Tainted Angel (4 page)

Upon reentering the card room Vidia spotted Brodie, cradling a brandy snifter and idly reviewing the room. He watches Montagu and wonders what has happened to me, she thought with a twinge of remorse as she came to his side. This is exactly what happens when I allow myself to be distracted by Lucien Carstairs, who is very good at seeming smitten, I must say
.
As Brodie raised his glass to her in a playful salute, she leaned toward him in a flirtatious manner and murmured in an undertone, “I would ask you to quarrel with Montagu.”

The smile faded from his face, and he had the look of a man who was annoyed. In a low voice he asked, “You have the information, then?”

“Monday and Tuesday, a week from next,” she affirmed, tilting her head and placing a hand on his arm as though she were trying to soothe him. “But I need an excuse not to go trysting with that creature.”

In a show of anger, he pulled his arm away from her hand and took a step back. In a mild undertone at odds with his actions he cautioned, “You must first assure me you are not making arrangements with Torquay,
Bela
—the man’s a dirty dish.”

He referred to the marquess, and Vidia was reminded that there was little that Brodie didn’t notice. Glancing around as though embarrassed by his public display of anger, she tugged on his sleeve and bent her head to his as though trying to draw him away from the crowd. “Lord, no—I need a distraction so as to dispose of him—the poor man seems to have hit his head.” For reasons she did not wish to explore, she didn’t mention Carstairs’s involvement to Brodie.

“Where is Montagu?” demanded Brodie in a loud, belligerent voice. “By
God
, I shall demand satisfaction.” He then spotted Montagu, who—like everyone else in the room—was watching their burgeoning quarrel with barely concealed interest. “You
blackguard
.” Brodie then stalked toward the surprised government official with a slightly unsteady gait, as though drunk.

“Stop, Benny—you are absurd,” Vidia hissed at him in an audible aside as she tugged on his arm. “You are drunk and ridiculous.”

Yanking his arm away from her, Brodie advanced on the horrified Montagu as several discreet servants nervously closed on the two men. Cocking his arm, Brodie took a swing at the other man but did not connect as several of the other guests grappled him away, admonishing him to keep his head. Blustering, Montagu backed away but tipped over a lamp table as Vidia let out a small shriek to alert Carstairs that now was the time. In the ensuing ruckus, she made a show of extreme disgust and hooked her arm in the alderman’s. “Come, sir—we shall play Piquet.”

Although he cast a doubtful eye at the contretemps still unfolding between Brodie and Montagu, the alderman apparently decided to grasp his opportunity and damn the consequences, and willingly escorted her back into the side room. They found a quiet table and called for a deck of cards, Vidia playing a desultory game with him and making it clear she was in no mood for conversation. A servant appeared and explained to her in a discreet tone that Mr. Brodie had been asked to leave the premises, but her only response was to make a discard and reply, “A good riddance.”

After she had played cards with the alderman long enough to ensure that the story would get back to the wife who had deserted him, she rose to kiss his cheek and thank him, and then slipped out the back entrance so as to avoid the inevitable offers to escort her home.

Once outside, Vidia decided that if Carstairs didn’t appear very soon she would call for a hackney because once again she was walking the streets without a wrap, her arms crossed to ward off the cold. I truly am behaving as though I am a foolish
menina
once again, she thought—I have to stop this. But her resolution was abandoned as soon as Carstairs appeared beside her, shrugging off his jacket so as to place it around her shoulders.

“Assignment completed?” she asked, glancing up.

“Completed—his reputation will be in ruins by the morn.”

Chuckling, she fell into step beside him, their footsteps echoing in the empty street. It was well past midnight, which meant little to either of them—often their best work was done in the wee hours. He made no effort to shorten his stride nor did she expect him to—they could transform into society creatures if the circumstances warranted, but circumstances didn’t warrant and so they were simply covering ground.

He broke the silence. “I will bring your wrap around tomorrow—you need it.”

Keeping her tone light, she repeated, “There is no hurry, Carstairs.” She had probably earned the right to call him by his Christian name—it had certainly seemed so, the second or third session last night—but she refrained, wishing to keep him at a mental arm’s length.

“I wanted you to know I did not set out—last night—”

“I know it,” she assured him, looking up with a smile. She knew no such thing, of course.

He tilted his head in a self-deprecatory gesture. “I had too much to drink—stupid of me.”

Which may or may not be true; if he had not been truly drunk he had certainly fooled her, which only reminded her to be very wary. Lifting her face to his, she replied with all sincerity, “If you’d rather we didn’t speak of it, we won’t—it was a miserable situation for you and I don’t want to add to your misery.”

His gaze was suddenly intent upon hers. “I don’t want to stop speaking of it, Vidia—I can’t. In fact, I would like to continue to meet with you when it can be arranged.”

She halted so as to face him—this was the kind of discussion one should have face-to-face; after all, and she needed to gauge his motives. She had seen the message conveyed in his eyes too many times in her life to be mistaken by its meaning, but there was every possibility it was merely playacting—that he was angling to drop more hints of his supposed treason so as to goad her into some unexplained action, and take a survey of Brodie’s town house for good measure. When she made no reply, he lifted a hand to run his finger along her jaw line, and despite herself, she could feel a
frisson
of desire, remembering his hands upon her body.

He continued, “I know it cannot be every day. And I know we must not let the others know.” Lifting her face with his finger, he kissed her mouth, his lips gently tracing hers. “But I must insist.”

He is very good, she thought with reluctant admiration—it feels completely genuine. “Carstairs,” she whispered, buying time. “This is your grief speaking.”

He lifted one of her hands to kiss the palm. “No—it is not grief, I promise you.”

With a mighty effort, she turned her face and stepped away when he moved to kiss her again. “You cannot think to compromise my assignment.” Her assignment was to spy on Brodie to find out what he was up to—which was ironic, because she could easily tell them but then she would run the risk that they would all fall out of their chairs.

“Brodie does not live with you,” he reminded her, quietly insistent. “We can contrive—we are good at that sort of thing.” He then ran his hands down her arms in a gesture reminiscent of the night before as his gaze held hers, and even though she was aware it was undoubtedly a sham, she could not look away to save her life.
Deus
, but it is oh, so annoying to have obligations when one has such an attractive man opportuning one, she thought crossly, but said with gentle regret, “I don’t know, Carstairs—perhaps it would be best to forget last night.”

But he would not accept her gentle rebuff and redoubled his efforts, bringing his face so close to hers in the gas light that she could see where his razor did not reach the whiskers in the cleft of his chin. “This is not something out of the blue, Vidia. You knew it in Flanders—you must have been aware that I was attracted to you.”

Here was a rare dose of honesty—their assignment in Flanders had nearly ended in disaster and in the euphoria that always bubbled up after death had been cheated, she had sensed that he wanted to bed her—he who was married to Marie. She had moved away from him and the moment had passed, never to reoccur. Never until last night, that was, and then it reoccurred with a vengeance—three times.
Santos
, she thought, but life is unfair.

His hands caressing her waist under his jacket, he leaned in to whisper in a teasing tone, “We were very good together.”

“That we were,” she agreed, and decided it was past time to grasp hold of the situation before it wobbled out of control. “Were you raised in France?”

If he was surprised by the
non sequitur
, he did not betray it. “Suffolk. Why?”

“It is the oddest thing—you speak French in your dreams,” she said lightly.

His hands stilled for a moment. “Do I? I had no idea—but my nursemaid was French.”

“That explains it, then.” Hopefully it was just the right touch; he was now aware that she knew either he was a tainted agent—or thought she was tainted and was trying to trap her. Probably the latter, unfortunately; Brodie was right—Carstairs would no more betray his country than he would fly to the moon.

Matching her light tone he asked, “Did I say anything I oughtn’t?”

With a small shrug, she sidestepped a direct answer and fingered a button on his waistcoat. “You must be careful not to call the right woman by the wrong name.”

He took her hands in his, one at a time, and held them in his warm clasp. “You are the one right woman for me, and I would never mistake you for another.”

Except you already have, she thought as he leaned down to kiss her, with more urgency this time. She returned his kiss long enough to allow him to believe he had persuaded her before she pulled away. “Not the time nor the place, Carstairs,” she whispered. “We may be seen.”

His tone intent, he urged, “Then let me come home with you and we can discuss the matter in private.”

For a brief moment she toyed with the idea of having another magical night with him—what was the harm, after all? She knew what was afoot, and she was not one to give away secrets in her sleep. Reluctantly recalling the state of her cellar, and the ongoing work therein, she laid a hand on his cheek and said with some regret, “Not tonight, my friend.”

He was silent as he escorted her across to a main street so as to hail a hackney, the few passersby abroad at this time of night taking little notice of the couple who had stood together in intimate conversation. As he flagged down a cab, he glanced at her. “Please think about it—I’m afraid I am going to persevere until I’ve changed your mind.”

“Oh, I am well aware of your staying power.” She gave him a wicked glance that had stopped the heart of many a man as she handed him his jacket. Chuckling, he helped her into the cab and then gave her direction to the jarvey. She watched him out the window as she pulled away, and he didn’t turn to go until she was nearly out of sight.

Vidia sank back into the cushions, her brow knit as she assessed the situation. If they truly thought she was tainted, she doubted they would play such a cat-and-mouse game; she would be delivered over to some very unpleasant men whose job it would be to wring a confession from her, along with any information she could give. There would be no mercy shown—not with so much at stake. Instead, it must be as Brodie said—he had them all over a barrel, unable to make a move against him. Therefore, they either suspected or knew that she was aligned with Brodie and were testing to see if she could be turned against him. They needed a means to control Brodie—over whom they had no control—and apparently they were aware she had a weakness for Lucien Carstairs.

Sighing, she gazed out the narrow window at the deserted street without actually seeing it. It was true she cherished a
tendre
for him, despite the fact she had turned him down in Flanders. Indeed, one of the reasons she had admired him was his devotion to his wife. It was a paradox—that which made him so attractive to her also made him unattainable; her own experience with men had shown how little they valued loyalty. And now he was free—and was pretending he wanted her, with his wife barely cold in her grave. You are a foolish, foolish
menina
, she thought, closing her eyes briefly; for two pins you’d accept his offer even though you
know
he doesn’t mean it.

The hackney pulled up to her residence and Vidia alighted, wondering if Maisie had stayed up to wait for her—some hot water would be welcome to wash off the loathsome marquess, not to mention the loathsome Montagu. She glanced up at the elegant town house as she ascended the stairs and then turned her gaze to the side, toward the man who watched her entry from the shadows to the left. “
Bonne
nuit
,” she greeted him in French.

He bowed ironically. “
Bonne
nuit, mademoiselle
.”

Letting herself in, she locked the door behind her.

Vidia paraded alongside Brodie on the broad sidewalk of Threadneedle Street as they prepared to make a visit to the Bank of England, her skirts sweeping the pavement and an elaborate hat perched at a reckless angle atop her curls. He had asked that she accompany him on this visit, which meant she was needed to distract—unlikely he would ask her to cast her lures at a banker, as bankers were notoriously bloodless. She eyed a pastry cart stationed on the corner as they passed, but decided with some regret that it would be too messy to indulge in one, considering the cost of her gloves. Breakfast had been an hour ago and she was unaccountably hungry again.

Lifting her face so that she could feel the sun despite the hat’s wide brim, she asked, “What is it we do here, Benny? Or are we giving the poor man who watches my town house a diversion?” Brodie was well-aware her every move was being watched by agents for the French.

“I’m to be inveigled by the wretched bankers,” he disclosed as he tucked her hand in his arm. “And I would ask that you do some inveigling of your own, if you would be so kind.”

“A tall order, my friend.” She smiled and nodded to a gentleman on the sidewalk who had stopped and was openly staring, his embarrassed wife tugging on his arm. One could hardly blame him; she did look very fine in her apricot gown with its slashed sleeves, embellished with discreet pearls so as to be appropriate for daytime. She was very fond of the soft color; it reminded her of the terra-cotta walls that had surrounded her village—before it was razed to the ground, of course.

Brodie replied, “Perhaps, perhaps not. One is a gentleman named Sundren, whose wife has been ill for a time. Lately he has taken to the occasional visit with a prostitute, poor fellow. See what you can contrive—I would like to have a line of communication with someone on the inside if it is possible.”

This was rather a surprise, and she glanced at him, guessing at his reasons. “There is a Home Office plant on the inside, then? Who?”

He said kindly, as though he was speaking to a small child, “I am not yet certain,
Bela
, hence the request.”

Lifting the corner of her mouth at his tone, she assured him, “I shall do my humble best, then.”

“Excellent; the poor man doesn’t stand a chance.”

They walked in silence for a few moments while she thought over this development. He must be concerned about this or he wouldn’t have asked that she act as an angel for him; normally she did not accompany him to business meetings and in any event they rarely went out together in daytime for the simple reason that she attracted too much attention—the last outing having caused a horrific collision between a dray and a milk wagon.

Brodie paused, ostensibly to admire a collection of flower pots. “We must slow down a bit; I’d like to be late.”

Vidia dutifully bent to touch a flower petal and teased, “You tempt fate, methinks; have a care lest they decide it isn’t worth it and wash their hands of you.”

Brodie only smiled and glanced at her. “Montagu sent ’round a note of apology—claims he had too much to drink the other night and begs my pardon.”

Amused, she shook her head. “Lord, Benny—you
do
have them all over a barrel if the Treasury is forcing him to apologize.”

Making a sound of derision, he nodded to an acquaintance coming the other way who had tipped his hat to Vidia, and then began walking again so as to discourage any further advances. “You have twice the backbone he does,
Bela
—I do you an injustice, having to tolerate such a pretender for your favors. He is a very dull stick.”

Her eyes gleaming, she riposted, “I disagree; he thinks his stick very lively.”

“
Bela
,” he admonished with distaste. “Spare me, I beg of you.”

“So—no more Montagu?” she asked hopefully.

“No more,” he affirmed. “Very soon, all will be resolved.”

This was news that was equal parts welcome and alarming. “When will the
Argo
sail? Do we have a date certain?”

There was a small pause. “I’m afraid I’d rather not tell you just yet. You’ll understand.”

She did, and took it in good part as they resumed their progress, the bank rising up before them. Brodie was justifiably concerned that she would be forced, by very unpleasant means, to reveal the information—after all, her spymaster was now making his own maneuvers to counter Brodie’s. His next words, however, reminded her that there was little he did not notice.

“Who was the gentleman at the card table? You were acquainted, I think.”

No point to pretending she didn’t know who he meant. “Lucien Carstairs—a compatriot,” she answered easily. “We worked together in Flanders, once.”

Brodie’s shrewd glance assessed her face. “Tell me of Mr. Carstairs—he seems a very capable fellow.”

“I’d rather not—I’m afraid I have divided loyalties on the subject.” The last thing she wanted was to inform Brodie that it was Carstairs who spoke of bringing gold to Napoleon.

But it seemed she was a step behind Brodie, and his next words indicated he had already guessed Carstairs’s role. “They will try to come at me through you, you know,” he noted in a matter-of-fact tone. “Be ready for it.”

“I am not a fool, Benny,” she responded sharply, then immediately was contrite. “My nerves are ragged—I do beg your pardon.” They entered the impressive edifice, the vaulted ceilings and marble floors proclaiming the unassailable authority of the mighty Bank of England—a casual observer could be forgiven for not being aware that the bank was teetering on the edge of collapse.

Brodie laid a hand on hers where it rested on his arm. “Venice,” he pronounced, tilting his head back to consider the elaborate domed ceiling. “I’ve a mind to go to Venice and embark on a new venture.”

“I don’t know where I would go,” she mused beside him, grateful for the change in subject. “Somewhere quiet, methinks; and near the ocean—I would grow lilies.”

“Lucky lilies, to have you tend them.” He glanced at her sidelong. “Do lilies thrive in Venice?”

But she shook her head. “I find that I am rather fond of England.” She was ashamed to admit that it was impossible to contemplate living in a country that did not contain Lucien Carstairs, given the fact that he was at present taking brutal advantage of her silly infatuation with him. “And I am thinking of retiring from the lists—I am not as reckless as I once was.” She was almost surprised at the words, which had seemed to come out almost without conscious volition.

“You alarm me,” he replied with some surprise. “Not to mention it would be a tremendous waste of talent.”

“There must be something else I can do—someplace where I can simply mind my own business, as opposed to everyone else’s.”

“Not with that face,” Brodie pronounced bluntly. “A nunnery, perhaps—although the priests would be constantly at confession. Better to come with me.”

Squeezing his arm, she said sincerely, “I appreciate what you have done for me—my hand on my heart, Benny—but I find that I don’t have the appetite for it any longer.”

“All will be well,
Bela
. My own hand on my heart.”

They were escorted into an oak-lined meeting room, where the two gentlemen who awaited them respectfully bowed upon their entrance. Brodie introduced the larger man as Mr. Sundren and the smaller man as Mr. Grant.

Mr. Grant made a gesture with his hand toward the antechamber. “If your—companion—would care to await without, I shall see to it she is served refreshments.”

“I dare not,” said Brodie casually as he drew out her chair. “There is no guarantee she’d still be there upon my return.”

Vidia laughed merrily and threw Brodie a teasing glance as she was seated, privately regretting the loss of the refreshments.

Thus stymied, Grant tried to hide his annoyance with little success. “We were afraid, Mr. Brodie, that you had forgotten our appointment.”

“My lamentable memory.” Brodie spread his hands in apology. “I remembered just as we were heading to Rundell’s, and I came straightaway.”

“I am most unhappy with him, and with you,” Vidia teased, glancing up from beneath the wide brim of her hat; Rundell & Bridge were jewelers who catered to London’s most monied residents. She then bestowed an intimate, dazzling smile on Sundren, who stared at her as though sunstruck. Vidia instantly had formed a dislike for Grant, and ignored him.

“Now, how may I help the Bank of England?” asked Brodie in a genial tone.

“You have been most generous,” began Sundren in a conciliatory manner, “lending the Treasury such sums for the war effort.” His gaze slid to Vidia because he could not seem to help himself.

A hint of impatience in his voice, Brodie prompted, “But the war is now over, and Napoleon sits in exile; when do you suppose my bonds shall be repaid?”

Sundren having lost his train of thought, Grant gave his cohort an impatient glance and continued, “Unfortunately, the bank is a bit shorthanded at present.”

“Ah,” said Brodie, nodding in understanding. “The missing gold.”

“The missing gold,” agreed Sundren, recalled to the conversation. “The last two shipments to the troops stationed on the Continent have gone missing—it is a major blow; the bank—and the Treasury—were dangerously depleted by the war and there is little to spare.” He paused, then added in a somber tone, “And the Home Office is greatly concerned that Napoleon will attempt another conquest.”

Brodie clasped his hands on the table and bent his head, considering. “That is indeed grave news. You wish me to hold off cashing in the bonds, then.”

“If you would,” asked Sundren humbly. “I do not exaggerate when I say it is a matter of national security.”

“I am a businessman,” Brodie pointed out. “I cannot be held responsible because the Treasury is careless with its gold.”

“It is not only the Treasury that has suffered losses,” Sundren was moved to point out. “The Continent is by no means secure—there are rumors that Napoleon’s gold supplies have been stolen, also.”

“Such lawlessness,” exclaimed Vidia, her delicate brow knit in distress. “Why, whatever is the world coming to?” She appealed to Sundren, who looked as though he had to restrain himself from taking her into his arms.

But Brodie remained unsympathetic. “Ask Rothschild for a loan, then; he is the one who made a fortune shipping gold to Wellington during the war.” Brodie continued in an aside to Vidia, “A clever man—he uses pigeons to carry messages back and forth from England to the Continent—did you know, my dear?”

“Does he indeed?” she asked in amusement. “Perhaps the pigeons know where the missing gold is.”

Sundren laughed as though she had said something very clever until Grant glared at him, and he then subsided. Nevertheless, Vidia gave him a slow smile from beneath the brim of her hat as a reward.

Grant explained in a constrained voice, “I am afraid Rothschild’s fortune is tied up—as are many others’—paying out insurance claims. There has been a spate of losses in India lately—bad timing, I’m afraid. We must strongly urge that you allow the bank more time before you redeem your bonds.”

For the express purpose of annoying Grant, Vidia interjected, “This is not going to interfere with the diamond bracelet you promised me, is it Benny?”

While Grant barely concealed his irritation, Brodie patted her hand. “Perish the thought, my dear—I have to keep up appearances for fear you will find someone with a plumper purse.”

Vidia smiled upon the two bankers, tilting her head playfully. “I am never careless with my gold.”

“It is not a matter for levity, perhaps,” Grant replied stiffly, and Vidia noted that a vein bulged in his forehead. Overwrought, she thought, resisting an urge to curl her lip. He takes it all too seriously—I can’t imagine he’d do well before a firing squad. Not like some.