by Tracy Grant
He caught her hand and pressed it to his lips. But she saw the ghosts of his fears alive in his eyes. Countries shaken. Relationships smashed.
"So often there are no easy answers," she said. "You're usually the first to say that. Surely you knew we'd all understand."
"Hoped."
"Surely you'd have understood, in the same circumstances."
"I like to think I would have."
"You know perfectly well you would have done."
"It was a reminder," he said. "Of the challenges of being what I'm trying to be. And at the same time—three decades fighting the Elsinore League, and we're now facing what we feared most. The League controlling a country."
And not just any country. France, for which he had risked so much.
Laura put her hands on his chest. "There's something else to report about the League." She kept her voice as conversational as possible. "One of their members approached me today."
She told him about Sir Lucius Brandon, as succinctly and with as little drama as possible. Raoul listened without interruption, his gaze steady on her face, but his brows drew together.
"I got you into this."
"Not this," Laura said. "I got entangled with the League on my own. I'm rather insulted they know me so little they think there's the least chance they could turn me against you. Or convince me they could or would protect you."
"They're desperate."
"Which could be an advantage."
"Or could make them more dangerous."
"We've always known the League were a potential threat."
"But they hadn't verbalized it this directly." He pulled her to him again, his chin on her hair. "I don't think I could survive anything happening to you."
"That's nonsense," Laura said, voice muffled by his cravat. "You know you could survive anything if you had to. And you'd have to, for the children."
"There are different definitions of survive. I'd find a way to go on."
Laura pulled her head back to look up at him. "I feel the same way when you're gone. I know I can't completely deny the risks. I trust you're taking every precaution. I trust you. I trust you trust me."
"You know I do, sweetheart. It doesn't make the terror go away."
"It's part of the lives we lead."
He gave a bleak smile and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "That's my Laura. Throwing my own words back at me."
Laura put her hands on his chest. "I don’t want you to turn back into the man you were when I met you."
"Nor do I." Raoul pressed a kiss to her forehead. "And I don’t think I could. You’ve changed me irrevocably."
"We’ve changed each other. And I wouldn’t go back either. But that isn’t what I meant."
His gaze shifted over her face. "What, beloved?"
"When I first met you in France. In Malcolm and Mélanie's salon. You had the most alive eyes I’ve ever seen. But at the same time, when you let your guard down—which was only for the briefest moment in all those first months I knew you—you looked like a man who’s seen into hell and isn’t sure he’ll ever escape it."
"I expect a lot of people had that look after Waterloo."
"Yes, but it was more than that for you. You said it to me yourself, driving back from Maidstone. That you’d spent much of the past three years trying to mitigate the damage done at Waterloo, but now in Spain you had a chance to make a difference again. I could see the life sparking in your eyes."
Raoul’s hands settled on her shoulders. "I felt alive on that drive back from Maidstone as I hadn’t in years. But it had nothing to do with Spain."
Laura found herself smiling in response to the spark in his eyes, but she shook her head. "Yes, my love, and I did as well. But I know what your work in Spain means to you. I can read it between the lines of your letters—even the ones I have to decode. I see it in your eyes when you talk about your work there. I taste it in your goodbye kiss. Sometimes I see it in your eyes in unguarded moments when you’re here thinking you should be there."
"My darling. If I’ve ever given your the sense—
"It doesn’t lessen what I mean to you. Or Emily. Or the baby. At least I don’t think it does. And I want you with us as much as possible. Never doubt that. But I don’t want to see you lose what drives you. For your sake. And for the sake of change in Spain."
"You’re what drives me. You and our children."
"Sweetheart." She put a hand against the side of his face. "You know it’s never that simple. You’ve been fighting this fight more than half your life. I want you to be able to be true to the man I fell in love with."
"That you fell in love with me at all never ceases to amaze me."
Malcolm put his head in his hands. "God in heaven."
Mélanie leaned against the closed door of their bedchamber. "It could have been worse. My imaginings were worse."
"Raoul plotting revolution?" Malcolm looked up. He had stopped in the middle of the bedchamber. He was tugging at the folds of his cravat as though he wasn't aware of what his fingers were doing. "Yes, mine too. This doesn't put us on opposite sides. But it—"
"Puts us in the middle of a thicket worse than the one round Princess Aurora's castle." She hesitated. "It's always going to be hard. Knowing what we can share and what we can't. We're all going to have to make judgment calls."
"I can see why he kept it secret," Malcolm said. "Angry as I was when I knew he had kept something secret. I probably would have kept this secret myself. Probably." His voice, as when he'd spoken to Raoul, was carefully neutral. "In any case, it's difficult for me to blame O'Roarke for wanting to protect his loved ones."
"Because you're guilty of it yourself?"
He gave a faint smile. "Guilty as charged."
"It's a very dangerous secret. You're a Member of Parliament still. You could feel obligated to do something."
Malcolm nodded. "And he might have thought we'd disagree on what to do with the information."
Mélanie stared at her husband. "You think he thought I'd want to make use of the dauphin?"
"As we discussed, it would be one way to change France. Or he might have thought I'd feel we should restore him to his rightful place. Or that that was my duty as an MP."
Images and impulses raced through her brain. "I wouldn't—"
"We weren't sure how O'Roarke would jump, sweetheart. He wondered the same about us."
"Thank God we're both sensible." She pressed her fingers against the door panels. She realized she was shaking. "Malcolm—"
He stepped forwards and drew her into his arms. "Yes. I know."
"I was terrified," Mélanie said into his cravat. "The whole time we've been trying to sort out what was happening. I didn't want to admit it, but I couldn't bear to contemplate what we'd find at the end of it."
"And we've found a thicket, as you said."
"But at least we're all on the same side."
His arms tightened round her. "We've been in a fight. We have three unseen enemies. We're looking for the lost heir to a throne whom none of us wants to see restored. Gelly's still missing. But yes, I feel relieved too."
"And we're in the midst of two investigations which seem to be getting tangled into one." Mélanie drew back to look at her husband. "Speaking of which, I don't know that Dorinda Smythe has the strongest motive. But after our interview today, I'd say she felt more strongly about Miranda than perhaps anyone we've talked to. Jealousy can be a powerful motive."
"It sounds as though Lady Caroline was jealous too."
"But Dorinda Smythe had been jealous for longer. And I can see her being horrified at the idea that Roger might bring Miranda into their household—" Mélanie broke off.
"Yes," Malcolm said, "there are certain parallels. But the thing is, I like O'Roarke, and I don't think Dorinda Smythe liked Miranda."
Mélanie looked up at her husband, torn between shock and laughter. "Darling—"
"Simple statement of fact. There's no point in pretending our situation is other than it
is."
"It's odd," Mélanie said.
Her husband raised a brow in inquiry.
"Derenvil and Lady Caroline. And Roger and Dorinda Smythe. They're very different. But neither can seem to talk to each other."
"It can be the most challenging thing for a couple to do. Talking." Malcolm smoothed a strand of hair off her temple. "I remember being terrified to speak to you. At least, about anything that touched on emotions. And there were so many things you couldn't say to me."
She looked steadily into his eyes. "I still managed to say a lot."
"But it's better now."
She pressed her cheek against his shoulder. "Infinitely."
Odd. Only ten months ago she'd been keenly aware things would never be the same between them. And she'd given a bleak smile at the suggestion that they might be better.
"We'll tell the others in the morning, before Harry and I leave for Rivendell," Malcolm said. "One step at a time. Much as I want to cut a path straight to Gelly, we have to pick our way through the thicket."
Mélanie nodded. "Meanwhile, we have another night in our bed."
He bent his head and kissed her. "So we do."
Chapter 34
Harry reached for his coffee. "Well, this certainly explains why everyone is so interested in the Wanderer."
"Damnable that he can't simply be left safely where he's been for twenty-some years." Frances met Raoul's gaze across the table and must have caught a flash of surprise in his eyes. "You thought I'd argue we should risk war and disruption to restore the rightful king to his throne? That doesn't really sound like me. Or did you think I'd feel differently because I knew Louis and Marie Antoinette and met the boy as a child?"
"I have a healthy respect for the role personal feelings can play," Raoul said.
Frances turned her coffee cup in her hands. "I'm delighted the dauphin survived, but I suspect he'd be far happier staying wherever he is than becoming a pawn in this game you all play."
"Do you think he feels that way?" Cordelia asked. "He was old enough when he was taken away that he must know his rightful heritage."
"He certainly hasn't made any effort to claim it," Malcolm said.
Raoul took a swallow of coffee. His posture gave little away, as usual, but Mélanie thought he sat more easily now the truth was out among their friends. At the same time, the weight of the secret still seemed to sit on his shoulders. "The dauphin wasn't treated well in prison. It's one of the reasons Josephine wanted to get him away. By the time he was smuggled out of the Temple, it's difficult to tell what state he'd have been in, physically or mentally. He may not wish to be king. He may not be equipped for the role."
"But he may be just the sort who could be manipulated by those who want a figurehead," Archie said.
Raoul met his friend's gaze. "Quite."
"Once we find him, the question is, can we keep his existence a secret, even if he wishes to remain anonymous," Malcolm said.
Or would they be embroiled in somehow vouching for the rightful King of France, the last thing Mélanie had ever thought to find herself doing.
"How much do you think Castlereagh knows?" Harry asked.
"I've been wondering." Malcolm took a sip of coffee. "This could be why Castlereagh warned me off the investigation so strongly. If the dauphin turned up and his identity could be proved conclusively, our government would have no choice but to back him. But I doubt Castlereagh wants France disrupted any more than Carfax does. And the thought of the League or anyone else controlling the dauphin would terrify him."
"So you think he and Carfax are working together?" Cordelia asked.
"Possibly." Malcolm frowned into his cup for a moment. "It's difficult to see what advantage they both gain from Carfax remaining in prison."
"Stopping the investigation?" Laura suggested.
"Because one or both of them is behind Miranda Dormer's death?" Malcolm shifted his cup on its saucer. "It's a possibility we have to consider. But if Carfax is, I keep coming back to why he didn't have an escape route. I could see him keeping quiet if he thought more investigation would uncover the dauphin's whereabouts, though. Which gets to whether there is a connection between Miranda Dormer and the dauphin."
"We'll have to see what we find in Rivendell," Harry said.
Andrew had been frowning into his scarcely touched coffee cup, saying little. Now he lifted his head and looked at Malcolm. "You really think Julien St. Juste is Gelly's father?"
"We have no proof," Malcolm said. "But it fits some of the facts."
"A number of them," Raoul said. He glanced at Frances.
"I never heard of the man until last September, in Italy," Frances said. "But from what you say, it could explain why Bella said I was much better off not knowing. And I could certainly see a man such as you describe appealing to Bella."
"And you think Gelly may have been working for him—for how long? Weeks? Months? A year?" The strain of the past weeks tore at Andrew's voice.
"We don't know that she's working with him at all," Malcolm said. "And if she is, we don't know how long it's been going on. But it might explain Gelly's apparently going undercover with Tommy."
Andrew looked from Malcolm to Mélanie to Raoul. "From what you've said, St. Juste is extremely dangerous."
Mélanie met Malcolm's gaze, then saw Malcolm glance at Raoul. "Julien's dangerous," Mélanie said. "But if Gisèle is his daughter, I think he'll protect her."
"Think," Andrew said.
"Difficult to be sure of anything with St. Juste," Raoul said. "But as dangerous an opponent as he can be, he can be an even more powerful ally."
"You don't think any of these groups could have bought him?" Andrew asked. "The League or Carfax or this third person or people?"
"If so, they wouldn't need to search for the Wanderer," Harry pointed out.
Andrew nodded and scraped a hand across his face. "You're right. I'm not thinking. Your lives are dangerous enough. St. Juste's sounds beyond imagining. But perhaps if Gelly is his daughter, that accounts for a lot."
"Biology doesn't create people," Raoul said. "We're the sum of our own pasts and our own choices. If St. Juste is Gisèle's father, that hasn't made her who she is any more than being Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette's son has made the dauphin whoever he is now. Blood doesn't define us. My whole life is built on that."
"I won't argue with that," Frances said. "But you can't deny one can inherit traits. I can see that looking round this table. If Gisèle inherited St. Juste's brilliance and ruthlessness, combined with Bella's, it explains a lot."
Andrew met her gaze across the table. "My point precisely, ma'am." Because neither of them was capable of loving. The unspoken subtext hung in the air.
"What on earth are you going to do in Rivendell?" Cordelia asked, looking from Harry to Malcolm. "Dig up the ground looking for more boxes? Question every young man in his mid-thirties?"
"We can't know until we're there." Malcolm said.
"The people who hired the attackers last night know you have the box," Laura said. "They were following you already. They're bound to follow you to Rivendell. "
"Right. But they won't know which of us is going after the box." Harry glanced at Malcolm. "They're likely to assume you are, though. Perhaps we should rethink who goes to Rivendell."
Malcolm met his friend's gaze. "You're almost certain to be followed even if I don't go with you."
"And there's no one I'd rather have at my back in a fight. But if there's one thing I learned as an agent, it's to use deception to avoid a fight whenever possible. I wonder if we can't disguise the visit to Rivendell as something different."
"I could go with you," Andrew said. He glanced round the table. "All these people must know we're looking for Gelly by now. If I go, they may think we're off after a clue to her whereabouts."
"Mary Dartford lives not far from Rivendell," Frances said. "One of Gisèle's girlhood friends. You could call on her. Mention at a post house that that's where you
're bound."
Andrew nodded. At the possibility of action, his face was more animated than it had been all day.
Malcolm frowned. Mélanie saw the competing pulls of logic and the need to shoulder the burden—not to mention take action—in his face. "If—"
He broke off as Valentin entered the breakfast parlor. "Forgive me, but there's a Mr. Montagu who's just called asking for Mr. Rannoch. He says it’s urgent."
Valentin had shown Kit into the library. In the circumstances, Malcolm thought it was better to speak with him alone. He found Kit standing by the library table, hat and gloves in hand, blue eyes blazing with an intensity that bordered on desperation.
"Is it true?" Kit spun towards Malcolm and slammed his hat and gloves down on the table. "Is the girl Lord Carfax murdered Miranda Dormer?"
Malcolm closed the door. "Yes, unfortunately. We've only just learned. I'm so sorry. You must have grown up with her. I know her sister Elinor—"
"Is the girl I was unofficially promised to." Kit scraped a hand over his hair. The last time Malcolm had seen him in Italy, he had been headed home to escort his younger sister and spend Christmas with their mother, but also to tell Elinor Dormer, the girl he had been on the verge of marrying, that he had fallen in love with Sofia Vincenzo, the daughter of the woman his father had run off to Italy with fifteen years before.
"Yes, we were all in and out of each other's houses when we were small," Kit said. "But how on earth did Miranda—"
"She ran off with John Smythe."
John Smythe had been married to Kit's sister Diana, and it was only a few months ago that Kit had learned how badly Smythe had treated her. Now he stared at Malcolm for a moment in disbelief, then gave a gasp of outrage. "By God—"
It was perhaps as well that Smythe was beyond Kit's reach when it came to challenging the other man to a duel. Malcolm quickly told Kit the rest. Kit went very white. "Smythe was a monster. I knew that. After Diana, perhaps this shouldn't shock me. But—and Beverston had her spying for him?"
"Does that shock you?"
Kit drew a breath. "No. On reflection. Which doesn't speak well for my opinion of Beverston. But I've always thought he was the sort to cut ethical corners. And now we know he's one of the Elsinore League's founders." Kit took a turn about the room, as though trying to make sense of this tumult of new information. "I came to town because I had a message from Roger saying the dead girl was Miranda. I had another waiting for me when I got here saying I should talk to you. Why the devil did Carfax kill her? It seems a strange way to attack the League."