The Duke's Gambit

by Tracy Grant

"Lady Tarrington."

  Laura paused, one hand on the area railing, and turned. It was the man who had been walking down South Audley Street. Middle years, impeccably tailored coat, highly polished boots, sandy hair showing beneath his curly-brimmed beaver, level gaze. She was quite sure she had never met him.

  "You're correct," he said, a trace of amusement in his voice. "We have not been introduced. But you might say I'm one of your former employers."

  Laura's hand tightened on the hard metal of the railing. She could sweep away and refuse to speak with him. Satisfying, in a number of ways. But it would not give her any new information. She turned to her daughter. "Run inside, darling. Tell Aunt Frances I'll be there presently."

  Emily looked at her for a moment, then, as Laura smiled with reassurance, ran into the house. The footman met Laura's gaze, and at her nod, closed the door.

  "You're a wise woman, Lady Tarrington," the man said.

  "I'm not at all sure about that. But I am curious. However, you have the advantage of me. Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?"

  "My name is Brandon."

  "Sir Lucius Brandon." She had heard the name from Trenchard. He hadn't mentioned names often, but she'd made careful note when he did. Even then, she'd known knowledge was power.

  "The same." He regarded her for a moment. Appraising her, she thought, not as a woman but as an agent. "You may not credit this, Lady Tarrington, but we still take an interest in your welfare."

  "Oh, I credit it. But not a disinterested interest."

  "You did able work for us. We haven't forgot that. We could hardly fail to be concerned that you've allied yourself with a very dangerous man."

  "My dear Sir Lucius. Coming from anyone associated with the League, the word 'dangerous' quite loses its sting."

  "That's understandable. But I don't think you can have the least notion of what O'Roarke is involved in."

  "Coming from the League, I also find that highly humorous." Though slightly less humorous than she would have done before her realization last night that Raoul was keeping something from her.

  "I can see how he could seem a haven. But he won't put you before his work, you know. He's never put anyone before his work."

  "I wouldn't ask him to." She wasn't going to be drawn into a debate, but she wasn't sure it was true Raoul had never put anyone before his work.

  "We could protect you. And your children. It may seem impossible, but we could arrange things so you could step back into your place in society."

  Laura gave an unfeigned laugh. "My dear sir. If you imagine I care a damn for my place in society, you know me even less well than I'd have thought."

  Brandon's eyes narrowed, the look of one recalibrating. "If O'Roarke means so much to you, we could offer him protection as well."

  "The man you've been trying to have killed?"

  "You must realize we aren't above making tactical changes. You've always struck me as a pragmatist. Surely you can see the advantages of a pragmatic alliance."

  "My dear Sir Lucius. Are you seriously asking me to spy for the League?"

  "Call it rather an exchange of information. You can't expect me to believe you aren't curious about O'Roarke yourself. Learn what you can about what he's up to. If you still want to protect him, we'll assist you. If not, we'll protect you from him."

  "You'll forgive me if I find the word 'protect' laughable in any context coming from the League."

  "Say what you will, Lady Tarrington. We can protect you and your loved ones. Or make life very difficult for them."

  It was the most direct threat he'd given. Laura willed her fingers to be steady "Are you so desperate to find the Wanderer?"

  Brandon's eyes widened, then narrowed. "I see you aren't above gathering information."

  "You see Mr. O'Roarke isn't above confiding in me." Laura drew a breath, conscious of the feel of Raoul's signet ring on a chain round her neck. He had given it to her before he left for Spain the last time. "Good day, Sir Lucius."

  Chapter 26

  "To think that a member of the League dared to assault a friend on my front steps." Frances pressed a cup of tea into Laura's hand. "I cannot apologize enough, my dear."

  "It was by the area railings, not the front steps, Lady Frances." Laura forced a sip of tea down her throat. She had her voice under control, but her fingers—curse them—were not quite steady. "And he hardy assaulted me. I could have walked away at any point. I was the one who wanted information. In any case, it can scarcely be considered your responsibility."

  Lady Frances gave the snort of a woman used to ordering her world. "If I can't protect a friend from nuisance within feet of my door, I don't know what the world is coming to."

  "Your friends these days have a number of enemies," Archie said. "Spies can be difficult to protect."

  "What do you know about Sir Lucius Brandon?" Mélanie asked. She and Cordy had been sitting with Frances and Archie when Laura came in.

  Archie took a meditative sip of tea as though it were port. "One of the senior League members. Not on a par with Beverston or Glenister, or Alistair or Trenchard in their lifetimes, but was a member from the beginning. I remember him at the earliest League parties I attended. The sort to be trusted with delicate errands by the senior members."

  Laura tightened her grip on the delicate handle of her teacup. "I can't believe they actually thought I'd work for them or trust them. Or that I'd take their insinuations about Raoul seriously."

  Mélanie leaned forwards to add milk to her tea. Her gaze seemed to linger on Laura's for a moment, but perhaps that was her own overactive imagination, Laura thought. She wasn't used to keeping secrets from her friends. "It is hard to imagine," Mélanie said. "Perhaps they're desperate enough they thought it was worth a try. Or perhaps they hoped to read something in your response."

  "Or that they could frighten you and drive a wedge between us," Cordelia said. "But in that case, they don't know you very well. For that matter, if you had agreed to work with them, I can't believe they'd have trusted you weren't turning the tables and spying on them."

  "Don't imagine I didn't think of it." Laura pushed a squeezed bit of lemon to the edge of her saucer. "I might well have tried it, if it weren't for Emily and the baby." She forced another sip of tea down her throat. "They controlled me for years by threatening Emily. Perhaps I shouldn't be surprised they thought threats to my family would still work."

  "Then they don't know you." Mélanie's smile was quick and warm and bracing. "They don't control Emily now. And we're going to be very certain they have no chance to."

  "No chance to what?" Malcolm came into the room, Harry at his side.

  Laura had to tell the story again, though at least that gave her the opportunity to prove she could do so while holding her teacup steady.

  "What damnable cheek," Harry said. "To dare to think they could intimidate you."

  Laura found herself smiling. For someone who claimed to have no talent for human interactions, Harry had a way of knowing precisely what to say.

  Malcolm was frowning. "They're very brazen. Or very frightened. Or both."

  "My thoughts exactly," Mélanie said.

  Malcolm met Laura's gaze. "Obviously we'll be more careful than ever with the children in particular. But we already knew we had to be."

  Little more could be said about Sir Lucius Brandon. To Laura's relief, the conversation turned to the much more interesting—and less unsettling—topic of what Malcolm and Harry and Mélanie and Cordy had uncovered in their day's investigations.

  "I couldn't but be sorry for Derenvil," Malcolm said. "But he certainly has motive. Matthew Trenor elicits less sympathy, though he does seem to have had some feeling for Miranda as well. But he also doesn't have an obvious motive."

  '"Which doesn't mean he doesn't have one we haven't discovered yet," Harry said.

  "I couldn't help but feel sympathy for Dorinda Smythe," Cordelia said. "But she certainly has a motive as well."

  "As,
potentially, does her husband, if Miranda was his mistress," Malcolm said. "Both of them might have had reason to take Miranda's pendant. Roger's more likely to have been in the Barque of Frailty—though he's not on Mrs. Hartley's list of those present that night—but it's possible Dorinda managed to get in."

  "There's the mysterious woman Matthew Trenor heard had been to see Miranda the day before the murder," Laura said. "Could that have been Dorinda Smythe?"

  "She said she hired the runner, Jenkins, because she couldn't go to the Barque of Frailty herself," Mélanie said. "But perhaps after their quarrel, she realized that was the only way she could see Miranda again. It wouldn't be the first time a suspect has admitted a great deal but also held something back."

  "I wonder if the paper Hugh Derenvil saw her holding could have been a family letter," Cordelia said. "And the person who'd disappointed her was Dorinda. Or Roger."

  Malcolm frowned. "Rupert wrote to me when Roger Smythe secured his seat in the election. Rupert said he had high hopes for him. So long as he didn't turn cynic because the world didn't live up to his ideals."

  "He seems to have idealized Miranda Spencer—Dormer—once," Mélanie said. "One wonders what may have happened if she disillusioned him."

  "Whatever happened later, when he found his lost love he didn't rescue her from the brothel," Malcolm said.

  "She couldn't have gone back to her old life," Frances said. "They may both have seen that."

  "That's no excuse for leaving her where she was." Malcolm's gaze swung to Frances, sharper than Laura had ever seen it when he looked at his aunt. "I hope you aren't defending the way the world is ordered."

  "When have I ever done so?" Frances asked. "Even before I began consorting with Radicals. But Roger Smythe may have felt differently. Just because he's a political Radical doesn't mean he was prepared to defy society and drag his family into scandal."

  "He could have set her up in rooms. With her child." Harry stirred the tea Frances had given him, clattering the spoon against the saucer.

  "He'd have had to get her away from his father," Mélanie pointed out. "We don't know if Roger knew Miranda was gathering information for Beverston. For that matter, we don't know what Roger Smythe may know about the League and his father's involvement. Beverston recruited John into the League."

  "And his godson, Tommy Belmont." Malcolm's mouth tightened. "Roger's politics are very different from his father's, but Beverston could think that makes good cover for him to collect information."

  "For that matter, Roger's politics could actually be cover," Harry suggested.

  Malcolm swung his gaze to his friend. "True enough. Though I don't like to think of Rupert being so deceived."

  "Anyone can be deceived," Mélanie said in a quiet voice.

  Malcolm reached for his wife's hand and gave her the sort of smile that defied the past. "True enough. We need to talk to Roger. And try to find the woman Trenor says called on Miranda at the Barque of Frailty just before her death."

  "Where's Raoul?" Cordelia asked.

  Where indeed? "Still combing his sources for word of Gisèle and Tommy," Laura said. "He's supposed to come here when he's done. I hope the delay means he's having some success."

  "He's going to be furious when he hears about Lucius Brandon," Archie said.

  Laura squeezed another wedge of lemon into her tea. "He knows I can take care of myself. I trust the rest of you do as well."

  Malcolm touched her hand. "Always. It doesn't stop any of us from worrying." He set down his teacup. "I went to Rupert when I first got to London. He's been making inquiries about Gisèle. Bertrand and Gabrielle too. I'll see what Rupert can tell me about Roger Smythe before I talk to Roger. " He looked from Mélanie to Harry. "We should update Roth. Perhaps—"

  "On it," Harry said, even as Mélanie said, "Of course."

  "I'll put in an appearance at Brooks's," Archie said. "It's the equivalent of one of Raoul's coffeehouses for gathering information."

  "I can make some more calls," Frances said.

  "So can I," Cordelia said. "Laura—"

  "I'd be delighted to come with you if you don't think I'd be in the way. Scandal can be a bar to talking."

  "It's far more likely to be the lure that gets us in the door."

  "Right." Malcolm nodded. "We'll reconvene here when we can."

  "O'Roarke." Carfax looked up from the book he had been reading as the door of his cell in Newgate swung closed. "Have you come to gloat?"

  Raoul surveyed the man who had been his opponent for over half his life. Carfax's face looked perhaps sharper than usual, but he appeared every bit as much in command. "You can't believe I feel any particular satisfaction at seeing you in prison."

  "No?" Carfax closed the cover of the book. Burke. "I thought your life's work was stopping mine."

  "I have no illusions that your being imprisoned will stop the policies you advocate. Though, admittedly, I have a hard time imagining a spymaster taking your place who is quite your equal."

  Carfax raised a brow. "Thank you."

  Raoul hooked a chair with his foot to pull it out from the table and dropped down across from Carfax. "The Elsinore League are searching for the Wanderer. So are you. So, apparently, is someone else."

  Something flared in Carfax's eyes that was not quite surprise. "I can't imagine the League told you."

  "No. Collectively the three of you gave yourselves away."

  Carfax's gaze narrowed. "How much does Malcolm know?"

  "Too much for comfort, but not the truth. Not yet." Raoul regarded Carfax for a moment. "We're on the same side in this."

  "Can you really claim we're on the same side in anything?"

  "In that we both think the Wanderer needs to stay buried. At least, I assume you think so. I rather suspect that's responsible for your silence now."

  "No comment." Carfax removed his spectacles and folded them, perhaps because he'd finished reading, perhaps because he knew the value of a commonplace gesture in maintaining command of the scene. "I'd have thought the Wanderer might prove useful to you."

  "I'm too keenly aware of the dangers."

  "So you say."

  Raoul settled back in his chair. "You might have uses for the Wanderer yourself."

  "I might." Carfax sat back in his chair as well. "You haven't thought of telling Malcolm?"

  "I trust Malcolm as I trust few others. But there are choices I don't want him to have to make. And dangers I don't want to expose him to. If possible."

  "Or Mélanie."

  "Or Mélanie." Raoul didn't even blink at Carfax's use of her real name. They were beyond that. "Or their children. Or Lady Tarrington."

  "If possible."

  "As I said."

  Carfax gave a short laugh. "You've always had a mad belief you could bring about the impossible, O'Roarke. In this, as in many things, I fear you will be disappointed. Though for all our sakes, I very much hope not."

  "Malcolm." Rupert Caruthers came forwards quickly round his desk. "Bertrand's been out all day making inquiries. Much of last night too. Gaby's been paying calls on émigré friends. I was just going to stop by the United Services Club and see what I could glean."

  Three and a half years ago, in Paris after Waterloo, Rupert had been a man tormented by the past and secrets. Now he was one of Malcolm's closest colleagues in Parliament, the one Malcolm had entrusted with his notes and strategies when he left Britain. Rupert was also reunited with his lover Bertrand de Laclos, who rescued endangered Bonapartists from Paris as he had once rescued Royalists, and had helped the Rannochs flee to Italy. Bertrand had an extensive network in London he was making use of to help look for Gisèle. Rupert's marriage to his wife Gabrielle had become one in name only, but they were still close friends.

  "We can't thank all of you enough," Malcolm said. "I'm glad I caught you at home. It seems I need to talk to Roger Smythe."

  Rupert's gaze flickered across his face. "About Gisèle? I know he's Beverston's son, but they've
never been on good terms—"

  "Not about Gelly. At least, I don't think so. About Miranda Spencer."

  Rupert frowned. "He was one of her clients? I wouldn't have taken him as the sort for brothels, but perhaps that's naïve of me."

  "He was apparently one of her clients, but he'd also known her since childhood." Malcolm explained about Miranda Spencer in fact being Miranda Dormer.

  "Good God." Rupert shook his head. "I don't think I ever met Miranda Dormer, but we certainly move in the same circles. I don't know why it seems worse when it's someone one might have known, but—"

  "It brings it home," Malcolm said. "She had an appalling life."

  Rupert's brows drew together again. "I can't swear to Roger not visiting a brothel. But finding a woman he'd loved there, making her his mistress, not trying to get her out—that doesn't sound like him."

  "People can be difficult to judge. Political ideals don't always go with personal ones."

  "True enough. But Roger's always struck me as fundamentally decent. I could be wrong, of course. Perhaps it's just that I don't like to think that I am. Roger's serious. Focused. Keeps himself to himself. Doesn't talk about his family much, but I thought I detected strong affection. He has the zeal to change the world of one who hasn't come up against the realities yet. If—"

  He broke off as the footman rapped at the door. "I'm sorry to interrupt, my lord. But Mr. Smythe has called."

  Malcolm bit back an ironic laugh and saw Rupert do the same. "Show him in," Rupert said.

  Roger Smythe went still on the threshold, taking in Malcolm's presence. "Rannoch. I came to ask Rupert for advice, but perhaps it's as well I've found you here."

  Rupert looked between Roger and Malcolm and moved to the door. "I think I should leave you to talk. I'll be in the library if you need me."

  Roger Smythe advanced into the room. He was dark haired like his late brother John, but taller and leaner. Malcolm would have said he had a more open countenance, but now his features were set in a contained mask. He turned to face Malcolm, the light from the windows at his back, his face in shadow, his eyes blazing with torment. "It's past time we talked. Considering we have the same goal."