The Duke's Gambit

by Tracy Grant

"That's what I've been trying to tell myself. Believe me, it would be much easier not to feel I had to involve myself. In some ways it's gratifying that Harry can be so jealous, but I do occasionally wonder if I could push him away entirely. But Gildersly frequented the Barque of Frailty. He was very likely there the night she was killed. He was upset. Distracted. And he had blood on his shirt. Tell me as an investigator you wouldn't want to know all that."

  "I would," Mélanie said. "I do. And I'm intensely grateful to you for telling me. I know it wasn't easy."

  "To own the truth," Emily said, "it's rather a relief to talk to you about Gildersly. I can't bear to think that I let a man touch me who may have done—"

  Images from her own past rushed into Mélanie's mind. After all, she'd slept with Julien St. Juste, and God knows what he was capable of. And Frederick Radley, who made her skin crawl. "Whatever he may have done, Gildersly can't touch you now." Mélanie surveyed her friend. "Have you seen him since?"

  "He called two days later. Apologized for his behavior. I wasn't sure if he meant his being drunk or his inability to perform or both, and I wasn't interested in discussing it further. I managed to say that it had been an agreeable interlude, but I thought it should draw to a close. He appeared relieved. My pride would have been piqued, save that I was distinctly relieved myself."

  "Do you think he sensed any of your suspicions?"

  "I don't think so—that is, my suspicions were scarcely formulated at that point. Do you think I need to worry about him?" Emily asked with the shock of one who has stumbled into an unfamiliar world and can't quite believe it is real.

  "Very likely not. But I'd avoid being alone with him until we know more."

  "That won't be difficult. I haven't the least desire to be alone with him, for any number of reasons."

  Mélanie touched her hand. "We'll try to keep you out of it, Emily."

  "But I may have to talk." Emily inclined her head, a soldier facing possible battle. "I understand. Our family are hardly strangers to scandal, after all. And I daresay Harry and I will manage to weather it. We've weathered so much else."

  "You think Emily Cowper knows something about Miranda Dormer? Or Gelly?" Malcolm asked his aunt.

  "I can only assume so. She jumped at the chance to talk to Mélanie when she learned she was in London. She'd known you and Harry were, but not Mélanie and the children and Cordelia and Laura. She seemed to feel the need to confide, but I don't think she'd have done it in you as easily."

  "No, I can see that." Especially if it was connected to one of her love affairs. Malcolm had known Emily Lamb—Emily Cowper now—since babyhood, had danced with her and ridden with her, but she and Mélanie had become friends. Mélanie had a way of making friends and drawing out confidences.

  "Emily can be fiercely loyal to those she cares for," Cordelia said, as though she read the flicker of unease in Malcolm's gaze. "And she's very fond of Mélanie."

  Malcolm nodded. He knew that was true. He also didn't trust Emily's reaction if she learned the truth about Mélanie.

  The door opened again. "Tea," Frances said. "Good."

  But though it was Gilbert, he was not bearing a tea tray. "We've had another caller, my lady." He sounded almost apologetic. "He's asked to wait downstairs in the library, though I assured him you'd be happy to see him upstairs. For Mr. Rannoch. It's Lord Worsley."

  Chapter 29

  Malcolm's throat tightened as he stepped into Frances's library to face David Mallinson, Viscount Worsley, Carfax's son, his own closest friend of twenty years. So many months since they had seen each other. It was by no means the longest time they'd been apart in all the years of their friendship. But it was the longest following a quarrel. For that matter, they'd never had a quarrel like the one they had parted on. Their angry words hung in the air between them, swirling like dust motes in the light. Words spoken in haste, yet that had given shape to a gulf that had always been between them. They'd exchanged letters in the intervening six months. Letters that had brought them closer than Malcolm had dared hope they could become on that night he and Mel had left Britain. But so much remained unspoken. So much that perhaps they could never put into words. So much they would have to attempt to say if they were to regain any sort of friendship. And yet they were finally meeting in circumstances in which their own quarrel couldn't be the first thing they addressed.

  David held Malcolm's gaze for a long moment. For an instant in his eyes Malcolm thought he saw a twin of his own conflict and longing. Then his gaze went shuttered. He drew a breath in, shoulders going taut, and took a half step forwards. "I just arrived in London. Simon's still in Paris with the children." David and his lover Simon Tanner were raising David's late sister Louisa's children. "When I got to our old rooms in the Albany I found a letter from Bel waiting for me telling me you were here. And that you're trying to help Father."

  "I'm trying to ascertain the truth of what happened."

  "That's very generous of you."

  "You thought I'd abandon your father to his fate?"

  "I was sorely tempted to do so myself." David's mouth tightened. "I was concerned for my mother and sisters."

  "So am I, if it comes to that."

  "I appreciate that, Malcolm. Very much. But they'll be all right. It’s always going to mean something to be a Mallinson."

  "That doesn't make up for losing a father."

  Something that might have been fear shot through David's eyes. "Do you think it will come to that?"

  "It very well may not. I've never seen him so at risk. But he doesn't act like a man afraid."

  David's gaze flickered over Malcolm's face. "You don't think he did it?"

  "I think he's capable of it." Once Malcolm wouldn't have spoken so bluntly with David about his father, but they were beyond that. "But the facts don't add up. And there are a number of others with motive."

  "Tell me."

  They sat before the fireplace, and Malcolm recounted the investigation. Most of it. He didn't mention Sam Lucan's story about seeing Julien St. Juste with Raoul, and Mélanie's and his own conviction that Raoul was lying to them. So far they had shared those with no one but each other.

  David listened intently, only interrupting when Malcolm's narrative got round to Gisèle.

  "Gelly's missing? You should be looking for her, not worrying about Father."

  "I am. But there are a surprising number of connections between the two. The Elsinore League are involved in Gisèle's disappearance, the Elsinore League and your father are searching for whatever the Wanderer is. Gelly takes precedence. But I can't not look into your father's case."

  "Malcolm—" David half stretched out a hand across the table between them, then let it fall. "You can't trust him."

  "Believe me, David, I'm well aware of that. I was before last June, but if I hadn't been, those events certainly left an impression on me."

  "He won't—" David gripped the arms of his chair. "He won't hesitate to use Suzanne's— Mélanie's—past. Against her. Or you. There's no telling whom he might tell. You're clever, Malcolm. Brilliant. But you're not devious enough to be a match for him."

  Something in the sincerity and intensity of David's expression tore at Malcolm's chest. "David—You're right. I'm not a match for him. But I'm on the watch for what he may try. So is Mel. I've had rather more experience of this side of him than you have."

  "Malcolm." David scanned his face. "I know you've been playing this game for a decade. But it's not really a game now. You do realize that, don't you? This is the safety of your wife. And your children."

  "And it means a great deal that you're concerned for them." For her, but he wasn't going to quite say it.

  "You can't imagine I wouldn't be."

  "There's been a lot for us all to adjust to in the past months."

  David drew in his breath, a harsh rasp that sliced the air. "When I realized why Father had done what he did—I always knew he wanted me to marry. I always knew he wouldn't give up. But I hadn't
properly considered what that might mean. What a risk it was to Simon. I suppose I was a fool."

  "You were a son. Who couldn't quite imagine the lengths to which his father would go. I couldn't imagine it myself, and I had far more experience of his machinations than you did."

  "I knew then." David's right hand closed on his signet ring. "What I had to do to protect Simon. What we had to do together to protect the children. I understand why you did what you did to protect Suzanne and your children."

  "I didn't forgive Mélanie to protect her," Malcolm said in a quiet voice. "That is, I'm not sure she needs forgiveness. I didn't come to understand her to protect her."

  "No." David's gaze skimmed over his face. "I understand that, if I don't understand her. I couldn't bear the thought of any harm coming to her. I hope you know I'll do everything in my power to ensure her safety. And yours."

  "That—that means a great deal, David."

  "Not that you need my help."

  "On the contrary. Right now, we need all the help we can get."

  "And I know—Malcolm, I know you'd never betray your country."

  Malcolm drew a breath. "It's odd—Lately I've been questioning that."

  "Questioning what?"

  "If I'd have been better off working for the other side during the war."

  "For the French?"

  "If I'd gone to work for O'Roarke instead of Carfax."

  "O'Roarke's not—"

  "He was a French spymaster. Your father knows."

  "And you've always been close to him."

  "He's my father."

  Shock flared in David's gaze. "I didn't—"

  "I learned just before I learned about Mel. There wasn't time to tell you. It's not the sort of thing one puts in a letter."

  David shook his head. "Malcolm, I can scarcely—"

  "You knew Alistair. It was a relief to be sure he wasn't my father. And to know someone I loved was."

  David held his gaze for a long moment. To Malcolm's relief, he didn't see horror in it. "You've always been good at seeing situations from others' viewpoints, Malcolm. Even the worst of the bullies at Harrow."

  "Well, perhaps see their viewpoint. Doesn't mean I thought it had any merit."

  "No, but it's a knack. I get too locked into looking at things from my own perspective. As my father does, I suppose."

  "Your father can appreciate other perspectives. He just discounts them."

  "So now you wish you'd fought for Irish independence?"

  "Or fought the British in Spain."

  "I can't see you doing it." David sounded more certain than horrified.

  "I'm as much French as English. And Scottish, Irish, and Spanish."

  "But you grew up here. It doesn't change your being British."

  "In truth, I'm not sure what I am anymore. But I'll always be a husband and a father. And a friend."

  Six months ago, Malcolm would have sworn their last exchange would have shocked David. Now his friend merely regarded him and inclined his head.

  Mélanie went back into the drawing room after seeing Emily Cowper from the house. The group she had left a half hour since were all still there, but a new arrival had joined them. Sitting bolt upright on the edge of a shield-back chair, a teacup clenched in rigid fingers, his elegant profile outlined against Lady Frances's French violet watered-silk wall hangings. David Mallinson, Viscount Worsley, her husband's childhood best friend, whom she had last seen almost seven months ago, before her world fell apart, before he’d learned the truth about her.

  Frances looked to the door a split second before Malcolm. "Oh, good, Mélanie. As you see, David has just arrived in London. I think we've caught him up on nearly everything."

  Malcolm's gaze locked on Mélanie's own. He was on his feet. So was David.

  "Suzanne. Mélanie. It's good to see you." David walked forwards, his hand extended. Mélanie took his hand. It had been the longest time before he'd come to kiss her cheek, as Harry did. As Simon did. But when last she'd seen him, before he learned the truth, he'd been comfortable doing so. She hesitated, then leaned slightly forwards. David hesitated too, then bent his head and brushed his lips against her cheek.

  "It's good to see you too, David." Mélanie's voice was not quite steady.

  David smiled back, gaze grave but unwavering.

  Mélanie moved into the room, aware of the gazes upon her, and sat beside her husband. "Emily Cowper had some interesting news." She recounted the story Emily had told her about Lord Gildersly.

  "Interesting," Malcolm said. There was a relief in his voice that she suspected betokened more than having a new line of inquiry.

  "Gildersly doesn't have a connection to the League," Harry said. "That we know of."

  "But Miranda could have been gathering information about him for Lord Beverston," Laura said. "Or for Roger Smythe. Or both."

  Cordelia leaned forwards, frowning. The air in the room seemed to have lightened since they had moved on to the investigation. "If—"

  She broke off as Gilbert once again entered the room. This time he held a silver salver with a sealed paper on it. "Valentin just brought this round from Berkeley Square," he said. "He said Mr. Rannoch will want to see it at once."

  Malcolm stared down at the handwriting on the paper and went still. "It's Gelly's," he said, even as he slit the seal.

  He took in the note in one glance. "It's in code. A code Allie and I taught her."

  He moved to an escritoire, reached for a sheet of writing paper and dipped a quill in ink. Mélanie watched over his shoulder as the contents emerged.

  * * *

  Malcolm,

  If you want to find the Wanderer, go to Hyde Park. Dig beneath the third oak from the left in the grove by the Serpentine. The one with the tree Edgar fell out of. Go as quickly as you can.

  Gelly

  P.S. I know you'll be asking if you can trust me. Don't be stupid, Malcolm.

  * * *

  "She was wise to add the postscript," Harry said. "But it could still be a trap. If she's that much under Belmont's influence—"

  "Quite," Malcolm said. "Or she could have come to her senses and be trying to warn us."

  "There's a third possibility," Mélanie said. "We've already discussed it."

  Malcolm met her gaze. "That Gelly's been playing Tommy from the first. That she was going undercover when she ran off with him."

  "It's in her blood," Mélanie said. "And more important, it's the world she grew up in."

  "Good God," Cordelia said. "I know we talked about it, but —The risk."

  "Mélanie makes a good point," Frances said. "This family thrive on risk."

  Cordelia shook her head. "I'm the last to say a woman can't dare as much as a man. But she's scarcely twenty—"

  "I became an agent when I wasn't much older," Malcolm said. "Mel was one before her sixteenth birthday."

  Cordelia frowned. "It's a good point. Perhaps I don't want to admit a girl with my background could be so enterprising when I was still focused on romantic intrigues and which bonnet to order."

  "Gelly's obviously very good at this," Malcolm said. "If we're right that she's gone undercover."

  "That's the question," Harry said. "We could be walking into a trap. But I don't see how we can not go. It won't be the first time we've had to be prepared for a trap. If it comes to it, it won't be the first time we've walked into one."

  "I'm quite sure I've been followed since I got to London," Malcolm said. "We'll do our best to shake them, but it's a risk we'll have company whether or not it's a trap."

  Laura glanced at the decoded paper. "Do you think the Wanderer is a thing, not a person? Something you can dig up? Unless—"

  "She's directing us to a body?" Malcolm asked. "Always possible. But it's hard to see a dead body being such a source of interest twenty years later."

  David, less used to these scenes, was watching in frowning silence. "So you'll keep the appointment?" he asked.

  "I don't see
how we can do otherwise," Malcolm said.

  Chapter 30

  Mélanie glanced at the spreading branches of the oak. "This feels oddly like the last scene in Merry Wives of Windsor."

  Malcolm rubbed his hands together against the cold. "I have a feeling we're likely to face dangers far more serious than pretend fairies and sprites."

  According to their plan, Mélanie, Harry, and Cordelia slid into the trees to keep watch while Andrew dug and Malcolm watched his back. A reluctant Laura had been persuaded to stay home because of the baby. She'd given in at last, saying she didn't want to slow them down if they had to run. Archie, whose bad leg could slow him down, had agreed for the same reason—and with the same reluctance. Malcolm had persuaded David that the rest of them could handle it and that he should go to Spendlove Manor and update his mother and sisters and Oliver, without actually coming out and saying that David was a civilian and might slow them down. Andrew was a civilian too, but Mélanie knew Malcolm had seen him in action against the Dunmykel smugglers, and with Gisèle involved there was no way he was going to stay back. Harry had asked if they should wait for Raoul, and Malcolm had said merely, "We don't know when he'll be back. We don't want to wait on this." Mélanie thought she'd caught a gleam of speculation in Harry's gaze, but he hadn't asked questions.

  The wind cut with the bite of January. Worse, its rustling through the leafless branches made it harder to listen for unexpected movement. Mélanie could feel Harry's watchfulness. Cordy was admirably still. She didn't have their experience of surveillance, but she'd argued that they needed all the watchers they could get, and she promised to stay out of any fights. Harry had at last given a crisp nod. Mélanie saw him now cast a quick glance at Cordy, then turn his gaze to the distance. It was always a challenge going on a mission with one's spouse. And more so when the spouse wasn't a trained agent.

  Mélanie eased her pistol from the folds of her pelisse, turned her attention from her own spouse, who had things well in hand guarding Andrew, and focused her senses on the world about them. The smell of loamy earth and cold air. The damp of the Serpentine carried on the wind. The call of an owl (a real call, unless it was a very good imitation). The rustle of a mouse or a squirrel or a hedgehog in the underbrush. All sounds that belonged in Hyde Park in the middle of the night. They'd traveled in pairs by different routes and detoured three times, but it could be difficult to shake off determined pursuit.