by Tracy Grant
The smell of leather and parchment and expensive ink. He released Suzanne's hand, pulled a flint from his pocket, and struck a light to the candle on the table nearest the door. Light flickered over the solid mass of the desk, the dark lines of the curtains, the shadowy ranks of books. A deluge of memories welled to the surface. Standing before that desk—the same one of mellowed oak—with David, answering questions about why they'd slipped out of the house. (Carfax had seemed rather disappointed that they'd merely gone to a lecture by William Godwin). Carfax answering Malcolm's questions in a dry voice when Malcolm was working on an essay about Edmund Burke at Harrow. Standing before that same desk, cuffs buttoned low to hide the bandages from his inexpert attempt to slash his wrists, while Carfax offered him intelligence work in that same dry voice, at a time when sympathy would have undone him. Home on leave, confronting Carfax over what seemed to Malcolm an unconscionable betrayal of one of their Spanish assets. He could still hear Carfax saying, "It's your job to gather the information. It's mine to decide what to do with it. Fortunately for Britain."
And yet, for all Carfax twitted him on his unorthodox views, three months ago if someone had told him he would knowingly bring a Bonapartist agent into the study of the chief of British Intelligence, he'd have laughed in their face. "Stay by the door," he murmured to Suzanne. "This shouldn't take long."
No sense in even looking in the desk. Carfax never kept anything of real importance there. Malcolm had known him to tuck papers into the globe, but anything really important was in one of three places. A hollowed-out book—empty. A secret compartment in the mantel—also empty. The false bottom of the drinks tray—also empty. Damnation. Malcolm got to his feet and glanced round the study. Suzanne met his gaze. He shook his head.
Then he noticed the bronze sculpture atop the cabinet to one side. Carfax was no collector like Alistair Rannoch. It was a good imitation of Cellini, but a bit decorative for Carfax. Malcolm tapped. He twisted the top. He pressed the decorative work in various combinations. The sculpture slid open, revealing a cache of papers tied with buff-colored ribbon. He carried them over to the brace of candles. The last bundle bore the heading, "Smytheton Notes."
He met Suzanne's gaze in a moment of triumph. Then he saw her go still. A split second later he heard it as well. Footsteps in the passage, coming closer.
An unvoiced conversation passed between them in a half-second of eye contact. Suzanne darted behind the long bronze velvet curtains. They didn't quite cover her satin slippers, but it was dark in the room and the slippers mercifully were a deep blue to match her gown, though they had silver rosettes. Malcolm tucked the file into his coat, stuffed the remaining files back into the sculpture, and pushed the pieces back together, just as the door swung open.
Chapter 13
"Malcolm." David's voice, surprised but without suspicion.
Malcolm walked towards his friend, back to the windows, keenly aware of the silver rosettes on Suzanne's satin slippers not entirely concealed by the curtains. "I forgot some notes when I met with your father yesterday. Don't tell Carfax."
David grinned in the shadows. "I came in search of a map of Derbyshire to settle an argument between Sidmouth and Chatterton about fishing rights. And to get away, I confess."
"From Lady Clare?"
David grimaced. "From the pressures surrounding Lady Clare." He moved to the shelves, gaze skimming past the curtains, and reached for a book. "This should have the map. Did you retrieve your papers?"
Malcolm touched his coat where the papers in fact reposed. Nothing for it but to blow out the candles and accompany David back to the ballroom. It wasn't as though Suzette couldn't take care of herself. He knew now that she was even better suited to such situations than he'd believed three months ago.
"O'Roarke has Father's ear," David said in a voice without suspicion, as they stepped into the passage. "I never thought to see them in such deep conversation. I suppose O'Roarke has hopes of getting Father's support for the Liberals in Spain."
"So he indicated," Malcolm said. Surprising how often the truth sufficed in the midst of deception. "I told him he was likely to see a cold day in hell first, but O'Roarke said it wouldn't be the first time he'd known the temperature in hell to dip below freezing."
David laughed as they climbed the main staircase, pausing to allow a trio of latecomers to go up before them. "Where's Suzanne got to? Bel was looking for her."
"I'm not sure. She tends to circulate more than I do at parties. But I suspect it's something to do with the Trenchard investigation." Again, the truth sufficed brilliantly.
They stopped to exchange greetings with William Lamb, and then returned to the drawing room to see Suzanne on a sofa before the fireplace with Cordelia and Isobel, the blue crêpe and white satin of her skirts spread about her as though she hadn't moved for the past quarter-hour. "Looks as though Bel found her," Malcolm said.
Isobel caught sight of David and lifted a hand. "Time to start moving guests to the music room," David murmured, going to join his sister.
Before Malcolm could move towards Suzanne, Harry Davenport appeared beside him.
"You look as though you could do with a drink," Harry said, offering him a glass of champagne.
Malcolm stared into the bubbly liquid. "I need my wits about me."
"I've never seen you without your wits, Rannoch."
"There's a first time for everything." Malcolm took a sip of champagne. "How much did Cordy tell you?"
"As much as Suzanne told her, I think. Which I imagine isn't anything approaching all of it. Cordy quite came to life when she was telling me about it." Harry paused for a moment, his gaze moving over the crowd. "It's good for her to have a challenge. Cordy enjoys society, but she has too keen a mind not to get restless."
Malcolm cast a sharp glance at his friend. Cordelia's restlessness had led to a scandalous love affair and the temporary breakup of their marriage.
Harry, being Harry, met Malcolm's gaze without flinching. "No, I have absolutely no reason to think my wife is bored in our marriage. But I'm also not fool enough to believe that being married—even being happily married—makes one content with one's life."
Malcolm thought of the flashes of restlessness he sometimes caught in Suzanne's eyes these days. Or perhaps it was just that these days he knew to look for them. He'd always known being solely a political and diplomatic hostess was a waste of her talents, but now he knew just how vast those talents were. And how the life she was confined to was at odds with everything she'd been fighting for. "That doesn't mean—"
"That she'd take a lover?" Harry tossed it out with the bitter defiance that had once been his constant defense. "No, I don't think she will. But I can't help—"
The mix of longing and fear in Harry's eyes reminded Malcolm of how he felt when he looked at Suzanne in unguarded moments. "Everyone wonders at times—"
"I don't think I'll ever entirely stop wondering. Don't look so shocked, old man. It's little enough penance for having a woman I'll never quite believe I deserve."
"Harry—"
Harry looked into his glass. "Sorry, must have had too much."
"No. I'm glad— I'm glad you can talk to me, Harry." Strange that not confiding one's own secrets to a friend could feel like a betrayal.
"You're a good fellow for listening, Rannoch."
"Are you saying you'd like the distraction of an investigation, as well?
Harry gave a twisted smile. "Theoretically, I'm too much of a cynic to be caught up in the excitement of an investigation. I saw the stark reality of life as a spy and am relieved to escape into academic realms."
"Even cynics can be intrigued by a challenge."
"Well, if you put it that way—" The gleam in Harry's eyes reminded Malcolm of the way Colin would look if he mentioned pirate treasure. "What can I do?"
"How well did you know the Trenchard family?"
"Not well at all. I hardly had a wide social circle growing up, and the Fitzwalters and
the Davenports moved in different circles in any case. My closest connection is that a fellow I served with at Waterloo had been in Jack Tarrington's regiment in India."
"Who?"
"William Cuthbertson. Agreeable enough. Wasn't quite sure what to make of me, but then that was true of most of my fellow officers. Cuthbertson had been a junior lieutenant in Jack Tarrington's regiment. Even I couldn't miss some of the stories he told in the mess. It sounded as though Jack was giving Don Giovanni a run for his money, even in India. Of course, Cuthbertson seems to have been more than a bit smitten by Jack's wife, so I'd take his comments with a grain of salt."
"You think Cuthbertson was Jane Tarrington's lover? "
"I can't speak to how far it went or how she felt about him. At the very least, it sounded as though there was a flirtation. Cuthbertson was quite cut up about her death, poor devil. Though I got the sense Lady Tarrington was a bit of a flirt. Good for her for giving her husband a taste of his own medicine."
"Was Cuthbertson at all suspicious about their deaths?"
Harry clunked his glass down on a pier table. "Good God. Do you think Jack's and his wife's deaths have something to do with Trenchard's?"
"I don't know. Trenchard apparently quarreled with Jane Tarrington's father a month before he was killed."
Harry's brows drew together. "I never met Frederick Hampson, but I knew more than one man who had served under him in India. From all reports, he was a rare combination of brave and ethical. He became fluent in several Indian dialects and had the respect of both the local Indian aristocrats and peasants, as well as his men."
"A paragon."
"By all reports. I tend to be wary of paragons, but I never heard anything to tarnish Hampson's reputation, save a few complaints that he came down hard on his men who looted or got the local girls pregnant or that he was too friendly with the Indian population. All of which only adds to his credit, as far as I'm concerned. According to Cuthbertson—who admittedly wasn't the most unbiased source—he wasn't best pleased when his daughter married Jack, duke's heir or no."
"Which argues for his good sense, not to mention his love for his daughter."
Under David's and Isobel's urging, guests were moving into the music room. Cordelia and Suzanne joined Malcolm and Harry. Neither of the Davenports asked questions when Malcolm and Suzanne lingered behind, as the guests progressed to the music room. "If I'd thought things through better, I'd have worn plainer shoes," Suzanne murmured.
"No harm," Malcolm returned. "David's a good observer, but he wasn't expecting anything out of the ordinary. No trouble getting back?"
She raised one of her carefully plucked brows. "Can you doubt it?"
"One never knows when complications will arise. As we saw."
"Thankfully, Lord Stewart isn't in London. In truth, I rather enjoyed the flurry of excitement. At being almost caught by David. Such is the tameness to which our life has sunk."
"Only you could refer to our life as tame."
She met his gaze with the brilliant defiance with which she faced down the challenges of their life. "There were worse things to call it."
"No difficulties?" O'Roarke slipped up beside them. "I didn't get anywhere with Carfax, but I don't think I roused his suspicions. And he has a very plausible reason for me to have been present tonight. Shall we look at them here?"
"It's a risk either way," Malcolm said. "But probably safer to return them as soon as possible. We have at least an hour of music as cover."
They repaired to a sitting room hung with peacock blue silk, that Malcolm had put to use at other of Lady Carfax's entertainments. He removed the papers from his coat and spread them on the polished surface of a Pembroke table. Lines of letters and numbers stared up at them.
"This will take a while to decode," O'Roarke said. "Perhaps we should take them—"
"No need." Malcolm moved towards a writing desk for paper and ink. "I should be able to do this in half an hour. I devised the code. Suzette, can you write while I dictate?" He glanced at O'Roarke and hesitated a moment.
"Would you like me to turn my back?" O'Roarke asked. "Or leave?"
"A bit superfluous, given what you already know."
"There's still no reason for you to reveal Carfax's codes."
"Amazing the scruples you can show."
"Given my other behavior?" O'Roarke flashed a smile filled with self-mockery. "A point. But then I never claimed to be free of contradictions. I'll keep watch at the door."
"Are you sure you want me to help?" Suzanne asked.
"Given that time is of the essence." He stared at her for a moment. He remembered her wearing that same midnight-blue gown and blue topaz necklace to the Tavistock Theatre in October, the night before her birthday. Another life, when he had still believed her to be the woman he thought he'd married. "Unless you already know the code."
She met his gaze steadily. "Not this one."
Twenty minutes and the pages were turned to plain text. Malcolm stared down at the words Suzanne had copied out. Smytheton appeared to be one of the many agents Carfax employed. And the information in the file concerned the finances of the Duke of Trenchard.
"Carfax appears to have been tracking his son-in-law's financial situation," O'Roarke said. "Not necessarily surprising. But it looks as though Trenchard was in far more straitened circumstances than anyone realized, about eight years ago."
"At the time of Jack's scandal," Malcolm said. "Perhaps extricating Jack sent him into debt. And then apparently he recouped his fortunes three years later, thanks to an investment with a Madison & Company, whoever they were."
"I can see Trenchard not wanting it to get about that he was in trade," Suzanne said. "But to resort to blackmail to retrieve the information—"
Malcolm tucked the papers back into his coat. "It doesn't make sense on the face of it. But we have as much as we can get for tonight. Best get these back to Carfax's study."
He glanced into the passage, saw it was empty, and nodded to Suzanne and O'Roarke. The three of them stepped into the passage. As they were about to round the bend into the first floor hall, Carfax came round the corner towards them.
The earl stopped, seemingly as startled as they were. "And here I thought you were music lovers. At least Malcolm and Suzanne. I can't speak for you, O'Roarke."
"I'm afraid it's my fault, Lord Carfax." Suzanne gave him her most winning smile. "You know how I adore Beethoven, particularly after Vienna. But Mr. O'Roarke had news of the Sierras. A family in Spain who were friends of my parents. As I'm sure you'll appreciate, talking about Spain and my parents brings up complicated feelings. We seized the chance to talk in private." She looked into Carfax's eyes, her own wide and guileless. Malcolm would defy even a master at deception like Carfax to see through her. "Pray don't betray us to Lady Carfax."
"I wouldn't dream of it, my dear." Carfax's answering smile was as seemingly genuine as Suzanne's. Which was not as reassuring as it would have been with just about anyone else. His gaze shifted to Malcolm. "As it happens, I was looking for you, Malcolm. Come down to my study. I need to have a word about the investigation. If you'll excuse us, Suzanne, O'Roarke. You should be in time to hear your friend Schubert's songs that Bel is so wild about."
It might as well have been a command. There was nothing for it but for Malcolm to watch his wife go off on her former lover's arm and then turn and follow his former spymaster, the stolen documents tucked into the superfine of his evening coat.
Carfax led the way down the same back stairs Malcolm had taken Suzanne to. He didn't speak until they were in the study. As Carfax struck a flint, Malcolm wondered if it was only his imagination that could still smell the tang of recently extinguished candles in the air.
"I forget how close O'Roarke was to your family." Carfax tossed the flint onto the desktop with a clatter that cut the stillness.
Malcolm met his spymaster's gaze. There was no reason to suspect Carfax knew Raoul O'Roarke was his father. No reason, ex
cept the fact that he was Carfax. "We saw a lot of him in Ireland."
"A clever man, O'Roarke." Carfax dropped into his desk chair and waved Malcolm to a chair across from him. "In '98, I'd have called him one of the most dangerous men in Ireland. Perhaps the most dangerous. Then, of course, in the Peninsula he became an ally. Odd how things change."
Malcolm sat in the proffered chair. Surely if Carfax had an inkling O'Roarke had really been working for the French, he wouldn't invite him to his house. Or so Malcolm tried to tell himself. Underneath, he knew it might be just what Carfax would do to keep an eye on O'Roarke. "Enemies have a way of melting into allies in our world."
"And back again." Carfax adjusted his spectacle earpiece. "I suppose now O'Roarke's trying to convince you Britain should throw support behind the Liberals in Spain."
"It would hardly take O'Roarke to convince me on that score."
"No, I suppose not. There are times I'm grateful to have you out of the diplomatic corps, Malcolm. Though I could do without your speeches in the House."
"I'm flattered you're even aware of my speeches."
"False modesty doesn't become you, my boy. Though, even if you were still in my employ, you're hardly the agent I'd have set on O'Roarke, given your connections to him."
Malcolm leaned back in his chair, aware of the pressure of the stolen papers through his coat. "Do you have an agent on him?"
"You can hardly expect me to answer that."
"He really was just giving us information on Suzanne's friends this evening."
"I forget how well Suzanne knows him."
Again, there was no reason to take it at more than face value. It was just difficult not to look for hidden meanings with Carfax. "We saw quite a bit of him in Paris."
"Of course. The insularity of the expatriate community. Amelia used to say it was a mathematical challenge not to seat people next to the same person twice in a week. Not that our circles in London are so very vast. But at least one can pick and choose a bit more." Carfax spread his hands on the desktop. "Everyone's talking about Trenchard, of course. Which, as you must have realized, is why I wanted the party to go forwards, for all it's distasteful. I trust you've learned something to balance the unpleasantness of the gossip?"