Tainted Angel (25 page)

Maisie,” Lina cautioned. “Pull yourself together, if you please, or I will be forced to brain you with the nearest fire jack.” The threat was needful; Maisie’s eyes were red-rimmed with suppressed tears, and if her stalwart maidservant were to start weeping, Lina would never be able to hold her role.

That worthy pronounced in an unsteady voice, “Ye make a bonny, bonny bride.”

“Stay out of the champagne,” Lina scolded. They were in the drawing room of her former town house where a few short minutes before Catalina McCord had quietly become Lady Tyneburne before a duly commissioned representative of the Church of England. As a sign of her faith in her new husband, Lina did not demand that the officiant present his
bona
fides
.

She had stood beside her bridegroom and listened to his voice, steady and sincere, answering the age-old questions.
Agradeca
Deus
, she thought as she fought tears.
Mama, desejo estavo aqui
; I have had a long journey to this moment.

And now she accepted congratulatory wishes and planned for the next phase of that journey—a laying down of arms, so to speak. She knew not what to expect, but it didn’t much matter; Suffolk could only be less tumultuous than the Peninsular War, and childbirth could only be less harrowing than having Rochon’s knife at her throat. Or one would think, anyway.

It was an intimate gathering; Lina wore a traveling dress in lavender silk as they meant to get under way as soon as possible. Carstairs would be needed to return to service, there being ominous signs accruing from the Mediterranean.

“A pretty posy,” Maisie offered doubtfully, indicating the bouquet Lina still held tightly in her hand. Before the ceremony Carstairs had presented her with a humble bouquet of lilies, which she had contemplated silently for a few moments, unable to find her voice. He had put his arms around her and kissed her temple in a gesture of understanding as Maisie admonished him; saying it was bad luck to kiss her before the ceremony.

“Nonsense, Maisie,” he had responded. “Her luck has turned.”

Perhaps it has, Lina thought with caution as she watched him thank the clergyman. There seems little chance I’m to be hauled to the Tower on a charge of treason or that the wretched Marie will make a reappearance from the grave.

Brodie interrupted her reverie to bestow a kiss on her cheek, the first such gesture she had ever received from him. He and Dokes were duly present but he was in a fever of impatience to be away, having made vague references to the need to purchase a wooden dray containing a false bottom in Nice.

“Riveted,” he pronounced to Lina with great satisfaction, clasping his hands behind his back. He was referring to himself; he and Jenny were wed the day before by special license. “You will behave yourself,” Lina warned him. “Dokes is not someone to be trifled with.”

“On the contrary—I well know that one does not trifle with resourceful women. I shall do nothing that would prevail upon her to escape out the window with the bed sheets.”

“I will see to him,” Dokes assured her in her quiet voice, leaning forward to plant a dry kiss on Lina’s cheek. “We plan to spend the next few months in the south of France, if the coming war permits.”

“Casinos,” Brodie explained. “Mrs. Brodie believes I should target a more upscale clientele.”

“A larger profit margin, after the initial investment,” Dokes added. “We should be turning a profit within a year—unless the monetary system collapses, of course.”

“Excellent,” Lina replied, and prudently did not wonder aloud if the Vicar’s desires were behind the idea to relocate the irreplaceable Dokes to the south of France. That gentleman had declined an invitation to Lina’s nuptials, citing pressing matters.

She could not suppress a smile as Carstairs approached and drew her aside. “Let us away,” she whispered on tiptoe into his ear. “Or at least find a quiet garret somewhere.”

With a gleam, he gently chided her, “Not just yet—some decorum is called for, and if I bring your wedding nightdress to mind I am lost.”

She reached to intertwine her fingers with his, in the folds of her skirt. “This wedding trip bodes to be superior to the last.”

He bent his head to hers. “That first night at the inn, I had to restrain myself from revealing all and advising you to flee.”

With a smile she squeezed his hand. “Poor Lucien; torn between duty and a tainted, pregnant, faux wife.”

He lifted a corner of his mouth at the memory. “You may mock me now, but at the time it was damnable.”

“And what if I had heeded your advice and made my way back to Rochon’s lair? What then?”

The blue eyes held hers. “I would have come for you, somehow.”

Smiling tenderly, she decided she may as well believe him—it would be a novel experience for her. “All right, we are truly married; now, how do we play this?”

He contemplated her, a soft smile playing around his lips. “Should we attempt the truth?”

“
Santos
, Lucien—that is not amusing.”

He persisted. “You are a Portuguese refugee, having faithfully served Wellington’s Army on the Peninsula.”

She fingered a button on his waistcoat, thinking it over. It had the benefit of being more or less the truth. “How did we meet?” she countered, arching a brow at him.

He knit his own brow. “How
did
we meet? Was it on the docks in Southwark?”

“You don’t remember,” she accused him with mock outrage.

With a bent head, he thought about it. “I should know this.”

“Yes—you should.” There was a small pause while she could see that he had drawn a blank. “I shall give you a hint: Calais.”

His brow cleared. “Oh.”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “We can’t very well explain that we met in a brothel.”

“No,” he agreed. “Although it was an excellent extraction.”

“I loved you the moment I saw you,” she confessed, smiling happily into his eyes. “Even though at the time I was holding the Field Marshal at knifepoint and dressed in nothing but a bustier and a petticoat.”

“I couldn’t concentrate.” He enfolded her in his arms, his chin resting on her head. “I couldn’t believe you weren’t a delightful vision.”

“With a blade,” she added.

“Even better—it was every man’s fantasy come true.”

Laughing, they shared a long moment of mutual reminiscence. “I believe we will need to concoct a story,” he conceded.

“I would like to be minor Portuguese nobility, though—that does sound appealing.”

“You will, then.” He pressed a cheek against her temple, thinking on it. “We met during the war—after Marie died, I heard you were to be forced into a political marriage so as to transfer your holdings…”

“My vast holdings,” she interrupted.

“Your vast holdings to one of Napoleon’s puppets.”

“A Spanish or a French puppet?”

“You choose,” he offered generously.

“Spanish,” she decided. That would please the old
soldado
. “And you stole me away in the dead of the night.”

“And had to marry you forthwith to save you and your holdings.”

She nodded, picturing it in her mind and very pleased with the role. “Was there any swordplay?”

He lifted his brows. “By me or by you?”

She laughed. “All right—I overreach. But it is a good tale.”

He continued, “It will become clear that after the marriage I fell in love with you despite my grief. We will hint that there is more to the story—”

“As we embellish it.”

His arms tightened around her. “I love you.”

“And I love you,
querido
. Although I do not look forward to the long carriage ride—this child is making his or her presence known. We may have to travel in stages.”

“Then I shall have to administer the cure, and often.”

She laid a hand on his shirtfront. “It is no more than your duty, husband.”

“I have always put my duty first.” He bent to kiss her, long and hard, even though the guests were witness to this shocking display.

“Lucien,” she whispered into his mouth. “You are not to mistake me for Marie again.”

The steel blue eyes met hers. “I didn’t—and in any event you were so avid for me you didn’t care.”

Twigged, she thought.
Mãe de Deus
.

Read on for an excerpt from Anne Cleeland’s

Daughter of the God-King

Available November 2013 from Sourcebooks Landmark

Hattie Blackhouse was aware that she had—regrettably—something of a temper, and that this trait often led to impetuous decisions that were not always thought out in a rational manner. Fortunately, because she had lived a solitary life in the Cornish countryside, few had experienced either her temper or her impetuosity, and she had thus far avoided embarrassing herself in public. Until now, of course.

“Have you a card of invitation?” asked the respectful under-footman. He asked in English, which meant he had taken one look at their clothes and concluded they were either impoverished refugees or English, as the Parisian ladies around them were very much
à la mode
.

“We do not,” she replied evenly, and lifted her chin. Now that she saw how grand it all was she conceded that it had been—perhaps—not the best idea to show up here at such a place uninvited and that she may indeed wind up as a public spectacle, but she had no one to blame but herself. Her old governess—the traitorous Swansea—had been a gentle, indulgent woman who had only interfered that one time when Hattie had taken a crop to the gardener’s boy after he tied a can to the Tremaine dog’s tail, and even then the distraught governess had apologized for curbing Hattie’s impulse to beat the boy soundly, but the gardener was a good one and good gardeners were apparently few and far between. I must remind Robbie that I did a good deed for Sophie, Hattie thought as she squared her shoulders on the threshold of the Prussian embassy. I have a feeling he may not be best pleased when I make my appearance; but truly, coming here seemed such a good idea at the time, and I was sick to
death
of being exiled in Cornwall.

“Perhaps we should have sent a card ’round to your fiancé, first.” Bing’s tone was dry and deferential, but Hattie was given the uneasy feeling that Bing was well aware this was all a hoax. Even more reason not to tell her freshly minted companion that she had shoved an intruder down the back stairs of their Parisian townhouse less than an hour ago. Although the jury was still out, Bing seemed the sort of person who may have felt it necessary to notify the
gendarmes
, and Hattie didn’t have the time, just now; she was going to confront Robbie—another traitor in what seemed to be an unending list.

“I’m afraid we haven’t any calling cards, Bing; and we are gate-crashers of the first order.”

“Very well,” said Bing, unruffled. “It is a good thing I am armed, then.”

Hattie hid a smile as they stepped forward in the line to be announced at the Ambassador’s
soirée
—fortunately it hadn’t been a ball, as Hattie didn’t own a ball gown. Truth to tell, she didn’t own anything suitable for a Parisian
soirée
, either, but this was the least of her concerns; as she was preparing for this outing at her parents’ townhouse, she had heard a noise coming from the back stairwell and after flinging open the door, had been astonished to confront an intruder, equally astonished in beholding her before him. On instinct, she had shoved him as hard as she was able and he had tumbled backward down the stairs as she slammed the door shut and bolted the lock. A burglar, she assured herself; someone who thought the place was still empty and unaware that they had lately taken up residence. Although he hadn’t seemed like a burglar and had stared at her in such an odd way; as though he was seeing a ghost.

She moved forward another step, frowning in distraction. She hoped Robbie was here at the embassy, as she may have need of reinforcements—there was the other man lurking on the corner of the street yesterday, also. For pity’s sake, it was as though no one had ever seen a girl from Cornwall before, and her clothes were not
that
bad, surely.

“Hathor,” Bing prompted under her breath, and Hattie brightened to bestow a smile on the footman at the door, resplendent in his livery. The man looked over her head for parents or presenters—no hard task as she was rather short in stature—and then seemed surprised to behold no one there. But Hattie had successfully shoved the intruder down the stairs, and buoyed by this thought, she announced with confidence, “I am Miss Blackhouse; I am here with my companion, Miss Bing.”

Understandably nonplussed, the footman inquired in a discreet tone, “You have no card of invitation, mademoiselle?”

At this juncture, Bing, who was tall and spare and very correct, offered in a shocked tone, “Perhaps you do not recognize the name, my good man. This is Miss
Blackhouse
, the daughter of the famous Blackhouses; the Ambassador will be thrilled she has chosen his
soirée
over all the others.”

Although she was half inclined to laugh out loud, Hattie made an attempt to look famous as the footman’s eyes widened and he quickly passed her along to the host after murmuring an apology. “Miss Blackhouse and her companion, Miss Ding.”

“
Bing
,” Hattie interjected impatiently. “Miss
Bing
.”

But her correction was swallowed up in the reaction of the Prussian Ambassador, a large, rather burly man with a gray goatee and an impressive array of medals displayed along his blue sash, which was itself impressive due to his girth. “Miss Blackhouse,” he exclaimed in astonishment, and lifted a monocle to his eye. “Welcome—why, indeed; welcome.”

Hoping that the footman was paying attention, Hattie took his hand with a sense of relief that she was not to be shown the door, and then was forced to stand as he clasped her hand in both of his with no indication he would release her anytime soon. “The tomb of the god-king’s daughter,” he pronounced in tones of deep emotion as the candlelight glinted off his monocle. “An amazing find—it quite takes one’s breath away. Tell me, do your parents know the identity of the princess as yet?”

Another fervent Egyptologist, she thought with resignation; she had met his type before and unfortunately they were thick on the ground nowadays, with everyone mad for all things Egyptian and the world’s fancy being caught by the tombs currently being uncovered in the Valley of the Kings.

“I believe not,” she equivocated. Best not to mention that she rarely heard from either of her negligent parents; her information instead was gleaned from the local newspapers—or Bing, who was well informed due to her late brother. Reminded, Hattie offered, “There does seem to be a curse, though.” As soon as she said it, she inwardly winced—she was thoughtless to mention it in front of poor Bing, who still wore mourning black.

But Bing did not falter, and added, “Indeed; several lives have been lost under unexplained circumstances.”

The Ambassador’s eyes widened and he glanced to those still waiting in the receiving line, clearly torn between his duties as host and his burning desire to buttonhole Hattie and quiz her about this fascinating bit of information. He called out, “Monsieur le Baron; your aid, if you please.”

Hattie turned to meet the newcomer, tamping down her impatience. She had used her connection with her parents to crash this party and it was only fair that she pay the piper for a few minutes before she went off in search of Robbie. He wouldn’t fail her, although she fully anticipated a dressing-down later in private. Hopefully it wouldn’t be as bad as when she’d gotten lost on the Tor back home—and
truly
, that had not been her fault.

The Baron was revealed as an elegant, silver-haired man who approached with his hands clasped behind his back. “Yes? Might I be of assistance?”

With barely suppressed exultation, the Ambassador introduced him to Hattie. “Baron du Pays, my dear.” And then, with a great deal of significance, “Monsieur le Baron, if you would entertain Miss Blackhouse while I attend to my duties here—she brings the latest news from the excavations.”

The Baron could be seen to go quite still for a moment, his gaze fixed upon Hattie’s, until he found his voice and bowed over her hand in the elegant manner known only to Frenchmen. “
Enchanté
, Mademoiselle Blackhouse.” The pale blue eyes then fixed upon hers again with an expression she could not quite interpret—assessing, or calculating, or—or something. “I was so fortunate as to have met your parents once; extraordinary people.” He looked up to a companion, who approached to join him. “Monsieur Chauvelin; come meet Mademoiselle Blackhouse.”

But Hattie was astonished to recognize her former intruder, and coldly riposted with a great deal of meaning, “I believe we have already met, monsieur.”

She could hear Bing’s soft intake of breath at her tone, but the man only shook his head and gravely disclaimed, “I do not recall such a felicity, mademoiselle.”

“If you will excuse us,” Hattie said with a curt bow and then turned away, a surprised Bing in her wake. In her abrupt movement, she met the eye of a man who appeared to be watching her from the side, although he quickly turned away and melted into the crowd. He appeared to be a civil servant of some stripe; his manner unprepossessing, his dress understated. But something in his bearing—his cool assurance, perhaps—belied his appearance and made her wonder why he watched her. This is a very strange sort of
soirée
, she thought; in Cornwall we may not be
à la mode
, but everyone certainly has better manners.

“Do we seek out Mr. Tremaine, Hathor?” Bing walked along beside her as though her charge had not just snubbed two distinguished gentlemen for no apparent reason.

“We do, Bing. And I am heartily sick of the tedious god-king and his equally tedious daughter.”

“As you say,” Bing replied.

Robbie was tall, and so she quickly scanned the assembly, looking for his blond head and wishing she could whistle for him. In the process, her gaze rested upon the self-assured civil servant, who had managed to stay parallel with her despite the crowded quarters. Lifting her chin, she gave him a quelling look just so that he was aware she was on to him, and then at long last spotted Robbie’s form at a small distance in the crowd. He was surrounded by a group of people, and bent his head for a moment to listen to a blond woman, who was trying to speak to him over the noise of the throng. “I see him, Bing—and not a moment too soon. Come along.”

But before she could squeeze in his direction, Hattie was confronted by the Prussian Ambassador himself, who gallantly handed her a glass of punch and indicated he would like to speak to her in a quieter corner. Short of pulling her hand from his and pushing yet another one bodily to the floor, she had little choice but to comply, and followed him to a less-crowded area near the windows, taking a quick glance to mark Robbie’s location in the process.

“Did you enjoy speaking with Baron du Pays, Miss Blackhouse? He is the French vice-consul in Egypt.”

“Oh—is he indeed?” It wanted only this; Hattie had probably launched an international incident by her snub, but surely a vice-consul shouldn’t be consorting with burglars. As if on cue, the vice-consul came over to join them, although this time he was not accompanied by the aforesaid burglar which was just as well, as Hattie may have felt it necessary to dress him down and she was
truly
trying to control her temper.

With an air of extreme interest, her host crossed his arms over his be-medaled chest and rocked back on his heels. “If you would, Miss Blackhouse, tell me more of the curse; could it be the wrath of the ancients, visited upon those who disturb their legacy?”

“One can only wonder,” Hattie replied, as diplomatically as she was able. She barely refrained from muttering a curse herself—one that Robbie himself had taught her. How anyone could believe that lifeless objects could be “cursed” was beyond her comprehension but the superstitious were a stubborn breed and—apparently—could be found at the highest levels of diplomacy, which told its own tale. She glanced sidelong at Robbie, and saw that he was conferring with the self-assured gentleman who had been watching her; Robbie then lifting his head to glance with surprise in her direction. Which was rather strange; why would the gentleman know that it was Robbie she sought out? Bing surreptitiously touched her elbow to draw her attention back to the conversation, and with an effort, Hattie pulled her gaze back to the Ambassador’s magnified eye.

“…and the tomb with no clue as to the princess’s identity. Extraordinary.”

For two pins, Hattie would have asked why any rational person would feel this topic was of the least importance, but so as not to embarrass poor Bing she attempted to re-focus; after all, the Ambassador was her host and she should not allow Robbie to think she was incapable of deporting herself in diplomatic circles. Although it was a dull group, truth be told, and it was hard to believe the intrepid boy next door had willingly chosen this sort of life. “It is believed she was the daughter of some famous pharaoh,” offered Hattie vaguely, stealing a glance toward Robbie as he made his way toward her. Oddly enough, he had the blond woman in tow—she was quite old—at least thirty, if she was a day. Perhaps the woman required his support due to her advanced age.

“Seti,” murmured Bing behind her in an undertone.

“The Great Seti,” added Hattie smoothly. “The god-king; presumably her father.”

The Ambassador leaned forward, his expression avid at having gleaned such an intriguing scrap of information to tout to his fellow aficionados. “Indeed? And have your parents discovered why a princess’s tomb was found in the Valley of the Kings? The only female to be found—most unusual.”

At this juncture, Robbie arrived and greeted her with astonishment. “Hattie, by all that’s holy—however did you come to be here?” As he turned to explain their acquaintanceship to their host, Hattie realized she couldn’t very well confess that she had come to Paris for the express purpose of trying to convince him to marry her, and with this in mind she retreated to a less-crazed explanation. “I came to visit my parents, Robbie.”

The reaction to this disclosure was a rather heavy silence, with the Baron lowering his gaze to the floor and Robbie’s expression suddenly shuttered. Hattie looked from one to the other in surprise, but was forced to acknowledge the blond woman with Robbie because she offered with a doubtful smile, “Here—in Paris? But I recently left your parents in Thebes.”