by Tracy Grant
A tankard went flying over his head and dumped a stream of ale down his back. He and Andrew jumped over a fallen chair and stumbled through the door. They went down the slate-floored passage and up the pine stairs to their room without speaking. Inside, Andrew leaned against the closed door, breathing hard. "As if we don't have enough to contend with without stumbling into a random brawl."
Malcolm glanced down at his coat. There was a rent in the drab cloth and in the waistcoat and shirt beneath. When he drew his hand away, blood showed on his fingers. "I'm not sure it was random. Someone tried to stick a knife in me on our way to the door."
Chapter 6
Mélanie stared down at the menu she was supposed to be reviewing. In Gisèle's absence, she was, for the first time, acting as mistress of Dunmykel. Running a large household wasn't anything new to her. But now words like salmon beurre blanc, orange jelly, and damson tart swam before her eyes. Only two days since Malcolm and Andrew had left, and her throat was knotted with frustration, her fingers tense with the need for action.
A splat on the window made her look up quickly. A snowball fight was in progress on the terrace and a snowball had landed on one of the mullioned panes, leaving a white trail down the glass. Outside, the window, her five-and-a-half-year-old son Colin gave her a shrug of apology. Mélanie smiled at him just as Livia Davenport hurled a snowball that caught him in the back of the neck. Colin snatched up a handful of snow and ran after Livia. He nearly collided with Laura's daughter Emily, who was throwing a snowball at Laura. Laura scooped snow up in her gloved hand and tossed it back at her daughter. Jessica threw a small handful of snow at Colin that fell short of its target. Dorothée bent to help her, as Cordelia was doing with her younger daughter Drusilla.
The door clicked open behind her. Raoul came into the room and stood watching for a moment. "I feel like I'm getting a glimpse of the girl Laura was in India," he said, as Laura knelt in the snow, titian hair escaping the hood of her scarlet wool cloak, to snatch up two handfuls of snow.
Mélanie managed to smile, though she could still feel tension shooting across her shoulders. "Excellent distraction for the children. And there's nothing like distracting children to distract adults." Frances and Archie and Frances's youngest daughter Chloe had left the day after Malcolm and Andrew, along with Aline and her husband and daughter. Other than Mélanie, Raoul, Laura, Cordy, and the children, only Talleyrand, Dorothée, and Strathdon remained at Dunmykel. She set down her pen, leaving a streak of black ink on the menu. "How far do you think Malcolm and Andrew have got?"
"York, if they're lucky." Raoul moved to the escritoire where she was working.
"Days before they even get to London. Assuming that's where the trail leads them. Longer before we can expect to hear anything." She drew a breath and felt the frustration shoot down her recently injured shoulder.
"They may send word from the road." Raoul stepped behind her and rubbed the knotted muscles at the base of her neck. "It won't heal properly if you aren't careful."
Mélanie leaned her head back against his arm. For years they'd scarcely touched each other. They could now. So much had shifted while the world was falling apart and remaking itself about them. "If we hear from them, at least we'll know they're all right. Or were when they sent the message. But they're unlikely to have learned anything. Unlikely to send anything we can—"
"Act on?"
Mélanie looked up at him with an abashed smile. "Caught. But it's damnable not to feel we can do anything."
Raoul pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "It's the hardest part," he said. "Waiting."
"Which is why you avoid doing it?"
"Whenever I can. I've paced the floor more than once when you were off on missions."
Mélanie met his gaze. He gave a faint smile, though his gaze remained serious. "I sent you into unpardonable danger, querida. I could rightly be questioned for my actions. But I did worry."
She reached out to stroke their cat Berowne, who had curled up on a stack of paper beside the blotter. "You let me make my own decisions and run my own risks. I always appreciated that."
"You were completely fearless. It was bloody terrifying."
"So you decided I was better off married to Malcolm?"
"That wasn't the only reason." Raoul moved to the window. He waved to Emily, who was scooping up snow, then turned back to Mélanie, hands braced on the sill. "The bandits almost killed you. They came as close to killing you as I ever want to see with anyone I love. I realized then what was at stake. And that was before—"
"I was pregnant with our child?"
Raoul cast a quick look at her. "He wasn't—"
"He was then." Mélanie watched her son run to pick up Jessica, who had stumbled in the snow. The concern in Colin's gray eyes and the way his dark hair fell over his forehead were so very like Malcolm. "Don't get me wrong, I'm glad he's Malcolm's son. But I think you were worried about both of us."
"My God, I was."
Berowne batted at Mélanie's hand. She scratched him between the ears. "I always used to think you didn't think you had time for personal ties. Now I think you didn't think you'd survive."
"I didn't think so for much of the war. At least I knew there was a very reasonable chance I wouldn't."
"That was true for all of us."
"Yes, well, I was hoping to do my best to make sure it wasn't the case for you."
"So you decided I was better off sidelined."
"You were hardly sidelined."
"Poor word choice, perhaps." She studied him for a moment, outlined against the cool light from the window, this man who had shaped so much of her life. Whom she had once thought of as a Machiavellian spymaster, for all she'd loved him. "At the time I'd have boxed your ears. Now I'm rather grateful."
"Querida—It doesn't diminish what you did."
"Malcolm said much the same. And he should certainly know." She slid her fingers through Berowne's soft gray fur. Raoul was still leaning against the window, but she could read the restless energy in his posture. She remembered him in the old days, scarcely stopping to sleep, dictating orders while breaking a code, riding through the night from one part of his network to another. "I can guess what it must be costing you to be here when you have work waiting in Spain."
"My dear girl. Whatever the frustrations of waiting, I have no doubts about where I need to be at present. For one of the few times in my life."
"Because you're worried about us."
"Because so much is unsettled."
"And then you'll be back to Spain."
"Eventually."
"When you think we're safe." She stroked Berowne beneath the chin.
"I'll be back before the baby's born. If humanly possible."
Mélanie studied him for a long moment. Behind the tension, behind the conflict of competing loyalties, lay the stark terror of uncharted territory. "Being terrified is a quite normal part of expecting a baby. Though you and Laura have had a lot more practice now than Malcolm and I did the first time."
"I already know Laura is a wonderful mother. As for me—I'm trying."
"And, as you've often told me, that's all one can ask of oneself."
"I'm not sure about that in this case." He glanced out the window over his shoulder. Emily had run to hug Laura, knocking her into the snow. Both were laughing, in a tangle of scarlet wool, white petticoats, and titian hair. "I fully recognize Laura and Emily and the baby deserve more. I don't want to let them down."
In all the years she'd seen him acknowledge risks and calculate odds, which frequently weren't in their favor, she'd rarely heard such doubt in his voice. She got to her feet and put a hand on his arm. "You've done everything you could for both your children. You'll do everything you can for Emily and the new baby. I'm just glad you'll be able to enjoy it more."
"Querida—" He hesitated as the past hung between them. "Thank you."
"No regrets," she said. She'd never said it before, not in so many words. It occur
red to her that they had got to the point where she could. "We're both happy where we are. But—if you were worried about me when I was pregnant with Colin, doesn't the same apply to you now?"
"To me?"
"You have Emily. You're going to have a baby. If I needed to be careful, don't you?"
He watched her for a long moment, the lines of his body taut. "Are you asking me to—"
"Give up being a field agent? No, you wouldn't be you." She hesitated. "It's a challenge. Being true to one's children and partner and being true to oneself. I often think I'm failing on both fronts. But I don't think it's fair to ask one's children to live with one if one can't live with oneself. "
"A novel way of looking at it."
"Or perhaps of letting myself off the hook."
"I rather think I've always been far more guilty of that than you, querida."
"You haven't made yourself responsible for people. Or you haven't let them know that you felt responsible. Perhaps because it seemed safer for people not to be linked to you. Or because you were afraid of letting them down."
"Caught."
"I don't think Laura wants you to be anyone other than who you are. I don't think any of your children do, or will, as they grow up and understand. Including Malcolm." And yet, she could hear the fear and frustration in her husband's voice in Italy over the risks Raoul was running. I don't know how to keep him safe. "You've never played dice with other people's lives as much as you wanted the world to think," she said. "You need to accept that you can no longer play dice with your own as you once did."
His mouth twisted, but he kept his gaze steady on her own. "Easier said than done perhaps."
"Oh, my dear," Mélanie said, "none of this is easy. For that matter, being a parent isn't easy. You must have realized that by now."
"It had dawned on me. I think the moment I first learned I was going to be a father. If—"
He broke off at a rap on the door.
Alec stepped into the room. "Mr. Drummond has called with young Dugal, madam. Shall I show them in here?"
"Yes, please do. And send in some wine, and some cakes for Dugal."
Alec inclined his head. "Stay," Mélanie said to Raoul. Raoul nodded, brows drawn together. Stephen Drummond ran the Griffin & Dragon, one of the last places Gisèle had been seen.
Stephen was a tall man with a shock of dark blond hair and an easy assurance in his bearing. He'd been formal when he first met Mélanie, but had relaxed towards her as he and Malcolm rekindled their friendship. Dugal, his eight-year-old eldest son, had been on the floor playing with the other children on New Year's Eve, but today he was solemn-faced, sticking close to his father.
"We're sorry to disturb you," Stephen said, after they had exchanged greetings. "I know it's a difficult time."
"In truth, we're very pleased to see you and to have guests to break up the quiet," Mélanie said. "But I don't think this is a social call."
"I didn't know." Dugal's voice burst out. "Truly."
"Of course not." Mélanie smiled at the little boy. "Why don't you sit down and tell us about it."
Alec came in with wine, tea, cakes, and lemonade as they were settling themselves round the fire. Mélanie supplied Dugal with a cup of lemonade and a large slice of seed cake, but though he took a grateful sip of lemonade, he barely picked at the cake. "It was Hogmanay," he said, hands wrapped tight round the cup. The Drummond family had been the first over their threshold at midnight, a mark of good luck on a Highland New Year. "I didn't think anything of it at the time. He just asked me to post a message."
"Who did?" Raoul asked, in the sort of level, friendly voice he used with the children.
"The Englishman. Mr. Belmont."
Mélanie cast a quick look at Raoul. "Mr. Belmont asked you to deliver a message to someone?"
"To post it. And I did, the next day. It was only later that day that I heard Mrs. Thirle was missing, and even then no one told me she'd left with Mr. Belmont."
Mélanie met Stephen's gaze. Of course, she realized. The Drummonds had been trying to protect Gisèle's reputation and avoid gossip. So if Dugal hadn't happened to see her with Tommy, they wouldn't have mentioned it to him.
"It was only today when I heard Rory and Daddy talking and they mentioned Mr. Belmont. That was when I realized it might be important."
"Excellent deduction," Raoul said. "Dugal, do you happen to remember anything about the letter? The address? Or the name?"
"Oh, yes." Dugal's face brightened. "I don't think Mr. Belmont realized I can read. But I remembered because the name was so interesting. The address was Leicester Street. And the name was Charlotte Leblanc."
Mélanie sucked in her breath. She could feel Raoul's stillness beside her. She'd been prepared to be surprised. But not to learn that Tommy Belmont, former British agent and Elsinore League member, had been in communication with a former French spy.
Chapter 7
"Tommy Belmont was writing to someone you used to work with?" Cordelia asked. She and Laura had joined Mélanie and Raoul after the Drummonds left.
"She wasn't one of my agents," Raoul said. "But she was a colleague. I helped her settle in London after Waterloo."
"Could she have been a double?" Laura asked.
"It's possible. God knows my judgment has proved questionable lately. But I wouldn't have thought so."
"I knew her." Mélanie took a turn on the hearth rug. She'd found it difficult to sit still since the Drummonds had left. "Not as well as Raoul did, but I worked with her on one or two missions." She could hear Charlotte Leblanc's dry voice and see her raised brows. "She was a pragmatist. But loyal."
"Perhaps Harry and Malcolm are wrong and Tommy was working for the French," Cordelia said. She shook her head. "Funny how calmly I can say that. I remember when spies seemed like something out of a novel."
"Perhaps," Raoul said. "Or Charlotte could have formed an alliance with the Elsinore League after the war. I would have thought—but again, I've misjudged people in the past."
"Either way, this changes things," Mélanie said. "Malcolm and Andrew need the information. It could lead them to Gisèle."
"I could go to London," Cordy said. "There's no reason for me to be in danger."
"For that matter, I could go with you," Laura said. "I don't like to separate us—"
"Nor do I," Mélanie said. "But I think Raoul and I also need to be there. It's not just getting Malcolm and Andrew the information, it's getting Charlotte to talk. We know her." She cast a glance at Raoul.
He nodded. "I can't say she'll talk to me—or that I'd trust her if she did—but she'll say more than she would to a stranger. We were friends." He cast a glance at Laura. "A bit more than friends on occasion, though it never went much beyond."
"My dear." Laura reached for his hand. "The details of your past may be a surprise but the fact that you have one isn't."
"Thank goodness, for a change, it's not my ex-lovers we're encountering," Cordelia said.
"Cordy and I could stay here with the children," Laura said, "while the two of you go to London."
Mélanie folded her arms over her chest. Her fingers bit through the gathered garnet gros de Naples of her sleeves. "No. I don't want to leave the children, but it's more than that. I don't want them to be in a situation where they could become—"
"Hostages to fortune," Laura finished for her.
Mélanie dropped down on the sofa between Laura and Cordy. "It's not that I don't trust the two of you with them. I trust you both with my life—with my children's lives, which is a far greater trust. But the more we're all separated, the more risk there is someone will use some of us against the others."
Raoul was frowning, still leaning against the back of the sofa and holding Laura's hand. "It's a fair point."
"So, we all go." Mélanie glanced at Raoul over her shoulder. "Don't you dare suggest you go without us."
She could sense him weighing all the options. The three of them and the children, alone in t
he Highlands. "Surely you aren't suggesting the three of you couldn't protect yourselves?"
"It's not our safety I was worried about."
He smiled. "A point."
"Besides, you may need my help with Charlotte."
"Also a point."
"And London's a port. We can leave from there as easily as from here. And we'll all be together. We're too separated as it is."
"You're sure it's safe?" Dorothée asked as she watched Mélanie pack a valise.
"I'm not sure anything's safe. Including staying here. But if we go, we're safer together."
"And you're relieved beyond measure not to be sidelined anymore."
"Well, yes." Mélanie looked up, a nightdress in her hands, and met her friend's gaze. "No sense in denying that. And, as I said, we can leave London as easily as we can leave here."
Doro's brows drew together. "You aren't just going back to London. You're talking to someone from your past. That makes the risks greater."
"Talking secretly." Mélanie twitched the pink ribbon at the neck of the nightdress smooth.
"Still." Dorothée held her gaze across the valise. "I don't know about being a spy. But I do know about having a complicated past. And confronting it can have all sorts of challenges."
Mélanie reached for her dressing case. She could scarcely deny the truth of Doro's words. "I hate to run, but I agree with Malcolm that we didn't have a choice six months ago. To stay would have been foolhardy and put our friends at risk as well as ourselves. It's different now. We don't have much choice but to go back to London."
"You're going to leave Ian here?"
"I think it's safer for him. We may need to leave straight for Italy. He'll be here when his parents come back. And he has Elspbeth." They had found the wife of one of the Dunmykel tenants to be Ian's wet nurse. She had moved into the house temporarily with her own baby, and Ian was feeding well and crawling everywhere.
Dorothée nodded. "He was giggling quite delightfully this afternoon when I played peek-a-boo with him. But I think I still catch him looking round as though wondering where his parents are."