Teresa Grant

by Imperial Scandal

  “Assuming we don’t decide to educate him at home. It’s odd how being a parent makes one loath to put one’s child through what one went through oneself.”

  “Not odd at all.” Fitzroy’s serious face relaxed into a grin. He was a new father of a baby daughter. “It’s ridiculous how cautious it makes one. Though I suppose if I was really cautious I’d have sent Harriet and the baby back to England.”

  “I doubt Harriet would have gone,” Malcolm said, “any more than Suzanne would.”

  “Very true. And I could scarcely argue with her own uncle saying it’s perfectly safe.” Fitzroy’s young wife was Wellington’s niece. Fitzroy jerked his head at the door to Wellington’s office. “He’s expecting you. But have a care. Last night strained him more than he’ll admit, and he’s not happy with the news from the Prussians.”

  Malcolm exchanged a look with Davenport, and they moved to the door with one accord. Malcolm, more at home at Headquarters than Davenport in recent weeks, rapped on the door panels. A few moments later a curt voice bade them come in.

  Wellington was seated behind his desk, frowning at the papers before him, but he looked up at their entrance. “Learned anything new?”

  “Not since last night, sir,” Malcolm said.

  “No, I suppose not.” Wellington waved them to two straight-backed chairs that stood in front of the desk. “Davenport, you spoke with your—with Lady Cordelia last night?”

  Davenport nodded, face guarded. “As I said.”

  “And?”

  “My wife is a number of things, but she cared about her sister. She was upset, as you can imagine. And she insisted I show her her sister’s body.”

  Wellington raised his brows. “Intrepid woman. Could she shed any light on her sister’s actions last night?”

  “Cordelia only arrived in Brussels last night herself. She said she hadn’t seen Julia before arriving at the ball.”

  “Said?” Wellington repeated.

  Malcolm shot Davenport a sharp glance.

  “I have no reason to think Cordelia was lying about that.”

  “But—” Wellington said.

  Davenport shifted his position against the hard slats of his chair. “I think Cordelia may know more about Julia than she admitted to me last night. I’m not the likeliest person for her to confide in.”

  Wellington’s gaze slid to Malcolm. “Could Suzanne—”

  “I’ve already asked her to speak to Lady Cordelia.” Malcolm glanced at Davenport. “My wife has assisted me in the past.”

  “I’ve heard stories of her exploits. Your marriage is remarkable, Rannoch,” Davenport said, in a tone that indicated he still hadn’t made up his mind whether that was a negative or a positive.

  “Right.” Wellington tapped his fingers on the ink blotter. “Let’s get back to La Fleur and his warning. Tell me again precisely what he said?”

  Malcolm exchanged a glance with Davenport. “ ‘Don’t trust the Silver Hawk.’ ”

  Wellington frowned. “It sounds like a code name.”

  “So it does. But not one I’ve ever heard of. Davenport?”

  Davenport shook his head.

  “I have contacts in Brussels we can approach,” Malcolm said. “Unless—” He glanced at Davenport.

  “You’ve been in Brussels more than I have in recent weeks,” Davenport said.

  Wellington gave a curt nod. “Go carefully.”

  “I always do, sir,” Malcolm said.

  “Hrmph,” said the commander of the Allied army.

  “I swear it’s as though mysterious deaths follow the two of you about.” Blanca Mendoza, Suzanne’s confidante, maid, and friend, added a yellow block to the gatehouse she, Suzanne, and Colin were building on the salon carpet in the Rue Ducale house out of the blocks that had been among Colin’s birthday presents.

  “I’d say that’s a function of our work.” Suzanne cupped her hand round Colin’s own and carefully helped him put a red block atop the yellow one, completing the tower over the archway.

  Blanca shot a sharp look at her. “You can’t go on like this forever.”

  “Who said anything about forever?” Suzanne watched her son pick up one of his new wooden horses and gallop it through the archway. The weight of the future pressed against her, as it had more and more of late. An iron band round her temples drawn ever tighter. “I’m just trying to get through one day at a time.”

  “That’s what worries me,” Blanca said.

  “No sense fussing. We’ve come this far. Careful, darling.” Suzanne stopped Colin before he could plow the horse into the blocks. “I don’t think the gatehouse could stand up to Mercury’s hooves.”

  “You always say that,” Blanca said, “but this time—”

  A rap sounded on the door. “Forgive me, madame.” Valentin, the footman they’d engaged when they came to Brussels (how odd to have a footman), stepped into the room. “You have a caller. A Lady Cordelia Davenport.”

  10

  Suzanne had been mulling over ways to approach Lady Cordelia. She had not expected it to be this easy. Years in the intelligence world had taught her to be wary of anything that was too easy. She got to her feet and shook out the crumpled cambric folds of her skirt. “Please show her in, Valentin. And perhaps you could ask Brigitte to send in some coffee?”

  Colin stared up at Suzanne as Valentin withdrew. He was already adept at reading situations. “Yes, I know, darling,” she said, scooping him up in her arms, “but I need to talk to Lady Cordelia. You can meet her, and then Blanca’s going to take you out in the garden for a bit.”

  Colin regarded her with a steady gaze. An early childhood that had taken him from the war-torn Peninsula to the frenetic pace of the Congress of Vienna had made him blessedly adaptable. “Play later?”

  “Promise.” Suzanne kissed his forehead.

  From the doorway, Valentin gave a discreet cough. “Lady Cordelia Davenport.”

  Cordelia Davenport paused on the threshold, taking in the scene before her. Beneath the pleated violet silk of her bonnet, her face was shadowed with strain and exhaustion, but she gave a sudden smile as her gaze settled on Colin.

  “Lady Cordelia, will you allow me to present my son, Colin?” Suzanne set Colin on his feet. “This is Lady Cordelia, Colin.”

  “Master Rannoch.” Cordelia advanced toward him and held out her hand. “It’s an honor.”

  Colin shook her lilac-kid-gloved hand with great concentration. “Lady Cordelia,” he said carefully, only slurring the last syllables slightly. He studied her for a moment, then added, “It’s my birthday.”

  “Happy birthday. I’m sorry I didn’t know so I could bring you a present. Very remiss of me.”

  Colin grinned. “That’s all right, Mummy and Daddy gave me lots.”

  “Very satisfactory of them.”

  “And Blanca Mendoza, my companion,” Suzanne said.

  Lady Cordelia again shook hands, showing no surprise at being introduced to someone’s maid.

  “Thank you,” Suzanne said when Blanca had taken Colin off to the garden. “I like to give him practice.”

  “Very sensible. It makes it so much easier to take children places. My daughter turned three in January,” Cordelia added. “She was an intrepid traveler on our journey to Brussels.”

  “Was she very stubborn about doing things on her own at two?” Suzanne gestured for Cordelia to be seated on one of the two striped satin sofas ranged before the fireplace and sat opposite her.

  “Incorrigibly,” Cordelia said with another smile. “She insisted on walking herself, though it took twice as long as being carried or pushed in her carriage.”

  Valentin returned with a coffee service and biscuits. Suzanne poured out the coffee and handed Lady Cordelia a cup. Cordelia took a quick swallow, as though she wished it were something stronger.

  “Lady Cordelia.” Suzanne leaned forward. “I’m so very sorry about your sister.”

  “Thank you.” Cordelia returned the silve
r-rimmed cup to its saucer with great care. “I’ve just written to my mother and stepfather. Mama will take it hard, she was so proud of Julia. But my stepfather’s a sensible man, thank God. Far steadier than any of us.” She took another sip of coffee. “I expect you wonder why the devil I called on you.”

  “I imagine it’s something to do with last night’s events.”

  “I was hoping to find Mr. Rannoch here.” Cordelia gave a brittle laugh. “Not the best word choice. When I call asking for husbands, wives usually fly into an alarm.”

  Suzanne settled back on the sofa with her own cup of coffee. “Given the life my husband leads, if I took alarm at every unexpected person who called asking for him, I should live in a constant state of anxiety.”

  Cordelia shot her a quick look. “Is he—”

  “He’s gone to Headquarters.”

  “Of course.”

  “But I expect him back shortly. Won’t you wait?”

  Lady Cordelia hesitated, her posture taut, as though she feared every wasted moment. Suzanne recognized the desperate need to be doing something, anything, in the wake of grief and loss.

  “It shouldn’t be long,” Suzanne said. “And I imagine you’ll feel better when you’ve seen him.”

  Cordelia drew a sharp breath, then collapsed back on the sofa. In the light from the windows, the shadows beneath her eyes were more pronounced. Suzanne wished she had stirred some sugar into the coffee she’d given her guest. Cordelia Davenport appeared to be existing on sheer nerves.

  “I only met your sister a handful of times,” Suzanne said, “but she was so charming. She was very kind to Colin. We met her walking out a few times with her own little boy.”

  “It’s going to be beastly for Robbie. Not that it’s not beastly for the rest of us, but he’s only a little boy. He shouldn’t—Oh damn.” Cordelia put her hand to her face as tears sprang unbidden to her eyes.

  Suzanne got up without hesitation, moved to sit on the sofa beside the other woman, and pressed a handkerchief into Cordelia’s hand. “I can’t imagine what you must be going through.”

  Which was true. She’d had her own losses, but grief was different for everyone.

  “Julia would despise me,” Cordelia said into the handkerchief. “She had no use for watering pots.”

  “That depends upon the circumstances. There are times when crying is by far the most sensible thing one can do.”

  Cordelia blew her nose. “How much did your husband tell you of what happened last night?”

  Suzanne hesitated. But if she was to get Lady Cordelia to confide in her, they needed to be able to talk freely. “Very nearly the whole. At least according to what I know of it.”

  “A husband who trusts his wife. How novel.”

  Suzanne swallowed. She knew full well that Malcolm trusted her. Far more than he should. “Malcolm and I have learned to rely on each other.”

  Lady Cordelia shot her a look over the rim of her coffee cup. “It seems almost unimaginable.”

  “What?”

  Cordelia tossed down a swallow of coffee. “Relying upon one’s spouse.”

  Malcolm led Harry Davenport through the door of Le Lion Vert. They stepped into the smell of Belgian ale and Turkish tobacco and a medley of voices speaking French, Dutch, English, German. The common room was dark, with heavy oak beams and thick glass in the windows, but the oil lamps showed the red coats of British soldiers, the green jackets of riflemen, the blue of Horse Guards, one or two staff officers in dark blue, and the blue or green of Dutch-Belgian uniforms, as well as a number of dark-coated civilians. The turning of newspaper pages and the whiffle of cards stirred the air. And underneath it all, speculation about the military situation, as palpable as the tobacco smoke and the sour smell of the ale the potboys carried from table to table.

  Malcolm and Harry lingered for a time watching a chess game in progress between a white-haired man and a young Dutch-Belgian lieutenant. When the door opened to admit a trio of British hussars, Malcolm wandered to the back of the common room, stopping to exchange greetings with Alexander Gordon, who was lounging with a glass of red wine in one hand as though he hadn’t a care in the world and was a civilian rather than one of Wellington’s aides-de-camp.

  Davenport moved behind Malcolm, but not too closely. Malcolm heard him call a greeting to one or two acquaintances. Malcolm strolled up the age-darkened oak stairs at the back of the common room and heard Davenport’s soft, sure treads on the steps behind him. At the head, Malcolm led the way down the passage and pushed open a door.

  Davenport followed him inside and glanced round the neat, whitewashed private parlor. “Is your contact invisible or late?”

  “She’ll be here.” Malcolm picked up the decanter of red wine that stood on the round table in the center of the room and poured a glass.

  Davenport dropped into a chair. “She?”

  “Rachel Garnier.” Malcolm handed the glass to Davenport. “My best source in Brussels. She has access to a wealth of information.”

  “A shopkeeper?”

  “A bird of paradise.” Malcolm poured a second glass of wine and took a sip of the quite acceptable Côte de Rhone. “She’s employed at a house frequented by Belgians with French sympathies. Several of her regular clients are French agents. In fact, there’s a small spy ring that uses the brothel for meetings.”

  “But you haven’t taken them in because that would put a stop to one of your best sources of information.”

  “Quite.”

  Davenport took a sip of wine and studied Malcolm over the rim of the glass. “Your marriage appears to be more complicated than one would think at first glance. Or perhaps more commonplace.”

  “Suzanne’s met Rachel.”

  “Intriguing. Do—”

  Davenport’s words were cut short by the opening of the door. A slender young woman in a spring green gown stood on the threshold, a plumed hat set at a rakish angle on her auburn curls. She smiled at Malcolm. “I must say, I was quite pleased to get your message—” She went still as she caught sight of Davenport.

  “It’s all right,” Malcolm said. “He’s a friend.”

  Rachel regarded Davenport, her dark brows tightly drawn. “Who says friends are to be trusted?”

  “A good point,” Malcolm conceded. “But this friend is also a colleague without whom I might very well not have survived last night’s adventures. Mademoiselle Garnier, may I present Colonel Davenport?”

  Rachel regarded Davenport with a frank gaze. “You’ll forgive my suspicions? One learns to watch one’s back these days.”

  “The best way to avoid taking a knife between the shoulder blades.” Davenport got to his feet and gave a half bow.

  Rachel smiled and dipped in a precise curtsy. She was a lace-maker’s daughter, or so she had told Malcolm, but she had acquired the manners of a duchess. “You’re the man who was in the ambush with Monsieur Rannoch last night.”

  “You heard about the ambush?” Malcolm looked up from pulling out a chair for Rachel.

  “Haven’t you learned how quickly news travels in Brussels?” Rachel slid into the chair. “It was the talk of the house into the early hours of the morning.”

  Malcolm poured a third glass of wine and handed it to her. “Have you heard of the Silver Hawk?”

  Rachel took a sip of wine. “Is it a code? It sounds like something out of a novel.”

  “We were told to beware of it.”

  “By La Fleur?” Rachel set down her wineglass and leaned forward, fixing Malcolm with a direct stare from her blue eyes.

  Malcolm dropped into the chair across from her. “What do you know about La Fleur?”

  Rachel began to strip off her gloves. She had the instincts of an actress and enjoyed playing the drama of the moment. “That he was killed last night and both of you were caught in the attack as well.” She looked between Malcolm and Davenport. “La Fleur had been rumbled.”

  Malcolm flicked a glance at Davenport. “We knew. Dav
enport came to warn La Fleur and me. But it was too late. The French had sent someone to ambush us.”

  “It’s not quite so simple.” Rachel laid her lemon-colored gloves atop the table. “One of my regulars came to see me last night. Or rather early this morning.” She glanced at Malcolm. “Étienne Bouret.”

  “A soldier?” Davenport moved to a chair at the table. It was no secret there were a number of Bonapartist sympathizers in the Dutch-Belgian army.

  “Not this one.” Rachel reached for her glass again and took a sip of wine. “Étienne runs a café. He’s a primary source for passing along information. When he came to me last night he’d just got wind that La Fleur had been killed. He was shocked.”

  “Shocked?” Malcolm said.

  “Apparently just before he came to see me he’d learned of La Fleur’s death from a source who’s the sweetheart of one of Sir Charles Stuart’s stable boys.”

  Davenport frowned. “But—”

  Rachel took another sip of wine, savoring the moment. “According to Étienne, they’d just learned La Fleur was selling secrets to the British, but they hadn’t known he was meeting you last night. If Étienne’s to be believed, it wasn’t the French who shot at you.”

  “Clever woman,” Davenport said as he and Malcolm left the tavern. “You’re to be congratulated.”

  “Yes, I’m fortunate in my agents.” Malcolm kept his gaze fixed straight ahead.

  Davenport shot a look at him.

  “But as it happens I’m not sleeping with her.”

  “You can’t seriously expect me to believe you’re blind to her charms.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “So?” Davenport sounded like a man investigating an obscure theorem.

  “I could say I take vows seriously, but I’d sound like a pretentious prig. I could say I love my wife, but I’ve never been one to talk about my emotions.”

  Davenport regarded him a moment longer with that incisive gaze. “You’re the last man I took for a romantic, Rannoch.”

  “Somehow I don’t think that’s a compliment.”

  Davenport turned his gaze to a young Dutch-Belgian lieutenant and a girl in a Flemish lappet cap holding hands beneath the lacy ironwork of an overhanging balcony. “Illusions are a dangerous thing.”