Tainted Angel (14 page)

It was turning evening when they approached the Mermaid Inn near Fairlight.
Santos
, Vidia thought, watching the countryside pass by the window; this one is going to be a bit more difficult than my usual. I am in the middle of nowhere and I cannot like how events are unfolding. She glanced at her companion’s profile, decided it was well worth the effort, and set her mind to the task ahead.

The inn was a few miles distant from Fairlight along the rugged coast, with woodland, heathland, and grassland alternately stretching back from the desolate cliffs. There was smuggling activity in the area and Vidia could see why this would be—the isolated area was perfect for such a pastime and she couldn’t imagine what else one did with oneself in this God-forsaken place. Perhaps I should take up smuggling to pass the time, she mused—how difficult can it be? I smuggled the ambassador in the laundry bag, after all. Or perhaps I could hold card parties to keep in practice—although it probably wouldn’t be seemly to cheat the neighbors. With a mental sigh, she acknowledged that she would have to become a pattern-card of respectability now that she was to be a wife and mother with a family to disgrace. This thought was almost as daunting as her present circumstances—she would bet her teeth that Carstairs was not telling her all that he knew and she would need to wrack her brains for a plan to make her way back to London when the
Argo
set sail. Pull yourself together,
menina
, she chided as the carriage lurched over the uneven road—this is nowhere near as difficult as killing off an entire company of Spaniards, one by one, with only a cart horse and a stolen pistol.

As the wheels rattled in the loose gravel, they pulled up to the inn’s coach yard, and with abject gratitude Vidia alighted from the carriage, stretching and looking around her—she was unaccustomed to long carriage rides. The modest establishment was two stories, with timbered walls and a reinforced roof that probably had been thatch, originally. Young ostlers took hold of the horses as the coachman issued instruction, and Carstairs escorted Vidia toward the inn’s entrance, the door a bit short as was the usual case with these ancient buildings, and topped by the wooden figure of a mermaid that was swinging in the stiff breeze. Carstairs ducked through the door and brought her into the warm interior that smelled of old wood and smoke. “We’ll stay here the night, then meet my family tomorrow—I didn’t want you to have to meet them after traveling all day, and it is best for your condition that we allow you to rest.”

“An excellent plan,” she agreed, allowing him to remove her cloak. No point in mentioning that when he made these arrangements he didn’t, in fact, believe she was pregnant. They approached the innkeeper’s desk, but almost immediately a servant who had been seated in the common room sprang up to intercept them.

“Joseph,” said Carstairs, greeting him warmly. “It is good to see you again.”

The man held his hat in his hand, his expression grave. “I’m that sorry, sir, but I’ve been sent to meet you. Your mother has taken a turn and is doing poorly.”

“Oh, Lucien,” exclaimed Vidia softly. “I am so sorry.”

Drawing the man aside, Carstairs first introduced Vidia to the startled servant. “We are newly wed and I wished to surprise everyone,” he explained. “Now, tell me what has happened.”

After tearing his gaze from Vidia only with some difficulty, the servant described a grave situation, with her mother-in-law in a weakened condition and attended around the clock by worried physicians. After hearing the report, Carstairs turned to Vidia. “I fear I should ride over immediately—the house is only ten miles away, and the moon is nearly full—I should be able to see the road.”

“Go,” she agreed without a qualm. “And Godspeed—I will await word.”

He pulled on his gloves again, his expression concerned. “I am sorry to leave you here like this—”

Touching his sleeve, she assured him, “Maisie will be arriving tomorrow, and until then I shall enjoy the sea air. It is not as though I am unable to take care of myself, Lucien.”

“Right,” he reluctantly agreed, and went to give orders to have a fresh horse saddled and brought around for him.

Joseph remained in the parlor, standing at a deferential distance and trying to disguise the fact he was stealing covert glances at her when he thought she was not looking. She could hardly blame him; she was quite the shock—doubly so with Marie just dead. In a grave manner commensurate with the circumstances, she addressed him. “I am sorry for the situation; I understand Mrs. Dessiere has suffered in the past from a weak heart.”

Bemused, the man regarded her for a moment. “I think you mean Mrs. Carstairs, ma’am.”

Shaking her head, Vidia smiled and rendered a pretty, self-deprecatory shrug. “Of course—I meant Mrs. Carstairs—and I should know, certainly, as it is now my own name also. I believe she is unaware that her son has married, so you may wish to ask my husband how to handle the situation…” Here she paused delicately.

“Of course,” the other nodded in ready understanding. “Mum’s the word—I’ll let him decide what’s to be said.”

“You will take good care of Lucien?” she asked in her best imitation of a concerned wife.

“I will indeed.” The servant dragged his gaze from her face as Carstairs rejoined them and Vidia considered the interesting fact that the old family retainer did not know the old family’s name—nor did he know that Lucien wasn’t Lucien’s true name, and it now appeared that she was to be left to her own devices here at the end of beyond until further notice. I’d best keep my wits about me, she thought; the whole situation is very smoky—it wants only Rochon himself, rising from the sea and hurling lightning bolts.

Revealing nothing of her unhappy thoughts, Vidia accompanied Carstairs out into the coach yard once again, and he took her elbow to draw her aside so that they could speak privately for a moment while the ostler held his horse—although he had to speak over the wind, which was blowing steadily. He bent his head to hers and hesitated, as though weighing whether or not to speak. “I would like to see you settled here but I must go straightaway—I am sorry.”

“I understand, Lucien. Please do not worry—I shall contrive.” That her contrivances may not be in accord with his wishes, she kept to herself.

After another pause he lifted his face to hers, the expression in the blue eyes intense as the wind blew his hair about. “You must have a care, Vidia; you are pregnant—everything is different now.”

This seemed an odd warning in light of the situation. “I will be careful, Lucien—I cannot add to your burdens.”

Tempering his tone, he drew her shawl tighter around her almost absently. “I only meant you should take no chances—not with the baby on the way.” He bent so that his face was close to hers and spoke with quiet emphasis. “Promise me you will err on the side of protecting yourself.”

“I promise.” That he was preoccupied with something other than his mother’s illness seemed apparent; perhaps he was uncertain about which name he should use to address the poor woman, if she indeed existed. “What is it that worries you, my friend?”

He tried to lighten the moment while the cool wind blew and the horse moved restlessly. “Sometimes—and I say it only as a kindness, you understand—you have a tendency to be reckless. I have a very clear vision of the ambassador’s chaise-and-four bearing down upon you while you faced them with a pistol.”

“Unfair,” she protested, smiling up at him. “What else was I to do under the circumstances? And the ambassador’s odious footmen so deserving of a little gunplay—not to mention the odious horses deserving the same.”

But he was adamant and reiterated with emphasis, “I’ll have your promise, Vidia—wait here and do nothing reckless until I see you again.”

“I will,” she assured him. “I will be as prim as a nun.”

With a small smile he ducked his head in amused acknowledgment. “Another memory from Flanders.”

Although Vidia half-expected something of consequence to occur in the nighttime, it passed peacefully and in the morning she withdrew her pistol from under her pillow and returned it to her pocket.

After breakfasting, she decided to reconnoiter the area so as to further assess her situation and potential escape routes, if necessary. She had already noted that the innkeeper and the ostlers had shown little interest in her, which was at odds with how the vast majority of the male populace normally behaved. Only Joseph hadn’t received a warning not to gawk—he must be a recent recruit; he hadn’t held his role very well.

Despite her suspicions, she wished Carstairs was here to spend a quiet day with her—just the two of them. It is a shame we are not an ordinary couple, living ordinary lives, she thought, and then almost immediately retreated from the thought. The reason we live as we do is that it suits us to the core—the danger and intrigue attracts us and we live for the next crisis; the next chance to risk our lives. I hope it does not bode ill for our marriage, this craving for excitement—although we are well-matched since we are uniquely able to understand the other. Nodding to the innkeeper, she wandered outside into the pale sunlight and decided to walk along the sandy track that led to the edge of the rocky cliffs; it would be pleasant to view the ocean for a while—she had heard the waves crashing last night from her bed. Making a desultory progress through the yard, she took a covert survey and noted several men who were busy with tasks but were probably charged with keeping an eye on her. Soon she left the shelter of the buildings and headed toward the cliffs, the scent of the sea sharp upon the wind. It was not as cool in the daytime, but the sea air blew her curls loose from their pins and she wished she had thought to wrap a shawl over her head—her hair would be in a rare tangle when Maisie arrived.

Looking around her, she found the prospect as unappealing as it had seemed the evening before. The low cliffs protruded over the ocean, a small inlet the only relief in the rocky shores over which the waters broke and receded. She could see why the area was infamous for smuggling; due to the war there had been an embargo on French goods and the shore was ideally situated for night landings—isolated and barren with the nearest law enforcement ten miles away. She remembered the calluses on Carstairs’s hands and would not have been surprised to discover he had been on assignment as a smuggler or a deckhand of some sort. Crossing her arms before her against the chill, she continued on so as to look out over the cliffs at the sea—mainly because she was bored and there was little else to do; she didn’t want to sit alone at the inn with only her suspicions to keep her company. The landscape would have some appeal if one admired the untamed and gothic but as Vidia had never been mistaken for a hardy outdoorswoman, she was unimpressed.
Santos
, but this place was forlorn and tedious. She hoped that whatever trap was to be sprung involved some creativity, at least; Brodie was the master at springing a creative trap but the English tended to be dully predictable.

Coming right to the edge, she noted a fisherman casting a line from the rocks below and she watched his movements for a few minutes, then turned to continue her walk as her mind reeled and her hands were suddenly clammy.
Idiota
, she chastised herself, and a pox on Brodie for always—
always
being right. I never learn, she thought, struggling for control and consumed with equal parts fury and despair. The fisherman on the cliffs had not looked at her, but she recognized him nonetheless—despite the false sideburns he wore she was certain it was the chaplain who had officiated at her wedding.

Only he is not truly a chaplain and I am not truly married, she thought, nearly gnashing her teeth at this inescapable conclusion. And curse Carstairs for a liar—although he probably had little choice and indeed seemed to be teetering on the edge of confessing his many sins to her last night just before he left—it cannot be easy to believe an enemy of the Crown is the mother of one’s child.
Mãe de Deus
, she thought abruptly—I must not make excuses for Carstairs but instead I must think this through and make a plan. They are monitoring me and hope to trick me into taking some action—if I tried to flee back to Brodie, I would be thwarted easily; I could disguise myself but any lone traveler would be immediately spotted in this God-forsaken area, and I cannot very well swim back to London.

Forcing herself to walk slowly and breathe evenly, she thought it over. That it was a trap seemed evident—which meant something more was planned. Brodie was right and she was a fool, but at least they didn’t know she had twigged them—not yet. She had no choice but to await events and then decide what was to be done. In the meantime, caution was advised.

When she returned, she asked the kitchen if they had any fresh fish, as she had seen a fisherman on the rocks. For some reason the thought of having a fish—roasted, as she had eaten it in her childhood—sounded palatable, and comforting.

To her relief, she did indeed have an appetite for fish and was finishing her meal in her room when Maisie arrived. “Hallo, Maisie,” she greeted the new arrival. “Only look—I have discovered something I can eat.”

Maisie observed her mistress for a long moment, then directed that the bags be left on the floor. Closing the door with a worried frown, she asked, “What’s amiss?”

“Nothing at all,” replied Vidia, sucking on the remaining bones. “Why do you ask?”

Watching her, Maisie ventured, “Where’s Mr. Carstairs?”

Pushing her plate away, Vidia explained the situation to her dismayed maidservant. “Indeed, he has just sent a note to inform me that his mother’s condition remains grave, and that he will stay another night as it appears necessary.”

“Poor woman,” offered Maisie, eying her mistress with misgiving.

“Indeed,” Vidia replied in a neutral tone.

After apparently deciding there was no point to asking questions, the maid inspected the linens on the truckle bed and began unpacking. “Mr. Brodie were not best pleased with your note t’ him.”

Vidia shook her head, a smile playing around her mouth as she gazed into the fire. “No, I imagine not. Did he send any message in return?”

“Nay, he did nowt—only told me to mind ye like I was a warden at Newgate.” Reminded, she fished in her apron pocket. “I do has a note from yer seamstress though. She come fer her appointment and didn’t know ye’d left all sudden-like.”

“Thank you.” Vidia accepted the note without betraying the fact she had scheduled no such appointment. She wondered for one wild moment if the Vicar was now masquerading as a woman but upon opening the note realized it was from Jenny Dokes. It was unsigned, but written in a cipher consisting of sequenced numbers—she and Dokes had communicated using such a cipher during their work together on last year’s investment swindle.

Concentrating on the sequence, she sank down at her dressing table and puzzled it out: “
I
must
speak
to
you
at
your
earliest
convenience. Be on guard; I can say no more until we meet.
”

Vidia walked to the fire and tossed the note in while Maisie watched from the corner of her eye. As the flames burned the paper Vidia thought it over. It was so very kind of Dokes to warn her of dire events—just as kind as Carstairs, come to think of it. It was almost as though their affection for her was more important than their loyalty to king and country—how very unlike them.

“Perhaps ye should take a nap, missy,” suggested Maisie, unconsciously twisting the fabric of her sleeve.

With a languid motion, Vidia stretched her arms over her head. “I am only out-of-sorts, my friend, and require some fresh air to cure these dismals; come, let us take a look ’round—unfortunately it won’t take very long.”

Willingly, the maid accompanied Vidia out of doors and they took a circuit of the property as the afternoon light was fading.

“Have you ever seen a more desolate prospect?” Vidia lifted her chin in the direction of the heaths. “Horrid.”

“Reminds me o’ parts of Yorkshire,” Maisie admitted as the gravel crunched under their feet.

Vidia made a wry mouth. “You alarm me.”

“Nothin’ to be alarmed ’bout,” Maisie’s gaze was on the ground, watching where she stepped. “It is not as though ye’ll ever live in Yorkshire, now.” She carefully did not look to Vidia for confirmation of this observation.

Dear Maisie, thought Vidia as they walked toward the cliffs. She is aware something cataclysmic has happened but makes no demands and asks no questions—small wonder she is so appealing to Brodie. “It’s a rare tangle, Maisie. You’ll not like to hear that I may have to disappear and ask you to pretend I am ill in my room for a time.”

As anticipated, Maisie agreed without demur. “If I must.”

Alive to the nuance in her tone, Vidia took her companion’s arm. “I promise—my hand on my heart—that I will be in no danger. But it will be no easy thing to escape from this place—which I imagine is the very point of dumping me here.”

“We can run a rig like we did in Calais,” offered the maid. Vidia had been secreted under a heap of fishing nets on the floor of a small fishing skiff, and it had worked long enough to get them away—until the fisherman panicked, the boat ran aground, and the enemy began firing.

“That rig didn’t work very well,” Vidia reminded her.

“It were a good idea,” Maisie insisted in a stubborn tone. “The man was a glomper, is all.”

Vidia raised her face to the sky for a moment, into the breeze that now was growing cold. “You are a trump, Maisie—I don’t tell you near enough.”

Her companion disclaimed, embarrassed by the praise. “Go on wi’ ye, missy. I does what I’m told.”

“You remember if anything happens to me you are to go straight to Mr. Brodie—he will see to you.”

“Now, missy; I’ll hear none o’ yer nonsense,” the other cautioned with some dismay.

“And take the sugar box—I will have your promise.”

But the maid was forced to demur, “Except fer t’ opals—opals are bad luck.”

This was of interest and Vidia turned to regard her. “Are they indeed? And why did you not tell me earlier—it would have saved me a fistful of trouble.”

Maisie chuckled and Vidia joined in, amazed that she could laugh. I will come about, she thought; I always have.

“Mayhap the babe has put ye out o’ sorts,” the maid suggested as they toured the area behind the boathouse.

“The babe has definitely put me off,” Vidia agreed, taking a quick inventory of the boats lodged therein. “I have given my promise not to act recklessly, and I am regretting it already.”

“Tea,” offered Maisie. “Strong an’ sweet; a spot of tea will put you t’ rights.”

“Of course.” Vidia pretended to be much struck. “Tea will turn the trick; if only I had thought of it.”

Chuckling again, Maisie directed their steps back to the inn, while Vidia carefully watched the shadows.

They came in through the kitchen door, thinking to ask for tea on their way to the common room, and found the cook in hushed conversation with another man who was seated at the kitchen table, their heads close together. All conversation ceased and both men looked up, wary, as the women nodded to them and progressed through the kitchen.

Ah, thought Vidia, hiding a smile. The trap is sprung, and I am impressed—the grey-eyed man has indeed put together something creative. He could not know, after all, that I know more than I should about the gentleman at the kitchen table—and it is a good plan. But now it is time to turn the tables.