by Tracy Grant
"I'm sorry." Mélanie reached out to squeeze Will's hand.
"Don't be. As I said, it was easier in a lot of ways. I had the life I wanted, with no encumbrances and no guilt about those I'd left behind. Donald wanted to tell my brother he'd found me. I told him that would do little good. Ted knew I'd gone off to make a new life. I was as distant from him and my old life as if I'd been in New York. What was the point of an awkward reunion where we'd have little to say to each other, and have to awkwardly face the fact that we were both going back to our separate lives? When I pressed Donald, he admitted Ted hadn't talked about me in some time. He said it wouldn't hurt anything for the Tavistock company and the Levellers to know we were cousins. I said I'd made a promise to my uncle. Donald said, given his father's cutting me off, that promise was meaningless. I said I felt bound to stick to it, even so. And I wasn't really William McDevitt any more. Finally, Donald said it would feel damned odd, but he'd try to pretend he only knew me through the Levellers. He's kept his word, as far as I know. When I got in trouble in Lancaster, he said he almost wrote to his father. I implored him not to, even if I came a cropper again. It could bring down my uncle's wrath on the Levellers and make things worse. He did seem to understand that."
"You said you first saw him talking with Lewis Thornsby," Mélanie said.
"Yes." Will frowned. "I scarcely thought of it at the time, but in retrospect, I've been wondering. Supposedly Donald met Thornsby through Stanhope. They all had supper together one night, and Donald got to talking about his newfound sense of injustice. It all made sense at the time. Now I'm questioning anything to do with Thornsby. And anyone. As you must be."
"Did they seem to be particular friends after your cousin joined the Levellers?"
Will's frown deepened. "They moved in the same circles. There's always been a bit of a divide in the Levellers between those of us from the Tavistock company and the young men about town. For all Tanner and Kit try to smooth the divisions over. The actors and stagehands are all too well aware we can't dine at the places our fashionable friends like to frequent. And at the same time, we pride ourselves that we're real artists, unlike the sprigs who hang about the green room and enjoy associating with us. Which is supposed to make up for the fact that we can't dine at Rules three times a week and have our coats tailored on Bond Street and order new boots every year. At least, that's what we tell ourselves. And yes, I have those thoughts, even though I gave up that life. I should be ashamed of it. I sometimes am. In any case, Donald naturally hung about with the men-about-town in the Levellers. I more or less encouraged that by telling him not to acknowledge we were cousins. And he was one of the newer, younger Levellers, not in the inner circle like Kit and Roger Smythe. But I don't know that I'd have said he and Thornsby were particular friends." Will's frowned deepened. "The truth is I haven't spent that much time with Donald. And I rather set it up that way."
"Are you going to tell Letty the truth about who you are?" Mélanie asked.
"Don't you see?" The face Will turned towards her was set with a torment that was at once youthful and old beyond his years. "I've wanted Letty to take me seriously as a suitor for months. And that might actually make her do so. But that would be worse than anything."
"You've more or less given that life up."
"She might not believe it would last. My giving it up, I mean."
"Do you? Believe it will last?"
Will frowned. "I can't imagine going back. I want a life in the theatre. I can't see that changing. And I can't see my family's accepting my life in the theatre. I used to think I could run forever. But I'm realizing one can't simply hide from the past or the truth of who one is. So I suppose I'll have to face my heritage at some point, in some fashion. Even if it's to renounce it. I thought I'd already done that. But it seems now more as though I've been hiding."
"I wouldn't call it hiding. Does Donald know how you feel about Letty?"
Will's mouth twisted. "The whole company and all those about it seem to know, to some degree. Donald once asked me why I didn't tell her the truth. He actually said if I had my inheritance I'd be a better match than Thornsby." Will shook his head. "As if somehow that would make me happy."
Chapter 31
Roth turned his tankard on the scarred table at the Brown Bear Tavern. "Could the two sets of attackers you met with last night have been working for two different people?"
"They could," Malcolm said. "That occurred to me. Which makes the question of who wants those particular papers, and why, even more interesting."
Roth cast a quick glance round the tavern. It adjoined the Bow Street Public Office, but the cacophony of sound made for good cover. "Thornsby wanted them. And he's working for the Levellers."
Malcolm took a drink from his own tankard and hunched his shoulders forwards so he could speak in a low voice. "According to Beverston, Thornsby was working for the man who's trying to take control of the League. Alexander Radford, as he calls himself. And Thornsby was recruited by my brother. Which makes sense, because Edgar was working for the faction trying to wrest control of the League."
"So, could the papers somehow betray who this Alexander Radford really is?"
Malcolm considered for a moment. "It doesn't seem likely, based on what's in the papers, but it's possible, I suppose. Kitty sent a copy of some of them round this morning. Raoul's going through them."
"And I don't suppose you're going to tell me what's in them. No, never mind. I'm impressed you've told me as much as you have."
Malcolm started to speak, then checked himself as he saw a gleam of pale hair in the shadows, caught by the hazy sunshine as the door opened. Julien made his way between the tables with his usual habit of acting as though he belonged anywhere, but when he reached Malcolm and Roth's table, he hesitated. "I'm sorry to interrupt."
"You're not." Malcolm grabbed an empty chair from an adjoining table and pulled it over.
"I trust Mrs. Ashford is doing well," Roth said, as Julien seated himself.
"To hear her tell it, she wasn't attacked at all." Julien's drawl was slightly more pronounced than usual. "I think this may be the first time in my life I've been accused of fussing. I'm not even sure precisely what it means, save that Kitty has accused me of doing it at least five times since we got home last night." Julien motioned to a waiter to bring him a pint. "However, from the detached perspective of one who would never fuss but knows how to change a dressing and watch over a comrade, I can say there's no sign of infection, and she's well enough to complain about being sidelined. The last probably isn't much comfort, as Kitty would complain about being sidelined with a raging fever, broken legs, and half her blood gone." Julien sat back in his chair. "Is there news? Or oughtn't I to ask that?"
"Only updating Roth on last night's events," Malcolm said. "He wonders if the two sets of attackers could have been working for two different people."
The pot boy deposited a pint of stout in front of Julien. He took a measured sip. "An interesting thought. Carfax and the League being obvious suspects."
"Quite," Malcolm said.
"And all the more reason to regret that Kitty isn't content to stay home for so much as a morning." Julien returned his tankard to the table.
Roth pushed back his chair. "I should look in at Bow Street. And I suspect you came here to speak with Rannoch."
"You're a good fellow, Roth."
"Not perhaps the best talent in an investigation. But thank you, Mr. St. Juste."
Julien watched Roth leave the tavern, then took another sip from his tankard. "Thank you for giving me the time to sort matters out."
Malcolm studied Julien across the table in the dusty light of the tavern. Still hard to believe he was Arthur Mallinson. And at the same time, hard to believe it hadn't been obvious that he was long since. "I'm only sorry you can't have as much I suspect you need."
"I sorted a lot today." Julien set the tankard down carefully so the pewter precisely covered the damp ring on the dark wood. "I
asked Kitty to marry me this afternoon." He looked up at Malcolm. There was a light in his eyes Malcolm had never seen before. "She said, as she's said before, that after Ashford she'd made up her mind never to marry again. Never to give a man the ability to have power over her. Unless she found a man she trusted. So I thought I was done for. Then, to my amazement, she accepted."
Malcolm found himself grinning. "That's wonderful."
"You don't sound surprised."
"That you asked her to marry you? No. That she accepted? Not that either."
"That she trusts me?" Julien shook his head. "I didn't think anyone trusted me."
"I rather think Kitty may know you as few people do."
"That's not necessarily an argument in favor of trust, Rannoch." Julien's fingers curled round the handle of his tankard. "Until she agreed, I didn't realize how nervous I was."
"I remember feeling distinctly ill when I proposed to Mel. And yes, I didn't know who she was. But I knew I wanted to marry her. That never changed. Still, probably easier to be going into it with rather more knowledge of each other."
"I don't know that there's going to be anything easy about this." Julien grinned. "Not that I'd want there to be. That wouldn't be Kitty." He wiped a trace of liquid from the side of his tankard. "I was hoping you could assist us."
"Of course. In what way?"
Julien took a drink of stout. "Are you acquainted with the Archbishop of Canterbury?"
Malcolm set down his own tankard. "You want a special license."
"In the circumstances, it seems prudent. I could quite easily come up with a forgery. Probably one no one could detect. But for a number of reasons, I'd rather have the real thing."
"I've met the archbishop, but Aunt Frances knows him better. She got a special license from him for Raoul and Laura. I can talk to her—just let me know when you want me to do so."
"This afternoon, if possible."
Malcolm's fingers stilled on the handle of his tankard. "What else has happened?"
"Nothing definitive." Julien's gaze drifted round the tavern as he spoke, the gaze of one used to keeping all the terrain in view. "But I want us to be married as quickly as we can. Tonight, if possible. No, not so that Kitkat won't change her mind—I actually don't think she will. But the night of the pantomime last month, Carfax was making noises about my knowing what my duty to Britain was. The sort of rot he can talk when he's made up his mind to something. He said it wouldn't be a bad thing for me to put down roots. Then he came right out and said Kitty wasn't the wife he had in mind for me."
"No. I don't imagine she would be."
"Quite. Which is a problem. Given that, at least in David's case, Carfax has shown himself like a dog with a bone when it comes to the question of establishing a suitable heir. " Julien frowned at a dent in his tankard. "Carfax may have been behind the attack on Kitty last night. You said it yourself."
"You think he wanted to get rid of her because of her relationship to you?"
Julien swung his gaze to Malcolm. "Would you put it past him?"
"I don't know that there's anything I'd put past Carfax now. But it wasn't just Kitty who was attacked."
"No. Whoever was behind the attacks last night probably didn't want the papers printed. But Carfax could have seen getting rid of Kitty as a side benefit." Julien took a meditative sip of stout. "There was a time when my first instinct would have been to kill Carfax for that. I can't swear that I wouldn't, if something really did happen to Kitty." For a moment, Julien's face hardened and Malcolm caught a glimpse of the man Raoul had seen stick a knife in a target's ribs without breaking stride. "But I'm not sure his knowing quite what Kitty means to me would improve the situation."
"On the contrary."
"The trouble being that for a man who's so seemingly lacking in emotions, he's damnably good at detecting them in others. For all I've worked for him at times, for all I've struggled to break free of him, I haven't had to actually see him that much these past years. That will change if I stay in Britain and try to resume my identity. Carfax was starting to talk to me like an heir that night at the Tavistock, and I can imagine few things from my uncle that are as frightening."
Malcolm thought of the many things Carfax had done to David. "Nor can I, actually. I was always grateful Alistair had little interest in me. I think he was vaguely surprised I'd found someone who'd marry me at all. Of course, Raoul pulled plenty of strings when it came to my marriage." He could say that now in a calm voice. And Julien St. Juste was one of the few people he could say it to. "But on the whole, I'm glad he did."
Julien looked at Malcolm for a moment, started to speak, hesitated, then said, "I was in and out of Lisbon in those days. The days when you met Mélanie. Usually in disguise. Enough so that I'm not sure even O'Roarke or Mélanie would have recognized me. Not that they necessarily would have done anything if they had, except be on their guard. I was working for the French more often than not. I went to a party at Charles Stuart's. I saw you dancing with Mélanie. That wasn't a surprise—I'd got wind of her mission. I saw the way you were looking at each other. That wasn't such a surprise either—at least, not the way you were looking at Mélanie. You're a unique man in a lot of ways, Rannoch, but a lot of men would look at Mélanie that way. The way she was looking at you was a bit more surprising."
"She was playing a role." Malcolm's voice was thick.
"Some things are hard to manufacture. Perhaps I'm too arrogant in thinking I can see through artifice, but I've always been rather good at it. One reason I couldn't abide life in the beau monde, as it happens. But in any case, after I saw you and Mélanie dancing, I saw O'Roarke watching you dance. I'll never forget the look on his face. Wonder and loss at the same time. Even I felt for him, and I didn't feel much in those days. Seeing his son falling in love with the woman he loved. And seeing her falling in love back." Julien paused and drew a breath that might almost have been awkward. "I don't think he'll ever tell you this, not in so many words at least, but he knew."
Malcolm nodded. He didn't trust himself to speak.
"But perhaps you already knew that," Julien said.
"In a way. Not entirely." Malcolm hesitated a moment. "Thank you."
Julien nodded. "I don't think I quite appreciated the ramifications then. I didn't acknowledge the existence of the emotions involved. Or at least, that they could lead to anything lasting. That anything approaching domesticity could ever make a former agent happy."
"I don't think you need to worry about being too domestic, St. Juste."
"You aren't precisely domestic yourselves. But I'd say you were always better suited for it than I am. So is Mélanie, though I'm not sure I realized it at the time. Even O'Roarke has more of a talent for it, though I wouldn't have admitted to that either."
"Considering your life—even what I knew of it before today—I wouldn't underestimate your talent for anything."
Julien gave a twisted, half-abashed smile. "There are different types of talents. But I confess I'm quite intrigued to try. And while I have no doubt we could outwit Carfax, I see no particular need to put it to the test."
Scenes from the past shot through Malcolm's mind. "Fair enough," he said. "And prudent."
"Yes, I'm a man of forty sneaking about behind my uncle's back. But better to outflank Carfax. Besides—" Julien hesitated a moment. His gaze fixed out the tavern window, his face in profile against the thick glass. "We're running a number of risks just now, all of us. Kitty was almost killed last night. I'm going to make damned sure it doesn't happen again. But I also know I'd be a fool to be certain of anything, and as her lover I have no official connection to the children. And should anything happen to me, it might help Kitty to have the Mallinson name. Whatever happens, I'd like to ensure she has that."
"St. Juste—"
Julien swung his head round and met Malcolm's gaze with a quick smile. "Don't worry. I have no intention of getting myself killed. I'm rather happy just now, as it happens. Life has a clari
ty I never thought to find. But that doesn't mean I can't be prudent."
Julien St. Juste, talking quite like a husband and father. Malcolm hid a smile, though oddly it wasn't nearly as surprising as it once would have been. A thought occurred to him. Julien had said he wanted to give Kitty the protection of the Mallinson name—"You're going to get married as Arthur Mallinson."
Julien's gaze slid away again, fixed on the flickering shadows of the tavern's blackened fireplace. Then he looked back at Malcolm. "I want to make sure the marriage is legal. And—it's folly to think I can hide forever. Especially as Kitty doesn't seem keen to disappear."
"And you?"
Julien took a long drink from his tankard. "I can't run from it forever. And I seem to have developed a rather tiresome need to do something useful with myself. If I'm not quite determined to solve the world's ills like you and Mélanie and O'Roarke, I at least feel compelled to attempt to solve some of the problems that are of my own making."
"So you've decided it's time to pull the sword from the stone."
"Oh, for God's sake. And people wonder why I changed my name." Julien set down the tankard. "You're much more likely to do good for England than I am. But it seems there may be more for me to do here than I once thought."
"You're a good fellow, St. Juste."
"Perish the thought."
Malcolm watched him a moment longer. "It's challenging, coming home after life in exile. I found that, and my exile was self-imposed and not as complete as yours. I still had a lot of ghosts to face. I'm not sure I could have done it without Mel. And without her encouragement, I don't think I'd have even tried."
Julien gave a faint smile. "I'm damned sure I couldn't do this without Kitty. But don't tell her. I don't want her to be burdened."
"Fair enough," Malcolm said. "Though I don't think she'd find it a burden. I think she'd probably be inestimably glad to know what she means to you."
"Always the optimist, Rannoch."
"Sometimes optimism is clear-sighted."