Teresa Grant

by Imperial Scandal

  Malcolm cast a glance at Davenport. Beneath the dappling shadows of the trees, his face was set in lines of determined control, his mouth twisted with self-derision. “You had considerable provocation.”

  “It seemed so at the time. If I’d managed to get over my feelings for Cordelia sooner, we’d have all been spared an uncomfortable scene. But the fact remains I found myself behaving with a lack of control of which I’d have thought myself incapable.”

  “You didn’t—”

  “Kill my wife? No, oddly enough that didn’t even occur to me. There’s no accounting for responses.”

  Malcolm stopped walking and touched the other man’s arm. “Davenport—”

  Davenport swung round to look him full in the face. “I’m hardly the most disinterested party when it comes to the Chase family or to my wife and her family. On the other hand, I’m known to be a cold-blooded bastard. I should be able to muddle through without entirely losing my perspective. Though it’s probably just as well I have you to keep an eye on me.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t let it get about.”

  “Monsieur Rannoch.” A towheaded boy darted down the path toward them. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  “What is it, Pierre?” Malcolm asked, looking down at the boy’s freckled face and serious blue eyes. “You have a message?”

  Pierre was the son of one of the women at Le Paon d’Or, Rachel’s brothel. He ran errands for the brothel, and Rachel had more than once employed him to send messages. At the age of eight, he was more reliable than many men of five-and-thirty.

  Pierre cast a sideways glance at Davenport and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

  “It’s all right,” Malcolm said. “This is Colonel Davenport. You can talk in front of him.”

  Pierre drew a breath. “Mam’selle Rachel didn’t give me a written message. She just said you were to come at once.”

  Malcolm dug his purse from his pocket. “Thank you.” He pressed a coin into Pierre’s hand. “You’d best take a roundabout way back to Le Paon d’Or.”

  “I know the drill.” Pierre pocketed the coin with a grin, then bowed his head formally and ran back down the path.

  “From Mademoiselle Garnier?” Davenport asked.

  “Do you want to come with me?”

  “Delighted you asked. That will save me following you.”

  “Le Paon d’Or. Off the Place Royale.”

  Davenport regarded Malcolm as a yellow-wheeled cabriolet tooled by a young buck with high shirt points rolled past. “You’re going to walk right into a brothel? Not exactly the discretion I’d expect of one of Britain’s finest agents.”

  “Usually I meet Rachel away from Le Paon d’Or, but sometimes it’s easier for me to go there than for her to leave. There’s a side entrance that some of the more discreet customers use. We won’t attract as much attention there. If we are seen going in, people will just assume we’re there for obvious reasons.”

  “Won’t it look suspicious for the last faithful husband in the beau monde to be seen going into a brothel?”

  “I said I wasn’t unfaithful to my wife, not that others believed it. In Vienna everyone assumed I had a mistress.”

  Davenport cast a sideways glance at him. “You have unexpected depths, Rannoch. Is your mistress-in-name-only still in Vienna?”

  For a moment Malcolm’s throat felt as raw as if he’d swallowed acid. “She’s dead.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Malcolm fixed his gaze on the shifting shadows cast by the overhanging branches, though Tatiana’s image was still etched sharp in his memory. “She wasn’t actually my mistress.”

  “But her death meant something to you. Unless my powers of observation are quite failing me.”

  Malcolm jerked his head toward the end of the Allée Verte. Davenport was almost as sharp-eyed an observer as Suzanne.

  Which could be damnably inconvenient.

  There were disadvantages to being the wife of a man connected to the most powerful families in the British ton, Suzanne thought as she stood in the shadows cast by a walnut tree across the street from Le Paon d’Or. For instance, it made it much more difficult to enter a brothel undetected than she would have found it a few years ago. Not that she cared so very much for her reputation, but gossip would be tiresome for Malcolm. Though he didn’t listen to it himself, a scandalous wife could be a detriment to a diplomat’s career.

  A diplomatic wife was supposed to practice discretion. She owed Malcolm that much. Besides, becoming a social pariah would make it difficult to investigate. Women like Violet and Jane Chase wouldn’t be so quick to confide in her.

  She tugged at the brim of her gypsy hat so it enveloped her face and pulled the folds of her plain blue kerseymere shawl more closely about her shoulders. Blanca had brought the hat and shawl in the basket that now dangled over Suzanne’s arm and had taken away Suzanne’s hat, spencer, and gauze scarf. At the bottom of the basket were bottles and flasks, which let off a fragrant scent. Suzanne could pass for a shopgirl making a delivery from a parfumerie.

  She waited until three British officers had descended the steps of Le Paon d’Or, exchanging tense nods with two Dutch-Belgians who were going in. Then she darted across the street just before a fiacre clattered by in a cloud of dust. Two young ensigns jumped down from the fiacre. Even with her limited peripheral vision thanks to the deep brim of the hat, she’d swear one was Teddy Fairbanks, whom she’d danced with last night at Stuart’s ball. His gaze swept past her as though she were part of the area railings.

  As Teddy and his friend climbed the steps to the front door, Suzanne descended the area steps and rang a bell. A maidservant in a crisp green print dress and a starched apron opened the door.

  “I’m here to see Mam’selle Garnier,” Suzanne said, softening her voice into the accents of Belgian French. “She ordered some new perfumes from Lamier’s. I’m new there, I wasn’t sure which door to go to.”

  “You can go through the kitchen.” The girl stepped aside to allow Suzanne into the room. Copper pans hung on the wall and enamel tins lined the shelves. The air smelled of salt and lemon peel and wine from the decanter and glasses that stood on a tray on the long deal table. It might be the kitchen in any town house in Brussels.

  The maid led the way across the kitchen, through a door, and up a narrow pine staircase. A flirtatious laugh came from above, followed by the sound of a door slamming. Memories shot through Suzanne, sharp as a palm connecting with her cheek. Her hand closed on the railing, sending a sliver through her glove, but the maidservant was walking ahead and there was no one else to see.

  The maid left her to wait in a small sitting room with lamps shaded in pink silk and graceful gilded furniture. Suzanne gave her a card that was from Lamier’s parfumerie but had a code scribbled on the back. A few moments later Rachel Garnier appeared in the doorway, a gauzy pink shawl thrown over her sprigged muslin dress. She closed the door and stared with raised brows. “What on earth—”

  Suzanne tugged at the ribbons on the gypsy hat and pulled it from her head. “Your note sounded urgent. It seemed faster to come here than to try to track down my husband.”

  Rachel’s gaze swept over Suzanne. “So you came to a brothel.”

  “It seemed the simplest solution.”

  “I knew you were a surprising woman the moment I met you, Madame Rannoch. Well, the very fact that your husband introduced you to me confirmed it. But apparently I didn’t realize the half of it. If Monsieur Rannoch finds out—”

  “He’ll only want to know why you summoned him so urgently.”

  “Do you know, I think you may be right?” Rachel tilted her head to one side, considering. “Monsieur Rannoch is a man of surprises himself.” She took a quick step forward. “Madame Rannoch—”

  A crash and a cry from the passage drowned out her words. Of one accord the two women ran to the door. As they stepped into the passage, a girl raced by, gold ringlets t
umbling down her back, clad only in a large flowered silk shawl and stockings worked with pink clocks.

  A Dutch-Belgian lieutenant and a British major had apparently tipped over a demilune table and sent a vase crashing to the floor. They were now pummeling each other on the carpet. The lieutenant, who was on top for the moment, drew back his fist to punch the major in the jaw. The major brought up his knee and hit the lieutenant in the groin. The lieutenant rolled off with a cry and landed on the shards of broken vase.

  A door was flung open. A bare-chested man with his breeches unbuttoned ran out and hurled himself into the mêlée on the floor. A redheaded girl in a chemise followed and flung a pitcher of water over the men. None of the men responded.

  A girl with nut-brown hair poked her head out a door down the passage. “Brawl,” she shouted at Rachel. “Best take cover.”

  Instead Rachel and Suzanne ran down the passage.

  Malcolm and Davenport slipped through the side entrance to Le Paon d’Or. They were in a narrow, dimly lit passage, but the smell of perfume and the strains of a waltz played on a pianoforte drifted from ahead.

  And then a raised voice. “Bloody frogs. Can’t keep your hands off our women.”

  “If you can’t satisfy your women yourselves—” That voice was Belgian accented.

  “Here now,” said a third voice with a Scots burr. “Plenty of girls to go round. Give us a kiss, Marie.”

  A flirtatious giggle. Then a curse. “It’s not the girls here. Their damned prince took the wife of one of our officers to his bed.”

  “That’s a filthy—”

  “Can’t the blighter get his own women without poaching—”

  “How dare you insult His Royal Highness—” Another Belgian voice.

  “If he’s a rutting bastard—”

  The sound of a fist connecting with flesh. A girl screamed. Something heavy crashed to the floor. Malcolm and Davenport took a step back. Two men hurtled round the corner, pummeling each other, and careered into Malcolm and Davenport. One of them drew back a fist and hit Malcolm in the eye rather than his opponent.

  Malcolm ducked. The man grabbed him by the shoulders. “Can’t get away so easily, you frog coward—”

  “As it happens, he’s not—”

  Davenport’s words were cut off as the other man landed him a blow to the jaw. In the room beyond, glass shattered.

  Malcolm jerked away from his opponent, pulling out of his coat, which was cut more for comfort than fashion. He whirled round and caught the man’s arm as he drew it back to land another blow. “Look.” He spun his opponent round, holding the man’s arm twisted behind him. “I’m not Belgian. And I’m not interested in fighting.”

  Three more shadowy forms hurtled into the darkened passage. One aimed a blow at Malcolm’s opponent, knocking him from Malcolm’s grip. The other struck Malcolm. Pain slashed through Malcolm’s ribs. He dropped to the ground and rolled across the floor. He sprang to his feet in the room beyond, wincing at the pain in his ribs, just as a bottle went sailing across the room and smashed into the gilt-framed mirror over the mantel.

  The smell of good Burgundy filled the air. Two girls clad in clinging white dresses, one fair-haired, the other a brunette, stood on oval-back chairs, screaming. Another girl, chestnut hair fallen from its pins, flung a bucket of ice over the dragoon and the man in civilian clothes who were pummeling each other on the floor.

  “Slimy bastards. That mirror belonged to Madame Grès’s grandmother.”

  With a roar of rage, a Belgian lieutenant knocked a man in a powdered wig and footman’s livery into a shelf of books against the wall. Leather-bound volumes and sheets of newspaper went flying. Malcolm pushed himself to his feet. The man who had thrown the bottle grabbed another bottle from the drinks table and brought it down on the head of a Belgian sergeant who was staggering to his feet. The Belgian sergeant slumped back to the floor and would have collided with Malcolm if Malcolm hadn’t dodged out of the way.

  A scream sounded from the hall beyond. Not a cry of rage, but an actual scream of pain and terror. Malcolm ran across the salon, dodging the two men battling on the floor, broken glass crunching beneath his boots.

  A man in his shirtsleeves with a dragoon’s sabre thrust through his belt had a flaxen-haired boy pinned up against the wall at the base of the stairs. The boy’s face was drained of color, his eyes wide and desperate. The dragoon’s hand was round his throat.

  Malcolm launched himself at the dragoon’s back. The dragoon whirled round and struck Malcolm across the face. The flaxen-haired boy slid to the floor.

  “How dare you interfere,” the dragoon said.

  “I wasn’t aware strangling children had become part of military duties.”

  “Impertinent puppy.” The dragoon whipped his sword from its scabbard and brought it down on Malcolm’s arm. Malcolm staggered back.

  “Fight like a man, you frog coward.” The dragoon lunged after him.

  “Rannoch.” Davenport’s voice came from the archway to the salon, rising over the thuds and cries and crash of broken glass. Malcolm risked a quick glance over his shoulder. Davenport held a cavalry sabre, which he sent spinning through the air. Malcolm caught the sword and brought it up to meet the dragoon’s relentless attack.

  The blades slid against each other, disengaged, met again. Malcolm turned, holding the blade of his sword taut against the dragoon’s, and backed up the stairs. The dragoon followed, pressing his attack. His cuts were swift and reckless. Malcolm could have dodged beneath his guard, but he had no desire to wound the other man.

  Malcolm’s boot slipped on the polished mahogany. He caught himself on one hand. Pain shot through his arm. The dragoon’s blade slid along his cheekbone. Malcolm pushed himself to his feet and engaged the other man’s blade, forcing it down.

  He jumped backward up the last two steps, parrying for all his life was worth.

  A pistol shot cut the air. The dragoon dropped his sword and whirled round, clutching his shoulder. “What the devil—”

  Suzanne lowered her smoking pistol. “Sorry. But I rather take exception to someone trying to kill my husband.”

  16

  Suzanne regarded her husband’s erstwhile opponent. High cheekbones, sandy hair, a face flushed with drink. Blue eyes fixed on her as though she were one of Titania’s minions, tumbled out of the midsummer night.

  “You impertinent doxy—”

  “Careful,” Malcolm said, lowering his sword. “I may have to challenge you to fight all over again.”

  “He’s lying,” Suzanne said, over the sound of a crash from below. “My husband wouldn’t really get into a fight to defend my honor. He knows I can take care of myself.”

  The dragoon took his hand away from his arm and stared at the smears of crimson on his fingers. “I’m bleeding.”

  “I only meant to wing you.” Suzanne stepped closer and peered at his shoulder. Red was seeping through the fine linen of his shirt, but not enough for her to have hit anything serious. She tugged a handkerchief from her cuff. “Yes, I thought so. I very seldom miss.”

  “You damned—”

  “Hold still.” She bound the handkerchief round his shoulder. “There. Go downstairs and put some brandy on it and then swallow some yourself.”

  The dragoon stared down at her, anger given way to utter bewilderment. “Who—”

  “I’m a mother. It’s excellent training for patching people up. Well, living through a war helped as well.”

  Another shot rang out from below, followed by two more in quick succession.

  “Madame Grès,” Rachel said, as the tumult below went abruptly still. “That should get things under control.”

  “Let’s see how bad the damage is, darling,” Suzanne said. “Mademoiselle Garnier, could you fetch me that bottle of cognac? I hate to waste it, but it’s the closest alcohol to hand.”

  It was a quarter hour since Madame Grès’s pistol shots had restored order to her establishment. Those of the br
awlers who had not been summarily tossed out by Le Paon d’Or’s footmen were being served coffee in the salon and presented with a bill for the damage. Suzanne, Malcolm, Davenport, and Rachel were back in the sitting room with the pink-silk lamp shades.

  “My compliments, Rannoch,” Davenport said. He was slumped in an armchair, a towel full of ice pressed to his face. He had a split lip and a bruise beneath his eye and he was holding his bad arm close to his side, but he showed no sign of wounds.

  “Where did you get the sword you tossed me?” Malcolm asked, wincing as he struggled with the buttons on his waistcoat.

  “Off another dragoon who was trying to bring it down on my head. Seemed a good idea to get it away from him. I dealt him a right hook and snatched up the sword.”

  “My thanks.” Malcolm dropped his hand from the waistcoat, the buttons half-undone, breathing hard.

  Suzanne leaned over him to undo the last of the buttons. “Good God, darling.” Blood had welled through his shirtsleeve, but more bright red stained his side, where it had been covered by the waistcoat. “If I’d known how much damage the dragoon had done, I wouldn’t have just winged him.”

  Malcolm glanced down. “It wasn’t all him. Someone knifed me earlier.”

  “Who?” Davenport pulled the ice away from his face.

  “I couldn’t tell.” Malcolm glanced at Suzanne and tugged at the folds of his cravat. “It was when we were in the passage. There must have been five or six men, and I couldn’t see anyone’s face.”

  Rachel crossed to Suzanne, carrying a decanter of cognac. “We get brawls every now and then. More lately with so many soldiers in Brussels. Two start fighting over a girl or a wager or God knows what, and it seems to spread. But this is the worst I can ever remember. Do you know what started it?”

  Malcolm flicked a glance at Davenport. “The British and the Dutch-Belgians. Apparently Julia Ashton’s liaison with the Prince of Orange is no longer secret.”

  Suzanne took the ends of the cravat from her husband’s fingers and unwound the folds of linen. “You heard the soldiers quarreling about it?”