Tainted Angel (2 page)

They arrived at Carstairs’s rented rooms and she could only be thankful it had not been necessary to deposit him alone at the residence he had once shared with his late wife—he was on assignment and apparently their spymaster felt he could continue to perform his duties, despite this rather shocking lapse. Eying him in an assessing way, Vidia tried to decide if she should accompany him to his door. Anyone who saw them may leap to the wrong conclusion—given her reputation—and she wanted to spare him the gossip. In the end she was compelled to scramble to his side when he staggered from the cab and nearly fell. She steadied him once again with an arm under his coat, trying not to notice the scent of him, masculine and enticing, or the feel of the hard muscles at his waist. It had been a long, long time since she had held a man close to her side. “Up you go, then. Let me pay the jarvey.”

The blue eyes focused on hers. “You must not pay; I will pay.” This was evidently important.

“We will keep an account,” she soothed, and tossed up a coin.

After several abortive attempts, he directed her to the correct door and when he was unable to insert the key properly, she took it from him with gentle fingers and did the honors. She had seen him drink the time they were on assignment in Flanders—he had pegged the mark at a Guildhall fête, after all—but she had never seen him staggering drunk as he was now; if ever an occasion deserved it, though, this was the one.

Once inside, she strained her eyes in the darkness, searching for a candle and a flint and trying to decide what was best to do. He continued on through the rooms, presumably to his bedroom, and she followed, barking a shin against a low table in the darkness. He paused, contrite. “Sorry,” he said thickly, and turned to run his hands down the length of her arms. “Sorry.”

“Quite all right,” she assured him, feeling the hair on her arms stand on end. His hands were warm—the palms callused from whatever
persona
he had taken on in this latest assignment. In the dim moonlight, she managed to maneuver him into his bedroom. “Here you are—safe and sound.” As she was debating whether she should attempt to remove his boots he drew his hands up and down her arms again. Unsure of his intent, she lifted her face in inquiry and instead was met with his mouth descending on hers.

Completely surprised, she was startled into submission for a moment and he kissed her roughly, making an eager sound in his throat as he did so and pulling her against him. Instinctively she began to respond before she pulled herself together. “Carstairs,” she whispered, breaking her mouth away. “That’s enough of that now—to bed with you.”

In response he brought a hand to her jaw and held it firmly so as to kiss her again, his mouth opening on hers and his other arm drawing her hips to his.
Mãe de Deus
, she thought as she struggled to control her wayward body, I am only flesh and blood and I had forgotten what temptation feels like. His intent unmistakable, he tugged her dress from her shoulders and moved his hands to her breasts, murmuring into the side of her throat.

You must put a stop to this while you still can,
menina
, she scolded herself with no real conviction. “No, my friend.” She tried to keep her tone light as she disengaged from him. “You are in no shape.”

Pulling her against him with one arm, he took her hand with the other and pressed it to his groin so that she could assess his readiness—she was reminded again that Marie Carstairs had been a lucky woman.

“I stand corrected,” she said against his mouth, which had once again descended hungrily upon hers, “but you mustn’t, Carstairs.” Her protest was only halfhearted as he began trailing slow kisses down her throat, his hands working magic as they invaded her corset. They were alone, no one would know, and it was extremely unlikely that another opportunity to share a bed with Carstairs would present itself—he could mourn Marie for years. Why, he may not even remember in the morning—he seemed that drunk—and truly, it would be a kindness; the poor man needed comfort and this would be comfort on a very elemental level.

While she deliberated, he pushed her gown to the floor and began unfastening the tapes of her petticoats with such competence that she decided there was little hope for it, and gave in to the sensations of his hands on her body and his eager mouth on hers. As soon as he sensed her acquiescence, matters escalated quickly and he pushed her down on the bed, the wonderful weight of him pressing against her as he pulled away the clothing that impeded him; his hands cradling her hips as they rocked each other into a familiar rhythm that concluded all too soon. In the aftermath, she lay with her face pressed against his throat, their breathing the only sound in the stillness.

“Sorry,” he murmured, his skin damp against hers. “Too fast—couldn’t be helped.”

Making an effort to speak in a light tone, she ran her palms over the muscles in his back. “No apologies needed—it was all very satisfactory.” Lifting up to kiss him, she whispered, “Let me get up and leave you to sleep, shall I?”

But he did not move and she was firmly pinned beneath him. “Give me a minute.” He rested atop her, stroking her with his warm hands and bestowing languorous kisses that made her toes curl.

“You taste of whiskey,” she teased, “and not fine whiskey by any means.”

He pulled back to look at her and she had a sudden and panicked impression that he was not so very drunk after all, but then he returned his mouth to her throat. “Sorry,” he said again, his voice slightly slurred.

She smiled into the darkness, absurdly happy despite the sure knowledge she was not behaving as she ought. “So many apologies tonight; and no need, I assure you—it is only me, Carstairs.”

“Marie,” he whispered, and kissed her again.

Vidia knew a moment’s qualm; it could not be healthy to encourage the man to believe he was making love to a ghost, could it? On the other hand, he was very practiced and oh, she was so very much out of practice and what was the harm—it was not as though she would be ruined and demand marriage; she had been ruined long ago.

After an impressively short amount of time he was ready to have another go and she was not unwilling—what was another sin, on top of the first? He didn’t call her by the wrong name again but on the other hand, he didn’t call her by the right name either as he took his time, caressing her until she was nearly witless. I’ll not worry over it, she decided, adrift in bliss; whether he thinks I am Marie or knows I am not, it hardly matters at this point—he will be comforted and I—well, I will have an all-too-brief respite from my latest and most difficult role. Tilting her head so as to allow better access to her throat, she wished she hadn’t allowed the thought to intrude. Her latest role was becoming more and more dangerous with each passing day, and she knew that a reckoning was imminent—any hint of disloyalty would mean a swift and certain punishment. You have no choice, she reminded herself, and it seems this momentary foolishness with Carstairs has made you soft-headed. To take her mind off her troubles, she concentrated on pleasing her companion instead and her efforts resulted in a very satisfactory conclusion yet again.

“Now, isn’t this better than drinking gin at the Bowman?” she teased, trying to gauge his coherence. In response he murmured something unintelligible into her shoulder as his weight became heavier. To sleep, then—perhaps to dream of the fair Marie. With a small sigh, she conceded that it would be for the best if he did not remember this coupling; she had been mad to allow it and he would no doubt be stung with remorse in the morning—if he remembered. Perhaps it would be best to vacate discreetly before the effects of the whiskey wore off.

With this in mind, she carefully wriggled out from beneath him and then paused, unable to resist a chance to study his profile in the dim moonlight. Not unhandsome, she decided—but on the other hand not so handsome that he was constantly noticed, as she was. Her beauty curtailed her usefulness to some extent; she had enjoyed no little success as an “angel”—a woman used as a lure to entice information—because men had an inexplicable and uncontrolled desire to boast of their secrets to a beautiful woman. However, it also meant she could not travel unnoticed—not without a disguise that obscured her exquisite face. Although when the occasion arose—she acknowledged a little grimly—she was a first-class
diabo
, hiding among the trees and shooting
bastardo
. On those occasions no one much cared what she looked like.

With a mental shake, she brought her thoughts back to the present—and what a surprising present it was; who would have thought she would have started the night trying to keep the Chief Secretary of the Treasury at arm’s length and ended it in bed with Lucien Carstairs, of all men? Apparently, life still held some surprises for her. And it was not such a monumental mistake, she reasoned, unable to resist stroking her fingertips gently over his head. And no harm was done—as long as he does not remember. I will remember, though, and I will be the better for it, I think—I have been reminded that despite everything, life does indeed hold the occasional pleasant surprise. Steeling herself to vacate the warm bed and the equally warm man, she carefully began to shift away when suddenly he stirred and muttered, “
Rochon
;
allons
.”

She paused, staring, and decided she must have misheard him.

“
Oui, Capitaine. L’or…pour l’Aigle…
” The words were slurred but unmistakable.
Mãe de Deus
, she thought in astonishment; Lucien Carstairs was loosing state secrets—and not necessarily those of the right state.

“Hush,” she soothed, her hand gentle again on his head. “Go to sleep, Carstairs.”

He fell quiet and she sat unmoving, trying to make sense of it. “
L’Aigle
”—the Eagle—a reference to bringing gold to Napoleon. And he dreamed that he spoke to Rochon, Napoleon’s notorious spymaster. The obvious explanation seemed unthinkable—Carstairs was one of the Crown’s more experienced agents and could not possibly be tainted—a double agent. Or could he? Biting her lip, she reflected that there was nothing like a hint of treason to disrupt an otherwise memorable evening.

The silence stretched on as she debated the best course, and then decided she should think about what was to be done whilst she made her way homeward—that should be her first concern. With escape in mind, she was mentally girding her loins to gather up her clothes and dress in the dark when Carstairs murmured again and groped for her with a hand. Unable to resist, she abandoned her plan without a second thought and curled herself against him as he began to show unmistakable signs of arousal. Thrice, she thought in pleased anticipation, returning his caresses—Marie Carstairs must have died of conjugal bliss.

Finally, in the dawning gray light she crept out of bed, gathering up her crumpled dress and tiptoeing to the parlor before pulling it over her head, careful not to wake him. Her exit must be unobserved so as not to bring down a storm of gossip on the new widower’s head, and after taking a careful survey of the street through the window she slipped outside, walking briskly in the misty air with her head ducked for a few blocks. It was cold and she rubbed her arms—she must have left her wrap in his quarters and wished she still had it to obscure the sorry fact she was clad in a well-creased evening gown. There was nothing worse, she thought in annoyance as she hailed a hackney cab and stepped within, than when the jarvey leers at one as though one were a common strumpet. I should produce my blade from my garter, and then we would behold a change in attitude.

Settling into the threadbare cushions, she made a halfhearted attempt to dredge up some remorse for throwing caution to the winds—Carstairs was a compatriot and it was never a good idea to mix business with pleasure. Then there was the alarming disclosure he had made; she would have to tread very carefully—perhaps ask Brodie for advice. Truth to tell, her first inclination was to say nothing to anyone and ignore the lapse; she was very fond of Carstairs and would not want him to risk exposure as a tainted agent, especially at this vulnerable point in his life—Vidia knew all there was to know about walking that particular tightrope. And to confront him about it would be to confess that she had taken advantage of his weakened state—although to be fair, he had instigated the liaison, thinking she was his dead wife. With a sigh, she closed her eyes and acknowledged that perhaps it had not been her finest hour—she felt as though she were seventeen again, and just as foolish.

Only the early-morning vendors were stirring as she mounted the steps into the fashionable townhouse she was given at the pleasure of Benjamin Brodie, who stood as her current protector. She had no fear of discovery; fortunately Brodie lived in his own rooms at the Merrick Hotel and had the courtesy to refrain from being constantly underfoot—an excellent trait in a protector. And an excellent protector he was, she acknowledged in all humility—she would not be alive, else. There was a time, long ago, when she had felt otherwise, but Brodie could hardly be faulted; he saw the world in terms of profit and she—well, she was a rare and valuable commodity. The leopard would not change his spots and they did have a fondness for one another.

She slid the well-oiled door open and listened for a moment; the house was quiet, which meant the night workmen had left. This was to the good—she wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep, mainly so as not to have to think of what had transpired this evening and the new set of troubles she had brought upon herself. Her ruined slippers dangling from her fingers, she padded across the luxurious rug and mounted the sweeping stairway without a candle, the rhythmic swish of her skirts the only sound in the silence. Of a necessity, there were no servants save the one—who could be trusted to be discreet—and that one would be softly snoring in her quarters at this hour, unaware that her mistress had been out misbehaving.

The dawn was glowing faintly around the edges of the velvet curtains as she settled before her dressing table mirror and removed the remaining pins from her hair—lucky it had been dark and Carstairs hadn’t seen this mad tangle. She would wait and take a brush to it tomorrow, even though the delay would only make matters worse. Napoleon’s gold, Carstairs had said. In French. She paused, reviewing her reflection and noting idly that her cheeks were red from whisker burn. It may be nothing, but there was no question she would have to tell Brodie—she would have to couch it so that the means by which she had obtained the information was not revealed, although Brodie was not an easy man to fool. She was already aware that she didn’t have the wherewithal to reveal to the grey-eyed man what Carstairs had let slip, whose punishment would be only slightly less severe, one would think, than that of Napoleon’s spymaster. It is beyond vexing, she thought in annoyance as she slid between the silken sheets in her chemise—she couldn’t even have a warm night with a willing man without international repercussions. For two pence she would pack her bags and leave it all behind; except she couldn’t of course—the fate of the world hung in the balance.

On this sobering thought, she stared at the canopy overhead and tried to decide how to handle Carstairs. A warning, perhaps; discreetly given. Or even better, to tease him as though she hadn’t taken the words seriously. She would think on it—it was exquisitely ironic that she was to bear the burden of Carstairs’s secret, having so many of her own.