by Tracy Grant
"After six months ago, can you imagine I would?"
"I wouldn't have thought so. But old habits die hard. You have to know this wouldn't be the first time I've killed. Or at least ordered someone killed."
"Quite. But it's a bit different to do it oneself."
Carfax adjusted the spectacles on the table, as he'd once arranged objects on his ink blotter. "I was a field agent once. And I've never been squeamish."
Malcolm regarded Carfax in the winter light slanting through the high, barred window. The bones of his face were even sharper and more hawk-like than usual, the planes and angles harder. His eyes gleamed with understanding, but even without the spectacles, they appeared veiled. Somehow, whatever the illumination in the room, Carfax was a master at hiding in the shadows. "I don't doubt you'd be capable of it. To own the truth, when I first heard the story, I thought you were probably guilty. But the details don't add up. If you were going to kill with your own hands, you wouldn't begin by losing your temper and pushing your victim. And then, your being in the brothel at all makes no sense."
Carfax raised a brow. "My dear Malcolm. Surely there's a very obvious explanation for that."
"With nine men out of ten. Not with you."
Carfax gave a short laugh. "I don't know whether to be shocked at your naïveté or relieved you still have any sort of faith in me. For all your ideals, you've always been refreshingly free of illusions where I'm concerned. And surely if you had any doubts, the last six months have convinced you that I'm capable of any sort of betrayal."
"Of most. Of many I'd have once thought might be beyond you. But not all, I think."
"I'd rather have thought learning the truth about your wife would have helped you realize the people closest to one can commit betrayals that seem unthinkable."
Malcolm kept his fingers steady on the table. Even behind bars, Carfax knew how to draw blood. Which meant Carfax wanted to change the subject. Which was interesting in and of itself. "Actually, my wife taught me that, perhaps especially when someone's stock in trade is deception, certain loyalties become very important. I never had illusions you wouldn't betray me, even long before last June. I no longer have illusions you wouldn't betray David. But I'm quite sure you wouldn't betray Lady Carfax."
Carfax turned his folded spectacles in his hands. "That's a rather large assumption about a man you admit is morally bankrupt."
"Don't forget I've been in and out of your house since I was a boy." Carfax was always using their association that went back to Malcolm's childhood to his advantage. Malcolm could do the same. "I used to envy David his family. I knew it had its challenges. In some ways, even then, I was glad not to have the burdens David did. But I always envied the security that came from having two parents who loved each other."
Carfax gave a faint smile that might have been acknowledgment or irony. "Surely after all your time on the Continent, you realize love is no guarantee of fidelity."
"I wouldn't have had to leave Britain to know that. But even you've admitted I'm a reasonably shrewd judge of character."
"Without doubt. I've found it very useful on occasion. But as I said, your besetting sin is wanting to see the best in people. And your other besetting sin is your love of mysteries."
"I'm rather good at solving them."
"So you are. But sometimes you see mysteries that aren't there."
"You're avoiding the facts, sir. A sure sign that they don't support your thesis."
Carfax settled back in his chair for all the world as if it were the wingback chair in his study, instead of straight-backed oak. "My dear Malcolm. I'm expert at taking care of myself. Why wouldn't I seek your help if I were innocent?"
"My thoughts precisely. It's very like Laura's behavior last March."
Carfax snorted. "I doubt O'Roarke would care for the comparison. I assure you, whatever the outcome, I am not going to run off to Italy with a revolutionary."
"No, I know you have other priorities. And I would think you'd want to get back to them."
"My dear Malcolm. You can trust me to take care of myself."
"My dear sir. You aren't doing a very good job of it just now." Malcolm studied Carfax for a moment in the gray light. "You obviously had a reason other than the obvious for being in the brothel. To collect information? It's the obvious assumption."
"The second obvious assumption."
"I assume you came back into the room to find Miranda Spencer dead."
"I did, as it happens. But I see no particular reason why you should believe me more than anyone else does."
Malcolm shifted his position, trying to get a better view of Carfax's expression through the swirl of dust motes. "I've been wracking my brain to think what endgame would be served by your being in prison. But I can't come up with any. Which could be a failure of imagination on my part. The other explanation is that you're protecting someone."
Carfax lifted a brow.
"Yes, I know," Malcolm said. "I doubt David, or Lady Carfax, or Bel, or Lucinda, or Mary, or Georgiana killed Miranda Spencer. But their safety could be threatened."
"You think someone is blackmailing me into accepting a murder charge? If I could be so easily controlled, surely someone would have tried it years ago."
"Unless they had new information." Malcolm settled back in his own chair. "It did occur to me that you might think your being in prison would get David to return to London."
For a moment, the armor in Carfax's gaze cracked, and Malcolm had a glimpse of something raw as a wound to the bone. "Considering the terms my son and I parted on, that hardly seems likely."
"Don't play games, sir. You know David's loyalty. If nothing else, he'll be concerned about his mother and sisters."
"He didn't show a great deal of concern when he left Britain without saying goodbye to his mother."
"Sir." Malcolm held Carfax's gaze with his own. "You know your son."
Carfax hooked his spectacles over his ears. "I thought I did."
Malcolm paused, but much as he hesitated to share anything to do with David and Simon, Carfax needed to know. In this, perhaps they were allies. Or at least their interests briefly aligned. "Did you know the League were trying to get incriminating information about David and Simon?"
Carfax went still as granite.
"You didn't know."
"Can you imagine I'd have stood by?"
"I'm not exactly sure what you could have done."
"They tried to get the information from you?"
"I think they knew they wouldn't have a prayer of success. They tried to blackmail Percy and Mary Shelley into getting Simon to commit something to writing. I don't know whom else they may have approached."
Carfax's hands closed white-knuckled on the edge of the table.
Odd how the fear in Carfax's gaze brought a sympathy Malcolm would have sworn he'd never again feel for his spymaster. "The Shelleys are both too good friends to have agreed," Malcolm said. "And Simon and David are too careful, I think, to commit anything to writing that could be used against them if it fell into the wrong hands. They've always been scrupulously careful, even when writing to Mel and me."
"But we don't know whom else the League may approach." Carfax looked up. "It's always been a risk of this—of their relationship."
"The relationships of anyone connected to spies are always subject to being used."
"If David understood—"
"David understands enough to protect the people he loves. David's at risk because he's your son. And because the League see you as an enemy."
"Are you suggesting I shouldn't be?"
"I think the risk posed by the League is one of the few things we agree on."
Carfax's mouth tightened. "If David isn't careful—"
"I'm quite sure he will be careful. He knows what he has to lose. Ironically, you helped him learn that. He's been very careful and hardheaded in protecting his family. More so than I gave him credit for six months ago."
Carfax stare
d down at his clenched fingers. "I wanted to protect him. You should understand that."
"You wanted him to do what you wanted."
Carfax unfolded his spectacles and hooked them back over his ears. "Because it was better for him."
"Are you protecting him now?"
"You mean, did the League blackmail me over David to get me to accept a murder charge? I'm not so easily manipulated."
"I wouldn't have thought so. But if they had hard evidence—"
"You just pointed out that David and Tanner wouldn't be fool enough to give it to them." Carfax adjusted his spectacles. "Have you seen David?"
It was said in the same level tone as his other comments, yet Malcolm had the oddest sense it wasn't calculated. "No."
"But you've heard from him."
"I'm the first to acknowledge a parent's feelings, but given your own actions regarding your son, do you seriously expect me to share any information concerning him?"
Carfax removed his spectacles again, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and began to polish them. "I miscalculated. Though there were limited moves open to me."
"You didn't give David and his feelings for Simon enough credit."
"I rather think I gave David too much credit in thinking he'd do what was right for the family. But you're right that I may also have misjudged the strength of his attachment."
Malcolm continued watching his spymaster. "I'm impressed you can recognize that."
"I'm not entirely blind to the power of love. I've felt it myself."
Said in that same mild voice, it was, in its way, a shattering admission for Carfax. "Which is precisely why I'm convinced your wife is the one person you wouldn't betray." Malcolm pushed himself to his feet. "You could think playing along is a way to get information on the Elsinore League. Is that it?" He leaned over Carfax, hands braced on the table.
"I'm obviously not much use against the League in here."
"Which makes the question of why you aren't trying harder to get out all the more interesting."
Carfax spread his hands on the scarred oak of the table as though it were the gilded ink blotter on his desk. "I'm quite good at taking care of myself, Malcolm. If we agree on nothing else, we should agree on that."
It was true. So why, looking at this man who had threatened so much of his life, did Malcolm find his throat gripped by dread?
Chapter 9
Archie clunked down his coffee cup and looked from Harry to Malcolm. "The Barque of Frailty?"
"We know it's a brothel," Harry said. "But not much more."
"And you assumed I might possess more knowledge?" Archie smiled, though he was still pale from the news about Carfax. "Your lack of illusions is always refreshing, Harry."
Harry sat back in his chair. "You can't deny you've had a more active career in certain areas than either Malcolm or I, sir. And that your pursuit of the Elsinore League has taken you some interesting places."
"True enough." Archie reached for his coffee. He and Frances and Chloe had arrived in London the night before as well. They had left a day after Malcolm and Andrew and had traveled more slowly, but had also taken a more direct route. Malcolm had already been to see Carfax at Newgate, but the hour was early for the fashionable world. Frances wouldn't be up for another hour, at least. "I've never had much taste for brothels, though," Archie said. "Seems as close as I can imagine to sacrilege to turn something that should be mutually enjoyable into commerce. I've never patronized the Barque of Frailty. But I do have a—past acquaintance—with Rosamund Hartley."
"The woman who runs it?" Malcolm sat forwards in his chair, his own coffee forgot at his elbow.
Archie nodded. "Though she didn't then. She was one of the loveliest opera dancers at Covent Garden."
"She was your mistress," Harry said.
"For a time. A quite agreeable time, I confess. I left her with some handsome pieces of jewelry and a large parting gift. Some of which I suspect went into setting up the Barque of Frailty." Archie frowned into his coffee. "I confess, I never thought too much about what I was financing."
"A woman who wants to make her own way in the world without family and fortune has limited options," Malcolm said.
Archie met his gaze. "I can't but admire Rosamund's enterprise. But what's perhaps more interesting, in light of present circumstances, is that she left me for Lord Beverston."
Malcolm's fingers closed on the edge of his chair. Beverston was one of the founding members of the Elsinore League. He had recruited into it both his son, John Smythe, who had died in their adventure in Italy, and his godson, Tommy Belmont. Who had run off with Gisèle. "Are you saying the League are behind the Barque of Frailty?"
Archie's brows drew together. "I've never heard a suggestion of that. Rosamund was always ambitious to be independent. But I wouldn't be surprised if Beverston's money also went into it, either directly, or because he too bestowed expensive gifts on Rosamund. And I know several League members who patronize the establishment. Rosamund met Beverston at one of the League's parties when she was still my mistress. I wouldn't precisely say he took her from me—the affair was already beginning to run its course by then—but she did leave me for him. And I believe he still visits the Barque of Frailty."
"Have you ever heard any mention of Carfax's being connected to it?" Harry asked.
Archie's frown deepened. "No. Nor of Carfax's visiting a brothel or having a mistress. Despite the circles I moved in. I'm quite sure you're right that he was at the Barque of Frailty in search of information. Very likely about the League. But as to why the devil he isn't talking now—" Archie shook his head. "Carfax is nothing if not challenging."
Malcolm's fingers tightened on the walnut of his chair. "Did you ever hear mention of Tommy Belmont in connection with the Barque of Frailty?"
Archie met Malcolm's gaze, his own warming with compassion. "No. I'm sorry. But as I said, I've had little to do with it in recent years."
"When did you last see Mrs. Hartley?" Harry asked.
"Not for some time. Though she's still to be found at Elsinore League parties, my own attendance has been dwindling. But if I write a letter of introduction, I think that will get you through the door." Archie pushed himself to his feet and went to his writing desk, but he paused as he went to dip his pen in the inkwell. "Odd to remember those days. They seemed amusing enough, at the time. But my life with your aunt is so much more agreeable."
Malcolm hesitated in front of the Barque of Frailty. Portland stone, lace curtains at the windows, a shiny brass knocker, window boxes neatly pruned for winter. Nothing on the surface like the Gilded Lily in Seven Dials, with its cracked windows and gin-soaked floorboards, which he and Mélanie had visited last June. But fundamentally the same inside, in many ways.
Harry touched his arm. "It's no different from Le Paon d'Or."
Where Malcolm had got quite at home in the weeks in Brussels before Waterloo, calling to get information from Rachel Garnier, one of his best agents. He had paid a fair number of visits to brothels in his life, but only as an agent or an investigator. Intimacy was difficult enough for him. He'd never been able to bring himself to pay for a substitute. He'd always swallowed a distaste for intimacy as commerce, and the circumstances that left women with no other recourse, but he'd been fairly matter-of-fact, working with women like Rachel and taking advantage of their ability to gather information. Until—"I didn't know about Mel's past then," he said. Thank God he could say that to Harry now. "It shouldn't make a difference, but it—"
"Drives home the point," Harry said. "Yes, I can see how it would." Harry studied the building in front of them. "A fellow soldier once used a word about Cordy that would imply she worked in a brothel. When we were separated. I punched him in the jaw."
"You're a good man, Davenport."
"Whom Cordy slept with was her own business. I saw no reason to call her names for doing something half the men in the beau monde do."
After another moment's hesitation, they
climbed the steps and rang the bell.
A footman opened the door. Powered wig, blue satin livery, silver-buckled shoes. He might have worked at any house in Mayfair. Though, in point of fact, this was a house in Mayfair. He surveyed them with raised brows. This was the sort of establishment that only admitted regulars.
Malcolm gave him his card and Archie's note. "We're here to see Mrs. Hartley."
The footman studied the card for a moment. He clearly knew how to read. And he was well enough versed in the Debrett's to recognize the Rannoch name. His gaze moved over the card with instant recognition. He inclined his head and took their hats and gloves. "If you will come this way."
He conducted them down a marble-tiled entrance hall complete with pier table and silver basket for calling cards (who, Malcolm wondered, actually left a card there?) to a sitting room hung with rose-colored silk in the sort of shade that cast a flattering glow in any lighting.
"If you will wait here, gentlemen, I'll inquire if Mrs. Hartley is at home."
"One can't but imagine the scene that might ensue if someone stumbled into the wrong house thinking they were calling on an acquaintance," Harry said.
"Simon could build a play on that. An intriguing take on She Stoops to Conquer." Malcolm glanced round the sitting room. The furniture was Hepplewhite or a good imitation, covered in a watered silk that complemented the walls. The paintings on the walls were by Boucher and Fragonard. Tasteful and elegant, but a bit more suggestive than what most hostesses would have in a receiving room.
After a few minutes, the door opened to admit a tall woman with hair the color of a pale sherry, twisted into an elegant knot that showed her handsome pearl earrings. Her face was strong boned yet delicate, her eyes a clear blue. She wore a gown of corded lavender silk (was the color a nod to the death in what might be called her family? Malcolm wondered). The neck was high, edged with a small lace ruff, the sleeves long and tight, but the cut betrayed that she still had the lean, elegant body of a dancer.
"Mrs. Hartley." Malcolm bowed, as did Harry. "Thank you for agreeing to see us."