by Tracy Grant
"Of you?"
"I don't know. If so, no one's ever tried again. It could have just been general agent provocateur action against Radical protests. But if you're thinking Thornsby might have been involved in setting it up, he worked hard to get me acquitted. Not only did he send the express, he helped Letty and Tim look for the informants. If that was all part of an elaborate setup, he did a lot to sabotage his own efforts. If Thornsby hadn't sent the express, Tanner might not have got it in time to send Worsley. If Worsley hadn't got there, I'm not at all sure I'd have got off. And I was arrested for a capital offense. So I suppose you could say I owe Thornsby my life. Which makes me feel a bit of a worm for not having been more grateful when he was still alive to thank. I mean, I thanked him, but I went on—"
"'You can't blame yourself for your thoughts, Carmarthen."
"No, I suppose not. But I attacked him for his intentions when he'd shown good intentions towards me. Perhaps he realized he had no reason to be jealous of me where Letty was concerned. Or perhaps he was simply a better person than I am."
"Whatever else he was," Malcolm said, "Thornsby was clearly complicated."
"Yes." Will shook his head. "The irony is that part of the reason I was sure it wouldn't work for him and Letty is that he'd bore Letty to death. But I begin to think I was quite wrong about that." He stared across the room at a landscape of Paul's, a lonely ship on a storm-tossed sea, the moonlight gleaming off the water in a way that shimmered with mystery. "God knows what else I was wrong about."
Chapter 19
Mélanie found Kit Montagu and Sofia Vincenzo sitting side by side on a settee, both holding glasses of sherry that looked scarcely touched. Normally she wouldn't have dreamed of interrupting the young couple, who got little enough time alone. But this was anything but a normal time.
"Mélanie," Sofia said. Her smile was friendly, but Mélanie caught marks of strain about her eyes. "It feels like we haven't seen you in an age. I know it was only two days, but so much has happened."
Mélanie drew a chair closer to the settee. "How well did you know Lewis Thornsby?"
"Not well at all, really. I'd only met him two or three times since I came to Britain last month. But all the Levellers feel like friends." Sofia's gaze went to Kit. Mélanie thought she caught a flicker of a question in it. Then Sofia looked back at Mélanie. "Aline's asked me to help decode the papers Malcolm found in Mr. Thornsby's rooms in Rosemary Lane."
"Thank you," Mélanie said. Sofia, who had broken Elsinore League codes on her own, bid fair to be as formidable with numbers as Aline.
"I'm glad there's something I can do to help. Do you think Mr. Thornsby's death is connected to the League?"
Sofia's father had been part of the Elsinore League, so she was quicker to jump to that possibility than some were. "It's possible," Mélanie said. "We don't have any definite connection. But it seems Thornsby may have been working for someone. Possibly—probably—to infiltrate the Levellers."
Sofia pulled her shawl about her, a rich Italian silk in red and blues that took Mélanie back to the days on Lake Como when she had first met Sofia and Kit. "We haven't had to confront that," Sofia said. "Not with the Levellers or the Carbonari." She glanced at Kit again, then looked back at Mélanie. "I told Kit. I think I need to tell you. I heard Lewis talking with Mrs. Ashford the day before yesterday. I'd come to a rehearsal and I was waiting for Kit, who was talking to Simon. I went into the green room, and I heard voices. Raised voices. I could tell from the tone they were arguing. I drew back, but I heard Mrs. Ashford say, 'You can't be sure of that,' and Lewis say, 'No but I can make assumptions.' I retreated quickly. I'll confess I was curious, but it wasn't any of my business." She looked at Mélanie for a moment. "There could be all sorts of explanations."
"There could," Mélanie agreed. "But anything to do with Lewis could be relevant. Thank you for telling me."
Sofia nodded. Her gaze was dark with concern and somehow Mélanie suspected it wasn't just to do with having betrayed Kitty's quarrel with Thornsby.
"I didn't—" Kit looked at his fiancée as though searching for the right words. "I didn't want to tell you, Sofia, but Malcolm knows, so I assume Mélanie does. I think Thornsby had—er—feelings for Mrs. Ashford."
Sofia frowned. "But—"
"If you're thinking of Letty—"
"For heaven's sake, Kit, I know a man may feel things for more than one woman. Or a woman for more than one man. But that exchange I overheard didn't sound at all like a lovers' quarrel. Even more than the words, the tone on both sides wasn't that of people who had feelings of the sort. Or had ever had them."
"They could have been quarreling about something else," Kit said.
Sofia shook her head. "Even so. There's a certain tone—"
"I know what you mean." Mélanie took a sip from the glass of sherry she'd acquired on her way across the room. "Although everyone is different."
"They didn't even sound like two people who knew each other well," Sofia said. "Not that lovers necessarily have to—Well, they don't." She cast a glance at Kit. "One doesn't have to be experienced to know that. But there was something about the tone between Mrs. Ashford and Lewis that made me think they'd never shared anything of the sort. I could be wrong, of course. But my instincts are usually good." She looked at Mélanie, her confidence wavering for a moment to reveal the girl who was barely over twenty. "I don't like telling tales about Mrs. Ashford. But I also don't like the idea that she could have been playing Mr. St. Juste false. I know that makes me sound like a silly romantic—"
"No," Mélanie said, "it makes you sound like someone who cares about her friends. I hope to goodness we can all manage not to lose sight of that in the midst of the investigation."
Sofia's dark gaze fastened on Mélanie's face. "That's the thing, isn't it? Because the investigation is going to end at some point. And we're all going to have to live with the truths that are uncovered. Whatever those may be."
"Mélanie?" Marguerite, Juliette and Paul's older daughter, materialized beside the settee after Sofia and Kit moved off, holding a decanter. "Would you like some more sherry?"
"No. Yes. It can't hurt, at this point."
Marguerite refilled her glass and perched on the settee. "Your dress is pretty. It's sort of like a pelisse but also an evening gown." She ran a gaze over Mélanie's burgundy silk gown, which buttoned up the front but was softened by bands of burgundy lace running down the front and a deep border of burgundy lace along the skirt. "I saw a picture of one like it in the La Belle Assemblée you gave me the last time you visited. 'Dress in a peculiar shade of red.' It had a cloak that went with it, with black braid and lace, and a hood with blond lace and silk roses. In the capu-something style."
"Capuchin," Mélanie said.
"That's it. I looked it up in the dictionary and it said it was a hood for monks, but I think it's prettier how you're wearing it."
Mélanie smiled at the girl. "I'll send a new Belle Assemblée round for you."
"Thanks." Marguerite ran a practiced gaze over Mélanie's gown. "That dress goes with an evening costume, doesn't it?"
"So it does. I think La Belle Assemblée called it a dinner dress."
"I'm surprised you had time to change for the evening since you and Malcolm are investigating the murder that happened at the Tavistock last night."
"Marguerite. Who's been talking to you?"
"Oh, everyone's been talking about the murder. Well, almost everyone. A lot of people from the Tavistock are here, and they all know about it. I don't think it's what Sofia and Kit were arguing about though."
Mélanie looked into Marguerite's blue eyes, every bit as sharp as either of her parents'. "Sofia and Kit were arguing?"
Marguerite glanced at Kit's abandoned sherry glass. "I heard them when I went to refill their drinks earlier. They didn't realize I was there at first. Kit was worried about Sofia's going home alone and Sofia was upset because Kit wouldn't say why he couldn't leave with her."
"Sofia thought so. She seemed angry—No, not angry exactly. She seemed scared."
Malcolm was making his way through the crowd looking for Mélanie when his wife caught him by the arm. "Darling. I thought I'd never get you to myself." She put her lips against his cheek. "Where's Will?"
"He went into the small parlor." Malcolm stooped his head close to his wife's own. "He's talking with Harriet de Boinville."
"Kit's going somewhere when he leaves here." She backed him against the Grecian molding, her hands on either side of his face. "Somewhere he wouldn't tell Sofia about. Marguerite overheard them arguing."
Malcolm stroked his wife's hair. He could see Palmerston grinning at their display of connubial affection. "If Kit's worried about eluding Sofia, not to mention us, he'll probably try to slip out the back," he murmured into her ear.
"Darling." Mélanie looked up at her husband. "We're talking about following Kit."
"So we are." Malcolm tucked a strand of walnut-brown hair behind her ear.
"Who is a friend."
"A friend who's lying to us about a murder." He cupped his hand round her cheek. "Christ, Mel, under the right circumstances I'd follow you."
She drew a breath that might have been a laugh. Or a sob. "Point taken."
"And I have no doubt there are circumstances under which you'd follow me." He drew her hand up to his mouth and kissed her knuckles. "We need to know what Kit's up to. And he's not going to tell us."
Mélanie's sea-green gaze settled on his own. "You're right. I'm going soft. I don't think I ever really thought like a political wife, but I'm thinking like a playwright."
Malcolm grinned. "Nothing wrong with that."
"It's dulling my skills."
"Sweetheart." He kissed her nose. "Nothing could do that."
They returned to the parlor designated for the children, where they found Laura sitting on the floor in a swirl of dark green velvet, Emily and Jessica on her lap. Colin was holding Clara, and all of them and several other children were engaged in a game of dominoes, which had spread to create an elaborate pattern on the Turkey rug.
Mélanie dropped down beside them. "Mummy." Jessica climbed over to her. "I found a double-six!"
"Splendid, darling." Mélanie pulled Jessica into her lap. "It looks as though Daddy and I are going to have to leave early, but there's no need for you to do so."
Colin raised a brow at her across the domino game. "Be careful."
"Always." Malcolm touched his son's hair and looked at Laura.
"We'll be fine," Laura said. "Lots of distraction here."
"Speaking of distraction—" Mélanie looked from Jessica to Emily. "Do you want to help while Laura and Colin cover here?"
The girls jumped up eagerly. Malcolm put Jessica on his shoulders. Emily caught Mélanie's hand, and they all went into the drawing room and joined the group about the piano, the picture of a carefree family bent on amusement, not investigation. Malcolm swung Jessica down so she and Emily could dance. A quarter-hour later, when Sofia's attention had been claimed by Marianne Hunt, Kit excused himself and wandered down the passage towards the gentlemen's retiring room. Malcolm twirled Emily. Mélanie spun Jessica in a circle. Then the two girls caught hands and ran into the crowd. Mélanie exchanged a quick smile of pride with Malcolm as they melted into the crowd in the other direction.
"Jessica and Emily couldn't have done that better if we'd trained them," Mélanie murmured to Malcolm as they went down the backstairs to the kitchen.
"I think we all have been by example from when Jessica was born and Emily came to live with us," Malcolm returned. "I'm not sure whether to be proud or panicked at how adept they are."
In the stone-floored kitchen they exchanged a cheerful greeting with Mrs. Ford, Juliette and Paul's cook. Then while Mélanie darted into the hall, Malcolm took up a position in the shelter of an oak tree in the back garden. The rain had let up, but the air had grown colder, frosting against his skin and numbing his gloveless fingers. A few moments later, Mélanie joined him, wearing her pelisse and carrying his greatcoat.
"I left your hat," she said. "It would be in the way. Your gloves are in the pocket."
"A bit like the Cantabrian Mountains." Malcolm shrugged into the greatcoat and pulled on the gloves.
"The Cantabrian Mountains were much colder. Malcolm, for heaven's sake, what are you doing?"
"Trying to keep us both warm." He tightened his arms round her.
"There are advantages to cold," she said, her voice muffled by his cravat. "Remember—"
She broke off as the area door creaked open. Kit emerged and slipped through the garden gate. They followed, with the careful, near-silent footfalls they both had perfected long since. Kit went through the mews to Duke Street. Gusts of wind bent the leafless trees and sliced through their layers of clothing. A hackney rattled by, but Kit made no attempt to flag it down. He crossed Oxford Street and then turned down Grosvenor Street and Upper Grosvenor Street to Park Lane, past houses blazing with candlelight and lamplight. Malcolm half-expected him to go into one of the houses, but instead he turned through the Grosvenor Gate into Hyde Park.
The moon emerged from behind the clouds in intermittent flashes. The gravel was slippery underfoot. Malcolm kept his senses tuned to the trees and shrubs on either side. Nighttime attacks by footpads were a common occurrence in Hyde Park. An owl called in the distance. A squirrel raced up a tree trunk and along a branch, shaking loose a hail of raindrops. A dark blur that might have been a fox or a badger darted into the shelter of the trees. A couple of larger dark blurs huddled beneath the branches. Malcolm ran a wary gaze over them, but they appeared to be lying motionless. Even in winter, the park was a refuge for those with nowhere else to sleep.
Kit left the path. They followed onto grass slippery with frosted raindrops. Twigs and fallen leaves crunched underfoot. A sound caught Malcolm's attention above the whir of the wind. It took him a moment to realize it had been a human cry. They had reached the slope of ground above the Serpentine. The undulating mass by the water's edge was more than just wind-tossed trees. A brawl was in progress. Three men, or perhaps four. Difficult to tell the numbers in the dark.
Kit, a dozen yards ahead, ran forwards. Malcolm stared at the brawlers, trying to sort out who was fighting whom. A gunshot ripped the air, closely followed by another. No one fell, but the combatants froze for an instant. It looked to be three against one. Three against two, as Kit launched himself at a man's back.
Malcolm exchanged a quick glance with Mélanie. "Unequal numbers," she said. "And whatever he's up to, it's Kit."
Malcolm nodded and pulled off his gloves. They ran down the slope. Kit was grappling with one of the men. He seemed to have a good purchase on the man's arm, so Malcolm ran to the two men who were pummeling the original victim. One was trying to pinion the victim's arms. The victim twisted away. The other attacker swung a cudgel towards the victim's head. Malcolm grabbed the cudgel-bearer's arm and spun the man round to face him. The man gave a grunt of surprise, jerked away, and swung the cudgel at Malcolm. Malcolm ducked and grabbed the cudgel. The heavy wood came away in his hand. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the second man reach for Mélanie's throat. Mélanie tossed the contents of her scent bottle in the man's face.
Mélanie's attacker screamed. Malcolm's original opponent hurled himself at Malcolm and slashed at his arm with a knife. Malcolm twisted away and banged into rough, crumbly tree bark. His boots skidded on the frost-crusted leaves. As he felt himself falling, he grabbed his attacker and pulled the man down with him.
They pummeled each other, rolling over fallen leaves and icy ground and hard tree roots. The impact carried them to the
water's edge. They slammed into cold, hard ice. The cudgel went flying. Malcolm's opponent scrambled to his feet. Malcolm grabbed at the man's ankles. The man stumbled to his knees, caught up the cudgel, and swung it at Malcolm's head. They both fell back on the ice, which gave way beneath them. His opponent scrambled away. Malcolm plunged into freezing water.
He fought his way to the surface and caught at the edge of the ice. It stung his fingers. His sodden boots and greatcoat tugged him downwards. The ice crumbled in his grip.
A cudgel blow caught him on the back of the head. He recovered his vision to see his opponent sent flying across the ice, cudgel still in hand. A firm hand was extended to grip his own.
"Allow me," said Julien St. Juste.
Chapter 20
Mélanie turned to see her onetime lover pulling her husband from the freezing water. Her own opponent had run off through the trees when she wrested his knife away from him. Kit, his nose bloody and coat torn, was holding the third man with his arms pinioned behind his back. The man looked groggy. She had seen Kit bashing the man's head against a tree trunk. Kit's compatriot, the subject of the initial attack, was using his own cravat to bind the man's arms.
Julien and Malcolm had found something with which to lash the wrists of Malcolm's attacker before he could scramble up from the ice where Julien had flung him. They marched him onto the bank. Julien was holding him by the arm and Malcolm had a knife, probably recovered from his attacker, in his hand. Malcolm was dripping wet and shivering, but he was managing to hold his knife hand steady and she could not see any blood, though the light was too dim for close scrutiny.
Kit's confederate took a step away from his now bound captive. Her now bound captive, Mélanie realized, recognizing the woman's high-cheekbones, delicate nose, and decisive chin.
"I'll say this for you, Julien," Kitty Ashford said. "You have a remarkable sense of timing."