by Tracy Grant
"I do too." Mélanie's fingers bit into the linen as she put the nightdress in the dressing case.
"I've been away from my own children a great deal," Dorothée said. "Sometimes it's hard when I come back, but we're always able to get back to where we left off. Or close to it."
"Yes. Given time they should be all right." Assuming Gisèle came back. Assuming they all got through this safely.
"I remember how you used to worry in Vienna when Malcolm was off on a mission," Dorothée said. "Now I know you were running those same risks yourself."
"So I know what I'm doing." Mélanie picked up a folded chemise.
Dorothée held her gaze, her own concerned. "That doesn't make it safe."
"So, once again the board shifts." Talleyrand put a glass of calvados into Raoul's hand. "I assume in London you'll be able to look for news of the Wanderer."
"Depending on what else we encounter." Raoul's fingers tightened round the glass. He was still sifting the implications of the news about Charlotte, how much he could share with Mélanie, Laura, and Cordelia, how much he had to keep to himself. "So far as you know, did Charlotte Leblanc know anything about the Wanderer?"
"So far as I know?" Talleyrand tossed down a swallow of calvados. "No. But then I didn't know Arabella knew anything either. And Charlotte being involved is likelier than Arabella." He cast a glance at Raoul. "A clever woman, Charlotte Leblanc. She'd make for a dangerous enemy, I always thought."
Raoul took a drink of calvados. It had a strong bite tonight. "So she would."
"You were fond of her."
"So I was. So I am."
"Which could be a complication."
"My dear Talleyrand. I assure you I haven't gone entirely soft."
"No." Talleyrand turned his glass in his hand. "It's a question of degrees."
Raoul took another sip of calvados. "Wondering if you can trust me?"
"I've always wondered how much I could trust you, O'Roarke. I'd be rather insulted if you didn't say the same about me."
"Fair enough. But in this we have few allies."
"As you say. But you might decide that you had other uses for the Wanderer."
"So might you." Raoul held Talleyrand's gaze. "In fact, you can't tell me you haven't considered it."
"I try to consider every eventuality, O'Roarke. As do you. In the right circumstances, the Wanderer could help further your cause."
Raoul swirled the calvados in his glass. Once a whirlpool was set in motion, one couldn't tell what it would pull under. Or dredge up. "That's not a way I choose to fight."
"You used to not be so squeamish."
"No? Perhaps not. I've violated my sense of what's right and wrong more times than I can count, but I like to think I've always had practical limits, if not moral ones. I don't like to think of what the Wanderer might unleash."
Talleyrand lowered himself into an armchair. "Nor do I. I've given up the illusion that I can control events, but some are too unpredictable to risk. In any case, I think we're both agreed that the Wanderer in the League's hands is unacceptable."
"Quite." Raoul moved to a chair opposite the prince. "What are your own plans?"
"I can't quite say. They rather depend on how the board continues to shift. But for the present I think I'm better off in Britain. Should I leave, you can reach me through the usual channels." Talleyrand turned his glass in his hand. "We're going to need each other, O'Roarke. As you said, we have few allies in this. Including those closest to us."
Raoul took a drink of calvados. "I told Laura about my past history with Charlotte. She didn't seem disturbed, which was what I'd have expected. So there, at least, I'm not keeping anything back."
"There, at least."
Raoul downed the last of the calvados. "It won't be the first time I've lied to people I'm close to. And I'm not fool enough to think it will be the last. What that means for my relationship with my family is my lookout."
Strathdon's gaze moved from Mélanie to Raoul to Laura to Cordelia. "I'd be lying if I didn't say this concerns me."
"It concerns all of us," Mélanie said. "But we have few options."
"You don't think the children would be better off here?"
She drew a breath, trying to sort out safety and her own instincts. "If we're separated, there's that much more chance they can be used against us. If we have to leave for the Continent suddenly, better we all do it together." Her hands locked together in her lap. "And if I'm arrested, they won't arrest the children."
Strathdon settled back in his chair. "I always knew you were a formidable woman. But even after I learned the truth of your past, I don't think I realized quite how formidable."
"We have limited moves open to us, sir. We have to do the best with those we can make."
"That sounds eminently logical, my dear. But it doesn't decrease the danger."
"Malcolm and I are used to living with danger. We're used to protecting the children from it." Mélanie's fingers tightened. "I know it's not the sort of marriage you'd have wanted for your grandson—"
"On the contrary." Strathdon took a sip of whisky. "Or if not, it's a failure of my imagination. Because it's far better than any marriage I could have imagined for him."
Chapter 8
The Berkeley Square library smelled as it always had. Ink and leather and the dusty aroma of books. The candlelight bounced off the glass-fronted bookcases and gleamed off the Carrara marble of the library table, which brought an unexpected shock of memory of Italy.
Malcolm lifted his candle to the book spines. He needed distraction. The house echoed with memories. And yet, the sound of his children's feet clattering up and down the stairs and of his wife's laughter were all too absent. He studied the book titles. Not Shakespeare. He could scarcely glance at a page without seeing a quote he and his wife had tossed back and forth. Not Ludlow. Mel had given him his first edition, and even if he read a newer copy, it made him think of her. He reached for Pride and Prejudice, then thought of Andrew's comment at the White Hart.
He and Andrew had completed their journey without further attacks after the brawl at the White Hart. Except for a faint sting along his ribs, the incident might never have happened. Save that Malcolm remained convinced it hadn't been coincidence. He and Andrew had had countless discussions about the possible reasons on the remainder of their journey, but whether the Elsinore League, or whoever had attacked Tommy, or someone else entirely had been behind it was impossible to determine. Given the danger, he probably ought to be all the more relieved Mélanie was in Scotland. Instead, he missed her damnably. Not just her presence and warmth, but her insights into the dangers they faced.
Andrew had not even come into London. He and Malcolm had parted ways at an inn outside the city. Andrew had headed south to see Frances's daughter Judith. Malcolm had arrived in Berkeley Square well after dark. Tomorrow he would see Harry Davenport and also enlist the aid of their friends Rupert and Bertrand. Bertrand, who secretly helped Bonapartists find refuge in London and had once done the same for Royalists, had excellent sources in the city. Malcolm's brother Edgar was in France, and Malcolm had yet to write to tell him of Gisèle's disappearance. He'd been hoping they discovered her first. And perhaps he was being craven. He and Edgar had had a strained relationship since their mother's death, for reasons he did not fully understand himself.
He looked further down the shelves. The Odyssey? That seemed appropriate. Except that he was already home, though without his family and without any expectation of staying.
Malcolm shifted the library steps to reach for the book, then went still. A sound echoed through the house. The front door bell, he realized. He'd sent Valentin to bed. He was accustomed to not having servants see to all the details of the household after Italy, but he hadn't been expecting a caller in the middle of the night. He moved into the hall, carrying his candle. The spy's wariness settled over him like a familiar cloak—no one should know he was in London yet. At the same time, a shred of hope tugge
d at his chest. Could Gelly have found her way home?
He pulled open the heavy front door. Familiar blue eyes blazed into his own.
"Harry." Malcolm went forwards to embrace his friend, then hesitated as he saw the man standing beside Harry on the front steps. Not that he wasn't glad to see him as well. But— "It's good to see you, Jeremy." Malcolm gave Harry a quick hug and then bestowed one on Bow Street runner Jeremy Roth. He could feel the tension running through both men.
"We wouldn't have come so late," Harry said, "but we thought this shouldn't wait. It's nothing to do with Gisèle," he added quickly, no doubt seeing the fear shoot through Malcolm's gaze.
Malcolm stepped away from the door. "Come in out of the cold. I can't promise a fire, but I do have plentiful whisky."
He flung open the library doors, returned his candle to the library table, where a brace of candles already burned, and went to pour whisky. Harry shrugged out of his greatcoat, but Roth made no move to do so.
"I know," Roth said. "You don't want to tell me why you left Britain or why you're back."
Malcolm turned from the decanters, a glass in each hand. "Jeremy—"
"And I agree I'm better off not knowing. God knows, I miss you, and I'd like you to come back, but that's not why I'm here."
Malcolm put a glass in Roth's hand and gave another to Harry.
"I went to see Carfax when I got to London," Harry said, "as we had agreed."
Malcolm nodded. The plan had been for Harry to try to draw Carfax out over Carfax's proposal that they work together against the Elsinore League.
"I arrived at Carfax House to find Roth there," Harry said.
Malcolm cast a quick glance between the two men. "Carfax summoned you?" he asked Roth.
"No, Carfax was discovered in the Barque of Frailty."
Malcolm frowned. "The Barque of Frailty is—"
"A brothel," Harry finished. "The one sort of intrigue I wouldn't think to find Carfax involved in." But for all the irony, his face was intense.
"No." One of the few things Malcolm didn't doubt about his former spymaster was Carfax's love for his wife. "But no one would summon Bow Street because Carfax was in a brothel, whatever the law."
"No," Roth said. "They summoned Bow Street because Carfax was in a room with the dead body of a young woman."
Malcolm stared at his friend. "Good God. What did Carfax say?"
"Very little," Roth said. "He's been arrested for murder."
If anything, that was even more surprising than Carfax being found with the dead woman. Malcolm scraped a hand over his hair. "What's the woman's name?"
"Miranda Spencer. Mid-twenties, I'd say. According to the staff at the Barque of Frailty, she'd been employed there for almost three years."
"It's horrible," Malcolm said. "But it's also the sort of thing Carfax could talk his way out of in ten minutes, however he was found, whatever he was doing there. Whether or not he killed her. As it is, I'm surprised there wasn't pressure on you not to make the arrest."
"Quite the opposite," Roth said. "To own the truth, I hesitated. Not because it was Carfax, but because the circumstances didn't quite add up. Carfax says he went into Miss Spencer's room and found her dead. He'd gone upstairs with her over and hour before. He says he left the room and went to a sitting room down the passage, but he doesn't give any account of why or what he was doing in the interval or of why he went back to Miss Spencer's room. The person who discovers a body is always of interest and often does indeed prove to be the killer, but I'd have expected a man like Carfax to have a better story. Miss Spencer was found in the bed, but there was a bruise on the back of her head. It looks to me as though she hit her head on the edge of the marble night table. I suspect the killer pushed her and perhaps she lost consciousness. From the pooling of her blood, I think she was smothered on the floor and then moved to the bed. It looks to me like a crime of impulse, not too neatly done. Which isn't what I'd expect from Carfax."
"No," Malcolm said. "Carfax was a field agent once. If he was going to kill with his own hands, he knows how to do it. And I can't see him losing his temper and pushing someone in an argument."
Roth nodded. "I pointed all that out to the chief magistrate. But I was informed in no uncertain terms that I was to make the arrest forthwith."
Malcolm stared at his friend. "The chief magistrate told you that himself?"
"Yes, but I was under the impression that Sir Nathaniel was acting under instructions from the home secretary."
Harry crossed to the drinks trolley, poured a third whisky, and put it in Malcolm's hand before Malcolm quite realized what he was doing. Malcolm's fingers closed round the glass. He took a long swallow. "So Sidmouth wants Carfax arrested. Or he in turn is being pressured by someone who does. I can't believe the murder of a woman who worked in a brothel would rouse the government's ire. Or that she'd have friends powerful enough to pressure the home secretary."
Harry took a drink from his own glass. "My first thought was that someone set up Carfax. Most likely the Elsinore League, given that we know they're targeting him. Given their use of blackmail, I could believe they could pressure Sidmouth. A few months ago I'd have said Sidmouth could be a League member himself, but now that we have the list, we know he isn't. Assuming the list is complete. Which it may not be."
"The League are the most likely explanation," Malcolm said. "Though it's also possible the government have decided Carfax is a liability on their own, and want to get rid of him. But either way, what I don't understand is Carfax's keeping quiet. He has to know he's being set up. He's the last man to put up with that."
"So he thinks he has something to gain from not talking." Harry twisted his glass in his hand. "Trying to throw his enemy off guard? I'd think his enemies would find his behavior as puzzling as we do. But the only other option I can think of is that he's protecting someone."
Malcolm nodded. "But other than David, who's on the Continent, the only people I can imagine Carfax going to prison to protect are Lady Carfax, Bel, Mary, Georgiana, and Lucinda. And it's difficult to imagine any of them being implicated in such a murder."
"Could he be being blackmailed?" Roth asked. "By someone who knows his secrets?"
"They'd have to be pretty serious secrets to make it worth staying in prison for murder and risking hanging," Harry said. "But then, we know Carfax's secrets are on the serious side. Still, he'd have to feel the implications were worse than prison and possible execution."
"We don't know he doesn't have a plan he thinks will get him out before it comes to that." Malcolm stared at the candlelight bouncing off his glass. "Carfax would risk a lot for what he sees as the good of the country. If he thought Britain's interests could be harmed by whatever information he was concealing, I can imagine him keeping quiet." He drew a breath, turning over possibilities. "Has anyone written to David?"
"I haven't," Harry said.
Roth shook his head. "But the family may have."
Harry met Malcolm's gaze. "You think—"
"That Carfax would let himself be arrested to get David back to London? Possibly. Carfax will go to fairly extreme lengths when it comes to David." Carfax had told his son David the truth about Mélanie in an effort to cause a rift between David and his lover Simon Tanner and persuade David to marry. He hadn’t succeeded, but the revelations had driven Malcolm and Mélanie into exile, and now David and Simon had gone abroad as well.
Harry studied Malcolm in the library shadows. "There's no need for you to get involved. No one could claim you owe Carfax anything."
"I'd be the first to agree with you there. But I do think there's need for me to be involved. For one thing, it may involve the Elsinore League. And for another—I'd cheerfully leave Carfax to his fate if I thought he was guilty, but I'm damned if I'm going to stand by and leave a likely innocent man in prison. Even Carfax."
Harry gave a sudden grin, his first of the sort since he'd arrived at Berkeley Square. "I couldn't agree with you more. In fact,
I'd have investigated myself even if you hadn't."
There was something about the gray light of prison that seemed to strip people to the bone. Malcolm had noticed it when Laura was in Newgate, and he noticed it now looking across the cell at the man who had once welcomed a lonely young boy into his home. Who had set one of Malcolm and David's best friends to spy on them as undergraduates. Who had offered Malcolm employment when Malcolm was rootless and mired in despair. Who had employed Malcolm for a decade during which Malcolm had violated nearly every principle he possessed. Who had used the truth of Malcolm's wife's past to drive a wedge between his own son and the love of his son's life, and between David and Malcolm. Who, even now, could destroy nearly everyone Malcolm held dear.
Carfax's face was haggard, his cheeks sunken, but the gaze he turned on Malcolm was sharp as ever. He might have been summoning Malcolm into his study, all the cards in his hand, not facing him in prison. "You've always been able to surprise me. I thought you'd come back to London eventually, but I didn't think this is what would do it."
"It isn't. I was here in any case."
Carfax's gaze flashed in acknowledgment. "For what it's worth, I can do rather less to protect you now than I could in my previous situation."
"I may be slow, sir, but I'd never rely on you for protection." Malcolm drew out a chair—carved oak with the look of Hepplewhite, Carfax was well taken care of even in prison—and sat opposite Carfax. "I don't know if Oliver told you that I turned down the offer you sent him to Dunmykel with just before Christmas."
"Rather moot at this point, but yes." Carfax pushed his spectacles up on his nose. "Then why are you here?"
"Because I don't think you did it."
Carfax regarded him. For a moment, Malcolm would have sworn he'd shocked his spymaster. Then Carfax removed his spectacles and folded them, with the same ease he'd displayed when he was in command of a scene. "You're a keen judge of people, Malcolm. But your tendency to want to see the best in them is your besetting sin. Don't make that mistake with me."