The Carfax Intrigue

by Tracy Grant

  Everyone took a champagne glass. Including Dalton.

  "Addison's quite brilliant," Cordelia murmured to Mélanie.

  "Yes, it's good to see him in action," Mélanie said, gaze on Sir George.

  "Sir George." Lady Frances Davenport, Malcolm's aunt and the wife of Harry's uncle Archie, stopped beside him, her voice carrying clearly to where Cordelia stood with Mélanie. "You must advise me. Everyone says your opinion of horseflesh is unparalleled."

  "Harry briefed Frances as well as Archie," Cordelia told Mélanie. "Fanny's in her element."

  "I don't wonder at it. We've all been longing for action."

  Frances wasn't a trained agent any more than Cordelia was, but they had both learned to love the game their husbands played.

  "There's a cream-colored pair at Tattersall's I quite have my heart set on," Frances continued to Sir George in the same carrying voice, "but Archie says they're more showy than sound. I got him to agree that if you thought them reasonable, he would accede to your judgment."

  "What?" Sir George blinked, not the first man to be bowled over by Lady Frances. Or the last. "Oh, glad to offer my opinion. But I'd have to see them."

  "Yes, of course. I can't go with you—such a nuisance that ladies aren't allowed at Tatts—but Archie can. Only, mind you, hold firm and give your opinion, no matter what he says. He does hate to admit he's wrong."

  "My cue," Cordelia whispered to Mélanie. "Aunt Frances." She swept up to the small group, drawing Mélanie with her. "Do stop monopolizing Sir George. He's promised to me for the next waltz."

  "What?" Sir George's already florid face turned a bit more flushed.

  "Oh, do pray play along," Cordelia said, in a lowered voice worthy of the stage. "Bobby Eustace asked me to dance, and I had to give him some excuse. The last time I waltzed with him, he trod on my flounce in three places, and my maid still hasn't been able to repair the lace properly. Surely you won't be so ungallant as to refuse?"

  Cordelia smiled up at Dalton, wondering if she was laying it on a bit thick. But Sir George drew a breath and smiled down at her. "Certainly, Lady Cordelia. Anything to oblige." He extended his arm.

  Cordelia circled her gloved fingers round his proffered arm and let him lead her onto the dance floor. He lurched a little as they took their places, but she couldn't be sure if that was owed to what Kitty had slipped into the glass Addison had given him or to the number of glasses he'd consumed before. She smiled at him and gathered up the folds of her gown as the first notes of the waltz sounded. He stumbled again in the opening promenade, muttered an apology, and moved with creditable grace through the first figures. Then he stumbled a third time and nearly fell.

  Cordelia made to trip herself. "Oh, dear, how silly of me. Too many glasses of champagne, I fear. Do let’s find somewhere to sit down."

  He gave a sigh that might have been relief or a gasp for air, and let her draw him into an antechamber.

  "Much better." Cordelia sank into a chair and fanned herself. "Do sit down, Sir George. You look quite red."

  And he did. Though not precisely sleepy yet. Cordelia wondered just what she was going to have to do to keep him where he needed to be until the drug took effect. An attempt at flirtation would probably rouse his suspicions. There were disadvantages to having her happy marriage so generally known.

  "Don't mind if I do." Sir George sank into a chair and tugged at his collar.

  "Do tell me about your horses," Cordelia said, though, as he began to talk, she wondered if she'd be the one to fall asleep.

  But a few minutes later, he slumped back in his chair and began to snore.

  She eased the door open a few inches, then pulled it shut, her signal to Mélanie and Laura. They slipped into the room a few moments later, laughing like two friends enjoying a gossip, then went serious as soon as they closed the door.

  "Like clockwork," Cordelia said. "Well, almost." She bent over Sir George. His eyes were closed, his breathing deep and rasping, but there was a difference between sleep and lack of consciousness. "How do we make sure he's out?"

  Mélanie crossed to the chair and pinched Sir George's arm. He didn't stir. "Out cold." She unbuttoned his coat, tightly fitted and padded at the shoulders, and pushed it back, quickly searching for pockets. "Snuff box, watch. Here." She drew out a packet of papers tied with blue ribbon.

  Cordelia let out a sigh of relief. So did Laura, almost simultaneously.

  Mélanie frowned as she opened one of the papers.

  "What?" Laura said. "Good God."

  Cordelia moved to stand beside her friends. The paper was blank. So were all the others as Mélanie flipped through them.

  "Was he planning to dupe Carfax—Colonel Mallinson—and sell the letters to someone else?" Cordelia asked. "Or keep them?"

  "Surely Hubert Mallinson would have checked to make sure the letters were genuine before he paid," Laura said. "Maybe these are dummies in case someone tried to steal them."

  They went through the rest of the coat and felt the lining. They unbuttoned his waistcoat, checked his breeches, and in the end stripped him entirely.

  "I never realized how exhausting this is without the gentleman's doing any of the work," Cordelia said.

  "And not particularly agreeable," Laura added, running her fingers over the waistcoat lining. "Of course, he's hardly anyone I'd have chosen to undress, with or without his cooperation." She set down the waistcoat. Mélanie did the same with his breeches.

  No sign of the papers. Mélanie sat back on her heels, her flounced golden skirts pooling about her. "I think someone else must have taken them before we could."

  "And left blank dummies?" Cordelia asked. "Why?"

  "Because he might have felt that his pocket was empty. This way he wouldn't notice until the meeting with Carfax. Hubert."

  "Who?" Laura asked. "Who might have taken them?"

  "Who not is almost a better question. Most of the people at the ball would like those letters." Mélanie pushed herself to her feet. "Better get him dressed before someone comes in, and we have a lot of explaining to do."

  Out of the corner of his eye, Julien saw Addison serve the doctored champagne to Sir George. And though he flattered himself a detached observer would have sworn he was looking elsewhere, a few minutes later he was aware of Cordelia's drawing Sir George onto the dance floor.

  Kitty moved to his side. "Time for a distraction."

  He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. Because it would draw gazes round the room. And because he liked doing it. "Oh good, there are Josefina and her family. I'm glad to see them, and this will serve nicely."

  Josefina Lopes had been an agent in the Peninsula and then, like so many former agents, had settled in London after the war, where she'd become a much-fêted singer at Vauxhall Gardens. She'd married a violinist and composer and they had a young son. They lived with her parents, who had also come over from Portugal. Julien liked all of them. And Josefina's mother, like Julien's own mother, was the daughter of slaves. She had met Josefina's father, a former sailor, in Sao Tomé, where Portugal had a colony, and come back to Portugal with him. There were a number of reasons Julien felt a kinship with Josefina, but that was certainly one of them.

  "Josefina." Julien leaned in to kiss her cheek. "Lucian." He shook her husband's hand and turned to her parents. "Luisa. Fernando. It's good to see you."

  "It was kind of you to invite us, Lord Carfax." Josefina gave a quick smile when greetings had been exchanged. "Julien. Kitty."

  "Believe me, this will lend no end of caché to our ball," Kitty said.

  "Perhaps not the sort you want," Josefina said.

  "On the contrary." Kitty's smile took in the whole group. "As you may have noticed, my husband has a love of creating a stir. And having the toast of Vauxhall among our guests will make us the envy of many in Mayfair. But that has nothing to do with why we wanted you here. You must bring your little boy over again soon. The children were very disappointed they wouldn't see him tonight.
They don't quite see the point of a grown-up party."

  "I quite agree," Josefina said.

  "So do I," Julien said. "Much more rational conversation with children present." Cordelia and a wobbly Sir George had just made their way off the dance floor. The waltz that had been in progress was coming to an end. "Will you honor me with the next dance, Josefina?"

  Josefina smiled. "I'd be delighted." She glanced at her husband and parents.

  "I'll take care of them," Kitty said. "You must come and meet Emily Cowper. She was telling me how much she admires Lucian's music."

  "You know what they'll say about our dancing together, I assume?" Josefina murmured as Julien led her onto the dance floor.

  "Oh yes. I quite like the idea of everyone's being reminded of my mother and what they did to her. I hope you don't mind assisting me?"

  "On the contrary."

  "Trust a fellow agent to grasp the mission. You have my thanks. And I should add that any man would be honored to dance with you."

  "That's just the sort of charming thing I'd expect you to say. If a bit conventional."

  "I only stoop to convention when I speak the unvarnished truth."

  Josefina laughed. There were indeed a number of eyes on them as they moved into the dance, but then he and Kitty had both been the center of attention all evening. As they had been for the past few months whenever they didn't go out in disguise.

  But as they circled the room, he heard a woman's voice behind him say, "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised he's dancing with her. Like will find like. Though she's certainly duskier than he is."

  "Doesn't change the blood that flows in his veins," a man's voice replied.

  "Mallinson blood."

  "And his mother's blood."

  "He's still a Mallinson."

  "Not sure what that means to him."

  "He's undoubtedly exotic. It will be interesting to watch him."

  Josefina cast a glance up at Julien. "I know a bit about what you're feeling, I think."

  Julien smiled down at her as he spun her to the side. "I imagine you do."

  "Not precisely, of course." Her gaze was level and friendly as she spun back to face him. "You're a Mallinson. That makes you one of them."

  "I'll never be one of them." His ironic drawl, usually second nature, came out with a bite he hadn't intended.

  "It may not stop the comments, but they'll always see you as a Mallinson. And an earl."

  "And that gives me power. Granted."

  The movement of the dance had Josefina in front of him, but she nodded. "They don't see power when they look at me. But I know how it feels to have people look at one because one's different." She spun back towards him, their hands locked overhead. "Fascinated by what seems exotic. Or repelled by it. Or often both, one after the other. Or even at the same time. But whatever they think, it's the difference they see. Not the person underneath."

  Julien met her gaze. He had the unfamiliar sensation of having had his comfortable mask torn from his face. His nerve endings were exposed. "Sometimes one would just as soon they didn't see the person underneath."

  Her mouth curved in a faint smile. "There is that. One can learn to play a façade to one's advantage."

  "And beautiful women struggle to be seen for themselves."

  "Somehow I think you also know about that, Julien."

  He gave a dry laugh. "I learned early to play all the cards in my possession."

  "It can certainly be an asset for an agent." She twirled beneath his arm again. "Someone asked me yesterday if I thought about going home. I said I didn't want to see Portugal with the government it has now. Then I realized she meant Sao Tomé. Where I never lived at all. Where my mother only was because her ancestors were bought and sold. My parents met there, so I suppose that gives it happy memories of a sort. But—" She looked round the ballroom. "In many ways, outsider or not, this is home."

  Julien looked round the ballroom as well. The classical busts. The paintings of Mallinsons past. The Canalettos and Rubens and Van Dycks that his father had bought from Alistair Rannoch, who had obtained them through dubious means. "God help me, so it is," he said. "And now it's my children's as well."

  "So I suppose it's ours to make of what we will," Josefina said.

  "Well said. I abrogated my responsibilities for too long."

  Josefina looked up at him as the music came to an end. "There are different ways of working for what we believe in."

  "Point well taken. But far too charitable, in my case."

  "I went from being an agent to being a singer at Vauxhall."

  "Where your presence makes quite a statement in and of itself. Not that your agent skills couldn't be put to use." Mélanie and Laura had left the ballroom as well, dark and titian heads close together, like two friends sharing a gossip. So far, the mission was progressing as intended. "May I persuade you to another dance?"

  Josefina's smile said she understood far more than she let on. "I'd be delighted, Lord Carfax."

  8

  "Darling." Mélanie found her husband near the archway to the supper room, where he was standing with Harry. "A slight problem."

  Malcolm angled his head with apparent husbandly concern, as though they were exchanging a bit of familiar gossip in the midst of the ball. "You didn’t get the papers?"

  "Oh, we got them. At least, the papers Sir George Dalton had. I think someone else got to them first."

  "Unexpected." Malcolm looked at Harry, then cast a glance round the ballroom and then into the supper room. "As we said, ninety percent of the people at the ball would want them."

  "But far fewer would have the skills to take them," Harry said.

  "Take what?" Julien joined them, the picture of the affable host circulating among his guests.

  "Someone got to the letters before we did," Mélanie said.

  "Interesting." Julien touched his champagne glass to each of theirs in turn, in a silent toast. "It’s all right, anyone seeing us grouped together will just think the host is taking a moment with his friends. That’s the advantage of having friends. Well, one of the advantages. I should have realized that years ago. It would have made my career as an agent easier. You should have told me."

  "I hadn’t realized it myself," Mélanie said. "At least, not until more recently."

  "Who’s the likeliest suspect?" Harry asked.

  "Brougham was making noises about the letters," Malcolm said. "Which you wouldn’t think he’d do if he was trying to steal them himself. Unless it was an elaborate feint. Brougham’s clever enough for it. I’m not sure he has the skills to have actually stolen the letters, though. Unless he hired someone."

  "Uncle Hubert might have thought he could avoid having to pay for them." Julien said. "He hasn’t arrived yet, but there are a number of people he might have employed."

  "How many of them are here tonight?" Harry asked.

  "Quite a number of his former agents. Oliver Lydgate and Sylvie St. Ives and Maria Monreal, among others. Whether or not any of his former agents would consent to work for him is another story. We certainly worked hard enough to break away from him. But I imagine he could have found someone for the right price."

  "George Dalton was in the card room before he came into the ballroom," Malcolm said.

  Harry nodded. "I’ll ask Archie whom he noticed Dalton talking to. Though it might have been easier to take them while he was dancing."

  "Challenging to do it on the dance floor," Mélanie said. "Though not impossible. Perhaps Frances noted whom he was dancing with. We’ve all been watching for him all evening, but Fanny has a better eye for what’s happening on the dance floor."

  "What have you done with Dalton?" Harry asked.

  "Dressed him again and put the dummy papers back where we found them," Mélanie said. "But when he recovers consciousness in a half hour or so, he’s likely to check the papers."

  "Yes, I think even Dalton has the wit for that," Harry said.

  "He’s likely to
think you took them," Malcolm said. "Or that Cordy did, since he was with her when he passed out."

  "We could have him removed," Julien suggested.

  "On the contrary," Harry said. "I’ll be very intrigued to see what he says to Cordy when he recovers consciousness. And if she can draw him out. I’d wager my wife is more than a match for Dalton."

  Kitty moved out of the green salon, where some of those who didn’t wish to dance had taken refuge. The "talking room," Julien called it. Now that she had left her position at the head of the stairs (a hostess was only expected to greet her guests for so long), she felt less constrained. Addison was back in his ball clothes and had been dancing with Blanca. Cordelia had left the ballroom with Sir George, and Mélanie and Laura had followed. At some point someone would update her, but there was no need to expect them to risk notice by doing so too quickly. She was glancing round the ballroom for any late arrivals she hadn’t yet spoken to, when she heard a woman’s high-pitched voice behind her, somehow clear as cut glass in the cacophony of voices, violin strings, and champagne glasses. "She looks genteel enough, if rather ostentatiously striking. I wasn’t sure what to expect. I heard he found her in the wilds of the Argentine."

  "Yes, but she was there with her first husband," said another woman’s voice, less piercing but equally resonant. "Captain Ashton. So she’d had the benefit of British society. Which is more than the new Lord Carfax has had for the past five-and-twenty years."

  "Blood will tell. He’s a Mallinson. Whoever his mother was."

  "At least he has the benefit of his mother’s fortune."

  "Pity that he fell into the clutches of a foreign adventuress."

  "Oh, Aurelia. She’s an officer’s widow."

  "That doesn’t make her any less foreign. I couldn’t bear to walk up the stairs tonight and see her standing where Amelia Carfax stood. Pamela Carfax was bad enough, but at least she seemed to know her place. The new Lady Carfax doesn’t seem to understand the meaning of the word."