Teresa Grant

by Imperial Scandal

  “Robbie isn’t as grown-up as you. He’s lucky to have you for a cousin.”

  Livia studied Davenport a few moments longer, then walked up to him, put her hand on his shoulder, and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

  If Davenport had gone still before, Suzanne thought now his heart might well have stopped beating altogether. “Thank you,” he said. “I’m honored.”

  Livia laughed. She had a warm, tinkling, infectious laugh. Suzanne suspected Cordelia had sounded much the same before life intervened.

  Colin looked round at the adults, who had all gone silent again. “I’m hungry.”

  Malcolm stepped forward and took his son’s hand. “Tell you what, old chap. Why don’t Mummy and I take you and Livia to the kitchen and find you some lemonade and cookies.”

  Livia took Suzanne’s hand with great readiness, but she cast a glance over her shoulder at her newfound father. Cordelia watched the tableau, eyes wide with something like wonder, a line of worry between her brows.

  “Your cheeks are damp,” Malcolm told Suzanne, when they were in the kitchen, the children settled at the deal table with their refreshments.

  Suzanne put a hand to her face. “It’s going to rain. There’s an uncommon amount of moisture in the air.”

  “Quite,” said her husband.

  Cordelia watched the French window close behind her daughter and the Rannoch family. She was conscious of the heat of the sun through her muslin gown, the pressure of her bonnet ribbons against her skin, the damp in the air that warned of rain in the coming days. She forced her gaze to her husband, who had got to his feet but was still standing rooted to the spot where he had met Livia. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have been prepared for this.”

  “Some things one can’t prepare for.” Harry’s voice was even, but she didn’t think she’d ever seen him so pale. “Though it might have been best if we had a chance to consult. I didn’t know—It seemed—That is, she was bound to hear someone refer to me as her father.”

  “Harry, no.” She took two steps toward him. Her legs felt stiff and unsteady under her. “I’m immeasurably grateful—It’s just that I didn’t mean to force her on you.”

  “You didn’t. I was the one who introduced myself.”

  “You were put in a difficult position. I didn’t mean you to have to—”

  “What did you think I would do? Acknowledge her to the world but deny her to her face? I didn’t think your opinion of me was quite so low.”

  “No, of course not. But I thought—That is, it seemed it wasn’t so much that you had acknowledged her as that you—”

  “Ignored the whole matter? How could I, when you were polite enough to write to tell me you were pregnant?”

  The memory of that letter rushed over her in a wash of shame. “I thought you deserved to know. I thought you deserved a chance—”

  “To repudiate your child?”

  “Stop putting words in my mouth, Harry. I’m very grateful to you for doing as much as you have for Livia. I didn’t want to make it worse.”

  “The world knows her as my daughter. It would be a bit difficult for her not to do so as well.”

  “Harry—” A thousand thoughts tumbled in her head and froze on her lips. “I need to sit down. Surely you do as well, unless you’re quite inhuman.”

  “To own the truth, I’ve never in my life come so near to fainting.”

  Cordelia dropped down on one of the wrought-iron chairs at the table. The metal was warm from the sun. “I have talked to Livia about you,” she said.

  Harry moved to a chair opposite her. “Said that I’m brave.” He gave an unexpected grin. “You can be a shocking liar, Cordy.”

  “Undoubtedly. But in this case I think I was telling the unvarnished truth.”

  “Doing it much too brown, my girl.” He crossed one booted foot over the other. “I suppose the picture of me you’ve shown her is the one that hangs on the stair wall? Where I look like I’m bored or going to be sick or both. As I remember it was both.”

  “It’s the only likeness I have of you. Livia was asking questions.”

  “About me?”

  “Children do.”

  “She’s—” Harry hesitated. “She’s an engaging child.”

  “Thank you. That is—I can hardly take credit for it.”

  “On the contrary. I had a miserable enough childhood to know the look of a child who enjoys the opposite.”

  She looked at him across the table, not quite sure she’d heard aright. “Thank you. I’m not used to compliments on my parenting.”

  “Perhaps because a number of people don’t recognize good parenting when they see it.” He leaned back in his chair. “Why did you name her Livia?”

  “The historical Livia was a strong woman,” she said, picking her way through a conversational thicket set with mines and mantraps. “And I’ve always liked the Julio-Claudians. I thought they were your favorites.”

  “So they are. But I never thought of you as a classicist.”

  “We used to have some quite entertaining discussions as I recall.” She remembered, with a vividness that surprised her, coming home from a ball or the theatre to find him at work in the library. Peering over his shoulder at what he was writing, pouring them each a glass of brandy, dropping into a chair and debating the finer points of a bit of translation or details regarding an historical personage. Once or twice she’d thought she might have had a more entertaining evening at home with him than if she’d gone out.

  For a moment she thought she saw the same memories in his eyes. Then his gaze went closed, the way it did. “But it was never one of your chief interests,” he said.

  That wasn’t strictly true. She’d been good at languages and fascinated by history as a child. She’d done lessons with George and Tony before they went to Eton and later helped them when they were home for holidays. But for her the allure of books had always fought with the tug of society. “If you mean I liked going out, it’s true. But after you left I found myself with time in the evenings. I read some of the books you left in the library.”

  “Not invited out as much as you used to be?”

  She met his gaze. “I may have sunk to a lower level, but I still don’t lack for entertainment.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “that was unpardonable—”

  “Livia was sick as a baby. I spent a number of nights at home with her.”

  He cast a quick glance toward the house. “Is she—”

  “She’s perfectly sturdy now.”

  His gaze continued fastened on the French windows. “Cordy—” He sounded like a man who’d spent days without water.

  She drew a ragged breath. The air felt unbearably hot against her skin. “I’m honestly not sure, Harry. I’m sorry.”

  He met her gaze and to her surprise gave a twisted smile. “I don’t suppose it really matters, does it?”

  “Of course it matters. How could it not?”

  “Would it change anything between us if we knew we’d made a child one of the nights we spent together? Instead of you doing so with George? We’d still be the same people. George would still be the same person. And Livia’s herself, not the sum of whoever may be her parents.”

  “That’s generous of you.”

  “It’s a statement of fact.”

  Silence settled over the table. Not as uncomfortable as some of the silences between them, yet the pressure of the air hurt her lungs.

  “We both made choices,” Harry said. “God knows I’ve spent enough time these past four years rethinking my every action since I met you. But in the end we have to live with the consequences of the choices.”

  “You’re very wise all of a sudden.”

  “Don’t place any reliance upon it lasting.”

  “Harry—” She sought for the right words from an infinity of possible bad choices. “When I married you I didn’t intend—”

  “To be unfaithful?”

  She nodded. “I thought we
could rub along. I never pretended—”

  “To be in love with me. No, you were refreshingly honest. I was the one who was fool enough to think I could be happy with you on any terms. God knows what I was thinking. Except men in love don’t tend to think much at all.”

  Even in the early days of their marriage, he’d rarely used the word “love.” For some reason it made the breath catch in her throat. “Why?” she asked.

  “Why what?”

  “Why did you fall in love with me?”

  “Do you really have to ask why a man would fall in love with you, Cordy?”

  “It would take more than a pretty face to catch your interest.”

  He gave a short laugh. “You do me too much credit.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  He was silent for a moment, his gaze on the toe of his boot. “You have a knack for seizing life that I never had myself, Cordelia. And—”

  “What?”

  He scraped his foot over the gravel. “There were times I looked into your eyes and thought I saw an echo of my own loneliness.”

  For some reason, her throat went tight. “I was never lonely.”

  “No?” He looked up. His gaze lingered on her face. “My mistake then. It wouldn’t be the only thing I was wrong about when it came to you.”

  She gripped her hands together. “Couples have managed quite handily on less than we had.”

  “I think perhaps—” He broke off.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Perhaps it’s easier when the force of feelings is less. As you should know.”

  “George.” His name hung in the garden between them.

  “The love of your life returned to England.”

  Her mouth went dry. “I thought he was.”

  “Thought?”

  She hunched her shoulders. “At the time I thought what George and I felt for each other excused anything. But I don’t know that I believe in love at all anymore.”

  “Then perhaps we’ve got round to the same way of thinking.”

  Her gaze flew to his face. “I don’t think I’ve ever properly said I’m sorry. There’s no way to say it that sounds remotely adequate. But for what it’s worth, I am.”

  “Cordelia—” Harry stared at her across the table for a long moment. When he at last spoke, she wasn’t sure his words were what he had originally intended to say. “Did you have any idea Julia was a French spy?”

  27

  Suzanne accompanied her husband back into the garden, to find Cordelia staring across the table at her husband, with a smashed look that suggested utter shock.

  “I’ve told her,” Davenport said. “Sorry, Rannoch. One of my quixotic moments.”

  “On the contrary.” Malcolm pulled out a chair for Suzanne. “I’d welcome Lady Cordelia’s opinion.”

  “Dear God.” Cordelia put a hand to her face.

  Suzanne reached across the table to touch Cordelia’s arm. “It must seem completely incredible.”

  “On the one hand it does. And yet—It makes sense of so much. Her two letters to me. Her affair with the Prince of Orange. But how could she—”

  “A typical mistake of an elder sibling,” Malcolm said.

  “Refusing to think one’s younger sibling can do wrong?”

  “Refusing to think one’s younger sibling can take initiative. I’m the eldest myself.”

  “Yes, I suppose I do tend to see Julia as my little sister.” Cordelia pushed herself to her feet with sudden force. “Those bastards. To play upon her weakness, to force her to betray her country, to send her into a man’s bed—I’ve never been one to hate the French, but I could kill the men who drove her to this. Why the devil didn’t she tell Johnny?”

  “Why indeed?” Davenport said.

  Cordelia spun toward him. “You think there’s some reason she didn’t?”

  “I think it’s odd.”

  “Why didn’t she tell me? I’d have pawned every jewel I possessed—”

  “Cordy.” Davenport got to his feet in a swift move and went to her side. “Don’t be so foolish as to blame yourself. You’ll make me regret telling you.”

  “Damn it, Harry. She was my responsibility.”

  “She was a grown woman who made her own choices. I know you well enough to know you’d never make anyone else responsible for your choices.”

  “She was my sister.” Cordelia pressed her hands to her face. A choked sob spilled between her fingers.

  To Suzanne’s amazement, Davenport put his arms round his wife and pulled her against him. To her even greater amazement, Cordelia drew a shuddering breath, then turned in her husband’s arms and clutched the fabric of his coat. Her knuckles were white against the dark blue fabric.

  “Life is hard enough,” Davenport said into Cordelia’s hair. “Don’t make it worse.”

  Cordelia lifted her head from his shoulder and gave a crooked smile. “Of all the people to be offering me comfort.”

  “I know what it is to feel regret. And I know just how corrosive regret can be.”

  She wiped a hand across her eyes, smearing the blacking on her lashes. “I know my sister. I seem to be saying that a lot lately. But Julia could have applied to Johnny or me for the funds. There has to be more to it.”

  “Ashton says he and Violet Chase just exchanged the one kiss,” Malcolm said. “And that it was all his fault.”

  “So does Violet.” Cordelia moved back to the table and dropped into her chair. “Save that she says she was the one who initiated it.”

  “Lady Julia might have had reasons other than blackmail for becoming a spy.” Even as she spoke, Suzanne wondered at her own daring. But years in the intelligence world had taught her that telling the unvarnished truth was often the safest course.

  “Are you suggesting my sister became a committed Bonapartist?” Cordelia asked.

  “A committed Republican perhaps,” Malcolm said. “One can understand the impulse to one committed to the rights of man. I’ve been accused of my sympathies tilting too far in that direction myself.”

  Suzanne forced a smile to her lips.

  “But you haven’t spied against your country,” Cordelia said.

  “Unless Rannoch’s a very clever agent indeed.” Davenport joined his wife and the others at the table.

  Cordelia shook her head. “My sister was one of the least political people I knew.”

  “She could have had more personal reasons.” Malcolm leaned back in his chair. “How she felt about her spymaster for instance.”

  Suzanne met her husband’s gaze. “You think her spymaster was her lover?”

  “It’s certainly one way to create an agent.”

  Suzanne frowned in genuine consideration. For all Raoul had been and still was to her, it wouldn’t have been enough in her case. “Love” hadn’t been a word in her vocabulary. She’d been driven by her beliefs and if she’d admitted to feelings they’d been something she’d tucked in round the edges. A part of her bristled at the suggestion that a woman would blacken her soul simply for the love of a man. Yet she couldn’t deny the possibility.

  “It seems Julia ended things with Anthony Chase at Stuart’s ball.” Suzanne related the scene Violet Chase had described overhearing.

  “If Julia’s spymaster put her up to the liaison with Tony—” Cordelia said.

  “He probably also ordered her to end it,” Suzanne said. “Though on the brink of war, you’d think intelligence from an officer would be helpful.”

  “Perhaps they were worried Tony Chase was growing suspicious,” Davenport said. “He still has one of the best motives to have got rid of Julia.”

  “If her spymaster was afraid Julia had revealed information to Chase, he might have decided Julia was a liability,” Malcolm said.

  “I’d very much like to find out who this spymaster is,” Suzanne said. “Given that he wants my husband dead.”

  Amazing how often she could speak the unvarnished truth. Even when talking about French sp
ies.

  Malcolm loosed his hands on the reins, letting Perdita lengthen her stride. He cast a sideways glance at Davenport in the leafy shadows of the trees that overhung the Allée Verte. “It can’t have been easy.”

  Davenport’s gaze was fixed on the soldiers and civilians cantering or trotting on the path ahead. “Given what I’ve been through these past four years, do you really think an encounter with a three-and-a-half-year-old would unsettle me?”

  “Yes,” Malcolm said.

  Davenport gave a grin that didn’t quite hide the conflict in his eyes. “Caught. I don’t think I knew what sheer terror was until I looked across your garden at a small person some three feet tall. French cuirassiers are nothing to it.”

  In quick succession, Malcolm remembered sitting beside Suzanne’s bed, holding the basin of hot water, his cold terror at her pain-wracked face, the wonder of the moment he first glimpsed Colin’s head, the wash of fear and amazement when Geoffrey Blackwell placed the baby in his arms. “I remember the terror vividly.”

  Davenport studied two red-coated hussars from the King’s German Legion cantering toward them. “My case is hardly the same as yours.”

  Davenport couldn’t possibly know how similar the circumstances of their paternity were. Malcolm swallowed a welling of memories. “She’s your daughter,” he said. “You acknowledged her as such. You introduced yourself as her father. Whatever existed before today, you now have a bond that will never go away.”

  He meant it as both a reassurance and a warning. As much as he thought of what Davenport had done in the garden, he would do worse damage if he then walked away from young Livia.

  Davenport nodded, eyes on the rays of sunlight that slanted through the trees. “I still remember when I received Cordelia’s letter saying she was pregnant. I told myself it didn’t mean anything. But my hands were shaking so badly I couldn’t pour myself a glass of whisky. To own the truth, I thought I was doing something magnanimous by allowing Livia to be considered my own. I never thought about her. That she’d expect more from a father than his name.”

  It was perhaps the longest speech Malcolm had ever heard Davenport make about anything remotely personal. “Perhaps you thought you’d done enough given the circumstances.”