He was silent as he escorted her across to a main street so as to hail a hackney, the few passersby abroad at this time of night taking little notice of the couple who had stood together in intimate conversation. As he flagged down a cab, he glanced at her. “Please think about it—I’m afraid I am going to persevere until I’ve changed your mind.”
“Oh, I am well aware of your staying power.” She gave him a wicked glance that had stopped the heart of many a man as she handed him his jacket. Chuckling, he helped her into the cab and then gave her direction to the jarvey. She watched him out the window as she pulled away, and he didn’t turn to go until she was nearly out of sight.
Vidia sank back into the cushions, her brow knit as she assessed the situation. If they truly thought she was tainted, she doubted they would play such a cat-and-mouse game; she would be delivered over to some very unpleasant men whose job it would be to wring a confession from her, along with any information she could give. There would be no mercy shown—not with so much at stake. Instead, it must be as Brodie said—he had them all over a barrel, unable to make a move against him. Therefore, they either suspected or knew that she was aligned with Brodie and were testing to see if she could be turned against him. They needed a means to control Brodie—over whom they had no control—and apparently they were aware she had a weakness for Lucien Carstairs.
Sighing, she gazed out the narrow window at the deserted street without actually seeing it. It was true she cherished a tendre for him, despite the fact she had turned him down in Flanders. Indeed, one of the reasons she had admired him was his devotion to his wife. It was a paradox—that which made him so attractive to her also made him unattainable; her own experience with men had shown how little they valued loyalty. And now he was free—and was pretending he wanted her, with his wife barely cold in her grave. You are a foolish, foolish menina, she thought, closing her eyes briefly; for two pins you’d accept his offer even though you know he doesn’t mean it.
The hackney pulled up to her residence and Vidia alighted, wondering if Maisie had stayed up to wait for her—some hot water would be welcome to wash off the loathsome marquess, not to mention the loathsome Montagu. She glanced up at the elegant town house as she ascended the stairs and then turned her gaze to the side, toward the man who watched her entry from the shadows to the left. “Bonne nuit,” she greeted him in French.
He bowed ironically. “Bonne nuit, mademoiselle.”
Letting herself in, she locked the door behind her.
Chapter 6
Vidia paraded alongside Brodie on the broad sidewalk of Threadneedle Street as they prepared to make a visit to the Bank of England, her skirts sweeping the pavement and an elaborate hat perched at a reckless angle atop her curls. He had asked that she accompany him on this visit, which meant she was needed to distract—unlikely he would ask her to cast her lures at a banker, as bankers were notoriously bloodless. She eyed a pastry cart stationed on the corner as they passed, but decided with some regret that it would be too messy to indulge in one, considering the cost of her gloves. Breakfast had been an hour ago and she was unaccountably hungry again.
Lifting her face so that she could feel the sun despite the hat’s wide brim, she asked, “What is it we do here, Benny? Or are we giving the poor man who watches my town house a diversion?” Brodie was well-aware her every move was being watched by agents for the French.
“I’m to be inveigled by the wretched bankers,” he disclosed as he tucked her hand in his arm. “And I would ask that you do some inveigling of your own, if you would be so kind.”
“A tall order, my friend.” She smiled and nodded to a gentleman on the sidewalk who had stopped and was openly staring, his embarrassed wife tugging on his arm. One could hardly blame him; she did look very fine in her apricot gown with its slashed sleeves, embellished with discreet pearls so as to be appropriate for daytime. She was very fond of the soft color; it reminded her of the terra-cotta walls that had surrounded her village—before it was razed to the ground, of course.
Brodie replied, “Perhaps, perhaps not. One is a gentleman named Sundren, whose wife has been ill for a time. Lately he has taken to the occasional visit with a prostitute, poor fellow. See what you can contrive—I would like to have a line of communication with someone on the inside if it is possible.”
This was rather a surprise, and she glanced at him, guessing at his reasons. “There is a Home Office plant on the inside, then? Who?”
He said kindly, as though he was speaking to a small child, “I am not yet certain, Bela, hence the request.”
Lifting the corner of her mouth at his tone, she assured him, “I shall do my humble best, then.”
“Excellent; the poor man doesn’t stand a chance.”
They walked in silence for a few moments while she thought over this development. He must be concerned about this or he wouldn’t have asked that she act as an angel for him; normally she did not accompany him to business meetings and in any event they rarely went out together in daytime for the simple reason that she attracted too much attention—the last outing having caused a horrific collision between a dray and a milk wagon.
Brodie paused, ostensibly to admire a collection of flower pots. “We must slow down a bit; I’d like to be late.”
Vidia dutifully bent to touch a flower petal and teased, “You tempt fate, methinks; have a care lest they decide it isn’t worth it and wash their hands of you.”
Brodie only smiled and glanced at her. “Montagu sent ’round a note of apology—claims he had too much to drink the other night and begs my pardon.”
Amused, she shook her head. “Lord, Benny—you do have them all over a barrel if the Treasury is forcing him to apologize.”
Making a sound of derision, he nodded to an acquaintance coming the other way who had tipped his hat to Vidia, and then began walking again so as to discourage any further advances. “You have twice the backbone he does, Bela—I do you an injustice, having to tolerate such a pretender for your favors. He is a very dull stick.”
Her eyes gleaming, she riposted, “I disagree; he thinks his stick very lively.”
“Bela,” he admonished with distaste. “Spare me, I beg of you.”
“So—no more Montagu?” she asked hopefully.
“No more,” he affirmed. “Very soon, all will be resolved.”
This was news that was equal parts welcome and alarming. “When will the Argo sail? Do we have a date certain?”
There was a small pause. “I’m afraid I’d rather not tell you just yet. You’ll understand.”
She did, and took it in good part as they resumed their progress, the bank rising up before them. Brodie was justifiably concerned that she would be forced, by very unpleasant means, to reveal the information—after all, her spymaster was now making his own maneuvers to counter Brodie’s. His next words, however, reminded her that there was little he did not notice.
“Who was the gentleman at the card table? You were acquainted, I think.”
No point to pretending she didn’t know who he meant. “Lucien Carstairs—a compatriot,” she answered easily. “We worked together in Flanders, once.”
Brodie’s shrewd glance assessed her face. “Tell me of Mr. Carstairs—he seems a very capable fellow.”
“I’d rather not—I’m afraid I have divided loyalties on the subject.” The last thing she wanted was to inform Brodie that it was Carstairs who spoke of bringing gold to Napoleon.
But it seemed she was a step behind Brodie, and his next words indicated he had already guessed Carstairs’s role. “They will try to come at me through you, you know,” he noted in a matter-of-fact tone. “Be ready for it.”
“I am not a fool, Benny,” she responded sharply, then immediately was contrite. “My nerves are ragged—I do beg your pardon.” They entered the impressive edifice, the vaulted ceilings and marble floors proclaiming the unassailable authority of the mighty Bank of England—a casual observer could be forgiven for not b
eing aware that the bank was teetering on the edge of collapse.
Brodie laid a hand on hers where it rested on his arm. “Venice,” he pronounced, tilting his head back to consider the elaborate domed ceiling. “I’ve a mind to go to Venice and embark on a new venture.”
“I don’t know where I would go,” she mused beside him, grateful for the change in subject. “Somewhere quiet, methinks; and near the ocean—I would grow lilies.”
“Lucky lilies, to have you tend them.” He glanced at her sidelong. “Do lilies thrive in Venice?”
But she shook her head. “I find that I am rather fond of England.” She was ashamed to admit that it was impossible to contemplate living in a country that did not contain Lucien Carstairs, given the fact that he was at present taking brutal advantage of her silly infatuation with him. “And I am thinking of retiring from the lists—I am not as reckless as I once was.” She was almost surprised at the words, which had seemed to come out almost without conscious volition.
“You alarm me,” he replied with some surprise. “Not to mention it would be a tremendous waste of talent.”
“There must be something else I can do—someplace where I can simply mind my own business, as opposed to everyone else’s.”
“Not with that face,” Brodie pronounced bluntly. “A nunnery, perhaps—although the priests would be constantly at confession. Better to come with me.”
Squeezing his arm, she said sincerely, “I appreciate what you have done for me—my hand on my heart, Benny—but I find that I don’t have the appetite for it any longer.”
“All will be well, Bela. My own hand on my heart.”
They were escorted into an oak-lined meeting room, where the two gentlemen who awaited them respectfully bowed upon their entrance. Brodie introduced the larger man as Mr. Sundren and the smaller man as Mr. Grant.
Mr. Grant made a gesture with his hand toward the antechamber. “If your—companion—would care to await without, I shall see to it she is served refreshments.”
“I dare not,” said Brodie casually as he drew out her chair. “There is no guarantee she’d still be there upon my return.”
Vidia laughed merrily and threw Brodie a teasing glance as she was seated, privately regretting the loss of the refreshments.
Thus stymied, Grant tried to hide his annoyance with little success. “We were afraid, Mr. Brodie, that you had forgotten our appointment.”
“My lamentable memory.” Brodie spread his hands in apology. “I remembered just as we were heading to Rundell’s, and I came straightaway.”
“I am most unhappy with him, and with you,” Vidia teased, glancing up from beneath the wide brim of her hat; Rundell & Bridge were jewelers who catered to London’s most monied residents. She then bestowed an intimate, dazzling smile on Sundren, who stared at her as though sunstruck. Vidia instantly had formed a dislike for Grant, and ignored him.
“Now, how may I help the Bank of England?” asked Brodie in a genial tone.
“You have been most generous,” began Sundren in a conciliatory manner, “lending the Treasury such sums for the war effort.” His gaze slid to Vidia because he could not seem to help himself.
A hint of impatience in his voice, Brodie prompted, “But the war is now over, and Napoleon sits in exile; when do you suppose my bonds shall be repaid?”
Sundren having lost his train of thought, Grant gave his cohort an impatient glance and continued, “Unfortunately, the bank is a bit shorthanded at present.”
“Ah,” said Brodie, nodding in understanding. “The missing gold.”
“The missing gold,” agreed Sundren, recalled to the conversation. “The last two shipments to the troops stationed on the Continent have gone missing—it is a major blow; the bank—and the Treasury—were dangerously depleted by the war and there is little to spare.” He paused, then added in a somber tone, “And the Home Office is greatly concerned that Napoleon will attempt another conquest.”
Brodie clasped his hands on the table and bent his head, considering. “That is indeed grave news. You wish me to hold off cashing in the bonds, then.”
“If you would,” asked Sundren humbly. “I do not exaggerate when I say it is a matter of national security.”
“I am a businessman,” Brodie pointed out. “I cannot be held responsible because the Treasury is careless with its gold.”
“It is not only the Treasury that has suffered losses,” Sundren was moved to point out. “The Continent is by no means secure—there are rumors that Napoleon’s gold supplies have been stolen, also.”
“Such lawlessness,” exclaimed Vidia, her delicate brow knit in distress. “Why, whatever is the world coming to?” She appealed to Sundren, who looked as though he had to restrain himself from taking her into his arms.
But Brodie remained unsympathetic. “Ask Rothschild for a loan, then; he is the one who made a fortune shipping gold to Wellington during the war.” Brodie continued in an aside to Vidia, “A clever man—he uses pigeons to carry messages back and forth from England to the Continent—did you know, my dear?”
“Does he indeed?” she asked in amusement. “Perhaps the pigeons know where the missing gold is.”
Sundren laughed as though she had said something very clever until Grant glared at him, and he then subsided. Nevertheless, Vidia gave him a slow smile from beneath the brim of her hat as a reward.
Grant explained in a constrained voice, “I am afraid Rothschild’s fortune is tied up—as are many others’—paying out insurance claims. There has been a spate of losses in India lately—bad timing, I’m afraid. We must strongly urge that you allow the bank more time before you redeem your bonds.”
For the express purpose of annoying Grant, Vidia interjected, “This is not going to interfere with the diamond bracelet you promised me, is it Benny?”
While Grant barely concealed his irritation, Brodie patted her hand. “Perish the thought, my dear—I have to keep up appearances for fear you will find someone with a plumper purse.”
Vidia smiled upon the two bankers, tilting her head playfully. “I am never careless with my gold.”
“It is not a matter for levity, perhaps,” Grant replied stiffly, and Vidia noted that a vein bulged in his forehead. Overwrought, she thought, resisting an urge to curl her lip. He takes it all too seriously—I can’t imagine he’d do well before a firing squad. Not like some.
Chapter 7
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.”
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