Teresa Grant

by Imperial Scandal

“What if—” Suzanne froze in the midst of pouring warm milk into her coffee, the jug tilted over her cup. “What if it wasn’t a coincidence? What if the Silver Hawk wanted to get rid of Lady Julia as well?”

  “My God.” Davenport stared at her across the sofa table. “You are good.”

  Suzanne set down the jug before her cup could overflow. Droplets of milk spattered on the blue and white porcelain of the tray. “Lady Julia told her sister she’d tumbled into something that was beyond her control. Nothing we’ve learned about her so far explains why she feared for her life. But if she’d realized a man she was close to was a French agent—”

  “It’s a good theory,” Malcolm said. “But there’s no proof.”

  “Actually there is of a sort.” Davenport leaned forward. “Whoever started the fight at Le Paon d’Or knew about Julia’s affair with the Prince of Orange. As far as we know the only people privy to that information were Wellington, Stuart, you, me, Mrs. Rannoch, Cordelia, and the prince himself. And whoever sent that note to the prince canceling the rendezvous, the same person who may have been behind Julia’s death. Far tidier if the person who sent the note to the prince also started today’s brawl.”

  Malcolm took a sip of coffee. “It’s only surmise that the Silver Hawk was behind the brawl.”

  “If he wasn’t, we have another damned coincidence on our hands,” Davenport muttered.

  “And all we know about the Silver Hawk is that he’s supposedly a British officer. There are hundreds of British officers in Brussels—”

  “And Julia Ashton was married to one,” Suzanne said, looking at her husband. “And mistress to another.”

  Davenport twisted his cup between his hands, as though answers were hidden in the transferware pattern. “Ashton would make the perfect spy. The upright Englishman who seems to actually believe all the scept’red-isle nonsense and looks as if he couldn’t even conceive of the word ‘betrayal.’ ”

  “It would make him one hell of an actor,” Malcolm said.

  “Which the Silver Hawk is to hear young Rivaux tell it.” Davenport took a sip of coffee and looked as though he was debating its degree of bitterness. “Of course Anthony Chase is a much more obvious choice. He plainly has no morals when it comes to his women, so why should he when it comes to his country?”

  “If every officer who betrayed his wife betrayed his country, God help the British army,” Malcolm said.

  “Captain Ashton and Captain Chase are the most obvious possibilities, but there are others.” Suzanne took a careful sip from her cup, which was full to the brim. The hot liquid scalded her tongue. “Society in Brussels is confined, and Julia Ashton was at the heart of it. In theory she could have stumbled upon information linking any British officer with the Silver Hawk.”

  Malcolm set his cup down with a quiet click of porcelain. “It’s a tidy theory, Suzette. But you know as well as I do that you still need facts however clever the thesis.”

  “Then we’ll have to find the facts.” Davenport folded his hands behind his head. “And yes,” he added, forestalling a protest from Malcolm, “without ignoring the possibility that the facts may lead us to some other theory. Though I somehow doubt that Mrs. Rannoch’s theories often prove incorrect.”

  “Thank you, Colonel Davenport.” Suzanne smiled at him across the coffee things. “I knew you were a man of sense.”

  “Assassinate Rannoch?” The Duke of Wellington’s eyes widened in rare surprise. “Why the devil would anyone care about getting rid of Rannoch?”

  “Precisely my reaction,” Malcolm said.

  “Nevertheless.” Davenport met Wellington’s gaze without flinching. “We have no reason to doubt Rivaux’s story. And there’s already been one attempt on Rannoch’s life, possibly two.”

  “One of which could have been a tavern brawl, the other of which could have been an attempt to kill La Fleur or Julia Ashton,” Malcolm said.

  Wellington’s gaze snapped to Malcolm. “False modesty isn’t helpful, Rannoch.”

  “I thought you were on my side.”

  “I said I couldn’t understand the French wasting their time trying to get rid of you. But this wouldn’t be the first time French motives have baffled me.” The duke picked up a sheaf of papers from his desktop and snapped them down hard on the polished wood, aligning the edges. He wore evening dress, the Order of the Garter pinned to his dark coat, but he was still in his office at Headquarters. He drew a harsh breath, gaze on the papers in his hands. “You’d never heard of this Silver Hawk before?”

  “Not until La Fleur’s warning,” Malcolm said.

  Wellington set the papers down on the desk, tightly controlled precision in each movement of his hands. “And he’s a British officer?”

  “According to Rivaux’s source,” Davenport said. “We can’t confirm it, but Rivaux’s intelligence has been trustworthy so far.”

  Wellington scowled at the papers. “Damnation.” He slammed his hand down on the desk. “As if we don’t have enough to contend with, with the French congregating round Mauberge.”

  “What?” Malcolm and Davenport said almost in one breath.

  “Bonaparte was bound to move sooner or later.” Wellington continued to frown at the papers. “No sense in doing anything until we have intelligence about where the main attack will come from. A wrong move could leave us dangerously exposed. But the last thing we need is further distraction among the troops. We couldn’t even control the news about the prince’s affair with Julia Ashton for twenty-four hours. Now we’ve got soldiers brawling, rumors flying—” His mouth tightened. “If it gets out that a British officer may be a French agent—” He realigned the edges of the papers he’d disarranged when he slammed his hand on the desk. “Learn what you can at the opera tonight. With Bonaparte on the move, time is of the essence.” He glanced up at Malcolm. “You think you can intercept the communication for this Dumont?”

  “I don’t know.” Malcolm cast a glance at Davenport. “But I’m quite sure Suzanne can.”

  Wellington’s thin mouth curved in a smile. “Yes, I imagine she can. Keep me informed—”

  A rap at the door interrupted his words. “Yes?” Wellington said with a frown.

  “It’s Uxbridge.”

  Wellington stared at the door for a moment from beneath drawn brows. “Come in,” he said at last.

  The Earl of Uxbridge, commander of the cavalry and the man who had eloped with Wellington’s brother’s wife seven years ago, strolled into the room. He wore hussar dress, brightly polished orders pinned to his frogged coat, his fur-trimmed pelisse hanging over one shoulder with a casual elegance no other officer could quite equal.

  “Uxbridge.” Wellington inclined his head. “No more news from Mauberge. I don’t know that we’ll hear more before morning.”

  “Nor do I. As it happens it’s Rannoch and Davenport I’ve come to talk to. I heard they were here with you.”

  Wellington’s brows lifted. “Unless this is an extreme coincidence, I take it this has to do with the events of last night?”

  Uxbridge returned Wellington’s gaze coolly. “It does.”

  “Were you planning to speak with them in private or am I to be in on this discussion?” Wellington inquired.

  Uxbridge moved to a chair but did not sit. “If I’d wished to speak to them alone, I hope I’d have had enough wit to seek them out other than at Headquarters.”

  Wellington gave a reluctant smile and inclined his head for Uxbridge to be seated. The two men regarded each other for a moment. They were always perfectly civil, but there was a faint tug of distance between them. Malcolm was never sure if it was the legacy of Uxbridge’s elopement with Charlotte Wellesley or simply the strong and differing personalities of the two men.

  Uxbridge sank into the chair and crossed his legs. “The story that Julia Ashton was the Prince of Orange’s mistress is running through town like wildfire. Is it true?”

  Wellington gave a brief nod. “I’m afraid so.”

>   Uxbridge’s mouth tightened. “Was the prince there last night when she died? You can lie to me of course, but I think it will be easier if we tell each other the truth.”

  “God help me if I have to lie to my cavalry commander.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’re capable of it if required,” Uxbridge said. “But in this case—”

  Wellington nodded at Malcolm.

  “The prince had an assignation with Lady Julia at the Château de Vere,” Malcolm said. “But he received a note canceling the rendezvous. A note supposedly from Lady Julia, but in fact forged. Lady Julia went to the rendezvous. She was caught in the fire when we were ambushed.”

  “Good God.” Uxbridge smoothed a crease from his sleeve. “John Ashton is one of my abler officers. I believe he adores his wife. And of course the prince is my fellow commander. A sad business.”

  Wellington leaned back in his chair. “If all you had to contribute was the observation that it’s a sad business you’d be on your way to the opera now.”

  “True.” Uxbridge adjusted the folds of his black cravat. Malcolm had never before seen the self-confident, sartorially splendid earl make such a nervous gesture. “In the general run of things, I’d think it the gentlemanly thing to keep it to myself. But under the circumstances—” He twitched one of the orders pinned to his tightly fitting coat. “It was just after I came to Brussels. At your concert ball, Wellington. I came upon Lady Julia crying in an antechamber.”

  “Had she been playing cards?” Davenport asked. His voice was level, but Malcolm could feel his quickening attention.

  “What? I’m not sure.” Uxbridge drew a breath. “I’ve known the Brooke sisters since they were children. Their late father was ahead of me at Oxford. I poured her a glass of wine, asked her what was the matter.” He gave a wry smile. “Told her that when she was my age ten to one she’d realize whatever it was wasn’t of such very great importance. The next thing I knew she was crying on my shoulder. Rather made a mess of my coat, but one makes allowances for pretty women.” He shifted in his chair. “Then she lifted her lips to mine and pulled my head down to her own.”

  18

  Davenport stared at the cavalry commander. “Are you saying Julia tried to kiss you?”

  “I’m saying she did kiss me.” Uxbridge met Davenport’s gaze.

  “I sprang to my feet. I’m afraid I managed to spill the wine all over the floorboards.”

  “Interesting reaction,” Wellington said.

  “Julia was young enough to be my daughter.”

  “Many men don’t find that a deterrent.”

  Uxbridge answered the challenge in Wellington’s gaze. “I ran off with Charlotte. That doesn’t mean I run off with everyone I get the chance to. Contrary to rumors.”

  “What did Lady Julia do?” Malcolm asked.

  “Said she was sorry but that she’d wanted to do that ever since she was a girl. That I was her first love and perhaps her only love.” Uxbridge’s brows drew together.

  “And what did you do?” Davenport asked.

  “Told her I had a wife I loved in England. Reminded her she had a husband who was one of my officers. She got an odd look on her face, but she asked me to forgive her foolishness. Which I was only too ready to do. Until this.”

  “Dear God,” Wellington said.

  “This would have been before her affair with the Prince of Orange began,” Malcolm said.

  “Julia was always such a well-mannered little thing,” Uxbridge said. “If it had been her sister, I’d have understood it better.”

  “People can surprise you,” Davenport said.

  “Oh, devil take it. I keep forgetting she’s your wife. No offense meant, Davenport.”

  Davenport’s gaze was steady and stripped of feeling. “None taken, sir.”

  Uxbridge’s eyes narrowed. “Given my history, I don’t suppose you think very well of me.”

  “On the contrary,” Davenport said. “I take no responsibility for anyone else’s marriage. I didn’t even take much responsibility for my own.”

  Uxbridge’s full-lipped mouth curved in a wry smile. “I’ve always been fond of Cordelia. But I’d never claim she was sensible. Particularly when it comes to men. I don’t expect you’ve had an easy time of it. Which I’m sure sounds ironic coming from me.”

  “A great deal of truth can hide in irony, sir.”

  Uxbridge’s smile deepened. “Quite.”

  “What happened next?” Wellington demanded, a note of impatience in his voice. “With Lady Julia?”

  “Nothing.” Uxbridge leaned back, elbows resting comfortably on the chair arms. “We’ve only met since in company. Naturally I had no desire to find myself alone with her, and she seemed to steer well clear of me. I thought it no more than an unfortunate incident, thankfully forgot. Until I heard rumors of Julia’s affair with the Prince of Orange.”

  “The woman seems to have had an interest in men in positions of power,” Wellington said. “Damned awkward.”

  “It’s odd,” Uxbridge said, “I never had the sense Julia took any particular interest in me in the past, even in a schoolgirl’s infatuation sort of way.”

  Wellington looked at Uxbridge from beneath lowered brows. “You didn’t say anything to Ashton?”

  “What kind of fool do you take me for?”

  “One might take the view that Ashton deserves to know of his wife’s indiscretions.”

  “I wouldn’t have done that to Julia. Besides, the last thing I need is one of my officers distracted.”

  “Which is precisely the situation we now have. And the rest of the army along with him.” Wellington picked up a pen from his desktop and frowned at the nib. “Does this tell you anything?” He looked from Malcolm to Davenport. “Aside from the fact that there may be other men Lady Julia was involved with.”

  “Nothing beyond that.” Malcolm didn’t so much as glance at Davenport. By tacit agreement they said nothing of Lady Julia’s affair with Anthony Chase.

  Wellington tossed the pen down with decision. “Then your investigation continues. And I suggest you consider that Lady Julia may have been involved with other men. Which means there may have been others with reason to want her dead.”

  “Is it true?” Anthony Chase ran up to Malcolm and Davenport as they stepped into the outer office. He was neatly shaved, his dress uniform immaculate, his hair combed smooth, but his gaze was more wild-eyed than it had been in the beer garden that afternoon.

  “Captain Chase.” Malcolm put a hand on Tony’s shoulder. “Perhaps we could talk in private.”

  Fitzroy Somerset, working his way through a pile of correspondence, glanced up briefly, then returned to his work with typical tact.

  Tony held his tongue as they moved into an adjoining sitting room, still filled with a jumble of papers left by the officers who’d been working there that afternoon. But the moment the door was closed he said again in a hoarse voice, “Is it true?”

  “Is what true?” Malcolm asked, voice carefully neutral.

  “You know damned well.” Tony’s gaze shot from Malcolm to Davenport. “The talk was all over every tavern and café and brothel in Brussels by this afternoon. Julia and His Royal bloody Highness the Prince of Orange.”

  Davenport leaned against the wall, arms folded, legs crossed at the ankles. “You didn’t know?”

  “So it’s true?” Tony’s voice fairly shook with desperation.

  “What do you think?” Davenport asked.

  “Damn you—” Tony hurled himself at Davenport. Malcolm caught him by the shoulders.

  “We were in love,” Tony said, breathing hard. “She wouldn’t have—”

  “Then there’s no need to ask us, is there?” Davenport smoothed his sleeve where Tony had gripped it.

  “Lady Julia gave you no hint?” Malcolm asked.

  “Of course not.” Tony jerked out of Malcolm’s grip and whirled to face him. The smell of cognac hung on his breath. “I told you—”

  “Bet
rayal’s not so amusing when the shoe’s on the other foot, is it?” Davenport remarked.

  “You don’t understand.” Tony pushed his fingers into his hair. “What we had wasn’t like an ordinary affair. God knows I’ve had plenty of those. We had something in an entirely different key, something extraordinary—”

  “Extraordinariness doesn’t necessarily rule out betrayal,” Davenport remarked.

  Tony spun toward him. “What the hell do you know about love?”

  “Nothing at all,” Davenport conceded. “But it’s often easier to judge from the outside.”

  “Just because you couldn’t hold on to your own wife—”

  “That assumes I wanted to keep her.” Davenport crossed the room and stood regarding a print of a country farmhouse that hung on the wall. “But it’s an erroneous comparison.” He glanced over his shoulder at Tony. “We aren’t talking about your wife, we’re talking about John Ashton’s.”

  Tony spun away, his hands balled into fists, then turned back to them. “It’s true, isn’t it?”

  “We don’t know what’s true,” Malcolm said. The news was out, the damage was done. There was nothing to be gained from denying it, and they needed to get whatever information Tony possessed. “But the Prince of Orange does claim to have had a rendezvous with Lady Julia at the Château de Vere the night she was killed.”

  Tony stared at him for a long moment, face drained of color. “So the prince was there? He was with her when she was killed?”

  “No. He received a letter canceling the rendezvous. Supposedly from Lady Julia, but in fact a forgery.”

  Tony dropped into a ladder-back chair. “She said—She said she’d never really understood what love meant until—Why would she—”

  “People have any number of reasons for entering into love affairs,” Malcolm said. “You really didn’t suspect?”

  “Of course not. I can’t believe she was pretending the whole time—”

  Tony looked like such a woebegone schoolboy that for a moment Malcolm felt a tug of sympathy. “Love and fidelity don’t necessarily go hand in hand.”