by Tracy Grant
Lady Shroppington raised a brow. "I expect you’re surprised to see me here."
"On the contrary. After our interactions last winter, there’s very little I’d be surprised to see you dare, ma’am."
"Humph." Lady Shroppington cast a glance round the ballroom. Couples were forming for a new waltz. "I confess, like the rest of the beau monde, I was curious to see what they made of the place. I feel badly for Amelia." Her gaze settled on the former Lady Carfax, who was talking with Lady Sefton. "She always had impeccable taste and instincts. She belonged here in a way Pamela Carfax never could."
"I’m sure I don’t know what you mean." Malcolm felt his fingers tighten round his champagne glass.
"Don’t be cheeky with me, Rannoch. Outsiders to the beau monde always have trouble. And obviously one can’t expect them to ever really grasp what it means to belong. Given his background, one would think the new Lord Carfax might have chosen a more suitable bride."
That was brazen, considering Lady Shroppington had tried to have Kitty killed. "His friends think he made a very suitable choice."
Lady Shroppington studied Kitty, who was speaking with Wellington and the Castlereaghs. Wellington was laughing and leaning close to her, and even the usually chilly Castlereaghs appeared to be smiling. "I admit she seems to know how to entertain. I expect your wife and Cordelia helped her."
"Kitty needs very little help in anything."
"It’s an art running a place like Carfax House. And she wasn’t born to it. She’s doing better than I’d have expected. All this display seems rather a waste, though, if he’s going to throw his prospects away with ridiculous causes."
"Ridiculous being in the eye of the beholder." Malcolm took a drink of champagne before he could succumb to impulse and break the glass in two. "I can think of a number of causes I’d call ridiculous. None of which the present Lord Carfax has been associated with. I can understand your disappointment, though. Given that you tried to recruit him yourself."
Lady Shroppington swung her gaze to him. It was steady but had gone as cold as her glittering diamond earrings. "I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about."
"Really, Lady Shroppington. Surely at this point we can take the gloves off."
"I don’t care for boxing cant. I wouldn’t have thought you’d be so vulgar."
"I can be a great many things, when pressed."
"You can’t imagine I would let myself be drawn into a ridiculous conversation, here of all places."
"I don’t see why not. It’s true Jeremy Roth is here, but you’ve already proved yourself above the law."
Lady Shroppington’s brows rose. "The Carfaxes invited a Bow Street runner?"
She sounded more aghast at what she saw as a social solecism than afraid of the man who had investigated the murder she’d been behind. Which was probably true.
"They’ve become good friends. The Carfaxes have a wide social circle."
"So it appears. If—"
"Lady Shroppington." Julien strolled up beside them, managing to emerge from the crowd so smoothly that even Malcolm didn’t notice him in advance. "I’m glad you could join us."
Lady Shroppington couldn’t quite control her start of surprise, but she kept her voice steady. "Very few would refuse an invitation to Carfax House on its reopening."
"It was hardly closed. It’s been in the family all along."
"Am I to take it you consider yourself allied with your uncle? I thought you’d struck quite a different course."
"I don’t think either Uncle Hubert or I has illusions we’ll be allies in all things. But we have a healthy respect for each other. At least, I do for Uncle Hubert. You’d have to ask him what he thinks of me. And we share certain enemies. Neither of us is one to forget an enemy," Julien added with an easy smile. Malcolm could imagine him smiling in just that way as he stuck a knife in someone.
"Nor am I, Lord Carfax," said Lady Shroppington. Malcolm could imagine her smiling in that way as she dispatched an enemy as well.
"Lady Shroppington." Kitty, who had left Wellington and the Castlereaghs to make a circuit of the room, stopped beside them and slid her hand through the crook of Julien’s arm. "It’s good of you to join us." Her smile was as dazzling as plate armor.
"You’ve done an admirable job with the house, Lady Carfax. I’m sure invitations to your parties will be much sought after."
"You’re too kind, ma’am. I doubt it, once the novelty wears off."
"Somehow, I imagine you and Lord Carfax will always be magnets of attention. Some people have a knack for it."
"It can be useful, at times," Julien said. "Whereas at other times, it’s more useful to go quite unnoticed. As I’m sure you appreciate. I remember you from childhood, you know, Lady Shroppington. I remember your stopping to speak with my mother when we drove in Hyde Park. I remember just how you looked at her. And just what she thought of you."
"You’re your mother’s son. But you’re still a Mallinson."
15
"Lady Shroppington." Cordelia had seen the other woman speaking with Malcolm, and then Julien and Kitty, and had watched Lady Shroppington cross the ballroom in her own direction. She’d known speech was inevitable, but words still failed her. What on earth did one say to a murderer when she was also one of one’s grandmother’s oldest friends? And when one was meeting in another friend’s ballroom? It would have been very satisfying to give Lady Shroppington the cut direct, but it wouldn’t be fair to Julien and Kitty to create a scene. Or, more important, to go against Julien’s desire to use the ball to learn everything they could about Lady Shroppington and her surprising connection to the Elsinore League.
"Cordelia." Lady Shroppington greeted her in precisely the same manner she had before Cordelia had learned she had ordered Lewis Thornsby’s murder. But then, Cordelia wouldn’t have expected any less of her. Lady Shroppington ran a gaze over Cordelia, as though judging whether her gown was cut too low. And very likely also appraising how much she knew about the events of last January.
Cordelia summoned up a sweet smile designed to imply that she perhaps knew less than the full truth. After all, if she did, surely she wouldn’t be able to be civil. And Lady Shroppington, for all her own abilities, was likely to underestimate Cordelia’s abilities and the degree to which the Rannochs and Harry and the others took her into their confidence.
"It’s quite splendid, isn’t it?’ Cordelia waved her fan to take in the ballroom and let her eyes open wide. "I told Kitty to make the most of it. One only has one chance to make a first impression. All Mayfair have been talking about them for weeks."
"Which can be a mixed blessing. In my day, we didn’t revel in scandal."
"Dear ma’am. I thought in your day you were much franker about your scandals than we are. We tend to make much too much of a fuss."
"Perhaps. Though your own behavior would have been a scandal in any era. Whatever we did in my day, we didn’t actually run off with men who weren’t our husbands. And this matter of lost heirs emerging from the woodwork seems more suited to the pages of fiction than to Debrett’s. Too much of it and people will start doubting settled inheritance."
"Oh dear, do you think it’s a Radical plot?" Cordelia kept her eyes wide, though she wondered if she was skirting too close to the events of last January.
Lady Shroppington’s gaze narrowed. "Given the path the new Lord Carfax has set out on, it wouldn’t surprise me. But not with Carfax—Hubert Mallinson—involved."
"In any case, one can hardly blame the new Lord Carfax for the circumstances of his disappearance and reemergence."
"That depends on if we’ve had the full story. I’m not at all sure we have." Lady Shroppington’s gaze swept the ballroom, which seemed to be growing more crowded by the minute. "It’s an eclectic crowd, to say the least."
"Lord and Lady Carfax have a number of friends from various parts of their lives."
"So it would seem." She frowned across the ballroom at a couple walt
zing on the edge of the dance floor. "Is that Sandy Trenor?"
The Elsinore League had shown an interest in Sandy, possibly because he was Alistair Rannoch’s son, despite publicly being claimed by his mother’s husband. Wariness shot over Cordelia; at the same time, she knew this was a good opportunity to gather information. "Yes, he’s friends with the Rannochs, and now with the Carfaxes."
"And that young woman he’s dancing with—is she—?"
"That’s Miss Simcox."
"I don’t know the name." Lady Shroppington’s gaze widened, then hardened. "Oh, lord. She’s the trollop he’s taken up with, isn’t she?"
"Miss Simcox is a friend of mine." There were limits to how far Cordelia was prepared to dissimulate to draw Lady Shroppington out.
"You’re too free in your friendships, Cordelia. Especially for a woman with your past. You haven’t swept everything under the rug, you know. Scandal can always catch hold again at the smallest spark. And you have two daughters to think of."
"I think about Livia and Drusilla a great deal. Among other things, I want to show them the value of standing by a friend."
"You’re starting to talk the sort of democratic twaddle Rannoch spouts off. You, at least, know how the game is played."
Cordelia unfurled her fan. "I spent far too much time playing society’s games. And they didn’t serve me well in the end."
"That’s because you broke the rules." Lady Shroppington’s gaze was hard, but not unkind.
"And in doing so, I learned who my true friends are."
Lady Shroppington’s gaze returned to Sandy. "One would think someone would have brought that boy to his senses. I suppose the Rannochs are encouraging this folly. It’s all very well for him to keep a mistress, but what possessed the Carfaxes to invite her?"
"Lady Shroppington, you can’t believe she’s the only mistress present."
"Don’t play word games with me, Cordelia. You know there’s a world of difference between a lady who indulges in such behavior—even one who does so as flagrantly as you did—and a girl of that type."
"There’s a difference in how society treats them."
"Precisely. I hope you’ve learned discretion, if you’re ever tempted to stray again."
"If I ever strayed again, I rather think I’d have a conversation with Harry and do it openly, and I hope he’d do the same. But I don’t expect that to happen. With either of us."
To her surprise, Lady Shroppington laughed. "You think you can shock me. But the truth is my generation were far more ruthless than yours. We simply got on with what we did without imbuing it with so many emotions. And we took care to preserve the society about us. Which allowed us the freedom to do as we pleased."
"I quite agree you were more ruthless." Cordelia took a sip of champagne to soften her words in case she had let her mask slip too much.
"And we never made the mistake of confusing marriage and love." Lady Shroppington downed the last of her own champagne. "If you hadn’t done so, you’d have been more content in your marriage to begin with."
"If I hadn’t realized I loved Harry, I wouldn’t have gone back to him."
Lady Shroppington frowned. Oddly, she looked concerned, more like the grandmother’s friend Cordelia remembered from the long-ago days before her own scandal, and certainly before she’d known Lady Shroppington was a murderer. "Love is a poor foundation for a marriage, Cordelia. I worry about what will happen to you when this newfound love fades."
"I don’t expect it to do so. More remarkably, I don’t think Harry’s will, either."
"That’s because your generation are impossibly romantic. I can’t think what brought it about. It wasn’t Lord Byron, whatever people say. He merely made money off something that was already entrenched long before. Inside or outside a marriage, love never does last. That’s why, while it may be the basis for a love affair, it’s nothing to build a marriage on. I told Rannoch he might feel differently about his wife’s theatrical adventures when he wasn’t so besotted. And the current Carfax may regret marrying a Spanish adventuress when he’s not quite so dazzled as he obviously is just now."
"The former Lord Carfax still seems quite fond of his wife," Cordelia couldn’t resist saying.
Lady Shroppington frowned. "He and Amelia have always seemed fonder than most. But mark my words, both of them know it’s not what marriage is built on. And I’m not sure they’re as fond now as they used to be. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?"
Presumably, with her connections to the League, Lady Shroppington knew about Gisèle, though there was no way to be sure. "Dear ma’am. You can hardly imagine Harry or I, of all people, have a great deal of knowledge of the Carfaxes’ domestic arrangements."
"No, I suppose not." Lady Shroppington peered at Cordelia, who had the oddest feeling her mask was being tugged to see how securely it fit.
Cordelia resisted the urge to look away when out of the corner of her eye she saw George Dalton lurching through the crowd, face less flushed than it had been, hair disordered, gaze unfocused but also bright with rage. "Forgive me, Lady Shroppington. I believe Sir George is looking for me, and I must speak with him." She hurried towards him before Lady Shroppington could reply. "Oh, Sir George, there you are." Cordelia swept up to him and put a hand on his arm. "Are you feeling better?" she asked in a lowered tone. "I was a bit concerned, but thought it was best to let you sleep."
"You." Sir George gripped her other arm. "What have you done?"
"Oh, I just went back into the ballroom. You know the sort of talk there would be if I disappeared into an antechamber with a gentleman for too long. Harry is the most tolerant of husbands, but I really can’t abuse his trust, and, given the past, you must see that I have to be particularly careful."
"You took them—"
"I assure you I didn’t take anything. Pray don’t be embarrassed, Sir George. I’ve seen many gentlemen in such a condition."
"By God, Lady Cordelia, I will not be trifled with."
"I should hope you wouldn’t accuse me of trifling with you. Do watch your language, Sir George. Lady Shroppington is right behind me." Which was interesting, in that Lady Shroppington had likely tasked him with selling the papers, but of course neither of them could admit to it.
Sir George’s shoulders straightened. He might well not want Lady Shroppington to know he had failed.
"Do let’s go where we can discuss this in private," Cordelia said. She turned round. "Lady Shroppington, will you excuse us?"
Lady Shroppington was making a show of hanging back, but Cordelia suspected she had overheard a great deal. "Is this gentleman bothering you, Cordelia? Are you in need of assistance?"
"Oh, no, I assure you, ma’am. Just something Sir George and I need to discuss."
"Cordelia." Lady Shroppington caught her arm in a strong grip. "You had much better not be seen to leave the room alone with a gentleman given your reputation."
"Dear ma’am." Cordelia wrenched her arm from Lady Shroppington’s grip. "My reputation is already in tatters."
"Lady Shroppington." Lady Frances was suddenly in front of them. "I’ve been looking everywhere for you. The Duke of York desires to speak with you."
Checkmate. Cordelia took Sir George’s arm and dragged him through the crowd into an embrasure. He dropped down on a bench, still not quite steady on his feet, and pushed his disordered hair out of his eyes. "Don’t come the innocent with me. You took the papers. Slipped something in my drink too, or someone did. Never should have risked dancing with one of the Rannoch crowd."
"No, you shouldn’t." Cordelia sat beside him. "But the papers had already been replaced with dummies before we searched you."
He blinked. She wasn’t sure if he was more shocked at this news or at the fact that she’d admitted it.
"So the question would seem to be who took them." Cordelia pressed up her advantage.
"You did. You’re just making that up."
"In which case, why would I waste time w
ith you?"
His brows drew together over his still slightly unfocused eyes.
"Look at it this way," Cordelia said. "If we’d got the papers, we’d have burned them long since. So if I’m lying, there’s nothing you can do. But if I’m telling the truth, there may be a chance to recover the papers." Not that she was going to let him get his hands on them.
His frowned deepened.
"Only you can figure out who might have got hold of them," Cordelia said. "Who might have taken them from you?"
"Blaming me for this?"
"Well, obviously you lost them." Cordelia drew a breath. "That is, we need your expertise to solve this, Sir George."
He blinked again.
16
"My compliments." Carfax—Hubert—fell into place beside Malcolm in the yellow salon. "You managed it very adroitly."
"Managed what?" Malcolm smiled at his former spymaster. He had just asked Addison to question the footmen. Now he could probably help most by distracting Hubert.
"Let’s not play games, Malcolm. I don’t know which of you actually did it, but it’s evidently one of your group. I think we’re after the same thing tonight."
Malcolm met Hubert’s gaze. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."
"I said let’s not play games. I assume you have the letters? I hope we can negotiate."
"We don’t have them."
"Very funny."
"It’s not funny at all." Malcolm braced a hand against the gilded molding. "Someone else got to them before we did. Any idea who that might be?"
Hubert’s brows drew together. "That’s a terrible story. No one of sense would believe it for a moment."
"Quite."
"So if you’re trying it—"
"It either has to be a complicated gambit or the truth. Your choice."
The frown deepened. "Who the devil—"
"Your guess is as good as mine. Most of the people here tonight would like those letters."
Hubert grimaced. "Brougham’s going to be a nuisance for the next six months, at least."