The Duke's Gambit

by Tracy Grant

  "Carfax may not have killed her."

  Kit's gaze clashed with Malcolm's. He was angry and wanted justice for his friend, but not so angry he'd lost the ability to analyze. "That's why you're investigating. I should have realized."

  When they first met, Kit had mistrusted Malcolm because Malcolm had worked for Carfax, a man who stood for everything Kit opposed politically and who would dearly love to shut down Kit and his Radical friends. For that matter, Carfax stood for everything Malcolm opposed, and had the whole time Malcolm worked for him. Despite or because of that, Kit's mistrust had been like a shock of cold water. "I have no doubt Carfax is capable of murder," Malcolm said. "I'm just not sure he's responsible for this one. The facts don't add up."

  Kit gave a slow nod. "He didn't know who Miranda was?"

  "He says not. With Carfax one can never be sure how much that means." Malcolm surveyed Kit. "You must have seen the Dormers since you returned to Britain."

  Kit nodded. "Elinor took it well when I told her about Sofia. She couldn't have been kinder. She said she wanted me to be happy, and she was delighted I'd found someone I cared for so deeply. She'd never want to build a life on denying that. But to own the truth, I sensed she was relieved herself. Which, of course, I found a great relief. While at the same time—"

  "Wondering how you could have misread her?"

  Kit met his gaze. "Yes. To think that, if I hadn't met Sofia, we might have stumbled into a marriage neither of us wanted." He shook his head. "I spoke with Sir George as well, to make sure he understood things would not progress as he'd expected between Elinor and me. He was less sympathetic."

  "Likely because he was less relieved."

  "Yes, very likely. He wanted the alliance between our families. But he said if Elinor and I were agreed, of course he could make no objection. He did add that he hoped I'd think it through carefully before I allied myself with a foreigner." Kit's jaw tightened. "After that, it didn't seem appropriate to spend much time at Dormer Manor. But I did call to wish Elinor a happy Christmas on Boxing Day. She seemed happy. She wished me well. The odd thing is—" He drew an uneven breath. "She said she always thought about Miranda at Christmas. That she'd wonder where she was, and remember holidays with her. Only she couldn't discuss it with the family, because no one spoke of Miranda." He shook his head. "It's hard to believe. Growing up, we were so much a part of each other's lives—Diana, Selena, and I, and Miranda, Elinor, and Dorinda. Sir George tried to help out after my father left. And perhaps because he didn't have a son of his own. He'd take me fishing while the girls played. Elinor and Diana were friends. Selena would trail round after them. Dorinda was always a bit sharp tongued. But then, I don't think Miranda made it easy for her. She tended to get her own way. I can't remember a time she couldn't wrap everyone round her finger." He drew a sharp breath. "Sorry, with her gone, I shouldn't—But it's true."

  "It's very helpful, actually. The other two girls resented her?"

  "Elinor mostly ignored her. It was harder for Dorinda because they were of an age."

  "And now she's married to your comrade, Roger."

  Kit met Malcolm's gaze. "Roger said he told you about the Levellers. I know I hadn't told you—"

  "There was no particular reason for you to share the membership, and you could be pardoned for keeping it close. Roger Smythe impressed me."

  "But he's a suspect."

  "To the extent that everyone who was close to Miranda is."

  "And Roger was besotted with her. He was the only one who really talked about her when she disappeared. You could see how desperate he was." Kit took another turn round the hearthrug. "Miranda wasn't the easiest girl. But I couldn't understand it when she disappeared. How quiet they all were. How they could pretend she'd never existed."

  "Do you think she could have been in communication with any of them?"

  "Not that I know of. Elinor certainly seemed to have no idea of her whereabouts." Kit shook his head. "I asked Sir George about it once. He bit my head off. Said when I had a family I'd understand. But I rather think when I have children of my own I'll find it even more inexplicable."

  "Yes," Malcolm said, "I imagine you will."

  "Roger said Miranda has a child."

  "He appears to be well looked after."

  "Thanks to Beverston." Kit's mouth twisted. "But Beverston's been using her all this time."

  "Beverston's a spymaster to all intents and purposes. Which may explain his actions, but doesn't excuse them. Did you know Roger had found her?"

  "Good God, no. Why—"

  "She was spying on Beverston for him."

  "And on the League." Comprehension flashed in Kit's gaze. "Because I told Roger his father was a League member."

  "You had to do so, Kit. And apparently Miranda wanted to help Roger against Beverston and the League."

  "But if Beverston had learned the truth—Do you think he killed her?"

  "It's possible, if he learned she was reporting to Roger, or if he thought she was going to talk to Carfax."

  "And you're also wondering about Roger. And Dorinda."

  "They're not easy questions to ask about people one has known since childhood," Malcolm said. "But as I said, one has to ask them about the people close to the victim."

  Kit frowned. "Roger adored Miranda. Leaving aside that he's my friend, it's difficult for me to imagine a reason why he'd kill her."

  "And Dorinda?"

  The instinctive protest against accusing a woman died on Kit's lips. The investigation last September had taught him to suspect everyone. "I said Miranda wasn't the easiest person. And perhaps, in particular, not for Dorinda."

  "And Dorinda's husband was in love with her."

  "Was." Kit continued to frown. "I remember when Roger told me he was marrying Dorinda. He said he'd been far too slow to see what was in front of him. I'd swear he genuinely cares for her."

  "That doesn't necessarily make the other feelings go away," Malcolm said.

  Kit regarded him with the gaze of one just coming to understand love's complexities. "No," he said, "it doesn't."

  Chapter 35

  Henriette Varon smiled at Raoul. "It's good to see you. Lisette told me you were happy. Looking at you, I can see she spoke the truth."

  Raoul smiled at the mother of one of his best agents. "Lisette has always been a very discerning young woman. Though perhaps she sees things with the optimism of the young."

  "She wouldn't thank you for saying so. She sees herself as a determined realist. But I can tell you're happy with forty-some years' knowledge of the world. You're going to be a father. Or perhaps I should say a father again."

  "Yes." Odd, Raoul thought, as he settled back in a petit-point-covered chair in Henriette's sitting room, to be able to admit it so simply. "In truth, I'm happier than I ever thought to be. Certainly than I ever deserved to be. None of which lessens the gravity of the situation we're in."

  Henriette poured coffee. A whiff and they could have been in the gardens at Malmaison where Henriette had been seamstress to both Josephine and Hortense. Or in a salon in Hortense's chateau in d'Arrenberg. In times that had been at once simpler and more fraught.

  "I'm not a spy," Henriette said. "This isn't my world."

  "No, but you're a good observer of people. And you've lived on the edge of this world for decades. You've put up with your daughter being drawn into it."

  "I very nearly didn't forgive you for that."

  "Recalling my reaction to my own son's becoming an agent, I can only thank you for your forbearance. But this is a question of what Josephine knew."

  Henriette handed him a cup of coffee. "We were close through the years. As a woman is with her dressmaker. But she hardly confided in me as she did in you."

  "I was in Ireland for most of '98. I scarcely saw her. Do you remember anything particular that year? "

  Henriette frowned. "Madame had been married to Bonaparte for two years. Hortense turned fifteen in April, Alexandre turned sevent
een in September. My own Lisette turned four in August. Minette wasn't born yet, though I was expecting her by the end of the year. Bonaparte went to Egypt. Josephine was concerned about him, desperate for news. Anxious about what the separation might mean. The news from Ireland was concerning as well. Madame was worried about you. And—" Her gaze froze on her coffee cup for a moment. "Yes it must have been that year. Lisette was chattering away, but I hadn't begun to think about another child yet. In the summer, Bonaparte had left on the campaign. I was taking in a gown for a dinner that evening when I heard Josephine give a cry from the next room. Normally I wouldn't have disturbed her privacy, but there was something about the note in her voice—her maid had gone downstairs, so it was just the two of us. She was paler than bleached muslin. I poured her a glass of wine and persuaded her to sit down. I'd seen her in almost every conceivable mood, but never quite like this. She took a swallow of wine—though I had to hold the glass to keep it from spilling—and said she'd lost something that could destroy her. At last she went to her escritoire and scribbled a note and asked me to see it delivered." Henriette turned her cup on its saucer and met Raoul's gaze. "It was to M. St. Juste."

  "Do you know if he responded?"

  "Oh, yes. Josephine asked me to slip down to the salon and let him in through one of the French windows that night, then bring him up to the sitting room that was kept for my use. If anyone saw, they would just think I was smuggling in a lover. I didn't care for my reputation, and I knew I could explain to my husband. I brought M. St. Juste upstairs. He was as imperturbable as usual, though rather more serious than in general. I still remember the way Josephine turned to St. Juste when I let him in, hands locked together. She came towards him and he took her hands. I left at once. I have no idea what they said. But Josephine was calmer when she summoned me back to the room. I saw St. Juste press her hand and assure her all would be well. I don't think I've ever heard such sincerity in his voice. When I saw him out of the chateau he said, 'Try not to let her worry. It will do little good.' When I went back upstairs, Josephine said, 'Julien has the strangest ability to instill confidence in me.' She was calmer in the days after, though I could tell it was still weighing on her. Then she received another message from him. I saw her read it, and it was as though a weight lifted from her shoulders. I asked if all was well. And she said, 'Julien says it will be, and I've learned to trust him.' After that—I'd still see fear at the back of her eyes at moments, but with time it lessened." Her gaze flickered over Raoul's face. "Does that help?"

  "Very much." Raoul sat back in his chair. "Do you remember who had visited just before Josephine first told you these papers had disappeared?"

  Henriette took a sip of coffee, brows drawn together. "I don't recall particular guests who'd been to stay, though of course people were in and out of the house. But Josephine had given a ball two days before. She brought in extra footmen for it. Not unusual, and in general I wouldn't remember them particularly. But there was one man. I saw him upstairs the night of the ball when I went up to fetch a fresh pair of gloves for madame. Not entirely unusual—he said he'd gone up to collect empty glasses. He did have a tray of them, and guests did leave glasses upstairs. It was a bit odd he was so near the family's rooms, but he was new, he might have got lost. Then fifteen years later I was at the theatre with Lisette and Minette and saw the same man. It took me a bit to remember why he was familiar, but I was sure it was the footman from that ball. I could tell Lisette recognized him for different reasons. She told me she didn't know his name, but he was an agent for hire."

  "What did he look like?"

  "Tall. A thin face. Dark hair, the first time. Gray fifteen years later—either because he'd aged or because it was dyed. Deepset eyes. Do you recognize the description?"

  "I think so. I strongly suspect it's Thomas Ambrose, who broke into Dunmykel a month since, looking for the same thing Josephine was so afraid to have lost—and shot Mélanie Rannoch."

  Malcolm found Aldous Morningtree, Viscount Gildersly, playing tennis at an indoor academy. Malcolm stood by the half-rail and peered through a curtain of netting at the blue-painted court. Gildersly played well. Some five years older than Malcolm, he had the physique of a man who hunted, sparred, and otherwise indulged in the sporting life, but he was beginning to run to fat. Malcolm remained at the net, aware with every volley of the tennis ball that Harry and Andrew were getting closer to Rivendell.

  It had been the sensible decision to let them go without him. He was quite sure he'd been followed to the tennis academy, but no one had attempted to interfere with him, and there was no harm in leading pursuers to Gildersly. It might be a good bit of misdirection. And hopefully it was giving Harry and Andrew protection. None of which lessened the tang of guilt at the back of his mouth, because his friends were running risks in his place. The bite of frustration, because they were probably closer to answers he was desperate for than he was himself.

  "Rannoch." Gildersly drawled Malcolm's surname so that it was almost more than two syllables as he strolled from the court, towel draped round his neck, racket still in one hand. "Didn't know you were one for tennis."

  "I am on occasion, but generally in the country. I can't claim to your expertise."

  Gildersly laughed, though Malcolm thought he caught a gleam of calculation in the other man's blue gaze. "Practice, that's what it takes. Good match, Pomfret," he called to his erstwhile opponent.

  "I actually came hoping for a word with you." Malcolm positioned himself in front of the gate that led from the court.

  Gildersly raised a brow. "I can't remember the last time I set foot in Parliament."

  "I haven't for some time either. This is about Miranda Spencer."

  Gildersly's skin turned green against the blue-painted walls of the tennis court.

  "There's a coffeehouse across the street," Malcolm said. "Unless you want to discuss it further here."

  In the coffeehouse, Gildersly tossed down a third of his pint, with far less finesse than he had shown on the tennis court, before he clunked down the tankard and met Malcolm's gaze across the table. "I know you're looking into her murder. I don't deny I went to the Barque of Frailty on occasion. But I never frequented Miranda Spencer."

  Something about the wording made the coffee Malcolm had ordered rise up in his throat. "You had a cut on your hand the night Mrs. Spencer was killed."

  "Who the devil says so?"

  "A lady who was brave enough to share the story."

  "Oh, Christ." Gildersly took another swig from his pint. "I forgot Emily was a friend of your wife's."

  "And of mine."

  "She may not care what her husband hears, but she won't want Palmerston to know."

  "I don't expect she does. And she'd prefer to have her name kept out of it. But she's prepared to talk if necessary."

  Gildersly stared at him for a moment. "Damn. Always knew Emily's brother was capable of romantic gestures, but didn't think she was too."

  "Emily is not a woman to underestimate."

  Gildersly took another swig from his pint. "Well, in this case she's wrong. I was with another girl that night."

  "What was her name?"

  Gildersly frowned for a moment. "Janie. I think. Maybe Julie."

  "And your hand?"

  Gildersly reached for his pint again. "If you must know, when we heard that ghastly scream, I dropped the glass I was holding and cut my hand. Made a damned mess of my coat. Hurried out of there and went to Emily's. Thought it would steady my nerves."

  And provide him with an alibi? Gildersly might not be brilliant, but he had a certain cunning. He might have thought that far ahead.

  "Did anyone see you leave?"

  Gildersly shifted his pint on the tabletop. "Don't think so. House was in chaos. No, wait a bit. I brushed past Beverston on the stairs. And Matthew Trenor."

  "Together?"

  "They were both running to see what had happened." Gildersly frowned. "But yes, I had the sense they'd been ta
lking."

  Rosamund Hartley smiled at Archie across her sitting room. She wore a high-necked day dress of corded lavender silk and her hair was elegantly coiled, but the smile was the same one that had captivated him from the stage when her filmy gown showed her shapely ankles and her hair escaped about her face in tendrils.

  "I was wondering when you'd come," she said.

  Archie settled back in his chair, stretching out his bad leg. "I thought it was best to let Malcolm and Harry form their own impression first."

  Rosamund poured two glasses of sherry and put one in his hand. "You place a great deal of trust in them."

  "I do. I also knew they wouldn't be biased."

  Rosamund raised a brow in that way she had. "You suspected me."

  "I knew I should suspect you if I could be unbiased. Which I fully realize I'm not where you're concerned."

  "I'm flattered."

  Archie took a drink of sherry. "I have quite agreeable memories of our time together. Which I wouldn't trade for the world. None of which diminishes my love for my wife."

  Rosamund lifted her glass to him. "I confess I wouldn't trade my memories either. Which doesn't diminish my satisfaction with my current state." She took a sip. "You should be quite proud of Harry. He's remarkably like you."

  Archie found himself smiling, though he said, "I'm not sure he'd take that as a compliment."

  "Oh, I'm quite sure he would."

  Archie sat forwards in his chair. "Beverston arranged with you for Miranda Spencer—Dormer—to come here."

  Rosamund shrugged. "I should have realized they'd discover that. But I was so accustomed to keeping Miranda's history secret."