The Tavistock Plot

by Tracy Grant

  "If you mean me, I'm flattered you're so aware of my work."

  "Difficult to ignore it, Rannoch, try as one may." Lady Shroppington squeezed lemon into her own tea. "You find your way into the papers tiresomely often. But in any case, it wasn't that Radical nonsense that Lewis was caught up in that concerned me so much as the young woman he'd been hanging about. Not that a young man's dancing attendance on an actress is so surprising or even alarming. But from some comments he made, it seemed she had given him some wholly inappropriate ideas."

  "How do you know it was Miss Blanchard who gave him the ideas?" Cordelia asked.

  Lady Shroppington took a measured sip of tea. "I can't imagine it would have occurred to Lewis on his own. No matter what Radical nonsense he was exposed to, he had some basic understanding of the forms."

  Malcolm set his cup down. "He might have considered that the forms meant offering marriage to a girl to whom he was sincerely attached."

  "There are lines one doesn't cross." Lady Shroppington met his gaze without blinking. "Oh, I know your wife took to the stage at Christmas. It caused a bit of a flutter over Mayfair tea tables. And I wouldn't care to see a daughter or daughter-in-law of mine do so. But she can afford to flout convention. She's your wife. The Rannoch name will always protect both of you, at least to a degree. Though I can't imagine she'll be as much of an asset to your political career as she once was."

  "Mélanie's insights are an invaluable asset to my political career. I don't need the rest of it."

  "Humph. You may find yourself talking differently as your career progresses. But your career and your daughter's chances on the marriage mart are your business. I can't imagine such an outlandish idea as offering marriage to a girl of that sort would have occurred to Lewis on his own. I still can't quite believe he was contemplating it, save that he told me so himself. Don't look so shocked, Cordelia. Your own behavior is one thing. At least you did it after you were married. And you're a Brooke. This girl was a nobody. And an actress."

  "Is," Malcolm said. "She's still very much alive."

  Lady Shroppington pursed her lips, almost as though it was in bad taste for Letty Blanchard to still be alive when Lewis was not. "Do you think she had something to do with Lewis's death?"

  "There's no reason to suspect that." Malcolm was not going to give Lady Shroppington ammunition against Letty, whatever his suspicions.

  Lady Shroppington set down her cup. "I told him it was impossible. And that if he persisted in this madness, I'd have no part in it. I assumed that would make him see sense. The boy had no prospects of his own. Instead he seemed to have thought he was acting out one of the romantic dramas his lady love performed on the stage. Giving up all for love may make for an amusing evening at the theatre, but it's hardly the stuff of real life. Even at two-and-twenty, Lewis should have seen that."

  Cordelia added more milk to her tea. "Real life can vary."

  Lady Shroppington met Cordelia's gaze, her own hard and direct. In that moment she looked less like a social arbiter and more like a spymaster, though in truth, both required a rather similar degree of ruthlessness. "The rules of society don't change. One has to live within them. To your credit, you learned that. It sent you back to your husband."

  Cordelia set down her spoon. "Dear ma'am. That isn't what sent me back to Harry. I realized I loved him."

  "Love." Lady Shroppington drew out the word as though it were a foreign concept. "It hardly guarantees stability. Occasionally it can occur conveniently, as apparently it did for you. I imagine you'd say you love your wife, Mr. Rannoch, and you appear happy enough, though I wonder what you'll think in a few years if she continues down this course. Lewis's so-called love was anything but convenient. I was fond of him"—her fingers tightened for a moment round the handle of her cup—"but obviously I wasn't going to allow an actress to succeed me as mistress of Shroppington Manor."

  "Did you tell him so directly?" Malcolm asked. "Not just that you wouldn't accept the marriage, but that you'd cut him off?"

  "In no uncertain terms. I believe in plain speaking, as I assume you've both seen. No sense in setting up false expectations. I told Lewis if he insisted on this folly, I washed my hands of him." She took a sip of tea. Her fingers shook just the slightest bit. "That was the last time I saw him."

  "I'm sorry," Malcolm said.

  She set her cup down with a controlled clink. "You think I'm regretting it? On the contrary. I regret that Lewis is dead. I want the perpetrator brought to justice. But I have no qualms about opposing Lewis's folly."

  Strong words from a supposedly devoted aunt. But Malcolm had seen many reactions to grief. Retreating behind a shell of hardness could be a way of protecting oneself. "Had you decided what to do with the inheritance instead?" he asked.

  "What business—Oh, I see." She adjusted a side curl that was escaping her beribboned cap. "A new heir would have had a motive to get rid of Lewis. I hadn't decided. Thomas is stable enough, but a bit eccentric with his head buried in dusty tomes. He might take it into his head to use the money to open a library or a school or some such thing. Helen and Hypatia can be flighty. Can't be sure they wouldn't make choices as unsuitable as Lewis's. There's my husband's nephew, George. I'd thought to leave the inheritance to my family, but I may reconsider. I'm in good health, I have time to watch them and consider. So you see, none of them would have had a motive to get rid of Lewis. Not that I can imagine—but then, I couldn't imagine Lewis's wanting to marry that actress either."

  "Did your nephew have any enemies that you knew of?" Malcolm asked.

  She did not, as many bereaved relatives did, react with shock to the question. Her brows—carefully plucked into a fine arch—drew together. "I've been wondering, of course. How could I not? Lewis's family are commonplace enough. My nephew, Lewis's father, fills the role of country gentleman well enough, but he isn't cut out for much more. Neither is his wife, Lewis's mother, for all her pretensions to London society. So it has to be something he got caught up in at that theatre." She plucked at the dark fabric of her gown. "I know a lot of this Radical nonsense is undergraduate posturing, shocking the elders for the sake of shock. And I do realize the talk of us being murdered in our beds is talk. But you can't tell me they don't flirt with dangerous ideas, Rannoch. Or perhaps I should say you don't, given your politics."

  "Danger can be in the eye of the beholder, Lady Shroppington. Though I do hope my ideas and those of the Levellers are ideas that hold the possibility of change."

  "That's precisely why they're dangerous." Her fingers tightened on the paisley folds of her shawl. "It has to be that lot at the theatre that's responsible for what happened to Lewis. Perhaps he had enough sense to object to some of their plans. Or perhaps it was because of the girl. From something he said, I think Lewis was worried she was interested in another young man in the group. Which wouldn't surprise me. That sort of girl almost always has more than one string to her bow."

  "Did he mention a name?"

  "No, nothing so specific. But I gathered it was someone the girl had been entangled with before Lewis met her. Which in itself should have been enough to tell him the sort of girl he was dealing with."

  Malcolm bit back a number of sharp comments. "Does the name Montford mean anything to you?"

  Her brows drew together again in seemingly genuine contemplation. "There was a Thaddeus Montford who was the curate near Little Epping and used to give the dreariest sermons when I went to house parties at the Kittredges' and then trod on one's toes if he was invited in the evening for dancing. But he'd be approaching ninety now, and I can't imagine he has a connection to Lewis."

  "It was apparently a name your nephew used incognito."

  "Lewis? Incognito?" Lady Shroppington wrinkled her nose as though Malcolm had suggested Lewis had gone into trade or joined a traveling theatre company or run off to Paris with a painter. "Why on earth would he want to do such a thing? And how would he have the wit to carry it off?"

  "He apparen
tly had more abilities than many people credited," Malcolm said. "He had taken rooms in Rosemary Lane under the name Montford."

  "Rosemary Lane?" Lady Shroppington sniffed as though the smell of the lane had invaded her sitting room. "Nonsense. Young men may frequent gaming hells and houses of ill repute and all sorts of raffish locations. They may venture into Seven Dials or St. Giles. But why on earth would Lewis go to Rosemary Lane? It makes no sense."

  "It's a very good question," Malcolm agreed. "He evidently had business he wanted to undertake under a different persona."

  "Lewis? Business? Lewis had no business at all—I refuse to dignify his activities at the Tavistock with that name. He had a good enough mind, but he never put it to much use. Even if it occurred to him to set up a second identity, I can't imagine his having the wit to carry it out." She put her cup down again with less control. "You don't think he was planning to marry that girl under another name and run off with her, do you?"

  "I suppose it's possible," Malcolm said, "but it doesn't seem likely. He was of age and could have married Miss Blanchard under his own name had he chosen to do so. His family might have cut him off, but he'd have had no fortune as Montford either."

  "Humph. I doubt the girl would have had him with no fortune. Though she might have thought I'd change my mind. This Montford business sounds like some confusion to me." Lady Shroppington frowned. "Lewis was good at playacting. I'll never forget him as Harlequin in Christmas theatricals one year. I thought that was what drew him to theatre. But to have the organization to carry off what you're suggesting—it's preposterous." She picked up her cup and took a sip, then clunked it back into its saucer. "Preposterous."

  "I was hard pressed not to shake her," Cordelia said as she and Malcolm descended the steps of Lady Shroppington's house. "At the same time, I think she's a great deal more shattered by his death than she lets on. So a part of me feels dreadfully sorry for her."

  "Your feelings match mine precisely." Malcolm gave Cordelia his arm. "I'd like to apologize for my sex, Cordelia."

  Cordelia smiled as she curled her gloved fingers round his arm. "My own sex must lay claim to Lady Shroppington."

  "But her attitudes are built on the fact that men can get away with—and are frequently lauded for—things that can ruin a woman."

  Cordelia tightened her grip on his arm. "Groups are made up of individuals, Malcolm. You aren't responsible for the group, whether or not you're among its ranks."

  "Perhaps not, but as one of the privileged I have a responsibility to try to change things."

  "Which you try to do. Which you do."

  "You're kind, Cordy."

  "Nonsense. I might be kind because I'm excessively fond of you, but I'm also very well aware of everything you do in and out of Parliament."

  "Talking."

  "Saying things that need to be said. They can't be debated at all if no one brings them up."

  "Even if the debate ends there?"

  "I don't think debates ever end, Malcolm. Especially in the House of Commons."

  "You have a point."

  "Malcolm." Cordelia looked up at him as she negotiated her footsteps over the paving stones. "Did you glance at the cards of invitation tucked into the glass over Lady Shroppington's mantle? There were quite a few—she obviously has a wide acquaintance. But the crest of one caught my eye. It was from the Beverstons."

  Malcolm drew a breath. Lord Beverston was one of the senior members of the Elsinore League. "Interesting."

  "Of course, the Beverstons also have a wide social circle. It doesn't prove anything. But it does mean Lewis might have known Beverston. And others in the League." Cordelia's brows drew together. "We've talked about Carfax's wanting intelligence on the Levellers. But we know the League were looking for intelligence on them as far back as over a year ago when we met Kit Montagu in Italy."

  "So they were. It wouldn't be surprising for them to have tried to plant an informant among the Levellers. Which doesn't prove they did, and doesn't prove it was Thornsby. But Thornsby's dual identity as Montford suggests he was working for someone. I'll ask Roger what he knows about Thornsby's possible connections to Beverston. I need to talk to Roger about Thornsby, in any case." Roger Smythe, Beverston's son, had become one of their best allies against the League. He was also a member of the Levellers.

  Cordelia's brows tightened beneath the green satin brim of her bonnet. "If there is a plot going on among the Levellers, do you think Roger knows about it?"

  "I think it's very likely he does," Malcolm said.

  Chapter 15

  Simon was rehearsing onstage with Brandon and Manon when Mélanie returned to the Tavistock. She stood in the wings watching them work on the scene in which Fiona and Gideon confronted each other over their secrets, then went into the nearest dressing room to read over the revised version of the speech she had finished in the Berkeley Square library after Malcolm and Cordy had gone to talk to Lady Shroppington and David had left to speak to his mother. And if her mind had strayed more than once to what they all might be doing, she had still managed a revision of the speech she was fairly happy with.

  About ten minutes later, she heard footsteps and looked up to see Brandon in the dressing room doorway.

  "I think you'll find this version flows more easily." She held out the paper to him.

  Brandon took it but didn't immediately scan the words. "I didn't mean to complicate things."

  "You haven't. You've pointed up a problem. Which we needed to know."

  "It's a good speech. A damn good speech. But I can't keep the words straight."

  "Then there was something wrong with the speech. You're too good an actor to stumble."

  "You're a good fellow, Mélanie." Brandon glanced down at her revision. "This is good. I think I'll do better with it and it keeps the spirit of the original. Maybe the next production you can find someone who can carry off the original as written."

  "I'm fortunate to have you."

  "You've obviously learned a lot, married to a diplomat."

  "The lovely thing about the theatre is that we can say what we think instead of walking on eggshells."

  "Ha." Brandon gave a quick laugh. "Nothing like a bunch of needy actors to make one guard one's tongue. Though that's nothing compared to talking to patrons in the green room." He frowned. "I think perhaps it was Gideon's motivation I wasn't getting. It's clearer now."

  "Yes, I was thinking the same thing." Mélanie looked down at the scribbled-over sheet before her that held her first draft of the rewrite. "Sometimes it's so clear in my head I don't realize I haven't actually made it clear on paper."

  Brandon nodded. For a moment it seemed he would turn to go, but he hesitated, leaning against the door jamb. "You're investigating with your husband, aren't you? Thornsby's death?"

  "To the extent I have time."

  "I didn't know him well." Brandon shifted his weight from one foot to the other, in a way he would never do onstage except in the service of a particular character. "I said that this morning and it's true. But I saw him the day before he died. Well, we all did obviously, he was at the theatre. I mean I saw him later that day. Or rather I heard him."

  Mélanie set down her pen, careful not to do so too hastily. "At the theatre? Or elsewhere?"

  "Here. I wanted to practice one of my speeches on the stage." Brandon drew the toe of a dusty boot over the worn floorboards. "I do that sometimes, to try to get a sense of the space. Of the character. I can feel it better alone onstage." He flushed. "That sounds a bit pretentious. But you know damn well it isn't as easy as I try to make out. I don't worry about making a bloody fool of myself if I'm alone. I can take risks I wouldn't, even in front of Simon and Manon. But when I came in, I heard voices in the basement. Thornsby and someone else. They were arguing."

  "Why didn't you say anything sooner?"

  Brandon shifted his weight again as though still not sure whether or not to speak. "Because the other person was Kit Montagu."

&n
bsp; Mélanie kept her hands steady and her voice level, even as her stomach plunged as though she'd gone tumbling down a hillside. "What were they arguing about?"

  "I don't know precisely. I was too far away to make out all of it. But I heard Kit say something about 'pulling the wool over our eyes.' And Thornsby say something about 'proving.' Look, I know Kit's a friend of yours. He's a friend of mine now too. I like him. He's a bit of an idealist, but then, I suppose we all are or we wouldn't be risking arrest with the Levellers. He has some actual understanding of the theatre and he doesn't pretend to know more, like so many of the young aristos who hang about the green room. Or the not so young ones, like Sir Horace, of whom I'll actually admit I'm rather fond. But Kit's something quite unusual. He believes in his work. He believes in pretty Sofia Vincenzo, who is quite remarkable herself."

  "Did you think of asking him about what you overheard?"

  "I was debating if I should. We get used to keeping to ourselves in the theatre, living on top of each other as we do much of the time. I thought perhaps I should just leave it alone. Then Thornsby was killed. I assumed if it was important, Kit would tell you. Or—"

  "Or he wouldn't, and you didn't want to betray him."

  "What do you think I just did?" Bitterness cut through Brandon's voice.

  "Told the truth. Which is vital to the investigation."

  "He's my friend. He's your friend too. And your husband's. I don't know why I—"

  "Because you know it's important we get at the truth."

  "So there's justice for Thornsby? Don't tell me it's that simple. Not in a world with so much injustice."

  "Partly for Thornsby," Mélanie said. "Whatever his secrets, he deserves that much. So do his family. But also for the sake of the Tavistock. For the sake of all the people who may have suspicion hanging over them indefinitely if we don't learn what happened."

  Brandon nodded. "So you're going to tell Malcolm and Roth?"

  "I have to."