by Tracy Grant
"No? If I owe you nothing else, I owe you as much honesty as we can muster between us." He tightened his fingers round her own. "Do you believe I'm not involved in a plot to restore Bonaparte?"
"If I say yes, will you accuse me of thinking in fairy-tale terms again?"
He grinned. "Perhaps, but I'm relieved to hear it."
She released her breath, leaning in to him, a loose strand of her hair brushing his shoulder. "Did you learn anything from your inquiries today?"
"An anonymous-sounding man—or possibly more than one anonymous-sounding man—has visited several people, with vague mentions of this plot. No one admits to taking the bait." He drew a breath. "But it seems Fouché may be involved."
He hadn't talked to her much about the former French minister of police, but he saw the instinctive fear in her eyes. "You think he's running the plot?"
"It seems likely. I'm less sure of his reasons." He stared down at their clasped hands. How long was it since he'd been able to sit like this, simply holding someone's hand? He'd crossed lines in the past months that he'd always avoided crossing, that a good agent crossed at his or her peril. There were things it was better to leave unvoiced, even in the privacy of one's own mind. And yet he found himself saying, "You know how I fought to keep Bonaparte in power, whatever my quarrels with him. You know what I think of the situation in France now. Yet when Mélanie told me about this supposed plot, my first reaction was dread."
"Because you thought it would fail?" Laura's gaze was steady on his face.
"There is that. But mostly because if there is a plot I'd feel impelled to play a role, one way or another. And I don't want to be pulled back into that maelstrom. Because, unlike at the end of Waterloo, unlike for most of the war, I have something to lose."
Laura drew back, her gaze wide and still. Her understanding confirmed the dangerous waters they'd moved into and also what he had gained from speaking. "It's hard to live a life without ties," she said. Her voice was level but slightly husky. "You taught me that."
"I'm immeasurably glad if I did."
Laura regarded him in that way that had the damnable ability to slip past his defenses. "You're missed. But you know I can look after myself, whatever comes."
"That, I'm well aware of." Though it hadn't stopped him, months since, from arranging for certain contingencies.
"One needs to snatch happiness where one can. You taught me that as well."
"A good lesson." But it didn't stop him from wanting more. Which perhaps was the most dangerous thing of all. Because what he wanted wasn't what was best for her. He needed to take his own advice and find joy in the moment. He set down his glass and reached for her. He felt the jolt of response that ran through her, let himself savor the warmth of her breath and the glow in her eyes before she melted into his kiss.
There was a lot to be said for living in the moment.
"You think Fouché is behind the Phoenix plot?" Malcolm dropped his arm round Mélanie's shoulders, his habitual reaction when news cut too close to the tangle of her past. Raoul was conscious of a keen wish that he could do the same with Laura, but she was sitting in one of the Queen Anne chairs while he was in the other, several feet of library carpet between them. For the first time he wondered if Malcolm reached for Mélanie as much to reassure himself as to protect her.
"It seems likely," Raoul said, surprised by the coolness he could muster in his own voice. "Fouché's in exile, but he's been in exile before, and it's never stopped him from plotting. Quite the reverse, in fact."
"And he thinks restoring Bonaparte will also restore him to power?" Malcolm asked.
"He might." Raoul gripped the carved arms of his chair, remembering his confrontation with the former minister of police in Paris three years ago. Fouché had been threatening to unmask Mélanie then. "If he could pull it off, Bonaparte would certainly be grateful, whatever he thinks of Fouché. But the key words are 'if he could pull it off.' It's possible Fouché's desperate enough he thinks it's worth the gamble. But it's also possible he thinks that if he can ferret out Bonapartists willing to engage in a treasonous plot, and give the French cause to ask the British to arrest them or send them back to France, he'll worm his way back into the good graces of the Ultra Royalists."
Mélanie drew a rough breath. "That sounds like Fouché."
"Quite." The acanthus leaves carved on the chair arms were probably imprinted on his palms. "Going back to the Revolution, his loyalties have shifted with where he thought the greatest advantage lay. And using a dummy plot to ferret out spies would be much easier than actually helping Bonaparte escape."
"So this man Suzanne helped, whom Bertrand got out of Paris—he's part of the plot?" Laura asked.
"He's most likely working for Fouché, given that he has in the past," Raoul said. "If the plot's a fake, he was probably sent to England to fan the fires."
"We know he tried to recruit Jennifer Mansfield to take part in the plot. So his seemingly feverish ravings were intended to entrap me," Mélanie said. Her fingers locked together in her lap. She hated to be outwitted.
"Apparently his wounds were real enough," Raoul said. "You probably saved his life."
"I don't wish anyone dead," Mélanie said, "but it looks as though I put others at risk in saving him."
Malcolm met Raoul's gaze. "Fouché knows about Suzanne."
Raoul saw again the cold terror that had filled Mélanie's eyes after Fouché had attempted to blackmail her three years ago, felt again the rage that had swept through him, remembered his chess game with the minister of police. He could see the same memories shoot through Mélanie's eyes.
"If Fouché wanted my assistance with a plot to free Bonaparte, he could have tried to blackmail me again," Mélanie said. "He'd have no way of knowing Malcolm knows the truth. And even if he did, he could threaten to expose me to the world in general."
Laura frowned, as though putting together the pieces. "But if the plot is actually an attempt to entrap former Bonapartist agents—"
"He might well have sent one of his people to confide in me in the guise of a man trying to stop the plot," Mélanie finished for her in a flat voice. "If we're right, it is interesting he didn't send someone to try to draw me into the plot directly."
Malcolm turned his head to look at his wife, his gaze that of a fellow spy, and yet at the same time, oddly tender. "He may have realized you probably wouldn't have been drawn into a plot," he said. "But he knew he could play on your loyalty to your comrades. And your compassion."
"Stop making me sound like a ministering angel, darling."
"Perish the thought. But you're also not as hardened as you let on."
"And this way you knew about the plot," Laura said. "He could watch for what you did next. See if by any chance you took the bait."
Raoul smiled at his lover. "You have remarkable insights into Fouché for someone who never dealt with him, sweetheart," he said. Only belatedly did he realize he'd called her sweetheart. But there was really no sense in even pretending to pretend in front of Mélanie and Malcolm anymore.
"It's the sort of thing Trenchard would have done," Laura said. "Fouché sounds all too like him."
Raoul felt his mouth tighten. "An apt comparison." He got up and moved to perch on the arm of her chair, his hand on her shoulder. Laura looked up with faint surprise, then leaned in to him.
Malcolm was frowning at the carved arm of the settee. "This settles it. I can't go to Carfax."
Mélanie cast a quick look up at him. "Darling—"
"Think, Mel. If we're right, we'd be playing right into Fouché's hand. Carfax would want former Bonapartists discredited every bit as much as the Comte d'Artois. And obviously there's no real risk of a plot to free Bonaparte."
Mélanie looked steadily into her husband's eyes. "And if we're wrong?"
Malcolm drew a measured breath. The sort, Raoul knew from experience, that took an intense effort. "That's why we have to investigate to learn the truth."
"We?" Mélanie cont
inued to watch him.
Malcolm gave a sudden grin. "When investigating a possible plot to free Bonaparte, who better to turn to for help than two of Bonaparte's best spies?"
"We were never Bonaparte's," Mélanie said, "but I'll take it as a compliment."
Chapter 24
Laura wondered if she should release Raoul's arm. But Suzanne was still holding Malcolm's, so perhaps moving away would look more ostentatious. Somehow standing in a crowd, her gloved fingers curved round the black superfine of his sleeve, seemed more intimate, in a way, than the nights they'd spent together.
Laura smoothed a hand over the folds of her skirt. She had a new gown, seafoam silk and ivory gauze with slashed sleeves edged in pearls. It was cut in what was called "the Spanish style" which had amused her greatly, though she doubted Raoul was even vaguely aware of the term. She had, however, caught the glow in his eyes when she came downstairs in the gown. Perhaps it was shallow, but there was no denying clothes could lend one much needed confidence. "Out two nights in a row," she said. "I don't know what I'm turning into."
Raoul cast a glance round the crowded room, gaze lingering on the delicate white-and-gold paneling, the tall French windows, the coffered ceiling. "I don't think I've been here before. It's a beautiful house."
"Like the Berkeley Square house, it looks more like a family home when they aren't entertaining," Suzanne said. "I still remember how kind Bel and Oliver were when Malcolm first brought Colin and me here. It's good there's one Mallinson daughter with a happy marriage."
"They were always kind to me," Laura said. "Even when I was a governess they treated me"—she smiled, not trying to keep the irony from the smile—"like a person."
"It doesn't hurt that I've never seen anyone coax Rose out of her tantrums as well as you do," Malcolm said.
"I saw the small heads peeping over the stair rail when we came in," Raoul said. "You're obviously a favorite."
"I'm a good storyteller," Laura said. "It goes a long way with children." She cast a glance about the room. The candles in the gilt sconces warmed the air and glittered in the tall mirrors hung on all sides. Just in the throng near them, she spotted a royal duke, three patronesses of Almack's, and the Duke of Wellington. "I confess spending the evening in the nursery doesn't seem a bad option now."
"Thank goodness we found you," Cordelia said as she and Harry came up beside them. "It's so crowded one can scarcely see who's in the room, and my gown's been trodden on three times. So Isobel can be sure her party will be deemed a great success."
The words were light, but the way Cordelia was holding her husband's arm and leaning in to him said a great deal about how she felt in the wake of Harry's visit to Maria Monreal. Cordelia met Laura's gaze and gave a faint smile that confirmed her thoughts. And also, Laura realized, said a great deal about how well she'd come to know Cordelia.
"No sign of the Whateleys," Harry said, "though I imagine they've been invited. And Fitzroy and Harriet are here." He met Malcolm's gaze for a moment.
"I doubt I'd get very far talking to him again," Malcolm said. "Not without more information."
"There you are." Isobel Lydgate materialized out of the crowd, elegant if a bit pale in white British net over pale lilac satin. She cast a quick glance round and lowered her voice, though it was scarcely necessary with the buzz of conversation bouncing off the gilded ceiling. "I stopped by Carfax House this afternoon. David had brought the children to see my parents. He told me about the break-in last night. God in heaven—"
"It's concerning," Suzanne said. "But everyone's all right. Whatever the thief's intention, I don't think she meant harm to any of them."
"It was a woman?" Isobel asked in disbelief.
"It seems to have been." Malcolm squeezed her hand. "The children are well protected and Suzette's right. The thief didn't mean them harm. Don't let it spoil tonight, Bel."
Isobel's tight face relaxed into a smile. "Dear Malcolm. You could reassure anyone. Though what really stops me from worrying is that all of you are managing the investigation." Her smile encompassed the whole group, including Laura.
"We'll try not to let you down," Malcolm said, lightly, but Laura caught an undertone of seriousness.
"You couldn't if you tried," Isobel said, then drew a quick breath. Laura wondered if she was remembering the end of the investigation in Trenchard's and Craven's deaths. With the aplomb of an experienced hostess, Isobel forced another smile to her lips. "On a more mundane note, I'm on my way up to say goodnight to the children, and I promised I'd bring Laura and Suzanne up with me. And you, Cordy, if I could find you. Ellie keeps asking about your gown. She says the one you wore last time you were here was her favorite ever. I imagine tonight she'll think you're a fairy princess." Isobel ran an appreciative gaze over Cordelia's silver-embroidered gauze gown and diamond circlet and then smiled at the men. "I promise I'll return them for dancing in a quarter hour."
"Malcolm is longing to find somewhere to talk politics," Suzanne said with a laugh. "Can we take the children some ices?"
Cordelia laughed as well, but as she followed the other three women into the passage, Laura wondered if her sharp-eyed friends had noticed the strain behind Isobel Lydgate's steady blue gaze.
Malcolm took up a position on the edge of the dance floor, scanning the crowd for Eustace Whateley or anyone else it might be good to talk to. He caught a glimpse of his wife across the room with Bertrand, the softly pleated stuff of her gown swirling round her like mist on a dark night. Harry and O'Roarke were dancing with Cordelia and Laura, but when the ladies returned to the ballroom, Suzanne had met Malcolm's gaze with a look that said she intended to circulate. They needed to put their time to use. Time enough for dancing later.
"Malcolm."
Even before Malcolm turned his head, he recognized the familiar, incisive tones of the Duke of Wellington. "What are you doing not dancing with your wife?" Wellington inquired.
"This is Mayfair, sir. Surely I needn't remind you husbands and wives aren't expected to spend the evening dancing together?"
"Since when have you been one to do the expected? Any more than your friend Davenport." Wellington jerked his head towards Harry and Cordelia. Then his gaze moved round the ballroom. "Sensible girl, Isobel. Always does things well. Good to see the family getting on with their lives." He cast a glance at Malcolm. "You've been to see Fitzroy twice."
"You don't miss much, do you, sir?"
"Hope not. Part of your investigation?"
"Fitzroy's a friend. I often go to see him."
"And you're not denying it's part of the investigation, which means it is. Is Fitzroy in trouble?"
For a moment Malcolm could hear the crack of the cannon shot that had taken Fitzroy's arm, a handsbreadth away from Wellington and Malcolm himself, feel the weight of Fitzroy falling against him, hear the sharpness in Wellington's voice. "You know Fitzroy, sir. Can you imagine him doing anything to get himself in trouble?"
"Hmph." Wellington's gaze continued to skim the ballroom. "Only if he thought that was the only honorable way to proceed. Good God, is that Raoul O'Roarke dancing with Lady Tarrington? Thought he was in Spain."
"He's visiting London, like you, sir. He only just arrived." Malcolm hesitated a moment, but there was no reason for Wellington not to know, and it would look odd for Malcolm not to mention it. "O'Roarke is staying with us while he's in London, as it happens."
Wellington frowned, then nodded. "Forgot he was a friend of your family." His gaze continued on Laura and O'Roarke as they circled the floor. O'Roarke was holding her at a very correct distance, but even from the edge of the dance floor the glow in his eyes was unmistakable. "Looks as though Lady Tarrington is a friend of O'Roarke's as well."
"Yes," Malcolm said with an easy smile. "They've got to know each other through the years at our house. O'Roarke is a favorite honorary uncle with our children and Lady Tarrington's daughter." Always good when one could work in the unvarnished truth in the midst of deception.
"I'm quite sure he's in sympathy with the Liberals," Malcolm said. There again he could speak the truth.
Wellington gave a brusque nod. "Suppose it was too much to expect he'd remain an ally. Still, if he's staying with you, you should bring him along to the Waterloo dinner tomorrow. He was certainly part of our victory."
Malcolm bit back an ironic laugh and kept his gaze steady. "Thank you, sir. I'm sure he'll be honored."
Wellington waved a hand. "Good to remember the war made strange bedfellows."
"Thank God for parties." Bertrand materialized out of the crowd at Suzanne's side shortly after she returned from her trip to the nursery. "We'd have the devil of a time sharing information otherwise."
"You have information?" Suzanne asked.
"Not as much as I'd like." Bertrand retrieved two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and gave one to her. Of one accord, they moved to a sofa of gold-spotted blue satin set beneath a gilt-framed mirror in an embrasure in the white-and-gold wall. "Louis Germont's mother was a younger daughter of the Baron de Brillac. Her brother, who had the title at the time of the Revolution, sought refuge in Austria, though it seems there may have been a sister who came to Britain. Someone who might be Germont was spotted at a coffeehouse frequented by émigrés yesterday, but I couldn't get enough information to trace him from there."
Suzanne hesitated, but if she told Bertrand about Lisette's sighting of Germont the whole Phoenix plot would unravel, and with it, a host of revelations. "If anyone can find him, you can," she said.
Bertrand gave a faint smile. "These days, I'm used to responding to pleas for help. It's a long time since I've tried to ferret out information." He took a sip of champagne and considered her in silence for a long moment. It was, Suzanne realized, damnably difficult to tell what he was thinking, for all his easy good humor. Despite his words, he was a master agent among master agents. "I didn't think it through much before I went to France the first time. My family had fled France. I'd grown up in England. The Bonapartists were the enemy."