by Teresa Grant
He lifted his head, his breath ragged on her face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“No. It was—lovely.” And she meant it. She looked into his concerned gaze and remembered that he thought she was the emotionally and physically scarred woman who’d been raped by the French soldiers who killed her family. Odd that she did in fact carry such scars, but they were much older. And the soldiers had been British.
“You needn’t ever—” He drew a breath. “There never need be anything more between us than you’re comfortable with.”
“Thank you. But the truth is—” She couldn’t very well say “the truth is I want you,” though with a shock of surprise she knew that was the case. “The truth is I can’t imagine being afraid of you.”
A smile, swift and genuine, broke across his face. “That means a great deal.” He touched her arm, again with tentative fingers. “I should speak to Stuart about arrangements.”
“I imagine Sir Charles will be relieved to have me settled. Not that he’s been anything but kind, but obviously I couldn’t continue here forever.”
He ran a hand over his hair. “My rooms are small. I never thought to bring a wife and child there.”
She smiled. “We’ll manage. After the Cantabrian Mountains it will seem like luxury.”
“After the Cantabrian Mountains anything would seem like luxury.”
Suzanne fingered the fringed end of her shawl. “Mr. Rannoch—”
“Don’t you think perhaps you should begin to call me Malcolm?”
“Malcolm then. There’s something else I should tell you.” She glanced round the passage. The sitting room was occupied, but the cushioned window seat offered a chance for conversation. “Perhaps we could sit down?”
Malcolm sat beside her on the velvet cushions, not close enough to even touch the folds of her gown, and looked at her in inquiry. She twitched her pintucked skirts smooth. With most men a direct approach would not work, but Malcolm Rannoch was not most men. And they had already faced danger together. “I think perhaps I can be of help to you.”
His eyes gave nothing away. She wasn’t the only one with excellent training.
“I chanced upon the Marquesa de Flores at the ball. She was in some distress. She told me about her predicament. And that you’re helping her.”
She saw the instinctive jerk of wariness in his gaze. An agent guards secrets above all. “The marquesa has an unguarded tongue.”
“I think she suspected there was something between you and me.”
A faint smile curved his mouth, though his gaze remained wary. “So perhaps she’s perceptive.”
“Mr. Ra—Malcolm—” The name sat oddly on her tongue. It implied a seductive intimacy. “I can hardly fail to be aware that your work goes beyond the usual diplomatic activity, not given how we met. I don’t expect you to confide in me; obviously it’s not the sort of thing you can share, particularly with—”
“My wife?”
“With a woman you still scarcely know. But in this case I’ve already stumbled into the midst of it, and I think I can help you. People confide in me. That is, if—”
“As it happens I’d welcome your assistance.”
She suspected it was a great admission. “Thank you. I don’t imagine you often work with others.”
“But I’ve already worked with you.”
It was true. Necessity had made them partners in defeating a French attack shortly after they met. The circumstances of her masquerade had compelled her to fight against her own side. One learned a lot about another person in the field. “I’m honored.”
“In this case, a woman’s perspective and assistance could prove invaluable.”
She watched him for a moment. She hadn’t expected it to be so easy. He was a man who held himself close, yet clearly not one to turn aside help. Even if it came from a woman. “What have you learned?” she asked.
“The marquesa left the letter tucked in a book in the library at Stuart’s rout last week. A system they had for communicating.”
“The system of lovers, not agents.”
“Yes,” he said with a slight note of surprise.
She had to remember she wasn’t supposed to think like an agent. She had fallen into the trap of being herself rather than the character she was portraying. A rare mistake for her to make. She was perhaps too much at ease with him. Strange that a man who was so reserved could get under her guard like that. “But we know it was someone invited to that embassy party. It’s a wonder you didn’t happen upon the letter yourself with all the time you spend in the library.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you think an agent of her husband’s took it?”
“That’s the obvious assumption. But in that case—”
“Why hasn’t he acted on the information?”
“Quite.” Malcolm hesitated for a moment, as though weighing how much more to say. “An open quarrel between the marques and Linford could have implications beyond the personal.”
“It could cause a breach between the British and their Spanish allies. You’re worried the French intercepted the letter?”
“We can’t ignore the possibility.”
“Do you know if anyone who was at the embassy party where the letter disappeared is a French agent?”
Malcolm stared at her.
“I don’t know precisely how such things work, but I assume you might know or suspect someone was an enemy agent but be keeping an eye on them to feed false information.”
He grinned. “You have the mind of an agent yourself, Suzanne. Yes, it’s been known to happen. But in this case I know of no one in particular.”
And she couldn’t tell him she knew for a fact the French weren’t behind the theft of the letter. “But if the French took the letter and their aim was to create such a breach, surely they’d have made use of the letter as well.”
“So one would think.” He regarded her again, as if still weighing how much to say. “The motive was blackmail.”
“Of the marquesa?”
“No, of Linford. At least he received a note demanding a notebook of his in exchange for the letter.”
“A notebook?”
Malcolm’s gaze flickered over her face, as though he was searching for the right words. She had the oddest sense that this man who had been so direct with her suddenly was protecting her sensibilities. “Yes. A notebook in which he recorded—”
She choked back a laugh. “Malcolm, are you telling me Captain Linford kept a written record of his amorous conquests ?”
“You’re quick.” His eyes glinted with appreciation.
“Well, I have seen Don Giovanni. More than once. Do you think the blackmailer wants the book to embarrass Linford?”
“Possibly. If the aim was to create a breach between us and the Spanish, the original letter should have served the purpose. Which makes me wonder—”
“If the motive involves a specific lady mentioned in the book?”
He nodded. “The personal, not the political.”
“Less dangerous for the British.”
“But not for the lady involved.”
His voice turned grim. This was a man with a strong instinct to protect. “Obviously Linford can’t give the book up,” Suzanne said. “The consequences could be worse than the loss of the original letter.”
“Quite. Linford’s creating a dummy notebook.” Malcolm drew a breath. She could see him once again debating how much to admit. “I’m going to meet with the blackmailer tonight.”
“You think it will work?”
“I hope it will.”
“But—”
“If it doesn’t, I’ll follow the blackmailer and try to learn his identity.”
“You’ll need help.”
She wondered if she’d gone too far. Perhaps it would have been better to follow him on her own. But instead of shock she saw consideration in his gaze.
“No one would be surprised to see us leave the embassy together,�
�� she said. “And I can move very quietly.”
“I was going to take Addison. But I hate to share the marquesa’s secrets with anyone who doesn’t already know them, even Addison.”
“And if you’re seen to disappear with me, they’ll simply assume we’ve slipped out for an amorous interlude.”
He gave a faint smile. “Slipping out of the ballroom for an amorous interlude is the last thing people would expect of me.”
“Except perhaps for taking a wife?”
The smile deepened. “Precisely.”
4
Malcolm stared round the sitting room of the lodgings he had occupied since he’d come to Lisbon four years ago. Papers overflowing the writing desk. Books crowded on the bookshelves that lined three walls and stacked on the floor and on nearly every available surface. A pianoforte he’d had shipped over from England, one of his few extravagances. One comfortably frayed tapestry wing-back chair by the fireplace. A door leading to the adjoining bedchamber, also crowded with books but with little else to give it a personal stamp.
“Sir?” Addison’s voice cut in on his thoughts. “Is anything the matter?”
“No. That is—” Malcolm turned to look at the man who’d been his valet since he went up to Oxford. “I’m going to marry Suzanne de Saint-Vallier.”
A genuine smile broke across Addison’s reserved face. “My felicitations, sir. To you both.”
“Thank you.” Malcolm cast another glance round the room. “She’ll be coming to live here. As will Blanca.”
“So I would presume.”
“We’ll have to—”
“Make room.” Addison, who had presided over a bachelor establishment for nearly a decade, seemed unfazed. But then very little fazed Addison, from unexpected guests to French snipers. “I will speak to Senhora Rivera and see if we can have the small room down the passage for Blanca—Miss Mendoza.”
“We should have another chair in the sitting room at the very least.”
“And a chest of drawers. I’ll see what I can do. I imagine Mrs. Rannoch will wish to purchase more after she settles in.”
Mrs. Rannoch. How odd it sounded. His mother had been Lady Arabella Rannoch. A welcome distinction. He didn’t need his parents hanging over this oddly begun marriage any more than they inevitably would. “Thank you. Addison—” Malcolm turned to look at his valet. They had depended on each other, shared tight quarters, saved each other’s lives more than once. Addison knew him in ways no one else on earth did. Yet they rarely spoke of personal topics. “Do you think I’m a fool?”
“I’ve always thought you possessed a very keen understanding, sir. This only confirms that opinion.”
“I don’t have the least idea what I’m doing.”
“I expect that’s true of many people when they get married.” Addison adjusted the cashmere blanket draped over the back of the tapestry chair. “Miss Saint-Vallier is an exceptional woman. You’re a fortunate man.”
“I’m well aware of it.”
“And she’s a fortunate woman.”
Malcolm smiled. But it couldn’t banish the bite of incipient failure.
Blanca dropped the curling tongs—fortunately unheated—to the floor with a clatter. “You aren’t serious.”
“It’s scarcely the sort of thing I’d joke about.” Suzanne leaned toward the dressing table mirror as she adjusted the silver filigree clasp on her gauze overdress.
“You’re actually going to marry him.” Blanca plunged the curling tongs into the chimney of the Argand lamp on the dressing table.
“I don’t think he’d agree to live with me otherwise. He’s quite conventional about some things.”
“You’ll be tied to him.”
“That’s the point.” Suzanne picked up a brush and added a touch more rouge to her cheeks. “Think of the information I’ll be able to gather.”
“He’ll be the father of your child.”
The rouge brush fell from her fingers to the polished walnut of the dressing table. “He’ll be gone much of the time. And you can’t deny the child will be safer in Lisbon than on my usual adventures.”
Blanca pulled the tongs from the lamp. “He’s in love with you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Suzanne picked up the brush and wiped at the rouge smeared on the tabletop. “He’s doing it because he knows of my predicament and wants to offer me a way out.”
Blanca wound a lock of the cropped hair that framed Suzanne’s face round the curling tongs. “He may have told you that. He may even have convinced himself that that’s the case. But I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”
“Rubbish.” The heat of the tongs felt stronger than usual against her scalp. “You’re always inclined to romanticize things.”
“I see what people are feeling while you’re blinded by whatever bit of paper you’re trying to steal.” Blanca unclamped the tongs, tweaked the ringlet, and reached for another lock of hair.
“Malcolm gave me a detailed list of all the reasons he’d make a bad husband.”
“Because he was terrified of offering for you.”
Suzanne’s fingers tightened round the handle of the brush. “And he as good as told me he isn’t capable of falling in love.”
Blanca snorted. “Only the worst romantics make those sorts of claims.”
Suzanne stared at her image in the mirror, ringlets framing one side of her face, straight hair on the other. In the midst of transformation. “Don’t you think I don’t know I’m taking shocking advantage of him? But he’s an agent himself. He’d do the same given the opportunity.”
“Not him.” Blanca curled a lock of hair on the opposite side. “He’s not ruthless enough.”
Suzanne swallowed. That, she suspected, might be true. “He still knows how the game is played.”
“He’ll hate you.” Blanca fluffed the curls round Suzanne’s face and stood back to regard her handiwork. “One day when he learns the truth.”
A chill, like the wind in the Cantabrian Mountains, cut through the silk and gauze of Suzanne’s gown. She reached for her shawl. “Of course. But you know one can’t think of the future in the midst of a war.”
In the looking glass she saw Blanca’s concerned gaze settle on her. “One day that war will be over.”
“And I have a chance to affect the outcome.”
“When you realize what you’ve done—”
“I’ll hate myself ?” Suzanne got to her feet and reached for her gloves. “I daresay I will. But it won’t be the first time. Self-hatred goes hand in hand with being a spy.”
“Glad you came to your senses, Malcolm.” Sir Charles Stuart clapped Malcolm on the shoulder. “She’s a capital girl. You won’t regret it.”
Malcolm turned his back to the crowd of evening guests in the embassy drawing room. “It isn’t my possible regrets that concern me, sir.”
“Rubbish. Don’t sell yourself short. She’s fond of you, that’s clear. Probably best not to muddy the whole thing up with romantic notions.”
It was sound advice, but for some reason it grated on Malcolm’s already taut nerves. “Quite.”
Stuart regarded him for a moment. “Not that it isn’t worth reaching for more if that’s what you want. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Oh, all right, it’s your own affair. Never could abide people poking into my business. Anything to report on the other matter?”
“I hope to have something to report by tomorrow morning.”
“Excellent. No need to give me the details—less I know the better, I suspect. Oh, there’s Colonel Frazer. Must pay my respects.”
“So you’re getting leg-shackled, Rannoch.” William Haddon materialized out of the crowd as Stuart moved off.
Malcolm did not think of himself as a man of violence, but he knew a strong impulse to plant the other man a facer. “If you’re remotely discerning, Haddon, you’ll realize how fortunate I am.”
Haddon grinned and tossed off the last of his champagne. “Fortune and marriage don�
��t go hand in hand.”
“Where’s Linford?” If all went well at tonight’s rendezvous, Malcolm would be able to tell Linford and Isabella he’d recovered the letter later in the evening.
“Oh, he’s been sent to Villa Franca with dispatches. Should be back Monday.” Haddon was scanning a quartet of young women gathered round the fireplace.
Malcolm wondered if Linford had deliberately arranged to absent himself. Though all things considered, it might be easier to have him out of the way.
Haddon’s gaze strayed from the girls round the fireplace to his own wife, who was seated on a settee with two other matrons. “Crackbrained notion to bring Charlotte to the Peninsula. Should have left her safely in England as Linford did with Mary. Wives can play the devil with one’s leisure time. As you’ll discover.”
Malcolm gave the most agreeable smile he could muster. “As it happens, I’m quite looking forward to spending time with my wife.”
“A girl like that will get bored. Don’t be fool enough to think you’ll be able to hold on to her.”
Malcolm’s fingers tightened round his champagne glass. It was, he realized, a very real possibility. Suzanne hadn’t had the chance to fall in love. She might very well do so at some point in the future. In which case common sense dictated that he would turn a blind eye. It was the practice of couples in the beau monde after all. He should be used to it.
He forced his fingers to unclench before he snapped the stem of his glass. “I’m not a fool, Haddon.”
“All very well to say so, Rannoch. You’ll be singing a different tune when she betrays you.”
“My felicitations, my dear.”
Mrs. Gordon, a sharp-featured lady with a cloud of auburn hair and a fondness for ostrich feathers, swept up to Suzanne with a rustle of jonquil satin and Brussels lace. “You’re marrying into one of the best families in Britain.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Suzanne recalled that Mrs. Gordon’s husband was a colonel in one of the cavalry regiments. She had an image of Mrs. Gordon surrounded by three girls in white, all of marriageable age.
Mrs. Gordon ran a shrewd gaze over Suzanne, half-disapproving, half-tinged with what might have been sympathy. “I don’t envy you, my dear. One can marry into the sort of society Malcolm Rannoch was born to, but one never really belongs.”