Teresa Grant

by Imperial Scandal

  The first time she had looked up from fumbling with a flask of brandy to see the young private she was treating staring back at her with the fixed glassiness of death, she’d nearly been sick again. For a moment she’d been thrown back four nights to Stuart’s ball, looking down at Julia’s lifeless body. But now closing the eyes of the dead was another accepted part of her reality.

  “Cordelia.” The sound of her name stopped her as she turned from putting the sergeant into the care of two young boys who were going to help him back to his billet. It was Violet Chase, side curls plastered to her forehead and cheeks, India muslin gown spattered with gray and black and red, sash lost somewhere along the way. “Do you have any more lint?” Violet asked. “I was on my way back to the comtesse’s to ask for some.”

  Cordelia handed her a packet of lint. Violet took it but hesitated a moment, glancing round the street. Wounded men lined either side. “Do you remember the time Tony hit George in the head with a cricket ball? I think that’s the most blood I’ve ever seen. Until today.”

  Cordelia nodded. “You look as though you’re bearing up.”

  “No alternative.”

  “Collapse and have hysterics.”

  “Too tiresome. And there’d be no one to listen.”

  Cordelia smiled at her childhood friend. “How’s Jane?”

  “Working feverishly. So’s Annabel. I shall have to take back every time I ever called her missish.”

  Cordelia gave a twisted smile. “I knew that when Annabel put up with everything George and I put her through.”

  Violet fingered a fold of her skirt. “Why does it take something so dreadful happening for one to realize what’s important?”

  “My dear Violet, if we were more rational creatures, life would be much simpler. But perhaps less interesting. Here now, don’t cry.” Cordelia flung her arms round her friend as Violet gave a choked sob. They clung together as they hadn’t since they were in the schoolroom. Before Julia and Johnny, George and Harry, and all the circumstances that had put distance between them.

  At length Violet drew back, rubbing her eyes. “I’ll do now. I didn’t mean to be a watering pot.”

  Cordelia smiled. “What are old friends for?”

  Violet nodded, turned away, then looked back over her shoulder. “Cordy? Do you think I could possibly manage to be a passable wife?”

  “I think there’s always been very little you couldn’t do with enough determination.”

  A smile broke across Violet’s face. Then she bit her lip, no doubt at the fear that she’d never get the chance to put Cordelia’s words to the test.

  George Chase stared at Malcolm through the pelting rain that dripped from the overhanging branches. “Now you think I’m a double agent?” he demanded in a furious whisper.

  Malcolm kept his hands steady on the reins. French lancers had come up at the end of the British withdrawal from Quatre Bras, so he hadn’t been able to seek out George for some time. He had found George at last delivering a message to the cavalry protecting the long column from French pursuit as the Allied army fell back to maintain communications with the Prussians. At Malcolm’s suggestion, he and George had withdrawn to a copse of trees that bordered the road. George had been ready enough to talk, but at Malcolm’s questions anger flared in his eyes, swift as the lightning that broke the sky.

  “Information you had access to fell into French hands,” Malcolm said in response to George’s question.

  George cast a quick glance toward the road, but the relentless torrent of rain, the thud of boots slogging through the mud, and the jangle of bridles and neighing of horses provided better cover than stone walls. “I was hardly the only one who had access to it.”

  “And you slipped out of Stuart’s ball in company with your brother the night Lady Julia was killed.”

  “That’s what makes you think I’m working for the French?”

  “Given that your brother is, it’s not a surprising conclusion.” Someone fired off a pistol not far away. The French kept dancing close to the column but pulled back as soon as the Allied cavalry threatened engagement. “As I calculate it, you and Tony would have had time to set up the ambush that killed Lady Julia. Or possibly to have ridden to the château and killed her yourselves.”

  George pulled his horse to the side as a burst of rainwater broke through the leaves above. From the distance came the sound of round shot thudding into the mud. “The explanation is much more prosaic. Tony confronted me about seeing me with Julia earlier in the evening. We went out into the garden and then into the mews so no one would hear us.”

  “You told me he didn’t speak to you about seeing you with Lady Julia.”

  George passed a weary hand over his face. “Because I knew the more I said the more it would lead to just this type of question.”

  “Did you tell him you knew Julia was his agent?”

  “No, of course not. I was still protecting her cover. And my own.”

  It was barely plausible. Plausible enough that Malcolm knew he wouldn’t be able to shake George Chase. So he fell back on his next best option and switched tacks without pausing to give George time to reflect. “You visited Carfax House quite a bit growing up. It’s not surprising you ended up working for Carfax.”

  A Congreve rocket, set off by Major Whinyates’s troop, exploded in the distance with a hiss. It had probably fallen wide of its mark, as rockets usually did. Hopefully at least it had scared the French and hadn’t fallen on any of the Allies. George adjusted his grip on the reins. “I suppose you could put it that way. Carfax suggested the arrangement when I bought my commission.”

  “You knew David before I did. And his sisters. And Amelia Beckwith.”

  “Carfax’s ward?” Through the leafy shadows, George’s face betrayed remembered sadness but no present fear. “Yes, of course. Terrible what happened to her.”

  “And I suppose your brother knew her as well.”

  “We were all invited to Carfax House entertainments.” Malcolm kept his gaze steady on George’s face. For all his open, friendly demeanor, George, like him, was trained to deception. “Do you think there’s any possibility Amelia was more than an acquaintance to your brother?”

  Seemingly genuine bewilderment shot through George’s gaze. “What are you suggesting?”

  “It seems Amelia may have had a lover just before she died.”

  George drew a breath. “What on earth does that have to do with Julia’s death?”

  “I’m not entirely sure yet. But Amelia and Julia were friends. Julia might have known the lover’s identity.”

  The horror of hitherto-unforeseen possibilities filled George’s eyes. “And you think this lover—”

  “It’s too early to think anything.”

  A crack of lightning cut the sky, followed by the roar of thunder. George stared through the trees at the blur of red that was the slowly moving Allied column. “If Amelia had a lover it wasn’t Tony.”

  “You sound very sure.”

  George shot a look at Malcolm. “It wasn’t me, either.”

  “Who was it?”

  “I never said—”

  “You didn’t need to.”

  George tugged at his high-standing collar. “Look, Rannoch—”

  “Was it John Ashton?”

  “Johnny?” George gave a harsh laugh, louder than anything he had said. “Rather reassuring that even you can bark up the wrong tree.”

  “Who then? If you want me to find Julia’s killer, you don’t want me wasting my time.”

  George stared at him for a moment. Another pistol fired in the distance. Three shots answered it. “I’m actually surprised you didn’t know. He’s more your friend than mine. He used to visit Carfax Court when he was at school in England.”

  “Who?”

  George hesitated a moment, as though he still feared to put it into words. In the column, someone was singing “Ahé Marmont,” a favorite song from the Peninsula. “His Royal Highness the
Prince of Orange.”

  41

  Suzanne slammed shut the door to the room in the alley off the Rue d’Isabelle. “Damn it, Raoul, we’re in trouble. I should have known this would happen. We should have had a plan—”

  “Querida.” He caught her wrists in both hands. “Calm down. Things always go wrong. We can always fix them. What’s happened?”

  “Carfax figured out there’s an information leak.”

  He released his breath. “For God’s sake, querida, Carfax is a spymaster. He has to know he probably has a dozen information leaks.”

  “It was the raid on the Comte de Lisle’s group in London. I knew warning them was dangerous.”

  “Are you saying you wish we hadn’t?”

  “No, of course not. But Carfax figured out we must have intercepted his communications to be able to warn them, and now Malcolm thinks George Chase is the leak—”

  “Well, then.”

  Suzanne jerked her hands free of his grip. “He thinks an innocent man is a double agent.”

  Raoul folded his arms across his chest. “Malcolm is a sensible man. He’ll sort it out. And I imagine Major Chase can take care of himself.”

  “It’s playing merry hell with the investigation into Julia Ashton’s death. And I’m lying to Malcolm.”

  Raoul regarded her in silence.

  It was several seconds before she realized the full idiocy of what she’d said. She put her hands to her face. “Oh, my God.”

  “When you’re playing a role for a long time it can seem real,” Raoul said, his voice gentle. “Or perhaps in this case it would be more accurate to say it becomes real.”

  “I’ve lied to Malcolm every day of our marriage. I lie to him by omission every moment we spend together. I don’t know why lying about the investigation should seem worse.”

  “Perhaps because it feels more personal.”

  “When we investigated Princess Tatiana’s murder in Vienna we worked as a team. It was—” She rubbed her arms. “Rather wonderful.”

  “You obviously complement each other well.”

  “But this is different. Julia Ashton was a French spy; her death is mired in intelligence operations.” She pressed her fingers to her forehead. Her temples were throbbing. “I committed a great sin against Malcolm when I married him. Before I married him. Before I properly knew him. Knowing him—loving him—doesn’t change the sin.”

  “Not in theory. But it makes it damnably more difficult in practice.”

  She groaned and dropped into the ladder-back chair. “I didn’t come here to wallow in my guilt. What do we do?”

  Raoul moved to the cot. “I expect George Chase will be able to convince Malcolm he isn’t a double agent.”

  “Which will force Malcolm to look for the leak elsewhere.”

  “He has a lot to distract him now. And a wide field when he does look.” Raoul dropped down on the edge of the cot. “You’re the last person in the world he’d suspect, querida.”

  Her fingers dug into the muslin of her skirt. “I know. That’s what makes it so awful.” She swallowed hard, forcing down everything roiling inside her. She’d done it for two and a half years; she could go on doing it.

  “Suzanne—” Raoul leaned toward her, then winced, his hand going to his side.

  She sprang to her feet. “You’re hurt.”

  “Only a scratch.” He put out a hand to forestall her. “I was li-aisoning with some Belgians who’d made overtures about deserting, and I ran into a British patrol.”

  “Let me see.” She reached for his arm.

  He caught her wrist. “A competent doctor cleaned it thoroughly and put a nice bandage on it.”

  “Which doesn’t mean it isn’t festering.” She dropped down beside him on the cot. “Take off your shirt. Don’t turn prim; it isn’t anything I haven’t seen before. And I’ve seen countless British and Belgian soldiers in worse states of undress today.”

  He grimaced and tugged at his cravat. “I thought you’d have been nursing the wounded.”

  She drew an uneven breath, seeing the men lying in the street, thinking of the French who’d put them there. Whom she’d helped put them there.

  “It’s war,” Raoul said, unbuttoning his waistcoat. “People are going to be killed and wounded. Once they’re wounded one helps where one can.”

  “And sends them back to fight against one’s own side.”

  “And holds on to one’s humanity.” He dragged his shirt over his head. “Besides, I think this is all going to be decided one way or another before the wounded heal.”

  “Have you got any lint?”

  He didn’t, but she found a bottle of brandy and an old shirt. This room wasn’t Raoul’s official residence in Brussels, but he kept it stocked with supplies. She tore the shirt into strips. When he protested, she said, “You can get another shirt. We can’t get another you if you develop wound fever.”

  Raoul gave a wry grimace that changed to a gasp as she peeled back the dressing. The wound was long but not very deep. It was oozing, but the blood was clean red, with no sign of infection. She gave another sigh of relief, her mind filled with vivid memories of a week when he’d lain feverish in a mud hut in the Spanish mountains.

  “You got Philippe’s message?” she asked, dousing a strip of shirt with brandy.

  “Yes. That was adroitly done. I got to Headquarters early on the sixteenth. Bonaparte was asleep, but I spoke to Flahaut. He promised to deliver the message.”

  “And then?”

  Raoul grimaced again and not, she thought, because she was pressing the brandy-soaked cloth to his wound. “God knows. If the message had been heeded properly, Ney could have taken Quatre Bras before the Allies were able to reinforce it, and then we could have marched on to Brussels.”

  “I kept thinking of that yesterday whenever a fresh rumor spread.”

  “Instead Ney delayed and delayed, waiting for orders that were unconscionably late and damnably unclear when they finally arrived. It was three o’clock before he finally hurled Reille’s corps at Quatre Bras. Late enough the Allies could hold out for reinforcements.”

  Raoul’s voice shook with rage. Suzanne touched his shoulder.

  “Ney thought Napoleon’s reserves would reinforce his attack, but instead Bonaparte decided to concentrate his troops assisting Grouchy with the Prussians to the east.”

  “When did he let Ney know?”

  “He didn’t.”

  She pulled a fragment of matted dressing from Raoul’s wound. Raoul, brooding on the idiocies of yesterday, scarcely seemed to notice. “I heard d’Erlon’s corps spent yesterday riding back and forth,” she said.

  “On top of everything else. D’Erlon kept getting contradictory orders from Napoleon and Ney.” More than anything else, Raoul hated stupidity.

  Suzanne touched his shoulder again. He gave her a brief smile. “There’s nothing to be gained repining on it now.”

  Another of Raoul’s maxims that she’d learned was vital to holding on to one’s sanity. “Do we have a chance?” she asked.

  “If Bonaparte can keep the Allied army and the Prussians separated—yes. Not everything’s gone our way, but not everything’s gone theirs, either.”

  “How’s Flahaut?” She pictured the handsome comte whom she’d met when she assisted his mistress, Hortense Bonaparte, in concealing her pregnancy and the birth of her child three and a half years ago. She’d admired his loyalty to Hortense throughout the ordeal.

  “Exhausted. Worried Talleyrand will never forgive him.”

  Suzanne smiled at the thought of the French foreign minister whom she’d last seen in Vienna. “He will. Talleyrand’s a number of things, but he doesn’t forget he’s a father. And if anyone understands about changing sides he should.” She pressed a pad of clean cloth over the wound.

  Raoul winced. “I’m not sure how much weight the pull of loyalty and ideals holds with Prince Talleyrand.”

  “No, but after our time in Vienna, I thin
k he understands the pull of love rather better than I’d have guessed.”

  Raoul raised his brows.

  “Dorothée,” Suzanne said, seeing her friend, Talleyrand’s niece-by-marriage, who had been his hostess in Vienna. She used a long strip cut from the shirt to secure the fresh dressing.

  “Poor devil.”

  “He’ll live.” She went to the chest of drawers for another clean shirt.

  Raoul looked up at her. “Did you learn anything more about Truxhillo?”

  Her fingers stilled on the shirt. Anthony Chase was a French agent and therefore properly Raoul’s loyalties should lie with him.

  “You don’t trust me,” Raoul said. It wasn’t an accusation or a reproach, merely a statement of fact.

  She clenched the folds of linen. “It’s not—”

  “That simple?” He gave a faint, self-mocking smile. “No, it never is.”

  She held out the shirt, scanning his face as though she could read clues there to how much she could trust him. Which was absurd. As well as she knew him, she knew full well she didn’t have the key to who he was. He knew her equally well, and that probably gave him an edge in deception.

  But as Prince Adam Czartoryski had said to Malcolm last autumn in the midst of the treachery of the Congress of Vienna, one had to trust someone. She gave Raoul the shirt and her trust. “Captain Anthony Chase was a French agent.”

  Raoul’s brows rose. “Interesting. He was running Julia Ashton?”

  She helped him pull the shirt over his head. “He thought he was.”

  “Thought?” Raoul’s head emerged from folds of linen.

  “Julia was a double.”

  “Good God.” For the second time in the past three days she had the rare experience of seeing genuine surprise on Raoul’s face.

  She told him about Tony and Truxhillo and about George running Julia. “So George was getting information from Julia,” she concluded. “And Julia was feeding false information to Tony.”