by Tracy Grant
"I still don't think Laura killed him," Suzanne said.
"Nor do I." Malcolm tugged the second glove into place. "He was her one link to her child."
Suzanne adjusted the ribbons on her bonnet. "She became a spy because it was her only link to her child. I dragged my child into the world of espionage with me."
"No time for wallowing." Malcolm took her hand in a firm grip. "I'll send word to Addison to let him know Emily is a child. We're going to find Emily. So help me, I can't bear to think of anyone doing that to a child. Or her mother."
She tightened her fingers round his own. "I could have been her, Malcolm."
He was silent for a moment, gaze on the thickening shadows that filled the street. "O'Roarke has many sins, but he wouldn't have abandoned you. Or taken Colin away from you."
She shot a look at him.
"I may not be clear-eyed when it comes to O'Roarke, but I've known him for a long time. If I forgot what that meant when I learned about the two of you, I've begun to remember. "
Her throat hurt. It must be the soot in the air. "What she went through—I've been through a lot, Malcolm, but I can scarcely imagine. And yet, I understand the choices she made."
"So do I." He met her gaze. "Among other things, I know what it is to fall into a life of espionage in the search for some anchor in the wasteland life has become."
In the gray light of oncoming twilight, the bones of his face were sharpened, his eyes even more deep-set than usual. In battling her own ghosts, she sometimes forgot he had them as well. "I hadn't thought—"
"You aren't the only one to see parallels."
"Parallels and differences. It made me realize— Fortune protects one a great deal." She laced her fingers through her husband's own. "Your fortune."
"Your life has hardly been easy, Suzette."
At the corner, three boys sat huddled round a fire on the pavement. A flower seller hurried down the cross street, a tattered shawl clutched round her shoulders. Suzanne was suddenly and acutely conscious of the softness of her gloves, the expert fit of her boots, the snug warmth of her merino pelisse. "No. But it's difficult to justify the luxury I live in. Oh, don't get me wrong, I know better than to wallow. But every so often, I'm struck by my hypocrisy."
Malcolm drew her hand through the crook of his arm. "You don't talk this way very often."
"No, I try to keep it from you."
He squeezed her fingers. "Do you think we can trust her?"
"Yes."
"That's a remarkably unequivocal answer, coming from you."
"You've seen what she's been through."
He steered her round a pile of refuse on the pavement. "I've seen that her spirit is undimmed. And that she's a survivor. You've taught me that one can never tell where choices will take a person."
"An appalling lesson."
"A useful one." He pulled her to the side as a carriage clattered by, sending up a spray of mud. "She could ruin us."
"What are you saying? That we should turn our backs on her?"
"Of course not. But I can't be blind to the risk she represents." He pulled her closer. "I'm rather keenly aware of what we have to lose."
Suzanne looked up at her husband. She'd been trying all day not to dwell on her meeting with the blackmailer that night, but it hovered on the edge of her consciousness. "We can't make the risks go away, Malcolm."
"No. But I'm trying to minimize them."
Colin looked up at his parents from the nursery hearthrug. "Where are you going tonight?"
"The opera." Suzanne dropped down beside her son in a stir of champagne satin and silver tulle. She was aware of Malcolm standing behind her. He'd argued for staying home until their rendezvous with her unknown blackmailer at five in the morning. But Suzanne had pointed out that all sorts of people connected to the Trenchards would be at the opera. Which, she told herself, had everything to do with the investigation and nothing at all with avoiding private conversation with her husband.
"I hope you can help Laura."
"I do too, darling." Suzanne hugged her son.
"La-ra." Jessica tugged at one of the silk roses on Suzanne's bodice.
"She sends you her love, sweetheart." Suzanne scooped her daughter into her arms and buried her face in the crook of Jessica's neck, wondering where Emily had been when she was this age. In the course of the Peninsular War and the Waterloo campaign, she had seen monstrous acts of brutality. Arguably, she had known many men—and some women—who could rival Trenchard for villainy. And yet the image of him arranging his own son's death, and then calmly hiding another child of his away from her mother, chilled her with the desolation of a Spanish winter, and at the same time made her burn with anger.
Suzanne kissed Jessica's hair as though she could protect her with the force of her love.
"I wish I could go to the opera," Colin said.
"Not tonight, old chap," Malcolm said. "But we'll take you soon. Tonight isn't the best choice for children."
The grand salon at the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden, was always crowded during the interval. The image of the masked trio entering Don Giovanni's palace fresh in his memory, Malcolm slipped through the crowd. A trick he'd mastered in his years in the diplomatic corps. A touch on a shoulder or arm, a nod, a smile, a murmured greeting. He'd made a half-circuit of the room before he spotted James. At a table alone, a glass of champagne tilting in his fingers, as though he'd forgot he was holding it.
Malcolm was prepared for defenses, but James looked up at him with what seemed like relief. "I didn't want to come. But I needed to speak with Sidmouth."
Malcolm dropped into the empty chair at the table. "I like Mozart, but Don Giovanni isn't one of my favorites. Difficult to like any of the characters. Suzette tells me I'm being sentimental."
"I confess I can't see the opera without seeing echoes of my brother." James pushed his glass aside.
"You never met his wife?" Malcolm asked. It wasn't time to bring up Laura. Not yet.
"No. They married in India. But from what I've heard, the marriage didn't settle Jack much. If at all. Why in God's name do women—"
"Find it appealing? I've often wondered."
James gave a twisted smile. "You're fortunate. Your wife adores you."
"You and Hetty seem happy."
"I'm fortunate to have her," James said, neatly sidestepping the question of happiness.
Malcolm studied the man he had come, in the last two days, to think of as a friend. "You were seen in Half Moon Street two nights ago, James."
James went still, though it seemed to be a moment before the words fully registered. He released a breath. "I should have known I'd be seen. And that you'd learn of it."
"In the general run of things it wouldn't be any of my business. But—"
"It was the night my father was murdered." James snatched up his champagne and tossed down a swallow. "It's not what you think."
"I don't think anything yet."
James set the glass down as though by force of will. "I was visiting a lady."
Malcolm said nothing, Hetty's drawn face sharp in his memory.
James twisted his glass on the starched linen tablecloth. "That's also not what you think."
"It's none of my business."
"Damn it—" James drew a breath and cast a quick glance round the crowded salon. He leaned forwards in his chair, shoulders hunched. "I don't know that I've made Hetty happy. Often I think I didn't do her any favors dragging her into this family. But I wouldn't betray her."
"And the lady you were visiting—"
"Her name is Lily Duval. She used to be an opera dancer. And my brother's mistress. If a word that implies something so long-term can be applied to any of Jack's liaisons. My brother had a varied career before he left Britain. I wonder sometimes how many women he got with child. How many nieces and nephews I may have. But I know of one for a certainty. Lily has a seven-year-old son. Jack is—was—the father."
"Mary mentioned someth
ing about your father paying her off."
Jack raised his brows. "I'm surprised Father let Mary hear of it. Yes, Father made a settlement on Lily. I supplement it with a quarterly allowance. And I visit from time to time. Johnny doesn't have a father. I want him to at least know something of his family."
"Are you generally in the habit of spending the night?" Malcolm kept his voice as neutral as he could.
"No, of course not." James reached for his glass but, instead of drinking, pushed it from hand to hand. "Lily sent word to me at Richmond. She said it was urgent and asked me to come at once."
"And was it urgent?"
James took a sip of champagne. "Father had written her an intemperate letter. He said he was going to stop paying for her house. He made further comments that led her to believe he was going to try to have Johnny removed from her care."
"Did she know why?"
"She said she hadn't seen Father in months. She was distraught when I arrived, and Lily's one of the most sensible and strongest women I know. She showed me Father's letter. With typical highhandedness, all Father said was that he was making some changes to his arrangements and felt he had already done more than enough for her, and that now Johnny was getting older he would benefit from an environment more representative of his father than his mother. Lily was convinced Father meant to try to take Johnny from her. I wouldn't put it past him to remove a child from his mother."
Malcolm saw Laura's tight face as she talked about Trenchard keeping Emily from her, and then recalled Suzanne's account of Mary describing how her husband had insisted she give up the child she was pregnant with or he would keep her other children from her. "I don't doubt it. What did you tell her?"
"That I wouldn't let it happen." James downed another gulp of champagne. "Though truth to tell, I'm not sure how I'd have prevented it."
"And then?"
"I left. A bit after one. I drove straight back to Richmond. I was there before Hetty woke."
"You drove alone?"
"Christ, Malcolm, you can't think I'd have taken a groom with me." He slumped back in his chair. "There's no one to account for my whereabouts when Father was murdered ."
"And Miss Duval? She was alone when you left? She lives alone?"
"Except for Johnny and a maid." James set down his glass. "Malcolm, you can't think Lily—"
If James was to be believed, Lily, like Laura and Mary, had one of the strongest motives imaginable for committing murder. Protecting a child. But Malcolm merely said, "I should talk to her."
"You won't—"
"I'll be discreet. But now that your father's gone, she has nothing to fear."
Which was rather the point.
"I wonder if Don Giovanni would be so infernally attractive if Mozart hadn't given him such ravishing melodies to sing." Cordelia rested a gloved hand on the gilded paneling against which Gui Laclos was lounging. "The man doesn't show a scrap of affection or concern for any of his conquests. Of course, I used to pride myself on not taking my love affairs seriously."
"There's a difference between being lighthearted and callous, Cordy." Gui gave a twisted smile. "You couldn't be callous if you tried."
It was good to see him smile, but his eyes were still shadowed, and his face gaunt. "You may be seeing me through rose-colored glasses, my sweet."
"No. You I think I've always seen clearly, Cordy." For a moment, she thought he was going to confide in her, but instead he said, "Poor bastard, Don Ottavio. He tells Donna Anna his peace depends on her own and she doesn't seem particularly interested."
"And really, what more could a woman want than a man who puts one's happiness first? Unless, of course, he didn't seem to understand one's happiness." Cordelia unfurled her fan and ran her fingers over the ebony and lace. "Donna Anna says when Don Giovanni broke into her room, at first she thought it was Ottavio. I've always wondered if things progressed a bit before she realized it wasn't. And if a part of her doesn't wish Ottavio were a bit more like Giovanni. And so of course she's wracked by guilt."
"That makes Ottavio's situation even worse. How the devil is one supposed to know what a woman wants?"
It wasn't like the usually cheerful Gui to take a love affair so seriously or bitterly. Cordelia turned against the paneling so she was facing him. "Is that the problem, Gui? A woman?"
He gave a harsh laugh. "You're becoming as much of an investigator as your husband, Cordy."
"I just hate to see you unhappy."
"The devilish compassion of those who've found happiness and who can't understand why others can't be as happy as they are. Not everyone can find perfection, Cordy."
Out of the corner of her eye, Cordelia glimpsed her husband, face set in the sardonic lines that were his habitual company expression. Her heart warmed, in that ridiculous way it did when she looked at him at the most seemingly trivial moments. "I wouldn't call it perfection. But I know I've been far more fortunate than I have any right to be. I thought perhaps something had happened with your family." In Paris, two and a half years ago, Gui had confessed to his aristocratic émigré family that he was not the long-lost heir they believed him to be, but an imposter who had engaged in a charade from the time he was a teenager. Surprisingly, his family had not cut ties with him, particularly his supposed sister Gabrielle.
"No, Gabby and Rupert and Bertrand couldn't be kinder. Unlike—" He drew a breath, one of those moments that teeter between defense and confidence. "See here, Cordy. You're a woman."
"I was always under the impression that you thought so."
Gui gave an abashed grin. "Sorry. I just need a woman's perspective. I'm trying to understand— why would a woman suddenly lose interest in a fellow, after months of seeming quite the opposite?"
Cordelia considered, and as quickly abandoned, numerous flippant responses that sprang to her lips. There had always been something endearing about Gui, something quite apart from the brief, diverting, lighthearted passion between them. Something that had endured beyond the end of that passion. "My dear— I'm sorry. But sometimes one does—grow past these things, as it were."
"But this wasn't a casual fling like the one we had. It—" Gui broke off and stared at her, eyes oddly like those of a schoolboy. "Oh, damn it, I'm sorry, Cordy. I didn't mean it that way."
"It's all right, dearest." She touched his hand. "I think we were always admirably clear about what we meant to each other and what we didn't mean. It's one of the reasons we've been able to stay friends, which I wouldn't give up for anything." She wondered sometimes why she hadn't let it become anything deeper. Was it because she'd been afraid of the dangers of falling in love again? Or because a part of her had still been in love with Harry, though at the time she wouldn't have admitted she'd ever loved her husband?
Gui squeezed her hand. "Nor would I. You're the best, Cordy. I think I always knew you couldn't be more than a friend."
"Because of Harry? At the time I wouldn't have admitted he'd ever been more than a husband of convenience."
Gui's dark gaze grew surprisingly shrewd in that way it sometimes did. "Perhaps I saw some things you missed. In any case, this was different. Not just a fortnight at a house party." He swallowed, the torment back in his gaze. "But it wasn't just the time it lasted. It started out casually enough. Some lighthearted flirtation while waltzing, stolen moments in the garden after a bit too much champagne. Sorry, don't mean to give you too many details. But it soon became clear that it meant more."
"To you?"
"To me certainly. I've always rather made a point of treating love affairs lightly." He flushed, looked away, looked back at her. "Given that my entire identity was a house of cards, I couldn't afford to treat them as much else. I don't know when I realized this was different. When I couldn't stop thinking about her. When the smallest brush of fingertips was enough to feed me for days. When the thought of life without her was a gnawing void I couldn't contemplate. When I realized I'd rather hold her hand in the rain than lie on silken sheets with any other
woman." He shook his head. "I sound like a bad novel."
"You sound like a man in love. Rather more articulate about it than many."
He turned his head and met her gaze, his own vulnerable as glass. "I even told her the truth. About me. About my family. And the wonder was, she said it didn't matter."
"To someone who loved you, it wouldn't."
"Spoken by someone who's never taken titles seriously."
"And she did?"
"Most people do in our world. But when she said it didn't matter, I believed her. I'd swear her feelings were engaged as strongly as my own. We talked round it. She was guarded, protecting her reputation, protecting herself. But I could see it in her eyes. That is, I would have sworn I could see it. Until a fortnight ago. When she told me it was over."
"In those words?"
"She said it had been very agreeable, but that we'd both always known it had to end, that we'd let it go on too long as it was, and best to cry off as friends before we grew bored. The sort of thing I've said a dozen times myself. The sort of thing—"
"That we said to each other. Only we didn't even really need to say it. We both knew."
"Quite. But can you imagine Davenport talking to you that way?"
"Not now. Not ever. Harry would be far more caustic."
"It was as though she'd transformed into another person."
"Gui—I take it she's married?"
He hesitated, looked away, drummed his fingers on the paneling behind him, looked back at her.
"It's not a great leap," Cordelia said. "I don't think you'd trifle with an unmarried girl. So unless she's a widow—"
"She's married."
"Could her husband suspect?"
"That's what I feared. Not that he had any right to judge, given his own behavior. But if she's in trouble, why won't she talk to me?"
"My dear—" Cordelia touched his arm. "It is possible her feelings weren't as deeply engaged as your own. Or that her feelings have changed."
"I know. Damnation—"
"But it also sounds as though she called it off very quickly. That makes me think it's more likely she's trying to protect you."