I will need you to vacate the room, Maisie—and be much in evidence elsewhere.” Vidia stood at the window, holding the lace curtain aside with her fingertips. Their room was on the second floor but she had every confidence her visitor would manage it; he was a very fine cat burglar when he wasn’t smuggling—or pretending to smuggle, as the case may be. She would soon find out, being as she was a very fine discerner of plots.
“Is Mr. Carstairs to visit?” her maidservant asked with a hopeful mien.
“You never know.” Vidia arched an eyebrow; best not to tell Maisie that she expected a different gentleman altogether—Maisie had enough on her plate, what with trying to relieve her mistress’s case of the dismals.
Maisie gathered up her tatting and her shawl. “I’ll be in the common room—should I fall asleep on a chair, do you think?”
She was probably hopeful that Carstairs would take Vidia to bed and thus restore order in the world, and Vidia was sorry to disappoint her. “I don’t think it necessary—I imagine an hour or two will be sufficient. I shall come fetch you—have a pot of tea in the meantime.”
Once alone, Vidia approached her mirror and unbuttoned the top two buttons of her modest bodice, then pinched some color into her cheeks. I cannot overplay this and appear too desperate, she thought. Fortunately I have been deserted by my husband, and that will support my role.
There was a soft tap at her door, and she was almost disappointed that no attempt had been made to scale the wall outside. Opening the door a few inches, she perceived the gentleman who had been conspiring with the cook earlier, grinning with delight. He was a Romany—thin, dark-haired, and handsome, his face marked with an intriguing scar.
Laughing, she pulled him inside. “Gaston; entrez—vite.”
He enfolded her in an embrace and lifted her off the floor for a moment. “La belle Vidia—I thought to fall from my chair.” He set her down and held her at arm’s length, openly admiring her and making a sucking sound with his mouth. “You are une ange, chérie.”
“And you are up to no good, I’ll wager—what are you doing here? Is there a daughter of the house you seek to ruin?” She indicated he was to sit in the chair while she sat across from him on the edge of the bed, casually tucking her legs beneath her in such a way so as to reveal some lace petticoat.
Gaston made a derisive gesture with his forefinger. “Bah—there are no good women here; instead, I bring decent tobacco and the brandy to the stupid English who cannot make their own.”
Vidia gave him her slow smile and leaned forward so that the unbuttoned buttons could work their magic. “So—you smuggle into the inn with a cutter moored out in the cove? You are like the hero in a gothic novel, Gaston, small wonder all the girls sigh.”
He cast her a wicked glance, his eyes glinting. “Shall I take you for a sail? The moon is nearly full.”
Shrugging her graceful shoulders, she sighed with regret. “Quel dommage; I cannot tarry with you, Gaston—I am new-married.”
Incredulous, he stared at her. “Non—incroyable.”
Laughing softly at his reaction, she bowed her head in mock contrition. “C’est vrai.”
He chuckled. “That was fast work, mignon—who managed this miracle?”
“Lucien Carstairs—do you know of him?”
With a show of acute surprise, he made a deprecatory gesture. “Why would you marry that one? Anglais; un tel gaspillage.”
Spreading her hands, she disclaimed, “It could not be helped; there were no Romany men to hand.”
He chuckled in appreciation and raised his dark brows. “But what of the rich man?”
She leaned forward, allowing another glimpse of her cleavage—a shame her dress wasn’t one of her usual—and looked at him from beneath her lashes. “I needed something more—you know me.”
As his gaze lingered appreciatively on her décolletage, he replied, “Hélas—I do not but I wish I did.”
She laughed softly, deep in her throat. Gaston had always had a soft spot for her—as had nearly every man she had ever met.
Gaston cocked his head at her, unable to take his gaze from her breasts. “Where is this new Anglais husband? He neglects you, perhaps?”
Vidia made a moue with her mouth. “Oui, he neglects me—I think he has second thoughts; he worries I’ll not be faithful.” With her eyes, she invited him to share in her amusement at such a thought.
Gaston stared at her in dismay for a moment. “He would not leave you, surely?”
Finding that she didn’t want to discuss it, even within her role, she cut to the nub of the matter—there seemed little point in flirting for another hour. “When do you return to la belle France, mon ami?”
He tilted his head, making a sound of regret. “On tonight’s tide—do you need money? Or a weapon with which to shoot such a man?”
“I shall come with you to France,” she pronounced as though it was a simple thing and recrossed her legs, smoothing out her skirt with a lingering gesture. “We shall sail and admire the moon together.”
There was a slight pause, and he replied lightly, “Do not tempt me, ma belle.”
But Vidia became deadly serious. “The wolves are closing in, my friend—I must be away, and quickly.”
Raising his brows, he regarded her narrowly for a moment. “I have no desire to have this new husband kill me.”
“He is one of the wolves. That is why I must be away.”
He rendered a low whistle. “You must report to Rochon?”
The question lingered in the air, a hint of challenge contained therein. “Indeed—I will meet up with Monsieur Rochon.” She held his gaze without flinching.
He thought it over for a moment, then shook his head with regret. “I think I must stay away from such a plan, chérie.”
She made an impatient gesture with her hand and chided him, “Gaston, Gaston—and here I thought you stood my friend. Have you forgotten how I distracted the angry papa in Leiden?”
He spread his own hands in a purely Gallic gesture of regret. “It is too great a risk, ma belle.”
“One thousand pounds to get me away,” she replied coolly, fingering a curl that rested atop her breast.
Giving a silent whistle, he stared at her—the sum was staggering. “You tempt me, Vidia, but if it is known I help you escape to Rochon, the English will hang me très-vite.”
“I will tell no one, will you?”
Ducking his chin to his chest, he considered while Vidia watched him from beneath her lashes. She had little doubt of the outcome.
“Bien. I will do it—only for you, belle Vidia.”
“Très bien. Shall I see if there is a bottle of your fine French brandy downstairs? I would hear of your adventures.”
His expression changed subtly. “I no longer drink.”
She thought as much; Gaston had undergone a sea change—and she could only hope his was not as hard as hers had been at San Sebastian. Aloud she teased him, “You will astonish me next, and tell me you are a holy man.”
“Not this side of heaven.” He relaxed again, relieved to change the subject.
She lifted her feet to rest them on his chair and clasped her knees with her hands. “Tell me a round tale, then—I am in dire need of entertainment in this God-forsaken place.”
“D’accord—I shall tell you that my friends in Calais still swear that you are a mermaid.”
Making a wry mouth, she disclaimed, “No—they only seek to conceal the fact they cannot shoot straight.”
As he chuckled, she teased him with an arched brow, “Tell me, what do you hear from Renée—does she pine for you?”
He threw back his head and laughed so that she had to caution him to stay quiet. “You are cruel to remind me.”
Smiling, Vidia shrugged. “How were you to know that Renée was more properly a René? Or that he would be so smitten by your beaux yeux?”
“And I could not make an exit without stirring up the guards—it was a situation intenable.” He paused, remembering, then sobered. “Poor René met with a bad end.”
Watching him carefully, she shrugged slightly. “Did he? I cannot say I am surprised—he had many dangerous friends.”
Gaston nodded and threw her a significant glance. “Some more dangerous than others.”
“Yes—it cannot be a comfortable existence—to hold the secrets of dangerous men.”
His sharp gaze flew to her face, but she was contemplating the fire in the grate, her expression mild. “Does the counterfeiter still live—what was his name?”
Gaston shifted in his chair. “Gerard—he does; he was too useful to kill, even when Rochon discovered his treachery.”
Making a wry mouth she asked, “Is he a—guest—of Monsieur Rochon nowadays?”
Gaston shrugged. “I know not.” Then, with a sly smile, “You would know, better than I.”
She kept her gaze upon the grate and did not react to the insinuation. “I have not been a guest myself, of late.” She then moved on to more general subjects, inquiring after other acquaintances as they spoke of old times and the general injustice of the war.
After an hour, he rose. “I must go. The tide will turn at ten o’clock—can you meet me on the beach down below without being seen?”
“I will be there, my friend. How many in your crew? I do not wish any tale-bearers.”
“Only one, to man the jibs. He will say nothing—especially if he is paid to stay silent.”
“Good,” she said. “I shall see to it.”
He paused at the door. “It is not that I do not trust you, ma belle—but are you certain you can bring such a sum?”
“I can—but take this as a sign of good faith.” She pulled off her ring with the three diamonds and handed it to him.
He examined it doubtfully. “Your wedding ring?”
“No,” she assured him. “Only a trifle.”