Tainted Angel

by Anne Cleeland

  Rocking back on his heels, Brodie pronounced, “The best rigs are those done for one’s own amusement—too many get caught up in the need to be admired.”

  As Dokes tilted her head in agreement, Lina had to hide a smile at Brodie’s uncharacteristic attempt at modesty. As soon as Dokes had been revived, he had been unrelenting in his insistence that the woman come to work for him in Venice. This was unexpected—a less likely gambling hostess could hardly be imagined—but Brodie was Brodie and presumably knew a good thing when he saw it. Lina could not help but note that the two were behaving in a manner bordering on the flirtatious and managed to hide her incredulity only with an effort—perhaps the blow to Dokes’s head accounted for it.

  “Come with me,” Brodie said bluntly. “I shall make it well worth your while.”

  Dokes blew out a cloud and made a gesture toward the dock. “And leave this? I am saving the kingdom, here.”

  But Brodie shook his head. “The war will not last—it cannot; you know it as well as I. Then what will you do? Catch counterfeiters for the Treasury, or track insurance fraud for Lloyd’s of London? It will be mighty dull fare, after this.”

  His companion tapped an ash and noted dryly, “Whereas running a gambling ken should be my heart’s desire?”

  “You would travel,” he urged, and Lina surmised that Brodie had shrewdly guessed which aspect would be most appealing to Dokes. “Wherever you’d like and in the first level of comfort; our establishments must be set up where the moneyed classes reside. You’d need to dress the part, of course—credibility is everything.”

  Considering this, the other woman bent her head to study the water lapping against the hull. “How much of the take?”

  “Five percent,” offered Brodie promptly.

  Dokes turned her head to regard him with an unblinking gaze. “Net or gross?”

  Brodie hesitated only a second. “Gross.”

  “Take it, Dokes,” suggested Lina, arching her brows. “I believe he is drunk.”

  “Would we have a faro table?” Dokes persisted. “The odds most favor the house.”

  There was a small pause. “I must marry you,” Brodie declared in all seriousness. “And as soon as possible.”

  While Lina struggled to conceal her astonishment, Dokes drew on the cigarillo and considered the offer as though it were an ordinary suggestion. She then threw the stub into the river. “Agreed.”

  Brodie turned to Lina with an apologetic air. “We’ll need some privacy to discuss terms, Bela—you understand.”

  Having been thus dismissed, Lina made her way toward the gangway and saw Carstairs speaking quietly with the Vicar, no doubt debriefing the spymaster on some version of what had transpired this fine evening—Lina did not begrudge it; as Brodie has said, one must remain flexible and there were still some loose ends to tie up. Both men looked up as she approached.

  “My new stepmama.” Lina indicated the couple now deep in conversation with a nod of her head.

  This announcement was met with the astonished silence it deserved. “A formidable pairing,” conceded the Vicar, his hands clasped behind him. “Napoleon should look to his Treasury.”

  With a gleam, Lina teased, “Will you not protest? You will miss her talent, methinks; perhaps you should offer for her yourself.”

  “Alas, I am unable to make such a commitment,” the Vicar replied, his thoughtful gaze on the couple, “having a previous understanding with another.” He offered Carstairs a cigar, and the men stood with Lina, smoking and contemplating the recent events as they looked out over the docks, now quiet. The Vicar rested his grey gaze on Lina for a moment. “As amazing as it seems, my faith in you has not been shaken.”

  “That is indeed amazing; perhaps it is unshakable.”

  He held out his hand. “Allow me his weapon as a souvenir.”

  “Willingly.” With a smile she handed Rochon’s pistol over to him.

  He inspected it, weighing its heft. “You have provided me with a new and very useful bit of information. How did you discover it?”

  Lina knew he referred to Rochon’s sexual preferences and thought of René. “I met a man who was very kind to me when I was captured last fall. He is now dead, unfortunately.”

  Leaning his head back, the Vicar blew a cloud. “Excellent—I will see to it that Rochon finds a new bel ami.”

  Brodie’s voice could be heard from behind them as he and Dokes approached the group. “Better you cultivate a counterfeiter named Gerard—he excels at creating false bonds and false currency, and being a Romany, he can be bought.”

  Bowing in appreciation, the spymaster noted in an ironic tone, “You are a font of useful information this night, Mr. Brodie. I am nearly driven to forgive you for the May dance you’ve led me.”

  With a dismissive gesture, Brodie protested, “All has worked out to everyone’s satisfaction, I believe. No need for recriminations.”

  The Vicar drew on his cigar, eyeing the other man. “And I imagine—as you say—Napoleon will be reduced to counterfeiting. He has no choice; he cannot go off the gold standard, but much of his gold has disappeared.”

  “A terrible turn of events,” observed Brodie, his pensive gaze on the distant city lights. “There is no war without a war chest.”

  The economics of war, thought Lina as they all stood in silence for a moment; every bit as important as the artillery.

  Suddenly, the Vicar threw back his head and laughed aloud, the sound unexpected and startling. “The Argo,” he exclaimed with an uncharacteristically broad smile. “In search of the golden fleece. Well done.”

  “One must have one’s private jest,” Brodie demurred with a show of modesty. “And I have always admired the classics.”

  “Fleeced indeed. I wonder,” the Vicar mused aloud as he lit another cigar, “where Napoleon’s gold has gone?”

  But Brodie had reached the limit of his helpfulness and said no more, instead turning to engage in a murmured conversation with Jenny Dokes.

  Lina decided it was past time to reward the Vicar, who had practiced a restraint in her case that had not gone unappreciated and who—after all—could wind up being husband number three. “I’d like to make a gift of my town house to the Home Office, methinks. You may do with it as you wish—I shall be abiding in Suffolk and learning how to hold house.” She turned her head to smile at Carstairs. “I must make the gift tomorrow, before I marry.”

  The Vicar exhaled in satisfaction. “The gold is in the cellar, I am convinced—is there a hidden trapdoor?”

  She gave him her slow smile. “No; the very bricks that line the walls are not what they seem.”

  He met her gaze, the expression in his grey eyes amused. “Ah. Another ten minutes and I would have twigged it.”

  “I think not,” she disagreed. “You were diverted—I have not been an angel lo, these many years for nothing.”

  He chuckled aloud and Lina could hear Carstairs make a soft sound of disapproval. She squeezed his arm to soothe him.

  The Vicar continued, “England—and the Treasury—thank you for your gift, then. Is it the French gold or the English gold?” Lina noted he was careful not to include Brodie in the question and so she answered vaguely, “Most of both.” It went without saying that Brodie would have rewarded himself for his troubles. And hers, too—she imagined the new Lady Tyneburne would be given a prodigiously heavy wedding gift.

  With an air of satisfaction the Vicar concluded, “Excellent; it would seem all that is left is to negotiate with you, Mr. Brodie, on a schedule for redeeming the true bonds—wherever you have hidden them.”

  “Too late,” replied Brodie carelessly, flicking an ash from his lapel. “The true bonds are at the bottom of the sea.”

  As the Vicar arched his brows in surprise, Lina explained, “Only the first one was a forgery, meant to mislead Rochon; all the others were genuine.”

  After a moment’s pause, once again the Vicar bowed in appreciation, this time without a hint of irony. �
��Masterfully done; you did a fine thing for England and at the same time came out from under Rochon’s grip—and with him all unknowing.”

  Brodie shrugged. “On to the next venture.” He slanted a glance at Dokes, who returned her own version of Lina’s slow smile.

  “I can arrange for a commendation, if you’d like.” The spymaster’s voice was sincere with gratitude. “From the Prince himself.”

  Brodie attempted to hide his revulsion with little success. “Pray resist the impulse.”

  After shared laughter, the party stood for a moment, basking in the success of the assignment and unwilling to allow the evening to end. “What will happen to Rochon?” Lina asked the Vicar.

  The other considered, his arms crossed and the cigar smoke drifting upward. “We could attempt to hold him until an investigation is completed, but I would be very much surprised if he was not traded in exchange for other high-level prisoners.”

  Dokes made a sympathetic gesture. “Frustrating for you, certainly.”

  The Vicar tossed away his cigar butt. “On the contrary, I would expect the same courtesy were I captured—it is the way of it.”

  “I could not hold your job.” Lina thought of her ordeal at Rochon’s hands. “I could not be so complacent.”

  The grey eyes slid toward hers. “No, Invidia, goddess of vengeance; I imagine you could not.”

  “Lina,” she corrected him in a mild tone. “I am retiring from the vengeance business, all debts having been satisfactorily settled.” She laid a gentle hand on Carstairs’s arm in acknowledgment, thinking of how San Sebastian now seemed a distant memory—as though it had happened to someone else a long, long time ago.

  The gesture was not lost on the spymaster. “I shall try to see to it that this husband of yours maintains a whole skin.” As she met his eyes Lina could discern a reference to their bargain.

  “I would appreciate it—and pray give him no more assignments where the object is seduction.”

  The Vicar shrugged and smiled. “He is of little use, else.”

  Carstairs chuckled and Lina protested, “Then teach him an honest trade; I’ll not risk losing him to the next tainted angel.”

  “Not to worry—he has already carried off the palm; there will certainly be no one to match you.” The Vicar gave her a mock salute. “He was bested despite all efforts.”

  “Like Rochon,” she agreed, thinking on it with a great deal of satisfaction.

  Chapter 47

  Maisie,” Lina cautioned. “Pull yourself together, if you please, or I will be forced to brain you with the nearest fire jack.” The threat was needful; Maisie’s eyes were red-rimmed with suppressed tears, and if her stalwart maidservant were to start weeping, Lina would never be able to hold her role.

  That worthy pronounced in an unsteady voice, “Ye make a bonny, bonny bride.”

  “Stay out of the champagne,” Lina scolded. They were in the drawing room of her former town house where a few short minutes before Catalina McCord had quietly become Lady Tyneburne before a duly commissioned representative of the Church of England. As a sign of her faith in her new husband, Lina did not demand that the officiant present his bona fides.

  She had stood beside her bridegroom and listened to his voice, steady and sincere, answering the age-old questions. Agradeca Deus, she thought as she fought tears. Mama, desejo estavo aqui; I have had a long journey to this moment.

  And now she accepted congratulatory wishes and planned for the next phase of that journey—a laying down of arms, so to speak. She knew not what to expect, but it didn’t much matter; Suffolk could only be less tumultuous than the Peninsular War, and childbirth could only be less harrowing than having Rochon’s knife at her throat. Or one would think, anyway.

  It was an intimate gathering; Lina wore a traveling dress in lavender silk as they meant to get under way as soon as possible. Carstairs would be needed to return to service, there being ominous signs accruing from the Mediterranean.

  “A pretty posy,” Maisie offered doubtfully, indicating the bouquet Lina still held tightly in her hand. Before the ceremony Carstairs had presented her with a humble bouquet of lilies, which she had contemplated silently for a few moments, unable to find her voice. He had put his arms around her and kissed her temple in a gesture of understanding as Maisie admonished him; saying it was bad luck to kiss her before the ceremony.

  “Nonsense, Maisie,” he had responded. “Her luck has turned.”

  Perhaps it has, Lina thought with caution as she watched him thank the clergyman. There seems little chance I’m to be hauled to the Tower on a charge of treason or that the wretched Marie will make a reappearance from the grave.

  Brodie interrupted her reverie to bestow a kiss on her cheek, the first such gesture she had ever received from him. He and Dokes were duly present but he was in a fever of impatience to be away, having made vague references to the need to purchase a wooden dray containing a false bottom in Nice.

  “Riveted,” he pronounced to Lina with great satisfaction, clasping his hands behind his back. He was referring to himself; he and Jenny were wed the day before by special license. “You will behave yourself,” Lina warned him. “Dokes is not someone to be trifled with.”

  “On the contrary—I well know that one does not trifle with resourceful women. I shall do nothing that would prevail upon her to escape out the window with the bed sheets.”

  “I will see to him,” Dokes assured her in her quiet voice, leaning forward to plant a dry kiss on Lina’s cheek. “We plan to spend the next few months in the south of France, if the coming war permits.”

  “Casinos,” Brodie explained. “Mrs. Brodie believes I should target a more upscale clientele.”

  “A larger profit margin, after the initial investment,” Dokes added. “We should be turning a profit within a year—unless the monetary system collapses, of course.”

  “Excellent,” Lina replied, and prudently did not wonder aloud if the Vicar’s desires were behind the idea to relocate the irreplaceable Dokes to the south of France. That gentleman had declined an invitation to Lina’s nuptials, citing pressing matters.

  She could not suppress a smile as Carstairs approached and drew her aside. “Let us away,” she whispered on tiptoe into his ear. “Or at least find a quiet garret somewhere.”

  With a gleam, he gently chided her, “Not just yet—some decorum is called for, and if I bring your wedding nightdress to mind I am lost.”

  She reached to intertwine her fingers with his, in the folds of her skirt. “This wedding trip bodes to be superior to the last.”

  He bent his head to hers. “That first night at the inn, I had to restrain myself from revealing all and advising you to flee.”

  With a smile she squeezed his hand. “Poor Lucien; torn between duty and a tainted, pregnant, faux wife.”

  He lifted a corner of his mouth at the memory. “You may mock me now, but at the time it was damnable.”

  “And what if I had heeded your advice and made my way back to Rochon’s lair? What then?”

  The blue eyes held hers. “I would have come for you, somehow.”

  Smiling tenderly, she decided she may as well believe him—it would be a novel experience for her. “All right, we are truly married; now, how do we play this?”

  He contemplated her, a soft smile playing around his lips. “Should we attempt the truth?”

  “Santos, Lucien—that is not amusing.”

  He persisted. “You are a Portuguese refugee, having faithfully served Wellington’s Army on the Peninsula.”

  She fingered a button on his waistcoat, thinking it over. It had the benefit of being more or less the truth. “How did we meet?” she countered, arching a brow at him.

  He knit his own brow. “How did we meet? Was it on the docks in Southwark?”

  “You don’t remember,” she accused him with mock outrage.

  With a bent head, he thought about it. “I should know this.”

  “Yes—you shou
ld.” There was a small pause while she could see that he had drawn a blank. “I shall give you a hint: Calais.”

  His brow cleared. “Oh.”

  She couldn’t help but laugh. “We can’t very well explain that we met in a brothel.”

  “No,” he agreed. “Although it was an excellent extraction.”

  “I loved you the moment I saw you,” she confessed, smiling happily into his eyes. “Even though at the time I was holding the Field Marshal at knifepoint and dressed in nothing but a bustier and a petticoat.”

  “I couldn’t concentrate.” He enfolded her in his arms, his chin resting on her head. “I couldn’t believe you weren’t a delightful vision.”

  “With a blade,” she added.

  “Even better—it was every man’s fantasy come true.”

  Laughing, they shared a long moment of mutual reminiscence. “I believe we will need to concoct a story,” he conceded.

  “I would like to be minor Portuguese nobility, though—that does sound appealing.”

  “You will, then.” He pressed a cheek against her temple, thinking on it. “We met during the war—after Marie died, I heard you were to be forced into a political marriage so as to transfer your holdings…”

  “My vast holdings,” she interrupted.

  “Your vast holdings to one of Napoleon’s puppets.”

  “A Spanish or a French puppet?”

  “You choose,” he offered generously.

  “Spanish,” she decided. That would please the old soldado. “And you stole me away in the dead of the night.”

  “And had to marry you forthwith to save you and your holdings.”

  She nodded, picturing it in her mind and very pleased with the role. “Was there any swordplay?”

  He lifted his brows. “By me or by you?”

  She laughed. “All right—I overreach. But it is a good tale.”

  He continued, “It will become clear that after the marriage I fell in love with you despite my grief. We will hint that there is more to the story—”