Chapter 38
Weary and not at all certain who had succeeded in laying a false trail, Lina left Dokes’s rooms and made her way to the agreed-upon destination; a modest Kensington row of houses where a lantern left out on one front stoop identified it as the safe house—a residence used when any of her compatriots needed a temporary place to go to ground. She signaled for the hackney to stop and drew Maisie’s cloak hood tight under her chin. I must look like a cast-off from the Seven Dials district, she thought. Just as well—that way no one will attempt to peer under the brim of this oversized hat.
Alighting from the cab, she tossed a coin without raising her face, her thanks delivered in a gruff voice. She had been careful to take a circuitous route so as not to be followed by Dokes, although Dokes would certainly anticipate such a subterfuge and may not have bothered as a result. They both knew how to conserve their actions in the face of futility.
Slipping into the shrubbery beside the front stoop, Lina stood in the shadows for a few minutes, waiting for possible observers to pass by before she approached the door—no point in drawing attention at this late stage. One such passerby was a gas lighter; a tall, lean man as was suitable for his profession, carrying his torch and ambling along the pavement with a rolling gait, pausing to light the lamps in the falling dusk. A former sailor, she thought—one could always tell by the walk.
The man paused directly before her and lit a clay pipe, tamping down the tobacco and sparking a flint. In the sudden flare she caught a glimpse of grey eyes directed her way and stifled a gasp.
“Good evening,” he said.
With a monumental effort, she concealed her acute dismay. “Good evening, sir.”
He turned to face her, puffing a cloud of smoke from the pipe as they assessed one another for a few moments, Lina’s heart pounding in her throat. He finally said, “So—you live.”
She smiled serenely and wished she didn’t appear so bedraggled; her beauty made a better shield. “You did not think I would make your task so easy, did you?”
He continued to puff on the pipe, regarding her. “On the contrary—I am well-pleased to behold you before me. It would be a rare tragedy were you dead.”
She bowed. “I thank you.”
“What the devil are you about?” He asked in the same tone he would have used to discuss the weather.
Matching his bluntness, she decided to answer honestly. “I’m afraid I cannot say. I would, but it is a matter of divided loyalties. Be assured that I am not your enemy.”
He took a step toward her, thoughtful, and turned to gaze up the dark street for a moment, surveying the other people in the vicinity out of long habit. “No—you are not my enemy. Quite the contrary.” He then looked down into her eyes, his own containing a message in their grey depths that she had interpreted many a time and from many a man.
She gazed up at him, unprepared to believe the implication.
Witnessing her reaction, he made a self-deprecatory gesture with his hands. “It is true—despite my best efforts, apparently I am only flesh and blood.” A small smile played around his lips. “That night, when you sat in your nightdress on your cellar steps, I had half a mind to put it to the touch.”
Controlling her bemusement only with an effort, she returned a mild response. “You honor me. Unfortunately for such a plan I was already pregnant at the time—and by your own contrivance, I might add.”
He shook his head with regret. “You were careless, to allow such a thing to come to pass.”
“No one was more surprised than I, I assure you.”
He placed a boot on the railing’s crossbar and contemplated it for a moment while she watched him, wary and off-balance. “And you will bear this child and stay with Carstairs?” He glanced at her, sidelong. “If you are not hanged, that is.”
Nodding in acknowledgment, she agreed, “That is my plan—if I am not hanged.”
He glanced up the street again, gathering himself to speak. Lina very much hoped her spymaster was not going to declare his undying devotion—it would be beyond surreal.
But instead he said only, “If it does not work out—for any reason—I will have your promise that you will give me the right of first refusal.”
Frowning at him, she seriously thought about it. She then decided if she couldn’t have Carstairs, she may as well have this one. “Agreed—but I have a condition.”
“Name it.” The grey eyes were intent upon hers.
In a level tone, she continued, “If anything untoward happens to Carstairs—even if he is hit by a dray while crossing the street—I shall never speak to you again.”
He leaned back his head and chuckled, contemplating the starry sky. “You overestimate your attraction.”
“I believe,” she countered, “that you and I are well-suited because we understand one another very well.”
He sobered and contemplated her. “My promise on it, then.” He offered his hand and she took it, his clasp warm, firm, and brief.
They stood together in silence while he plied his pipe and leaned against the railing. Lina breathed in the night air and thought, I have managed another in a long string of lucky escapes, thanks to my formidable wiles. Although to be accurate I have never practiced said wiles upon this particular man—unless you count the duet at the piano, I suppose.
She also noted with interest that they were now comfortable together—as though they were old companions, neither willing to break off the interlude. In the past, there had been a tension that she had attributed to his unswerving suspicion. Now that she was aware of the true source of the tension, she was almost disappointed—he had been the one man who had seemed impervious to her beauty. Studying his averted face, she decided it was just as well they would not be together—she would never have any idea of his thoughts. “What will you do now?”
He did not hesitate in his answer. “I will be on a knifepoint of agony wondering if I should have killed you outright.”
She chuckled. “No need, certainly—I am true.”
“But to whom?” He shot her a look, no longer warm.
Teasing, she asked, “Is there anything you do not know?”
“No.” He leaned to tap out his pipe on the railing.
“Did you know of Grant?”
Amused, he chided her. “Please—how could I not? He is an amateur.”
“He is loathsome,” she retorted with revulsion.
Her companion straightened up and spoke seriously. “You of all people should know not to allow your emotions to color your judgment.”
Her mouth curved in amusement. “As you would never do such a thing.”
Bowing his head in acknowledgment at the irony, he replied, “Then don’t make the same mistake as I—I will no doubt live to regret it.”
“You will not. And perhaps someday we will repose somewhere together, you and I, and laughingly remember your doubts.”
He bowed. “My fondest wish.”
Reminded, she sighed. “You and your wretched Bible—I spent many an unhappy hour searching for your reference.”
Making a sound of annoyance, he tilted his head in contrition. “It was petty of me, and self-serving; I beg your pardon and shall say no more.”
She nodded, and he lifted his lighting torch and turned as if to continue on his way. Placing a hand on his arm, she stayed him. “If I wanted the truth from you, and I asked you to swear, what would you swear by?”
“My country,” he answered without hesitation, the grey eyes upon hers.
“Well then; on the honor of your country, tell me whether Carstairs told you I was yet alive and that you would find me here.”
He met her gaze without wavering. “He did not. Which is disquieting in its own right.”
With a fond smile, she tilted her head. “He thinks to resolve all problems neatly, and to clear me of my taint.”
“Good luck to him,” he riposted in a sour tone, and she chuckled in response.
His sharp gaze was
upon hers once again. “I should perhaps mention that I nonetheless believe he will not put his regard for you above the interests of England.”
She met his eyes calmly. “Nor should he—he will not be put to such a test.”
“You reassure me.”
She chuckled again at his dry tone. “Do you have an assignment for me?”
He blew out a breath. “I have no idea. I will await events.”
She hesitated, then offered with all sincerity, “Shall we be friends? If I am not hanged, that is.”
He cocked his head to the side and studied her. “Allow me to think on it—it may be too much of a distraction.”
“Well, then.” She bowed, and he bowed in return. She turned to mount the steps into the safe house and did not look back.
Chapter 39
Lina pulled her cloak around her face and tapped the knocker. She wasn’t sure if there would be servants and so she invented a plausible tale in the event—although there were few available to explain an unaccompanied female visiting a widower’s quarters. Thank heaven for the temperance group.
As it turned out a tale wasn’t needed; Carstairs himself answered the door and pulled her inside with little ado. She walked into his arms and he held her tightly, then kissed her. “Thank God.”
“Let me take off Maisie’s cloak—I am heartily sick of it. And I did not lose your hat.”
“Good.” He took it and set it aside. “I am fond of that hat.” Nevertheless she could sense his underlying anxiety as he took the cloak from her while giving her an assessing glance. “You are well?”
“Perfectly,” she assured him, cradling his face with her hands. “Forgive me for my abrupt departure, Lucien—it could not be helped and I shall tell you the whole.”
“I felt guilty enough to pay for the stolen horse,” he admitted, lifting her hand to kiss it.
She laughed. “Then we are out of pocket—I arranged to have her sent back. We are honorable thieves, it seems.” Leaning into him, she breathed his wonderful scent, feeling as though she had arrived home at long last even though she had never been to this place before.
He put an arm around her waist and walked with her to the stairway. “Would you prefer to eat or wash first?”
She grimaced. “I have not been very hungry today.”
He bent and placed his forehead against hers, pulling her gently into his arms. “Constance. Or Jameson.”
“Yes; Constance or Jameson.”
“Then wash first. We’ll put together some tea and toast and hope for the best.”
“Is Maisie about?” Maisie would know what to do with the mass of tangles that currently constituted her hair.
He tilted his head in apology. “I sent her on home—it would look strange, otherwise.”
With a teasing look she began unbuttoning her bodice. “I may need some assistance, then—with the bath.” There was a tried-and-true method by which she could ease his mind, and the spirit was willing even though the flesh was exhausted.
With a smile, he kissed her again, lingeringly. “I will assist—although I may need some instruction.”
Twining her arms around his neck, she murmured, “Then I will show you where everything is.” She had the satisfaction of hearing him chuckle against her temple; she had treated him ill this day and wanted nothing more than to make it up to him.
As was expected, the bath soon evolved into a very satisfying and vigorous lovemaking session, and at its conclusion they sat propped up in his bed, she leaning back against him, wrapped in a voluminous robe while he coaxed her to eat.
“I do feel much better—I believe you have found the cure.”
He kissed the back of her neck and stole a triangle of toast from her lap. “The cure is the same as the cause, then—how ironic.”
She said without preamble, “I went to see Jenny Dokes. She had sent me a cipher and wanted to warn me of something.” Best not to mention the visit with Brodie at the warehouse; Carstairs would send her straight back to Sussex.
Leaning forward, he pressed his cheek against her temple so that his mouth was near to her ear. “Dokes sent you a note out of coverage?”
Lina pretended to consider, although she had little doubt that Carstairs knew of the whole subterfuge—it had been his trap and seizure, after all. “She said she wished only to advise me of what she had learned about Henry Grant, and of his suspicions about me.” She turned her head so as to see his face. “Did you know Grant was tainted?”
“Yes,” he said, and offered nothing more.
She turned around again and nestled into him. “Mãe de Deus,” she expostulated mildly. “No one trusts me anymore.” She ran her fingers along the muscles in his forearms, clasped around her. “Speaking of which, how goes your plan to clear my taint?”
“It is aborning.”
“Ah.”
He gently nipped at her neck. “You must stay hidden while I arrange the details. You continue dead.”
“As does Marie. You must have a care, Lucien, or you will acquire a reputation—quite the Bluebeard. Or Samson, from the Bible.”
He stilled, and a small silence stretched out while she could feel his breath on her neck. “Should I tell you of Marie?”
She gently squeezed his wrists, where her hands rested. “If you would—I’d as lief not sleep with one eye open.”
His tone was grim. “Mine is also not a pretty tale.”
But she shook her head slightly. “Oh-ho, my friend—mine trumps yours, surely.”
After a moment, he spoke slowly from behind her head. “Marie did die at my hands; but there were extenuating circumstances.”
She traced a finger along his capable hands, wondering if he had strangled pretty Marie. “I am all attention, then.”
He began his tale, and Lina could hear the constraint in his voice as he tried to give the report without emotion. “Marie was born Marie D’Amberre. Her father was a vicomte in Normandy, and had a large estate along the coast. Her father and her brother were executed during the Terror but not before her father arranged to smuggle her mother and the two daughters to England. Her mother later remarried a fellow expatriate.” He paused.
“An ordinary tale, thus far,” Lina prompted. “Well—not ordinary, but certainly not unusual.”
He continued, choosing his words carefully as he played with her fingers on the coverlet. “Marie was old enough to remember her life before the Terror. They were very wealthy but had to leave it all behind when they fled to England; the new stepfather was penniless. Her mother—” Here he paused for a moment. “Her mother was affected by the tragedies and was an unstable woman. She bitterly resented her reduced circumstances, and her attitude infected Marie, even after I married her and was able to provide for all of them. They could not come to terms with the blow that fate had delivered upon them.” He paused again, remembering. “They were constantly recalling their former situation, and nothing was ever enough.”
Poor man, Lina thought with sympathy—in the unfortunate role of trying to please the unpleasable. She could guess the rest. “And so Marie had a weakness.”
“Yes. She was susceptible to bribery.”
Lina shook her head in genuine bewilderment. “It is incomprehensible to me—there is not enough money in the world to tempt me to aid Napoleon.”
There was a pause while she could feel his chest rise and fall as he took a deep breath. “I am glad to hear of it.”
She smiled at the irony in his tone. “You may believe me or not as you choose, but it is the truth. Pray continue—did you attempt to rehabilitate her as you do me? You have a calling, methinks.”
But he was in no mood to joke. “I caught her once; she was copying the key to a cipher I kept in the safe. She wept and disclaimed, and I didn’t want to believe it, but the evidence was there, right before my eyes. I kept her on a very short string from then on, and our marriage suffered greatly as a result.”
“Another disloyal spouse,” commented Lina
, struggling to conceal her revulsion. “We were unlucky, the two of us.” Santos, but she’d rather have a weak and frightened husband willing to barter his wife to save his life than a treacherous wife willing to ruin the country that took her in for nothing more than greed.
“I reported her actions to the church hierarchy—how could I not?”
“You had little choice.” Lina remembered how the Vicar had just warned her that Carstairs would not put his personal loyalties before his loyalty to England. There had been a precedent, then.
“The Vicar was very unhappy; he believed she was the one who provided a list of our operatives on the Continent to Rochon last fall—I had kept a copy in my safe.”
Lina carefully controlled her reaction. “Did she indeed?” Mãe de Deus—Mãe doce de Deus—the irony was thick on the ground; indeed, one did not know whether to laugh or to cry; it was Marie, of all people, who had betrayed her to Rochon.
Carstairs continued, “The Vicar thought to put her to use; to double-cross her and use her to plant false information, but I refused to allow it. In hindsight perhaps I should have, to let her atone for her treachery—albeit unknowingly—and to let her suffer the consequences when the French eventually discovered her information was faulty. Whatever allegiance I had to her had been irrevocably destroyed.”
“But you could not allow it, of course—you are loyal to the bone, my friend.”
“Perhaps,” he admitted reluctantly, his arms tightening around her. “It was a damnable situation.”
“And then?” Lina sensed he was avoiding the completion of the tale and wanted him to get on with it; she was sleepy after her long ride and the session of lovemaking in the bath.
“I’m afraid I was inveigled.”
Lina clasped his hand between hers. “You are certainly not the first man and you shall certainly not be the last.” She knew of what she spoke—being a master inveigler herself.
He sighed. “One night she detained me as I left for a church meeting. She made a tearful plea that I stay with her—that we try to reestablish our marriage.”
Tainted Angel Page 23
