Tainted Angel

by Anne Cleeland

  He paused in his discussion and set down his glass. “Shall we go astern, Bela? I have a desire to view the lights.”

  She placed her fingers on his proffered arm, and as they walked away she noted that the other gentlemen casually trailed at a discreet distance behind them—hopefully they were armed, although the last thing to be desired was a gun battle breaking out between the three different factions aboard.

  Lina and Brodie paused at the stern of the barge to admire the view of London, illuminated by the new gas lanterns that lined the embankment. Lina offered, “You will be well-pleased to depart this place, methinks.”

  He made a deprecatory gesture with his hands. “It was not such a hardship, Bela. But my talents are more suited to Venice where the world is not quite so buttoned-up. Curse Napoleon and this next war, which will undoubtedly keep most of the young fools from my gaming kens.”

  She leaned into him fondly. “You were always the master at fleecing the poor young fools.”

  “Only because they were all besotted and couldn’t keep their eyes off you—I never could find another hostess with half your charm—not to mention your head for numbers.”

  “Perhaps you will have to wait out the war with me in Suffolk, tending the cows.”

  But he predicted, “Napoleon will escape, but any attempt at a conquest will be short-lived—there is no war without funding, no matter how dedicated the cause or how shrewd the leadership.”

  “I believe that makes you a patriot,” she teased, “as you are depriving the former Emperor of his funding. Who would have thought you would condescend to serve your country in such a way?”

  “It is a strange, strange world, Bela,” he agreed, and she wrapped her hand around his arm, chuckling.

  They continued to gaze out over the water, nothing in either demeanor to suggest that the next few minutes would be in any way unusual. Lina commented, “It is indeed a strange world—now I’m to be respectable.”

  “And I’m to be grandfather to a peer of the realm.”

  They looked at each other and laughed, and were still merry when Rochon joined them, his expression impassive. “You are remarkably carefree for a man who has been duped.”

  “We plan to leave this miserable place and go to Prague,” Brodie promptly explained. “There are many amusements in Prague—I shall regain my fortune, never fear.”

  “There are many wantons in Prague.” Rochon’s eyes slid toward Lina under his mask.

  “Indeed,” she agreed, impervious to insult. “Of both sexes.”

  Rochon’s glittering eyes were suddenly sharp upon hers but she continued in a mild tone, “Although a new war will keep the soldiers occupied.”

  “We shall contrive.” Brodie nodded to Rochon. “You must come visit—I will see that you are well-entertained.”

  But Rochon was not to be flattered and responded coldly, “I will be well-entertained when I see the gold.”

  “Certainly.” Brodie spread his hands in apology for the digression. “No more delay.” With a gesture, he stepped forward to direct a waterman to remove the canvas cover from the lifeboat and as the man stepped forward to obey, Lina recognized Carstairs. She could only trust that his aim was to help her rather than conspire in her arrest, but it was too late for such concerns now.

  They stood and watched as Carstairs folded the tarp back, exposing what appeared to be ordinary bricks stacked, row upon row, on the floorboard within the suspended lifeboat.

  The expressionless Rochon allowed himself a sigh of satisfaction. “Excellent.”

  Brodie pulled a packet of documents out of his waistcoat. “The bonds,” he insisted in a tone that held an edge of defiance.

  Taking the packet, Rochon gestured to Henry Grant, who had been standing at a distance, awaiting such a summons. I should have some compassion for him, thought Lina as she watched the banker approach. Either he will be arrested for treason by the Home Office, or he will hold Rochon’s secrets; in either case he will be dead very, very shortly.

  The woman who accompanied Grant tilted her head with a small movement in Lina’s direction, and Lina gave her a quick, dismissive glance only to stifle a gasp and reconsider. Mãe de Deus, she thought in surprise—Jenny Dokes. Only Dokes’s face was hidden by a mask and she was dressed in a very fashionable and low-cut confection of a dress, her hair piled high off her forehead. Their eyes met, and Lina imagined that the other woman sent her a look of apology while Lina attempted to convey her own acknowledgment of Dokes’s obligations. We understand each other, she thought—we each do what we must, which is exactly what I anticipated when I went to see her in the first place. Unfortunately I hadn’t foreseen that Dokes would see through Brodie’s gambit and every spare agent for miles around would be joining us aboard the Argo.

  Rochon stepped forward to gaze over Grant’s shoulder at the stack of bonds as the banker pulled them from the packet. Grant held the first one to the light of a torch and scrutinized it carefully. “A good rendition,” he pronounced. “But a fake, nevertheless.”

  Rochon was unsurprised, but Brodie affected a sound of extreme annoyance. “Taken in like a flat,” he exclaimed, as though trying to bring himself under control. “Peste—someone will pay for this.”

  “You can withstand the loss,” Rochon said without sympathy. “And let this be a lesson—you should have realized they were letting you buy up all the bonds because they were fake.”

  As though he could not contain his bitterness, Brodie retorted, “You have no reason to be so cool—it is your loss also; the Treasury is no longer vulnerable.” Pretending alarm, Lina again placed a calming hand on his arm as a reminder to monitor his words before the man he addressed.

  But Rochon, as always, was not shaken. “The gold is my priority now—there is no point in bringing down England if France cannot stand.” With a curt command, he indicated that the lifeboat should be lowered to the sea, and Carstairs and another waterman obliged by unwinding the ropes from the davits. Rochon stepped forward to supervise, cautioning the men to be careful so as not to allow the lifeboat to become unbalanced on its descent.

  As the French spymaster was thus engaged, Jenny Dokes tilted her head in puzzlement. “Gold?” she asked Grant. “What gold?”

  Filled with importance, Grant indicated the bricks piled within the lifeboat. “There—a king’s ransom in English gold, painted to look like ordinary bricks.”

  Dokes eyed the lifeboat and the wooden davits by which it was being lowered from the back of the barge. “I don’t know what that boat contains, but it cannot be gold.”

  “Dokes,” Lina bit off angrily as she suddenly sprang between the woman and Grant. “It is you—how dare you show your face to me, cadela.”

  Startled, the other woman attempted to look around Lina to view the lifeboat, murmuring, “But it makes no sense, Swanson; each brick—if it were indeed gold—should weigh at least four hundred ounces—there are well over one hundred bricks and the rope can’t be more than forty pound test. Not to mention that a single tackle block could not sustain such a weight—”

  Staring at Dokes, Brodie breathed, “Who are you?”

  Fortunately Rochon had been paying close attention to the cargo’s descent to the surface of the river and had not overheard the conversation between the women. Nevertheless, with a swift movement Lina brought the butt of her pistol down on Dokes’s head. “Foul cadela,” she exclaimed loudly as the other woman sank to the deck. At her words, Rochon turned to them in surprise.

  “She is a Home Office agent,” Lina breathlessly explained to the French spymaster. “I recognized her voice—you must take the gold and flee with all speed.”

  Chapter 45

  Rochon betrayed no reaction to Lina’s startling announcement but reviewed Dokes’s inanimate form for a moment. Raising his gaze to Lina, he directed, “See to it that she is thrown over the side, s’il vous plait.” He then turned to Grant and asked, “Did you know of this?” His tone was neutral but the underly
ing menace was unmistakable.

  “Yes—but she is in love with me and would not betray me,” Grant insisted, his voice quavering a bit. “Indeed she has been willing to help me decipher communications from the British.”

  Rochon considered the unconscious woman dispassionately but was unmoved. “I will not take any chances; it may be a trap.” With a jerk of his head, he indicated to Lina, “See to it.”

  Grant made an involuntary sound of protest as Lina gestured to Carstairs, “You there—help me carry her.”

  He bent to lift Dokes and hoist her over his shoulder while Lina led him away from the stern. As soon as they were out of earshot Lina hissed, “Bind her and for heaven’s sake give her a gag. I will find a sail bag for her—Mãe de Deus but this entire event is a disaster, start to finish.”

  “So—not the gold,” he concluded under his breath. “Cinder bricks?”

  Lina dared not look around but said in an undertone, “Where is the Vicar? Did he hear what she said?”

  There was a pause before Carstairs responded in a neutral tone, “I do not think so.”

  Meeting his eyes in desperation, she implored him under her breath, “Don’t tell him, Lucien; it is very important that no one know it is not the gold—” She realized it was a request that required him to choose an allegiance with precious little information and struggled to decide what to say.

  He carefully laid Dokes on the deck behind the wheelhouse, out of sight, and glanced around toward the figures gathered around the lifeboat at the stern. “Where is the gold, Lina?”

  “England will have it back—well, most of it,” she temporized. “Please, Lucien—you must trust me in this.” She met his eyes, willing him to believe her.

  “Fetch a sail bag, then—there’s nowhere to hide her.” He tore off a piece of Dokes’s petticoat to fashion a gag.

  Thinking this a good sign, Lina procured a sail bag and between them they worked it down over the unconscious woman’s head. “Quickly,” she urged. “I must see if Brodie needs assistance.”

  “At least she isn’t fat, like the Flemish ambassador.” He glanced up at her as he pulled the strings to secure the bag’s end. “I was mad for you, even then.”

  “You were also married,” she reminded him as they pushed the sail bag against the wheelhouse and out of the way. “Married people should be loyal to each other.”

  “Sorry.” He placed a hand over hers for a moment. “A sore subject.”

  Pausing in her movements, she lifted her face to his and offered, “For you, also—let us each hope to have better luck this time.”

  “Bela.” He leaned in to kiss her, mask and all.

  At his use of Brodie’s pet name she accused, “You have been eavesdropping, my friend.”

  “It is so appropriate—Portuguese for ‘beautiful.’”

  “The first and only time Brodie has ever been straightforward,” she noted in a dry tone. “Now, let’s hurry back and see if we can salvage this miserable plot.”

  When they returned to the others, it was to see Rochon and Henry Grant preparing to descend to the lifeboat on a rope ladder that had been cast over the side—the waves were making the small vessel toss about because the river had turned rough where it had widened, away from the city. Scanning downriver, Lina could make out the dark shape of an unlit ship that bore no flag, waiting silently to secure its cargo and return to France.

  Pausing at the railing, Rochon unbuttoned his coat so as to make his descent, his satisfaction evident. “Adieu, mes amis.” He reached to put an arm around Lina and pull her to him. “I thank you for your assistance, ma belle. Perhaps you should come along with me so that I can show you how thankful I am.”

  She didn’t resist and gave every appearance of enjoying the attention as she slid her hands under his coat and around his waist to embrace him. He had not appreciated her veiled reference to his sexual preferences and now sought to make it clear she was mistaken—Napoleon had little tolerance for such. Men are so predictable, she thought—now he is going to maul me about, just to prove the point.

  She smiled into his eyes, opaque and hard like a snake’s behind his mask. “Another time, mon bravo.”

  He bent and kissed her mouth and she returned the salute in full measure, hoping this was to be the final distraction before she retired to Suffolk—Carstairs was no doubt fit to be tied.

  With a thin smile, Rochon released her and threw a leg over the gunwale to descend the rope ladder into the lifeboat. The boat tossed and bucked as he carefully stepped over the bricks, awaiting Grant’s descent.

  The Vicar, however, had other plans. Leaping to the barge’s forecastle, he raised a pistol to aim it at his rival spymaster. “Halt,” he shouted. “You are under arrest in the name of the Crown.”

  With a rapid movement Rochon drew for the pistol at his waist but as it now rested in Lina’s hand, he came up empty. The familiar sound of the cocking of firearms could be heard from various vantage points on the deck, and Rochon, quickly calculating, drew himself up, the picture of innocent outrage as he braced himself aboard the rocking vessel. “What is the meaning of this? What is my crime?”

  The Vicar, still dressed as a dandy, addressed him coolly from where he stood amidships. “You are absconding with gold that has been stolen from the Treasury. Surrender, and be taken peaceably.”

  “You mistake,” Rochon answered with calm assurance. “These are but ordinary bricks, as you can see.”

  “Bring him in,” commanded the Vicar. “We shall discover the truth.”

  The watermen began hauling on the davit ropes and after only a moment’s reflection, Rochon took the only course available to him. With a curse, he grasped one of the bricks and hove it with some force at the floorboard of the lifeboat.

  “Stop him,” the Vicar shouted, striding toward the gunwale. “He must not sink it.”

  But Rochon continued with his forceful bashing of the floorboard and barked a command at Grant, still on deck. “Shoot at the hull.”

  Lina knew a moment’s regret that the man’s pistol had been neutralized by Dokes as the Home Office agents frantically pulled on the ropes, hand over hand, while Rochon pounded at the floorboards in a desperate race to sink the boat before it was recovered. Just as it looked as though the boat would be hoisted from the water, a shot rang out from the ship, hitting the hull of the lifeboat just below the waterline and creating a geyser of water that soon broke into a torrent. While the Vicar cursed roundly, they watched the vessel break in two, its cargo and its occupant sliding ignominiously into the choppy waters of the Thames.

  Lina stood quietly beside Carstairs and hoped that no one else had noticed that Grant’s gun had not discharged and that Carstairs’s pistol had burnt a hole in the folds of her skirt. My sharpshooter, she thought a bit mistily—and there is no longer a question of loyalty, apparently; no need to sleep with one eye open.

  A tense silence prevailed for a few moments as those watching contemplated the fortune that was now making its way to the bottom of the sea.

  “Pull him in,” directed the Vicar in a grim tone.

  In a matter of minutes the two spymasters faced one another on deck, Rochon’s dignity not at all affected by his bedraggled appearance. “You have nothing on me,” he pronounced coolly.

  But the Vicar disagreed. “I believe you have in your possession a fortune in bonds; it is illegal for a foreign national to hold English bonds.”

  “You mistake the matter; the bonds are forgeries and worthless,” countered Rochon.

  The Vicar hesitated for only a second. “Then you will be charged with possession of forged documents with an intent to defraud.”

  Checkmate, thought Lina, and awaited events.

  But Rochon was not to be outmaneuvered, and with a quick movement he took the packet from his jacket pocket and flung it over the side. With a curse, the Vicar strode to the railing and watched the bonds follow the gold to the bottom of the sea.

  Chapter 46

/>   Lina stood beside Brodie and Jenny Dokes at the rail of the barge and watched the activity on the Westminster pier as Rochon and Henry Grant were escorted, hands bound behind them, into the waiting prison transport.

  “I’m sorry about your head, Dokes,” Lina offered.

  Leaning on her elbows, the other woman shrugged in an amicable fashion. “No matter; my own fault for not holding my role.”

  Lina reflected that Dokes was not one to hold a grudge and neither was she, for that matter—the two of them would continue on as though there had not been multiple double-crossings or violent blows to the back of the head. It was a relief, in a way, not to have to worry about hurt feelings.

  “An excellent night’s work, all in all,” Brodie commented with satisfaction as the transport cart lumbered away. “Not precisely as planned, but one must remain flexible.” He pulled a cigarillo from his vest pocket and lit it with a lucifer, his hand shielding it from the river breeze. With a casual gesture, Dokes slid her fingers into his pocket and pulled out another for herself, which Brodie lit for her as though it were the merest commonplace.

  Lina watched this display in bemusement and shook her head. “We were flexible as we hung on for our lives; it was a close-run thing, Benny—confess.”

  “Bela,” he chided, tossing the lucifer over the side. “We needed only to have the cargo sunk and Rochon unaware that it wasn’t the gold after all; that the plan did not go as originally drawn up is neither here nor there.”

  Drawing on her cigarillo, Dokes offered, “I think it exceeded all expectations—my remains needn’t be fished out of the river and Rochon is in custody—although perhaps it would have been better had you arranged for him to be coshed and thrown overboard, instead.”

  “Allow me to know my limitations,” Brodie replied in a mild tone. “Assassination is not in my line.”

  “A provocateur, then.” The woman eyed Brodie with a small smile and lifted her head to exhale a cloud of smoke. “Managing from behind the scenes.”