by Tracy Grant
"There's no evidence they're looking for me," Mélanie said.
"No, but we don't know who knows what. And ironically Carfax being out of power leaves you with less protection."
They had been having a variant of the same conversation ever since their arrival a few hours before. The immediate impulse to seek more information after Valentin's startling revelation about Carfax had been checked by the realization that here in London, where they were all used to having a host of sources at their fingertips, there were few people to whom they could safely apply.
"Meaning, once again we have to wait," she said.
"For the moment," Raoul said. "I need to talk to Charlotte.
"You think she's hiding Gisèle and Tommy?" Frances asked.
"It's difficult to know," Raoul said, in a tone that warned Frances not to get her hopes up. "But we know Tommy wrote to her as they were leaving, so at the very least she's heard from him more recently than we have."
"Do you think she'll confide in you?" Frances asked.
"Charlotte's not precisely the confiding type. And, given that she's in touch with Tommy, I question if I knew her at all. But I think I can learn something." He glanced at Mélanie.
"You want to go alone," Mélanie said.
"I think I should, the first time. You can follow up if I meet with resistance. We may want the option of approaching her as though we aren't allies."
Mélanie nodded. It was sensible. Which didn't make the continued waiting any easier.
"I assume you aren't going to advertise your own presence in London," Laura said to Raoul.
"Charlotte is hardly the sort to consort with Bow Street."
"That you know of. You just admitted you don't know her as well as you thought."
"A palpable hit, sweetheart." Raoul leaned over to kiss her. "I'll take all the usual precautions."
"Given the life you lead, that's hardly reassuring."
Three years ago, Raoul had helped Charlotte Leblanc establish herself in rooms in Leicester Street. But having made some discreet inquiries, he instead made his way to a coffeehouse in
Piccadilly, run by a Parisian émigré. Not, so far as he knew, anyone acquainted with the world of espionage. As with a Parisian café, there were more ladies present than would be found in a typical London coffeehouse. Matrons, some with children in tow despite the evening hour, shopgirls, governesses, ladies' maids. Possibly a few ladies who'd be considered less than respectable, but they were discreet. French accents assaulted his ears. He hadn't been in Paris in over six months. Since Waterloo even the thought of the city brought associations that were like a knife twisting beneath his ribs. Yet in some ways it would always be home. One of his homes. Just as the Berkeley Square house was, he had realized this afternoon from his shock of familiarity when he stepped over the threshold.
He saw her at the back of the café, a cup of coffee steaming at her elbow, the twilled sapphire blue fabric of her pelisse pulled taut against her shoulders as she wrote in a notebook, her dark blonde hair coiled against the nape of her neck. Her back was to him, but he knew her at once.
He made his way between the tables, without the haste that could draw unnecessary attention, and stopped before her table. "Bonjour, Charlotte."
She looked up, her blue gaze hardening as it settled on him. "I'd say I was surprised to see you. Save that your appearances are always a surprise."
Raoul pulled out a chair and dropped down opposite her. "Then I haven't entirely lost my touch."
"Perish the thought." She closed her notebook. "Travel accounts. They sell remarkably well. Of course, I haven't visited any of the places I write about in three years and more, but I manage. Though sometimes the changing borders—not to mention names of countries—nearly trip me up."
"You've done well."
"I manage. Perhaps better than some." Her gaze flickered over his face. Her own was little changed. The shrewd eyes, the generous mouth, the sharp cheekbones and nose. "I didn't know you were in Britain."
"Few do."
She raised her brows. "These days I'd have thought secret missions would take you out of Britain, not into it. I understand you've been busy in Spain once again."
"It offers some unique opportunities."
She gave a faint smile. "You'll never give up on the cause, will you?"
"Not as long as I'm capable of thought and action."
Charlotte took a sip of coffee, without taking her gaze from him. "Though I understand you've also been spending time in Italy."
Raoul settled back in his chair. "You hear a great deal."
"I may have left the game, but old habits die hard. And information is always useful. You're living with the Rannochs."
"I've stayed with them in Italy."
"And you're wondering how much I know. When a former agent like Malcolm Rannoch abruptly leaves the country, there's bound to be talk among agents and former agents, whomever they worked for. The few people I've talked with who know the truth about Mélanie are even more intrigued. And, obviously, surprised by your presence in the household."
Raoul had never told Charlotte that Malcolm was his son—it was something he'd explicitly admitted to very few people, not even to Malcolm himself until recently—but he was fairly sure she'd guessed. "My ties to the Rannoch family go back a long way."
Charlotte gave a dry laugh. "Yes, I'm certainly aware of that. They're far older than your ties to Mélanie Rannoch, if not more complicated."
"You saw Mélanie when we brought you to London. She's very much in love with her husband."
"As I said. Complicated."
A dozen personal confidences welled up in his throat. He'd never cared much what anyone thought of him, but he was inclined to overreact to what people thought of Mélanie or Malcolm. "When have any of our lives not been complicated?"
"All too true." She closed her notebook. "I assume they ran because of Mélanie's past. And so I assume Malcolm Rannoch knows the truth."
"You can't expect me to answer on either count."
She tilted her head to one side. "That was the maddest mission I ever saw you orchestrate. I'm still not sure whether to be appalled, or stunned at your daring."
A dozen questions he'd never be able to answer shot through his head. "It was certainly one of the more dangerous and problematic things I've ever done."
"It made sense if your goals were as focused and hardheaded as you let on. But I'm not sure they are. It seems to have worked out all right, though, at least as far as the marriage. And I presume you're still on speaking terms with both of them.
"I'm on far better terms with both of them than I ever had any right to expect."
Charlotte raised a brow. "Since you're free of Mélanie, I could suggest we continue this conversation at my rooms. For old time's sake?" Her smile as she said it was open and familiar.
Raoul found himself smiling in return, as he had more than once in the past. "No offense."
"None taken."
"I'm not what might be called free."
"There’s another woman in the household, I hear. Lady Tarrington?"
Raoul held her gaze. She might know already. In any case, it would help set the terms of their conversation as friendly. "Laura Tarrington and I are expecting a child."
Charlotte smiled again. "My felicitations. Though I imagine it's another complication."
"It's a number of things. But more than anything else, a cause for joy."
"That's a way I've never heard you talk before."
"A number of things have changed."
Charlotte tucked her pencil into the notebook. "If Mélanie is at risk of exposure, so are you. And yet you're back in London, when your work is in Spain, and the rest of your life is in Italy. Did the Spanish cause send you here?"
"No, this mission is of the more personal sort."
"You intrigue me. You didn't used to do much of anything for personal reasons. At least, not that you admitted to."
"It seems
we can both surprise each other. I had no notion you knew Tommy Belmont."
Charlotte's gaze went as still as the water of Lake Como when the wind suddenly died. "You aren't going to believe me if I say 'Who?' are you?"
"Surely we know each other too well for a tiresome round of denials."
She tucked a strand of hair into its pins. "Are you asking if I was a double?"
"Were you?"
"I'd hardly admit it."
"What's the harm, after all this time? I'm not in a position to cause you mischief, and you'd have been on the winning side."
Charlotte smoothed the lace frill on her cuff. "So, if I tell you I wasn't, you'll believe me?"
"Let's say I'll be more inclined to believe you than I might be under other circumstances."
She was silent for a moment. "I never believed in it the way you do. I disliked the monarchy, but I could hardly have been called a committed Republican. But I also don't believe in going back on my word. That sounds rather stuffy coming from me, but there it is."
"Tommy."
"Tommy." A faint smile curved her mouth. "We crossed paths once in the Peninsula, though neither of us knew the other's true name. But when we happened across each other in London, we both remembered. And could tell the other did. As I said to you, with the war over there's little sense in pretending. Oh, perhaps I should have—I'm more at risk than he, certainly. But there seemed little sense in a denial he wouldn't believe. And sometimes one wants to talk to someone from the past, even if they did fight on the opposite side. Or have you never felt that?"
Raoul settled back in his chair and signaled to a waiter to bring him coffee. "I confess to knowing the feeling."
"Well, then. Sharing the past led to sharing more." She held his gaze for a moment across the scarred wood of the table. "Shocked? Surely not. You never were the jealous sort. At least, not when it came to me. And it's very like you and me, after all. Seeking escape and a few moments of solace. Not expecting strings or commitments. Quite unlike you and Mélanie."
"I never made a commitment to Mélanie."
"You never let her know you made a commitment to her. I rather think you didn't want to entrap her."
"My dear Charlotte. We were talking about you and Tommy. I'd hardly be surprised at two people seeking solace or escape or any other sort of joy they may find together. But it doesn't explain the letter he sent you when he left Scotland."
"He's been away. We're not what you'd call anything like an exclusive arrangement, but we do remain in communication."
The waiter deposited a cup of coffee before Raoul. Raoul blew on it and took a sip before responding. "I could almost believe that. Save that he sent the letter the night before he ran off with Gisèle Thirle."
"Who? I wish I could say I was surprised to hear Tommy had run off with someone, but I confess that's not my immediate reaction."
"Arabella Rannoch's daughter."
Charlotte's gaze locked on his own. "Oh, my dear. I'm sorry. I know what she meant to you."
"Insightful of you, as I'm not in the least sure myself what Arabella meant to me."
"Whatever passed between us tended to be when she drove you to distraction. Not that I'm complaining. I wouldn't give up the past for the world."
Charlotte's smile as she said it was intended to evoke memories. And distract him. He reached for his coffee. "Then you'll understand my concern for Gisèle. I've known her since she was a baby."
"And she's Malcolm Rannoch's sister."
"As you say."
Charlotte turned her coffee cup in its saucer. "Tommy worked with Malcolm Rannoch. You must know that. I've heard him complain more than once about Rannoch's tiresome scruples, but I think he has a certain admiration for him. Perhaps even affection. I wish I could say I believe that would have kept him from seducing Rannoch's sister, but knowing Tommy, I fear not."
"Charlotte." Raoul shot his hand across the table to grip her wrist. "You aren't fool enough to try to convince me its coincidence that Tommy wrote to you the night before he and Gisèle ran off."
Charlotte made no attempt to remove her hand from his grip but watched him steadily. "He wrote to me on New Year's Eve, if that's the letter you're thinking of. There's nothing exclusive about our relationship, as I said, but it's not without affection on either side. Something I'd also think you'd understand, based on our past. He wrote to wish me a happy new year."
"And the next morning he and Gisèle left Scotland for London."
"Well, he'd hardly have told me that."
Raoul released her wrist and sat back in his chair. "Damn it, Charlotte. You used to be better at coming up with a story. You can't expect me to believe that."
"What you believe or don't believe is entirely up to you. But you should realize that coincidences do occur."
"So they do. I'm also more than passably good at recognizing lies. And I'm quite sure you're lying now."
"You think I'd have helped Tommy run off with another woman?" Charlotte picked up her coffee and took a sip with deliberate control. "We may not have had an exclusive relationship, but I'd hardly have done so. For any number of reasons."
"No. But then I don't think Belmont and Gisèle ran off for romantic reasons at all."
Charlotte raised her brows.
Raoul hesitated. If she knew, he wasn't revealing anything. And if she didn't, she should be warned. "What do you know about the Elsinore League?"
Charlotte's gaze went still again. "If you think this is to do with the League, you can't be surprised I won't talk."
So. She was more than Tommy's dupe. Disappointment, the sort he'd thought he wasn't capable of feeling, coiled within him. "She's scarcely more than a child, Charlotte. She has a husband she loves very much and a young baby. She doesn't deserve to be dragged into any of this."
"I'm not sure what's more surprising. That you're appealing to sentiment or that you expect it to work on me."
She'd always had a hard edge. It was part of what had appealed to him, as both a lover and an agent. "You've never been cruel."
"And I'm not being so now."
"If you're afraid of the League—"
"My dear Raoul. You should know me well enough to know I'm not afraid of anything."
Raoul snatched up his coffee and tossed down a swallow, holding Charlotte with his gaze. "I won't attempt to play on your sympathies by reminding you that I helped you find refuge here. But I have a number of connections in London still. Surely I don't have to point out that I could make things quite uncomfortable for you."
"And surely I don't have to point out to you that you have secrets of your own to protect. You aren't even living in London at present."
He curled his hands round his cup. "I've always been prepared to take my chances."
"Are you prepared to take them with Mélanie?"
He should have seen it coming. To a degree he had, but he'd overestimated the extent of Charlotte's feelings of comradeship. Perhaps overestimated what had been between them. "Given your suppositions about the Rannochs' departure for Italy, you should realize Mélanie's secrets are not so secret anymore."
Charlotte put her notebook and pencil in the tapestry bag beside her chair. "We both know there are degrees of secrets. And that even after a secret is out to some, it can still do incalculable damage." She regarded him for a moment, her gaze hard as a polished knife blade. "I'll own to being full aware of what you could do to me. But you must be equally aware of what I can do to you. I trust we both see the folly of destroying each other." She picked up her bag and got to her feet. "This is dangerous, Raoul. You must know that. I doubt you'll take my advice, but as a friend, I'd counsel you to take your family, however you define them, and return to the Continent."
Raoul got to his feet. Common courtesy, and a way to keep them on the same footing. "Are we friends?"
"I rather think that has to do with how one defines friendship, my dear. I have no illusions that this is the last time I'll see you. But I pres
ume you know I'll be on my guard."
She swept from the coffeehouse. Raoul watched her go. Nothing to be gained from following her, and this had always been an opening gambit, after all. He picked up his coffee cup and tossed down the last swallow, his gaze on Charlotte as she made her way to the door. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a gleam in the shadows of the coffeehouse. Pale hair. And something unmistakable about the angle of the head.
Damnation. He was going to have to start lying to his family sooner than he had anticipated.
Chapter 13
"Do you think she knows where Gisèle is?" Mélanie asked.
"At the very least, I'd wager she has a way to reach Tommy," Raoul said.
Frances's fingers curled inwards. "Damnation. I'd like to shake it out of her."
"Tempting," Raoul agreed. "But I don't think it would get us very far."
They were gathered in the Berkeley Square drawing room, while the children played at the other end. Frances and Archie hadn’t wanted to leave until Raoul came back with a report. Frances, Mélanie had noted, had been unable to sit still much of the time.
"You trusted her," Laura said.
"I trust very few people," Raoul said. "Present company excepted. But I liked her."
"Do you think she and Tommy really are lovers?" Cordelia asked.
"I'm not sure anything she told me is the truth," Raoul said. "Though, like any good agent, Charlotte knows the value of basing a cover story in fact. I suspect she's telling the truth that she wasn't a double, and she and Tommy met in London after the war. They may have become lovers. And Tommy drew her into his work for the Elsinore League. Either because she wanted the funds, or because she missed the game, or perhaps both. Or possibly because of their personal relationship, though I've never known Charlotte to make professional decisions for personal reasons."
"So we're no closer to finding Gisèle," Frances said.
"Not entirely. We have a connection to Tommy and, therefore, Gisèle. I never had great hopes Charlotte would simply confide in me if she was involved."