The Duke's Gambit

by Tracy Grant

  "It helps to have an aunt who can ask for favors from the prince regent," Malcolm said.

  "I should have considered that," Beverston said. "Though I fail to see why you want Carfax present."

  "So do I," Carfax said.

  "Lumley," Malcolm said, "tell Beverston who you are."

  Lumley stared at him. But behind the confused gaze was a hint of what might have been recognition. Or fear. "Who I am?"

  "Just so." Malcolm kept his voice gentle. "Are you the son of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette of Austria?"

  The air in the room turned still and thick, as though he had uttered an incantation or breathed the true name of a magical creature. Shock reverberated against the Chinese wallpaper and oak paneling. Shock at Malcolm's voicing the words, but not at the words at themselves, except from Roth. And Lumley.

  "Am I who?" Lumley said. "Of course not."

  "Good try," Beverston said. "But there's no need to pretend. I assure you, Your Majesty, you have a friend in me. And I have many other friends who will help you regain what you've lost."

  Lumley looked like a man who's stumbled into Bedlam in the last of Hogarth's engravings of the rake's progress. "Lord Beverston, you've known me since I was eleven years old. You know who I am."

  "I knew who I thought you were." Beverston's voice was surprisingly gentle, the voice he'd used with Danny. "And I'll never forgive myself for not knowing the truth sooner and helping return you to what is rightfully yours."

  "My father is a vicar—"

  "Your adoptive father. I may not have known the truth, but I always knew the Lumleys adopted you from France."

  "Yes, I was adopted. From an orphanage in Brittany. My mother was a ladies' maid who someone got with child. My actual birth is far less exalted than my adoptive birth. Ask him." He spun to face St. Juste. "He brought me here."

  "Quite true," St. Juste said. "And if I thought there was the least chance Lord Beverston would believe me, I'd have tried to tell him the truth long since, and saved us all a lot of bother."

  "Spare us, St. Juste," Beverston said.

  "Point taken, I think," St. Juste said.

  "Carfax," Malcolm said, "tell Beverston the truth. Unless you want him to start a war trying to put the wrong person on the throne of France."

  Carfax had gone paler, but he returned Malcolm's gaze like a general returning fire. "I confess, if Lumley is not the dauphin it would be quite a relief. But I can't imagine what you think I know about it. Or that Beverston would believe whatever story you evidently wish me to make up."

  "You tried to have Lumley killed only a few hours ago."

  "I deny doing anything of the sort. But surely if I had that would make it even less likely that he's an imposter."

  Malcolm regarded his former spymaster, holding Carfax's gaze with his own. "Whatever you recently told me, I'm not sure you'd have tried to kill the rightful King of France. Not at this point, not given what you knew."

  "But you think I'd try to have an imposter killed?"

  "Yes. If it could cover up the fact that the rightful dauphin remained in the Temple prison and died there because of you."

  Comprehension flashed in Raoul's gaze and in Mélanie's in almost the same instant.

  Beverston was behind them. "A good try, Rannoch. But why would Carfax—"

  "Because he didn't want a child ruler who could easily become hostage to God knows whom. Just as he doesn't want a restoration now."

  "Precisely. So he'd say anything to discredit the rightful heir." Beverston swung towards St. Juste. "St. Juste hid the boy. He buried evidence of his whereabouts, for God's sake. Made a damned treasure hunt out of it. Why would he have done that with an imposter?"

  "Why indeed?" St. Juste examined his nails. "Barras and Josephine didn't want to know where the boy was. For their own sakes and the boy's. But they insisted—well, Barras did—that I leave clues to the boy's whereabouts where they could find them should they ever wish to bring him to light—and should I not be reachable for whatever reason. I'd have been a fool to think Barras wasn't having me watched. To avoid arousing his suspicions, I needed to behave precisely as I would have done had I really extracted the dauphin from the Temple."

  "But why?" Beverston said. "Why not extract him when you'd gone this far? You can't claim you, of all people, were distracted by political motives on either side. Any side."

  "Hardly." St. Juste uncrossed and recrossed his ankles, his polished boots gleaming in the candlelight. "In truth, I'd have been curious to see how you'd all have played the true situation. But Carfax got wind of it and told me not to."

  "Carfax?" Beverston said in disbelief. He glanced at Carfax.

  "Yes, I know," St. Juste said. "But he was my first employer. And he had rather more of a hold on me then than he does now.

  "You're just taking his side now," Beverston said. "For whatever reason. Your Majesty"—he turned to Lumley—"I assure you this does not affect my belief in you."

  "My God," Lumley said. "What will?"

  "Of course, with the story, and the hidden papers, and the rumors that are out there already, you could make a good case that he's the dauphin," St. Juste said. "Even a good enough one to put him on the throne if you had the right backing. God knows there've been enough pretenders already, with less creditable stories to prove their identity. There's a certain romance to the story of a lost heir returning to claim his heritage. Don't you agree, sir?" He glanced at Carfax.

  "I've always been singularly deaf to the power of that type of story," Carfax said.

  "No, but you know the power it can have on the public imagination. Probably why you decided it was safer to kill Lumley."

  "But you didn't." Lumley regarded St. Juste. "You hired Simcox to protect me. At least, that's what he said."

  "Yes, he was telling the truth. Simcox has his talents, but I don't think dissimulation is one of them."

  "Why?" Lumley said. "Why protect me?"

  St. Juste inspected his nails again. "I did bring you here. I confess I felt a certain responsibility."

  "Julien," Mélanie said. "Did you just admit to a conscience?"

  St. Juste looked up and met her gaze with a crooked smile that might almost have been called sheepish. "I don't like being used. Or being the means of others being used."

  "Or you might have wanted to protect the real dauphin because you know just how valuable he is," Beverston said. "That seems far more likely."

  "I had a feeling you'd say that." St. Juste settled his shoulders against the paneling. "As I said, it's a conundrum."

  "Josephine never knew?" Raoul said.

  "No. And she never asked me where he was." A shadow crossed St. Juste's face. "She'd have been furious I didn't follow her instructions, for all she later feared her rescue of the dauphin coming to light. But I rather think she'd want to protect Lumley."

  "I need hardly point out that St. Juste's word is the last we should be taking for anything," Carfax said.

  "No, but you might take mine." The door from the hall creaked. A walking stick thudded on the Axminster rug. A tall figure entered the room, powdered wig not a hair askew, diamond shoe buckles gleaming. Prince Talleyrand paused on the threshold, gaze sweeping the company. "I told your footman I'd show myself in, Beverston. In truth, I didn't give him time to argue. It seems I arrived in London just in time."

  "Well, well," St. Juste said. "I confess this is a surprise. Don't tell me you've had an attack of conscience, sir."

  "What an overwrought way of putting it." Talleyrand turned back to Beverston. "I know it's difficult to believe St. Juste. And generally unwise. But in this case he really does happen to be telling the truth."

  Malcolm studied the prince. Another of those who had helped shape his childhood. "You were in on it with Carfax."

  "I don't believe I said anything of the sort."

  "You didn't have to." Malcolm kept his gaze locked on Talleyrand's. "You were afraid of the threat the dauphin could be."

&nbs
p; "Or he's afraid of it now," Beverston said. "Like the rest of you."

  "An exiled boy king would have been a receipt for disaster," Carfax said. "Every faction in Europe would have wanted to use him for their own ends. And if someone had managed to put him on the throne, we know what a débâcle can come from a child monarch."

  "I should have guessed." Raoul was looking at Talleyrand. "It wasn't the first or last time you worked with Carfax."

  Carfax's face was white, but he didn't move a muscle.

  "Did you know about the dauphin's aborted rescue?" Malcolm asked Talleyrand. "Did you agree with Carfax that he should stay in prison? Or did Carfax tell you later?"

  "My dear Malcolm. I really don't think you can expect me to answer."

  "But you're convinced the boys weren't switched."

  "I'm convinced," Lumley said. "Someone might listen to me."

  "A struggle over who belongs on the throne of France could do incalculable damage now," Talleyrand said. "But there was a time—for instance, just after Bonaparte abdicated the first time—when I would have found a plausible alternative heir distinctly useful. You don't think I'd have made use of him if he really were the rightful King of France?"

  Beverston stared at Talleyrand, as though he were a toad that had appeared in his perfectly manicured garden.

  "Try to use him," Talleyrand said, "and you'll have my word to contend with. It still counts for rather a lot in France."

  Beverston held the prince's gaze for a long moment. At last he drew a rough breath. "You make a good case. But what both you and Carfax seem to fail to consider is that if I do take this improbable story for the truth, you've given me a very useful weapon to use against the pair of you."

  "But you won't use it," Carfax said.

  "No?" Beverston swung towards him. "You underestimate me, Carfax. Which is a mistake I'd not have thought you'd make."

  "Not in the least. I give you credit for being prudent enough not to use the information because then I will reveal that you've been stealing state secrets for personal gain."

  Beverston held Carfaxs gaze, but Malcolm thought he'd gone a shade paler. "You can't possibly prove that."

  "I can't prove how you did it. But I know the result. So does Castlereagh. And believe me we will uncover the truth."

  "That's why you were talking to Miranda Dormer," Malcolm said to Carfax. "Because you knew she worked for Beverston."

  "In part." Carfax was still looking at Beverston. "Also Hugh Derenvil went to Castlereagh today and signed a letter accusing you of trying to blackmail him for his vote."

  "Oh, my God," Beverston said. "The man's a fool."

  "Or a very brave man," Malcolm said.

  "Quite possibly both," Carfax said. "But he's willing to speak out against your tactics."

  Lumley was looking at Carfax. "You didn't seek out Miranda because of me? When I heard all this, I was afraid…"

  "What?" Mélanie asked gently as he trailed off.

  Lumley looked at her with the gaze of one desperately searching for answers. "Miranda didn't know who you all think—thought—I was. I didn't know. But I knew there was some mystery about my being brought from France. And that I wasn't supposed to talk about it. It was impressed on me so strongly that I really didn't talk about it. Except to Miranda, much later, after I found her in London. I suppose because we both had secrets at that point. I told her there were secrets about my coming to the Lumleys that even I didn't understand. And that on the journey here, I'd heard people refer to me as 'the Wanderer.'"

  "Did she tell you?" Malcolm asked Beverston

  "No," Beverston said.

  "He's telling the truth," Lumley said. "Miranda promised she wouldn't tell anyone anything. She used to sometimes call me the Wanderer just as a joke, but she promised she wouldn't tell anyone else. But then, only a fortnight or so ago—the last time I saw her—she was worried. She'd had a dream and she was afraid she mumbled something about 'the Wanderer' in her sleep. She wasn't sleeping alone."

  "I never—" Beverston said.

  "No," Lumley said, "it wasn't you. It was another gentleman who visited her. Mr. Matthew Trenor."

  "Oh, my God," Malcolm said.

  Because suddenly he knew who had killed Miranda Dormer. And why.

  Chapter 41

  Bet Simcox undid the ties on her cloak and draped it over the back of the sofa in the sitting room of Sandy's rooms in Piccadilly.

  Sandy turned up the lamp. "As it happens, Robby was doing something rather splendid."

  "Yes, he was behaving far more sensibly than usual." Bet smoothed the worn blue velvet of the cloak. "Though it wasn't without risk."

  "But he'll be all right now. No need to worry."

  "I'll tell Nannie and Sam." Bet twitched a fold of the cloak straight. "I can go back to St. Giles. No more need for you to worry."

  "Don't be silly, Bet." Sandy took a quick step towards her. "That is, yes, there's no need to worry, but you can't go back to St Giles. Much more comfortable here, isn't it?"

  Bet glanced round the sitting room. You could fit two of her rooms in St. Giles in here alone. A log fire burned in the grate, banked by Sandy's manservant, but easy for them to poke up. The clean light and soft scent of real wax tapers filled the air instead of greasy tallow. "Of course it is," she said, swallowing a desperate laugh. "But I don't belong here."

  "Don't know where else you belong. Much more agreeable to meet here than for me to come to your rooms. And I thought—" Sandy shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "I'd like it to be just the two of us."

  A lump rose up in her throat. There hadn't been anyone but him for some time. In truth, it was difficult to contemplate anyone else now, though of course one day she'd have to. These past days living with him, for all her worries about her brother, had been a taste of something she'd never thought to have. "Sandy, I can't thank you enough for what you've done. But I can't stay here."

  "Why not?" Hurt shot across his face, so that for a moment she wanted nothing more than to take him in her arms. "Don't you—"

  "You can visit me. I'd like nothing more. And it can be just the two of us for as long as we can make that work." For as long as she could make ends meet, for as long as he didn't tire of her. "But men like you don't—"

  "My father makes me a very good allowance. And he's always telling me to take more initiative."

  "I don't think he meant setting up a mistress." Besides, gentlemen didn't take their mistresses to live in their homes, they set them up in rooms somewhere. And though they might visit St. Giles for a lark now and then and bed a girl, they didn't find their mistresses there. They chose opera dancers or actresses or shop girls or pretty governesses. There was hierarchy in all things.

  "Bother that. I want you with me, Bet. You shouldn't have to worry about anything else. Unless you don't want to be with me." Sandy crossed to her, or started to when the skirts of his greatcoat caught on the sofa table. He shrugged out of it in impatience and tossed it on the sofa. Something shiny tumbled from one of the pockets. Sandy picked it up and stared at it. "That's odd."

  "What?" It was a necklace with a green stone, she noted with a pang. Not hers.

  "I don't know where this came from." Sandy picked up the coat and examined it. "Oh, poison. The footman must have given me Matt's coat when I left Mother and Father's, and Matt must have mine. It's happened before. We both ordered them from Weston at the same time. I'd best—"

  He broke off as the door burst open and his brother came into the room with purposeful force. "Sandy. Glad you're home. Cursed nuisance, we seem to have left Grosvenor Square in each other's coats again. Really must sew something in the linings or something so the footmen can tell the difference."

  He came quickly into the room. Despite his wording, Bet thought he looked more than mildly perturbed. There was something in the set of his shoulders and the way he lunged forwards that made her take a step back.

  Sandy picked up his brother's coat and handed it to
Matthew. "I just found this in the pocket." He started to hold the pendant out, then drew his hand back. "Who were you giving this to? It's odd, seems like someone was just talking about a jade pendant."

  "Mr. Lumley." Bet sucked in her breath. Gerald Lumley had mentioned Miranda Dormer's necklace when they were all sitting round the Rannochs' breakfast parlor table.

  "That's it." Sandy stared at his brother. He didn't quite seem to have seen the implications she had. "Matt, why do you have this?"

  "I knew her, you know that." Matthew jerked his head at Bet. "You should understand visiting a girl like that."

  "But why do you have her necklace? Why—"

  Matthew lunged across the room to seize the pendant from Sandy. Sandy jumped out of the way. Matthew lurched into the drinks trolley. Two decanters and a set of glasses clattered to the Turkey rug. The smells of brandy and sherry filled the room. The door burst open. Mr. and Mrs. Rannoch ran into the room.

  "It's over, Trenor," Mr. Rannoch said, as Matthew pushed himself up from the wreckage of broken glass. "We know Miranda Dormer had discovered you were selling secrets to Beverston. And we know you killed her for it."

  "I found this." Sandy thrust the pendant into Mr. Rannoch's hand.

  "You were passing information to Beverston by hiding it in a book in Miranda's room, weren't you?" Mr. Rannoch said. "Clever, you and Beverston didn't have to actually meet. But she found one of your communications. She told Hugh Derenvil she was disappointed in you."

  Matthew Trenor hurled himself across the room. Almost before she realized he'd moved, Bet felt his arm round her and the press of a knife at her throat.

  Malcolm stared at Matthew Trenor's knife against Bet Simcox's throat and cursed himself for a fool. "Don't be stupid, Trenor. There's nowhere for you to go."

  "Of course there is. A whole world beyond Britain. Sandy's little friend and I are going out that door. Then you need no longer concern yourself with me."

  Malcolm cast a sidelong glance at Mélanie. The knife was too close to Bet's throat to risk a jump.