Authors: Anne Cleeland
Mãe de Deus
, it is all of a piece, Vidia thought crossly as she held aloft her candle. “May I assist you?”
It was late at night and she stood in the cellar of her town house, facing a footman who appeared to be supremely unconcerned by his discovery in such a compromising position. Vidia had been unable to sleep—what with the momentous decision to be made—and decided to wander down to the kitchen to forage for something to eat; she had a sudden desire for brined cucumbers. Thinking she could hear Maisie stirring upstairs, she stole away to the cellar to enjoy her repast but found—much to her astonishment—that the cellar was already occupied. Setting down the candlestick, she sank down upon the step in her nightdress, the cucumbers set aside. “It is Brodie’s wine, you know—you would be stealing. I have a good mind to summon the Watch.”
The footman stood in the light of the lantern that he had placed on the floor, the grey eyes thoughtful. “I wondered that Brodie would keep his wine in your cellar.”
So, she thought, he and Carstairs have compared notes. “There is no place at his hotel, after all—and he needn’t fear that I would tipple the more expensive bottles when he was not looking.”
“You do not drink?” He opened one of the wine cabinets and surveyed the interior.
“No—I learned my lesson at San Sebastian.”
He glanced at her over the cabinet door, and she thought she could discern a grudging admiration in the grey depths. “You are a cool one.”
“So you say,” she acknowledged humbly. “What is it you seek?”
“Answers,” he replied, moving bottles about. “And perhaps a fine Cabernet.”
Stifling a yawn, she said, “I am of two minds; shall I go back to bed or shout for Maisie to bring my pistol?”
He raised his head and eyed her. “Not the most loyal of maidservants.”
Vidia lifted her chin. “I disagree. She is exactly what she seems—a true rarity, in my experience.”
“And as you do not service Brodie, you do not begrudge another the task.”
“More like I do not delve into what is none of my business.”
“Everything is my business,” he replied without remorse. “Make no mistake.”
They measured each other for a moment or two, and Vidia decided it was time to make a home thrust. “Do you believe I am working hand in glove with Rochon, then?”
If the question threw him, he betrayed no discomfiture. “What I believe is not your concern.”
“I beg your pardon,” she apologized. “It is cold and I thought to cut the conversation short.”
Closing the doors, he moved on to the next cabinet. “I remain curious as to your unexplained disappearance in France this past fall—I believe it was three days you were out of coverage.”
“I was very busy measuring the draperies for Napoleon’s summer house.” There it was again—as had happened at the meeting, she had a tendency to be insolent when she should be treading warily; it appeared her spymaster brought out the worst in her.
Fortunately, he chose to be amused and returned to his search within the wine cabinet. “You will be the death of me.”
“God forfend,” she offered piously.
A chuckle could be heard reverberating among the bottles and Vidia began to entertain cautious optimism that she might escape the cellar unscathed. To this end, she redoubled her efforts to appear calm and unfazed—he did seem to admire her coolness.
As he moved bottles and held them up to the light she watched him, saying nothing, and he seemed unconcerned that she was a witness to his search. He noted, “You managed to beguile Carstairs into an escort home—I rather thought the two of you would be occupied upstairs and I could search undetected.”
“You are mistaken—I am faithful to a fault.” She gave him her slow smile, daring him to find a double meaning. Although she was playing with fire, again he chose to be amused and only shook his head in appreciation.
Placing a bottle on the stone floor next to his lantern, he asked, “How did you know I was here?”
“You are very noisy—you need to work on this, methinks.” It wasn’t true and he knew it, but the last thing she wanted to do was tell him why she could not sleep. She watched as he opened another cabinet and surveyed the inventory. “Whose livery do you ape?”
He gave her an admonishing look. “Brodie’s.”
Laughing she exclaimed “Oh—is it indeed? I should know, I suppose.”
Crossing his arms on the top of the cabinet door he leaned his long frame upon it and contemplated her. “I note you have no footmen to hand, yourself.”
“No, only Maisie. And a cook, for those occasions when no man is plying me with fine food; in truth, I am a simple soul.”
“Simple like a succubus,” he noted without malice, and resumed his inspection.
Curious, she asked, “Did you leave a means of entry when you tuned the piano?”
He gave her a look over his shoulder that indicated she should know better. “I’ll not reveal trade secrets.”
She sighed and rubbed her cold arms. “I shall give you a key, if you’d like—it would save a lot of bother.”
But he was not to be teased. “Who else has a key?”
She considered. “Brodie; other than that, no one.”
“Hagar?”
Her tone suddenly sharp, Vidia retorted, “Her name is Maisie, and I’ll not hear you disparage her.”
“Your pardon.” He straightened up to face her. “You are indeed faithful to a fault.”
Vidia pressed her lips together and vowed to give him no more insights. She wished she had thought to bring a robe—her nightdress was only thin cotton. “If you would give a key to the man who watches across the street he could come in to warm himself occasionally.”
“He is not mine.”
Wondering if he knew, she asked, “Then whose?”
“I’d rather not say, I am afraid. It does seem that you have many admirers.”
“A pox on you all,” she retorted crossly. “I need my sleep.”
“I do not keep you from your bed,” he reminded her with a small smile. “Far from it.”
Returning his smile, she acknowledged the jest. “All the more reason to catch some sleep when I may.”
After standing in place for a few moments, thinking, he clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace, his manner suddenly serious. “What is Brodie’s game? I cannot believe he seeks to bring down England.”
“No,” she agreed. “I cannot believe such a thing, either—perhaps he holds some grudge, and enjoys driving you to distraction.”
The other made a sound of impatience. “No—it is not in his nature to seek attention, or even vengeance.”
This was undeniably true, and Vidia was impressed by the shrewd observation. She ventured, “He does like having you all on a string, though—he much enjoys the outwitting.”
Tossing her a look, he chided, “Have done—you’ll not convince me he is bringing about a national crisis for the sport of it.”
“No, I suppose not,” she agreed in a meek tone.
With an exasperated chuckle, he repeated, “You will be the death of me.”
“Or vice versa.” She gauged his reaction.
“Perhaps,” he agreed, matching her in coolness. “The only thing that stays my hand is that I can’t imagine you would support the enemy—not with your history, Libby. When did you change your name?”
Without a tremor she confessed, “San Sebastian.”
“Is that where your father was killed?”
“No,” she replied. “My husband.”
He nodded as if he had already guessed this. “And now you are Invidia—the goddess of vengeance.”
She made no response, as it seemed none need be made. His gaze traveled about the room. “How many of the enemy did you kill?”
With a monumental effort, Vidia kept her gaze steady as he surveyed the brick-lined walls. “I do not know—not exactly. More than a few.”
He approached to stand directly before her, his eyes hooded and his arms crossed. “I cannot trust you, I’m afraid, which is a drawback in this business. What am I to do with you?”
“Ordinarily,” she ventured, “men do not wonder such a thing.”
For the first time he lost countenance and allowed his annoyance to show, his voice rough; “Do not cast your lures at me—I know you better than you think.”
Alarmed by this show of emotion, she acted to soothe him. “Then tell me how to best reassure you; I have no desire to disappear without a trace.”
They regarded each other for a long moment and she had no idea what he was thinking. He finally spoke. “You are fond of Carstairs.”
And I carry proof positive, she thought. “Does that create a problem?” She didn’t want to make a denial; it would be disingenuous considering they were to wed the next day.
Santos
, she thought with a start; apparently I am going to marry Lucien Carstairs.
He seemed impatient with the idea. “I admit to surprise that Invidia would allow herself the indulgence.”
“The snail peeps out.”
“I beg your pardon?”
She smiled. “It is naught—shall I firmly quash any tender feelings for the man?”
He shrugged. “You will do as you will—there are times that I believe it is you who has us all on a string. But I would not have you forget the lesson of Samson’s first wife.”
Shaking her head so that her mane tumbled around her shoulders, she said in exasperation, “I lack the wit to decipher these riddles of yours.”
He turned to fetch the lantern and the bottle he had chosen. “There is nothing lacking about your wits.”
As it appeared the interlude was at an end, she stood, a bit stiff. “Am I free to go then? You will not slay me and stuff my corpse in to cool with the champagne?”
He walked up the step and paused beside her, regarding her with a gleam of humor in the grey eyes. “I do not know if I could bring myself to do it, Libby—but do not tempt me.”
“Never,” she assured him, and wondered how he would react to the news on the morrow. “Save your powder for the enemy, my friend.”
“Precisely.” With no further comment, he walked past her.
When Carstairs called for her the next morning at ten, Vidia was ready. Having nothing in her wardrobe that was appropriate to wear for the occasion, she managed to pull together a more-or-less demure outfit by the strategic placement of a fichu in the
décolletage
of her least objectionable day dress. She opened the door herself, having sent Maisie on several long and unnecessary errands. The cook, as usual, was not in evidence.
“You look lovely,” her bridegroom pronounced, the expression in the blue eyes very warm. He carried a nosegay of hothouse roses and handed them to her, as though she was an ordinary bride and this an ordinary wedding, which was much appreciated.
Breathing in the scent, she tried to quell her butterflies—he was the only man she had ever met who could bestow them. “Confess; you were not certain I would keep the appointment.”
“I was not.” He tilted his head in rueful acknowledgment. “But I am now the happiest of men.”
He was dressed in a morning coat that showed his broad shoulders to advantage and he had taken care with his appearance, his hair was trimmed and his chin clean-shaven. No whisker burn tonight, she thought, suppressing more butterflies. The sight of him—so handsome and correct—brought home the realization that he was willing to dedicate his life to her, despite the circumstances that counseled against it, and it made her breath catch in her throat. It is possible, she thought cautiously, that a small measure of happiness is to be mine,
graças a Deus
.
“Shall we go?” He offered his arm and indicated the carriage waiting at the curb.
“Again, you are rushing me before I change my mind,” she teased as she gathered up her reticule and gloves. “At least this time you don’t have to manage around your boots.”
“It seems the best strategy,” he confessed as they descended the front steps, several passersby stopping to admire the handsome couple. “It is all too good to be true and so I want to have it done and quickly.”
It was a sweet compliment—considering he could very well be bitterly railing against fate—and so she smiled warmly to reward him. “You make a very handsome bridegroom, Lucien.” She wondered what he had worn for his first wedding; she had worn a nightdress.
“And you a beautiful bride—although you would be beautiful even after being pulled through a chimney flue.”
“Let us not test your theory.”
With a hand at her waist, he saw her settled into the carriage, then bent to solicitously tuck in her skirt so that it wouldn’t be caught in the door. “Are you well? Have you suffered any symptoms as yet?”
“I’m afraid I’ve lost my appetite, but I am forcing the issue as best I can.”
His brows drew together in concern. “Perhaps you should consult a physician.”
She touched his arm, pleased by this husband-like display. “One traumatic event at a time, Lucien.”
Smiling his teasing smile, he climbed into the carriage and sat beside her, rather than across from her, which led her to hope that there would be more kisses coming her way. “Your pardon; last night I could hardly sleep, thinking over your news—our news—and making plans.”
“That is to the good—after my war widow plan was scotched I was fresh out.”
He gave instruction to the driver, who then closed the door with a snap. “Your war widow plan was nothing short of alarming.”
“Never say so,” she protested, laughing. “I thought it an excellent plan.”
With a sidelong glance, he reminded her, “The last time you wore a widow’s veil you inspired a knife fight at the Guildhall in Campine.”
She primmed her mouth, her eyes merry. “That was a different situation entirely, and your fault as much as mine—yours and Droughm’s. And unlikely to reoccur in the wilds of Yorkshire, as there is no occupying French army to hand.”
“Hopefully, we shall never know. Are you comfortable?”
As the carriage started off with a slight jerk, he held her hand in his as he had done last night and she decided it was very agreeable to have him attend her with such patent devotion. I hope this newfound devotion withstands the tests it will be put to, she thought; it would be a shame if it did not—but on the other hand it would be very much in keeping with my luck. “What is our destination?”
“St. Mary’s Chapel,” he replied. “It is near Greenwich, at the Old Royal Naval Hospital—quiet and simple.”
Interesting that he chose a military venue for this clandestine affair, but perhaps it was the best he could do on such short notice—or perhaps he was acquainted with the celebrant. She thought about the enormity of the step they were to take and the certain repercussions when the news was revealed. “We are mad, the both of us.”
“No—we are parents, the both of us.” He smiled into her eyes, his manner meant to reassure, and she knew a moment’s qualm—he was entirely too reconciled to the situation, was Lucien Carstairs. Surely he should have railed and doubted—or at least delayed, given her history?
He must have read her concerns because he leaned his head toward hers and said with quiet emphasis, “You take the proper course—we both do,” and gently kissed her mouth. As her pulse leapt, she considered the undeniable fact she almost didn’t care what consequences would follow—she knew only that she wanted to belong to the man beside her as she had never wanted anything in her life. To counter this folly she said aloud, “I did not look to take another husband.”
He traced her gloved fingers with his own as they swayed along in the well-sprung carriage. “Then we have something in common—I did not look to take another wife.”
“I hope you do not make a bad bargain, Lucien.” Already he would have to contend with the scandal of this marriage of necessity on the heels of his first wife’s death; he was not the sort of man who would appreciate being the object of whispering gossip. She, on the other hand, was well-used to it.
Raising her hand, he bestowed a kiss upon its back. “Then let me consider your merits—you are clever, not given to crochets, and sublime in the bedroom. All in all, I will take my chances.”
She smiled, inordinately pleased that he had not included her appearance in his listing. “I could say the same about you, my friend.”
“Then we are well-matched.”
Leaning back into the cushions, she felt herself begin to relax. “Little did we know—that night we played cards—that the two of us would have little choice but to trust each other, and very soon.”
He smiled and cocked his head. “The irony is not lost on me, I assure you.”
“Can we, do you think?” She searched his eyes with her own, thinking she would ask nothing more than to be able to trust him. Her natural tendency to be cautious was quickly fading before the sheer exhilaration of this journey and what it meant for her future.
He thought about it—seriously—as they crossed London Bridge to the south bank of the Thames. “I think we can trust each other, given time. It will not be easy to unlearn the habits of a lifetime overnight.”
She appreciated this sensible view of the issue, which was in keeping with her own concerns. “No—it will seem like a luxury to trust someone.”
“Did you not trust your husband?”
Her face fell, and before she could fashion an answer, he took her hands and interrupted her. “Now, that was clumsy of me; do not answer and instead tell me how you like your eggs—I know so little about you.”
With an effort, her smile returned. “Coddled.”
“As do I,” he pronounced and again kissed the hand in his. “An excellent omen. Coffee or tea?”
“Coffee,” she decided. “As the tea may be poisoned.”
“Never—poison is a woman’s weapon; a man must be more forthright in murdering his wife.”
She laughed, delighted with his teasing.
“Boy or girl?”
She looked at him blankly for a moment, and he lifted his brows at her confusion. “The baby.”
“Oh. I hadn’t considered—I am still coming to terms with the idea, I’m afraid—does it matter to you?”
“A girl,” he pronounced. “With her mother’s smile.”
She found that she could make no rejoinder as her throat had closed with emotion. Instead she lowered her gaze and tightened her grip on his hand.
Graças a Deus
.
Observing her reaction, he bent his head and spoke to her softly. “After I recovered from the initial shock, I find—much to my surprise—that I am looking forward to fatherhood; I hadn’t thought it was in my future.”
Unable to suppress her curiosity, she looked up at him. “Marie did not conceive?”
“No—and apparently the fault was not mine.”
She was surprised by the edge to his tone and he immediately recanted. “That was unkind—pray disregard it.”
She did as she was asked but noted the tinge of bitterness he could not conceal. “Will Marie’s relatives be shocked by your sudden remarriage?”
“There is no one left to be shocked; she was only survived by a sister and we have little contact. Everyone else died rather suddenly.” His tone was now carefully neutral.
Interesting, she thought, as she allowed him to change the subject. Apparently I am not the only one who is steeped in secrets.
The countryside opened up as they approached the park, Queen’s House visible on the hill. Rounded white clouds were scattered across the deep blue sky; the daffodils bright along the footpaths. I wonder, she thought as she reviewed the pleasing panorama, if I have should have thought this through a bit more, or at least consulted with Brodie.
“A beautiful day for a wedding,” Carstairs observed, drawing her face to his own with a hand on her chin and kissing her.
“Glorious,” she agreed.