Tainted Angel

by Anne Cleeland

  “That rig didn’t work very well,” Vidia reminded her.

  “It were a good idea,” Maisie insisted in a stubborn tone. “The man was a glomper, is all.”

  Vidia raised her face to the sky for a moment, into the breeze that now was growing cold. “You are a trump, Maisie—I don’t tell you near enough.”

  Her companion disclaimed, embarrassed by the praise. “Go on wi’ ye, missy. I does what I’m told.”

  “You remember if anything happens to me you are to go straight to Mr. Brodie—he will see to you.”

  “Now, missy; I’ll hear none o’ yer nonsense,” the other cautioned with some dismay.

  “And take the sugar box—I will have your promise.”

  But the maid was forced to demur, “Except fer t’ opals—opals are bad luck.”

  This was of interest and Vidia turned to regard her. “Are they indeed? And why did you not tell me earlier—it would have saved me a fistful of trouble.”

  Maisie chuckled and Vidia joined in, amazed that she could laugh. I will come about, she thought; I always have.

  “Mayhap the babe has put ye out o’ sorts,” the maid suggested as they toured the area behind the boathouse.

  “The babe has definitely put me off,” Vidia agreed, taking a quick inventory of the boats lodged therein. “I have given my promise not to act recklessly, and I am regretting it already.”

  “Tea,” offered Maisie. “Strong an’ sweet; a spot of tea will put you t’ rights.”

  “Of course.” Vidia pretended to be much struck. “Tea will turn the trick; if only I had thought of it.”

  Chuckling again, Maisie directed their steps back to the inn, while Vidia carefully watched the shadows.

  They came in through the kitchen door, thinking to ask for tea on their way to the common room, and found the cook in hushed conversation with another man who was seated at the kitchen table, their heads close together. All conversation ceased and both men looked up, wary, as the women nodded to them and progressed through the kitchen.

  Ah, thought Vidia, hiding a smile. The trap is sprung, and I am impressed—the grey-eyed man has indeed put together something creative. He could not know, after all, that I know more than I should about the gentleman at the kitchen table—and it is a good plan. But now it is time to turn the tables.

  Chapter 27

  I will need you to vacate the room, Maisie—and be much in evidence elsewhere.” Vidia stood at the window, holding the lace curtain aside with her fingertips. Their room was on the second floor but she had every confidence her visitor would manage it; he was a very fine cat burglar when he wasn’t smuggling—or pretending to smuggle, as the case may be. She would soon find out, being as she was a very fine discerner of plots.

  “Is Mr. Carstairs to visit?” her maidservant asked with a hopeful mien.

  “You never know.” Vidia arched an eyebrow; best not to tell Maisie that she expected a different gentleman altogether—Maisie had enough on her plate, what with trying to relieve her mistress’s case of the dismals.

  Maisie gathered up her tatting and her shawl. “I’ll be in the common room—should I fall asleep on a chair, do you think?”

  She was probably hopeful that Carstairs would take Vidia to bed and thus restore order in the world, and Vidia was sorry to disappoint her. “I don’t think it necessary—I imagine an hour or two will be sufficient. I shall come fetch you—have a pot of tea in the meantime.”

  Once alone, Vidia approached her mirror and unbuttoned the top two buttons of her modest bodice, then pinched some color into her cheeks. I cannot overplay this and appear too desperate, she thought. Fortunately I have been deserted by my husband, and that will support my role.

  There was a soft tap at her door, and she was almost disappointed that no attempt had been made to scale the wall outside. Opening the door a few inches, she perceived the gentleman who had been conspiring with the cook earlier, grinning with delight. He was a Romany—thin, dark-haired, and handsome, his face marked with an intriguing scar.

  Laughing, she pulled him inside. “Gaston; entrez—vite.”

  He enfolded her in an embrace and lifted her off the floor for a moment. “La belle Vidia—I thought to fall from my chair.” He set her down and held her at arm’s length, openly admiring her and making a sucking sound with his mouth. “You are une ange, chérie.”

  “And you are up to no good, I’ll wager—what are you doing here? Is there a daughter of the house you seek to ruin?” She indicated he was to sit in the chair while she sat across from him on the edge of the bed, casually tucking her legs beneath her in such a way so as to reveal some lace petticoat.

  Gaston made a derisive gesture with his forefinger. “Bah—there are no good women here; instead, I bring decent tobacco and the brandy to the stupid English who cannot make their own.”

  Vidia gave him her slow smile and leaned forward so that the unbuttoned buttons could work their magic. “So—you smuggle into the inn with a cutter moored out in the cove? You are like the hero in a gothic novel, Gaston, small wonder all the girls sigh.”

  He cast her a wicked glance, his eyes glinting. “Shall I take you for a sail? The moon is nearly full.”

  Shrugging her graceful shoulders, she sighed with regret. “Quel dommage; I cannot tarry with you, Gaston—I am new-married.”

  Incredulous, he stared at her. “Non—incroyable.”

  Laughing softly at his reaction, she bowed her head in mock contrition. “C’est vrai.”

  He chuckled. “That was fast work, mignon—who managed this miracle?”

  “Lucien Carstairs—do you know of him?”

  With a show of acute surprise, he made a deprecatory gesture. “Why would you marry that one? Anglais; un tel gaspillage.”

  Spreading her hands, she disclaimed, “It could not be helped; there were no Romany men to hand.”

  He chuckled in appreciation and raised his dark brows. “But what of the rich man?”

  She leaned forward, allowing another glimpse of her cleavage—a shame her dress wasn’t one of her usual—and looked at him from beneath her lashes. “I needed something more—you know me.”

  As his gaze lingered appreciatively on her décolletage, he replied, “Hélas—I do not but I wish I did.”

  She laughed softly, deep in her throat. Gaston had always had a soft spot for her—as had nearly every man she had ever met.

  Gaston cocked his head at her, unable to take his gaze from her breasts. “Where is this new Anglais husband? He neglects you, perhaps?”

  Vidia made a moue with her mouth. “Oui, he neglects me—I think he has second thoughts; he worries I’ll not be faithful.” With her eyes, she invited him to share in her amusement at such a thought.

  Gaston stared at her in dismay for a moment. “He would not leave you, surely?”

  Finding that she didn’t want to discuss it, even within her role, she cut to the nub of the matter—there seemed little point in flirting for another hour. “When do you return to la belle France, mon ami?”

  He tilted his head, making a sound of regret. “On tonight’s tide—do you need money? Or a weapon with which to shoot such a man?”

  “I shall come with you to France,” she pronounced as though it was a simple thing and recrossed her legs, smoothing out her skirt with a lingering gesture. “We shall sail and admire the moon together.”

  There was a slight pause, and he replied lightly, “Do not tempt me, ma belle.”

  But Vidia became deadly serious. “The wolves are closing in, my friend—I must be away, and quickly.”

  Raising his brows, he regarded her narrowly for a moment. “I have no desire to have this new husband kill me.”

  “He is one of the wolves. That is why I must be away.”

  He rendered a low whistle. “You must report to Rochon?”

  The question lingered in the air, a hint of challenge contained therein. “Indeed—I will meet up with Monsieur Rochon.” She held his gaze with
out flinching.

  He thought it over for a moment, then shook his head with regret. “I think I must stay away from such a plan, chérie.”

  She made an impatient gesture with her hand and chided him, “Gaston, Gaston—and here I thought you stood my friend. Have you forgotten how I distracted the angry papa in Leiden?”

  He spread his own hands in a purely Gallic gesture of regret. “It is too great a risk, ma belle.”

  “One thousand pounds to get me away,” she replied coolly, fingering a curl that rested atop her breast.

  Giving a silent whistle, he stared at her—the sum was staggering. “You tempt me, Vidia, but if it is known I help you escape to Rochon, the English will hang me très-vite.”

  “I will tell no one, will you?”

  Ducking his chin to his chest, he considered while Vidia watched him from beneath her lashes. She had little doubt of the outcome.

  “Bien. I will do it—only for you, belle Vidia.”

  “Très bien. Shall I see if there is a bottle of your fine French brandy downstairs? I would hear of your adventures.”

  His expression changed subtly. “I no longer drink.”

  She thought as much; Gaston had undergone a sea change—and she could only hope his was not as hard as hers had been at San Sebastian. Aloud she teased him, “You will astonish me next, and tell me you are a holy man.”

  “Not this side of heaven.” He relaxed again, relieved to change the subject.

  She lifted her feet to rest them on his chair and clasped her knees with her hands. “Tell me a round tale, then—I am in dire need of entertainment in this God-forsaken place.”

  “D’accord—I shall tell you that my friends in Calais still swear that you are a mermaid.”

  Making a wry mouth, she disclaimed, “No—they only seek to conceal the fact they cannot shoot straight.”

  As he chuckled, she teased him with an arched brow, “Tell me, what do you hear from Renée—does she pine for you?”

  He threw back his head and laughed so that she had to caution him to stay quiet. “You are cruel to remind me.”

  Smiling, Vidia shrugged. “How were you to know that Renée was more properly a René? Or that he would be so smitten by your beaux yeux?”

  “And I could not make an exit without stirring up the guards—it was a situation intenable.” He paused, remembering, then sobered. “Poor René met with a bad end.”

  Watching him carefully, she shrugged slightly. “Did he? I cannot say I am surprised—he had many dangerous friends.”

  Gaston nodded and threw her a significant glance. “Some more dangerous than others.”

  “Yes—it cannot be a comfortable existence—to hold the secrets of dangerous men.”

  His sharp gaze flew to her face, but she was contemplating the fire in the grate, her expression mild. “Does the counterfeiter still live—what was his name?”

  Gaston shifted in his chair. “Gerard—he does; he was too useful to kill, even when Rochon discovered his treachery.”

  Making a wry mouth she asked, “Is he a—guest—of Monsieur Rochon nowadays?”

  Gaston shrugged. “I know not.” Then, with a sly smile, “You would know, better than I.”

  She kept her gaze upon the grate and did not react to the insinuation. “I have not been a guest myself, of late.” She then moved on to more general subjects, inquiring after other acquaintances as they spoke of old times and the general injustice of the war.

  After an hour, he rose. “I must go. The tide will turn at ten o’clock—can you meet me on the beach down below without being seen?”

  “I will be there, my friend. How many in your crew? I do not wish any tale-bearers.”

  “Only one, to man the jibs. He will say nothing—especially if he is paid to stay silent.”

  “Good,” she said. “I shall see to it.”

  He paused at the door. “It is not that I do not trust you, ma belle—but are you certain you can bring such a sum?”

  “I can—but take this as a sign of good faith.” She pulled off her ring with the three diamonds and handed it to him.

  He examined it doubtfully. “Your wedding ring?”

  “No,” she assured him. “Only a trifle.”

  Chapter 28

  Ah, me,” sighed Maisie with resignation.

  “I’ll disappear in London for a time.” Vidia wrapped a dark shawl around her head and carefully tucked her hair in the edges. “It’s best you don’t know more than that.”

  “Yer nowt one who can disappear easy-like,” Maisie cautioned. “It’ll be quite a trick.”

  Bending over to tighten the laces on her half boots, Vidia agreed. “It’s a shame I don’t have the widow’s weeds outfit with me—at least it has a veil.”

  “What do I say in the morning?”

  Considering this aspect for a moment, Vidia straightened up and advised, “Stall as long as possible—and if you are asked, admit you are not certain and button your lip. I imagine there are witnesses who noted that I had a gentleman in my room last night, and you will be trying to protect my shredded reputation.”

  Dubious, Maisie eyed her mistress. “I’m to say such to Mr. Carstairs?”

  “Especially to Mr. Carstairs.” Vidia’s tone was grim as she pulled her sleeves down with a jerk. With an abrupt movement, she flung the end of her shawl over the opposite shoulder. “I’ll need a diversion, Maisie, as I have no desire to go out the window.”

  “I’ll drop t’ teapot on the kitchen floor; wait for it.”

  Before she opened the door, Vidia paused and took the woman’s hands in hers for a moment. “Thank you, Maisie—I shall meet up with you as soon as I can.”

  “G’wan with ye,” her unhappy maidservant mumbled, and left for the kitchen.

  Vidia waited in the shadows at the top of the servant’s stairway until she heard a crash and alarmed voices heading toward the kitchen, then she slipped out the side door and clung to the shadows, circling around wide so as to avoid detection by those who watched her—although unless she very much missed her guess, they were all well-aware of her plans for escape. I agree with Brodie, she thought, pressing her lips together in a thin line—a pox on all warmongers, everywhere, for requiring such exertions of me.

  She made her way to the sandy track that wound to the beach, careful to stay to the shoulder so as not to allow her silhouette to be visible in the moonlight. If nothing else, I shall be away from this miserable, windy place, she thought as she walked along, soft-footed. Perhaps I do not wish to live by the sea, after all.

  Staying to the shadows, she arrived at the cove and hovered near the cover of the cliffs, waiting for Gaston’s rowboat to emerge from the sea. When she was on the crest she had spotted Gaston’s cutter anchored just outside the inlet, but it was not visible from her current vantage point and so she waited with a cautious hand on her pistol, wondering who knew she waited here, and what they were expecting. There—she could see the light from a lantern on the horizon well before she heard the sound of the oars in the oarlocks as the small vessel approached, bucking about on the choppy surf. When it came within a few yards of landing, she approached the shoreline, wearing a light skirt tied up around her calves so that it would not become heavy with water when she waded out to board the boat—she had learned that lesson at Calais.

  There were two men in the rowboat, Gaston and another who kept his collar up and his cap pulled low as he plied the oars. Too short to be the false chaplain, Vidia thought, and I cannot like the odds of two against one.

  Gaston jumped out with a graceful movement and the other man pulled the rowboat onto the beach behind him, keeping his face averted which only convinced Vidia that she needed to have a good look at him.

  “Bonne nuit.” Gaston’s teeth flashed white in the moonlight.

  “Bonne nuit,” she greeted in return, and then bent her head coyly to peer at his companion. “Bonne nuit,” she said softly in a throaty voice.

  Unable to res
ist, the man took a quick glimpse at her face and Vidia saw it was Joseph, Carstairs’s erstwhile servant, wearing an imperfect disguise. He needs a good lesson about how important it is to hold one’s role, thought Vidia, and with a chopping arc brought her pistol down on the back of his head. He fell forward, face-first into the shallow water.

  “Parbleu—” Gaston exclaimed in astonishment, gazing into the barrel of her pistol, now inches from his face.

  “Vôtre pistolet,” she demanded in a voice of steel. “Then pull him out of the water.”

  “Chérie—”

  Vidia did not respond but pulled the hammer back with a click. Quickly, the Romany man threw his pistol to the sand and then hauled Joseph up on the beach so that he was no longer in danger of drowning.

  “Into the boat,” directed Vidia. “We sail for London—I will man the jibs, since this man is unfortunately disabled.”

  In an urgent tone, Gaston implored her, “Come, belle Vidia—is it the money? We can negotiate.”

  “No, it is not the money, Gaston. I shall pay you handsomely, but we will sail to London, not France.”

  He bent his head as though to consider what she said, but the movement was meant to hide an urgent whisper; “Fuyez.”

  But Vidia did not flee as advised. Instead, with a sigh she lowered her pistol and waited to be seized; she had no desire for a battle, cornered here on the beach and no doubt outnumbered—and she had promised not to be reckless. She placed a hand on his arm. “I am glad to see that you are well, my friend, and I harbor no hard feelings.”

  Turning to see who had inspired Gaston’s warning, she spied Carstairs’s figure approaching along the shoreline in an unhurried manner—he must have been watching from the rocks. She hadn’t guessed he was there, but overall she was not surprised. I think I am no longer surprised by anything, she thought, and stood beside a silent Gaston to await his approach as the water lapped around their feet.