London Gambit

by Tracy Grant

  For a moment she thought her imagination had conjured him. Then he sprang down from the window ledge. "Sorry. I thought it was a bit late to go round to the front door, and I didn't want to wait."

  Air rushed through her lungs. Whenever she saw him and knew he was safe, at least for the moment, she felt she could breathe again. She could never say as much to him, of course. She studied the familiar, mocking gray eyes, the quizzical mouth, the disordered dark hair that fell over his forehead. "And you have a weakness for dramatic entrances."

  Raoul stretched his arms. His back, she knew, had a tendency to ache. "That sounds a bit schoolboyish for a hardened spy."

  Laura folded her arms across her chest. "If the shoe fits."

  He grinned, looking even more like a schoolboy. Then he unclasped his cloak and tossed it over a chair back, and moved towards her, his face gone serious.

  "You got my message?" she asked.

  "And Mélanie's. I don't suppose she's told you what it is?"

  "No. And I don't think she's told Malcolm either. She thinks she's protecting him."

  Raoul grimaced.

  "It's dangerous," Laura said. "But I don't think she'd do it without good cause."

  "Nor do I." Concern darkened his eyes. "I'll talk to her in the morning." His gaze shot to her face. "Laura—"

  "It's all right. I've been enough of a spy to understand what you can't tell me."

  His gaze shifted over her face. "It's not—"

  "We agreed from the first we wouldn't make demands on each other. Not that I'd ever demand secrets as proof of intimacy."

  "My God," he said. "Have I told you you're remarkable, Laura?"

  She let her face relax into a smile. "One never gets tired of hearing it." She put out a hand to touch his arm. Even now, he almost always left it to her to make the first move, but at her touch, he seized her hand and pulled her into his arms. His kiss was swift and unexpectedly urgent. She wrapped her arms round him and let her head fall against his shoulder for a moment. Warmth. The smell of sandalwood. When in God's name had being in his arms come to feel like home?

  "You got here quickly," she said, aware that her own voice sounded husky.

  "I was already on my way. Both messages got to me at Dover."

  She lifted her head and drew back to look at him. "You had other business in London?"

  "You could say that," he said with an odd smile.

  "What?" she asked, and then wondered if that was pushing past boundaries that should remain in place.

  He lifted a hand and pushed her hair behind her ear. "I'm looking at it."

  Her breath caught. He slid his fingers behind her neck and stroked his thumb against her cheek. "How are you, Laura?"

  Much better now that you're here seemed too trite for them, so instead she said, "Blessedly unmired in intrigue, except the ones I'm assisting the Rannochs with. They're in the midst of an investigation now as it happens. There was a break-in at the warehouse of a company Lord Craven had invested in."

  Raoul's brows drew together.

  "Yes. It's concerning," she said. "They haven't figured out what the thieves were after yet. But one of the thieves was killed and left in the warehouse. And then tonight someone broke into the Craven house in Brook Street where David is living with the children. Malcolm and Suzanne are there now."

  Raoul cast a quick glance at the door. "Do you know—"

  "I was there when they got the message. The footman said David and the children were unharmed. Apparently Simon is there too. I more than half wanted to go with them, but there wasn't much I could add to what they could do themselves, and it made more sense to stay here in case any of the children wakes."

  Raoul pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "That's my Laura. Sense over impulse."

  "I've been plenty impulsive in the past. On more than one occasion involving you."

  "Thank God for it." He pressed a kiss against her forehead.

  "If you want to go after them—"

  "I couldn't add much either. And I'd be at a loss to explain how I knew of the situation. Besides, I'm singularly loath to leave my present circumstances. You haven't finished telling me how you go on. Is Emily over her chill?"

  "Oh, yes, it was just a cold. Colin and Jessica didn't get it this time, thankfully. You didn't come back—"

  "Not entirely. I missed you both."

  When he looked at her like that, her wits had a way of scattering. "I've written another article, I've dined with my father and Sarah, I've been to a ball at the Davenports'. There's less talk when I go out than there used to be. I'm—glad you're here."

  "So am I."

  Their kiss lasted longer this time. In fact, by the time it ended he had lifted her in his arms and they were halfway to the bed. Delight washed over her.

  Later, his fingers twined in her hair, he said, "I liked your article about women's education."

  Laura lifted her head from his shoulder to look down at him. "You had time to read it?"

  "You know how much of the business of being an agent is sitting about."

  "Lady Grantham actually told me she was going to take it into account in finding a new governess for her daughters. As you're always saying, one takes victories where one finds them."

  "A far from insignificant victory from the perspective of Lady Grantham's daughters."

  She shifted and rested her head on his chest. They'd been in a bit of a hurry, and he was still wearing his shirt. She slid her hands under the linen. Her fingers brushed the puckered edge of a healing wound that hadn't been there the last time she'd lain in his arms. She lifted her head again and looked at him in inquiry.

  "I was meeting with an agent in a tavern. We got caught up in a brawl. Minor collateral damage."

  The wound wasn't long but it was dangerously close to his lung. She had a keen memory of gripping his shoulders, pulling him against her. "You should have said something. I'd have—"

  "Its all right, Laura." His lips twitched. "You were very gentle with me."

  "Wretch. It must still pain you."

  "In truth, with you in my arms it's the last thing on my mind."

  She studied his familiar gray eyes, thinking of the things they saw that were only on the edges of her world. "Are you sure someone wasn't using the brawl to try to kill you?"

  He folded his arms behind his head. "One can never be sure. It can be fatal to let one's guard down. But my work now is less dangerous than it was during the war."

  She rested her arms on his chest—carefully avoiding the wound—and looked into his face in the flickering candlelight. Impossible to imagine a world without his vivid presence. Yet she lived with the possibility every day. "Given what I know about your work during the war, I hardly find that reassuring."

  He reached for one of her hands and pulled it against his lips. "Life's a risk." She saw him hesitate, saw him wonder, perhaps, how much to put into words. "I'll own to feeling more apprehension than I have in the past."

  "Because you're more aware of the risks?"

  "Because of what I have to come back to."

  Her breath caught in her throat. She put her free hand against his face. "I'll say this for the separations. They make for lovely reunions."

  His mouth twisted. "You deserve better, Laura."

  "For two hardened spies, you and Mélanie have a distinct tendency to underrate yourselves."

  "In my case I'd call it realism."

  "And in Mélanie's?"

  "Mélanie's always tended to be a prey to guilt."

  "While you're a clear-eyed realist?"

  "I can see what you deserve."

  "I've never asked for more."

  "That doesn't change it."

  Laura laced her fingers through his own. "It means a lot having a future that's more than necessity. You gave me that. You and Emily."

  She wasn't sure if it was wise to link him with Emily like that, but he smiled. "My dear—thank you. It's a great honor to be bracketed with Emily.
"

  Laura let her head fall down against his chest. The sound of his heartbeat was strong and reassuring beneath her ear. Whatever was to come, for him, between them, right now he was here, alive and vibrant and in her arms. "They've seemed better," she said. "So far as I can tell. They laugh more. And there are fewer of those unexpected silences. And she's been helping him with his speeches. She wasn't for a while."

  "A good sign."

  "I thought so. I think if anything they talk about politics more. And she challenges him more. Of course, it's all inference. I don't think a detached observer would notice anything was wrong."

  "You're one of the most astute observers I know."

  "And I got in the habit of observing them when I was reporting to Trenchard."

  Raoul's hand stilled on her hair.

  Laura lifted her head. "You aren't the only one to question your past actions."

  Raoul's eyes had darkened the way they still did at mention of Trenchard. "One of my great regrets is that I never got to call the duke to account."

  "That wouldn't have helped anything."

  "But it would have been highly satisfying."

  Malcolm pushed the door of his and Suzanne's bedchamber to. "I suppose it's just possible a man dropped the bracelet."

  "It could have been a gift for a mistress." Suzanne undid the ties on her cloak and dropped it on the dressing table bench. "Or perhaps his mistress or wife put it in his pocket and it fell out. I've done that with you when a clasp is loose."

  Malcolm pulled the gold-and-carnelian bracelet from his pocket. Roth had suggested they keep it for now. "The clasp appears fine. It's also possible the intruder sometimes dressed as a woman. Or perhaps more accurately sometimes became a woman."

  "And forgot to remove the bracelet when changing clothes?" Suzanne struck a flint and lit the tapers on her dressing table.

  "Again possible. But not likely. The likeliest explanation, especially given the long hair I found and David's description of the intruder as slight, is that the intruder was a woman in all guises."

  "Who still would have had to leave the bracelet on when donning clothing for the break-in," Suzanne said. "But I've been known to do that when making a quick change."

  "Which doesn't get us any closer to knowing who broke in." Malcolm held the bracelet up to the light of the lamp on the table by the door for a moment, watching the play of light on the carnelians, then set it down. "Or to what they thought Craven possessed that they risked two break-ins to recover."

  Suzanne dropped down on her dressing table bench. "That bracelet could support Sue Kettering and her child for a year. I doubt it belonged to a confederate of Ben Coventry's."

  "So do I." Malcolm prowled across the room. "And we know Fitzroy engaged Ennis to hire Coventry. Whatever Fitzroy's motives, it's difficult for me to see him hiring a woman for such a mission."

  "He is the protective sort," Suzanne agreed. "Though he's seen what I can do. That is"—she swallowed—"some of what I can do. If he found the right person—"

  "A female agent living in London who wears expensive jewels? I suppose Ennis might have found someone—he was in military intelligence. Or perhaps whoever broke into Brook Street tonight is the person who killed Coventry. Or the person who hired that person."

  Suzanne rubbed her forehead. "I could see a mistress of Craven's searching for letters she'd written him. But if it's a love affair, it's more difficult to see Fitzroy wanting the papers."

  "Unless it's a love affair of Wellington's." Malcolm's voice turned grim.

  "And the woman who broke into Brook Street tonight was Wellington's mistress?" Suzanne frowned. "Darling, the break-in tonight was the work of a professional."

  "A point." Malcolm shrugged out of his coat and stared at the black superfine. "You aside, there aren't many society beauties who could have pulled that off. It looks far more like the work of—"

  "An agent."

  Malcolm laid his coat over the tapestry chair back. "It's possible Wellington had a mistress who was an agent. Especially if he met her on the Continent. Given that Craven was an agent for Carfax, it's possible this same woman was also Craven's mistress. But it's far more likely the papers and her motive for seeking them are political." His fingers whitened for a moment against the black fabric of his coat.

  "Malcolm." Suzanne's fingers stilled, unfastening the garnet pendant he'd given her six weeks ago. "There are all sorts of people in London who are or have been agents. Most of them don't know about me."

  "No." He started on his waistcoat buttons.

  "It still seems likeliest the thief, or thieves, was after papers having to do with Carfax's use of Whateley & Company. And that this woman was either hired by Ennis and Fitzroy or was after the same papers on behalf of someone else." Suzanne glanced at the bracelet again. "She doesn't sound like anyone you worked with?"

  "Most of the people I worked with were Spanish or Portuguese and are still on the Peninsula. I'll talk to Harry tomorrow. He may have an idea."

  Suzanne turned on her dressing table bench to face the looking glass. There was little more to be learned tonight, and Malcolm had a tendency to brood when he thought the spy game might be touching too close to her. "At the least, this quite distracted me from any worries about Laura encountering Colonel Cuthbertson."

  "Laura was bound to run into someone she knew in India." Malcolm was frowning, but he accepted the subject change. "Best perhaps to have got past that, and with someone like Cuthbertson. Harry says he's a good man, which is high praise from Harry."

  Suzanne pulled one of her aquamarine earrings from her ear. "I think he and Laura were quite close in India."

  "I hope so. I'd like to think she had men in her life other than Trenchard and Jack."

  "You only had to see the way he looked at her crossing the salon at the Tavistock to know he's still fond of her." Suzanne unfastened her second earring. "And from the way she looked talking with him, I'd say she's still fond of him."

  "I don't have to point out to you, of all people, that one can continue to care for a former lover, do I?"

  Suzanne met her husband's gaze in the dressing table looking glass. They didn't talk about Raoul a great deal, but they did manage now to discuss him on occasion. Malcolm's forbearance, in this, as in so many other things, was remarkable. But something always tightened within her chest at such moments, as though she was waiting for him to snap. "Of course not," she said. "I suppose I'm just afraid that in Laura's case"—she laid a bit more emphasis on "Laura's case" than was perhaps required—"it might be something more."

  "I suppose it could." Malcolm tossed his waistcoat after the coat. "Laura's her own person, with the right to make her own decisions. And close as we've all become, it would be folly to think we know what goes on in her head." He started on his shirt cuffs. "But for what it's worth, I don't think it likely."

  Suzanne tugged two of Blanca's carefully arranged pins from her hair. "I just don't want him to be hurt."

  This time it was Malcolm's gaze that locked on her own in the looking glass. It held understanding and a concern that echoed her own. No need, his gaze told her, to ask whom she meant by "him." "Nor do I."

  She drew a sharp breath.

  Malcolm continued to unfasten his shirt cuffs, with perhaps a bit more concentration than the act required. "In all the years I've known O'Roarke, I don't think I've ever seen him as happy as he was on his last visit. And yes, his happiness does matter to me."

  Malcolm dragged his shirt over his head. Suzanne sat still, stunned by the admission her husband had just made. As usual, Malcolm managed to make his most important declarations at the most trivial moments, wrapped up in the minutia of everyday life.

  Malcolm tossed his shirt after his coat and waistcoat. "You, on the other hand, could be pardoned for having somewhat conflicted feelings."

  Suzanne looked at her husband, bare-chested, his hair disordered and falling over his forehead. Vulnerable in ways that went far beyond the
physical. His gaze demanded nothing but said he would listen to whatever she wanted to confide. Would he have let his guard down, she wondered, if he hadn't wanted to give her the chance to talk? How very like the generous, maddening, remarkable man she had married.

  She turned round on the dressing table bench, meeting his gaze without the filter of the looking glass. "I wasn't sure how I'd feel," she said. "If he ever—But I'm happy, truly. Of course, I've had a twinge now and then. Sort of for old times' sake. But mostly I'm just glad that Raoul can—that they both can—let themselves be happy. And relieved—"

  "That it doesn't really change anything between you and O'Roarke?"

  Suzanne swallowed. Trust Malcolm to put into words something she hadn't fully articulated to herself yet. She hesitated, but she owed him honesty for honesty.

  "I'm glad," he said. Her surprise must have shown on her face, for he smiled. "I don't want you to lose what you have with O'Roarke. I may not fully understand what he means to you, but I have enough of a sense of it to know how important he is to your happiness."

  "He's not—" She spoke quickly, because it seemed vitally important Malcolm not misunderstand.

  "He is, Mel."

  "You have a right to be angry, Malcolm. Sometimes I wish—"

  "That I'd what? Rant? Forbid O'Roarke the house? Plant him a facer?" Malcolm crossed to the dressing table bench and dropped down beside her. "I'm not jealous. Not in that way. Mostly not in that way."

  She scanned his face, seeking clues. She felt as though they were stepping on glass. At some point they were going to have to talk about this, but saying the wrong thing could be worse than not talking about it at all. "Malcolm, I know there must be times—"

  He took her hand and looked down at their linked fingers. "I'm not worried about whose bed you're in. You're in mine"—he smiled—"to my constant amazement—and you seem happy there. You could have left in the past if you'd wanted to. But—you and O'Roarke shared a cause. You were partners."

  "We deceived you."

  "There is that. But I think I've got past raging at myself for being a fool. But—I think O'Roarke sees a part of you I don't. He sees you in a way I never will."