She made no response, as it seemed none need be made. His gaze traveled about the room. “How many of the enemy did you kill?”
With a monumental effort, Vidia kept her gaze steady as he surveyed the brick-lined walls. “I do not know—not exactly. More than a few.”
He approached to stand directly before her, his eyes hooded and his arms crossed. “I cannot trust you, I’m afraid, which is a drawback in this business. What am I to do with you?”
“Ordinarily,” she ventured, “men do not wonder such a thing.”
For the first time he lost countenance and allowed his annoyance to show, his voice rough; “Do not cast your lures at me—I know you better than you think.”
Alarmed by this show of emotion, she acted to soothe him. “Then tell me how to best reassure you; I have no desire to disappear without a trace.”
They regarded each other for a long moment and she had no idea what he was thinking. He finally spoke. “You are fond of Carstairs.”
And I carry proof positive, she thought. “Does that create a problem?” She didn’t want to make a denial; it would be disingenuous considering they were to wed the next day. Santos, she thought with a start; apparently I am going to marry Lucien Carstairs.
He seemed impatient with the idea. “I admit to surprise that Invidia would allow herself the indulgence.”
“The snail peeps out.”
“I beg your pardon?”
She smiled. “It is naught—shall I firmly quash any tender feelings for the man?”
He shrugged. “You will do as you will—there are times that I believe it is you who has us all on a string. But I would not have you forget the lesson of Samson’s first wife.”
Shaking her head so that her mane tumbled around her shoulders, she said in exasperation, “I lack the wit to decipher these riddles of yours.”
He turned to fetch the lantern and the bottle he had chosen. “There is nothing lacking about your wits.”
As it appeared the interlude was at an end, she stood, a bit stiff. “Am I free to go then? You will not slay me and stuff my corpse in to cool with the champagne?”
He walked up the step and paused beside her, regarding her with a gleam of humor in the grey eyes. “I do not know if I could bring myself to do it, Libby—but do not tempt me.”
“Never,” she assured him, and wondered how he would react to the news on the morrow. “Save your powder for the enemy, my friend.”
“Precisely.” With no further comment, he walked past her.
Chapter 18
When Carstairs called for her the next morning at ten, Vidia was ready. Having nothing in her wardrobe that was appropriate to wear for the occasion, she managed to pull together a more-or-less demure outfit by the strategic placement of a fichu in the décolletage of her least objectionable day dress. She opened the door herself, having sent Maisie on several long and unnecessary errands. The cook, as usual, was not in evidence.
“You look lovely,” her bridegroom pronounced, the expression in the blue eyes very warm. He carried a nosegay of hothouse roses and handed them to her, as though she was an ordinary bride and this an ordinary wedding, which was much appreciated.
Breathing in the scent, she tried to quell her butterflies—he was the only man she had ever met who could bestow them. “Confess; you were not certain I would keep the appointment.”
“I was not.” He tilted his head in rueful acknowledgment. “But I am now the happiest of men.”
He was dressed in a morning coat that showed his broad shoulders to advantage and he had taken care with his appearance, his hair was trimmed and his chin clean-shaven. No whisker burn tonight, she thought, suppressing more butterflies. The sight of him—so handsome and correct—brought home the realization that he was willing to dedicate his life to her, despite the circumstances that counseled against it, and it made her breath catch in her throat. It is possible, she thought cautiously, that a small measure of happiness is to be mine, graças a Deus.
“Shall we go?” He offered his arm and indicated the carriage waiting at the curb.
“Again, you are rushing me before I change my mind,” she teased as she gathered up her reticule and gloves. “At least this time you don’t have to manage around your boots.”
“It seems the best strategy,” he confessed as they descended the front steps, several passersby stopping to admire the handsome couple. “It is all too good to be true and so I want to have it done and quickly.”
It was a sweet compliment—considering he could very well be bitterly railing against fate—and so she smiled warmly to reward him. “You make a very handsome bridegroom, Lucien.” She wondered what he had worn for his first wedding; she had worn a nightdress.
“And you a beautiful bride—although you would be beautiful even after being pulled through a chimney flue.”
“Let us not test your theory.”
With a hand at her waist, he saw her settled into the carriage, then bent to solicitously tuck in her skirt so that it wouldn’t be caught in the door. “Are you well? Have you suffered any symptoms as yet?”
“I’m afraid I’ve lost my appetite, but I am forcing the issue as best I can.”
His brows drew together in concern. “Perhaps you should consult a physician.”
She touched his arm, pleased by this husband-like display. “One traumatic event at a time, Lucien.”
Smiling his teasing smile, he climbed into the carriage and sat beside her, rather than across from her, which led her to hope that there would be more kisses coming her way. “Your pardon; last night I could hardly sleep, thinking over your news—our news—and making plans.”
“That is to the good—after my war widow plan was scotched I was fresh out.”
He gave instruction to the driver, who then closed the door with a snap. “Your war widow plan was nothing short of alarming.”
“Never say so,” she protested, laughing. “I thought it an excellent plan.”
With a sidelong glance, he reminded her, “The last time you wore a widow’s veil you inspired a knife fight at the Guildhall in Campine.”
She primmed her mouth, her eyes merry. “That was a different situation entirely, and your fault as much as mine—yours and Droughm’s. And unlikely to reoccur in the wilds of Yorkshire, as there is no occupying French army to hand.”
“Hopefully, we shall never know. Are you comfortable?”
As the carriage started off with a slight jerk, he held her hand in his as he had done last night and she decided it was very agreeable to have him attend her with such patent devotion. I hope this newfound devotion withstands the tests it will be put to, she thought; it would be a shame if it did not—but on the other hand it would be very much in keeping with my luck. “What is our destination?”
“St. Mary’s Chapel,” he replied. “It is near Greenwich, at the Old Royal Naval Hospital—quiet and simple.”
Interesting that he chose a military venue for this clandestine affair, but perhaps it was the best he could do on such short notice—or perhaps he was acquainted with the celebrant. She thought about the enormity of the step they were to take and the certain repercussions when the news was revealed. “We are mad, the both of us.”
“No—we are parents, the both of us.” He smiled into her eyes, his manner meant to reassure, and she knew a moment’s qualm—he was entirely too reconciled to the situation, was Lucien Carstairs. Surely he should have railed and doubted—or at least delayed, given her history?
He must have read her concerns because he leaned his head toward hers and said with quiet emphasis, “You take the proper course—we both do,” and gently kissed her mouth. As her pulse leapt, she considered the undeniable fact she almost didn’t care what consequences would follow—she knew only that she wanted to belong to the man beside her as she had never wanted anything in her life. To counter this folly she said aloud, “I did not look to take another husband.”
He traced her gloved fingers wit
h his own as they swayed along in the well-sprung carriage. “Then we have something in common—I did not look to take another wife.”
“I hope you do not make a bad bargain, Lucien.” Already he would have to contend with the scandal of this marriage of necessity on the heels of his first wife’s death; he was not the sort of man who would appreciate being the object of whispering gossip. She, on the other hand, was well-used to it.
Raising her hand, he bestowed a kiss upon its back. “Then let me consider your merits—you are clever, not given to crochets, and sublime in the bedroom. All in all, I will take my chances.”
She smiled, inordinately pleased that he had not included her appearance in his listing. “I could say the same about you, my friend.”
“Then we are well-matched.”
Leaning back into the cushions, she felt herself begin to relax. “Little did we know—that night we played cards—that the two of us would have little choice but to trust each other, and very soon.”
He smiled and cocked his head. “The irony is not lost on me, I assure you.”
“Can we, do you think?” She searched his eyes with her own, thinking she would ask nothing more than to be able to trust him. Her natural tendency to be cautious was quickly fading before the sheer exhilaration of this journey and what it meant for her future.
He thought about it—seriously—as they crossed London Bridge to the south bank of the Thames. “I think we can trust each other, given time. It will not be easy to unlearn the habits of a lifetime overnight.”
She appreciated this sensible view of the issue, which was in keeping with her own concerns. “No—it will seem like a luxury to trust someone.”
“Did you not trust your husband?”
Her face fell, and before she could fashion an answer, he took her hands and interrupted her. “Now, that was clumsy of me; do not answer and instead tell me how you like your eggs—I know so little about you.”
With an effort, her smile returned. “Coddled.”
“As do I,” he pronounced and again kissed the hand in his. “An excellent omen. Coffee or tea?”
“Coffee,” she decided. “As the tea may be poisoned.”
“Never—poison is a woman’s weapon; a man must be more forthright in murdering his wife.”
She laughed, delighted with his teasing.
“Boy or girl?”
She looked at him blankly for a moment, and he lifted his brows at her confusion. “The baby.”
“Oh. I hadn’t considered—I am still coming to terms with the idea, I’m afraid—does it matter to you?”
“A girl,” he pronounced. “With her mother’s smile.”
She found that she could make no rejoinder as her throat had closed with emotion. Instead she lowered her gaze and tightened her grip on his hand. Graças a Deus.
Observing her reaction, he bent his head and spoke to her softly. “After I recovered from the initial shock, I find—much to my surprise—that I am looking forward to fatherhood; I hadn’t thought it was in my future.”
Unable to suppress her curiosity, she looked up at him. “Marie did not conceive?”
“No—and apparently the fault was not mine.”
She was surprised by the edge to his tone and he immediately recanted. “That was unkind—pray disregard it.”
She did as she was asked but noted the tinge of bitterness he could not conceal. “Will Marie’s relatives be shocked by your sudden remarriage?”
“There is no one left to be shocked; she was only survived by a sister and we have little contact. Everyone else died rather suddenly.” His tone was now carefully neutral.
Interesting, she thought, as she allowed him to change the subject. Apparently I am not the only one who is steeped in secrets.
The countryside opened up as they approached the park, Queen’s House visible on the hill. Rounded white clouds were scattered across the deep blue sky; the daffodils bright along the footpaths. I wonder, she thought as she reviewed the pleasing panorama, if I have should have thought this through a bit more, or at least consulted with Brodie.
“A beautiful day for a wedding,” Carstairs observed, drawing her face to his own with a hand on her chin and kissing her.
“Glorious,” she agreed.
Chapter 19
The chaplain of St. Mary’s Chapel greeted them in a very genial manner, which made Vidia wonder how much money had crossed his palm to bring the ceremony about on such short notice. As introductions were made it did not appear as though Carstairs had a previous acquaintance with the clergyman, and so she surmised the arrangements must have been made strictly for the purpose of having a quiet, out-of-the-way ceremony. And she was heartened by the fact that the chaplain refrained from taking a covert assessment of her appearance as they were introduced—the clergy should exercise some self-restraint, after all.
They were escorted into the rectory office, the chaplain indicating they should be seated while he reviewed the special license and filled out the marriage lines. Sunlight shafted through the diamond-paned windows in the stone walls as Vidia folded her hands in her lap and awaited events. I am not nervous, she assured herself; I am never nervous.
A matronly woman who apparently served as the chaplain’s housekeeper had agreed to act as witness, and she stood at the ready while the documents were reviewed. After adjusting his spectacles, the clergyman then looked up at Vidia with a twinkle, his quill poised over parchment. “Name?”
“Miss Invidia Swanson.”
“Parish?”
But Carstairs interrupted the recital in a quiet voice. “Your pardon—could you allow us a moment alone, please?”
The chaplain looked with mild surprise from one to the other and rose. “Of course, of course—please signal when you wish to proceed.”
He left, carefully closing the door behind him. Vidia watched him leave, then sat and contemplated Carstairs for a long moment while he returned her regard with a steady gaze. He said gently, “We are at point non plus, are we not? I think you must give your true name or the marriage will not be legal.”
Vidia felt her midsection twist as she decided this was probably true, and could not believe she had not thought of this problem before now—she had acted hastily, and without Brodie’s sound advice, and now she was not certain what was best to do. She dropped her gaze to the table, thinking.
Her bridegroom’s voice, amused and tender, interrupted her thoughts. “We will have a pact—I will never mention your name to another if you will promise the same to me.”
Looking up at him, she nodded, unsurprised that his operative name was not his true name—it was the way of things. But her disclosure would be one she had never made to another—not since San Sebastian.
He dragged his chair closer to hers so that he faced her, their knees almost touching. He took both her hands in his in a playful manner and bent forward as though he would hear a confession. “I am ready—do your worst.”
In the silence she could hear the ticking of the mantel clock over the fireplace. Pressing her lips together, she whispered, “Catalina Ana Inacio da Silva.” The soft syllables seemed to float in the room, lighter than air. It had been a long time since she had spoken her name. For a moment, she almost thought she could hear her mother’s voice, saying it.
He raised his head to meet her eyes in surprise. “I understood your name was Libby.”
“No,” she said only.
Thinking about it, he asked, “Portguesa?”
Nodding, she admitted, “Si, minha mãe era Português.”
The blue eyes searched hers while he pondered this. “Then your father was not in the Army?”
“No,” she said again, and decided she may as well tell him—or tell him as much as she was able. “My father ran a gaming house. I took the name of another girl I knew in the war after she was killed.” She firmly suppressed the vision of the bloody wall that sprang to her mind’s eye,; the memory of the synchronized crack of the rifles.
Rubbing his thumbs across the backs of her hands, he studied her thoughtfully. “And her name was Invidia?”
She swallowed, and said through stiff lips. “No. Her name was Libby—Libby Swanson.” Lifting her gaze to the far upper corner of the room, she fought the misery that threatened to overwhelm her and carefully withdrew her hands from his. “I cannot go through with this,” she said quietly. “But I appreciate the gesture, Lucien.”
He was instantly contrite and placed his fingers under her chin so as to turn her face back to his, the expression in his eyes concerned and sincere. “The fault is mine—here I am, pressing when I promised I would not. Forgive me, Vidia—it matters not a whit to me and I have upset you.”
She stared at him, close enough to see his long, dark eyelashes and the stubble of his beard in the cleft of his chin—it must be difficult to shave it. She could not find two thoughts to rub together.
“My own name is Luc-Damien.”
This brought her from her reverie. “Is it indeed?”
He gave a rueful smile. “It is a long tradition—my ancestors came over from Normandy with William the Conqueror, but you can appreciate why I do not use it.”
She could—it sounded very French, which was not a good thing, nowadays.
“Tell no one,” he teased, squeezing her hands.
“My hand on my heart,” she agreed absently. Impossible to think rationally whilst he sat so close.
Lifting her hand, he kissed her fingers. “Was your first marriage valid?”
She blinked. “Yes—yes it was.”
“Then I believe you hold his last name, at present.”
“Oh. Of course.” With a monumental effort, she righted herself. “McCord, then—Catalina McCord.”
His gaze intent upon hers, he said quietly, “Catalina McCord, I would very much like to marry you—if you will have me.”
He means it, she thought. And if he doesn’t, it hardly matters; I am lost. “I will.”
And so the chaplain was duly notified that Catalina Ana McCord, an unregistered widow, was to marry Luc-Damien Michel Dessiere, a widower of Sussex. Which is strange, thought Vidia, as she stood beside him and the ceremony in the quiet chapel commenced. I could swear he told me Suffolk.
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