With a sigh, she lowered her head again to his chest. “Just make certain I have enough air.”
“That’s my girl.” He fingered the ends of her hair where it spilled around his ribs.
“But won’t the Vicar be watching Maisie for such a trick?”
Drawing a strand of hair through his fingers, he lifted it and watched it fall. “I think not. He is preoccupied—your disappearance is not nearly as important as the disappearance of the latest gold shipment. The Treasury is in an uproar.”
Lina lifted her head and met his gaze. “Are there any leads?”
In a neutral tone he disclosed, “One. A gold brick was discovered in your house.”
Lina had no problem portraying her extreme surprise. “Truly? In my house?”
“It was under your cook’s pillow.”
She stared at him in horror, and then ducked her head and struggled not to smile. I cannot break role, she thought in desperation—hold steady, menina. Laughter welled up from within her breast, and she could not control it to save her life, so she burst into laughter until the tears came to her eyes. She had not laughed so hard in a long, long time.
He pulled her to him and laughed right along with her. “You can only imagine…”
“Oh Lucien,” she gasped. “He must have been furious.”
They laughed together again, then brought themselves under control, Carstairs’s hand resting on her head. “How did you twig him?”
“Lucien,” she protested with a smile. “I know nothing of this.”
With good humor he pointed out, “But you knew it was the Curate, masquerading as your cook.”
“Only because you gave him away—when I mentioned the card games with the footman next door you couldn’t hold your role.”
They gazed at each other a long moment and a smile still played around his lips. “Don’t tell him I gave him away.”
“As if I’d grass on you, wretched man—you should know better.”
Chuckling, he rubbed his hand along her back. “I now see why my plan to clear your taint must be so complicated.”
But she disagreed and shook her head at him with a smile. “Pray acquit me of this prank—how can I be implicated? I was safely stowed away here at the end of the earth with no friends at hand. Then I was good enough to drown.”
Ducking his chin, he conceded, “Good point—all suspicion must fall on Brodie, then.” His gaze was suddenly sharp upon her.
She arched a brow. “You know Brodie—perhaps he merely twists the Vicar’s tail. It is not as though Brodie doesn’t have his own gold bricks lying about.”
Carstairs nodded in acknowledgment. “It is not enough to bring him in, certainly—and even if it was, they wouldn’t dare for fear of what he’d do, and how it would look if they couldn’t find proof of any wrongdoing.”
“Definitely—and remember that he is unpredictable and does not always react as you would expect. Not to mention that he will have been bereaved of a very fine mistress—I’d not like to cross him just now.”
“Will he grieve?” Carstairs asked, touching her face with his fingertips. He seemed genuinely curious.
Lina answered easily, “I imagine—he is very fond of me.”
He traced her jaw line with a forefinger. “No more.”
“No more what?” she teased.
“No more of that life.”
She leaned in to bite his ear, gently. “Alas—and I have such a lovely sugar box full of jewels.”
He tilted his head toward her because he was enjoying the attentions to his ear. “You won’t need them in Suffolk.”
She chuckled. “Lord, Suffolk will not know what to make of me.”
“I will.” He nibbled on her throat, then twisting, shifted himself atop her, his mouth trailing down to her abdomen. He paused and placed his hand across her trim waist for a moment, contemplating it. “It is hard to believe there is someone in there.”
“I tend to forget, myself.”
He propped up on an elbow and placed a palm where the baby rested. “What was your mother’s name?”
She gazed at the ceiling and smiled. “Concepción.”
He grinned. “Perhaps not.”
“No—we shouldn’t saddle this poor child with such a name.”
“Constance, perhaps,” he suggested.
Touched, she laid a hand against his face. “You are a wonderful, wonderful man.”
He turned his head to kiss her palm and returned the compliment. “I cannot believe my good fortune—that I am here, with you.”
“An amazing turn of luck.” She could not suppress the undercurrent of irony and berated herself; she shouldn’t undermine the bliss of the moment.
He did not respond to her tone but shifted up to lie beside her, pulling her head to rest on his shoulder. “I have to earn your trust. I understand.”
They lay together in drowsy silence for a few moments while the rain pattered on the tiny window. “What if the child is a boy, Lucien?”
He tightened his arm around her. “Jameson. We have little choice, I’m afraid—every other generation is Jameson or Lucien.”
With some alarm she confessed, “I am afraid to ask how many generations there have been.”
“Nonsense; you are fearless.”
Making a wry mouth she continued, “And I’ll wager none of them has ever brought home someone like me.”
“Poor souls.”
Apparently he was feeling amorous again as he began to engage in the preliminaries. “Lucien,” she whispered. “I’m afraid you are being foolish—to ignore such things.”
He kissed her, open mouthed, and trailed kisses down her throat before he asked, “Is there any chance you will be executed for treason?” Suddenly his face was above hers, the expression in his blue eyes very serious.
“No,” she said with complete sincerity. “Not the smallest chance.”
“Then I don’t care what they think.” His face disappeared between her breasts and she decided there was nothing to be done—he was certifiable, poor man. But a master at lovemaking, which completely made up for the lapse. “Lucien,” she gasped. “We have to stay quiet.”
His busy mouth was muffled. “I am not the one who is noisy.”
Writhing with pleasure, she laughed again. I could become accustomed to this, she thought. Por favor Deus.
Chapter 35
The next morning found Lina curled up in her trunk, listening to the sound of the rain on the lid as she rocked back and forth with the coach’s movements. Deus, it will be nothing short of amazing if I do not become sick from the motion, she thought with resignation. If this doesn’t turn the trick, nothing will.
In truth, she did feel a bit queasy but refused to dwell on this unfortunate fact and instead wriggled to place her nose and mouth a bit closer to the holes Carstairs had punched through the wall of the trunk and breathed in, smelling the scent of rain. She worked her pocket watch out of her pocket and carefully brought it before her face so that she could see the time by virtue of the light shafting through the air holes. Another hour or so; they would stop for lunch and to change the horses at Tunbridge Wells. She could hang on until then; she had been in worse straits—Rochon’s lair came to mind.
As she was rocked back and forth, she thought about Carstairs, and how his skin tasted, and how much she craved him. She wondered idly about the last time he made love to Marie, perhaps only a few short weeks ago. His mention of her name that first night had been part of the trap—it was acutely annoying to think they had plotted her seduction, hoping for her own revelation of treason, and then when that hadn’t worked had plotted her sham marriage with the same aim. How frustrating it must be for them that I am not cooperating, she thought with a twinge of satisfaction. By now they would have me clapped in irons so that they could root through my town house with impunity. As it is, they have spent a great deal of time and effort plotting my downfall with little to show for it.
She shifted posit
ion and tried not to think about her wayward stomach. Even if they seized her, they would still have to contend with Brodie, and he was a force to be reckoned with since he held the bonds that could bring the Treasury to its knees. Not to mention the Prince Regent was fond of Brodie since he never called in his debts—an excellent trait in a gambling crony.
And now Carstairs, by all indications, was so deeply in love with her that he was willing to risk sharing her disgrace if indeed she was tainted—unless his change of heart was merely the third of such attempts to beguile her into saying something damning. I wish I knew what was sham and what was not, she thought, breathing in deeply with her eyes closed. But I don’t, and so I must plan accordingly—it seems that I have never rested easy; never had the luxury of peace, starting from that first day in Guarda when the French stormed in and the world came to an end.
Frowning, she shook herself out of her sadness, blaming it upon the current state of her stomach. She refused to rail against fate—there was no point to it, and thanks to what she had lived through she now had a prodigious strength of will; the old soldado would be proud. She kept breathing deeply and tried to concentrate on the task ahead.
When they finally came to a halt, it was not soon enough for Lina. The rain had lessened but still continued in a light sprinkle; beyond the rain she could hear the bustling noises of the posting yard at the inn. She smiled to herself when she heard Carstairs’s voice giving commands to the coachman and the posting boys. Soon, she thought, and mentally girded her loins. They had agreed ahead of time that Maisie would open the trunk to check on her while Carstairs diverted the stable personnel with instructions. Lina waited, flexing her fingers and her toes until the warning tap was heard and then the hasp unlocked. As the lid was lifted, Maisie’s stolid face appeared. “Quick-like.”
Lina needed no encouragement and hoisted herself out of the cramped trunk, her exit obscured by the raised lid in the event anyone was watching. She pulled Maisie’s cloak from where it was folded under the maid’s arm and climbed nimbly around to the rear of the carriage, away from the posting yard. Peering carefully around the corner of the vehicle, she saw that the coast was clear, and with one smooth movement swung down to the ground and then darted into one of the stable stalls, thankful her legs could still obey instruction. As she caught her breath, she viewed the yard through a crack between the boards and saw that no one had noticed her escape. Carstairs glanced toward the carriage to gauge Maisie’s need as he finished up his conversation with the ostlers, and her maid could be seen gazing into the trunk for a few moments more before she lowered the lid and locked it up.
Quickly, Lina donned Maisie’s serviceable cloak over her own and pulled the hood strings around her face as she watched Maisie walk across the courtyard to the inn. Carstairs soon followed the maid, probably anxious to hear a report on Lina. She felt a pang; she was wicked to serve him such a trick, but needs must when the devil drives, and they were dealing with the diabo himself.
She and Maisie had agreed that the break from the journey should be minimal so that it would be resumed as soon as possible, with Carstairs unaware that Lina no longer remained sequestered in the trunk. Once the carriage was under way again, Lina would then either steal a horse or beguile some man into lending her a mount and be on her way. She settled in to watch the yard and tentatively stretched out her legs—she hadn’t ridden a horse in some time and hoped she would not disgrace herself. While she waited in the stall, she took off her gloves to blow on her fingers; the air was cold and damp as the light rain resumed.
After a short space of time, the new horses were put to and the coach was made ready for the continuation of the journey to London. Carstairs came out to inspect the harnesses while Maisie climbed into the interior, never glancing her way. Carstairs soon joined the maid inside and they were away, the wheels rattling on the gravel and Carstairs’s horse tied to the boot.
Lina had already assessed the horseflesh stabled in her proximity and decided she liked the looks of a small bay mare. Moving slowly, she sidled alongside it and stroked the soft nose. “How would you like to go to London, my friend?” she whispered. The mare seemed to think the idea agreeable and nickered softly, searching for a tidbit. Taking a quick glance around, Lina began to move toward the tack room. As it was lunchtime, there were only a few hands about and she had learned long ago the best tactic when one was stealing something was to move with confidence. Hopefully no one would think to question her.
She grasped a likely looking saddle and bridle and returned to the mare only to confront Carstairs, leaning against the stall and watching her, his expression grave. Lina stood stock-still, her heart hammering. Finding that she could not lie to him, she said nothing.
“Where do you go?” he asked quietly.
She swallowed. “I must go on an errand, Lucien—I am sorry I could not say.”
He dropped his gaze to the floor and said nothing for a moment. “Shall I see you again?”
She put all the sincerity she could muster into her voice. “Of course. This very evening—my hand on my heart, querido.”
He stepped toward her and lifted the saddle from her hand so that he could saddle the mare. “It is raining, Lina.”
“I will be very careful—and I think it is beginning to clear to the north.” He was going to trust her, just as he had agreed. She was humbly touched, as she wasn’t certain she could have done the same if she were in his position.
“Take my hat.” He handed it to her and she donned it without comment, pulling the leather brim down low over her face—between the hood and the hat she wouldn’t be recognizable. He tightened the mare’s saddle girth. “Would you rather take Whistlejacket? He is a very steady fellow.”
She considered. “I’d rather have a smaller mount in this weather, methinks. But I thank you for the offer.” Unspoken was the additional fact that it wouldn’t be helpful to either of them if she was spotted on his Andalusian stallion.
He cupped his hands for her boot and threw her up. She tightened the strings around her face to pull the hood close and gathered the reins. She couldn’t help but ask, “How did you twig me?”
“Maisie’s cloak was missing.”
She smiled down at him in admiration. “Lord, you are a downy one, Mr. Tyneburne.”
“Sir Lucien,” he corrected her, with an apologetic tilt of his head.
Regarding him for a long moment she thought, I am a sad trial to this poor man—I must make it up to him. She leaned down and kissed him, pulling up the hat’s broad brim. “I love you, Sir Lucien—never doubt it.”
He did not smile. “I will not rest easy until you return.”
She gathered up the reins and kicked the mare away. I shouldn’t look back, she thought, or I may lose my nerve for the first time in my life.
Urging the horse into a canter, she cleared away from the posting house as quickly as she dared, the rain in her face making it difficult to see. She kept a hand on the crown of the borrowed hat, determined not to lose it to a gust of wind as it was a bit too large for her. I should have stolen a hat string, she thought; next time.
As the weather kept most other travelers indoors, she met very few on her journey, and as the mare was sure of foot, she had time to contemplate her actions. She wanted to trust Carstairs but dared not; she needed to make contact with Brodie and she needed to assess Jenny Dokes’s complicity in the various plots and counterplots—that Dokes had sent her the note was alarming; Lina believed she was one of the few people capable of unraveling Brodie’s careful plans and so it was important that she not be given the opportunity.
The sturdy little mare made no complaint as the miles passed. Lina continued unwell; the child within her was making his or her presence known. Jameson or Constance, she corrected, and belatedly realized that a long hard ride in the driving rain was perhaps not the best course of action for a woman in her condition. I should not tempt fate, now that happiness appears within my grasp, she thought, brushi
ng the rain from her eyes with the back of a hand. Mãe Maria, please don’t let me lose this child like the last one—I couldn’t bear it. Even as she made the plea she realized that the memories from San Sebastian weren’t as vivid; the horror not as acute. I have probed that wound, thanks to Carstairs, and have come away healed—or at least more healed than I was. Perhaps I am finished with the nightmares at last—I should work to ensure I do not replace them with an entirely new set. With renewed determination, she urged the mare forward.
Chapter 36
It is amazing the pigeons are so reliable, Lina thought idly as she watched them strutting about in their cote. They are such passaros estupidos.
Wrapped in Maisie’s cloak, she sat on a joint stool, trying to stay warm and waiting patiently in the warehouse loft. She had dispatched one of the aforesaid pigeons as a signal to Brodie to meet with her, as any attempt to contact him directly would be observed by those who watched his every move—although the Curate probably no longer numbered among them. He was very clever at hiding his identity from me—my erstwhile cook, she thought with amusement. I wonder if he learned anything of interest other than how I like my eggs.
The pigeons stirred, flapping their wings upon feeling the air move when a door opened downstairs. Lina cocked her pistol but was reassured when she heard a soft whistle.
“Ho,” said Brodie as he climbed up the narrow wooden stairs into the loft. “Well met, Mrs. Carstairs.”
“Not exactly,” she disclaimed from her perch on the stool, watching his approach. “You were right—it was a trap.”
Pausing to catching his breath after coming up the steps, he considered this revelation with a frown. “Did you slay him?”
With her slow smile she shrugged in a self-satisfied manner. “No; fortunately he is unable to resist me, and so at present he is trying to clear me of any taint—out of coverage, no less.”
“Good man,” pronounced Brodie, nodding in approval. “That he was compelled to follow orders can easily be forgiven—and his turnaround demonstrates flexibility, which is a virtue.” He then belied this accolade by cocking a wary eye at her. “Did he follow you?”
Tainted Angel Page 21
