by Tracy Grant
"And the ladies." Livia held up a fair-haired lady in white. "She'd make a good Guenevere. I don't think we need Lancelot. They'd be happier without him."
"Excellent point," Malcolm said without a blink. He pushed himself to his feet. "We've made a good start. I'll leave you to sort out the details. I need to speak to Uncle Harry."
"I'll help." Laura took Malcolm's place on the carpet. "I've always quite liked Arthur and his knights. And ladies. We need a Nimue."
Suzanne poured Harry a cup of tea, and they and Cordelia and Malcolm moved to the far end of the room. Harry dropped down on a settee beside his wife and shot a smile at her. Cordelia smiled back. In the light from the windows, her eyes were wide and bright. His mind slid back to the girl she'd been when they married. Not the brittle sophisticate she'd usually seemed, but the young woman beneath, whom he had only caught occasional glimpses of, but who had sometimes seemed as lonely and uncertain as he was himself. "Maria says she was Craven's mistress," he said. "And that she broke into the Brook Street house to steal an indiscreet letter."
"A good story," Malcolm said. "But we've heard a lot of good stories lately."
"That's what I thought. What I told Maria. She said if there was more, did I really think she'd tell me?"
Cordelia wrinkled her nose. "I was going to say it's difficult for me to imagine a woman with the wit to be involved with you sparing Craven a second glance. Although perhaps my own example doesn't precisely support that." She smiled brightly into his eyes, one of her defying-the-past smiles.
Harry took her hand and raised it to his lips. "Maria claims they met because Carfax sent him to her for information. That she was bored and lonely and didn't have a lot of options."
"There's no denying a shared mission can draw people together," Suzanne said. "And it can lend a person glamour. Still—"
"As an explanation it's a trifle obvious," Malcolm said.
"She also claims to know nothing about the Whateley & Company break-in," Harry said. "Which would mean we have two, or possibly three, separate people or groups looking for something of value that Craven had."
"Fitzroy claimed quite convincingly not to have been behind the Brook Street break-in," Malcolm said. "Which would mean we're almost certainly talking about at least two separate people. But whoever asked Fitzroy to engage Ennis, I can't imagine they were after love letters Maria Monreal wrote to Craven, so that would not just be two separate people, but two separate documents. Which does stretch credibility."
"So Maria is most likely lying," Harry said. "Hardly a surprise. I can see through her enough to be fairly sure of that. But not of what she's lying about."
"That's rather a relief," Cordelia said.
"Do you have any idea whom she might be working for?" Malcolm asked.
Harry considered a moment, sifting through what he knew of Maria. "She never seemed to have particular loyalties beyond disliking the French. Mostly, she seemed to enjoy the espionage game. I can't see her being happy in retirement. So she might have let just about anyone engage her services."
"Including Carfax." Malcolm drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. "Whom we already know she knows. If Carfax got wind someone else was looking for something Craven had hidden, he might have tried to retrieve it first. When his people failed to find it at Whateley & Company, he could have sent an agent to search the Brook Street house."
"You're suggesting Maria killed Coventry?" Harry kept his voice as even as he could.
"Do you think she's capable of it?"
Harry willed himself to dispassionate consideration, keenly aware of Cordelia's gaze on him. "Of killing? Oh, yes, in the right circumstances. But simply because someone surprised her—I'm not sure."
"If she was recognized, her life here could have unraveled," Suzanne pointed out.
"True." Harry frowned, seeing Maria sitting across from him today on her sofa, shawl slipping off her shoulders, and then remembering her lying in his arms, her dark hair spilling over his chest. That shouldn't change anything. And yet—"Perhaps it's that I don't want to see it," he said.
"It's difficult," Cordelia said in a quiet voice. "Thinking someone one's been intimate with could be capable of murder."
Harry's gaze shot to his wife's face, the ghost of George Chase between them.
"Carfax could have engaged two different people for the two break-ins," Malcolm said.
"If Carfax is behind it," Suzanne said.
Malcolm's gaze jerked to his wife's face.
"I'm the last person to defend Carfax," Suzanne said. "But we don't have any proof."
"Rational as always, Suzette. But nor do we have it against anyone else."
Carfax leaned back in the chair at the desk in his study. "The children seem to have settled down well from last night."
David smiled, remembering the trouble he and Simon had had getting them back to sleep. He had brought the four children round to see his parents and his youngest sister, Lucinda, this afternoon. Isobel had stopped by briefly, then left to prepare for her ball. Though not before George had blurted out the news of the break-in, and David had been obliged to explain, downplaying the dangers for Isobel's sake as much as teh children's. Carfax had spent half an hour in the drawing room with his grandchildren, seeming a bit awkward but genuinely interested. Then he had taken David down to the study to talk, leaving the children with Lady Carfax and Lucinda. "They saw it as an adventure more than anything," David said. "Amy and George were convinced it was pirates after some undefined treasure."
"It's good they can laugh." Carfax's brows drew together. "These taunts that caused Teddy to run away from Harrow. Someone claimed George was a bastard?"
David had had the same instinctive reaction when he first heard the story, but time had tempered his response. And he didn't want Carfax making a big to-do about Teddy's adventure for any number of reasons. "I'm not entirely sure what was said. There was some sort of smear on Louisa's honor, but it's the sort of insult boys hurl at each other all the time, particularly those lacking in imagination. It doesn't necessarily mean more than that."
Carfax leaned forwards in his chair, arms on his desktop, fingers tented beneath his chin. "Still. In the circumstances, it's concerning. I'll make some inquiries."
David's alarm must have shown in his face, for his father gave a dry smile and added, "Discreetly, of course."
David willed himself to relax back in his chair. "The whole incident was unfortunate, but in some ways I think it's good to have Teddy home. It's easier for me to gauge what he's going through, and it's certainly good for the younger ones."
Carfax nodded. "In truth, I wouldn't have thought to see them as happy as they appear to be now. You're doing well with them."
Praise from his father always made David brace himself. He looked at Carfax, wondering what was coming next.
Carfax gave a dry smile. "It's a simple statement of fact. I had doubts about your taking the children at the time, but now I see it was far and away the best solution. The whole family has cause to be grateful to you. As I'm sure Louisa would be." He coughed.
"Sir." Something in Carfax's expression took David down a path he had never intended to follow. "I don't pretend to understand what happened to Louisa. But whatever choices she made, whatever drove those choices—it can't possibly be owed to anything you or my mother did or didn't do. You've both always been the best of parents."
Something wavered in Carfax's gaze, like a curtain moving in the wind. For an instant, David thought he was catching a glimpse of a side of his father Carfax almost never revealed. A glimpse too fleeting to grasp hold of. "Thank you, David." When Carfax spoke, his voice was dry and brittle as leaves about to disintegrate. "But now that you are to all intents and purposes a parent yourself, I'm sure you'll appreciate that one can't help but wonder." He coughed again. "It's an inestimable comfort to know her children are in good hands."
"Thank you." David coughed himself. He couldn't remember when he had felt so in
charity with his father. At the same time, in a raft of difficult conversations, he couldn't remember when he had felt so unsure of what to say to Carfax.
"Have you decided what you'll do, come the new term?" Carfax asked, in a voice of almost forced normalcy.
"Not yet." David was not yet ready to face that particular battle with his father.
"Can't let time waste," Carfax said, "Perhaps another school—"
"Yes. We're—I'm"—damn, the very word change was an insult to Simon—"considering it."
Carfax's gaze flickered over his face, but he merely inclined his head.
David pushed himself to his feet. Carfax settled back in his chair, but as David moved to the door, Carfax said, "David."
David turned back, one hand on the door handle. He met his father's gaze and couldn't be sure if Carfax had decided at the last minute to detain him or if the timing was one of his father's carefully orchestrated ploys. Malcolm could sometimes read Carfax. David had long since given up even trying to do so. "Yes?"
Carfax regarded him for a long, controlled moment. "It's time you were married."
Hell and the devil. The talk had been going entirely too well. David released the door handle. "Sir—"
"It's one reason I was concerned about your taking on Louisa's children," Carfax said. "I was afraid it would be a distraction, an excuse to avoid getting on with your own life. But seeing how natural you are with them—far more so than I ever was myself, I confess—I can only hope it's made you realize how much is to be gained from having your own household."
David moved back to his chair. "I have my own household."
Carfax tugged a sheet of paper straight in a pile on his desktop. "Any woman worth her salt will understand your commitment to the children. Will honor your commitment to them and take them on as her own. Not easy, but you wouldn't want a woman without backbone—"
"Damn it, Father." David drew a breath.
"I've tried to wait for you to come to your senses on your own. You've always had a good sense of your responsibilities. I was sure that would triumph in the end. I can be patient. But not indefinitely. This family has been through enough. The succession must be secured."
David dropped back into the chair, his hand rigid on the back as he lowered himself into it. "It is secure. Cousin Michael has two sons. His younger brother has three."
"Oh, for God's sake. That's not the same and you know it."
"You inherited from Uncle John—"
"Not through any choice of his. John married, he had a son—" Carfax drew a breath at the mention of his nephew's untimely death. "No one can foresee how every eventuality will play out."
"Precisely. The Carfax lands will do well enough in the hands of Michael's sons." It was the first time David had said as much to his father. He'd barely articulated it to himself.
"Michael's a decent enough man, but he's a country gentleman. He wasn't bred for this stage."
"I'll make sure his sons are." Until he'd taken in Louisa's children, David hadn't realized that was a role he could play.
"It's not the same. A few holiday weeks can't equal the training of a lifetime." Carfax leaned back in his chair, hands taut on the chair arms. "God knows we don't agree about everything, David. You have a right to be your own man. But the country needs men like us. Malcolm doesn't understand that, but I think you do."
David's hands locked as he imagined what Simon would say to that, what Malcolm would. It went against everything they believed in, everything he believed in. And yet he couldn't deny that a part of him felt the tug of the image his father evoked. He saw the ranks of ancestors in the portrait gallery at Carfax Court, men who had shepherded the trust that would one day be his to pass along to the next generation.
"I don't dislike Tanner, you know," Carfax said in a quiet voice.
David felt himself jerk. His father rarely mentioned Simon at all and had never come close to alluding to David's relationship with Simon.
Carfax gave a wry smile of acknowledgment. "Oh, I may deplore his politics, but I don't deny his wit or the keenness of his understanding. I don't share your proclivities, but I can understand the attraction."
"Sir—" David could barely get the word out.
"Yes, I know. I wouldn't have wanted to discuss any of my love affairs with my father either. What I'm trying to say is that taking a wife doesn't necessarily have to end your relationship with Tanner. You know as well as I do that most married men in Mayfair have at least one lover."
"You don't." David was quite certain of that. Every thought revolted from the idea of prying into his parents' love life, but one of the many contradictory things about Carfax was his devotion to his wife, and David had never seen his father so much as flirt with another woman.
"No." Carfax adjusted his spectacles. "I'm very happy with your mother. We've been fortunate. But I'm not saying you have to have the same sort of marriage."
"You're giving me permission to have a marriage that's a lie."
"Marriage is about establishing a foundation for future generations. Do that and you and your wife can both have the lives you choose."
"Simon would never stand for being part of such an arrangement."
"No?" Carfax gave a faint smile. "I think you underestimate him."
"On the contrary. I know how honorable a man he is. He wouldn't be part of a lie."
"Yes, he has ideals. I'm sure that's part of the attraction. But ideals are one thing in theory and quite another when put to the test. I've seen the way he looks at you. Whatever he may say, I don't think he'd stay away."
David flushed. "Father—"
"For God's sake, David." Carfax slammed his hands down on the desk, sending a stack of papers fluttering to the floor. "I'm telling you you don't have to give up the man you claim to love. I'm telling you there are ways to have the life you want and still do your duty by your heritage. I've been patient. I thought your sense of duty would bring you to that realization on your own. But my patience has come to an end. I want to see the line secure. What happened to Louisa shows us how fragile life can be—"
"Don't, Father." David gripped the arms of his chair. "Don't turn Louisa's tragedy into a bargaining chip. That demeans both of us."
"I'll do what I need to do to protect my family."
From Carfax, those words were bone-chilling. "You wouldn't—"
"Take a leaf from Dewhurst's book? No, for any number of reasons. But poorly as I think of Dewhurst, I can understand what drove him."
David pushed himself to his feet. "Give it up, Father. It's over."
"My dear David. It's nothing of the sort."
Chapter 23
Raoul looked up at the Berkeley Square house as he stepped into the square from Bruton Street. The fanlight over the door. The gray stone walls. The cream work on the ground floor. The greenery spilling through the wrought metal railing on the first floor. The pediments over the windows. The house he'd visited through the years, at a ball, at a reception. For a stolen meeting with Arabella. Arabella's house. Alistair Rannoch's house. Malcolm and Mélanie's house. And now, amazingly, perhaps the closest thing he had to a home.
He climbed the steps and rang the bell. Valentin admitted him with the sort of easy smile he gave to the family. As Raoul relinquished his hat, Laura came out the double doors of the library. "Suzanne and Malcolm are reading to the children." She gave Raoul a quick smile that froze midway with unwonted awkwardness. "Do you want to—?"
"Quite." He followed her back into the library. In the cheerful chaos of the household, it was rare for them to have a moment alone together, except in her bedchamber at night. Though they'd enjoyed a stolen kiss in the library before he left for Spain the first time. He pushed aside the memory. Time to dwell on such things later. He needed to tell her about the reasons Mélanie had asked him to come to London, and in her bedchamber he was all too likely to get distracted.
Laura gestured towards the decanters. "Do you—?"
He hesi
tated a moment. "Thank you."
She poured two glasses of whisky. The late afternoon light from the windows glittered off the decanter and gilded her hair. For a moment, it was so easy to imagine they were in their own home, sharing a drink, their child safe upstairs, enjoying time alone together with no need for subterfuge. The thought made him dizzy.
"Malcolm finally convinced me I should feel free to help myself," she said. "Actually, he tried when I was still their governess, though I could never quite bring myself to do so." She crossed back to him and held out one of the glasses. "I think Suzanne told Malcolm about whatever made her ask you to come to London. This afternoon."
Relief shot through him like a draught of whisky. "I'm glad." He took the glass she was holding out and touched it to her own. "Now I need to tell you."
Laura looked into his gaze, her own steady. "You don't need to tell me anything."
"Yes, I do." He took her hand and drew her over to the window seat. Laura said nothing but sat watching him, the sunlight spilling over her face.
He laced his fingers through her own, and told her about the Phoenix plot.
She listened in silence, the widening of her blue eyes her only reaction. "I can see why Suzanne didn't tell Malcolm," she said when he had done.
"Yes." Images from the past shot through Raoul's mind. "I can only hope Malcolm does."
Laura squeezed his hand. "She's right, you know. It would put an intolerable burden on Malcolm for him to feel he had to turn you in or conceal the plot."
"Malcolm is an agent. He knows about making hard choices."
"Malcolm is also a son. And learning to think like one."
Raoul's mind shied away from the images her words conjured. There were some things he'd told himself were out of reach for so long he wouldn't let himself imagine them. "Don't start thinking in fairy-tale terms, Laura. You're more sensible than that."
"I'm a good observer, as you've often said." She took a sip of whisky, her gaze lingering on his face. "You didn't have to tell me any of this."