The Duke's Gambit

by Tracy Grant

  Malcolm chose his words with care. Carfax, after all, was looking for the Wanderer himself. "She's unhurt. We're hoping she comes home soon."

  Carfax released his breath. "If she's run off with Belmont—"

  "I should have known you'd know about that. Whatever's going on between her and Tommy, I think she's going to want to return to her husband. I'm doing everything I can to make it possible for her to do so. For Gisèle's sake, I'd ask you to do the same."

  "Good God, Malcolm, can you think I'd do otherwise?"

  "Good God, sir, after six months ago can you think I wouldn’t?"

  Carfax sat back in his chair. "I thought you’d probably hate me, given the leisure to reflect in Italy."

  "Don’t flatter yourself, sir. I hated you when we left. But not as much as I hated myself for working for you."

  "You were working for your country."

  "I’m not sure I believe in countries anymore."

  Carfax frowned.

  "In any case, I was working for policies I abhorred in the service of a war I opposed, often using tactics I found repellent."

  "And you think O'Roarke's tactics are so much better?"

  "Yes, actually. Not that I find myself in entire agreement with them either. When I was at Oxford you did me the honor of thinking we were dangerous enough to set Oliver to spy on us. Then you turned me into your creature."

  "You found yourself as an agent, Malcolm."

  "I rather think I lost myself, sir."

  "A matter of opinion. In any case, when you went into Parliament you went right back to advocating the sort of views you espoused at Oxford, so I don’t think you can accuse me of doing permanent damage. More’s the pity." Carfax reached for his tea. "O’Roarke came to see me earlier today. You may be pleased to know he was no more successful at getting me to talk than you've been. But I don't deny his brilliance. He’s dazzled you."

  "No. He’s perhaps helped me remember who I am. But I take full responsibility for my decisions."

  "You trust him. Blindly."

  "After what I’ve been through, can you imagine my trusting anyone blindly?"

  "Perhaps." Carfax took a sip of tea. "If I pushed you too far in the other direction."

  "Don’t take too much credit."

  "You’ll look round one day and find he’s stabbed you in the back."

  The moment he'd been sure Raoul had lied to him about Julien St. Juste stung Malcolm's memory. "I don’t think so. But I fully acknowledge I can’t be certain." Malcolm regarded Carfax. "And of course I’m quite used to being stabbed in the back."

  "Information is power, Malcolm. One is a fool not to use it."

  "With no thought to the cost?"

  "Oh, I always calculate the cost." Carfax returned his cup to its saucer. "I was afraid of this from when you were a boy. That you’d fall under his spell."

  "I think you were afraid I’d see the world his way rather than yours."

  "I never had any illusions that you’d see the world my way, Malcolm. Though I did my best to point out the flaws in your logic to you. You have the brains to have seen them, though what I imagine you would call your heart interferes with your rationality. And of course O’Roarke’s had his claws into you since you were a child."

  "We all have our biases, sir. You included. But I’ll take mine over yours any day."

  This was not Mélanie's first visit to the Brown Bear, the tavern that adjoined the Bow Street Public Office. The Bow Street runners often used it for meetings or to interview or even detain suspects. Laura had been confined in one of the upstairs rooms before she'd been moved to Newgate when she was accused of the Duke of Trenchard's murder. Perhaps Carfax had been held here. Mélanie attracted less surprise than she once had when she stepped over the threshold. But though she'd been there, usually with Malcolm, to speak with Jeremy, she hadn't been in the habit of sitting down at one of the scarred tables, let alone drinking anything. Things had changed, however. After Italy, already being cut by the likes of Lady Langton, with Gisèle missing, the world tumbling down about them, it was hard to bring herself to worry about the dictates of polite society that had governed her life for so long.

  She moved at Harry's side across the room to the corner table where Roth sat. Roth got to his feet and pulled out a chair for her. Harry raised a brow at her before he went to get himself a pint. "I'll have a stout," Mélanie said. A small act of rebellion, but it bolstered her spirits to a surprising degree. She pulled off her gloves, tucked them into her reticule, and smiled serenely at the runners and constables at the other tables, several of whom she had met in the course of investigations.

  Harry returned with the pints and a fresh one for Roth. It took the better part of half an hour for Harry and her to update Roth on the discussions and revelations they had each been privy to. Roth jotted down some things in his notebook, but for the most part listened without interrupting. He let out a whistle when they had done. "No shortage of suspects."

  "No." Mélanie took a sip from her tankard. Rich and bracing. Sometimes it was a relief to be unrefined. "Though so far it's difficult to see a pattern."

  "I can't lay claim to as much success," Roth said. "Officially, I'm not supposed to be investigating, so all I can do is ask questions under the guise of gathering details for our case against Carfax. But I did find one of the Barque of Frailty kitchen maids unexpectedly forthcoming. She said Miranda Spencer had been very kind to her and she wanted to do anything she could to help. According to her, Beverston spent the night at the Barque of Frailty the night before Mrs. Spencer—Miss Dormer—was killed. Not necessarily surprising, but apparently he spent it not with Miranda Spencer or another of the young women, but in Mrs. Hartley's chambers."

  "We know they'd been lovers," Harry said. "Not entirely surprising that they were still."

  "No," Roth agreed. "But according to Mattie—the kitchen maid—Beverston arrived in the early hours of the morning, looking quite agitated. In her words, 'He's a cold customer, never thought to see him looking as though he'd seen a ghost.' Apparently he went right to Mrs. Hartley's private sitting room and she joined him there. Mind you, Mattie didn't see any of this, she got the description from one of the footmen. But later she says she was in the passage outside Mrs. Hartley's sitting room, and she's quite sure she heard Beverston crying."

  "Not so surprising if it had been after Miranda had been killed," Harry said. "I have very little use for the man, and I think it's entirely possible he killed her, but he did seem upset by her death. But if it was before she died—"

  "Quite," Roth said. "Something else is apparently troubling Lord Beverston. Something that drove him to seek out Mrs. Hartley."

  Mélanie pictured Lord Beverston, whom she had last seen over six months ago. "And it would take a lot for Beverston to let himself cry, I imagine. Distinctly coincidental that whatever it was happened the night before Miranda was killed."

  "That's what I thought." Roth turned his pint on the dark, stained wood of the table. "I hesitate to confront Mrs. Hartley. If Carfax is guilty, and officially Bow Street's position is that he is, whatever was going on with Beverston is of no moment. But—"

  "We could," Harry said. "Or perhaps Archie would be best." He took a drink from his pint. "They were rather well acquainted once. Before she was involved with Beverston."

  "You lot do manage to be in the midst of an amazing number of events, don't you?" Roth said. "I'd be grateful for anything he can do to help."

  Harry nodded. As much as Roth knew, there were secrets to which he still wasn't privy. Such as the fact that Archie had been a French agent.

  "Do you have any more idea of who wants Carfax arrested?" Mélanie asked.

  Roth shook his head. "The word from the top is to take it slowly. Make sure the case is airtight. Which gives us some time. And gives me latitude to ask further questions—so long as I don't stray too far afield."

  "Sir Nathaniel and Lord Sidmouth must know we're investigating," Mélanie said.<
br />
  "Oh, yes." Roth gave a dry smile as he took a drink from his pint. "I've been told to keep an eye on what you're doing. And not reveal anything sensitive. Which I don't see that I have, since if Carfax is guilty, Beverston's behavior is of no moment whatsoever."

  "You have the makings of a politician, Jeremy," Mélanie said.

  "Hardly that." He lifted his pint to her. "But I do learn from my friends."

  "Putting together the latest information," Laura said, "I wonder if Beverston could have been upset because he'd learned his son Roger was working against him and had turned Miranda."

  "It's possible," Malcolm said. "Given what I've seen of Beverston, though, I'd have thought that would elicit more anger—and a quick response to contain the damage—than tears. But if he had learned, it certainly gives him motive to have killed Miranda or had her killed."

  "In which case, he could have been crying at the realization that he was going to need to get rid of her," Mélanie said.

  Malcolm met her gaze. "So he could."

  They were gathered at one end of Frances's drawing room while the children played at the other. Frances and Archie had not yet returned, and there was still no sign of Raoul or Andrew.

  "I could imagine Beverston being shaken," Harry said, "but that would mean he places an extraordinary amount of trust in Mrs. Hartley."

  Malcolm met Harry's gaze. "I liked her too. But we know she didn't tell us the truth about how Miranda came to her—that she and Beverston set up Miranda's meeting with Daisy Singleton. We don't know what else she may be hiding. Or what else she may know—about Beverston, about the League."

  Harry gave an abashed smile. "Are you accusing me of giving way to sentiment?"

  "Nothing wrong with that, darling. Even in a scholar." Cordelia tucked her hand through his arm.

  Harry grinned at his wife and put his hand over her own. "Malcolm's right, there's a great deal we don't know about Mrs. Hartley, and we do know she lied to us. If—"

  He broke off as the door opened and Lady Frances stepped into the room. "Oh, good, you're all back." She set down her reticule and began to pull off her gloves. "I can't claim to have met with a great deal of success, but I have brought someone back with me who I think may change that. Mélanie, Emily Cowper was most interested to hear you were back in London. She's in the small parlor and most desirous of speaking to you. Not, I think, about Italian fashions."

  Mélanie, who had thought she was beyond surprise, stared at Frances for a moment, then exchanged a look with Malcolm and one with Cordelia and got to her feet. Scarce an hour after she had been sipping stout in the Brown Bear and thinking she didn't have a care for London society, she was going to have a tête-à-tête with one of the patronesses of Almack's.

  Emily Cowper pushed herself up from the sofa in Frances's small parlor in a stir of jade green gros de Naples and dark ringlets perfectly arranged despite the damp weather. "Suzanne, dearest. What a wretch you are for not letting me know you were back in town."

  Mélanie went forwards and returned Lady Cowper's embrace. Emily's dark eyes held nothing but kindness, and Mélanie had come to think of her as a friend, but she was also keenly aware the other woman held the power of social life and death in London drawing rooms. Patroness of Almack's. Daughter of a powerful Whig family. Sister of Malcolm's friend William Lamb. Mistress of the up-and-coming Tory Lord Palmerston. "It’s a flying visit. We've scarcely told anyone we're here." Mélanie drew back and smiled at Emily. Sometimes it was best to confront controversy head on. "And I didn't want to put you in an awkward situation."

  "Awkward? Heavens, one of my sisters-in-law ran round after Lord Byron in public and another of them ran off to the Continent with a Radical politician. Mind you, I think someone should have told Lady Tarrington that she could amuse herself all she wanted if only she gave people the ability to ignore it in public. A bit difficult to do that when two people are actually living together."

  "Not to mention having a child."

  "Yes." Emily wrinkled her nose. "Sometimes having a husband can be useful. Provided he's the compliant sort. Mind you, having met Mr. O'Roarke, I can understand the temptation. And of course you're loyal to her."

  "I could scarcely be otherwise."

  "No, you wouldn't be."

  They moved to the violet-striped sofa where Emily had been sitting. Emily settled back against the fringed cushions, the velvet-edged flounces of her gown falling effortlessly about her. "It may be awkward about Almack's. Dorothea's inclined to draw firm lines and Lady Castlereagh always worries about appearances, though I know she's fond of you. Let me see what I can do."

  "You're very kind, Emily."

  "Stuff. Almack's would be much less amusing without you. And though I know you don't care much about it for itself—"

  "Emily—"

  "Don't pretend otherwise, dearest. I know you want to be where you need to be for Malcolm's career." Emily frowned again, gaze thoughtful beneath the green velvet brim of her bonnet. "Your wifely devotion should help with Lady Castlereagh, if not with Dorothea. I doubt I can go so far as to get vouchers for Lady Tarrington, not at first, though if we could resurrect Cordelia's reputation—"

  "Cordelia is living with her husband."

  "Yes, there is that." Emily adjusted the brim of her bonnet. "That's not why I came to see you, though, believe it or not. Not that I wouldn't have come simply to see you, but—Is it true you and Malcolm are looking into the murder of that girl Lord Carfax has been arrested for killing?"

  "News travels fast."

  "Surely you haven't forgot how Mayfair works, dearest. The violent death of a girl in a brothel that half our husbands—and brothers and fathers, not to mention lovers—very likely frequent would have been talk as it is. But when one of the most powerful men in the country was arrested for killing her—Well, you can only imagine. And then when it got out that Malcolm was back in London and had been to see him—"

  "People know that?"

  "You don't think reporters are paying the jailers at Newgate to report on Carfax's every visitor? Though I confess I didn't realize you had joined Malcolm until Lady Frances called on me today." Emily scanned Mélanie's face. "You don't think Carfax killed her?"

  "Malcolm knows more than I do, at this point. But there are certain details that don't add up."

  Emily twisted her hands in her lap in an uncharacteristic display of nerves. "I'd say it was a relief. I can't claim to know Carfax well—can anyone claim to know him well, except possibly Lady Carfax? But I've known him all my life. I played with the Mallinson girls. I danced with David at my coming-out ball. Impossible to imagine a man one's sat down to dinner with—But if he may be innocent, I need to talk to you."

  Mélanie scanned her friend's face, waiting.

  Emily tugged at one of her rings. "Harry and I had a stupid quarrel before the holidays."

  That wasn't particularly surprising, and there was no need for Emily to say she didn't mean Harry Davenport. Emily and Harry Palmerston were always quarreling and reconciling. But Mélanie couldn't immediately see what the connection might be to Carfax and to Miranda Dormer's death.

  "I did what I often do when he provokes me," Emily said. "I flirted. Which made Harry jealous. Which made us quarrel again. Which made me flirt more. Yes, I know. We scarcely behaved like mature adults. But isn't part of the fun of being in love that one doesn't have to?"

  "An interesting way of looking at it. Emily?" Mélanie began to have a sense of where this might be going. "Did you flirt with someone in particular?"

  Emily let out an abashed sigh. "Lord Gildersly. He's rather silly, but he is amusing, and one can't deny his good looks. And I may have let it go a bit beyond flirtation. Oh, all right, I did. I knew almost at once that it was a dreadful mistake, but I couldn't simply drop him. I had to find a graceful way out. So when we came back from Panshanger after the holidays, I saw him once or twice." She smoothed one of her braided cuffs. "He came to see me on the night Miranda Spence
r was killed, though of course I didn't know it at the time. But there was something odd that whole night. He arrived without our having a rendezvous. He'd obviously been drinking. Well, he generally drinks, but he was more impaired by it than usual. I very nearly showed him the door, but I was afraid he'd make a fuss in the hall—or in the street—and that would be worse. It was only later that I saw blood on his shirt cuff. I didn't think a great deal about it, but I did ask if he'd injured himself. He glanced down for a moment as though surprised it was there, and said he'd broken a glass earlier in the evening and cut his hand. He hadn't realized it was on his shirt. It seemed logical enough, and I had no reason to doubt him. Not at the time. Though he had an odd look in his eyes as he said it. As I said, there was something odd that whole night. We didn't—he wasn't able to do more than give me a clumsy kiss. I confess I was rather relieved. I put it down to drink. He took himself off soon after." Emily gripped her elbows, fighting off a shiver.

  "Em," Mélanie said. "There's no reason to think—"

  "And I didn't. Not then. It was only a few days later, when Miranda Spencer's death and Carfax's arrest were the talk of Mayfair, that Sally Jersey mentioned that one would be shocked at the men one knew who frequented the Barque of Frailty. She was sure the names she'd heard were only a fraction of the number—then she rattled off a list of names, including Lord Gildersly."

  Mélanie stared into her friend's eyes. Emily's gaze held a glimpse of a horror she wouldn't let herself define. "That doesn't mean—"

  "That he knew Mrs. Spencer?"

  "I imagine he knew her, it doesn't seem to have been that large an establishment. But you don't know that he patronized her."

  Emily's brows lifted and Mélanie wondered if she'd been too frank. She'd been so good at staying within the persona of Suzanne Rannoch, but months of living in Italy, among people who knew the truth of her past, had changed her. Made her careless. "And you certainly don't know that he killed her," she concluded.