Teresa Grant

by Imperial Scandal

  Malcolm nodded. “Wellington isn’t going to be happy.”

  “Take your shirt off, darling. I don’t think we’ll offend Mademoiselle Garnier’s sensibilities.”

  He glanced up at her, an ironic glint in his eyes. “You’re going soft, sweetheart. This is nothing compared to Spain.”

  She helped undo his shirt cuffs and pull the torn shirt over his head. The blood was already clotting in the scratch on his shoulder, but the wound on his side was still bleeding. Her throat tightened. It was true she’d seen her husband more badly injured, but each time was a reminder of the reality they lived with every day but tried to cheerfully ignore. That she could lose him at any moment.

  She unstopped the decanter and poured cognac onto a cloth. “Besides the two of you, who knew about Julia Ashton’s affair with the Prince of Orange?”

  “Wellington. Stuart.” Malcolm winced as she pressed the brandy-soaked cloth against the wound in his side. “The prince himself. John Ashton.”

  “My wife.” Davenport dropped the dripping towel into the ice bucket beside his chair. “But though Cordelia’s capable of a lot of things, I doubt she’d have let anything slip. She tends to keep her word. At least about some things.”

  Suzanne recalled Lady Cordelia’s haunted gaze across the café table less than two hours before. “No, I wouldn’t think she’d have talked,” she said, dabbing at the scratch on Malcolm’s shoulder. “But—”

  “Lady Julia or the prince could have let something slip to someone else,” Malcolm said, the muscles in his arm tensing beneath her touch.

  “The timing’s suspicious though.” Davenport pushed himself to his feet and strode across the room. “The news apparently got out right on the heels of Julia’s death.”

  “Wellington and Stuart wouldn’t have talked,” Malcolm said as Suzanne wound linen round his ribs. “And I don’t think Ashton would have based on what we saw last night. But Slender Billy’s never been the best at keeping secrets. I imagine when he left the ball he sought refuge in a bottle. Which would have made him all the more likely to talk.”

  “Damage is done.” Davenport frowned at the Corinthian pilasters that flanked the mantel as though they held answers to unasked questions. “Though I doubt this will be the last brawl it’s an excuse for.”

  Malcolm turned to Rachel. “Why did you send for us in the first place?”

  “I’ll show you when your wife’s finished bandaging you.”

  When Suzanne had the bandage in place and had helped Malcolm back into his bloodstained shirt, with waistcoat and cravat covering the stains, Rachel picked up the cognac decanter and glanced into the passage. She nodded that the way was clear, then led them down the passage, still littered with shards of the broken vase, and opened one of the white and gold doors. The door gave onto a bedchamber with a large four-poster bed draped with gauzy white hangings. The peach satin coverlet was rumpled, and beneath the smells of tuberose perfume and lavender a faint musky odor hung in the air. Rachel walked to the wall behind the bed and pressed one of the flowers in the peach damask wall hangings. A panel slid open.

  “Concealed room. For people who like to watch,” she said matter-of-factly. “It’s all right, Henri. You can come out now.”

  A young man ducked through the secret door. He was tall and lanky, with curly dark hair that fell over his thin, sharp-boned face. His coat was unbuttoned, but it bore the insignia of a lieutenant in the Dutch-Belgian army.

  “Lieutenant Monsieur le Vicomte de Rivaux,” Rachel said. “Monsieur and Madame Rannoch and Colonel Davenport, Henri.”

  Despite the disorder of his attire, Rivaux put his feet together and bowed with the formality of the ballroom.

  Rachel gestured toward the chaise-longue and chairs by the fireplace. “Perhaps we’d best sit down. We can count on privacy here.”

  They disposed themselves about the fireplace, Suzanne and Malcolm on the chaise-longue, Davenport and Rivaux on the chairs. Rachel poured the cognac into five glasses set out on a side table and handed them round like a hostess in her salon.

  “Henri is one of my best sources,” she said. She glanced at Malcolm as she handed him a glass of cognac. “Our best sources.”

  Rivaux took a sip of cognac. “I have heard a great deal about you, Monsieur Rannoch.”

  “Brussels is a small town,” Malcolm said.

  “Not in the ballroom. In intelligence circles. You are much talked of. Even before you came to Brussels.”

  Malcolm settled back on the chaise-longue, wincing as he jostled his wound. “All sorts of speculation have run rampant in recent months. I didn’t realize it had descended as low as the exploits of attachés.”

  “False modesty doesn’t become you, Rannoch.” Davenport tossed down a swallow of cognac.

  “I’ve heard about Madame Rannoch as well.” Rivaux inclined his head to Suzanne. “It is an honor to meet you both.”

  “You’re very kind, Monsieur le Vicomte,” Suzanne said.

  Rivaux looked from her to Malcolm. “You investigated a murder in Vienna.”

  “We didn’t solve it,” Malcolm said, cradling his glass in his hand.

  “Not officially. Rumor says otherwise.” Rivaux leaned forward. “I believe you to be a man of honor. That’s partly why I—But I’m getting ahead of myself.”

  “Henri came to me today with information I thought you should hear in person,” Rachel said, dropping into a chair. “It was safer to summon you here than to take Henri to meet you. I’m sorry—”

  “You couldn’t have known,” Malcolm said.

  “Some weeks ago, shortly after the emp—Bonaparte escaped from Elba, I was approached by some of my fellow officers,” Rivaux said in a quick, intent voice. “Men still loyal to Bonaparte. Who wanted Belgium to return to the Empire.” He looked Malcolm directly in the eye. “It’s no secret that I read Paine and Voltaire and have Republican sympathies.”

  “So do I.” Malcolm took a sip of cognac. “So these fellow officers thought your Republican sympathies meant you would join them in plotting for Napoleon Bonaparte’s victory?”

  Rivaux nodded. “I was horrified. Whatever I think of the current government, I’m a soldier. We have made a commitment to our allies. I don’t believe in going back on commitments.”

  “A somewhat novel position in international politics these days,” Davenport murmured.

  “I told Rachel—Mademoiselle Garnier. We were already—er—acquainted at that time.” His gaze lingered on Rachel’s face for a moment, with something that went far beyond the relationship between a client and a prostitute. His eyes held all the wonder of young love. Suzanne’s fingers tightened round her glass. It was definitely not a way she and Malcolm had ever looked at each other. “I was going to report the men who had approached me to my commanding officer,” Rivaux continued. “But Mademoiselle Garnier persuaded me I could be of more use by joining them and passing information on to her. I knew she was working with you. I believed you could be trusted. So you see, you benefited from your reputation preceding you.”

  “Not the first time I’ve had cause to be grateful for entertaining fiction,” Malcolm said.

  Rivaux’s gaze flickered over Malcolm’s face. “Mademoiselle Garnier says you’ve known about the spy ring for some time.”

  Malcolm nodded. “We’ve found it useful to keep track of it. You’ve been an important part of that.”

  Rivaux’s shoulders straightened. “I don’t need to be coddled.”

  “No, but I don’t imagine you enjoy betraying your comrades. I thought it might help to know the value of your efforts.”

  Rivaux stared at Malcolm for a moment, eyes wide. “How did you know? That is, that I don’t—”

  “You seem entirely too decent for the espionage game.”

  Rivaux flushed. “Thank you. I think.”

  “Believe me it was a compliment.”

  Davenport stretched out his legs. “Some of us have been in the espionage game long enough to
envy you your decency.”

  Rivaux turned to look at Davenport. “I heard about the ambush at the Château de Vere. I saw some of my associates last night, and they could talk of little else. I also heard about the death of the French officer La Fleur. According to our French sources, La Fleur was a traitor, but they had only just discovered it and weren’t behind the ambush.”

  Malcolm nodded. “That fits with what Mademoiselle Garnier told me earlier today.”

  Rivaux leaned forward. “I came to Mademoiselle Garnier today to tell her what I’d heard. She said you already knew the French weren’t behind the ambush last night. She also said you were looking for information about the Silver Hawk.”

  Malcolm didn’t move a muscle, but Suzanne felt the shock of attention that ran through him. “You’ve heard of the Silver Hawk?”

  “Last night. I wasn’t supposed to. I’m not in the inner circle. I’m excluded from many of the most important discussions.”

  “Fortunately, I have other sources for those,” Rachel said.

  Rivaux cast a quick glance at her, his brows drawn.

  “It’s my job, Henri.” Rachel touched his hand. “Not pretty, perhaps, but then it doesn’t involve as many betrayals as espionage. Unless one happens to be combining the two.”

  Rivaux flushed. “No one could question your sacrifices—”

  Rachel squeezed his fingers. “I’m good at my job. Both of them.”

  Rivaux’s fingers twined round her own when she tried to draw her hand back. He looked at her for a moment, then turned back to the others. “Last night, one of the senior men and I were waiting for a contact who was late. We shared a flask of brandy. He let something slip. Eager to show off how much inside information he had, I think. The Silver Hawk is a code name.”

  Malcolm exchanged a look with Davenport. “We thought as much. For whom?”

  Rivaux drew in a breath. “A British officer who’s an agent for the French.”

  Davenport whistled. “Well, that’s an interesting twist.”

  “Who?” Malcolm asked.

  “I don’t know his name. The Silver Hawk works on his own, and his identity is a highly guarded secret.”

  “One can see why,” Davenport murmured.

  “There’s more, Monsieur Rannoch.” Rivaux leaned forward. “That’s why I had to see Mademoiselle Garnier today, and why she sent for you. Apparently the Silver Hawk had been ordered to assassinate someone.”

  Malcolm looked at Suzanne. Echoes of their adventures in Vienna. “Who?”

  Rivaux swallowed. “You, Monsieur Rannoch.”

  17

  Suzanne’s hand moved involuntarily to her husband’s arm. “Did your source say why the Silver Hawk wanted to kill Malcolm?”

  “No,” Rivaux said.

  “But he used Malcolm’s name?” Her fingers tightened on Malcolm’s arm, feeling the solid warmth of his flesh beneath the linen.

  “Most definitely.”

  Malcolm shook his head. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Rivaux said it.” Davenport shifted in his chair, cradling his bad arm. “Your reputation preceded you to Brussels.”

  “It’s preposterous.” Malcolm glanced down at Suzanne’s fingers on his arm, then met her gaze, an ironic glint in his eyes. “We’re on the brink of war. Brussels is full of generals and kings and princes. I’m surprised anyone even knows who I am. Even granted the most highly romanticized stories about my supposed exploits, it would make no sense to kill me.”

  “It would put a crimp in British intelligence,” Davenport said.

  “A mild crimp.”

  “You must represent some sort of threat.” Suzanne willed her heartbeat to be still. “Because of something you know?”

  “Something that would identify this Silver Hawk person?” Rachel suggested.

  “That would certainly give him a motive for killing me.” Malcolm squeezed Suzanne’s fingers and detached them from his arm. “Save that I hadn’t even heard of him until just now.”

  “Unless it’s something you know but don’t realize you know,” Suzanne said. “Even you can’t put the pieces together when the picture’s too murky, darling.”

  “However clever this Silver Hawk is, he hasn’t actually managed to make an attempt on my life,” Malcolm said.

  “I’m not so sure about that.” Davenport swirled the cognac in his glass, frowning into the golden-brown liquid. “Energetic as the brawl was, there weren’t a lot of knives drawn. And yet if that cut to your ribs had been a few inches over, your lovely wife might be a widow. And we still don’t know who attacked you.”

  Rachel clunked her glass down on a side table, spattering drops of cognac on the polished rosewood. “You think the brawl was an attempt to kill Monsieur Rannoch?”

  “Not a very tidy assassination attempt.” Malcolm took a swallow of cognac.

  “But easy to cover up,” Davenport pointed out. “If we were followed to Le Paon d’Or—”

  “You think someone managed to follow us without either of us tumbling to it?”

  “Lamentable, but supposedly this Silver Hawk is good at what he does.” Davenport stretched his legs out and crossed his feet at the ankles. “If he saw us go in the side door, there’d have been time for him to go round through the front before the fight broke out.”

  “Barely.”

  “A house full of soldiers chafing at inactivity in the face of coming battle. All it would take is a few well-chosen words.”

  “Chancy,” Malcolm said.

  “Most attempts at murder are chancy,” Davenport countered. “So which British officers might you know enough about to identify them as French agents?”

  “My source didn’t say the Silver Hawk had decided to kill Monsieur Rannoch,” Rivaux interjected. “He said the Silver Hawk had been ordered to kill him.”

  “Even odder,” Malcolm said. “I can’t imagine why French intelligence would waste time on me.”

  Suzanne took a sip of cognac, forcing down a welling of panic and fury. “Something you know. But about what?”

  Davenport tipped his glass back, draining the last of the cognac. “Perhaps whoever was behind the ambush last night wasn’t after La Fleur or Julia. Perhaps you were the target.”

  Suzanne’s fingers curled into her palm.

  “The French said it wasn’t their attack,” Rachel pointed out, getting up and reaching for the decanter to refill the glasses.

  “But as Rivaux said, the Silver Hawk works on his own. Perhaps someone very high up is running the Silver Hawk.”

  “I think so.” Rivaux leaned forward. “Few people know about the Silver Hawk and even fewer know his identity. But last night my source was boasting. Implying he’s in contact with the Silver Hawk. I tried to get him to reveal the Silver Hawk’s identity, but there was only so much I could do without betraying myself.”

  “Sensible.” Malcolm cast an approving glance at Rivaux. “I can’t tell you how many promising double agents we’ve lost to clumsy, overzealous questioning. Who is this man?”

  Rivaux hesitated a moment, then shook his head. “Foolish to cavil at betraying him now. It’s Dumont. A captain in my regiment.”

  “You can’t confront him,” Rachel said. “You’d—”

  “Blow our knowledge of the spy ring.” Davenport met Malcolm’s gaze and grimaced. “Devil of a fix.”

  “Dumont receives messages at the opera,” Rivaux said. “I’ve seen it. One of the footmen brings them round with the champagne glasses and slips them into his hand.”

  “Messages from whom?” Malcolm asked.

  “I don’t know. The one night I was with him when he got one, he made a great effort to prevent my seeing it. But now we know he’s working with the Silver Hawk—”

  “Is it always the same footman?” Suzanne asked.

  “The two times I saw him receive a note. The footmen are all tall and all wear powdered wigs, but this man has fading pox scars on his cheeks.”

  “S
o we get a look at one of these notes, and with any luck it will lead us to the Silver Hawk.” Davenport took a sip from his refilled glass. “Of course intelligence missions are rarely so simple, but we can but hope.”

  “Dumont should be at the opera tonight,” Rivaux said. “If he gets a note perhaps I can retrieve it before he sees it—”

  “No,” Malcolm said. “He’d be bound to suspect you. We need someone unassuming, someone above suspicion. Someone with a devastating skill at sleight of hand.”

  “Thank you, darling,” Suzanne said. “I thought you’d never ask.” She looked from Malcolm to Davenport. “I may need your help creating a distraction.”

  “We’re at your service, Mrs. Rannoch,” Davenport said.

  “And if luck is extraordinarily with us, as Davenport says, this may lead us to the Silver Hawk,” Malcolm said.

  Suzanne gripped his arm again. “Darling—”

  “I’ll be on guard. And I’ll have Davenport for backup.”

  “And me.”

  “And you.” Malcolm lifted her hand to his lips and lightly kissed her fingers. “What could I possibly have to fear?”

  “La Fleur warned you about the Silver Hawk,” Davenport said. They had returned to the house in the Rue Ducale, where they could talk in private, and were again ensconced in the salon off the garden. “No doubt because he knew the Silver Hawk was trying to kill you. And we know the French had intercepted our communications with La Fleur. If the Silver Hawk knew you were meeting La Fleur at the château and knew La Fleur was warning you—”

  “We’ve still got the fact that someone made sure Julia Ashton would be at the château alone.” Malcolm took a sip of the coffee Suzanne had ordered. It was just past four o’clock, and they still had a long evening’s work ahead of them. “If the Silver Hawk was behind the attack at the château, who sent the note to the Prince of Orange so he wouldn’t show up for his rendezvous with Lady Julia? And why?”

  “It’s a damnable coincidence someone luring Julia there at the same time as the ambush.” Davenport scowled into his cup. “I hate coincidences.”