Tainted Angel

by Anne Cleeland

  Taking a plate from the buffet, she couldn’t resist scooping up several apricot tarts and a glass of watered punch as she laughed and flirted with several regulars—a cabinet minister with an opium habit, a wealthy alderman whose wife had left him; she had studied them well and knew all their secrets.

  She spied Montagu coming toward her and set down her plate with no little regret so as to hold out her hands to him in a warm greeting.

  “Vidia.” He kissed her cheek, his mouth rather moist and unpleasant. “Come away for a moment—I must show you something.”

  “For shame,” she teased wickedly, feigning shock, and the others chuckled while he led her away with the air of the victor.

  They strolled to a quieter corner near the smoking room, and he tucked her hand into his arm as he leaned in to murmur in her ear, “I must visit with you—privately—perhaps some afternoon when you are free for a few hours.” He nearly panted in anticipation and stroked her hand where it rested on his arm.

  “Do you have a place we could enjoy such a visit?” It couldn’t be Brodie’s house, after all, and the gentleman had a rather fearsome wife at home, whose fortune had bankrolled his political aspirations.

  “I do,” he breathed in excitement. “I have taken rooms in Kensington.”

  Vidia ducked her head, thinking how Brodie would laugh out loud at the thought of this fool thinking he could entice one such as she to rooms in Kensington. “Then I will come willingly, my lord,” she murmured with her slow smile. “But I mustn’t let Mr. Brodie catch wind and I am not certain when I will be free—I may need to send you a note on short notice.”

  “I stand at your disposal,” the man assured her, his gaze on her mouth. “A moment’s notice—nothing else shall take precedence—nothing.”

  “Any day?” she teased, “You flatter me, my lord.”

  Hesitating, he admitted, “I shall be away Monday and Tuesday a week from next—Treasury business, I’m afraid.”

  “Then I will watch for an opportunity on another day,” she assured him, and wondered if she could vacate to Yorkshire in the meantime—or perhaps an excuse was no longer needed, as Brodie seemed to think this the last time she was needed to extract the gold shipment schedule from Montagu. I hope so, she thought as she listened to his assurances of devotion with half an ear. Perhaps Maisie is right; perhaps once this scheme of Brodie’s is completed it will be time to look for a different life. In all honesty, Vidia had never made plans for a future because she had never imagined she would have lived this long—and truth to tell, hadn’t much cared. But some strange and unnatural yearnings now resided in her breast, no doubt connected to the fact that Carstairs was now an eligible widower and she had been given a taste of what a life with a fine man in her bed would be like. Bringing herself up short, she was reminded that Carstairs was probably arranging for her downfall, and focused again on whatever it was that Montagu was saying.

  “…rubies, perhaps?”

  “I adore rubies,” she agreed, thinking the man must surely realize that someone with her coloring should never wear rubies. Idiota, she thought again, and wished him away.

  Her wish was unexpectedly granted as a servant approached them and bowed. “Lord Montagu, there is a gentleman by the cloakroom who wishes a word.”

  As Montagu made his regretful excuses, the servant then met Vidia’s eyes and made an indication toward the outer hallway with his own, signaling that she was to head in that direction. Carstairs, she thought in pleased anticipation, and casually drifted through the doors. The hallway was nearly deserted at this late hour, and she took a survey but did not spy Carstairs or anyone else, for that matter. One of the doors leading out to a balcony at the end of the hallway was ajar, however, and she decided this was apparently to be her destination. Feeling those unexpected butterflies again, she made her way down the hallway and slipped through the balcony door.

  To her surprise, the man who drew her into his arms in the cold night air was not Carstairs, and in the darkness she wasn’t certain who he was for a moment. Closing her hand over her pistol, she drew away only to discover that her admirer was the marquess from the card table, who gently bit her shoulder, chuckling, as he brought his hands to rest on her breasts.

  Her acute disappointment did not help Vidia’s mood at being thus accosted; however, she had mastered her temper long ago and so only chided in a mild tone, “You forget yourself, my lord.”

  But he would not allow her to draw away and muttered, “Come, I shall pay whatever you wish—or perhaps you will wish to pay me, afterward.” He pinned her against the balcony railing, his hand sliding into her bodice.

  If I shoot him, Brodie will strangle me, she thought—he is too powerful a peer and the scandal would be horrific. I suppose I must entice him into a carriage and give him the slip somehow—unless he plans to have his way with me right here, which is unkind of him as it is far too cold.

  Fortunately, no plan was needed as the balcony door suddenly opened and Carstairs brought a cosh down on the back of the marquess’s head. As the man sagged against her, Vidia pushed him to the tiled floor and watched Carstairs wedge the door shut.

  “I thank you,” she said, straightening her bodice. “A timely rescue.”

  Pushing the prone man with his boot, Carstairs admitted, “I wasn’t certain you sought a rescue, but I didn’t want to take the chance.”

  Stung, she frowned at him in the dim light. “You know what he is—you cannot imagine I would seek out such a one.”

  “No—I beg your pardon.” They stood in awkward silence for a moment, contemplating the felled marquess. “I have your wrap; I must find a way to return it.”

  It was too dark to read his expression, and with an effort, she controlled her reaction to his proximity and reminded herself that he was trying to trap her. “There is no hurry.”

  With a nod, he crouched down to place a casual hand on the man’s throat, checking his pulse.

  “Should we leave him locked out here?” Vidia suggested. “He never saw you and it would serve him right.”

  Glancing up at her, he lifted a conspiratorial brow. “We have been granted such an opportunity, though—it seems a shame to waste it.”

  This was intriguing, and spoke of a willingness to bend the rules—normally they were called to follow orders without improvisation and never risk bringing attention to themselves. “What do you suggest?”

  “We could arrange to leave him at the brothel on Wymore.”

  “Oh,” she breathed in admiration. “That is diabolical, Carstairs.” The Wymore brothel catered to men who sought out boys. “See to it that the concerned proprietor summons the Watch on account of his unexplained injury.”

  With a nod of agreement, he pulled a length of cord from his pocket and efficiently bound the man’s hands. “We must have a pact, then—this is out of coverage—agreed?”

  “I’ll not tell a soul,” she promised.

  “Another secret we’ll share.” He stood and met her eyes although it was too dark to see what he was thinking. Placing his hands on her waist, he drew her toward him and bent his head to kiss her but she withstood the temptation and turned her face.

  “Not now, Carstairs.”

  Accepting the rebuff without comment, he released her and asked, “I’ll need a distraction—ten minutes?”

  “You shall have one,” she agreed. “I have just the candidate.”

  “Good—I’ll arrange to have him sent on his way.” He paused and bent his head to hers. “May I visit you at home later? I’d like to speak with you.”

  So—he wanted to inveigle his way into the town house; a pox on Brodie for always—always—being right. Smoothly, she countered, “I shall quarrel with Brodie and you may escort me home, if you’d like—in an hour I will exit out the back in a huff.”

  He bowed his head in agreement and she put her ear against the door to listen for a moment, then slipped through.

  Chapter 5

  Upon reen
tering 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 ca
ressing 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.”