Tainted Angel (22 page)

Would you buy a nosegay, miss? It’s to support the Widows and Orphans Fund.” Lina addressed Jenny Dokes as the woman passed her on the sidewalk outside the
Académie
.

Jenny examined the proffered bundles with a dubious eye. “Lily of the valley? Your profit margin must be minuscule. Small wonder the widows and orphans are in such dire straits.”

“I thought them pretty.” Lina was dressed in widow’s weeds, the hastily repaired veil hiding her face. “And these were the only lilies I could find.”

“Credibility is everything,” Dokes reminded her, and fished in her reticule for a penny.

“Tuppence,” Lina prompted. “And at the risk of sounding vain, there’s little I don’t know about selling flowers—I’ve made two shillings in twenty minutes.”

“Less your cost,” the other ruthlessly reminded her.

“No cost—Brodie stood the ready. Pure profit, I assure you.”

Dokes made a show of admiring the flowers on the small chance they were being observed. “What’s afoot?”

“I need your help, if you are willing. I am going to speak privately with Henry Grant, to discover why he believes what he does of me. Otherwise I shall never have my life back again.”

As she breathed in the scent of the bouquet, Dokes considered this. “You are trying to clear your name?”

Lina nodded, watching the other woman from behind her veil. “I have set up a meeting in a public place where we could speak with no one the wiser—you must tell no one, Dokes; I beg of you—I will never be allowed to escape again.”

“And what is it you wish me to do?”

“I ask that you neutralize his weapon—I will take no chances.”

After a small silence, the other woman asked, “Who knows of this?”

“No one. But it is my best chance to eradicate my taint.” The story, of course, was inherently implausible and Dokes would be furiously trying to figure out the true object. Good luck to her, thought Lina, as there is no true object—other than to put her compatriots on notice that something was afoot, and soon. That, and it certainly couldn’t hurt to have Grant’s weapon neutralized, as everyone seemed to think he was tainted.

Dokes lifted her head to make a covert survey of the immediate area. “I confess that I am uneasy, Swanson.”

“You will have no active role, other than neutralizing his weapon,” Lina assured her.

Her companion smiled her dry smile. “His weapon needs little neutralization—such as it is.”

Both women chuckled.

With a small nod Dokes came to a decision. “I shall do it—on account of our friendship.” Lilies in hand, she continued on her way.

Lina sold flowers for another quarter hour and then gathered up the few remaining bouquets. She made her way down the sidewalk in the waning twilight, careful to assess whether she was being followed—she did not believe so; Dokes had been caught unawares. Still, she made a few twists and turns to double back on her route and saw no familiar figures—although it was possible the grey-eyed man had already informed her compatriots of her presence at the Kensington residence and there was no need for such strategies. She could not be certain, but she felt he would not have revealed it to any of the others; their meeting on the street was personal in nature and besides, he would have some difficulty explaining his own restraint if he confessed that he knew where she was. He is like Carstairs, she decided—if he truly believed that I was working to bring down England, he would regretfully shoot me himself without a moment’s hesitation. I must be careful to give neither of them incentive.

Eventually she deposited her profits and the remaining nosegays with a flower seller on the corner—to the girl’s stammered thanks—and returned to the Kensington safe house. Slipping in by the servant’s door, she listened to the silence and looked to the tea canister—which was indeed turned around. Releasing a relieved breath, Lina hurriedly doffed her clothes, bundling the widow’s weeds into the back of the wardrobe. Maisie had gone home and they would be quite alone so with a smile, Lina delved into the drawers, pulling on one of Carstairs’s crisp linen shirts and rolling up the sleeves. She wore nothing else and arranged herself on the settee in the drawing room to await his entry.

Her patience was rewarded by the smile he bestowed upon her as he stood in the foyer, removing his hat and gloves. “Lady Tyneburne—you are a sight.”

“Not Lady Tyneburne,” she corrected him with her slow smile.

He approached and climbed atop her on the settee, boots and all. “Lady Tyneburne,” he repeated firmly, his mouth buried in the side of her throat. “You’ll not be wriggling out of it.”

“I do like to wriggle.” She suited word to action as he pulled aside the shirt and moved his mouth to the peak of her breast. Yes, she thought, reading him aright—there is a suppressed excitement about him; undoubtedly he is returning from a visit with the church hierarchy to tell them of what he has learned from the bank note.

With a half-growl, he began to unfasten his breeches while she arched against him, caressing the muscles of his back beneath his shirt. I will never tire of this if I live to be a hundred, she thought in a haze of passion—hopefully I will survive the next two days.

There was a knock at the door.

Without a sound she rolled to the side as Carstairs stood up and quickly straightened his clothes. Stepping behind the damask curtain, she watched, twitching aside the fabric as he went to open the front door, calm and correct. “Yes?”

“Mr. Carstairs? Message for you, sir.”

He took the note and tipped the messenger, then closed the door with a deliberate motion and smiled at her. Lina chuckled as she came out from her hiding place, “I thought it was the Vicar for certain.”

He drew her back into his arms, his mouth moving along her shoulder. “I do like the looks of you in my shirt.”

“Better than my wedding nightdress?” She tilted her head so as to allow him better access to her neck.

He thought about it, bestowing slow kisses along the side of her throat, his hands caressing the contours of her breasts. “I shall have to see it again to compare.”

As she laughed, he lifted her in his arms. “Let’s go upstairs—my heart cannot withstand another surprise.”

“Are you certain it is your heart that most concerns you?” she teased him.

“Behave yourself,” he said against her mouth.

He carried her up the narrow stairs, angling her feet so as not to scrape the wall. “Aren’t you going to read your note?” She had a good guess as to what the note said and knew with a certainty that he would not allow her to see it.

“Not for the next twenty minutes or so.”

They made languorous love and at its conclusion she lay in his arms, wishing they had paused long enough to light a fire, as it was cold. “Have you eaten?” he asked.

“No. You?”

“No. Bring the blanket—let’s forage.”

They made their way downstairs, and she sat wrapped in the blanket at the kitchen table, watching him as he looked through the pantry by the light of a candle. “There is bread and jam but little else—we ate all the eggs.”

“I will eat anything at this point, believe me.”

She did not bother to ask him where he had been or what he had been doing; there was little point. He was bare-chested and she admired his torso in the flickering candlelight. “
Deus
, but you have a fine body, Lucien—it is a shame you must walk about wearing clothes.”

His muffled voice could be heard from within the confines of the pantry as he rooted around. “I cannot hold a candle to you.”

“You see past it, though.”

His head emerged and he smiled at her. “I much prefer the snail to the shell.”

“I know it—which is why I will never let you go.”

He produced a salt-cured ham and a brick of old cheese, then pulled his blade from his boot and sat beside her. “Good. Let us marry tomorrow.”

There was a good reason why he was hoping to marry her sooner rather than later, depending upon whether the
denouement
revealed her treason—she would probably avoid execution if she were married to a peer. “Soon,” she soothed. “First you must feed me.”

They ate their potluck meal in the candlelight, she sharing her blanket with him against the chill. Thinking of the note he didn’t want her to see, she asked, “May I hear of your plan?”

He considered as he sawed off a sliver of ham. “I’d rather not.”

She picked the proffered piece off his knife with her fingers. “Does it involve pulling the wool over my eyes yet again?”

“No—we are to make an attempt at honesty, remember? I will hold faith with you—as long as I have the choice.”

She regarded him thoughtfully and made no response. He added with some shrewdness, “You—on the other hand—are not to that point as yet.”

Lowering her gaze, she confessed, “The memory of Sussex is still very fresh.”

“Understood. I must re-earn your trust.” He added with some deliberation, “But I am not operating under whatever constraints you are—my object is to clear you of any taint.”

She eyed him thoughtfully. “Come what may?”

“Come what may.”

Ah, she thought. He hints that he means to sacrifice Brodie to the wolves—just so that I am aware—and small blame to him. How fortunate that there is a much better counterplan, and the wolves will devour themselves. Aloud, she said, “I do appreciate it—I’d rather not birth this poor child in prison.”

“You will be safely tucked away in Suffolk for the birth or I will know the reason why.” He played with the knife, his long fingers nimbly turning it this way and that in a practiced manner. “If it is Constance, would you wish her to have your face?”

“No,” she said immediately.

He thought about it. “It could be an asset.”

Smiling, she disagreed and made a playful grab at the knife while he deftly kept it away. “I am like a freak at Astley’s Circus—people point and stare.”

He saw she was teasing and countered, “Doors will open—she could marry a duke. At the very least she would never have to pay the penny post.”

“Not at all worth it,” she assured him. “Pay the penny and have a normal life, instead.”

But he shook his head in disagreement, and with a quick movement flipped the knife, point first, so that it quivered in the tabletop. “You would never have been content with a normal life.”

She sighed with pleasure at this keen insight. “And that is why I will never let you go.”

How do I look?”

Maisie stepped back, nodding in approval. “A rare treat.”

Standing before the mirror, Lina turned to the side to admire the black silk gown that showed her impressive bosom and creamy shoulders to advantage. A tortoiseshell comb was secured in the dark curls of her wig—a recent gift from an anonymous admirer—and a mantilla of fine black lace was secured to it. In her hand she held a black lace-edged mask. “Help me tie the fan around my wrist; I may need to drop it so as to draw my pistol. Or perhaps I can attempt to wield the fan left-handed.” She experimented and decided this was the better tack.

“If push comes to shove, ye kin always poke an eye out wi’ yer fan,” her maid suggested helpfully. “Remember Barcelona.”

“Unnecessary—I have a very fine dagger in my garter.” Lina tied her mask over her face and reviewed her disguise once more, a soft smile playing around her rouged lips. “Would you know me?”

Maisie gave an honest assessment. “I’d know ye anywhere, missy. But t’others won’t.”

Lina nodded, satisfied. “The dark wig is unfortunate but necessary—I look like a saracen.”

“Ye look a treat,” Maisie repeated, twisting the corner of her apron in her hand.

It was always the way of it, thought Lina, adjusting her mask. Maisie nervous and me, well—I am positively steeped in excitement. In deference to her maid’s nerves, she soothed, “It is only a party, Maisie—do not worry overmuch.”

But her maidservant only shook her head with resignation. “I seen that look in yer eye afore, if I may be sayin’ so.”

“But never again,” Lina reminded her. “We will go off to abide in Suffolk and you will teach me to herd cows.”

“Ye’ll be cuttin’ a rig—cows or no; it bein’ in yer blood.”

Laughing, Lina glanced at her as she arranged the mantilla over her shoulders. “You sound remarkably like Mr. Carstairs, but I assure you, if I never hear of Napoleon, or his gold, or his spymaster, or his counterfeiter ever again, I swear I shall die a happy woman.”

“There’s t’ be no talk o’ dyin’, missy,” Maisie cautioned her superstitiously.

Lina pulled her pistol from the pocket sewn into her gown and checked the firing mechanism with a practiced gesture. “Nevertheless, you’ll not forget what I told you?”

“Nay.”

“Good—it is only a contingency, Maisie, but it is best to have it settled. Don’t take the opals if they’re indeed bad luck—perhaps I should send them to the bottom of the sea, too.”

Maisie’s brow wrinkled in concern. “Never say ye’ll be jumpin’ into the sea agin?”

“Perish the thought. Now—off I go.” She could not leave without taking the other woman’s hands in her own. “Take care, Maisie.”

Maisie stifled her alarm. “I’ll wait up.”

Laughing, Lina replied, “Don’t bother—you’ll only be asleep in the hall chair as you were in Prague when half the Royal Army walked right past you.”

Maisie bristled, Lina laughed again, and then she was out the servant’s door, throwing her embroidered silk wrap around her shoulders and walking quickly down the mews, keeping to the shadows. The night was clear, the moon nearly full, and the stars just beginning to appear as she took a quick glance around and moved across the alley to avoid a maidservant walking out with a beau. Turning onto the street, she hailed a hackney immediately; she would only draw attention if she walked any distance, dressed as she was.

She raised her face only enough to relay the message and otherwise kept her face averted. “The pier at Westminster,” she directed with a Spanish accent. If the jarvey thought his fare unusual, he hid it well and only touched his finger to his cap in acknowledgment. His business is rather like our business, she thought in amusement as she climbed in the cab; he has seen it all and nothing can surprise him anymore.

Sinking back into the cushions, she went over the protocol once again in her mind. It was a good plan, with Brodie anticipating many of the variables—although one must remain flexible and well-armed, besides. All it needed was for everyone to react as they should and it was nearly foolproof; Brodie would have a fortune for his troubles, Napoleon would not, the despicable Grant would be arrested while Carstairs would be covered in glory, and England would have its gold again. A very good night’s work, all in all.

Arriving at the pier, she dismounted from the cab, holding her fan before her face as she surveyed the barge that Brodie had dubbed the
Argo
. It rocked gently against the dock, alight with torches and waiting to ferry a party over to the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens, located on the opposite bank of the Thames. The popular flat-bottomed vessels were painted and decorated, oftentimes to resemble a Cleopatran barge, and this one was no exception, being gilded and decorated with lotus blossom patterns in a fanciful design. Personally, Lina could not understand the fascination that the English had with all things Egyptian; it had been sparked by Napoleon’s conquest of the area, and therefore she could see no merit to it.

The torches illuminated the guests already on deck, and Lina could easily recognize Brodie since he eschewed any costume. He stood amidst a group of masked and dominoed cronies, entertaining them with some tale that kept them all enrapt, occasionally laughing at something he said. That is the merit to being overly rich, thought Lina cynically; one can always find a willing audience—it is rather like being overly beautiful. She reviewed the other guests and recognized Henry Grant, escorting a well-dressed woman and standing off to the side, observing Brodie and his group. Unable to resist, she searched out another figure—a man in a black domino, neither tall nor short, stout nor thin, and on the whole, unremarkable. Nevertheless, she would recognize him anywhere and felt the gooseflesh rise on her arms.

A string quartet played on the foredeck while servants circulated, carrying trays with drinks and offerings of food. Her gaze rested for a moment on the wooden lifeboat, suspended between two davits at the stern, a canvas stretched over its interior. Pressing her shoulders back and lifting her chin, she plied her fan before her face and began an unhurried progress toward the gangway, her hips swaying.

One of the watermen who was coiling a rope on the pier suddenly stepped before her, blocking her way. “Go home,” the man said in a low voice, and when he glanced up she found she was looking into Carstairs’s blue eyes.

With an outward show of calm she looked at him, puzzled. “
Perdon?
”

“It won’t wash, Lina—you will go home before anyone else recognizes you.” He continued to coil the rope, looping it over his shoulder.

“Twigged,” she sighed with resignation. In truth, she was not surprised to see him, it being the whole point of Maisie’s bank note. Carstairs would be here but none of the others would be, Brodie desiring to give Carstairs the role of the hero.

“You will leave before you are recognized if I have to cosh you and carry you.” His hands stilled and he turned his head toward her, his expression grim.

This was unexpected and would cause no end of disruption to Brodie’s plan. I believe it is time for pound dealing, she thought, and hoped she could trust him. “You must allow me to pass; I’m afraid my life depends upon it.”

His eyes narrowing, he stared at her. “How is this?”

“Well—to begin with, Brodie is my father.”

Ah—this was a complete surprise, she could see, and he stared at her, speechless. Unfortunately, further conversation was curtailed by the approach of Brodie and his group, who called out a greeting and came to meet her on the gangway. Smiling at them, Lina lifted her fan and murmured in an undertone to Carstairs, “And the situation is not at all what it seems.”

She moved onboard to greet Brodie and the others flirtatiously, steering them away from Carstairs, who had thankfully reconsidered his coshing plan. Brodie lifted her hand to kiss it. “
Buenas
noches, bella senorita
.”

She laughed and gave him an arch look as she tapped his arm with her fan. “
Encanto
.”

He pulled her hand into his elbow as they walked along the deck of the barge, her smile slow and seductive as she murmured into his ear in her native language, “Success—Mr. Carstairs is here and is undoubtedly of the opinion that the bank note about this meeting was a false lead.”

“Of course it was—as if I would ever be so clumsy, or Maisie any good at subterfuge,” Brodie commented in the same tongue, unperturbed. “I have every confidence your people are out in force on the East India Company docks, watching for any suspicious transfers of heavy cargo while we are vainly trying to distract them with our merry party.”

Complacent, Lina plied her fan. “Except for Mr. Carstairs.”

Brodie nodded. “Also as we expected—he is more concerned that someone will note your reappearance from the dead than any paltry gold—which is why he shall be the only agent on site when our rabbit is exposed, and the arrest will be his and his alone.”

Although Brodie’s predictions had come true thus far, Lina could not be easy and warned, “Don’t let him get hurt, Benny.”

“Come,
Bela
—he seems very capable and able to take care of himself.” He turned and took a curious glance around him. “Which one is he? I should ask him about his prospects, and that sort of thing.”

Despite her concerns, she couldn’t help but smile at the image this remark presented. “It is a bit late for that, my friend—and apparently I’m to be a baronetess in Suffolk.”

He threw back his head and laughed, genuinely amused, while other guests in the immediate area looked on with interest.

“Lower your voice, pray—you will bring the
gendarmes
down upon us.” Lina was unable to resist laughing herself; truly, it was ironic that one such as she would wind up holding a title.

His merriment subsiding, Brodie looked upon her with an indulgent eye. “A baronetess, of all things; I can recall the first time I saw you,
Bela
, grubby and barefoot but with a face that shone like an angel come to earth.”

“An asset,” she agreed, “all in all.”

“Not as great an asset as your pluck.” He covered her hand with his. “Inherited from your mother.”

She cast a sideways look at him, her eyes gleaming with amusement through her mask. “I believe I inherited equal amounts of pluck from my father—observe the events of this evening.”

Pleased, he chuckled. “We shall see.”

“Shall we bait our rabbit?” Lina asked in a desultory fashion as though she hadn’t a care in the world.

“By all means—I imagine he is in a fever of impatience to be away from here—there is a Dutchman in town he is seeking to avoid.”

As they walked in a leisurely manner toward the stern, Lina squeezed his arm and offered, “I shall miss you, Benny—my hand on my heart.”

“A baronetess!” he exclaimed, and laughed again.