Tainted Angel (24 page)

Rochon betrayed no reaction to Lina’s startling announcement but reviewed Dokes’s inanimate form for a moment. Raising his gaze to Lina, he directed, “See to it that she is thrown over the side,
s’il vous plait
.” He then turned to Grant and asked, “Did you know of this?” His tone was neutral but the underlying menace was unmistakable.

“Yes—but she is in love with me and would not betray me,” Grant insisted, his voice quavering a bit. “Indeed she has been willing to help me decipher communications from the British.”

Rochon considered the unconscious woman dispassionately but was unmoved. “I will not take any chances; it may be a trap.” With a jerk of his head, he indicated to Lina, “See to it.”

Grant made an involuntary sound of protest as Lina gestured to Carstairs, “You there—help me carry her.”

He bent to lift Dokes and hoist her over his shoulder while Lina led him away from the stern. As soon as they were out of earshot Lina hissed, “Bind her and for heaven’s sake give her a gag. I will find a sail bag for her—
Mãe de Deus
but this entire event is a disaster, start to finish.”

“So—not the gold,” he concluded under his breath. “Cinder bricks?”

Lina dared not look around but said in an undertone, “Where is the Vicar? Did he hear what she said?”

There was a pause before Carstairs responded in a neutral tone, “I do not think so.”

Meeting his eyes in desperation, she implored him under her breath, “Don’t tell him, Lucien; it is very important that no one know it is not the gold—” She realized it was a request that required him to choose an allegiance with precious little information and struggled to decide what to say.

He carefully laid Dokes on the deck behind the wheelhouse, out of sight, and glanced around toward the figures gathered around the lifeboat at the stern. “Where is the gold, Lina?”

“England will have it back—well, most of it,” she temporized. “Please, Lucien—you must trust me in this.” She met his eyes, willing him to believe her.

“Fetch a sail bag, then—there’s nowhere to hide her.” He tore off a piece of Dokes’s petticoat to fashion a gag.

Thinking this a good sign, Lina procured a sail bag and between them they worked it down over the unconscious woman’s head. “Quickly,” she urged. “I must see if Brodie needs assistance.”

“At least she isn’t fat, like the Flemish ambassador.” He glanced up at her as he pulled the strings to secure the bag’s end. “I was mad for you, even then.”

“You were also married,” she reminded him as they pushed the sail bag against the wheelhouse and out of the way. “Married people should be loyal to each other.”

“Sorry.” He placed a hand over hers for a moment. “A sore subject.”

Pausing in her movements, she lifted her face to his and offered, “For you, also—let us each hope to have better luck this time.”

“
Bela
.” He leaned in to kiss her, mask and all.

At his use of Brodie’s pet name she accused, “You have been eavesdropping, my friend.”

“It is so appropriate—Portuguese for ‘beautiful.’”

“The first and only time Brodie has ever been straightforward,” she noted in a dry tone. “Now, let’s hurry back and see if we can salvage this miserable plot.”

When they returned to the others, it was to see Rochon and Henry Grant preparing to descend to the lifeboat on a rope ladder that had been cast over the side—the waves were making the small vessel toss about because the river had turned rough where it had widened, away from the city. Scanning downriver, Lina could make out the dark shape of an unlit ship that bore no flag, waiting silently to secure its cargo and return to France.

Pausing at the railing, Rochon unbuttoned his coat so as to make his descent, his satisfaction evident. “
Adieu, mes amis
.” He reached to put an arm around Lina and pull her to him. “I thank you for your assistance,
ma
belle
. Perhaps you should come along with me so that I can show you how thankful I am.”

She didn’t resist and gave every appearance of enjoying the attention as she slid her hands under his coat and around his waist to embrace him. He had not appreciated her veiled reference to his sexual preferences and now sought to make it clear she was mistaken—Napoleon had little tolerance for such. Men are so predictable, she thought—now he is going to maul me about, just to prove the point.

She smiled into his eyes, opaque and hard like a snake’s behind his mask. “Another time,
mon
bravo
.”

He bent and kissed her mouth and she returned the salute in full measure, hoping this was to be the final distraction before she retired to Suffolk—Carstairs was no doubt fit to be tied.

With a thin smile, Rochon released her and threw a leg over the gunwale to descend the rope ladder into the lifeboat. The boat tossed and bucked as he carefully stepped over the bricks, awaiting Grant’s descent.

The Vicar, however, had other plans. Leaping to the barge’s forecastle, he raised a pistol to aim it at his rival spymaster. “Halt,” he shouted. “You are under arrest in the name of the Crown.”

With a rapid movement Rochon drew for the pistol at his waist but as it now rested in Lina’s hand, he came up empty. The familiar sound of the cocking of firearms could be heard from various vantage points on the deck, and Rochon, quickly calculating, drew himself up, the picture of innocent outrage as he braced himself aboard the rocking vessel. “What is the meaning of this? What is my crime?”

The Vicar, still dressed as a dandy, addressed him coolly from where he stood amidships. “You are absconding with gold that has been stolen from the Treasury. Surrender, and be taken peaceably.”

“You mistake,” Rochon answered with calm assurance. “These are but ordinary bricks, as you can see.”

“Bring him in,” commanded the Vicar. “We shall discover the truth.”

The watermen began hauling on the davit ropes and after only a moment’s reflection, Rochon took the only course available to him. With a curse, he grasped one of the bricks and hove it with some force at the floorboard of the lifeboat.

“Stop him,” the Vicar shouted, striding toward the gunwale. “He must not sink it.”

But Rochon continued with his forceful bashing of the floorboard and barked a command at Grant, still on deck. “Shoot at the hull.”

Lina knew a moment’s regret that the man’s pistol had been neutralized by Dokes as the Home Office agents frantically pulled on the ropes, hand over hand, while Rochon pounded at the floorboards in a desperate race to sink the boat before it was recovered. Just as it looked as though the boat would be hoisted from the water, a shot rang out from the ship, hitting the hull of the lifeboat just below the waterline and creating a geyser of water that soon broke into a torrent. While the Vicar cursed roundly, they watched the vessel break in two, its cargo and its occupant sliding ignominiously into the choppy waters of the Thames.

Lina stood quietly beside Carstairs and hoped that no one else had noticed that Grant’s gun had not discharged and that Carstairs’s pistol had burnt a hole in the folds of her skirt. My sharpshooter, she thought a bit mistily—and there is no longer a question of loyalty, apparently; no need to sleep with one eye open.

A tense silence prevailed for a few moments as those watching contemplated the fortune that was now making its way to the bottom of the sea.

“Pull him in,” directed the Vicar in a grim tone.

In a matter of minutes the two spymasters faced one another on deck, Rochon’s dignity not at all affected by his bedraggled appearance. “You have nothing on me,” he pronounced coolly.

But the Vicar disagreed. “I believe you have in your possession a fortune in bonds; it is illegal for a foreign national to hold English bonds.”

“You mistake the matter; the bonds are forgeries and worthless,” countered Rochon.

The Vicar hesitated for only a second. “Then you will be charged with possession of forged documents with an intent to defraud.”

Checkmate, thought Lina, and awaited events.

But Rochon was not to be outmaneuvered, and with a quick movement he took the packet from his jacket pocket and flung it over the side. With a curse, the Vicar strode to the railing and watched the bonds follow the gold to the bottom of the sea.

Lina stood beside Brodie and Jenny Dokes at the rail of the barge and watched the activity on the Westminster pier as Rochon and Henry Grant were escorted, hands bound behind them, into the waiting prison transport.

“I’m sorry about your head, Dokes,” Lina offered.

Leaning on her elbows, the other woman shrugged in an amicable fashion. “No matter; my own fault for not holding my role.”

Lina reflected that Dokes was not one to hold a grudge and neither was she, for that matter—the two of them would continue on as though there had not been multiple double-crossings or violent blows to the back of the head. It was a relief, in a way, not to have to worry about hurt feelings.

“An excellent night’s work, all in all,” Brodie commented with satisfaction as the transport cart lumbered away. “Not precisely as planned, but one must remain flexible.” He pulled a cigarillo from his vest pocket and lit it with a lucifer, his hand shielding it from the river breeze. With a casual gesture, Dokes slid her fingers into his pocket and pulled out another for herself, which Brodie lit for her as though it were the merest commonplace.

Lina watched this display in bemusement and shook her head. “We were flexible as we hung on for our lives; it was a close-run thing, Benny—confess.”

“
Bela
,” he chided, tossing the lucifer over the side. “We needed only to have the cargo sunk and Rochon unaware that it wasn’t the gold after all; that the plan did not go as originally drawn up is neither here nor there.”

Drawing on her cigarillo, Dokes offered, “I think it exceeded all expectations—my remains needn’t be fished out of the river and Rochon is in custody—although perhaps it would have been better had you arranged for him to be coshed and thrown overboard, instead.”

“Allow me to know my limitations,” Brodie replied in a mild tone. “Assassination is not in my line.”

“A
provocateur
, then.” The woman eyed Brodie with a small smile and lifted her head to exhale a cloud of smoke. “Managing from behind the scenes.”

Rocking back on his heels, Brodie pronounced, “The best rigs are those done for one’s own amusement—too many get caught up in the need to be admired.”

As Dokes tilted her head in agreement, Lina had to hide a smile at Brodie’s uncharacteristic attempt at modesty. As soon as Dokes had been revived, he had been unrelenting in his insistence that the woman come to work for him in Venice. This was unexpected—a less likely gambling hostess could hardly be imagined—but Brodie was Brodie and presumably knew a good thing when he saw it. Lina could not help but note that the two were behaving in a manner bordering on the flirtatious and managed to hide her incredulity only with an effort—perhaps the blow to Dokes’s head accounted for it.

“Come with me,” Brodie said bluntly. “I shall make it well worth your while.”

Dokes blew out a cloud and made a gesture toward the dock. “And leave this? I am saving the kingdom, here.”

But Brodie shook his head. “The war will not last—it cannot; you know it as well as I. Then what will you do? Catch counterfeiters for the Treasury, or track insurance fraud for Lloyd’s of London? It will be mighty dull fare, after this.”

His companion tapped an ash and noted dryly, “Whereas running a gambling ken should be my heart’s desire?”

“You would travel,” he urged, and Lina surmised that Brodie had shrewdly guessed which aspect would be most appealing to Dokes. “Wherever you’d like and in the first level of comfort; our establishments must be set up where the moneyed classes reside. You’d need to dress the part, of course—credibility is everything.”

Considering this, the other woman bent her head to study the water lapping against the hull. “How much of the take?”

“Five percent,” offered Brodie promptly.

Dokes turned her head to regard him with an unblinking gaze. “Net or gross?”

Brodie hesitated only a second. “Gross.”

“Take it, Dokes,” suggested Lina, arching her brows. “I believe he is drunk.”

“Would we have a faro table?” Dokes persisted. “The odds most favor the house.”

There was a small pause. “I must marry you,” Brodie declared in all seriousness. “And as soon as possible.”

While Lina struggled to conceal her astonishment, Dokes drew on the cigarillo and considered the offer as though it were an ordinary suggestion. She then threw the stub into the river. “Agreed.”

Brodie turned to Lina with an apologetic air. “We’ll need some privacy to discuss terms,
Bela
—you understand.”

Having been thus dismissed, Lina made her way toward the gangway and saw Carstairs speaking quietly with the Vicar, no doubt debriefing the spymaster on some version of what had transpired this fine evening—Lina did not begrudge it; as Brodie has said, one must remain flexible and there were still some loose ends to tie up. Both men looked up as she approached.

“My new stepmama.” Lina indicated the couple now deep in conversation with a nod of her head.

This announcement was met with the astonished silence it deserved. “A formidable pairing,” conceded the Vicar, his hands clasped behind him. “Napoleon should look to his Treasury.”

With a gleam, Lina teased, “Will you not protest? You will miss her talent, methinks; perhaps you should offer for her yourself.”

“Alas, I am unable to make such a commitment,” the Vicar replied, his thoughtful gaze on the couple, “having a previous understanding with another.” He offered Carstairs a cigar, and the men stood with Lina, smoking and contemplating the recent events as they looked out over the docks, now quiet. The Vicar rested his grey gaze on Lina for a moment. “As amazing as it seems, my faith in you has not been shaken.”

“That is indeed amazing; perhaps it is unshakable.”

He held out his hand. “Allow me his weapon as a souvenir.”

“Willingly.” With a smile she handed Rochon’s pistol over to him.

He inspected it, weighing its heft. “You have provided me with a new and very useful bit of information. How did you discover it?”

Lina knew he referred to Rochon’s sexual preferences and thought of René. “I met a man who was very kind to me when I was captured last fall. He is now dead, unfortunately.”

Leaning his head back, the Vicar blew a cloud. “Excellent—I will see to it that Rochon finds a new
bel
ami
.”

Brodie’s voice could be heard from behind them as he and Dokes approached the group. “Better you cultivate a counterfeiter named Gerard—he excels at creating false bonds and false currency, and being a Romany, he can be bought.”

Bowing in appreciation, the spymaster noted in an ironic tone, “You are a font of useful information this night, Mr. Brodie. I am nearly driven to forgive you for the May dance you’ve led me.”

With a dismissive gesture, Brodie protested, “All has worked out to everyone’s satisfaction, I believe. No need for recriminations.”

The Vicar drew on his cigar, eyeing the other man. “And I imagine—as you say—Napoleon will be reduced to counterfeiting. He has no choice; he cannot go off the gold standard, but much of his gold has disappeared.”

“A terrible turn of events,” observed Brodie, his pensive gaze on the distant city lights. “There is no war without a war chest.”

The economics of war, thought Lina as they all stood in silence for a moment; every bit as important as the artillery.

Suddenly, the Vicar threw back his head and laughed aloud, the sound unexpected and startling. “The
Argo
,” he exclaimed with an uncharacteristically broad smile. “In search of the golden fleece. Well done.”

“One must have one’s private jest,” Brodie demurred with a show of modesty. “And I have always admired the classics.”

“Fleeced indeed. I wonder,” the Vicar mused aloud as he lit another cigar, “where Napoleon’s gold has gone?”

But Brodie had reached the limit of his helpfulness and said no more, instead turning to engage in a murmured conversation with Jenny Dokes.

Lina decided it was past time to reward the Vicar, who had practiced a restraint in her case that had not gone unappreciated and who—after all—could wind up being husband number three. “I’d like to make a gift of my town house to the Home Office, methinks. You may do with it as you wish—I shall be abiding in Suffolk and learning how to hold house.” She turned her head to smile at Carstairs. “I must make the gift tomorrow, before I marry.”

The Vicar exhaled in satisfaction. “The gold is in the cellar, I am convinced—is there a hidden trapdoor?”

She gave him her slow smile. “No; the very bricks that line the walls are not what they seem.”

He met her gaze, the expression in his grey eyes amused. “Ah. Another ten minutes and I would have twigged it.”

“I think not,” she disagreed. “You were diverted—I have not been an angel lo, these many years for nothing.”

He chuckled aloud and Lina could hear Carstairs make a soft sound of disapproval. She squeezed his arm to soothe him.

The Vicar continued, “England—and the Treasury—thank you for your gift, then. Is it the French gold or the English gold?” Lina noted he was careful not to include Brodie in the question and so she answered vaguely, “Most of both.” It went without saying that Brodie would have rewarded himself for his troubles. And hers, too—she imagined the new Lady Tyneburne would be given a prodigiously heavy wedding gift.

With an air of satisfaction the Vicar concluded, “Excellent; it would seem all that is left is to negotiate with you, Mr. Brodie, on a schedule for redeeming the true bonds—wherever you have hidden them.”

“Too late,” replied Brodie carelessly, flicking an ash from his lapel. “The true bonds are at the bottom of the sea.”

As the Vicar arched his brows in surprise, Lina explained, “Only the first one was a forgery, meant to mislead Rochon; all the others were genuine.”

After a moment’s pause, once again the Vicar bowed in appreciation, this time without a hint of irony. “Masterfully done; you did a fine thing for England and at the same time came out from under Rochon’s grip—and with him all unknowing.”

Brodie shrugged. “On to the next venture.” He slanted a glance at Dokes, who returned her own version of Lina’s slow smile.

“I can arrange for a commendation, if you’d like.” The spymaster’s voice was sincere with gratitude. “From the Prince himself.”

Brodie attempted to hide his revulsion with little success. “Pray resist the impulse.”

After shared laughter, the party stood for a moment, basking in the success of the assignment and unwilling to allow the evening to end. “What will happen to Rochon?” Lina asked the Vicar.

The other considered, his arms crossed and the cigar smoke drifting upward. “We could attempt to hold him until an investigation is completed, but I would be very much surprised if he was not traded in exchange for other high-level prisoners.”

Dokes made a sympathetic gesture. “Frustrating for you, certainly.”

The Vicar tossed away his cigar butt. “On the contrary, I would expect the same courtesy were I captured—it is the way of it.”

“I could not hold your job.” Lina thought of her ordeal at Rochon’s hands. “I could not be so complacent.”

The grey eyes slid toward hers. “No, Invidia, goddess of vengeance; I imagine you could not.”

“Lina,” she corrected him in a mild tone. “I am retiring from the vengeance business, all debts having been satisfactorily settled.” She laid a gentle hand on Carstairs’s arm in acknowledgment, thinking of how San Sebastian now seemed a distant memory—as though it had happened to someone else a long, long time ago.

The gesture was not lost on the spymaster. “I shall try to see to it that this husband of yours maintains a whole skin.” As she met his eyes Lina could discern a reference to their bargain.

“I would appreciate it—and pray give him no more assignments where the object is seduction.”

The Vicar shrugged and smiled. “He is of little use, else.”

Carstairs chuckled and Lina protested, “Then teach him an honest trade; I’ll not risk losing him to the next tainted angel.”

“Not to worry—he has already carried off the palm; there will certainly be no one to match you.” The Vicar gave her a mock salute. “He was bested despite all efforts.”

“Like Rochon,” she agreed, thinking on it with a great deal of satisfaction.