Lina was surprised by the stab of jealousy she felt at the idea of Carstairs abed with his late wife. “So you stayed.”
“No; I carried important information to the Vicar and could not tarry with her. Instead I left on a promise that upon my return we would discuss it over a glass of wine.” He paused. “I was nearly to the church before I realized she had lifted the document when she embraced me.”
“Oh, Lucien—how miserable for you.” Lina was truly shocked; Marie had not seemed capable of such cunning, but one never knew, in this business.
His voice roughened, remembering. “I raced to return and found her in the garden speaking with the Comte deFabry.”
Lina nodded—he was the aristocrat whose name she couldn’t remember, the one whom Jenny Dokes had mentioned as a suspect.
“I shouted and they broke apart—the comte sprinting for his horse tied at the back gate; I couldn’t allow my stupidity to result in any more deaths, and so I leveled my pistol and fired. In the darkness I hit Marie—she must have turned to shield him.”
He was quiet for a moment, and Lina lifted his hand to gently place it against her lips. “I am so sorry, querido.” Privately, she thought it unlikely that a renowned sharpshooter like Carstairs could so badly mistake his target—his prowess had been legendary among the guerrillas, after all. “But the comte managed to escape?”
“He did; I carried Marie to the house and shouted for the servants, but it was too late. I discovered she still held the papers tucked in her bodice; I imagine she was demanding more money.”
Or tarrying with the comte, thought Lina, but did not say it aloud. They sat together in silence for a few minutes, her head against his shoulder as she watched the fire and thought about what he had told her. Brodie was right—the war was indeed wretched. It allowed any flaws or weaknesses in one’s character to be laid bare; flaws that may have never been revealed but for the exigent events the war inspired—the difficult choices of loyalty and allegiance, of life and death.
“You and your dead wives,” she commented. “You must have a care or you will raise an unhealthy suspicion in the Bow Street magistrate’s breast.”
“He believes Marie died of a brain fever. And although you are missing, you are not, in fact, dead.” He bent his head forward so as to speak in her ear. “Although I have been toying with the idea of Vidia’s presumed death just before a new and different person named Lina arrives on the scene to attract my grieving attention.”
“Deus,” she observed. “You go through wives like other men go through cravats.”
“I think it could work,” he insisted stubbornly.
Brutally, she scotched any such plan. “It won’t work; I have been told I am as recognizable as the Prince Regent.”
“The snail could shed the shell; adjustments could be made—and those who know your true identity are unlikely to grass on you.”
She sighed and sank down lower in the bed. “This sounds complicated and I am too sleepy to follow.”
“All right; we will speak of it later. However, I’m afraid Brodie must be allowed to think you have drowned—at least for the time being.”
“Did you tell Maisie not to tell him? She is the weak link, here.”
“I did ask her to keep it quiet. Do you think she will?”
“She will follow orders,” Lina assured him, and smiled to herself. “Dear Maisie.”
He chuckled at her tone. “Will she come with us to Suffolk?”
“I would assume so—I am a continuing project for her.”
“And for me.” His mouth was warm against the nape of her neck. “I would like to marry you tomorrow morning, if you are available.”
There was a small silence as his lips paused on her neck. He raised his head and pressed his cheek to hers. “Come, then. Tell me.”
“I do not have fond memories of marrying you, Lucien.”
His arms tightened around her. “It would be done quietly—just you, me, and the Church of England—to correct the improprieties of the first ceremony.”
“Not just yet,” she repeated.
He was surprised, she could feel it. He said carefully, “If you were married to a peer, you would have certain protections.”
She sighed. “Poor Lucien—you are also on a knifepoint of agony.”
“Pardon?”
Turning around to face him, she twined her arms around his neck and embraced him tenderly. “Never you mind—I love you and I cannot imagine loving another and I shall marry you; my hand on my heart. Only not just yet.”
He thought about it, his hands stroking her back. “All right.”
She was nearly undone by a wave of affection. He was not going to press her—he was a fine, fine man—despite the occasional uxoricide. She had best see to it that all plots were resolved in a satisfactory manner, and soon.
Chapter 40
Maisie was attempting to coddle eggs in the Kensington house kitchen with little success. Cringing, Lina reflected that the language that spewed from her red-faced companion could peel the wallpaper from the walls.
“Honestly, Maisie—it is not as though anyone truly expects you to cook. Have done.”
The maid regarded the broken eggs scorching on the stone hearth with a fulminating eye. “Mr. Carstairs wants ye to eat eggs.”
Maisie had lately been hired by Carstairs as a housekeeper so as to give her access to Lina, although the charade would not hold together for a moment if anyone could witness the maid’s ineptitude in matters culinary. Amused, Lina rose and approached her. “How anyone could have followed the drum for as long as you did and not know how crack an egg or two is beyond me. Here, let me do it.”
Ceding the pot, Maisie stepped aside to allow Lina access to the grate. “I was needed to drive the oxen,” the other explained, folding her hands with dignity under her apron. “Bein’ as how t’ drivers kept gettin’ shot up.”
Lina expertly broke the eggs into the boiling water in rapid succession with one hand. “Then I must beg your pardon, Maisie—yours was the greater service.”
“Another for yerself—yer t’eat eggs, he says—eggs and milk.”
Lina complied without demur as she actually had an appetite this morning. “Are the two of you conniving behind my back again?”
Maisie gave her an assessing look. “Yer gettin’ skinny.”
“I’ve been skinnier, I assure you.” She leaned forward to monitor the eggs. “Ugh, the ashes haven’t been cleaned out in months. Have we any toast?”
Reminded, Maisie placed bread in the toasting rack and set it before the fire. “How soon before we go to the country? A bit o’ fresh air will put some color in yer cheeks.”
Lina contemplated the fire for a moment, aware that Maisie was uneasy with the unnatural inactivity of the past two days. “It’s a delicate matter, Maisie. There are double-crossings to consider, which hopefully do not include your own.”
“I’ll stand bluff, don’t you fret.” Maisie turned the toast rack to the other side. “I’m just sayin’ ye need to start thinkin’ about the babe, is all.”
With a smile Lina disclosed, “Then plan for three days out—Mr. Brodie has a scheme and I believe it is a good one.”
Maisie arched her brows in surprise, although she didn’t take her watchful gaze from the toast. “That soon? What’s to do?”
Lina rose and removed the eggs with a wooden spoon, ladling them into teacups for want of any other dishware. “A masquerade ball, my friend—which is always such an excellent diversion. Do you remember when I played the Condesa de la Torres in Barcelona?”
“Ah me,” sighed Maisie. “Are ye plannin’ fer the menfolk to have another duel?”
“Such a simple way to arrange for the removal of a problem,” Lina reminisced with a fond smile. “But no—I bring it to mind only because I shall need that costume again, so you’ll have to visit the town house to pack up some of my clothes and smuggle that outfit to me here. And a mask—I shall need a mask that
will obscure my face.”
“Aye, missy,” Maisie agreed as she removed the rack from the hearth. “I know just the one.”
“Don’t forget to be unhappy, being as I have died,” Lina reminded her, sliding the egg onto the hot toast and carefully taking a bite. “In the event you are observed on your visit.”
“Who is doin’ the observin’?” Maisie eyed her with alarm as she sat down to her own breakfast.
“Never you mind; but this next is very important, Maisie, so listen carefully. You are also to visit Mr. Brodie at his hotel, to be paid. He will give you a wrinkled bank note that has some letters written on it in ink. Do you follow so far?”
“I’m not daft,” noted Maisie without rancor as she buttered her toast. “Then what?”
“Bring it here; Mr. Carstairs is to see you trying to decide whether there is something wrong with the bill, due to the writing on it. If necessary, you must ask him if the bank will take it in its current condition, to encourage him to examine it.” The letters would be in a difficult cipher, but Lina had every confidence that Carstairs would quietly pass it on and Jenny Dokes would manage to crack it.
“Am I to say it’s from Mr. Brodie?”
Lina smiled. “Only if he asks, and I doubt he will—he is quick on the uptake, is Mr. Carstairs. If he has seen the bank note, you must turn the tea canister around backward as a sign to me—then we don’t have to discuss it again.”
Pausing, Maisie considered the merits of this particular task with a frown. “I’m not so very good at this sort o’ thing—lyin’ to the man an’ all.”
But Lina reminded her, “You won’t be lying, Maisie, and that is exactly why I am asking you to do it—he won’t think I put you up to it.”
“Iffen ye say so,” ventured the maid in a doubtful tone.
“I do say so.” Lina wiped her fingers on Maisie’s apron. “And pray don’t be concerned; we act to Mr. Carstairs’s benefit. Mr. Brodie is the master at turning the tables.”
“He’s not yer master anymore,” Maisie reminded her, picking up the dishes and taking them to the wash basin.
“He never was, my friend,” Lina riposted with relish. “But one must give the devil his due.”
“Ah, me,” intoned Maisie, shaking her head as she began the washing. “I dinna like this talk o’ devils.”
“We entertain the devil himself in three days,” Lina remarked in a cheerful tone. “Say your prayers.” She was feeling considerably better now that the denouement was at hand; the anticipation of action always raised her spirits, particularly as she had been constrained to the house for several days. Tapping her slender fingers on the table, she thought out loud. “I must speak to Dokes again—your talk of the duel in Barcelona reminds me that I have a favor to ask of her. And it cannot hurt to draw more attention to the situation so as to put Mr. Carstairs’s discovery of your note in proper context.” She considered her options with a knit brow. “Another comfortable coze between two old friends is probably out of the question—I cannot risk another visit; the first one took her by surprise but she would be ready for me, now.”
“There be trouble brewin’,” noted Maisie to no one in particular as she reached to place the teacups back on the shelf.
Lina laughed. “Now Maisie—we are already hip deep in trouble, after all. Have some faith; have I not brought us about, time after time?”
“’Cept the one time, in Paris,” Maisie reminded her heavily.
With a graceful shrug, Lina admitted, “Well—yes. But all wrongs will soon be righted, and so deftly that those who are hoodwinked will remain unaware.”
“As ye say.”
Smiling, Lina teased her, “And I am dying for one last gambit before I am forced by motherhood to settle down.”
Maisie made a skeptical sound. “Will ye, d’ye think?”
Her eyes dancing, Lina confirmed in a solemn tone, “Indeed. Will you?”
Maisie made a gesture that portrayed long suffering. “I must; ye haven’t the first idea what to do wi’ a bairn.”
Bowing her head with mock gravity, Lina pronounced, “A new leaf, then; for the both of us—staid householders, for our sins.”
“He’s a good man,” noted Maisie, wiping her hands on her apron.
“No argument here.” She gave the other a teasing glance. “Mr. Brodie will miss you.”
Maisie was philosophical as she came back to sit on her stool. “He’ll be by, I reckon. But he’s nowt one t’ be buildin’ a nest.”
Lina nodded, relieved that the maid had no illusions. “Definitely not. He’s already looking to the next adventure—the proverbial rolling stone.”
The two sat together in silence for a few minutes until Maisie rose and said, “I’ll best be on me errands, then.”
Lina responded with a gleam of amusement in her eye. “Can you also bring my costume from the Guildhall in Campine?”
If this request for the widow’s weeds caused Maisie any alarm, she hid it well and only shook her head slightly. “I’ll be needin’ to find a new veil—the last one was torn when that Frenchman started tossin’ ’is fancy knives about.”
“And wasn’t that a nasty surprise? Remind me never to hire a cook who hasn’t been thoroughly vetted.” Much struck by her own remark she added, “Although now that I think on it, I’m afraid that horse has already run—I’m not one to learn a lesson, methinks.”
“I’ll be fetchin’ a new veil in t’afternoon,” Maisie assured her.
“No matter, Maisie—stitch it up as best you can; I’m to use it today.”
With a worried frown, the maid asked, “And what am I to tell Mr. Carstairs iffen he wonders where ye’ve gone to?”
“No need, unless I miss my guess, he has his own mysterious errands to commission this day and should be from home for most of it—which is why your bank note is going to be of such interest when you arrange for him to see it. I imagine it will inspire yet more activity on his part, in fact. If he does ask after me, simply admit you are not certain where I’ve gone, as you were out on your errands.”
Maisie nodded. “Aye, then—I’m to fetch t’ clothes and visit Mr. Brodie.”
Her spirits high, Lina teased, “And pray follow instructions so as not to bring the militia down upon my head as you did in Naples.”
Stung, Maisie protested, “The prelate couldn’t understand what I was sayin’ as he weren’t a proper Englishman, and popish besides.”
“My fault,” Lina soothed. “I shouldn’t have entrusted a Northumbrian with a message for an Italian. Small wonder he thought you were a bandito—I would have thought the same myself.”
“No harm were done,” insisted Maisie, who continued nettled. “It were all straightened out wi’ everyone merry in the end; lucky ye can charm the birds offen the trees.”
Lina suppressed a shudder. “Hard work; I have no fond memories of militia men.”
“Nor they of ye.” Maisie gave her a glance.
“I’ll have none of your sauce,” Lina warned her.
“Ah, me,” Maisie said with resignation, shaking her head.
Chapter 41
Would you buy a nosegay, miss? It’s to support the Widows and Orphans Fund.” Lina addressed Jenny Dokes as the woman passed her on the sidewalk outside the Académie.
Jenny examined the proffered bundles with a dubious eye. “Lily of the valley? Your profit margin must be minuscule. Small wonder the widows and orphans are in such dire straits.”
“I thought them pretty.” Lina was dressed in widow’s weeds, the hastily repaired veil hiding her face. “And these were the only lilies I could find.”
“Credibility is everything,” Dokes reminded her, and fished in her reticule for a penny.
“Tuppence,” Lina prompted. “And at the risk of sounding vain, there’s little I don’t know about selling flowers—I’ve made two shillings in twenty minutes.”
“Less your cost,” the other ruthlessly reminded her.
“No cost�
��Brodie stood the ready. Pure profit, I assure you.”
Dokes made a show of admiring the flowers on the small chance they were being observed. “What’s afoot?”
“I need your help, if you are willing. I am going to speak privately with Henry Grant, to discover why he believes what he does of me. Otherwise I shall never have my life back again.”
As she breathed in the scent of the bouquet, Dokes considered this. “You are trying to clear your name?”
Lina nodded, watching the other woman from behind her veil. “I have set up a meeting in a public place where we could speak with no one the wiser—you must tell no one, Dokes; I beg of you—I will never be allowed to escape again.”
“And what is it you wish me to do?”
“I ask that you neutralize his weapon—I will take no chances.”
After a small silence, the other woman asked, “Who knows of this?”
“No one. But it is my best chance to eradicate my taint.” The story, of course, was inherently implausible and Dokes would be furiously trying to figure out the true object. Good luck to her, thought Lina, as there is no true object—other than to put her compatriots on notice that something was afoot, and soon. That, and it certainly couldn’t hurt to have Grant’s weapon neutralized, as everyone seemed to think he was tainted.
Dokes lifted her head to make a covert survey of the immediate area. “I confess that I am uneasy, Swanson.”
“You will have no active role, other than neutralizing his weapon,” Lina assured her.
Her companion smiled her dry smile. “His weapon needs little neutralization—such as it is.”
Both women chuckled.
With a small nod Dokes came to a decision. “I shall do it—on account of our friendship.” Lilies in hand, she continued on her way.
Lina sold flowers for another quarter hour and then gathered up the few remaining bouquets. She made her way down the sidewalk in the waning twilight, careful to assess whether she was being followed—she did not believe so; Dokes had been caught unawares. Still, she made a few twists and turns to double back on her route and saw no familiar figures—although it was possible the grey-eyed man had already informed her compatriots of her presence at the Kensington residence and there was no need for such strategies. She could not be certain, but she felt he would not have revealed it to any of the others; their meeting on the street was personal in nature and besides, he would have some difficulty explaining his own restraint if he confessed that he knew where she was. He is like Carstairs, she decided—if he truly believed that I was working to bring down England, he would regretfully shoot me himself without a moment’s hesitation. I must be careful to give neither of them incentive.
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