Tainted Angel (5 page)

You were unkind to poor Henry,” noted Brodie as he tossed his hat on her table and signaled to Maisie for the tea tray.

“Who is Henry?” asked Vidia absently, hoping the tea tray would feature something substantial—Maisie had hired a cook to help out two days a week and with any luck this was one of the days.

“Henry Grant, from the bank,” Brodie explained, watching out the window for a moment. “A very interesting fellow.”

“He was not interesting, he was rude,” pronounced Vidia. “Although you will be happy to hear that Mr. Sundren slipped me his card—I imagine it is not all he wishes to slip me.”

“
Bela
,” warned Brodie. “Please.”

“Should I make contact? I rather felt sorry for him.”

“No—no need.”

This was a relief; despite her calling she didn’t like to mislead decent men, and she assessed Sundren as a decent man. Indecent men were another matter, of course, and she dwelt with satisfaction on the marquess’s scandal, which was currently the talk of the town. “Did the meeting go as you wished? I could not tell.”

“As always,” he replied in a tone that chided her for doubting it.

“I forget—you are the puppet master,” she conceded with a smile. “Where is that tea tray?”

But when Maisie returned it was to inform her that the piano tuner was in the parlor. “Bein’ as he says ye called for him, missy.”

“Yes—I am sadly out of practice.” Vidia studied her reflection in the mirror on the opposite wall for a moment. “The instrument is quite inferior, I’m afraid—perhaps I shall simply purchase a new one. I must seek his advice, Benny.”

But Brodie had taken up the newspaper and didn’t respond, so Vidia made her way to the parlor, carefully closing the door behind her. She was unsurprised to see the grey-eyed spymaster, dressed in a workman’s outfit and unrolling a cloth that contained various tuning implements atop her piano.

Straightening at her entrance, he removed his cap, the expression in the grey eyes deferential. “Miss.”

Hiding her wariness at his unexpected appearance, she walked across the room and, with graceful flourish, seated herself on the piano bench. “You are lucky I indeed have a piano.”

“Nothing is left to chance.” He bent to sound a tuning fork, then hit a key and grimaced.

“There is a man watching from across the street,” she offered. It was likely the grey-eyed man was already aware of this fact but she thought she’d give the impression she would cooperate to the fullest—she wondered why he was here.

The grey eyes scrutinized her for a moment as he leaned over the instrument, the false eyebrows cocked. “How long?”

“A week, at least.”

Her companion began testing various keys and tightening the screwing mechanisms. Plink, plunk. “Tell me what Brodie had to say to the bankers.”

“Two men,” she reported, “Sundren and Grant—”

“Grant is one of ours,” he interrupted without lifting his head from the strings.

She stared at the top of his head. “You astonish me—if that is the best you can recruit, I despair for England.” Her tone was tart because she was off-balance—they should have warned her, and the fact that they hadn’t seemed ominous.

The grey eyes glanced at her again. “He is monitoring the situation.”

Stretching out her arms before her, she contemplated her manicured nails. “And here I thought I was monitoring the situation.”

He was amused and gave her a half smile as he bent over a wire. “He’s watching from the business end—surely you don’t feel threatened.”

She wasn’t fooled by his light tone—if he doubted her allegiance she should feel very threatened indeed. “I’d like some guidance, then—I need to know how I should interact with Grant.”

Giving her a swift, assessing glance, he then reapplied himself; plink, plunk. “Not your usual interaction—he is rather a spinster.”

“I am unsurprised,” she said dryly, and realized that she never had the impression that the grey-eyed man was at all dazzled by her beauty; in an odd way it was almost refreshing. “But I am indeed surprised by this visit; I rather think you are here to discomfit me.”

If she hoped to throw him off, she was unsuccessful. “Perhaps.” Plink, plunk.

She didn’t pursue it; it was enough to let him know she was aware of his suspicions and didn’t appreciate them. “There was talk of the missing gold—did Grant tell you?”

“Was there? And what of the bonds?”

“They’d like Brodie to postpone calling them in until the gold is recovered or—barring that—something miraculous happens to help the Treasury recover from the war.” She waited, but he asked no more questions about the meeting at the bank; instead, the next question seemed to indicate he had pieced the puzzle together.

“Are you aware there was a brawl with Montagu the other night?”

“Of course—I was its subject.” She idly pressed a key with a forefinger. “Do you believe there is a connection, then—since Montagu is with the Treasury?”

Exchanging tuning forks, he tapped the new one, lifted it to his ear to listen, and didn’t respond to her question. He then plucked another wire and applied his tool to tighten it. “Has Brodie been acquainted with Montagu for long? Perhaps from his days on the Continent?”

“I am not certain,” she responded honestly. “But I do not believe so.”

Plunk, plink. The piano tuner plucked the wires with his long fingers. “A coincidence that my people put them both near Paris last fall.” He stilled his hands and turned his head to look fully at her.

Her guileless eyes registering surprise, she returned his gaze, stare for stare. “Truly? In the fall?” She shook her head. “It is indeed a coincidence, but I know nothing of it—it was before my current assignment, after all, so I knew little of Brodie’s doings.”

The grey eyes continued their scrutiny. “Of course, my sources may be mistaken—our operations were disrupted at that time—it was when Napoleon retreated from the Moscow debacle with such speed.”

“It was chaotic,” she agreed, and calmly crossed her hands on her lap.

“None would know better than you.” He returned his attentions back to the tuning fork.

With a rueful smile, she readily admitted, “And I am unlikely to forget, having been forced to go to ground myself. Who would believe the Emperor could move so quickly, and after having suffered such losses at the hands of the Russians?”

“Indeed. I was most concerned when my contacts reported you missing around that time.”

“It was a perilous week—forgive me for causing you concern.”

The grey-eyed man said nothing for several moments, plucking wires and tightening screws while Vidia sat watching him, striving mightily to appear unconcerned and unalarmed by the tack the conversation had taken.
Mãe de Deus
, she thought; I do not have the nerves for this anymore. Thankfully, a diversion occurred in the form of Maisie, who appeared in the doorway and dropped an awkward curtsey; Maisie was not a graceful creature.

“Would ye like me to bring you a cup o’ tea, missy?”

“If you would, Maisie.”

She disappeared and the grey-eyed man addressed Vidia in a muffled voice, as his head was under the lid. “She is no maidservant—what is her story?”

Relieved by the change of subject, Vidia replied, “She was a stray.”

He straightened up to meet her eyes. “From San Sebastian?”

Hiding her horror that he knew enough to mention it, Vidia struggled to control her features. “No,” she managed to answer evenly. “Fuentes de Onoro. Her husband fell at Almeida and she was trapped during the siege. I needed a dairymaid to create a diversion—a delay to allow for the reinforcements.”

He contemplated her for a moment, his expression unreadable. She met his gaze with her own steady one and lifted her chin an inch. He knows he has thrown me a stinger, she thought, and watches for my reaction. I will not give him one.

He finally dropped his gaze to the keyboard where he began randomly picking out keys. Plunk, plunk. “Do you think she could be of use?”

Vidia considered it for only a moment. “No. She is too forthright; deception is not in her nature—she is useful only for eavesdropping.” She placed her own hands on the keys and began to pick out a tune. Without hesitation, he manned the lower range keys to join her and between the two of them they played a very satisfactory duet.

At its conclusion he seemed genuinely pleased. “I had no idea you could actually play.”

She replied serenely, “I imagine there are many things you do not know.”

He chuckled at her daring and she felt a sense of accomplishment at evoking an unguarded reaction from him. “I could say the same. Where is Hagar with the tea?”

“Maisie,” Vidia corrected him. “Her name is Maisie.”

“My mistake,” he apologized.

“Is there to be a temperance meeting soon?” She was concerned that she would now be excluded from the inner workings of their group, and it was important for Brodie’s plan that she remained informed.

“Tonight.” His implacable gaze met hers. “No rest for the wicked.”

Vidia found she could make no reply.

It was after ten o’clock when Vidia paused at the door to St. Michael’s. The church was situated on a broad, quiet street in an ordinary-appearing residential neighborhood; unassuming and foursquare. Through its doors, however, passed some of the most influential individuals in the kingdom, even though the names they gave themselves would never be known by the populace and their work—and sometimes their deaths—would never be publicly recognized. The anonymous nature of the business was very appealing to Vidia, who chafed at constantly being put on display. I am a shrinking snail, just as Maisie said, she thought. Trust her to skewer me with an apt comparison—a good thing I didn’t leave her in the river with the cows.

She held the hood of her dark cloak tightly around her face and had seen to it that she was not followed by shifting between several hackneys and then backtracking. The cloak obscured the gold-figured gown that displayed her impressive figure to advantage; they had gone to a late supper at the club as Brodie didn’t want those who watched to notice anything unusual in their activities of late. He had been in a mellow mood, giving her hints of what was to come as he puffed on a cigarillo. “Our rabbit is very cautious—there are some alarming individuals lately come to town who seek his death.”

“Must I be there when the
Argo
sails?” she asked. “Tell him I am away, knitting socks for Napoleon’s army.”

“It would be best if you were there—and grateful to him, besides,” Brodie had replied. “There should be no hint that he has been double-crossed—otherwise we are back to where we started.”

She nodded, seeing the wisdom in this. “What if my superiors indeed bring me in?” she had asked, thinking of the piano tuner’s ominous visit. “What then?”

“We shall see,” he had replied, unfazed. “One must remain flexible.”

Hoping her superiors were contemplating no such thing, Vidia tapped a code on the oaken door of the church, and as it opened a shaft of light shot through the darkness outside. A young man monitored the door—perhaps sixteen, she guessed, and rather sunburnt. “Come in, please,” he said. “The temperance meeting is in the basement.”

“Are you a fellow victim of demon rum?” she asked in a serious tone.

“No, ma’am,” he replied, not certain whether she was teasing. “I’m the sextant.”

Having taken off her cloak, she handed it to him, only to note that he stood staring, his mouth agape. She gently placed a finger under his chin and closed his mouth for him as the spymaster appeared, dressed as a vicar. “That is all—you may return to the rectory,” he directed the young man, who pulled himself together and departed.

“Pray do not ruin the help,” the grey-eyed man cautioned as he led her to the basement stairs.

“Where is the Curate tonight?” she asked, following him. Usually her contact was the spymaster’s assistant, who posed as a curate.

“The Curate is away from the parish, there being urgent matters requiring his attention. I will mentor the temperance meeting tonight.”

“God save us all indeed,” she remarked in a dry tone, and followed him down the stairs. He is trying to unnerve me, she thought, and is doing an excellent job. “Has anyone else arrived?”

“I fear we will have very few; the urgent matters being paramount.” Bearing a candle, the grey-eyed man paused at the bottom of the basement stairs, and as Vidia passed, she glanced at his face, thinking in reluctant admiration that one would find little trace of the ragged beggar or the piano tuner. He was very good at his job, a fact she should keep in mind—overconfidence was Brodie’s besetting sin.

He set the candle on a table, the candlelight flickering in the draft. The church, being a small parish, used all available space, and so the cramped room was made comfortable with chairs, a rudimentary table, and decorative hangings on the walls that exhorted the inhabitants to have faith. A little faith is useful, Vidia thought, but action should never be discounted. The meeting place had the added attraction of being windowless and surrounded by thick stone walls.

As she seated herself, Carstairs emerged into the room from the narrow stairway, and Vidia tried to decide what to say to him as she was not certain how much their spymaster knew and how much he believed she knew—
Deus
, it was all very complicated. Deciding on a safe topic, she said, “My poor Carstairs—will they not allow you a bereavement leave?”

Pulling up a chair, he replied easily, “Better to work—it keeps me out of low taverns. Thank you for your extraction the other night, Swanson.”

“It was my pleasure.” She was rewarded by the amused glance he sent her behind the Vicar’s back—her pleasure indeed, and more than once. “You should drown your sorrows where there are fewer pickpockets.”

“I believe I owe you cab fare.”

“And bar fare,” she added without rancor. “If I hadn’t paid your shot at the Bowman, Napoleon’s army would be the least of your worries.”

“How much?” He pulled out his purse, and they were settling accounts when Jenny Dokes entered, nodding to the three already present. Dokes was a plain and unassuming woman with an amazing head for numbers that in turn translated into a gift for deciphering code. Vidia, who was good with numbers herself, was all admiration for the other’s abilities. “Dokes,” she said with warmth, taking the other’s hand. “It is good to see you again.” As Dokes had no pretensions to beauty, she was one of the rare women who had no objection to Vidia; she was the nearest thing Vidia had to a female friend.

“And you—have you managed to unearth any new ciphers for me?” Dokes sounded a bit wistful; she loved a good puzzle.

With regret, Vidia admitted she hadn’t. “Instead I am assigned to monitor Brodie and his money—mainly I cut a swath and listen at keyholes.”

Dokes smiled her dry little smile. “Whereas I merely listen at keyholes and must avoid swaths of any kind.” She was assigned to teach at a girls’
Académie
founded by French expatriates from the Continent, notably those who had fled the Terror, years before.

“I will trade with you,” Vidia offered promptly.

Dokes had to chuckle at the picture thus presented. “You wouldn’t last a day, I’m afraid—the headmistress is very strict in matters of propriety.”

“Meaning I would not be allowed to teach the students how to rouge their bosoms.”

“I imagine not.” At the
Académie
, Dokes was well-positioned to hear information—salacious and otherwise—with respect to Napoleon’s activities across the Channel during the war, and now that rumors of his planned escape were rampant, she could determine who was sympathetic to the former Emperor and might be tempted to render him aid. After a discreet investigation, the suspect was then either disregarded as harmless or was apprehended for crimes against the Crown. Dokes never appeared to care one way or the other—her interests were purely analytical. She had never married but always plucked up when Carstairs was about. Small blame to her, thought Vidia; or to me, for that matter—he is so very appealing. With an effort, she turned her thoughts away from the beauty of his naked chest.

Henry Grant entered and apologized to the Vicar for being late. “A wretched business—the bankers are all on end.”

Cutting to the nub of the matter, the Vicar turned to Vidia. “Has Brodie indicated when he intends to cash in his bonds?”

“No,” she responded readily. “He does not mention them at all—it is as though the money means little to him.” This had the added benefit of being completely true.

“She wouldn’t be in his confidence on such a matter.” Grant made an annoyed gesture in Vidia’s direction, impatient with the very idea.

But the Vicar, apparently, did not care for his tone. “You would be surprised how many secrets a man is willing to relate to a beautiful woman. Pray do not interrupt again.”

Vidia kept her gaze lowered and reflected that her spymaster disliked Grant almost as much as she did. She continued as though there had not been an interruption, “Brodie conducts his business at his own rooms and I am rarely there, so I am at a disadvantage. I could attempt a search, though, if you think it necessary; I would have excuse for being on the premises.”

The Vicar was thoughtful for a moment, then asked, “Tell me—has he mentioned an ‘argo’?”

With a monumental effort, Vidia maintained her poise. “Not that I know.”
Santos
, she thought—someone has been eavesdropping and Brodie must have a care.

Turning to Grant, the Vicar prompted, “What do you suppose it meant?”

Ah, thought Vidia with annoyance—observe the eavesdropper. I should have guessed it was this little weasel-
doninha
.

“I believe,” offered Grant slowly, crossing his arms and enjoying the attention, “that the term referred in some way to the missing gold.”

Her brow knit, Vidia looked from one to the other, pretending confusion. “Gold? I don’t understand—what has Brodie to do with the missing gold?”

“It would do him no good to steal the gold,” Dokes observed. “The gold backs the bonds and he’d be stealing from himself; he wouldn’t want to degrade his own bonds.”

“On the other hand, he holds a huge percentage of the Treasury’s war bonds,” the Vicar countered. “The Home Office is concerned that he has the ability to crash the country’s finances if he attempted to cash them all at once. There is the possibility his motive is to bring down England rather than make a profit.”

Soberly, they all contemplated this alarming theory. Indeed, Brodie’s tendency to buy up nearly all of England’s war bonds was the reason Vidia had been assigned to attach herself to him—his motives were unclear.

Worried that they’d indeed arrest Brodie for treason, Vidia offered, “I have seen no evidence of loyalty to the enemy, only loyalty to making money.”

Dokes, who loved a good puzzle, was apparently struck by the code word. “Do you suppose ‘argo’ was actually ‘argot’—referring to thieves’ cant? Does he use such slang?”

“Never,” said Vidia truthfully. “I think it is important to him to give the impression of gentility.” The better to hoodwink all and sundry.

“Or is it ‘
Argo
’ as in Jason and the Argonauts?” suggested Carstairs, thinking it over.

Vidia offered quickly, “He and Montagu engaged in a bout of fisticuffs at Stoffer’s the other night—it was very much out of character.”

His thoughtful gaze on Vidia, the Vicar sunk his chin to his chest. “Perhaps it was a falling-out among thieves—we must make certain the Treasury is not being undermined from within. Do you know if Montagu has visited Brodie at the town house?”

This seemed an odd question and Vidia allowed her surprise to show. “No—I would never willingly entertain Montagu, I assure you.”

Grant, the banker, reminded her in a pointed tone, “It is Brodie’s house, after all.”

She wasn’t certain if insult was intended, but she returned a mild answer. “No; the house stands in my name.”

The Vicar whistled softly. “It is worth a pretty penny.”

“As am I,” agreed Vidia with a smile, and the others chuckled.

But the Vicar was not amused. “Beguile some secrets from him, then; I confess to disappointment in your efforts thus far.”

It was the closest he had come to an open rebuke, and Vidia nodded, chastened.

The Vicar continued, “I would like Dokes to take a close look at the bank’s funding records in light of the missing gold—the Home Office is not certain it is receiving valid information. If the situation is dire, we must know the truth.”

“Shall I assist Dokes?” offered Vidia, hoping to regain his good graces and keep an eye on the assignment, for good measure.

“No,” said the Vicar. “You shall not.”

He then gestured toward the banker. “Grant will create the opportunity for Dokes to review the information—perhaps a night visit after hours, if needed.”

With a final glance around the room, the spymaster stood. “That is all; you will be informed of any further meetings.”