by Tracy Grant
"That's a fantastical story, Mrs. Rannoch."
"It's a story that makes sense of the facts. Though it leaves a lot unexplained. Such as what hold Carfax had on you and Julien St. Juste. And how you met St. Juste in the first place." Not to mention who Julien really was.
Sylvie regarded her for a long moment. "I'm not admitting a word of it, Mrs. Rannoch. But when you tell your husband, as I have no doubt you will, make sure you make it clear that whatever I did, Oliver knew none of it."
Chapter 39
Suzanne hurried down the gilded Robert Adam staircase in search of Raoul and Laura. At the base of the stairs stood the naked Canova marble statue of Napoleon Bonaparte, which Wellington had had Benjamin Dean Wyatt install. Suzanne's hand tightened on the polished stair rail. She found herself averting her gaze. She was the furthest thing from a prude, but there was something about seeing a naked statue of someone one had actually met . . .
She drew up short at the base of the stairs at the sight of her husband. "Thank God you're still here," he said, coming forwards to take her hands. Without further speech, they went into an empty ground floor sitting room.
"Carfax didn't say much," Malcolm said, pushing the door to. "Though he said enough to confirm St. Juste's story. He denies he had an agent break into Whateley & Company and kill Coventry, but it's the obvious explanation—"
"Darling, no." Suzanne gripped her husband's hands and told him about Sylvie St. Ives.
Malcolm stared at her, not with disbelief but with the weary certainty of one putting the pieces together even as she laid them before him.
"Dear God."
"There's no reason to think Oliver knew any of it, Malcolm. Sylvie says no, and in that, at least, I think she's telling the truth."
Malcolm's brows drew together and she was sure he was remembering Sylvie as a girl, as a debutante in love with Oliver, as a young wife. "What the hell hold did Carfax have on her? And on St. Juste?"
"I don't know. The connection between Julien and Lady St. Ives obviously goes far back."
"Which could support your idea that St. Juste might be English. Someone Sylvie knew here as a girl."
"Perhaps. Or he could be connected to her family still in France. Louis Germont is, and she's obviously still in touch with him."
"And no way to prove any of it." Malcolm passed a hand over his face. "We'll have to decide what to tell Harry and Cordy."
In the end, they took the Davenports back to Berkeley Square with them, along with Laura and Raoul, and told them the whole. Rather amazingly, they could do so without mentioning her own and Raoul's prior connection to Julien St. Juste.
Cordelia shivered. "I never considered Sylvie St. Ives a particular friend, but—"
"I don't suppose there's any way to prove any of it," Harry said.
"No." Malcolm's voice was grim. "And if we could, Carfax would shut down an attempt to bring Sylvie to justice, as he's already shut down the Bow Street investigation. He'd be too concerned about the secrets that might be revealed."
"I can't say I'm much bothered by the thought of agents being able to break away from Carfax," Harry murmured.
Malcolm met his friend's gaze. "Nor am I. Though it appears Carfax still has some influence over St. Juste and Sylvie. I'm quite sure losing some of his agents won't slow Carfax down for long. And there's no way to bring him to account for the plot to entrap Bonapartists."
"You stopped it," Raoul said in a quiet voice. "That counts for a lot."
Cordelia curled her fingers round Harry's arm. "Maria was just trying to break free of Carfax. Difficult to blame her for that."
"I never had a great many illusions about Maria," Harry said. "But I confess I'm relieved to find she isn't a killer." He looked down at his wife. "All right?"
"How could it not be?" Cordelia pressed her face against his shoulder. "Especially since you're going home with me."
David watched Jamie launch himself across the Carfax House drawing room carpet at Lucinda.
"It's all right," Lucinda said, catching her nephew with a grin. "I've got him."
David cast a glance round his parents' drawing room. Amy was sitting on the sofa beside his mother, nibbling a biscuit, the toes of her shiny black shoes peeping neatly from beneath her ruffled skirts, making an obvious effort to mimic Lady Carfax's posture. Teddy and George were on the floor playing with the lead soldiers that had once been his. When Amy finished her biscuit she was going to want to abandon being ladylike and join them, which would make his mother raise her brows. But all things considered, it was going reasonably well. David bent to ruffle Jamie's hair and sent Teddy a grin, a "you're the eldest, you're in charge" look. Teddy received it and grinned back. David turned and followed his father from the room.
These visits were getting easier, but it would be good to be home. David paused at the door to Carfax's study. Odd. When had Brook Street, rather than the Albany or Carfax House, become home? It helped, of course, that Simon was spending more time there.
"Sit down, David." Carfax moved to his desk and waved David to a chair. "How much has Malcolm told you?"
"I haven't seen Malcolm since Bel and Oliver's ball." David dropped into a chair. "Is there news?"
"You could say so." Carfax tapped his fingers on the desktop. "You needn't worry about further break-ins at Brook Street."
"They've caught whoever was behind the break-ins?"
"In a manner of speaking. The matter has been taken care of."
"Thank God." No sense in even trying to get his father to tell him more. David knew Malcolm would tell him as much of the truth as he thought he could. Though he also knew that wouldn't be anything approaching the whole.
"There's another matter I need to discuss with you." Carfax aligned his pen on the desktop.
"If it's about Teddy—"
"It isn't. I'll grant that you've earned the right to decide what you think is best for him." Carfax moved the inkpot beside the pen. He seemed to be delaying coming to the point, which wasn't like him.
"Thank you," David said. His gratitude was genuine, but unease coiled within him.
Carfax moved a box of sealing wax beside the inkpot, then laid his hands flat on the inkblotter and regarded David for a moment. Behind his spectacle lenses his gaze was tinged with an unwonted compassion.
A jolt of terror shot through David.
"I'm sorry, David," Carfax said. "This isn't going to be easy to hear. But there's something you need to know."
Oliver stared at Malcolm across the same sitting room at Brooks's where they had spoken the previous day. "Sylvie—"
"Lied to you? A bit ironic if you find that surprising."
"She never told me—"
"You didn't know she knew St. Juste?"
Oliver shook his head. "I never even heard of Julien St. Juste. Who the hell is he?"
"An excellent question. But Sylvie has evidently known him for a long time. And they both worked for Carfax."
"She didn't—" Oliver broke off, a dozen unvoiced questions lurking in his gaze.
"It's hard," Malcolm said. "Facing betrayal. Even when one is familiar with it oneself. Perhaps worst of all from the woman one loves." Dangerous to say that, perhaps, but he hoped Oliver would think he was talking hypothetically.
"She's not—" Oliver stared at him for a moment. "I loved Sylvie. A part of me will always love her in a way, I suppose. Even—after this. But Bel's the mother of my children. How could I not love her after everything we've shared?"
"Does Bel know?" Malcolm asked in a quiet voice.
"I'm not sure. I think it might have made a difference to her once. I'm not sure it does now." Oliver ran a hand over his hair. "I'm going to tell Bel the truth. About my working for her father. If you'll—I'd like to do that before you tell David and Simon."
Malcolm regarded his friend for a long moment. "I'm not going to tell David and Simon."
Oliver's head snapped up. "You're not—"
"What you say to them is up to you."
"There's little enough reason to thank anyone in this whole mess."
Oliver drew a breath as though he might say more, then gave a quick nod and turned to the door. He was reaching for the door handle when the door opened and David came into the room and nearly collided with him.
"Oliver." David drew up short, as though scarcely aware of where he was going.
Oliver scanned his brother-in-law's pale face. "Are you all right?"
David gave a curt nod. "I need to talk to Malcolm."
"I'm just on my way out." Oliver cast a quick glance between David and Malcolm, a different sort of concern in his face, then gave another nod and left the room.
David pushed the door to and leaned against the panels. He was paler than usual, his hair uncharacteristically disordered, as though he'd been running his fingers through it.
"What?" Malcolm took a step towards his friend. "What is it? The children?"
"Father." David's voice was rough. "He told me the most unbelievable story. He's never been above embroidering the facts, but this went overboard even for him. He said—" David pushed himself away from the door, took a turn about the room, as though the words stuck in his head.
Malcolm went numb, though he couldn't quite believe that what he feared was about to happen.
David turned to face him. His gaze held disbelief and apology for the outlandish thing he was about to say. "He claimed Suzanne was"—the words seemed to catch in David's throat—"a spy."
"Of course she was a spy." Malcolm forced normalcy to his voice. "We both were."
"That's not what Father meant." David's gaze locked on Malcolm's own, twisted with torment. "He said she was a spy for the French."
Chapter 40
There it was, put into words, the thing he had feared almost from the moment he learned the truth about Suzanne. Every fiber of his being seemed to have gone cold. A part of his mind had never believed this would happen. Yet another part had always seemed to know this moment was inevitable.
"Is it true?" David's words were a hoarse plea.
"If it was, you can't imagine I would admit it, can you?"
"But you aren't denying it." David's gaze raked his face.
Malcolm looked into the eyes of his best friend of twenty-three years. The weight of a friendship hung between them, but as so often in the espionage game, the decision about whether or not to lie came down to practicalities. He could insist Suzanne hadn't been a French agent. He could probably convince David. David might not even revisit the topic with his father. But Carfax would. Carfax would use God knew what evidence and tell God knew whom else.
Yesterday Carfax had seemed, if not checkmated, at least put in check, his agents breaking away, his efforts to ferret out Bonapartists in London foiled. Now, with the shock of a deluge on a seemingly calm day, Malcolm was reminded how very dangerous his spymaster could be.
"Malcolm?" David's voice held an edge of desperation. "Did someone blackmail her? She's never mentioned family she still has in France, but did they use that as a hold on her?"
Malcolm's guts twisted at the longing and certainty in David's gaze. Longing for an explanation, certainty that there must be one. He'd felt that himself when he first realized Suzanne had been working for the French. "Suzanne is loyal," he said. "To the things she believes in. To the country of her birth."
David's eyes widened. Had his own gaze, Malcolm wondered, ever held such horror? "What about loyalty to her family?" David asked. "To her husband?"
"She was loyal to her cause and her comrades before she met me," Malcolm said.
"She married you knowing—"
"Most of what we both did in the Peninsula was a mission, one way and another." Malcolm kept his voice level. Part of it was an effort. But part was the situation as he'd come to accept it.
David stared at him as though he had transformed into another creature. Belle's prince changing back into le Bête. "She married you to spy on Britain. To spy on you."
"Among others. She didn't plan it. I played into her hands when my chivalry drove me to propose."
"My God." David took a stumbling step backwards. "How can you sound so calm?"
"It wasn't easy at first. I was rather inclined to see the whole situation through my own lens."
"You—How long—Malcolm, did you—" David broke off, not able to put what he feared into words.
But Malcolm took the meaning. It was like a blow to the gut. "Did I work with her? David, how can you ask that of me?"
"You're the one who's always saying we can't know what a person will do under any circumstances. That I don't understand the espionage game."
"Even I have my limits."
"And Suzanne doesn't?"
"No. It's not the same." Malcolm took a half step forwards. "You know me, David."
"I thought I knew you." David's voice was low and rough, unlike anything Malcolm had heard from his friend before. "I thought I knew Suzanne."
David's face was that of a man cut loose from his moorings. Malcolm remembered feeling the same way himself, though his work had given him a framework to grasp hold of. "I have no right to ask you to take my word for anything just now, David. But I wouldn't betray my country."
David's gaze hardened, like a devastated stretch of ground freezing over. "What do you call protecting a woman who did?"
"She'd stopped," Malcolm said. "Long before I learned the truth. She stopped after Waterloo."
"And you believed her?"
"Yes. I know it may sound mad to you, but I know her. And we're honest with each other. Now."
David gave a short laugh. "And if she hadn't stopped before you learned the truth?"
Malcolm swallowed and felt as though he'd downed shards of glass. If he'd been quicker, better at his job, more insightful, a better agent, less in love—He'd have figured out the truth while Mel was still working for the French. And then? He'd wondered about that obliquely but had always shied away from examining the question too closely. Unthinkable to have turned the mother of his child over to British intelligence, even before he'd admitted the depths of his own feelings for her. Would he have confronted her and given her the chance to escape? And take Colin with her? Equally unthinkable. Demanded she stop? He doubted she'd have agreed. With a shock like cold fire, he realized he wasn't even sure he'd have wanted her to.
"You aren't sure, are you?" David said. "My God, Malcolm."
"When I first learned the truth"—Malcolm's voice was rough as he picked his way over uncomfortable terrain. "I couldn't imagine that I could ever trust her again. Let alone"—his voice caught on a word he rarely used about his wife, even to his best friend—"love her."
"But you do."
"I'm a spy myself. I can understand why she did what she did. I can recognize it's something I might have done myself—"
"You'd have married a woman simply to steal information—"
"I'm not sure. I don't think I'd have gone that far. But God knows I know what it is to use people's trust. To betray and tell oneself it's for a good cause. Difficult to draw lines and judge. The part of me that's an agent can even admire the sheer craft of what she pulled off. I'm quite sure I couldn't have done it myself."
"You can admire—" David choked. "You can admire someone stealing information from you? Christ, Malcolm. British soldiers died because of her."
"And French soldiers survived."
"You can't." David shook his head. "You can't balance the scales that way."
Malcolm took a step forwards, instinctively reaching out for something he feared was already out of his reach. "Do you remember when we slipped out of Carfax House and went to that lecture by William Godwin? We thought we were so daring. And afterwards we sat in a coffeehouse, feeling ridiculously grown up, and said how amazing it was how logical his arguments were? That it was difficult to refute them? Those are much the same arguments Suzanne would make about the world."
He caught a spark
of the past in David's gaze for a moment. And then the same shutter slammed closed. "Don't, Malcolm. Don't claim that even thinking about remaking our country is the same as being a Bonapartist agent. That puts you on a footing with my father."
"Fair enough. I didn't say Suzanne and I agreed on tactics. But then, we didn't start from the same place."
"You started from a place of working for your country."
"So did she."
"Malcolm, I know you. You'd never have let being a spy justify anything you did."
"No, not anything. We all have to make choices and draw boundaries. The question is what boundaries and how to draw them. I know enough to know that's not an easy question for anyone to answer."
"My God you sound coldblooded about it."
"I wasn't at first, believe me. It still takes work, at times."
David took a turn about the room, feet pounding against the Axminster carpet. "I want to believe you. I want to believe in the Suzanne I thought I knew. But if I let go here—" He stopped and turned to Malcolm again. This time the stretch of carpet between them was seemingly uncrossable. "Yes, our country isn't ordered as it should be. Yes, there's intolerable injustice. Yes, we could and do write treatises on what we'd change. But in the end, it has to mean something."
"What?"
"England. Britain. What it stands for. What we were fighting for. Otherwise, the whole thing just becomes a game."
"If it is, it's a game with life and death stakes. But not just for British men and women. And it's arguable what's best for those in Britain as well."
David shook his head. "She deceived you. She married you to gain information. She's the mother of your children. I can see how you have to go on living together. But how can you believe anything she says?"
"I suppose it would be more accurate to say I choose to believe it."
David stared at him as though looking at a stranger. "Father was right."
"About what?"
"That you're besotted."
"I suppose I am. But I think I see Mel more clearly than I ever have."
"Mel?"
"It's her real name. Mélanie Suzanne."