“Lord.” Vidia’s muffled response was tinged with resigned amusement. “You are nine-tenths foxhound, methinks.”
The woman threw a towel over her shoulder and bustled over to the steaming water jug. “I’m all-tenths fashed on account o’ having not a wink of sleep; the workmen were in t’ cellar yet again.” The woman cast Vidia a sidelong glance as she poured hot water into the wash basin. “Ye wouldn’t know, as ye wasn’t here.”
“I hope the workmen didn’t keep you awake,” offered Vidia through her pillow in a mild tone. “There is nothing worse than being awakened when one wishes to sleep.”
“Sounded like t’ artillery in Salamanca.” Maisie retrieved Vidia’s discarded gown from the floor with a baleful eye. “Bangin’ about, hammer and tongs.”
The widow of a gunnery sergeant, Maisie had been extricated from behind enemy lines in Portugal by Vidia, who at the time had needed a mark to pose as a dairymaid. At loose ends due to her recent bereavement, the stolid countrywoman had agreed to drive a herd of cows across the river at Fuentes de Onoro, in the teeth of enemy fire and much to the chagrin of Marshal Messena, who led the enemy forces for the French. Not only did the timely delay help Wellington’s reinforcements, it allowed Vidia to escape the siege by crossing the river crouched beside a compliant cow and wading knee-deep in the murky water. Plain and stout, Maisie nevertheless was shown to have nerves of steel and had thereafter proved her mettle on many an occasion. By unspoken agreement, she had stayed on with Vidia as a general maidservant and henchwoman when the occasion warranted, oftentimes deployed to eavesdrop in situations where she could infiltrate without fear of suspicion—her unassuming appearance was her strongest asset. Despite the fact the two women had been in many a tight corner together, Maisie never asked questions nor faltered—excellent traits that were much appreciated by Vidia, who had seen her share of betrayals.
With a resigned sigh, Vidia tossed her pillow aside and propped her hands beneath her head, contemplating the gold-shot canopy overhead as it glinted in the sunlight. “Trust Mr. Brodie to make an appearance when I am longing for another hour of sleep. Do I have time to wash my hair?” The scent of smoke from the Bowman lingered faintly.
Maisie eyed her doubtfully. “Yer hair’s a rare mullycrush and it’d take an hour at least—we’ll use a touch o’ powder, instead.”
Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, Vidia stretched like a beautiful cat and then wandered barefoot over to her armoire to select a day dress. “Is Mr. Brodie looked after?”
Maisie sniffed. “He’s tuckin’ into the breakfast meats. He’ll do.”
“Dear Mr. Brodie,” said Vidia in a pious tone, sliding Maisie a teasing glance.
Maisie was not fooled. “Where were ye an’ who was he?”
Unable to suppress a slow smile of delight as she chose a pale blue—best to look insipid for the coming discussion—Vidia replied, “I’d rather not say, Maisie; your proper Yorkshire soul would be shocked to its core.”
As was her custom, Maisie offered no advice or condemnation, but she was nonetheless moved to remark, “Ye’ll have a care, missy—beneath it all yer soft as a snail wearin’ a shell.”
Laughing, Vidia could only agree. “I must be—to allow you to bully me constantly, and compare me to a snail.”
Her handmaiden motioned for her to sit before the mirror and then began to carefully navigate the hairbrush through the tangled locks with practiced hands. “Ye’ll be rememberin’ Salamanca, missy, and yer foolishness in letting t’ wounded man sleep in the kitchen all on account o’ his handsome face.”
“I do remember.” Vidia’s solemn tone was belied by the twinkle in her eyes. “Thank God you know how to brain a man with a fire jack; I am a sad case, Maisie.”
“A word t’ the wise, is all.” The tangles vanquished, Maisie brushed Vidia’s hair until it crackled and then began applying the powder bag judiciously.
“There are times,” Vidia admitted in all honesty, “that I fear I never learn my lessons.” She conjured up the memory of the moment when Carstairs had brought his mouth down upon hers. I wonder if he will remember, she thought, and I wonder if it would make any difference if he did.
Maisie’s sharp gaze rested on her charge’s soft expression, reflected in the mirror. “P’haps this mystery man is t’one to settle ye down.” Unaccountably, Maisie had taken to dropping hints that it was time for Vidia to retire—no doubt recent events had raised some alarm. Small blame to her, thought Vidia; I am alarmed, myself, what with the night work in the cellar and the estupido carrier pigeons making a racket in the attic space. She regarded her maid’s reflection with amusement, a corner of her mouth quirked up at the absurdity of the idea of settling down with Lucien Carstairs. “It is hopeless, Maisie—I am afraid I am not a settler.”
“Every woman’s a settler,” the other insisted, speaking around the pins she held in her mouth. “’Tis not as though ye couldn’t start afresh—ye’re good at that sort o’ thing—ye can be anything t’ anyone.”
But Vidia disagreed, shaking a curl loose from its pin. “I am four and twenty, my friend, and firmly on the shelf. Not to mention I am no maiden, and thus ineligible.”
But Maisie refused to concede as she wound the ringlet around her finger and repinned it ruthlessly in place. “There’s plenty o’ men who’d not mind—bonny as ye are. Plenty o’ men who’d not mind a wife who knows her way ’round the bedroom.”
“Men can’t be trusted, Maisie—there’s the rub with such a plan.” Vidia raised a subtle finger to reposition the pin and ease her beleaguered scalp.
“Not all men—but some can, I’m thinkin’.” There was a pause. “Perhaps ye can find yer family, now that the war’s over.”
“The war is never over, my friend.” Vidia eyed her companion in the mirror and reflected that this was the first time Maisie had hinted she was aware that Vidia was not, in fact, English—the poor woman must indeed be shaken. To soothe her, she arched a brow, teasing. “Do you think they’d allow us to open a bakery in Yorkshire?” The reference was to a near-disastrous mishap at the Port of Calais, when the communiqué containing the key to the enemy’s code was inadvertently baked into a loaf of bread, Maisie having only a rudimentary understanding of the French language.
Willing to divert the discussion, Maisie rested her chin on her chest and pretended to contemplate such a scenario. “Ye’d be of little help in the kitchen, if I may be sayin’ so.”
This was inarguably true and Vidia noted in all humility, “I must throw myself on your bounty, then.”
“I do has me Jem’s pension, I do.” Maisie was well-aware that Vidia had a fortune in jewelry downstairs in the sugar box. “Enough to buy clotted cream onct a’ month, I reckon.” The maidservant put the finishing touches on Vidia’s hair. “Off ye go.”
With a last, indifferent look in the mirror, Vidia made her way down to the dining room to greet Brodie, who was reading the Times at the mahogany table, which could seat twenty uncrowded. He was a large, middle-aged man who had indulged himself in food and drink to the point that he was florid of face and slightly stout. An Englishman by birth, he held little loyalty to anything or anyone other than the making of money, and as a result he was rumored to be one of the richest men in the world. Upon her entrance, he set aside his newspaper to greet her.
Vidia lifted a graceful hand. “Don’t get up, Benny—forgive me for keeping you waiting.”
Assessing her face, he noted abruptly, “You look a fright, Bela.”
“Impossible,” she smiled in amusement. “As well you know.”
“You didn’t get much sleep, I’m afraid—they were noisy, last night?”
“Hammer and tongs,” she replied easily, taking a slice of toast from the rack. “And no, I didn’t get much sleep.” Hiding a smile, she buttered her toast.
“Perhaps it will be the last time they’ll be working in your cellar.” He continued to assess her with a thoughtful gaze—apparently the insi
pid gown had not disguised the fact she was a bit the worse for wear.
“The Argo will launch?” She slid him a teasing glance.
“The Argo will launch,” he affirmed, and leaned his chair on its back legs, pushing his fingers into his waistcoat pockets with a self-satisfied air. “I am the puppet master.”
“You are a blowhard.” She decided to help herself to blackberry jam even though it was more his favorite than hers. Deus, she was hungry.
He cocked his head. “You will need to marshal your strength; there will be a card party tonight—and Montagu will attend.”
She shuddered delicately. “Lord, Benny—I am running out of excuses with that miserable man.”
But Brodie had little sympathy. “Use any excuse you’d like—just find out when he’ll be away on undisclosed business for several days; I believe it will be next week or the week after.” He leaned back in his chair again, watching her. “I daresay this will be the last time you must handle Montagu, also.”
Vidia found no comfort in this pronouncement and opined crossly, “How such a creature can become the Chief Secretary of the Treasury is a mystery.”
“An excellent example of over-breeding, Bela. Fortunately for us, he is willing to let drop the days that he must supervise the gold shipments.”
“Idiota,” she pronounced with scorn.
“But a useful idiot, and lucky for us,” he reminded her. “Lucky he is stupid enough to think someone like you would be interested in someone like him.”
Vidia’s own opinion was that this phenomenon was not necessarily a result of the mark’s stupidity as much as her own skill as an angel, but she refrained from correcting him lest she sound vain, which was to be avoided at all costs. After debating whether her figure could withstand another slice of toast and jam, she partook. “I am much heartened to hear I will not have to suffer that fool much longer.”
Nodding, he contemplated his tea cup for a moment with a satisfied air. “All is in train—the snare is nearly set and very soon the rabbit will walk into it without even being aware he has been bested.” He paused for a moment, then raised his eyes to hers, his tone suddenly serious. “What has happened, Bela?”
Trust Brodie to sense that something was amiss—in a way, he and Maisie were very much alike. “I overheard something rather alarming, I am afraid.”
Watching her, her companion dropped his chair back down and leaned forward. “Tell me, then.”
She chose her words carefully. “I overheard a private conversation; one of my—compatriots—made a reference to bringing gold to the Eagle.”
Silent for a moment, Brodie regarded her almost kindly. “It is a trap, Bela.”
“No,” Vidia disagreed with certainty. “I only happened to overhear—I am certain it was not an attempt to trap me.”
Thoughtful, Brodie tilted his head. “Are you the only one who overheard this?”
“Yes,” Vidia admitted with reluctance.
“It is a trap,” he repeated. “Come, Bela—you are wiser than this.”
Knitting her brow, she regarded him and thought it over. “Perhaps,” she finally admitted.
But Brodie was unfazed by this development and leaned in to pat her hand reassuringly. “It doesn’t matter—I have them all over a barrel; no one dares make a move, even if they have managed to discover what is afoot.”
“I am placed in a difficult position,” she ventured to remind him, “if they believe I am tainted and are seeking to trap me with such a scheme.”
“You have been in difficult positions before—some more difficult than others,” he pointed out reasonably. “I have every confidence in you.”
She had to laugh at his coolness and teased, “What if you are wrong—what if they clap you in irons, instead? Whatever would become of me, Benny?”
But her companion was unmoved. “You would have every man in the kingdom with a thousand pounds to his name on your doorstep within the hour.”
With a smile, she assured him, “None can hold a candle to you.”
Chuckling, he patted her hand again, which was as much a show of affection as he ever gave her. “There’s not a bureaucrat alive that can outmaneuver me, Bela; you forget that I am the puppet master.”
Vidia was forced to admit, “My spymaster appears to have taken an interest—and he is no bureaucrat.”
“Has he? As well he should—we are not dealing in petty thefts, here.” Brodie leaned his head back and contemplated the ceiling for a moment with a satisfied expression. “He is a worthy opponent; steel sharpens steel.”
Vidia refrained from pointing out that the sharpening was apparently to be done on her nerves and assumed a helpful air. “If they do throw you in Newgate Prison, I would bake you a cake with a file hidden in it.” She was thinking of Maisie’s loaf of bread.
He shot her a look. “Easier for you to beguile the guards, I think—I have seen you bake.”
She shrugged her shoulders in capitulation. “Then it would be best to avoid prison altogether; I cannot imagine the guards would play cards with you—let alone allow you to cheat them.”
Brodie cocked his head, pretending to contemplate this unhappy scenario. “You paint a grim picture, Bela. But I have no intention of going to prison, where the bricks are made of—well, merely brick.”
“I am reassured, then. Please pass the teapot.” Pouring a cup, she reflected that he was never one to express any doubts, no matter how dire the circumstances. It had saved her life, once.
Chapter 4
Vidia dealt another book of thirteen cards to each of the players and gave Montagu a slow glance under her lashes as she leaned over to display her impressive bosom to full advantage. The card room at Stoffer’s was thick with smoke and masculine attention; it was an open secret that Brodie’s relationship with Vidia was a platonic one and therefore nearly every man she met was convinced she was starved for bed sport and he was the best candidate to service her on the side. On occasions such as this, when it was well after midnight and staggering amounts of brandy had been imbibed, the competition for her favors was almost feverish and she was beginning to worry that she would not have an opportunity for private conversation with Montagu.
Glancing to Brodie, she noted he was content to stand propped in a corner, smoking a cigarillo and holding court with gentlemen who sought financial advice—the state of the Treasury was precarious and investors were nervous, what with the instability on the Continent and rumors that Napoleon was set to escape his imprisonment on the Island of Elba. They don’t know the half of it, thought Vidia, as she operated the bank for the game of Basset. And Brodie is the least likely candidate to offer honest advice—more likely he will pick their pockets where they stand.
“Bring me luck, Vidia,” implored Montagu, his balding head wet with perspiration and his gaze on the expanse of her exposed bosom.
“You need no more luck, my lord,” teased Vidia, who had manipulated the cards so as to allow him to win. “If you win any more from me I shall be forced to beg for bread in the streets.”
The gentlemen seated at the table chuckled at the unlikeliness of this as she drew the cards and called out in her low-pitched voice, “Ace wins, ten loses.”
Exclamations of satisfaction or disappointment met her call, and the croupier who assisted her gathered up and paid out the bets placed on the cards. One of the players at the table was a marquess who had held her gaze with his own several times this evening, making it clear he was interested in establishing a relationship. Rather handsome, and with a deep purse, too—such a shame he was married yet had a penchant for child prostitutes. “Queen wins, king loses,” she announced, smiling at him with an arched brow. There was little she didn’t know about those who ran in Brodie’s circles—either from Brodie himself or those in her own line of work who watched Brodie carefully.
Montagu leaned in and murmured, “I must speak with you—about what we spoke of the other night.”
Although his brandied b
reath made her want to recoil, she leaned in to whisper, “With pleasure,” touching his arm briefly with her fingertips. He had been hinting at stealing away for a tryst—honestly, did the man truly think she would favor him above the others who vied for her? Short, balding, and rather stupid—to drop hints boasting of his secret work with the Treasury so as to impress her. Out of spite, she arranged for him to lose the hand.
A merry gentleman who had lost a great deal of money with a great deal of good humor finally stood to withdraw from the game and the croupier indicated that a newcomer should sit. Dealing another hand, Vidia glanced up to find that she was looking into Carstairs’s blue eyes, intent upon hers. Despite herself, she found she could not suppress a smile, and he nodded in acknowledgment. Santos, she thought as she shuffled the cards and looked away—he definitely remembers last night. She tried with little success to quash the butterflies in her midsection and concentrate on the game. Unkind of him to show up in this manner—not to mention he could complicate her efforts to speak with Montagu. A pox on him; unless he was here on assignment, which was always a possibility. After all, Brodie was convinced his sleep-talking was merely a means to entrap her.
“Madam,” prompted the croupier in an undertone. “Your draw.”
With an effort, Vidia controlled her wayward thoughts and focused on the game, deciding out of fairness that she shouldn’t punish Carstairs for surprising her and so she allowed the cards to fall where they may.
After another hour, she excused herself to the others so as to take a break, fully expecting Carstairs to follow her out as she made her way with slow, graceful movements to the buffet room. He did not, however, which led her to believe that perhaps he was indeed here on assignment, only monitoring Montagu. If this was the case, it meant that her compatriots who worked for the Crown were figuring out Brodie’s scheme and would be justly wondering why she hadn’t figured it out herself—as she was their angel assigned to Brodie. Small wonder they think I may be tainted, she thought with an inward sigh; my chickens are coming home to roost—or I suppose more properly, my pigeons—and running a bakery in Yorkshire is beginning to sound more and more appealing.
Tainted Angel Page 3
