“A wise strategy, then.” Again, he didn’t seem to realize he was casting a rather grim prospect, and a small doubt began to tug at the corner of her mind—it was almost as though he was purposefully presenting a daunting description of the foreseeable future. She placed a hand on his knee, thinking of how she would give anything to have her own mother back again, ill or not. “I will see to it she is well looked after.”
He covered her hand with his own. “Thank you. You are very kind.”
There was a small pause while the fire crackled and Vidia tried to ignore that doubt, tugging away. We are married, she finally decided, and we agreed to strive for honesty. She asked gently, “Why are you so uneasy, Lucien?”
He did not pretend to misunderstand and turned to meet her eyes, the expression in his own rather grave. “I think I am sorry for you—sorry for the sudden changes in your life, and my role in bringing them about.”
This had the ring of truth, and she was almost relieved—there had been something a bit off about the conversation, about the picture he painted of his home; it was not like him to be unaware of the impact his words would have. “It is as you said—fate has stepped in, and what I want or what you want doesn’t matter anymore; we take what is given us and make our lives. I promise I will have no regrets; indeed, I look forward to sinking into obscurity—it will be a novel experience for me.”
He drew her to him and she rested her head upon his shoulder as they watched the fire in companionable silence. After thinking over what he had told her for a time, she decided she was tired of thinking and would put this new husband of hers to good use. “Will you excuse me for a moment?”
He rose with her and she exited the room, having decided that more direct tactics were needed to move this wedding night along. For heaven’s sake, it wasn’t as though the man needed to be considerate of his new bride’s sensibilities—they had already spent two torrid nights together and she was rather surprised he hadn’t initiated a new session then and there on the settee—he was not one to be bashful about it.
“It is time to bring in the heavy artillery,” she told Maisie, who was hovering in Vidia’s room. “The man is being too polite.”
“He does seem very kind,” offered Maisie, bringing out Vidia’s nightdress. “He probably doesn’t want to throw ye about—not just yet.”
“Be that as it may, I am dying to throw him about, so please make yourself scarce.” Pulling on the diaphanous confection, Vidia regarded her image in the mirror with approval as the whisper-light folds fell around her body. It was nearly transparent and more than appropriate for a wedding night between two people who need no longer be coy.
Her hair falling nearly to her waist, Vidia padded in her bare feet back to the parlor, hiding a smile as she anticipated her bridegroom’s reaction. Stepping softly, she saw that Carstairs was contemplating the dregs of his wineglass and appeared to be deep in thought. She casually moved into the room as though she was still wearing her day dress, and crossed before the fire to pour herself a cider at the sideboard. Sensing his gaze upon her, she felt her pulse quicken—she always loved a good diversion.
“Mrs. Carstairs,” he finally said. “You would tempt a monk.”
She noted he hadn’t moved. “I seek to tempt my husband,” she explained in a mild tone, leaning against the sideboard and bending a knee slightly so that her bare leg was exposed through the slit in the nightdress.
There was a pause while she saw that his gaze remained firmly locked on her face. “I cannot think it a good idea, I’m afraid.”
“No?” She took a sip of the cider.
Shaking his head with regret he cautioned, “First we should speak with a physician—I will take no chances.”
She tilted her head to one side and regarded him thoughtfully. “I believe you and I have both known girls who continue with bed sport long past the time when their bellies are evident.”
But he was resolute. “I only wish to be certain—it is too important, Vidia.”
Hanging her head in mock disappointment, she made a gesture with her hands. “And this my best nightdress.”
He let out a pent-up breath. “I cannot argue; I hope to see it many a time.”
She noted he did not approach although he was aroused—she knew the signs. A very stubborn man, it seemed; a strategic retreat was in order. Straightening up, she said in a mild tone, “I will see you on the morrow, then. Good night.”
He gave her his quick, flashing smile. “I doubt I’ll sleep, Mrs. Carstairs.”
After returning to her chambers, Vidia pulled on a plain cotton nightdress and sat at her dressing table, staring out the window at the darkness without seeing anything, her brow knit in thought. She then rang the bell for Maisie.
After a few minutes, the maid came into the bedchamber, dressed in her own nightdress and openly expressing her surprise at finding her mistress alone. “I expected more o’ the man, I must say.”
But Vidia wasn’t listening as she pulled out a scrap of stationery. “I am sorry to pull you out of bed, but I need you to carry a note to Mr. Brodie, if you would.”
Maisie was agog. “Now?”
“Now, I’m afraid—it is important. To his hand and no other.”
Maisie, bless her, asked no questions. “I’ll leave out the back so’s no one sees me.” Unspoken was the identity of the person to be thus avoided, and Vidia knew a brief moment of disappointment so acute she resisted an impulse to begin throwing things just to have the satisfaction of violent action. She scribbled on the scrap, “We leave for Fairlight in the morning.” She then added, “Beware my cook,” and handed the folded note to her maid.
Chapter 24
The next morning Vidia made ready to set out on the coming journey, her actions routine and efficient, as she had much experience in vacating on short notice. Few preparations were needed; the only modest dresses Vidia owned were left over from her recent role as a draper’s widow and were inappropriately black. Maisie was to supervise the finishing of the new gowns at the dressmaker’s shop and then follow in a cart with the rest of the baggage. At present, the maidservant was closing up Vidia’s travel bandbox while Vidia applied a last brush of powder to her cheeks, which were a bit pale. “Lord, I hope there are dressmakers where we are going—Mr. Carstairs made it sound as though it was the end of beyond and I shall need to have something made up when my waistline disappears.”
“We’ll manage,” said Maisie with a pragmatic air. “’Though I don’t know what we’re to do if that bosom of yers gets any bigger.”
“I shall have to live in smocks, I suppose. Is that the bell? It must be Mr. Carstairs—finish up here, Maisie, and I’ll see he has breakfast.” With a light step, Vidia descended the stairs to open the door and greet her husband with a bright, gay little smile. “Good morning—did you pass a pleasant night?”
“I couldn’t seem to sleep—I cannot imagine why.” He tossed his hat on the table and saluted her cheek, casually dressed for traveling in a corduroy jacket with a belcher knotted at his throat, his boots unpolished. He did look a bit tired, she thought, assessing, and decided that it served him right.
“I think it best that I try to eat something—do we have time for a quick breakfast? We’d have to fend for ourselves.”
“Willingly.” He stepped around the boxes and trunks that littered the entry hall. “It is the least I can do for putting you at sixes and sevens on such short notice.”
She laughed, the merry sound echoing in the entry hall. “It is not as though I have never had to make a hasty departure—Flanders comes to mind.” Her manner was very light as she led him into the breakfast room. “And as I recall, you were not far behind me.”
“Close enough to land on top of you, in fact; we were lucky the embassy had a laundry chute and doubly lucky there was enough linen to make the landing a soft one.”
They sat together at the breakfast table and reminisced about their assignment in Flanders, each insisting the
other’s role in its success was the more important. “Your poor little maidservant,” Vidia teased with a twinkle. “She probably wonders to this day what became of you.”
“Not my maidservant,” he corrected, lifting a brow. “Everyone’s maidservant.”
“You shock me.” She buttered her toast without enthusiasm—her appetite had disappeared again. “Such goings-on.”
“It was hard to believe that one small embassy could house such a nest of vipers,” he agreed. “Thoroughly cleaned out—thanks to your quick thinking.”
“And thanks to your way with maidservants.”
Trading smiles and light laughter, they finished their repast and called for the coach to come around. While her new husband saw her bandbox strapped onto the boot, Vidia stood on the front steps to tie up her bonnet and give Maisie final instructions. She then took Carstairs’s proffered arm and allowed him to hand her in the traveling coach, bestowing a smile upon the coachman who was eying her instead of minding the horses. Carstairs climbed in to sit beside her—gallantly kissing her hand—and they were under way, the route south similar to the one taken the day before to their wedding.
Progress was slow as they made their way through the crowded city, and they passed the time by pointing out landmarks that had witnessed a significant episode in their clandestine business.
“The Moor’s Head,” Carstairs noted, “where Mezzo was captured. What a night that was.”
“You were there?” asked Vidia with interest. “I heard it was a donnybrook.”
“They were hauling him out in handcuffs when one of his cohorts opened fire, trying to kill him before he could talk. The tavern keeper took umbrage because Mezzo hadn’t paid his bill, and the next thing you knew there was crossfire like a naval battle—you never saw so much broken glass in your life.”
Vidia pronounced fondly, “There are few dens as steeped in sin as The Moor’s Head.”
“I don’t know—I think the worst of the worst is Three Saints.”
She considered this assessment fairly and then nodded. “Definitely more weapons per square inch than any other den in town—always best to give the place a wide berth.”
“Unless you are ordered to go in for an extraction.” Extending his arm, he pushed up the sleeve, exposing a jagged scar. “A souvenir.”
She examined it with interest, even though she was already well aware his arm bore a scar. “Not a knife, surely?”
“Broken bottle. It was every man for himself.”
“The melees are the worst,” she agreed. “There can be no strategy or protocol when one is fighting a mob.” She hiked up her skirts to brandish a stockinged leg and indicate a long, narrow scar on her calf, visible through the silk. “My worst wound, to my shame, was self-inflicted.”
He ran a light finger over it. “How so?”
“I made to draw my pistol from my garter and—I was green, of course—I hit the trigger by mistake. There were two swagmen attempting to wrestle me down at the time.”
He gave a low whistle. “A close call.”
She lowered her skirt again. “Yes—it burned like fire and I learned my lesson; I have used a pocket instead of a garter ever since.”
“Did it happen at the Saints?”
With a knit brow, she tried to remember. “No—on the Continent, during my early days. I think it was in Brussels—or perhaps Marseilles; I remember I swore in Portuguese and they backed away—terrified I was conjuring up a curse on them. A good thing, it gave me time to reload and I was so furious at myself that they retreated, probably fearing I was a madwoman.”
After laughing in appreciation, he rested his head back on the cushions with a contented smile. “There will be no shortage of stories at our house.”
With her own bright smile she agreed, “No—there will be no shortage of stories.”
There was a long, silent pause while she could see he was trying to decide if her brittle tone was a rebuke. He then brought his head forward abruptly and exclaimed in an irritated manner, “I can’t do this any longer.”
She was silent, not quite willing to break role.
He leaned toward her with an intensity she had not seen since their wedding and took her hands in his. “I have caused this constraint between us. Forgive me.”
She did not disagree but waited.
“They were adamant that I shouldn’t bed you again.”
She nodded stiffly. “I thought as much. Then you have your orders, I suppose.”
He made a sound of frustration and bent his head, fingering the back of her hand. “I should have told you—you would have understood, and it would have spared us both the embarrassment.” Lifting his head, he met her gaze. “Now you are behind your snail shell and I am afraid you will never come out again.”
“We were supposed to try our hand at honesty.” She tried with little success to keep her voice devoid of accusation.
“Forgive me,” he said again, gently squeezing her hands, and she could swear he meant it.
Unable to control her annoyance, she withdrew her hands from his. “I don’t understand the concern—are they afraid I will slay you in your sleep? Or that you will be made vulnerable in some way?”
Watching her, he replied with complete seriousness, “They think you may seek to become pregnant in truth.”
Astonished, she stared at him. “They disbelieve it?”
He nodded. “As it came right on the heels of the attempted seizure, the Vicar believes you seek to preserve your life by the tale.”
She made an angry, dismissive gesture. “Small difference it would make to him.”
Carstairs said only, “You touch a nerve with him, I think.”
“Yes—for two pence he would strangle me himself.” She sat for a moment, absorbing this information. While she had suspected this was the case, it was disheartening to have it confirmed. At least he had finally decided to play it straight with her—although she wished he had done so last night. Better late than never.
“Are you pregnant?”
The question interrupted her thoughts, and her eyes flew to his in surprise. “Poor Lucien—do you think such a thing of your new-minted wife?”
He said almost gently, “We’re to try our hand at honesty.”
Nonplussed, she stared at him. “I am indeed pregnant, my friend.”
Without taking his level gaze from hers, he tilted his head. “Are you? Could it be a false alarm, perhaps?” He said it in the manner of someone trying to offer an excuse so that she could save face, and strange as it seemed, she was touched by his attempt to safeguard her pride.
“No, I am certain. I have lost my appetite, and—and there are other symptoms.”
He bent his head for a moment and rubbed her hands with his. “Tell me.”
She made a wry mouth and hesitated, then decided that he was, after all, her husband. A doubting husband—but a husband nonetheless. “My breasts are different.”
He raised his head to look into her eyes, intrigued. “Are they?”
“Yes.” She made a gesture. “They are tender at the sides. And my nipples—you may not remember—”
He interrupted her. “Oh—I remember; never fear.”
She had to smile, as he intended. Unbuttoning a button on her blouse she pulled the fabric to the side so that she could tug at her chemise. A nipple was exposed, formerly pink, now brown and thick. “As you see.”
He looked at the flesh for a long moment, then raised his eyes to hers in abject surprise. “Holy God—you are pregnant.”
“And you are the father—I swear it on the soul of my mother.” She buttoned up again and watched as he bent his head to cradle it in his hands for a moment. He did not think it true, either, she thought. Now, that is of interest.
Lifting his head, he took her hands in his and kissed them, one after the other. “May we start over again?”
Bemused, she knew only that if she had any—any—self-respect at all she should put her blade to his t
hroat and be done with this ridiculous game of least-in-sight she kept playing with Lucien Carstairs. Instead, she willingly tried to start over, yet again. “I suppose we have little choice—and although I shouldn’t make such a confession, there is very little I wouldn’t forgive when it comes to you.”
Apparently, he had decided to start over again with a vengeance. “Listen, Vidia; they know that Brodie is in communication with Rochon—by pigeon. They also know that the pattern of communication seems to coincide with the missing gold shipments.”
She did listen, utterly dismayed. “Oh—I see.”
Watching her intently, he continued, “They also believe you know of this but made no report. That—coupled with Marie’s accusations—has led to an unfortunate conclusion.”
“So I have gathered—the Vicar watches me as though he was a hawk and I a very tasty mouse.”
He made a wry mouth. “And here I thought you were a snail.”
She sighed. “Either way, I am dinner.” With a knit brow she sorted out the alarming implications. “Lord, what a tangle—am I in imminent danger of being hanged?”
He met her eyes again in all seriousness. “Let us instead say it is well that you have a ready excuse to be spirited away until all concerns are alleviated.”
She studied his grave expression. “As dire as that, then?”
He nodded, but then said, “I will tell them you are indeed pregnant—it may help.”
With a small smile she added, “Beg them for permission to bed me—no point in closing the stable door when the horse is well away.”
He laughed and shook his head. “You must think me a very sorry fellow.”
Laughing in return, she agreed, “Indeed, I do.”
After the laughter subsided they sat in silence, comfortable again. “This is better.” He ran his thumbs over her hands again.
“Yes—much.” She didn’t wish to ruin the newly reconciled mood by noting that he had not asked her outright whether she knew of any of this—it appeared he didn’t want to know, which seemed strange, no matter what his feelings for her were. She would keep her own counsel and await events—she had little choice.
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