The Tavistock Plot

by Tracy Grant

  Malcolm was still thinking about Pamela and Arthur Mallinson as he and Raoul banked the fire and put out the lamps and climbed the stairs to the second floor. His mind kept returning to the painting and the mocking glint in Arthur's smile. He said goodnight to Raoul and opened the door of his and Mélanie's room. As he stepped through the door, he stopped, one hand gripping the doorknob, blinded as he'd once been when he worked out that his wife was a French agent. It wasn't as personally painful a realization, but the implications were just as shattering. He shook his head. No. Surely he was wrong. He didn't have the sort of evidence he'd had about Mélanie. And yet—

  He forced his fingers to unclench and stepped into the bedchamber.

  Mélanie was sitting up in bed, hair tumbling over the seafoam silk of her dressing gown, making notes on a script. "Darling. Did you learn anything from Carfax?"

  "As usual, a great deal of possibilities, nothing of substance." Malcolm bent to pet Berowne, who was curled up on the bed, and cracked open the nursery door to look in on the sleeping children. "I don't think he knows who Alexander Radford is. And I don't think we need to worry about him where Nerezza's concerned."

  "That's something, at least."

  Malcolm came back into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. "I'll call on Beverston in the morning. I don't know how much I'll be able to get, but even denials will be interesting."

  Mélanie leaned against him. "I need to be at the theatre in the morning. But I can talk to the actors."

  "Excellent." Malcolm pressed a kiss to her hair. He missed doing more of the interviews with Mel, but in this case it was good, perhaps. Because the other call he had to make in the morning he couldn't tell her about.

  If he was right in his suspicions, it changed everything. And he was going to have to figure out what to do about it.

  Chapter 25

  On an early January morning, Hyde Park was not crowded, though it looked far more tranquil than it had in the dark less than twelve hours before. Fog hung over Rotten Row, but Addison, who had been making his usual inquiries in coffee houses and taverns frequented by valets and footmen, had informed Malcolm that Lord Beverston rode here almost every morning, rain or shine. Malcolm guided his horse Perdita through the fog, beneath leafless trees with branches still dripping from last night's rain. He saw a lone figure ahead and spurred Perdita to a canter.

  "Rannoch." Beverston swung his head round as Malcolm reined in beside him. "I don't think I've seen you here at this hour. And I imagine you're too busy just now for morning exercise. So I assume this isn't merely a social visit?"

  "Did you recruit Lewis Thornsby into the League?" Malcolm asked.

  Beverston raised his brows. "Everything that happens isn't to do with the League. But assuming I had recruited Thornsby, why on earth do you think I'd share it with you?"

  "Because presumably you want to learn who killed him."

  A shadow flickered across Beverston's face that seemed to have nothing to do with the trees overhanging the path or the clouds overhead. "Thornsby was a young man with a bright future. It's a tragedy."

  "You knew him well."

  "I wouldn't say that."

  "You're on good terms with Thornsby's aunt, Lady Shroppington."

  "I'm on good terms with a number of people."

  "You've known Lewis Thornsby since he was a boy."

  Beverston put up a hand to brush a drop of water from the brim of his hat. "You've been talking to Roger, haven't you? No need to conceal it, I know you're friends. Yes, I have known Lewis his whole life. But as I said, I have a number of friends. And it should come as no surprise to you that I'm not accustomed to spending as much time in the nursery as you and a number of your friends. Even Archie Davenport, apparently, which I wouldn't have expected. In any case, I didn't spend a great deal of time dandling my friends' children on my knee or tossing balls with them. Or teaching them to read every subversive book ever written, as O'Roarke did with you."

  "A pity, the subversive books make for a wonderful education. What does the name Alexander Radford mean to you?"

  Beverston's gaze flickered. "Who is he?"

  "It's an alias of the man who is probably trying to take over the League. But you already knew that, didn't you?"

  The wind shifted and the tree branches whipped overhead, but Beverston's gaze remained steady. "There's a war going on in the League, Rannoch. You aren't part of that. I can't make you part of it. For my own sake. But also for yours."

  "You don't want me to hurt your ability to win."

  Beverston gave a faint smile. "That too."

  "Nerezza saw Lewis Thornsby with Alexander Radford in Naples."

  Beverston drew in and released his breath with a sound like the cracking of a dried branch. "I didn't bring Lewis into the League, as it happens. What happened to my son John was tragedy enough. I preferred to keep my family and anyone approaching family out of it."

  "But someone else recruited him."

  Beverston gave a curt nod.

  "That must have seemed quite a betrayal."

  "Are you thinking I killed him because of it?" Beverston guided his horse round a puddle. "I wouldn't kill for such a melodramatic reason. Revenge doesn't really get one anywhere."

  "It would have removed him from the field of play."

  "He was little more than a pawn."

  "He had the makings of an excellent agent. He'd set up a second identity under the name Montford."

  Beverston's brows drew together.

  "You didn't know?"

  "No."

  "Who recruited Thornsby?"

  Beverston hesitated a moment. "I wasn't sure for a long time. I learned from sources of my own fairly recently."

  "Who was it?"

  Beverston regarded Malcolm for a long moment, his dark eyes tinged with what might have been compassion. "Your brother."

  It shouldn't be a shock. Malcolm had known Edgar was working for the man trying to take over the League, the man they now called Alexander Radford. But the very idea of Edgar as an agent still seemed alien in so many ways. "How did you find out?"

  "One of my men got into his things before you did, after he was killed. We didn't learn a great deal. But my agent did find a communication from Thornsby."

  "Saying what?"

  "Reporting on the Levellers."

  Which they had known Thornsby was doing. But somehow the confirmation of his betrayal made it worse.

  "Edgar was abroad until just before his death."

  "Thornsby had traveled abroad. He was on the Continent for much of last spring and summer. You said that's where Nerezza saw him with this man you're calling Alexander Radford."

  "Was Thornsby an agent provocateur?"

  "Thornsby wasn't working for me."

  "Do you think Edgar was setting up agent provocateur missions?"

  "Your brother was doing a great many things. I don't think I knew the half of them."

  "And the League would like to see Radicals discredited."

  "There are some very dangerous ideas running round the country now, Malcolm. Those of us who were young in the eighties and nineties may be more aware of the risks than your generation. Except for men like your father, who were part of the danger a generation ago."

  "One might say the same problems need to be addressed as a generation ago."

  "Yes, I imagine you would. As would my elder surviving son. I suspect you may both see it differently when you're my age and have more of a sense of what you have to lose. Although that certainly hasn't been the case with O'Roarke."

  "Agents provocateurs do damage."

  "Agents provocateurs help a vulnerable public see the dangers of agitation."

  "My God, sir. You don't actually believe that, do you?"

  Beverston relaxed his hands on the reins, letting his horse lengthen her stride. "It's not a question of what I believe, Rannoch. It's a question of what I can persuade others to believe. Agents provocateurs help with that."

/>   "Do you know who Alexander Radford is?"

  Beverston hesitated, gaze fixed on the sodden tangle of interlaced branches ahead. "Some secrets we can share, Rannoch. Some we can't."

  "Meaning it would be worse for you if I knew the truth."

  "We all have to calculate what we reveal. And what we don't." Beverston's gaze shifted to the rain-splashed path ahead. "If Nerezza told you she saw Thornsby with Alexander Radford—is she in London?"

  "No comment."

  Beverston shot a look at him. "Surely by now you realize I don't mean Nerezza any harm."

  "You didn't mean her harm a month ago. Or at least, it suited you to protect her. That's no guarantee for the future."

  "I was fond of Nerezza. I still am. Benedict's fond of her and at present, after what my family have been through, I'm inclined to try to give my children what makes them happy if I possibly can. I'd also as lief keep Benedict as far away from everything else that's happening as possible, and his protecting Nerezza oddly does that." Beverston frowned for a moment. "Actually, Benedict's rather impressed me this past month."

  "Yes," Malcolm said. "He's impressed me too."

  Malcom returned Perdita to the mews in Berkeley Square, then walked round to the house in Carnaby Street where Kitty had taken lodgings. He was a frequent enough visitor that Kitty's maid admitted him without hesitation. He found Kitty, St. Juste, and the children at breakfast in a cheerful chaos of toast crumbs, spilled porridge, coffee cups, a stuffed dog, and a stuffed unicorn. All quite unlike what one would expect of Kitty and St. Juste. At least, not of Kitty and St. Juste as Malcolm had first known them.

  "Uncle Malcolm!" Timothy sprang up and ran over. "Mama was hurt last night."

  "Yes, I know." Malcolm bent to hug Kitty's younger son. "I've come to inquire how she is."

  "Much better after a good night's sleep." Kitty's color had improved more, Malcolm was glad to see, though there were lines of strain about her eyes. Her fingers were curled round the handle of a coffee cup.

  "I'm relieved to hear it," Malcolm said.

  "You all had an adventure last night." Leo regarded Malcolm with a steady gaze that held a number of questions.

  "We did. Rather more of one than we bargained on. That's the thing about adventures. They're often more enjoyable to remember than when one is in the midst of them."

  "That's because Uncle Malcolm is sensible and practical," Kitty said.

  Genny—good God, Genny, why had her name never struck him before—banged her spoon against her porridge bowl. Malcolm bent to acknowledge her.

  "Have you come because you need Mama for something?" Leo asked. "I think she should rest."

  "I quite agree, though I doubt your mother does. But actually, I've come to talk to your—to St. Juste, if he has a moment."

  "Certainly." Julien pushed back his chair. "I need to go out for a bit, in any case." He looked at the boys. "Keep an eye on your mother, scamps." He reached for his coat, which was tossed over a chairback, ruffled the boys' hair, bent to kiss Kitty, flicked a finger against Genny's cheek, and then strolled from the room after Malcolm, pulling on his coat.

  They made their way out of the house and along Carnaby Street to the peaceful precincts of Golden Square without ever discussing where they were going. "She looks better," Malcom said.

  "Yes, I think she is." Julien's steady voice couldn't quite disguise the underlying worry. "I changed the dressing this morning and there's no sign of infection so far. I'd feel better if she didn't exert herself for a day or two—or a week or two—but this is Kitty. And we're not in circumstances that lend themselves to quiet. Kitty, of course, said she'd be as careful as I'd be in the same circumstances. Which is cold comfort. Though she's probably more sensible than I am."

  "Just a bit."

  Julien gave a faint smile. "Did you see Beverston?"

  "This morning. He denied recruiting Lewis Thornsby. Which I actually think I believe, because he claims someone else recruited Lewis Thornsby to work for Alexander Radford—who is indeed the man trying to take over the League."

  Julien let out a whistle. "Interesting. Did he say who recruited Thornsby?"

  Malcolm hesitated. "Edgar."

  Julien stopped walking for a moment. "Well, given what we know about your brother, I suppose that's not really surprising. And I suppose it's not surprising we've encountered him again in the course of the investigation. I'm sorry, though. For you. And Kitty."

  Malcolm kept his gaze on an inn sign up ahead. Gilt paint of what seemed to be a crown, more than half-obscured by the soot and grime of London. "It's not as though I don't think about Edgar almost every day. I wish Kitty could forget him, though."

  Julien was silent for a moment, during which Malcolm could feel the weight of myriad conflicting impulses. "I don't think she ever will. But I don't think she's haunted by it."

  Malcolm shot a quick look at his former lover's current lover. "You've helped her."

  "She's helped herself. She's too strong to let a man like Edgar break her." Julien looked away, in one of those moments when he seemed almost about to let his mask slip. "I'm glad for whatever I've been able to do, though."

  Difficult to say more without intruding on St. Juste's and Kitty's privacy. They had reached the square garden. Malcolm glanced at the white statue of a figure in classical military dress. Or pseudo-classical military dress, as Harry said. It was said to be George II, though some claimed it was actually Charles II. Like many things, it was a matter of perspective. "Do you think Edgar could have trained Thornsby?" Malcolm asked.

  "He was your brother. What do you think?"

  "I'd have laughed at the idea. Just as I'd have laughed at the idea that Edgar could have been a secret operative called the Goshawk or been an agent of the Elsinore League. I obviously didn't know him at all, and no sooner did I realize it than he was gone. Now I'll never have the chance to confront any of it."

  "I'm sorry." Oddly, the words that could be a platitude had the solid ring of reality from St. Juste.

  "I didn't mean it that way, St. Juste. If you hadn't killed Edgar, I'd be dead. I owe you a debt I can't possibly repay."

  St. Juste nodded. For once he didn't seem to have an ironic response at the ready.

  Malcolm watched him in the gray light that shifted as the clouds moved overhead like images flashing by from the past. "I don't think I appreciated how hard it must have been for you."

  St. Juste skirted a pile of refuse on the pavement. He had a catlike knack for staying clean. "Everyone keeps saying that, and I can't tell why. It's not the first time I've killed someone, and the need here was more straightforwards than in many cases. He wasn't my brother."

  "No." Malcolm paused, and then said the words that could upend all their lives. "But you'd known him since he was a boy."

  Julien went as still as the statue.

  Chapter 26

  Malcolm studied the man who called himself Julien St. Juste in the shifting shadows of the morning. "I remember your tossing me up in the air when I was about Jessica's age. And helping me climb a tree when I was Colin's."

  Julien remained absolutely still, though when he spoke his voice was startlingly normal. "I've been wondering how long it would take you to work it out."

  "You must have thought me woefully slow."

  "Never that."

  "The hair is a great disguise. And of course the fact that I thought you were dead made me less likely to suspect it was you. I'm glad you're not, by the way."

  "Thank you." Julien turned, leaning against the back of a bench, face still in shadow. "When did you work it out?"

  "Last night Carfax started talking about your father and how he said he wasn't sure if the younger generation would be Britain's undoing or its savior. When I was leaving Carfax House I looked at that painting of you and your mother that hangs by the stairs. Something struck me about your smile in it, but even then I didn't put it together until after I got home. Once I did—to say I felt a fool is putting
it mildly. Does Gelly know?"

  "Oh, yes. I told her."

  Malcolm stared at the other man, who was almost defined by never admitting anything to anyone. "That's rather a lot of trust."

  "She's earned it. And I suppose—" Julien stretched his hand into a shaft of sunlight and regarded his nails. "We all need someone to confide in."

  "That's quite an admission." Malcolm continued to watch the man who was his sister's cousin. "Did my mother know?"

  Julien kicked his foot against the bench. "I always liked your mother. When I was Arthur, and when I became Julien St. Juste. And not for the obvious reasons one might expect a young man to like a beautiful woman. Yes, she knew. She worked it out for herself when I met up with her working against the League. I was younger and hadn't changed as much."

  "You trusted her with your secret."

  "I didn't have much choice. But yes, to the extent I trusted anyone, I trusted Arabella."

  "And she trusted you with her secret."

  "Gisèle? Yes, I was rather surprised by that. I think she felt someone needed to know. After all, I was Gisèle's cousin."

  Malcolm took a moment to frame his next question, for a number of reasons. "Does Raoul know?"

  "Surely at this point you think he'd have told you?"

  "Perhaps. Probably. But he could have thought there were risks. He could have made promises to you. Or to my mother, or both."

  "And O'Roarke's the sort who keeps his promises. If he can. Though he wouldn't admit it. He likes to delude people into thinking he's ruthless. At least he used to. He's rather let the mask slip now." Julien turned and sat on the bench. Malcolm sat beside him. Carriages rattled by. A few intrepid pedestrians hurried across the square, but it was mostly deserted. "O'Roarke's never given me any indication he knows who I am," Julien said. "In France or in the Peninsula or here. Arabella never told me she told him. And somehow I don't think she would have."

  "Nor do I. She didn't tell him about Gisèle either."