As it was just after midnight, Maisie had waited up for Vidia and dropped a surprised curtsey upon viewing her entry with an unexpected guest.
Vidia peeled off her gloves. “Maisie, this is Mr. Carstairs. He will be conducting a search of the house, and you may be off to bed once he has searched your room.”
The other woman took Vidia’s cloak and held her eye for a moment, wondering if there was an unspoken instruction. Shaking her head slightly, Vidia signaled that no heroics would be necessary and so the maidservant said only, “Right then, missy.”
Standing in the marbled foyer, Carstairs removed his hat and gloves and set them on a side table, as Maisie hadn’t remembered to take them. Vidia indicated the curving stairway with a graceful gesture and asked as though she were entertaining a guest, “May I accompany you or would you rather be unobserved?”
“Please come.” He shrugged off his jacket, and she could swear he meant it.
“Is that wise?” she teased as she took the jacket and laid it beside the hat and gloves. “Perhaps I will try to distract you so that you miss evidence of my wrongdoing.”
“It would be well worth it.” He took a candlestick from the hall table as he passed by. “The distracting, I mean—not the evidence.”
Lifting her skirts, she followed him up the stairs, her stiff petticoats crackling with her movements. “I always prefer a search from the top down, in the event an escape is needful halfway through—and Maisie’s room is on the top floor.”
“The top floor, then.”
There was something liberating about tossing aside the tension and the pretense, and she realized she felt much more at ease with him. “I should have worn my dusting smock.”
As they ascended the second stairwell meant for the nonexistent servants, he chuckled in appreciation. “I would be willing to wager any amount of money you do not possess a dusting smock.”
“You would lose, my friend.”
One of his dark brows shot up in surprise and he turned his head to observe her. “I did not peg you for a domestic.”
She smiled, pleased that he was interested—or pretending an interest, anyway. “Oh, I have dressed many a chicken, I assure you.”
“Where was this?” he asked casually as he made his way down the narrow hall toward the servants’ rooms, the candlelight bouncing with his steps.
It was the casual tone—a bit too casual—that drew her up. Remember what was at stake, menina; it was a mistake to fall into this easy conversation with him, wretched man—although it was perilously appealing. “Malmaison,” she responded, naming the residence Josephine had formerly shared with Napoleon.
“A fish tale,” he pronounced. “The Empress would never have allowed one such as you to set foot on the premises.”
They paused before Maisie’s room. “Then ask me no questions and I will tell you no tales.”
“Fair enough,” he agreed, and stepped in.
She leaned against the door in the narrow room and watched as he began a thorough search, tapping on walls and floors and gauging distances between. He was very efficient, she realized, and recalculated her strategy. “Should I help?”
“Best not.” He turned to give her his quick flashing smile. “This is strange, isn’t it?”
“That we are honest in our dishonesty? I suppose so.”
With deft movements he opened a cupboard and ran a hand along the interior, lifting clothes and tapping occasionally. “I don’t think you dishonest.”
Hesitating, she decided she may as well ask. “But some do?”
He glanced at her. “You know I cannot say.”
Tired of standing in her heavy skirts, she crossed the small room to sit on the cot and was content to simply watch him moving about in his shirtsleeves—he showed to advantage, did Lucien Carstairs. “I suppose not. I only wish I knew what has happened to make them think I am tainted.”
He had been crouching, scrutinizing the floorboards, but now he rose to stand with his hands on his hips and contemplated the wall for a long moment, debating whether to tell her. “Marie twigged you.”
She wasn’t certain what he meant. “Marie?”
He gave her a significant look. “Yes; Marie.”
Astonished, she exclaimed, “Your Marie?”
She realized he was watching her reaction closely but it hardly mattered—if he had said the source was the mad King it would have been less surprising. “Yes. My Marie.”
Vidia knit her brow and they regarded each other for a long moment. “What on earth did she tell them?”
Shrugging his broad shoulders, he disclaimed again, “I cannot say.”
Completely bewildered, she shook her head in protest. “Carstairs, I hardly met Marie—once or twice, perhaps.”
“I am aware. And her motivation has been taken into consideration.”
He had turned to move to the next room and she leapt up to follow close behind, sensing an undercurrent. “What motivation was that?”
Beginning his tapping search anew, he replied, “She was not an admirer of yours.”
Vidia was not surprised—few women were. “I see.”
He glanced at her over his shoulder. “On the other hand, she was aware that I was an admirer.”
This was of interest and pleased her enormously. “Were you? You hid it well, methinks.”
Continuing in his endeavors, he ran his fingers along the window casements. “I thought you were the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”
Making a wry face, she responded in a tart tone. “Unfortunately, that is neither original nor unusual.”
He paused and said simply, “For me it was true.”
The sincerity rang in his voice and she was—strange as it seemed—ashamed of her cynicism. “Thank you,” she offered a bit awkwardly.
He placed his hands on the window casement and hoisted himself up, a boot on the sill, to take a view of the top of the curtain box. “Flanders wasn’t out of the blue; I’d been sorely tempted well before that.”
She realized that these revelations were doing an excellent job of throwing her off-balance, if that was his intent, and so she decided to inject a strong dose of reality. “You seemed so devoted to Marie.”
Mention of the recently departed didn’t seem to faze him, and the blue eyes met hers. “I could dream. Not that I was able to get much sleep in Flanders—knowing you were in the next room.”
“As opposed to the ambassador’s maidservant,” she noted in a dry tone.
Laughing, he knelt to examine the baseboards. “Unfair—that was strictly business—we had to get in, after all.”
“And once we were in there was no getting out.” Deus, it had been a heart-stopping moment when they realized their Flemish contacts had betrayed them and it was a trap.
“It was a close-run thing,” he agreed as he lifted then closed the window. “But all that matters is—although you smelt of lye for days—the extraction was ultimately successful.”
They had improvised by smuggling the wretched ambassador out in the laundry bag—Vidia in a mobcap and hoping no one noticed her pink satin shoes. “Remind me never to rely upon Flemish diplomats again.”
“Or Flemish horseflesh,” he added as he tapped on the walls.
With a smile she disagreed, shaking her head. “On the contrary; the horses did exactly as expected, being of such poor quality.”
Chuckling, he leaned back on his haunches, his arms resting on his thighs as he ducked his chin for a moment. “I enjoyed every miserable moment.”
Unable to argue, she admitted, “I did too,” and met his gaze—there was nothing like shared peril to create a strong bond of intimacy. The room seemed to be warmer, suddenly. Mind yourself, menina, she thought, and dropped her gaze to the floor.
The moment passed, and he resumed his search, tapping the floorboards. “Perhaps we will work together again.”
Keeping her chin lowered, she glanced up under her lashes to watch him. “That seems unlikely, if I’m to be hanged.”
Ah, that struck a nerve and she noted his reaction carefully, although his expression was unreadable. “I won’t let them hang you.”
She offered in a teasing tone, “Well then; if you have a plan to extract me, I am all attention—as long as it does not involve a laundry bag.” Although she leaned casually against the doorjamb, in truth she continued to watch him narrowly, hoping to gauge the seriousness of the situation. There was a small silence but apparently he had nothing to offer—or, more correctly, nothing he was willing to offer.
“It won’t come to that,” he said again. “I will see to it.”
Shaking her head so that her earbobs danced, she couldn’t suppress a smile. “You know, Carstairs, I have no idea whether there is a shred of truth in anything you tell me.”
He laughed aloud and she had to chuckle in turn, pleased she had cracked through his defenses. Still smiling, he rose to his feet and stepped over to rest his hands at her waist and pull her toward him, bending so he kissed her, long and hard. She did not resist, but caressed his head with her hands as he drew her intimately close. He murmured into her neck, “Where is your bedchamber?”
“Would it be out of coverage?” she whispered. He paused, his hands on the sides of her breasts. “Tell me the truth, Lucien.”
“No,” he admitted, and with a sigh set her away from him. His warm gaze became intense as he dropped the focus of his eyes to her mouth. “But there is a powerful attraction between us, Vidia. You wish to indulge it as much as I do.”
She stood quietly between his hands and spoke without thinking. “I wish we were normal people who could indulge in a little honesty, on occasion.”
He regarded her for a long moment, his expression shuttered, then he stepped away and walked into the remaining upstairs room without making a reply. Apparently he didn’t appreciate her attempt to pull the veil aside, and she tried to stifle the acute disappointment she felt now that he had removed his warm body from hers.
“Are you coming?” His voice could be heard.
“I am,” she called out, her heart skipping a beat. Mãe de Deus, she thought—I never learn.
As she watched his search of the final upstairs room from the distant safety of the hallway he noted, “No one occupies any of the other rooms.”
“No. I am not one who is comfortable having servants.”
With a speculative expression, he glanced at her—she was equal parts relieved and disappointed to see that he had abandoned his role as seducer. “There are no other servants who live here?”
“A new cook, not much in evidence,” she admitted. There was a pause while she watched him peer up the chimney. “The fewer servants, the fewer to witness those occasions when I entertain Rochon and summon the forces of darkness.” The reference was to Napoleon’s spymaster, the name he had muttered in his sleep. You are a flippant creature, she scolded herself; it comes of making such a clumsy call for honesty.
“Very amusing,” he acknowledged easily, his voice echoing in the chimney. “What is this ‘argo’ to which Brodie refers—any guesses?”
“Not a clue,” she answered just as easily.
Nothing more was said as he finished, brushing off his hands. “Next floor.”
Stepping aside so that he could pass, she noted that he made no attempt to touch her again. I wonder what is pretense and what is not, she thought. And I imagine he is wondering the same thing. It would all be very amusing if only I weren’t in love with him—as it is, all I can do is follow him about—yearning—and guard every word I say. Such a sad little snail.