She pounced on his discard. “On the other hand, I am not certain I have ever been given such a glimpse.”
His gaze flicked up to meet hers. “You have—you were perhaps unaware.” She knew he referred to their night together and as these were dangerous waters, she made no reply.
As they continued to play, he observed, “One becomes cynical in this business; in the end it permeates every aspect—even the personal.”
She turned over her cards to show she had won the hand. “But trust is always an issue, whether in business or the personal—wouldn’t you agree?”
He gathered up the cards to redeal while she marked the points. They were very evenly matched, she decided, and tried to control that yearning feeling that always seemed to rise up within her when she was in his company.
Thoroughly shuffling the cards, he offered, “I agree—but that is not what I meant. We are trained not to trust anyone in order to survive, but it creates such a disadvantage—it poisons the atmosphere so that we are unwilling to take a chance on trust.” He met her eyes. “Even when it means we forfeit a chance at happiness.”
“Do you think it possible to trust another person to such an extent?” She was genuinely curious. “And how would one know, in any event?”
“True—we have seen so much duplicity. And it is against our natures, you and me, to be made vulnerable.”
She nodded, pausing to finger the cards in her hand and thinking him very astute. “So the manner in which we live our lives has taught us that reposing trust in another person is not only foolish, but dangerous.”
“It is a shame,” he agreed, taking her discard. “I wonder if we could change our natures.”
“You had a wife,” she reminded him. It seemed an opportune time to make the reminder; she could practically feel the heat emanating from him across the table.
“I did,” he agreed, and did not elaborate.
She decided that for the briefest instant she had seen beneath his façade and wanted to follow up. “Do you miss her?” The question was sincere—she had always had the impression they were a devoted couple but his willingness to pursue her—and so soon after Marie’s death—didn’t mesh with that impression.
Studying his hand, he chose his words with care. “Marriage is not always easy; even the most compatible couple may not have a smooth road at all times. It is hard to explain to someone who observes it only from the outside.”
“You mistake the matter,” she said calmly. “I am widowed, myself.”
His gaze flew to hers, startled, and there was a pause. “I did not know—I am sorry.”
Watching his reaction carefully, she decided his surprise was genuine. Interesting, she thought—he was not in their spymaster’s confidence.
Carstairs’s eyes still rested upon her, assessing this revelation. “How did he die?”
“On the Peninsula—during the war.” With a monumental effort she forced herself to relax and curtailed any more questions by asking her own. “How long were you married?”
“Six years,” he said. “And you?”
“Nearly two.” Realizing she had bitten off the syllable, she tried to make up for her lapse of composure. “A very tumultuous time.”
He nodded slowly. “I can well imagine. Will you wed again?”
“No,” she answered without hesitation, drawing a card. “You?”
With gentle amusement he replied, “I regret to say it appears not.”
She glanced up in surprise and met his gaze, fixed upon hers with teasing warmth. Smiling and shaking her head, she tried to control those butterflies again. “Come now, Lucien—if we were wed we would be afraid to swallow our breakfast tea and would be forced to sleep with one eye open.”
“There wouldn’t be much sleeping,” he corrected her, “and therefore even if you poisoned my breakfast tea, I would die a happy man.”
Dangerous waters, she reminded herself. Don’t start thinking about being abed with him—too much is at stake.
But he had no such qualms as he reached over to take her hands in his, the cards falling to the table. “Allow me to demonstrate,” he said softly, pulling her up with him as he stood and brought his mouth down to hers. I shouldn’t, she thought—I have no idea if he means a word he says. But almost against her will, her mouth softened beneath his as he kissed her gently and began to untie the ribbons on her dressing gown.
“Vidia,” he whispered, his mouth moving to her throat. “Sweetheart—I have wanted this ever since that first night.”
Ah yes—that first night, she thought as her hands came up to caress his shoulders. I’ve already paid the price—there seems little point in holding him at arm’s length at this late date.
The dressing gown fell to the floor as he lifted her in his arms to carry her to the bed, his head bent to hers as he traced his mouth across her cheeks. Laying her into the luxurious featherbed, he followed her down and lay atop her, shrugging out of his coat in between kisses.
“Aren’t you going to take off your boots?” she whispered in bemusement.
He did not pause in his endeavors, but confessed, “I am afraid if I give you a moment to think, you will change your mind.” He rested with his forearms on either side of her head and moved his mouth to her throat.
Placing a hand on his cheek, she chuckled. “I won’t change my mind—may as well be comfortable.”
Lifting himself off her, he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his boots as she knelt on the bed and embraced him from behind, nuzzling the nape of his neck and reaching around to unbutton his shirt buttons.
He seized her hands and kissed them, one at a time, then stood to peel off his shirt and breeches. Her hands tracing his ribs, she said, “You will have to tell me of your scars, sometime.”
“Not now,” he muttered, his need urgent as he lifted her nightdress over her head. His warm hands slid down the sides of her breasts, her waist, her hips. “You are so beautiful—and I don’t care how many times you’ve heard it before.”
Murmuring into his mouth she replied, “Then tell me again.”
Chapter 15
At the appointed time, Vidia squared her shoulders and tapped the code on the church door. Earlier, a messenger had come around her house with a ciphered note, stating there would be a temperance meeting that evening. Brodie had thought there would be no harm in attending, despite the attack at the Prince’s residence.
“Truly?” she had asked doubtfully as she put the note into the fire. “What if I descend into the basement never to be seen again?”
With a patient manner, he explained, “Come, Bela—think on it. They are trying to make you doubt your allegiance to me; the best tack for you to take is innocent outrage.”
“I can do innocent outrage,” she had agreed. “None better.”
“Besides,” he pointed out, “the Prince’s supper party has softened my stance—I have agreed to rework the bonds, remember?”
“Ah—I had almost forgotten,” she said dryly. “But what if instead, they are trying to get to you through me—force you to act by threatening me; have you thought of it from that angle?”
But he had discarded such a notion out of hand, “No one would even think it—I am not a sentimental man and would easily put another in your place. No; they are trying to make you doubt me.”
So now she prepared to face them all down—although she did look forward to seeing Carstairs again—she hadn’t heard from him since the night of their card game. While Brodie is not sentimental about me, I am definitely sentimental about Carstairs, she thought, and it’s a weakness they have already attempted to exploit; foolish snail—look where it’s landed you. But she couldn’t regret it—there was such heat and such an attraction between them that it had been another blissful night of making love, this time interspersed with laughter and soft words. Lying in his arms, she had resolved to tell him of her condition but she had fallen asleep instead—she didn’t have the stamina to stay awake anymore. I
n the morning, Carstairs was gone and Maisie had opened the curtains without comment, but Vidia could sense the maid knew more than she was letting on—only this time she didn’t tease Vidia about it; she knew it was not a teasing matter anymore.
The church door opened to reveal the grey-eyed man posing as a vicar again, dressed in black vestments. Affecting a brash air, she surveyed him, head to foot. “You again—where is your curate? I am beginning to think you are running some sort of a rig.”
“Speaks the master,” he replied, and bowed.
“Am I beneath his notice, now? Should I beg for an appointment?”
The Vicar gestured her in. “He sends his apologies—a trifling matter at the Treasury; perhaps you have heard.”
She removed her cloak and he took it from her and hung it on the hook. “I do hope he finds the misplaced gold.”
“I imagine it is his dearest wish.” He lifted the candle and led her within.
She followed him down the stairs to the basement, trying to gauge his mood. “You must come visit—we shall play a duet again.”
“My own dearest wish.”
Not good, she decided. Whatever Marie Carstairs had told them, it was definitely not to her credit. Who would have thought the woman could cause so much trouble? It occurred to her that she was not aware of the circumstances surrounding the late Mrs. Carstairs’s unexpected death, and resolved to ask Carstairs—that is, if they were still on speaking terms after she gave him the news tonight. She was determined to give him the news tonight; there was no sense in putting it off and apparently Brodie’s plan would come to a conclusion soon—she may need to leave quickly.
“How many have we?”
“We speak of Brodie tonight and so it is Dokes, Carstairs, and Grant.”
“Is Droughm back from Algiers? I thought I saw him riding in the park.”
“Lord Droughm has indeed returned.”
Eying his back, she subsided. Apparently he wasn’t going to tell her how the assignment went in Algiers or why Droughm, of all people, had been chaperoning a schoolgirl in the park.
As she passed before him into the basement, she remarked, “I am amazed you tolerate Grant—the Bank of England must be in dire straits indeed.”
His face in the shadows, the Vicar said only, “He is uniquely qualified for the position.”
The others had already arrived and she greeted them, her gaze meeting Carstairs’s only briefly so that she gave nothing away—they had agreed that the other night was out of coverage, but the grey-eyed man was notorious for uncovering secrets; only see how he had found out about San Sebastian.
“Swanson,” Jenny Dokes greeted her with her dry smile. “How goes your life of ease?”
Vidia spoke with her for a moment, relieved. Whatever the Vicar suspected, it seemed it was not generally known among her compatriots. It doesn’t truly matter, she acknowledged. I do not have the luxury of pride—not anymore.
The meeting was called to order and the Vicar began without preamble. “I needn’t tell you that matters are grave; it is clear there is a breach—that supposedly secure information with respect to the gold shipments was not, in fact, secure. To counter this problem, all personnel who were privy to the information have been dismissed from their positions and there are even fewer with access.”
Too little, too late, thought Vidia; Brodie has all the gold he needs, por favor Deus.
“Treason,” pronounced Grant, his arms crossed before him in disgust. “Infamous. We can only hope those who are behind this plot are made to pay.” His gaze slid to Vidia, and she barely refrained from flinging her blade at him.
But the Vicar paced across the small room thoughtfully. “There is always the possibility the perpetrators have no political motivation; recall that there are rumors Napoleon’s people have also lost shipments of gold—we may be dealing with international thieves who have no particular loyalty.”
“France can afford the losses even less than England,” noted Dokes. “Their currency is guaranteed by gold, while England is not on the gold standard.”
“Brodie has agreed to rework his bonds,” offered Vidia, thinking to steer the conversation toward more productive channels. “There is that, at least.”
“You are misinformed; I understand the little contretemps the other night has caused him to balk once again.” The Vicar rested his unreadable gaze upon her.
Surprised, Vidia replied honestly, “I was not aware of this.”
“Apparently,” the Vicar answered slowly, “he was very unhappy you were injured and blames the Government to no small extent.”
So; thought Vidia with interest, Brodie is not so unsentimental after all—I shall have to tease him about it.
“What contretemps?” asked Dokes.
There was a pause, and Vidia remembered she was supposed to be outraged. “We were attacked, Brodie and I, on the street outside Carlton House, of all places. The attackers were not caught but it seemed that I was their object.”
“Heavens,” exclaimed Dokes, her pale brows lifting in surprise. “And you were injured?”
“A scratch or two,” Vidia disclaimed. “Brodie was furious that security was so lax, all things considered.” She met the Vicar’s eye, daring him to make a comment.
He did not disappoint, but replied in a mocking tone, “Deplorable; who would do such a thing?”
“Cowards,” she flung at him.
Carstairs had remained silent to this point, but interjected, “Perhaps it was a group of common felons—after all, Brodie is famously wealthy.”
Taking control of her temper, Vidia subsided. It would do no good to antagonize the spymaster, and so she followed Carstairs’s lead. “Perhaps.”
But apparently the Vicar was not yet done and he addressed her in a dulcet tone. “It is impossible to control such lawlessness—surely you understand?”
It seemed to Vidia that this remark was a thinly veiled threat, but she was not one to be cowed by threats, as Rochon himself could attest. Lifting her chin, she retorted, “Indeed; many things are impossible to control.” There—let him make what he would of her counterthreat.
Before blows could be exchanged, Carstairs interceded once again. “Can we look into Brodie’s financial dealings for the past few months—see if everything is aboveboard? Perhaps we can discover some leverage to apply to him.”
“The situation is extremely delicate,” the Vicar conceded, reluctantly pulling his gaze away from Vidia’s angry glare. “Brodie has done nothing unlawful—at least that we are aware. If he is mishandled it may compel exactly the behavior we are trying to prevent; it is not clear if he has any particular loyalty to England and we do not wish to create the very disloyalty we fear.”
Everyone is stymied—just as Brodie said, thought Vidia; say what you will about him, you have to give the devil his due. Offering an olive branch, she asked, “Shall I conduct a search of Brodie’s rooms?” She would show that she could cooperate if she wasn’t being attacked by Englishmen pretending to be Frenchmen now being passed off as common felons.
“Too risky,” pronounced the Vicar. “What have we discovered from the bank’s records?”
“I see no major discrepancies,” said Dokes. “The debts are as they appear—no worse.”
“A small piece of good news,” said the Vicar, nodding. “Now we need only find the missing gold.”
“It is nothing short of amazing we can find no one who knows something,” Dokes offered with a knit brow. “This much gold would be heavy and could not be easily transported or stored.”
“It is indeed a mystery,” said the Vicar, a slight edge to his voice. “But there has been no indication that any attempt has been made to cash it in, so we are without clues in that respect, also.”
“What is the timeline?” asked Carstairs.
Nine months, Lucien—or eight, now, thought Vidia, and wished she didn’t feel so nervous.
“Matters are grave,” was all the Vicar would say. “Brodie
can alleviate the immediate pressure if he does not seek to cash in his bonds immediately, but if he does, a financial crisis could easily ensue—a panic which could collapse the economy.”
While they all absorbed this unwelcome assessment, Vidia caught Carstairs’s eye briefly, then returned her attention to the Vicar as he adjourned the meeting. Hopefully he would know she wished to speak to him in private.
“Swanson,” asked Dokes in a low voice as they stood to leave. “What was that all about?” she indicated the Vicar with her eyes.
Having cooled down, Vidia decided she should downplay the display of open hostility. “He is unhappy with my efforts—thinks I may be a bit too comfortable in my assignment.”
“The men in this business are always doubting the resolve of the women,” the other woman observed without bitterness. “They think we are easily swayed and therefore weaker, so we are held to a higher standard.”
Vidia knew she was offering support and appreciated it. “I think you have the right of it, Dokes. Tell me—how is your investigation at the Académie coming along?” Vidia had forgotten the name of the former French aristocrat they had marked as a suspect.
“Nothing new,” Dokes replied in a neutral tone. “Tell me what the Prince was like—did you speak to him at length?”
Although she was willing to allow the change of subject, Vidia noted with some dismay that even Jenny Dokes had been warned to tell her nothing.
Chapter 16
After speaking with Dokes, Vidia emerged from the church onto the quiet street and began to walk in the direction of the main crossroad, her senses surveying the surroundings for any hidden dangers. It was second nature to make such a survey and she wondered if she would shake the habit anytime soon, now that her future would entail a different kind of life altogether. I shall have to try to make friends, she realized, which was a novel idea. As Carstairs had pointed out, they had learned to stay alive by not trusting anyone, and women of her acquaintance tended not to trust her for fear their menfolk would succumb. Another disadvantage of beauty, she thought, then could not help smiling when she remembered an advantage; how Carstairs had given her such pretty compliments the other night—when he could manage to put two words together, that was.
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