by Teresa Grant
Malcolm crossed to the drinks trolley, splashed whisky into a glass, and put it in Simon’s hand. Suzanne kissed Jessica and put her in her bassinet, then pressed Simon into one of the Queen Anne chairs. He protested, spluttering whisky. “I’ll ruin the upholstery.”
“The upholstery’s more easily repaired than you. Darling, can you get my medical supply box?”
Malcolm ran out of the room. She could hear his footsteps on the marble tiles of the hall and the polished wood of the stairs. She helped Simon out of the sodden greatcoat and the damp coat beneath. Above his silver brocade waistcoat, blood seeped through the linen of his shirt.
“Scratches,” he said again.
“Only in the sense that Berowne and a lion are both cats. Hold still. David will never forgive me if I bungle this.”
By the time Malcolm came back with her medical supply box, she had Simon’s cravat and waistcoat off. Malcolm helped her cut away the bloodstained shirt. The main cut was long but, if not precisely a scratch, not overly deep. It wouldn’t require stitches. She cleaned and dressed it and the cut on his face. Malcolm replenished Simon’s glass of whisky. Berowne, deciding there was no imminent danger, ran over to bat at a roll of lint. Jessica sat up in her bassinet and observed with wide eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Simon said. His hands were steadier now. “I didn’t mean to put you in the middle of this.”
“I’m glad you came to us.” Malcolm didn’t add, What the hell are you in the midst of? though the unasked question lingered in parchment- and whisky-scented air. Simon was one of London’s foremost playwrights, but it seemed more likely his involvement in Radical politics had led to tonight’s adventure.
“I was on my way to you before I was attacked as it happens.” Simon winced as Suzanne secured a dressing over his chest. His gaze slid between them. “No, I’m not involved in a plot to bring down the government. I do recognize that you’re a Member of Parliament now, Malcolm. I may not be the most considerate of friends, but I wouldn’t knowingly put you in such an awkward situation.”
Malcolm smiled, though the strain remained round his eyes. He perched on the arm of the other Queen Anne chair. “What then?”
Simon settled back in his own chair as Suzanne drew the folds of a blanket about his shoulders. “I wanted to get your opinion on a manuscript.”
“One of your own?” Malcolm asked. Simon frequently got into hot water with the Government Censor.
“No, I’m not nearly so cautious. Not that I don’t value the opinions of both of you.” Simon flashed a smile between them and took a sip of whisky. His face had a bit more color, Suzanne was relieved to see. “A play I was sent. We’re planning a production at the Tavistock. Read-throughs start tomorrow. Though we know that it will mean no end of controversy.”
“Another Radical playwright?” Malcolm asked. Jessica had begun to fuss, fretful squawks that were the prelude to cries, while her hands beat a tattoo on the wicker of the bassinet. He got to his feet and went to the bassinet.
“No, the playwright’s reputation is as solid as pounds sterling.” Simon stroked Berowne, who had jumped up on the arm of the chair. “Though he dramatized his share of assignations, you could say we owe our friendship to him.”
Suzanne sat back on her heels. Malcolm lifted Jessica against his shoulder and stared at Simon. For a moment the air trembled with disbelief.
“Simon, are you saying someone sent you a lost Shakespeare play?” Suzanne could hear the wonder in her own voice.
“Not exactly. It’s a play we know well. But I’ve never seen this version before. It is—or purports to be—a different version of Hamlet.”
A chill ran through Suzanne, touching a part of her that went back to childhood. To days when she had sprawled on her stomach watching her father stage rehearsals or dozed in a dressing room while her actress mother swept on and off the stage. Suzanne lived and breathed politics now, but she had grown up in the theatre. A new version of Hamlet was like touching Excalibur. “How different?” she asked.
“There are several scenes of Laertes in Paris. And a new scene of Claudius and Polonius plotting. Including a line that could imply Claudius is actually Hamlet’s father.”
Malcolm’s fingers tightened against Jessica’s head. “Good God.”
“Yes, it does put a rather different construction on Hamlet’s motivation.”
“Could the manuscript be authentic?” Malcolm asked.
“Difficult to tell.” Simon shifted against the chair back, then winced as he jostled his wound. “The language feels right. A bit rough round the edges, but that could be accounted for by it being an early version. Some of the familiar scenes have slightly different language as well.”
“There are two different versions of Hamlet that we know of,” Malcolm said. “And there are mentions of an earlier play that was the source for Hamlet, perhaps by Shakespeare, perhaps by Kyd. A lot of people think Shakespeare was working on Hamlet for years. So theoretically one can imagine an earlier draft existing.” He drew a breath. Suzanne could hear the shock and wonder that underlay his words. “Does it look authentic?”
“It certainly looks old.” Simon stroked Berowne, who had jumped into his lap and was kneading his knees. “But I’m no expert.”
“I’m hardly a Shakespeare expert, either.” Malcolm moved across the room, shifting Jessica against his shoulder. His voice was temperate, but Suzanne could read the excitement in the taut lines of his body.
“You know Shakespeare. Both of you.” Simon’s gaze flickered to Suzanne. “And you know forgeries.”
“We should get my grandfather’s opinion.” Malcolm rubbed his hand against Jessica’s back. His grandfather, the Duke of Strathdon, was a noted Shakespearean scholar.
“Yes, I was thinking of that. Obviously it’s a ticklish situation. It could be the making of the Tavistock if it’s authentic. We could make fools of ourselves if it turns out to be a forgery. But it never occurred to me it was dangerous.”
“Simon?” Suzanne said, watching his face. “What happened on your way here?”
“Three men jumped me. I fought back—I don’t take kindly to having my possessions appropriated. But when I took the knife to the chest even I was willing to concede it was prudent to let them have what they were after.”
“Do you have any idea who they were?” Malcolm asked, jiggling Jessica in his arms.
Simon shook his head. “There were three of them. English, I think, but we didn’t stop to exchange pleasantries.”
Suzanne closed her medical supply box. “Where did you get the manuscript?”
“From Manon.”
Suzanne’s fingers froze on the bronze latch. She forced them to unclench. Manon Caret had been the leading actress at the Comédie-Française. She had escaped Paris two years ago just ahead of agents of Fouché, the minister of police. For in addition to being a brilliant actress, she was a Bonapartist agent. And Suzanne had helped her escape. Which of course Suzanne couldn’t say to anyone. Even her husband. Especially her husband. “How on earth did Manon—”
“Crispin Harleton gave it to her. Apparently he found it tucked away among his father’s things after Lord Harleton’s death.”
Suzanne set the medical supply box on the sofa table, controlling the trembling of her fingers. Crispin Harleton was a cheerful young man, a couple of years ahead of Malcolm at Oxford. He had been Manon’s lover for the past year or so. His father had been one of the sporting set. Suzanne had met him once or twice before his death from an attack of apoplexy six months ago, a bluff man with a hearty laugh, an appreciative eye for a low-cut bodice, and hands that were inclined to wander.
Malcolm dropped down on a footstool, propping Jessica in his lap. “I’m surprised old Lord Harleton had a manuscript of such value. Though not surprised he left it tucked away.”
“Crispin said ten to one his father didn’t realize what he had,” Simon said. “I must say Crispin quite impressed me. I always used to wonder what Mano
n saw in him.”
Jessica wriggled in Malcolm’s lap and arched her back. Malcolm set her on the carpet, and she began to scoot across the floor, heedless of the undercurrents. “Did Crispin and Manon give you any indication that anyone might be after the manuscript?” Malcolm asked.
Simon shook his head. “No. They were merely curious if it could be genuine.”
“Simon.” Malcolm reached down to steady Jessica as she pulled herself up on the edge of a marble table. “Tell me that you didn’t give up the only copy of the manuscript?”
A slow smile spread across Simon’s face. “I copied the whole script out the night Manon and Crispin gave it me. I was thinking of fire or damage more than theft. And then I’ve had copies printed up for the actors.” He stroked Berowne under the chin. “I’m not sure why I brought the first copy I made with me tonight. I had some vague thought that we might want to read from it to spare the original. But I’m very glad I did. Because the thieves couldn’t tell my copy from the original manuscript.”
Malcolm echoed Simon’s smile. “You still have the original?”
“Wrapped in oilskin in my greatcoat pocket. They glanced at my copy enough to determine it was a script—which apparently is what they’d been told to look for—and then saw no need to search me further. Bring my coat over and we can have a look at it. I’m eager to see what you think of the authenticity. And more.”
“More?” Suzanne scooped up Jessica, who had crawled over to grab her sarcenet-covered knees.
Simon’s fingers went taut against Berowne’s soft gray fur. “Even when I was bleeding on the cobblestones, I felt I should put on a show of reluctance to give up the manuscript. One of the men dealt me a blow to the jaw and snatched it from my hands. Another said, ‘All this fuss just for some old paper.’ And another replied, ‘It’s not the paper. It’s the secrets hidden in it.’ ”
Photo © Raphael Coffey Photography http://www.raphaelcoffey.com
TERESA GRANT studied British history at Stanford University and received the Firestone Award for Excellence in Research for her honors thesis on shifting conceptions of honor in late-fifteenth-century England. She lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her young daughter and three cats. In addition to writing, Teresa works for the Merola Opera Program, a professional training program for opera singers, pianists, and stage directors. Her real-life heroine is her daughter, Mélanie, who is very cooperative about Mummy’s writing. Teresa is currently at work on her next book chronicling the adventures of Malcolm and Suzanne Rannoch. Visit her on the Web at www.teresagrant.com.
HIS SPANISH BRIDE
When Intelligence Agent Malcolm Rannoch proposes to Suzanne de Saint-Vallier, the tumult of the Peninsular War recedes—if only temporarily. For their union may have shattering consequences for the more fragile partnership between Britain and Spain. But meanwhile, let the celebrations begin....
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORPORATION AND
AUTHOR TERESA GRANT
REQUEST THE HONOUR OF YOUR PRESENCE
AT THE MARRIAGE OF
SUZANNE DE SAINT-VALLIER
TO
MALCOLM RANNOCH
THE SEVENTH OF DECEMBER 1812
BRITISH EMBASSY, LISBON
*INTRIGUE AND UNFORESEEN OCCURRENCES EXPECTED*
VIENNA WALTZ
Nothing is fair in love and war. . . .
Europe’s elite have gathered at the glittering Congress of Vienna—princes, ambassadors, the Russian tsar—all negotiating the fate of the Continent by day and pursuing pleasure by night. Until Princess Tatiana, the most beautiful and talked-about woman in Vienna, is found murdered during an ill-timed rendezvous with three of her most powerful conquests....
Suzanne Rannoch has tried to ignore rumors that her new husband, Malcolm, has also been tempted by Tatiana. As a protégé of France’s Prince Talleyrand and attaché for Britain’s Lord Castlereagh, Malcolm sets out to investigate the murder and must enlist Suzanne’s special skills and knowledge if he is to succeed. As a complex dance between husband and wife in the search for the truth ensues, no one’s secrets are safe, and the future of Europe may hang in the balance....
IMPERIAL SCANDAL
Amid the treachery of war and the whirl of revelry, no one is what they seem. . . .
Nights filled with lavish balls . . . lush, bucolic afternoons.... Removed to glamorous Brussels in the wake of Napoleon’s escape from Elba, Intelligence Agent Malcolm Rannoch and his wife, Suzanne, warily partake in the country’s pleasures. But with the Congress of Vienna in chaos and the Duke of Wellington preparing for battle, the festivities are cut short when Malcolm is sent on a perilous mission that unravels a murderous world of espionage....
No one knows what the demure and respectable Lady Julia Ashton was doing at the château where Malcolm and a fellow British spy were ambushed. But now her enigmatic life has been ended by an equally mysterious death. And as the conflict with Napoleon marches towards Waterloo and Brussels surrenders to bedlam, Suzanne and Malcolm will be plunged into the search for the truth—revealing an intricate labyrinth of sinister secrets and betrayal within which no one can be trusted....
THE PARIS AFFAIR
From the ashes of war rise the secrets of its darkest hearts....
In the wake of the battle of Waterloo, Paris is a house divided. The triumphant Bourbons flaunt their victory with lavish parties, while Bonapartists seek revenge only to be captured and executed. Amid the turmoil, British attaché and Intelligence Agent Malcolm Rannoch and his wife, Suzanne, discover that his murdered half-sister, Princess Tatiana Kirsanova, may have borne a child—a secret she took to the grave. And Malcolm suspects there was more than mere impropriety behind her silence....
As Malcolm and Suzanne begin searching for answers, they learn that the child was just one of many secrets Tatiana had been keeping. The princess was the toast of Paris when she arrived in the glamorous city, flirting her way into the arms of more than a few men—perhaps even those of Napoleon himself—and the father must be among them. But in the mêlée of the Napoleonic Wars, she was caught up in a deadly game, and now Malcolm and Suzanne must race against time to save the child from a similar fate....
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Copyright © 2014 by Tracy Grant
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ISBN: 978-1-6177-3394-9
First Electronic Edition: February 2014