Tainted Angel (19 page)

The next morning found Lina curled up in her trunk, listening to the sound of the rain on the lid as she rocked back and forth with the coach’s movements.
Deus
, it will be nothing short of amazing if I do not become sick from the motion, she thought with resignation. If this doesn’t turn the trick, nothing will.

In truth, she did feel a bit queasy but refused to dwell on this unfortunate fact and instead wriggled to place her nose and mouth a bit closer to the holes Carstairs had punched through the wall of the trunk and breathed in, smelling the scent of rain. She worked her pocket watch out of her pocket and carefully brought it before her face so that she could see the time by virtue of the light shafting through the air holes. Another hour or so; they would stop for lunch and to change the horses at Tunbridge Wells. She could hang on until then; she had been in worse straits—Rochon’s lair came to mind.

As she was rocked back and forth, she thought about Carstairs, and how his skin tasted, and how much she craved him. She wondered idly about the last time he made love to Marie, perhaps only a few short weeks ago. His mention of her name that first night had been part of the trap—it was acutely annoying to think they had plotted her seduction, hoping for her own revelation of treason, and then when that hadn’t worked had plotted her sham marriage with the same aim. How frustrating it must be for them that I am not cooperating, she thought with a twinge of satisfaction. By now they would have me clapped in irons so that they could root through my town house with impunity. As it is, they have spent a great deal of time and effort plotting my downfall with little to show for it.

She shifted position and tried not to think about her wayward stomach. Even if they seized her, they would still have to contend with Brodie, and he was a force to be reckoned with since he held the bonds that could bring the Treasury to its knees. Not to mention the Prince Regent was fond of Brodie since he never called in his debts—an excellent trait in a gambling crony.

And now Carstairs, by all indications, was so deeply in love with her that he was willing to risk sharing her disgrace if indeed she was tainted—unless his change of heart was merely the third of such attempts to beguile her into saying something damning. I wish I knew what was sham and what was not, she thought, breathing in deeply with her eyes closed. But I don’t, and so I must plan accordingly—it seems that I have never rested easy; never had the luxury of peace, starting from that first day in Guarda when the French stormed in and the world came to an end.

Frowning, she shook herself out of her sadness, blaming it upon the current state of her stomach. She refused to rail against fate—there was no point to it, and thanks to what she had lived through she now had a prodigious strength of will; the old
soldado
would be proud. She kept breathing deeply and tried to concentrate on the task ahead.

When they finally came to a halt, it was not soon enough for Lina. The rain had lessened but still continued in a light sprinkle; beyond the rain she could hear the bustling noises of the posting yard at the inn. She smiled to herself when she heard Carstairs’s voice giving commands to the coachman and the posting boys. Soon, she thought, and mentally girded her loins. They had agreed ahead of time that Maisie would open the trunk to check on her while Carstairs diverted the stable personnel with instructions. Lina waited, flexing her fingers and her toes until the warning tap was heard and then the hasp unlocked. As the lid was lifted, Maisie’s stolid face appeared. “Quick-like.”

Lina needed no encouragement and hoisted herself out of the cramped trunk, her exit obscured by the raised lid in the event anyone was watching. She pulled Maisie’s cloak from where it was folded under the maid’s arm and climbed nimbly around to the rear of the carriage, away from the posting yard. Peering carefully around the corner of the vehicle, she saw that the coast was clear, and with one smooth movement swung down to the ground and then darted into one of the stable stalls, thankful her legs could still obey instruction. As she caught her breath, she viewed the yard through a crack between the boards and saw that no one had noticed her escape. Carstairs glanced toward the carriage to gauge Maisie’s need as he finished up his conversation with the ostlers, and her maid could be seen gazing into the trunk for a few moments more before she lowered the lid and locked it up.

Quickly, Lina donned Maisie’s serviceable cloak over her own and pulled the hood strings around her face as she watched Maisie walk across the courtyard to the inn. Carstairs soon followed the maid, probably anxious to hear a report on Lina. She felt a pang; she was wicked to serve him such a trick, but needs must when the devil drives, and they were dealing with the
diabo
himself.

She and Maisie had agreed that the break from the journey should be minimal so that it would be resumed as soon as possible, with Carstairs unaware that Lina no longer remained sequestered in the trunk. Once the carriage was under way again, Lina would then either steal a horse or beguile some man into lending her a mount and be on her way. She settled in to watch the yard and tentatively stretched out her legs—she hadn’t ridden a horse in some time and hoped she would not disgrace herself. While she waited in the stall, she took off her gloves to blow on her fingers; the air was cold and damp as the light rain resumed.

After a short space of time, the new horses were put to and the coach was made ready for the continuation of the journey to London. Carstairs came out to inspect the harnesses while Maisie climbed into the interior, never glancing her way. Carstairs soon joined the maid inside and they were away, the wheels rattling on the gravel and Carstairs’s horse tied to the boot.

Lina had already assessed the horseflesh stabled in her proximity and decided she liked the looks of a small bay mare. Moving slowly, she sidled alongside it and stroked the soft nose. “How would you like to go to London, my friend?” she whispered. The mare seemed to think the idea agreeable and nickered softly, searching for a tidbit. Taking a quick glance around, Lina began to move toward the tack room. As it was lunchtime, there were only a few hands about and she had learned long ago the best tactic when one was stealing something was to move with confidence. Hopefully no one would think to question her.

She grasped a likely looking saddle and bridle and returned to the mare only to confront Carstairs, leaning against the stall and watching her, his expression grave. Lina stood stock-still, her heart hammering. Finding that she could not lie to him, she said nothing.

“Where do you go?” he asked quietly.

She swallowed. “I must go on an errand, Lucien—I am sorry I could not say.”

He dropped his gaze to the floor and said nothing for a moment. “Shall I see you again?”

She put all the sincerity she could muster into her voice. “Of course. This very evening—my hand on my heart,
querido
.”

He stepped toward her and lifted the saddle from her hand so that he could saddle the mare. “It is raining, Lina.”

“I will be very careful—and I think it is beginning to clear to the north.” He was going to trust her, just as he had agreed. She was humbly touched, as she wasn’t certain she could have done the same if she were in his position.

“Take my hat.” He handed it to her and she donned it without comment, pulling the leather brim down low over her face—between the hood and the hat she wouldn’t be recognizable. He tightened the mare’s saddle girth. “Would you rather take Whistlejacket? He is a very steady fellow.”

She considered. “I’d rather have a smaller mount in this weather, methinks. But I thank you for the offer.” Unspoken was the additional fact that it wouldn’t be helpful to either of them if she was spotted on his Andalusian stallion.

He cupped his hands for her boot and threw her up. She tightened the strings around her face to pull the hood close and gathered the reins. She couldn’t help but ask, “How did you twig me?”

“Maisie’s cloak was missing.”

She smiled down at him in admiration. “Lord, you are a downy one, Mr. Tyneburne.”

“Sir Lucien,” he corrected her, with an apologetic tilt of his head.

Regarding him for a long moment she thought, I am a sad trial to this poor man—I must make it up to him. She leaned down and kissed him, pulling up the hat’s broad brim. “I love you, Sir Lucien—never doubt it.”

He did not smile. “I will not rest easy until you return.”

She gathered up the reins and kicked the mare away. I shouldn’t look back, she thought, or I may lose my nerve for the first time in my life.

Urging the horse into a canter, she cleared away from the posting house as quickly as she dared, the rain in her face making it difficult to see. She kept a hand on the crown of the borrowed hat, determined not to lose it to a gust of wind as it was a bit too large for her. I should have stolen a hat string, she thought; next time.

As the weather kept most other travelers indoors, she met very few on her journey, and as the mare was sure of foot, she had time to contemplate her actions. She wanted to trust Carstairs but dared not; she needed to make contact with Brodie and she needed to assess Jenny Dokes’s complicity in the various plots and counterplots—that Dokes had sent her the note was alarming; Lina believed she was one of the few people capable of unraveling Brodie’s careful plans and so it was important that she not be given the opportunity.

The sturdy little mare made no complaint as the miles passed. Lina continued unwell; the child within her was making his or her presence known. Jameson or Constance, she corrected, and belatedly realized that a long hard ride in the driving rain was perhaps not the best course of action for a woman in her condition. I should not tempt fate, now that happiness appears within my grasp, she thought, brushing the rain from her eyes with the back of a hand.
Mãe Maria
, please don’t let me lose this child like the last one—I couldn’t bear it. Even as she made the plea she realized that the memories from San Sebastian weren’t as vivid; the horror not as acute. I have probed that wound, thanks to Carstairs, and have come away healed—or at least more healed than I was. Perhaps I am finished with the nightmares at last—I should work to ensure I do not replace them with an entirely new set. With renewed determination, she urged the mare forward.

It is amazing the pigeons are so reliable, Lina thought idly as she watched them strutting about in their cote. They are such
passaros
estupidos
.

Wrapped in Maisie’s cloak, she sat on a joint stool, trying to stay warm and waiting patiently in the warehouse loft. She had dispatched one of the aforesaid pigeons as a signal to Brodie to meet with her, as any attempt to contact him directly would be observed by those who watched his every move—although the Curate probably no longer numbered among them. He was very clever at hiding his identity from me—my erstwhile cook, she thought with amusement. I wonder if he learned anything of interest other than how I like my eggs.

The pigeons stirred, flapping their wings upon feeling the air move when a door opened downstairs. Lina cocked her pistol but was reassured when she heard a soft whistle.

“Ho,” said Brodie as he climbed up the narrow wooden stairs into the loft. “Well met, Mrs. Carstairs.”

“Not exactly,” she disclaimed from her perch on the stool, watching his approach. “You were right—it was a trap.”

Pausing to catching his breath after coming up the steps, he considered this revelation with a frown. “Did you slay him?”

With her slow smile she shrugged in a self-satisfied manner. “No; fortunately he is unable to resist me, and so at present he is trying to clear me of any taint—out of coverage, no less.”

“Good man,” pronounced Brodie, nodding in approval. “That he was compelled to follow orders can easily be forgiven—and his turnaround demonstrates flexibility, which is a virtue.” He then belied this accolade by cocking a wary eye at her. “Did he follow you?”

“No,” she assured him. “I am certain.”

“Only have a care,
Bela
,” he advised in a mild tone as he absently poked at the fluttering pigeons. “I believe you are smitten.”

She leaned her head back against the rough boards behind her. “I am indeed smitten, and if this doesn’t work out, you have permission to shoot me.”

He made no comment but chuckled, looking out over the roofs of the adjacent warehouses; the loft was located in a dilapidated building that ostensibly housed goods in transit for the East India Company. The owner of record, however, did not exist. Instead the edifice served as a staging area for heavy, unmarked merchandise smuggled in under the floorboards of cargo wagons until it disappeared, little by little, into the London night. That, and as a pigeon cote for homing pigeons who seemed to spend the bulk of their time eating and preening, until they were required to fly with messages written on bank notes strapped to their legs.

“You will soon hear reports of my untimely death.” Lina shifted from one hip to the other—she was already sore from the unaccustomed horse ride. “At least, I imagine they will want to tell you.”

With some surprise, Brodie turned to her, his brows lifted. “Indeed? How is this?”

“I drowned off the coast of Sussex; it is part of Mr. Carstairs’s plan to clear me of a taint.” She decided not to mention that it was she who had flung herself into the vasty deep—no point in provoking a lecture.

Clasping his hands behind his back, Brodie rocked back on his heels and considered this. “To what end? I fail to see his intent—you are as recognizable as the Prince Regent, after all, and your compatriots will certainly take notice if you reappear at some later date.”

“I am not certain,” she admitted, “but I believe he is going to set up a trap for you while I am sidelined and thereby make it evident I am not involved in any of your dark doings.”

Brodie’s expression cleared and he nodded, thinking it over. “Rudimentary—but often the simplest plans are the best; there are not as many variables.”

She cautioned him, “You must have a care, Benny; they know of the pigeons—of the communications with Rochon—and suspect the worst. They may feel they have no choice but to move in.”

“I am not surprised,” he replied absently. “They are not fools.” He continued to review the skyline.

He was clearly preoccupied and a bit suspicious; she prodded, “What is afoot, my friend? Or am I not to be told the details just yet, being as I am smitten?”

Brodie stirred himself to walk over to the pigeons and lay a hand on the cote, watching them for a moment. “He should be rewarded for his loyalty, our Mr. Carstairs.”

“Benny,” she protested in mock alarm, “don’t get him killed, I beg of you.”

“He jeopardizes his livelihood to keep you safe,” Brodie continued, warming to his subject. “He risks much on your behalf.”

“No question that he is smitten,” she admitted with all modesty.

Raising his gaze to meet hers, he declared, “He must have a hand in our little
denouement
—it is only fitting.”

Narrowing her eyes, she watched him, not liking the look in his eye. “And here I believed I was to have a hand in our little
denouement
.”

“Of course,
Bela
—you must be present and flying full colors so that our little rabbit does not suspect a trap.” He said it in the tone of one having to explain to a child.

Lina knit her brow. “Then how can you have Mr. Carstairs present also? We cannot allow the rabbit to suspect my people are in any way involved; and on the other hand we cannot allow Mr. Carstairs to suspect we are working with the rabbit.”

“I shall contrive.” Brodie rested his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets and contemplated the skyline again. “I am the puppet master.”

“I had forgotten,” Lina responded in a dry tone. “Your pardon.” She shifted on her stool again and decided to stand—
Deus
, it had been a long ride.

“You mock me.” Brodie turned to give her a baleful look.

“Only because I have not half your wit,” she soothed. “But think on it, Benny—you cannot bring Mr. Carstairs in on the
Argo
plan for fear he will seize the chance to double-cross you—and thus clear me.”

“No, no; I do not dare bring him in—he is far too by-the-book.”

Except when he is making rather savage love on the beach, thought Lina, but did not express this thought aloud.

Pacing beside the cote, Brodie mused, “It is a shame you are dead; you could plant a feint.”

“What sort of feint?” asked Lina, intrigued. “A false lead?”

“Perhaps.” He paused in his movements. “You cannot plant a feint with Mr. Carstairs—it would be too obvious. And we cannot use Mr. Grant, which is a shame as he is at the bank— which would be an excellent place to plant a false lead.”

As he didn’t explain himself, Lina decided to bite. “Why not Grant—aside from the fact he despises me and wouldn’t believe a word I said?”

Brodie tilted his head toward her, a gleam in his eye. “His interests are not—shall we say—aligned with England’s.”

Utterly astonished, Lina stared at him. “Grant is tainted?”

“Tainted,” he confirmed, enjoying her surprise. “Come,
Bela
—you should trust your instinct; it is rarely wrong.”

Struck with a thought, Lina asked, “Do my people know this?”

“Undoubtedly.” Brodie continued his pacing.

Her brow furrowed, Lina thought this over. “Then they must be planting their own false leads with Grant to pass on to Rochon.”

“Indeed.” He sighed hugely. “It makes my job all the more complicated—having to keep track of so many variables.”

Thinking about his idea, Lina offered, “There is always Jenny Dokes—she pretended to warn me of the trap with Mr. Carstairs but I am certain she was working under orders to encourage me to flee, and thereby expose my treachery. I could pretend to believe her sincere, and reveal myself to her, asking for aid.”

His brow lightening, Brodie turned to her and rubbed his hands. “The very thing—and it would serve her right for playing such a trick on you.”

“I do not hold it against her,” Lina protested. “She only follows orders—she knows I would understand. But she is very shrewd, Benny—you must tread warily.”

But Brodie was not concerned with Jenny Dokes, and instead said to her very seriously, “Our rabbit is also very shrewd,
Bela
—you must be very careful to give him no hint of a grudge.”

“Heavens, no; I shall make it clear that bygones are bygones—and at least I know for certain that I shall not be called upon to kiss him.” She flashed Brodie a laughing smile and he chuckled in appreciation.

“Where do you stay?”

Making a wry mouth, she confessed, “Somewhere in Kensington—Mr. Carstairs was a little vague, probably because he fears I will tell you.”

“Good man,” Brodie declared again. “He shouldn’t trust you an inch.” He clucked his tongue. “Well, then, we shall make a preliminary plan now, and communicate only if a situation arises that would disrupt the main elements of the plan.”

Lina reminded him, “It would not provoke comment if Maisie came to visit you—on account of my sad demise.”

“Too risky,” Brodie pronounced. “The
Argo
is too close to launch to run any risk.”

“At long last. Do you think it will turn the trick?”

“
Bela
,” he chided, turning to meet her gaze. “You disappoint me.”

With a wary eye to him, she ventured, “I only wonder if we should have a contingency plan—as they do in the Army—in the event it does not go well.”

He rested his benign gaze upon her. “The contingency plan will not include leaping from a rowboat into the sea or stealing a horse at Tunbridge Wells.”

Twigged, thought Lina as she lapsed into silence. One can’t put anything past Brodie.