The Mayfair Affair

by Tracy Grant

  Hampson touched his wife's hand. Sarah Hampson looked to be in her mid-thirties, a quietly pretty woman with delicate features and dusty blonde hair drawn back into a simple knot. She must be his second wife, Suzanne realized. She'd only have been a few years older than her stepdaughter. The Hampsons were seated side by side on a sofa covered in blue horse-cloth. The sort of sturdy fabric that stood up well to pet hair and jammy little fingers. Their drawing room was a sunny apartment filled with solid English oak furniture and a handsome Indian rug, but you could have tucked it into Mary Trenchard's salon without even scraping the paint.

  "We've had little enough contact with Trenchard since my daughter died," Hampson said. "Even then, we only met Trenchard when he came out to India. By the time Sarah and I came back to England, my daughter was dead. And we hardy moved in the same circles."

  Sarah Hampson put a hand to the cameo at her throat. "The duke and duchess had us to dinner when we first settled in London. They were very"—she hesitated for a fraction of a second that carried a weight of social niceties—"kind. But there was little reason for us to socialize."

  It was almost precisely the same story Mary Trenchard had given them.

  Malcolm met the colonel's gaze. "And yet you called on the duke a month since."

  Something shifted in Hampson's seemingly mild blue gaze, though he scarcely moved a muscle. "You're as good as your reputation, Rannoch."

  "I hardly think I warrant a reputation."

  "I still have friends in military intelligence. I've heard about your work in the Peninsula and on the Continent."

  Beside her husband, Sarah Hampson had tensed, Suzanne saw, but the colonel squeezed his wife's hand and said, "Yes, I called at Trenchard House a month or so ago, to speak with His Grace. If you've heard that, you must also have heard that the duke and I quarreled. I fear I raised my voice as I seldom do. But then I'm seldom so provoked."

  "What was the provocation?" Malcolm asked in an even voice.

  Hampson cast a glance at the polished pianoforte that stood by the windows, as though it stirred memories. A muscle twitched beside his mouth. "The day before, a fellow officer I'd served with in India called on me. Pickering. A good man. Solid type. Not given to fancies." Hampson swung his gaze back to meet Malcolm's own. "He told me he'd seen my daughter Jane on a London street."

  "When?" Suzanne asked.

  "Two days before."

  Suzanne flicked a glance at Malcolm.

  "Yes," Hampson said. "Four years after my daughter was reported to have died in a carriage accident in India."

  "Reported?" Malcolm asked.

  "Until now I saw no reason to doubt it," Hampson said. "I saw the wreckage of their carriage." He passed a hand over his face. Suzanne flinched involuntarily at the grief of a parent who has lost a child, a reflection of any parent's deepest fears. Four years on, Hampson's grief was obviously still raw. "The carriage had gone into a river," Hampson continued. "It was clear from the condition of the wreckage that it had been a serious accident. And it didn't seem surprising that the bodies were never found. But Pickering was very definite that the woman he'd seen looked just like Jane. And, as I said, he isn't given to fancies."

  "Did your daughter have a cousin who resembles her?" Suzanne asked.

  "No. I only have one sister, who has three sons, and my late wife was an only child. And if you will forgive my plain speaking, Mrs. Rannoch, I was a faithful husband to my first wife, as I am to Sarah. So the woman Pickering saw couldn't have been a by-blow. Naturally, at first I told Pickering he must have been mistaken. He insisted the woman had been the image of Jane. I ran through all the possibilities you mentioned. It was only then, in the face of Pickering's continued insistence, that I began to question if it was possible Jane had survived the accident." He flashed a look at his wife. "Sarah thought I was mad."

  "Not that, dearest." Sarah Hampson squeezed her husband's fingers. "I was afraid you'd get your hopes up, only to be disappointed."

  "My hopes were hardly high." Hampson's mouth tightened. "I thought ten to one there was some simple explanation I wasn't seeing. But if it was even remotely possible, I felt the least I owed Jane was to pursue it." He passed a hand over his face. "God knows I failed her in enough other ways."

  "Darling—" Sarah Hampson said.

  Hampson tightened his fingers round her own. "In any case, I called at Trenchard House. The duke received me courteously enough. But when I told him Pickering's story, he as good as called Pickering a doddering fool and me a deluded father. When I countered that, whatever my own state, Pickering was one of the sanest men I knew, Trenchard told me it was impossible. That he'd caught a glimpse of Jane's body in the water, though it was never recovered." Hampson's brows drew together. "If he hadn't said that, I might well have let the whole thing go." He met Malcolm's gaze. "I wasn't in military intelligence, but I dealt with enough deception in the Peninsula to be a fair judge of when a man is lying."

  "You think Trenchard was lying?" Malcolm asked.

  "At the very least about seeing Jane's body. And I couldn't think why he'd be so determined to prove to me that Jane was dead if he didn't have information to the contrary. In that moment, for the first time, I believed my daughter might still be alive." Anger and a cautious hope, still banked, shot through Hampson's voice. "I said as much, which wasn't prudent. His Grace took strong exception. I might have found the spectacle of two middle-aged men coming to blows amusing, were the circumstances not so serious. I failed my daughter in life. I was determined not to do so any longer."

  Sarah Hampson gripped her husband's hand. "We failed her."

  The colonel met his wife's gaze. "It wasn't your—"

  "Yes, it was, to a degree." Sarah looked down at her wedding band. "I didn't have the least appreciation of how difficult it was for her when we married." She looked up and met Suzanne's gaze. "She was only a couple of years younger than I was, and used to running her father's household. Suddenly, there I was, supposed to be her chaperone."

  "Not an easy situation for either of you," Suzanne said.

  "I was her father's wife. The parent, if in name only. Too conscious of the fact that everyone looked at me as a governess who had snared the colonel."

  "Sarah!" Hampson said.

  "It's true, dearest, you know it is."

  "I was damned fortunate to have won you."

  "That's not how I saw it, my love. Or how the world saw it." Sarah Hampson shook her head. Her pearl earrings swung beside her face. "I fear I was a bit of a puritan in those days."

  "Being a governess would tend to encourage that," Suzanne said, thinking of Laura's careful demeanor.

  Sarah met her gaze. "Yes, quite. One has to be so much on one's guard as a governess. After I married Frederick I was considered responsible for Jane's behavior, and I knew it reflected on me. I was dreadfully inclined to deliver strictures. I worried more about how we were both perceived than about what was going on with her."

  "She was my daughter," Hampson said in a low voice. "I'm the one who was responsible."

  "We never should have let her marry Jack Tarrington," Sarah said. "Anyone with a scrap of knowledge of him could see it was doomed to disaster."

  "There I must disagree with you," Hampson said. "Not about it being doomed to disaster. But long before she turned eighteen, no one could stop Jane from doing what she put her mind to. Besides—" He coughed. "It had reached the point where marriage was the only option."

  "Sometimes scandal is preferable to marriage." Sarah drew a breath. "Jane put herself in an unfortunate situation with Jack. But I've often feared that she did it because she felt she needed to have her own establishment." She looked down at her hands, then met Malcolm and Suzanne's gazes. "Because I'd made her feel that way."

  "God knows Jack Tarrington isn't the man I'd have chosen for my daughter," Hampson said. "But they both had a wild streak. I hoped they'd settle each other. Wishful thinking, perhaps, but once marriage was inevitable I hoped for the
best."

  "You didn't want your daughter to be Duchess of Trenchard?" Suzanne asked.

  "The Hampsons go back to the Conquest," Hampson said, shoulders straightening with a touch of the military. "Nothing wrong with our name. Older than the Fitzwalters, I believe. But no, it's nothing I aspired to for Jane."

  "If you knew the people who congratulated me on having married my stepdaughter off so well—" Sarah shuddered. "As if I'd arranged it."

  "I've seen enough of wealth and power to know it doesn't always bring happiness," Hampson said. "Sometimes it brings quite the opposite."

  Sarah smoothed her hands over the twilled blue sarcenet of her skirt. "Jane had the strength of will to be a duchess. But I should think the protocol would have driven her mad."

  "Was it a happy marriage?" Suzanne asked.

  Hampson grimaced. "They never even made a pretense of being in love. I think Jane tried. But she lost patience when Jack started chasing after a junior lieutenant's wife before they were a fortnight back from the wedding journey." His hand curled into a fist against the sofa cushions.

  "Forgive my plain speaking," Malcolm said. "But delicacy is sadly incompatible with the needs of an investigation. You said circumstances compelled your daughter and Tarrington to marry. Was she with child at the time of the marriage?"

  Hampson's gaze clashed with Malcolm's. "Is that important?"

  "If there's a mystery surrounding the accident that befell your daughter and son-in-law, it could be. Your daughter was carrying the possible heir to the dukedom."

  Hampson released his breath and forced his fingers to unclench. "They were caught in a compromising situation at a regimental ball, but Jane wasn't with child at the time of the wedding. It was almost three years before she became pregnant."

  "Good heavens." Sarah Hampson stared across the room at a framed cross-stitch sampler, a heart surrounded by moss roses. "If Jane's still alive, what happened to the baby?"

  Hampson drew a harsh breath. "Even if Jane survived, we don't know that the baby did."

  "She was eight months pregnant. We've assumed she drowned, but if she survived, even if she went into premature labor, it's quite likely the baby survived as well." Sarah shook her head, dislodging a strand of pale hair. "I know we didn't do what we should have for her, but if she survived, why on earth would she not have sought us out?"

  Hampson met her gaze, his own showing the same questions.

  "Did Jane say anything to either of you in the days before the accident to indicate she was worried?" Suzanne asked. "Or afraid?"

  Hampson shook his head. "I was busy with the East Adilabad/West Basmat business. After the loss of our men, it looked as though we might be drawn into a full-scale war. I'm afraid I didn't talk to my daughter enough."

  "I didn't talk to her enough, either," Sarah said. "We were never very comfortable with each other, and I'm afraid I took the easy route and told myself she preferred not to see me. But just before the accident—about a week—I went to call on her and brought some of Ricky's things for the baby. She seemed quite genuine in her thanks. But she also seemed distracted. She kept plucking at her skirt, which was quite unlike her. When I said it was natural to be nervous about the birth, she laughed sharply and said 'If only that were all.' Naturally I asked her what she meant. Jane met my gaze." Sarah's own gaze darkened at the memory. "I'll never forget the look in her eyes. As though cutting her soul in two. She said I was fortunate never to have done anything unforgivable. Of course I told her not to be so foolish. That she couldn't possibly have done anything unforgivable, and she must learn to forgive herself for the baby's sake. At that she looked away, as though she couldn't bear to meet my gaze anymore."

  Hampson was staring at his wife. "You said nothing of this to me."

  "I was trying to work out if I should, dearest. And then Jane was dead—or so we thought—and it seemed to me it would only stir up painful memories to speak of it. At the time I'm afraid I just patted her hand and said one's mind played all sorts of tricks on one when one was carrying a child, and she mustn't take things to heart. Jane gave a contained sort of smile, as though she regretted what she'd revealed. I should have tried to get her to talk instead."

  Hampson squeezed his wife's hand. "You couldn't have known, my love."

  Sarah Hampson looked into her husband's eyes. "That's just the thing, Frederick. I keep thinking one of us should have known."

  He grimaced. "It was my responsibility."

  "And it became mine when I married you."

  Hampson lifted his wife's hand and pressed it to his lips, then turned back to Malcolm and Suzanne. "You think all this has something to do with why Jane disappeared? That someone tried to do her and Jack a mischief? And that it's connected to Trenchard's death? Someone with a vendetta against the whole family?" He shook his head, as though he could scarcely credit that he seemed to have stumbled into the pages of a lending library novel.

  "I don't know," Malcolm said. "I don't want to raise false hopes about Jane's survival, but if she did disappear, it seems Trenchard had knowledge of whatever happened to her. And his death only a few weeks after Pickering's glimpse of the woman he thought was Jane is distinctly coincidental. My work has taught me to be suspicious of coincidence."

  "Mrs. Hampson." Suzanne leaned forwards, choosing her words carefully. "You said the baby seemed to be causing Jane concern. Is it possible— Colonel Hampson said Jack had been unfaithful—"

  Hampson's brows snapped together and he drew a breath as though to defend his daughter's honor. Then he let out a sigh, but it was Sarah who answered first. "As my husband said, the marriage wasn't happy, and Jack's infidelities were—flagrant would scarcely be too strong a word. Jane could not but have been sensible of that, and of course in confined society, such as there was in India, there's a tendency to flirt, but I'd swear she—"

  "She'd always enjoyed admiration." Hampson stared at his hands. "And she could be reckless."

  "She was trying to get Jack's attention," Sarah said.

  "Perhaps." Hampson shot a look at his wife, then turned to look directly at Malcolm and Suzanne. "I can't swear to how far she would or wouldn't have gone. But even if the child wasn't Jack's, that still doesn't explain the accident."

  Suzanne exchanged a look with Malcolm. "It could have given them a reason to quarrel." She remembered tense moments with Malcolm, pictured a couple quarreling, perhaps striking each other, the carriage whipped by the struggle. "It might have given her a reason to disappear, if she survived the accident and Jack didn't."

  "You think she ran off with a lover?" Hampson asked.

  "Did anyone else disappear about the same time?" Malcolm asked.

  "One of my officers?"

  "Perhaps. I understand a Lieutenant Cuthbertson greatly admired her."

  "Will Cuthbertson?" Hampson passed a hand over his face. "Yes, he was fond of Jane, and they flirted, but I doubt— I don't suppose at this point I can consider myself a very good judge of anything. But Cuthbertson most certainly didn't disappear when Jane did. Got himself transferred a few months later, but he didn't drop out of sight. He fought at Waterloo."

  "Anyone else? It wouldn't have to be a soldier. A diplomat, a merchant, one of the servants—"

  Hampson's eyes widened. Then he nodded. "Not that I remember. But it wouldn't necessarily have registered."

  "And it still doesn't explain Trenchard's role," Suzanne said.

  "If the child survived, he or she is legally Jack's," Malcolm said, "whoever actually fathered him or her. If it's a boy, that would make the child Trenchard's heir, and now Duke of Trenchard. If Trenchard knew the child was illegitimate, he might have preferred the child not be found."

  Echoes of their investigation two and a half years ago in Paris played through Suzanne's head. "If Jane had been to see Trenchard—"

  "See here," Hampson said. "Are you accusing my daughter of having a motive for killing Trenchard? Because, whatever her faults, Jane wouldn't—"

>   "We don't know enough to accuse your daughter of anything, sir." Suzanne leaned forwards. "And it certainly seems she was a victim in all of this. How did Pickering say she looked? Did he give an indication of how she was dressed?"

  Hampson passed a hand over his face. "I'm afraid I didn't pay as much attention as I should, because at the time I still couldn't credit that he'd really seen Jane." He frowned. "Pickering said she was more plainly dressed than she used to be—a dark pelisse and bonnet. Jane always loved color and pretty things. But that she looked in health. And that her hair was bright as ever."

  Suzanne flicked a glance at Malcolm, an improbable possibility beginning to form in her mind. "Do you have a likeness of Jane?"

  Hampson shook his head. "I always meant to have her portrait taken, but somehow—"

  "There's the miniature." Sarah sprang to her feet. "I never unpacked it when we got back from India, because it seemed to pain you to look at it. It should still be in the portmanteau in my dressing room."

  She hurried from the room. Hampson looked after her. "Poor Sarah. Seemed like a miracle to me when I found her. A second chance at happiness, reliving my youth and all that. Little ones to dandle on my knee again." He gaze moved to a book lying open on the hearthrug, with bright illustrations that indicated a child's story. "I was determined to be a better father the second time round. I didn't consider what it was all doing to the child I already had."

  "Family are complicated," Malcolm said. "Your daughter was a grown woman."

  "But still my daughter. As a parent yourself, I'm sure you can appreciate that that never changes." Hampson shook his head and looked from Malcolm to Suzanne. "Don't keep telling yourself that there will be time in the future to mend relationships with those to whom one should be closest. You never know when the chance will be ripped from you. If—"

  He broke off as his wife ran back into the room, a silver filigree-v framed miniature clutched in one hand. "I think she was about twenty when this was taken—fifteen years ago, but she can't have changed that much."