the fallen during the war.

Thinking aloud of what needed to be done, her maidservant muttered, “I’ll be needin’ to buy ready-made, an’ make some alterations—ye can’t be respectable in yer silks and satins. And ye’d best pull that hair o’ yers back tight—and wear a cap.” She eyed it askance but Vidia was comforted by the knowledge that Carstairs very much enjoyed running his hands through her hair and would do so nightly from now on.

“Spend whatever is necessary and do your worst, my friend, as long as I make a good impression on his mother. I don’t want Mr. Carstairs to regret this straightaway.”

“Never say so; he’s a lucky man to have ye,” Maisie insisted, stung. “His family will think he carried off the prize, once they see ye.”

“Not if they can count to nine on their fingers.”

“Nowt the first time sech a thing has happened,” reflected her maid, unperturbed as she began to thumb through the armoire. “And besides, who’s to say whether the babe comes early—they do sometimes.”

Sighing, Vidia confessed, “I thank you for your support, Maisie, but I don’t think I have yet mentioned that his first wife died a few short weeks ago.”

Nonplussed, Maisie turned to stare at her. “Is that so?”

With a rustle of taffeta petticoats, Vidia sank into the chair her maid had vacated. “They shall think me a Jezebel—and no help for it; I may as well wear my silks and satins and play the role with relish.”

“Nonsense,” retorted her maid stoutly, even though Vidia suspected she was taken aback by this disclosure. “Nowt the first time sech a thing as that has happened, either—handsome widowers are always snapped up; the menfolk dinna like to be alone.”

“He is very handsome,” Vidia agreed with a smile, willing to be distracted from contemplating the awkward situation ahead. “He shall come for dinner, so pray warn the cook, and I would like you to find the nightdress I wore to distract the French master-at-arms while the horses were being stolen.”

“Hardly a nightdress,” Maisie noted.

“But fit for the purpose—I don’t think he plans to stay tonight and I hope to change his mind.”

“That’ll do it—if he’s alive and a man.” The maid bent to rummage through a wardrobe chest. “Where’s he to stay, if not here?”

Vidia said airily, “It was all so spur of the moment—and since we are leaving tomorrow he thinks to put his affairs in order.” Best not to mention her new husband refused to abide at her residence—one shocking revelation at a time for her beleaguered servant. “To this end, I would like a bath, if you don’t mind—and let’s perfume the water.”

Maisie was not worried about the success of these machinations as she shook out the gossamer nightdress. “He’ll never be able to resist ye—he’s yer lawful husband, after all.”

Vidia bent to unlace her shoes. “And as I am in dire need of a husband, I count my own luck. Otherwise I would have been forced to throw myself upon your mercy, Maisie—thank heaven you didn’t desert me in my hour of need.”

Placing a can of water on the hearth to warm, Maisie dragged the hip bath forward. “Of course I couldn’t desert ye—ye have no more sense than a kitten about how to care for a bairn.”

“Too true.” Vidia thought it best not to mention that Maisie, being childless, was by no means an expert.

As the water warmed, her servant also warmed to the subject, her hands on her hips. “Did I desert ye at Pamploma? An’ with me havin’ to shoot a gun an’ pretend to be a soldier in knee breeches? I should say not.”

“You did not—most would have refused such a humiliating episode.”

“An’ the fire jack incident—did I wash my hands of ye then?” Maisie tested the water’s temperature with a forefinger, a twinkle in her eye.

“I shall never forget the fire jack,” Vidia assured her, peeling off her clothes and smiling at the memory. “The poor man was addled for an hour.”

“And Calais? Did I desert ye in Calais, when I thought we was to drown fer sure—havin’ to hold our breath and hope they couldn’t see us well enough t’ shoot us in the water?”

“No,” Vidia agreed, stepping into the bath as Maisie steadied her. “It was a rare wonder—you had every incentive.”

“No more o’ that kind o’ life,” pronounced Maisie, rinsing Vidia’s hair with a ladle. “Yer a married lady now—and a mum, besides.”

“Another rare wonder—I have yet to come to terms with it.” Vidia closed her eyes and enjoyed the feel of the warm water cascading down her back. “What was your wedding day like, Maisie?”

Maisie paused in her ministrations and waxed thoughtful. “Quiet-like—me da had died so’s it were a small weddin’ breakfast.” She resumed ladling the water with a steady rhythm. “’T’were a grand day, all the same.”

Wonderfully grand, thought Vidia in agreement, and felt her throat close with emotion. “Was it a love match, you and your Jem?”

Maisie chuckled. “I suppose ye could say so. He loved me da’s farm.”

Vidia met her amused gaze. “He married you for your inheritance?”

“An’ I was right grateful. I weren’t a pretty thing, like yerself. I got me a fine husband and he got a fine farm.”

Vidia stared at her, suddenly stricken, and said slowly, “Because as your husband, your property became his.”

“The men handle the property,” Maisie agreed, scrubbing with a sponge. “’Tis the way o’ things.”

Mãe de Deus
, thought Vidia. The men own the property.

Vidia was surprised by her emotions, and she hadn’t thought she was capable of being surprised, which only surprised her all the more. She found that she was nervous waiting for Carstairs to arrive and unsure of how to play it—never having had an assignment that fit this particular situation.

She answered the door herself when he arrived so that Maisie wouldn’t overhear them. “Lucien.” She rose on her tiptoes to kiss him—which she deemed to be the appropriate conjugal gesture. After the barest hesitation, he leaned down to meet her lips with his, leading her to believe he was unsure of his own role as well. “I must give you a key,” she teased. “Although I am not certain you need one.”

Matching her teasing tone he replied, “Note that I come through the front door like a proper visitor this time—I am trying to make a good impression.”

“I appreciate the gesture, husband, although I would welcome you through any window at any time.” She cast him a wicked glance under her lashes to remind him of the lovemaking in her room that night, and wondered if they could move dinner ahead.

He kissed her once more, quickly, and then walked into the parlor to the sideboard, where he poured himself a whiskey with no further ado. Vidia watched his movements and decided he must be suffering from the same uncertainties as she; well—there was no time like the present to address them. Walking up behind him, she touched his sleeve. “This is strange, is it not? I would like to start as we mean to go on—but I’m not certain how that should be.”

With relief, she saw that he knew exactly what she meant as he nodded and turned to her. “There are so many levels of deception that we are not certain how we should present to one another.”

“Exactly.” He stood so close; she had to curb that familiar feeling of breathlessness in his presence—at the thought of being abed with him again. “How should we go on?”

Placing his glass on the sideboard with a click, he gently held her arms above the elbows and met her gaze with his own steady one. “I suggest we attempt to be honest with each other—or as honest as we can possibly be.”

“I am nervous,” she confessed. “And that’s the honest truth.”

“You are famous for your coolness.” He drew his hands down her arms and took her hands in his. “I am a bit shocked.”

“I haven’t been nervous in a long time—I think I haven’t cared so much about anything in a long time.”

His expression unreadable, he gazed into her eyes for a long moment. “It is a good sign then—your nervousness.” He tilted his head. “On the other hand—I am not so much nervous as browbeaten.”

“Oh—Lucien, was it terrible?”

“Worse,” he admitted. “The church hierarchy is up in arms.”

“Are they?” she leaned forward to hide her face in his coat and breathe in his scent. “I cannot confess to surprise. Were they furious?”

She could feel him sigh. “My judgment was called into question in graphic terms. In particular, the Vicar puts you on a level with the Antichrist.”

She lifted her face to his, trying to lighten the moment. “Surely not—I told Maisie I am more along the lines of a Jezebel.”

He gestured toward the settee, indicating they should sit, and kept his arm around her as they walked across the room. “I am afraid I have orders—as do you.”

Making a wry mouth, she settled on the settee. “I am ready, husband—do your worst.”

His answering smile did not quite reach his eyes. “The Vicar is very unhappy that you have compromised your assignment with Brodie, and he wishes for you to stay indefinitely with my family.”

She bowed her head in mock chagrin, hiding her dismay behind an easy manner. “Behold the errant bride.” As Brodie had predicted, she was to be made inaccessible—it was a bit unsettling to have it confirmed. No matter—she would contrive to attend the launch of the
Argo
; Brodie felt it important that she be present and so she would be. The small matter of her husband’s authority over her would have to be circumvented for the greater good.

Carstairs gently clasped her arm with his fingers and tried to soften the blow. “I think it is more an exercise in caution—as you are no longer in a condition to work, he would like you to be isolated elsewhere.”

“In the event I am indeed tattling to Rochon.” She watched for his reaction, but he remained matter-of-fact.

“Yes. In the event.”

She kept her tone light; no need to quarrel on their wedding night. “Where is my Sussex exile?” Brodie needed to be informed before they left; they had to be certain that she could be contacted.

“Near Fairlight, which is a coastal village near Hastings in East Sussex. We leave tomorrow morning.”

Mustering a smile, she assured him, “I anticipated as much—Maisie is frantically putting together a semi-suitable wardrobe; I’m afraid there’s not much I can salvage from my current assignment.”

The blue eyes searched hers for a moment, their expression very serious. “We are being honest with one another,” he reminded her.

“We are,” she agreed, and wondered if it was true.

“Are you tainted?”

Time for pound dealing, she thought, hiding her surprise at the blunt question. “No. Are you?”

“No,” he replied.

“Well then—that’s settled.”

With a small smile, he ducked his chin. “I had to ask.”

Vidia sighed. “Your late wife’s legacy; Marie, you did me no favors.”

With a shrug, he ventured, “Perhaps she overheard something and misunderstood.”

“Or perhaps she sought to cause me trouble.” After the words had come out, she realized she should temper her comments. “I beg your pardon, Lucien—I did not know her well and am judging her harshly, I’m afraid.”

Gazing into the fire, he rubbed a hand absently across her shoulder. “I will tell you about her, some day—but not just yet.”

She was silent, wondering if she would be called upon to speak of Sergeant Tim McCord; she sincerely hoped not.

Maisie appeared before them and bobbed her awkward curtsey. “Dinner is served.”

Vidia hid a smile at Maisie’s attempt at formality and asked Carstairs, “Are you hungry after your trimming?”

“I am—I feel lucky to have survived.” He smiled at the maidservant. “I will eat anything you put before me, Maisie.”

“Yessir.” Another bob and she departed for the kitchen.

Vidia explained, “She will be less nervous when she becomes accustomed—it has been just the two of us for so long.”

It could not have been more evident that Maisie was a fish out of water and as they stood he asked, “How did you come to have her?”

As this was an entertaining tale, she recited it at length through the course of their meal, Vidia warming to the ordinariness of the interaction. This is how I play this, she thought, hiding her relief. We are like any other new-married pair—putting together our routine and feeling our way toward what will soon become normal—although in very little time, normal will include a baby. And Sussex in-laws. Deciding she’d rather not think about it just now, she focused instead upon entertaining her new husband.

At the end of the tale, Carstairs leaned back in his chair and expressed his admiration for their ingenuity in stalling the French army. “Had you previous experience with cows, Maisie?”

Maisie nodded as she cleared away the dishes. “Oh, I knows me cows, sir—I be from Masham.”

“And do you know your cows?” he asked Vidia with a smile.

She wondered if he was once again probing for information and so gave a light answer. “I became particularly well-acquainted with the cow I hid beside—I smelt of her for days.”

“That ye did,” Maisie agreed.

With good humor, Carstairs crossed his arms before him. “For shame—you should not mock her for her service—instead Wellington should have awarded a commendation—a cow-commendation.”

Laughing, Vidia replied, “I cannot disagree; she was completely uncowed by Messena’s curses, and held her assignment so well I could swear she knew exactly what was at stake.”

He chuckled at the pun. “I understand completely—my own horse recruited me and I had little choice in the matter.”

“How was this?” She realized she was hungry to hear personal anecdotes from him and leaned forward, her elbows on the table as the candle burned low.

Carstairs reached to finger his wineglass and smiled at the memory. “It was near Burgos; my old horse had been shot out from under me, poor fellow, and I lay stunned in the snow until I felt Whistlejacket’s nose prodding me back into action. He had no sympathy for my wounds and insisted I mount up and get on with it.”

Vidia was delighted with the tale. “Whose was he?”

“I have no idea but I suspect he is Andalusian—I speak Spanish to him so that he doesn’t realize he turned coat.”

She shook her head, laughing. “Clever horse—he anticipated the future.” The French had later betrayed Spain, its former ally, and the enraged Spanish had proved difficult for Napoleon’s harried troops to subdue in the bloodbath that followed.

Carstairs smiled in turn. “That is true—perhaps he knew that if he threw in with me he would manage to avoid Saragossa.” The reference was to an infamous battle in the streets of the Spanish town where over sixty thousand had died.

Vidia made no reply and dropped her gaze, struggling.

“What is it?” he asked, alert to her dismay. “Never say you were at Saragossa?”

“No,” she replied with an effort, and raised her eyes to meet his again. “No,” she said again, shaking her head and unwilling to give him any insights. “Where did Whistlejacket go instead?”

Carstairs allowed her to shift the subject. “He found himself at Cadiz; then he spent some time in the hills of the Sierra Morena.”

Vidia nodded—she already knew that Carstairs had been in the thick of the
guerrilla
fighting in the southern Spanish provinces, aligned with the legendary El Halcon. The notorious
guerrilla
fighters, using ambush and stealth, had been instrumental in turning the course of the war. Not that Vidia wished to give the Spanish any credit at all—the
bastardo
; Portugal had suffered much at the hands of the Spanish and so had she.

While she was lost in her thoughts, Carstairs reached over to lay a hand on hers. “Tired?” he asked gently. “It has been a busy day.”

She brightened. “Shall we go to bed, then?”

“Allow me a nightcap,” he equivocated, indicating his empty wineglass.

Vidia blinked, hoping he didn’t mean to send her to bed without him. “Willingly—allow me to serve.” She stood to take his glass and if the movement caused her cleavage to be displayed to full advantage—well, it couldn’t be helped. Unfortunately he appeared not to notice and his gaze did not linger on her breasts.
Deus
, she thought as she went to fetch the bottle; but this is a very strange wedding night.