by Tracy Grant
The narrow entrance hall boasted a silver box for calling cards atop a chipped table with a wooden wagon and two lead soldiers peeping out from beneath. The maid took them up the stairs to the first-floor parlor, a room hung with blue paper,that let in as much sun as the March day afforded. Framed playbills adorned the walls. Lily Duval came forwards to meet them.
"Mr. and Mrs. Rannoch. Lord Tarrington—that is, His Grace the duke—James sent word that you'd likely call."
Lily Duval was a tall, slender woman with bright gold hair dressed in a loose knot. After interviews in prison and with the recently bereaved, it was a shock and relief to see her green-spotted muslin. A paisley shawl was tossed round her shoulders. The yellows and oranges of the shawl should have clashed with the green but somehow didn't.
"Thank you for agreeing to see us," Malcolm said.
She gave a lopsided smile and waved them to chairs. "I didn't think I had much choice. I don't always make the best decisions, but I am trying hard to be sensible for Johnny's sake. My son."
"I understand he's seven." Suzanne gave the smile of one mother to another.
"Yes." Miss Duval moved to the windows. Suzanne and Malcolm followed. In the narrow strip of garden outside, a little boy with white-blond hair was tossing a stick to a brown and white puppy.
"A fine boy," Malcolm said. "He has a cricketer's arm."
"Jack played cricket," Miss Duval said.
"Yes, I remember seeing him play. He had undeniable talent."
"For some things."
In the garden below, the stick sailed over the puppy's head and caught in the vine on the fence. The puppy yapped in protest. Johnny studied the stick, tried to reach up on his tiptoes, then, when it was clear he couldn't reach high enough, bent down for a pebble and threw it at the vine. The stick fell to the ground.
"Enterprising," Malcolm said.
"I never used to give much thought to the future," Lily Duval said, gaze on her son. "More fun to enjoy the present than to think seven months in the future, let alone seven years. It changes one, having children."
"I used to think that was a platitude," Suzanne said. "I didn't really understand until I had children of my own."
Lily Duval met Suzanne's gaze in a moment of understanding.
The maidservant had come out into the garden. Johnny ran over to take the biscuit she was holding out and fed half of it to the dog. Miss Duval shook her head. "I'd never have given half a biscuit away at his age. I wouldn't have been confident of getting another."
The maidservant settled in a chair. The puppy frisked off after the stick again.
"We have a cat," Suzanne said, "but I want to a get a dog when our children are a bit older."
"James gave Johnny the puppy for Christmas. He's a good uncle."
"I understand he visits regularly," Malcolm said.
"Yes, he's very conscientious. And he always apologizes for not doing more. And insists Johnny call him Uncle James. Not everyone would acknowledge the connection." Miss Duval's fingers closed on the blue-flowered curtain for a moment. "He was here the night the duke was killed. I had asked him to come."
"And he left—?" Suzanne asked.
"Shortly before one-thirty. He wanted to get back to the country before the household was awake." She looked between Malcolm and Suzanne. "James said the duke was killed about two-thirty. So neither James nor I has an alibi. You'll have to make your own judgments about me. But you must realize James couldn't possibly have killed anyone, let alone his own father."
"You're very loyal," Malcolm said.
"I've seen what a good man he is." She shook her head, dislodging a strand of hair. "It's funny, there was a time when I'd have written James off as hopelessly dull compared to Jack. But then I never was a very good judge of men." She cast another glance at her son, who was now flopped on his back with the puppy licking his face, then gestured towards the mismatched tapestry chairs again. "We'd better sit down. I'm sure you have more questions."
Malcolm handed Suzanne into one of the chairs but remained standing, a courtesy to their hostess. "I understand the late duke had made some threats regarding your son."
Miss Duval's mouth tightened. "In truth, I've feared Trenchard's interference from the start." She sank down on the sofa. "If I could have managed on my own— but I couldn't, so there's no sense refining on it. And I wouldn't have put it past Trenchard to interfere, in any event."
Malcolm dropped into the second chair. "Has he tried to interfere a great deal?"
"Most of the time he seemed to ignore us, which suited me very well." Miss Duval adjusted the flowered silk shawl on the sofa back, which had slipped to show a frayed spot in the blue velvet. "But I always sensed he was there, waiting to pounce. James said he always felt his father was like a snake, coiled in a tree overhead or watching from the shadows."
"Did you see Jack often?" Malcolm asked.
"Oh, yes." Miss Duval pushed the loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Not that I had any illusions it was an exclusive relationship. Not that he even pretended it was. But he visited me until that whole business when he had to leave England."
"That must have been dreadful," Suzanne said, well aware Malcolm hadn't been able to discover the full details of what had driven Jack from England.
"A married woman. I never knew her name. There's a limit to the details one wants about one's lover's other conquests. Not the first married woman Jack was entangled with, but I think it was the first time a husband had challenged him to a duel."
"They fought?" Malcolm asked.
"Jack wounded the husband. He said it was an accident."
"Trenchard did a remarkable job of hushing it up," Malcolm said.
"But he insisted Jack leave the country. Jack was gone before Johnny was born. But he wrote to me from India. Until—until he died." She drew her shawl closer about her shoulders. "I miss him. He was far from perfect, but then I can hardly claim to be perfect myself."
"Do you still have his letters from India?" Malcolm asked.
"No, that's the worst of it. We were robbed not long after he died. They got the silver and most of the jewelry he'd given me and a silver christening rattle James had given Johnny. I kept Jack's letters in a silver filigree box. Plate, actually, but I suppose it looked valuable."
Malcolm flicked a glance at Suzanne. "You never learned who was behind the theft?"
"No. It was a bit odd because there haven't been other break-ins on our street that I know of, but—" Lily Duval stared at Malcolm. "You think it was deliberate? Someone was after Jack's letters?"
"It's a possibility," Malcolm said. "And in this case we have to consider every possibility. Do you remember what Jack wrote to you about the situation in India?"
Lily Duval frowned. "That it was hot. That he was bored. Eventually, that he was taking a wife. He didn't elaborate, but, reading between the lines, I gathered he didn't have much choice in the matter." She shook her head. "It's a wonder he wasn't forced into matrimony sooner. I think the only thing that saved him was his predilection for married women and opera dancers like me. He did seem excited about the child on the way." Her fingers closed for a moment on the folds of her shawl, perhaps at the realization that this child would have been a legitimate heir, unlike her own son, perhaps at the realization the child was gone. "I remember thinking Johnny would have a brother or sister he'd probably never meet. I have two sisters, one in Surrey, one in Hampstead. I see Susie twice a week and Alice at least twice a year. And we write all the time. I can't imagine— But I don't suppose any of that is why you think the letters were taken."
"It's interesting background," Malcolm said. "Did Jack write to you about his father's visit?"
Miss Duval twisted an errant lock of hair round her finger. "That he was dreading it. I don't remember him writing after the duke arrived. No, there was one letter. I've always thought he was in his cups when he wrote it. Well, even more in his cups than he usually was at the end of the evening. There was a g
reat deal about people taking one by surprise, and not knowing whom he could trust, and some rather maudlin bits about Johnny—he only got maudlin when he'd been dipping deep. Then he said he'd discovered something unexpected, and he wasn't sure what to do about it."
"Something about his father?" Malcolm asked.
"He didn't say what it was about." Lily Duval pulled the lock of hair taut and stared at it, as though answers could be found in the golden strands. "But at the end of the letter he asked what he owed the man who'd sired him."
"What did you reply?" Suzanne asked.
"Before I had the chance to reply, he wrote back telling me to disregard his ramblings." She folded her arms across her chest. "That letter, the one telling me to disregard his ramblings, was the last one I had from him. I never thought—"
"If it did mean anything of significance, there's nothing you could have done," Malcolm said.
"You're kind, Mr. Rannoch."
"I speak the truth. Whatever happened to Jack wasn't your fault."
"But you think Jack's death had something to do with his father's? Jack died in an accident—"
"In truth, Miss Duval, the more we investigate, the less we are sure of anything. Did Jack ever mention Lord Craven?"
"Craven?" Lily Duval frowned. "The name's familiar. He was in India as well, wasn't he?
"Assisting Lord Trenchard."
"Jack must have said something— oh, yes, that's it! He called him 'craven Craven.' I'm not sure why. He isn't a soldier, is he?"
"Technically both she and James would have had time to kill Trenchard." Malcolm drummed his fingers on the seat of the hackney as they clattered back towards Mayfair.
"And it's hard to imagine a motive stronger than a mother's fear for her child." Suzanne stared at the thick rain that had begun to fall, washing the city gray. "All the same—"
"Yes?" Malcolm swung his gaze to her.
"You're going to say I've gone soft."
"I can't imagine you going soft, sweetheart."
"I could see her being driven to kill, but Trenchard hadn't gone that far yet. It was all supposition."
"As she and James tell it."
Suzanne chewed on the doeskin finger of her glove. "They aren't in on it together, or they'd be giving each other alibis. So there must be some truth in their version of what went on that night."
"Suppose Trenchard summoned her after James left. His threats about the boy escalated, she attacked."
"That's possible," Suzanne acknowledged, forcing herself to a detachment that used to be second nature. "But why would he summon her in the middle of the night?"
"Perhaps because of whatever was in those letters."
"Assuming Trenchard isn't the one who had them stolen?"
"Perhaps he was worried about what Miss Duval remembered," Malcolm suggested.
"Something would have had to trigger it."
"Something obviously triggered him to blackmail you to recover the file," Malcolm pointed out.
"The file doesn't have any direct connection to India. And in any case, then he wouldn't have summoned Lily Duval about her son. He'd have wanted to silence her."
"Perhaps he did," Malcolm said. "Perhaps he attacked her."
"And she killed him in self-defense?" Suzanne considered this. Outside the wind had whipped up. Three young men who looked to be junior clerks dashed into a pub with newspapers held over their heads. "It's appealing. More appealing than finding any of the suspects guilty of cold-blooded murder."
"We still haven't identified the earring," Malcolm pointed out.
Suzanne shook her head. "It doesn't look like Lily Duval's. And yes, it could have been a gift, but why would she wear that sort of jewelry if Trenchard summoned her in the middle of the night?"
"Not unless it was a very different sort of rendezvous and that really does strain belief. If he wasn't above pursuing his wife's sister or his son's wife, I don't know why we should think he'd cavil at his son's mistress. But that's crediting Miss Duval with a level of deception I don't think she's capable of."
"Unless she's good enough to deceive us both," Suzanne said.
"Always possible."
The hackney pulled up in Berkeley Square. Malcolm paid off the driver and they hurried up the steps, huddled together under an umbrella. Valentin had seen them coming and had the door open. "Lady Cordelia just called," he said, taking the dripping umbrella. "I've shown her into the small salon." He hesitated a moment. "She seemed to have something important to tell you." Like the rest of the staff, Valentin had a good sense of what went on in his employers' investigations.
Cordelia was pacing before the fireplace in the small salon. She turned and came forwards quickly at their entrance. "It's terrible about Craven. We only just heard."
"We haven't had time to send word to you and Harry," Suzanne said.
"No, of course not. I know you must be busy talking to all sorts of people." Cordelia's gaze skimmed between them. "Have you learned anything?"
"Nothing conclusive," Malcolm said. "But it looks as though you have."
Cordelia drew a breath. "I know whom the earring belongs to."
Malcolm whistled. "Good work, Cordy. Who?"
"It kept teasing me all last night at the opera that there was something I was missing. Not that last night's revelations weren't enough. And then this morning, when I was walking with Livia and Dru, it suddenly occurred to me. I generally avoid talking to her, but the last time we saw Don Giovanni I found myself standing next to her in the crush in the grand salon, and she was wearing those earrings."
"Who?" Suzanne asked.
"Lydia Cranley."
"Yet another person without an obvious connection to Trenchard," Malcolm murmured. "Interesting."
Suzanne had a vague image of a tall woman with auburn hair and commanding features. "She's Lady Cranley, isn't she?"
"Her husband's a baron," Cordelia said. "The sort who'd spend his time in the country shooting if it weren't for his wife. Lydia's mother and Harry's were second cousins. She stopped speaking to me when the scandal hit with my marriage, but she'll acknowledge me now Harry and I are living together again. It should be enough to get her to talk to us." She looked at Suzanne. "Assuming you'll let me come with you?"
"I don't know how I'd manage without you," Suzanne said.
Chapter 27
Gui Laclos, breathing hard, landed a smart uppercut to another gentleman's jaw as Malcolm walked into the room. A sight tempered by the fact that the room was in Gentleman Jackson's Boxing Emporium, and Gui and his opponent, Bertrand Laclos, had their coats off and their hands wrapped with mufflers. Bertrand staggered, recovered, danced to the side, feinted to the left, and then struck Gui a blow with his right fist that sent Gui crashing to the floor.
"Bloody careless," Gui muttered.
"Your mind is on other things." Bertrand unwound the muffler from one of his hands to pull Gui to his feet.
"And on a good day I'm hard pressed to land a blow on you. Nothing like having a cousin who's a war hero."
"You're improving." Gentleman Jackson himself turned from supervising the sparring of two young sprigs across the room. "Never seen you with such attack. You just need to learn to focus all that energy." Jackson's gaze fell on Malcolm in the shadows by the door. "Mr. Rannoch. Come to try your hand?"
"Not today."
Gui paused in the midst of removing his second muffler and took a step towards Malcolm. "Rannoch. I've been expecting you."
Bertrand turned round and nodded to Malcolm with apparent ease. But then he was a master of deception who had spent years donning disguises to smuggle Bonapartists and Royalists alike out of Paris under the nose of Fouché and his Ministry of Police. "I'd best be off, in any case. I'm supposed to meet Rupert at Brooks's. My regards to Suzanne, Malcolm."
Gui grabbed a towel from a hook on the wall and threw it round his shoulders. "Give me a minute and we can repair to the coffeehouse across the street."
"No," Gui
said as they crossed the street, "I don't know how much Bertrand knows or suspects. Anyone who lived a secret double life for as long as he did outmatches me in deception as much as he does in prizefighting. Not that there haven't been times I've wanted to ask him and Rupert for advice on living with secrets."
"But you didn't confide in them?"
Gui swung round in the middle of the street to stare at him. "My God, can you imagine I'd risk it?"
"I didn't think it likely."
"You can't imagine, knowing the woman you love could be ruined by a word—" Gui drew a breath. "Not the best of appearances, I suppose, finding me engaged in fisticuffs."
"I can see how you'd want an outlet for your emotions."
"Assuming I hadn't already taken them out on Trenchard?"
"Or assuming you had. You're the sort who'd feel guilty."
Gui grimaced. "I didn't kill the bastard. But I don't know how guilty I'd feel if I had." He glanced sideways at Malcolm again. "I know you can't believe me."
"I can't believe anyone."
Gui gave a curt nod as they pushed through the coffeehouse door. "She doesn't."
"Mary?"
Gui cast a quick glance round the coffeehouse, as though afraid to speak her name.
"Nothing like the noise in a coffeehouse for cover," Malcolm said. "We survived on that in Vienna."
They threaded their way back to the seclusion of a high-backed booth and ordered two coffees. Gui, who normally slouched in his chair, sat bolt upright and cast anxious looks about. "Mary is under an intolerable strain," Malcolm said. "I trust you both realize that anything you say to each other under these circumstances must be taken with a grain of salt."
"She can't but wonder." Gui stared at a knot in the dark wood of the table. "And wondering I suppose she can't but doubt if she'd want me as a husband or the father of her children."
Malcolm regarded Gui's tormented face across the table. "My dear idiot, having known Mary since childhood, I seriously doubt she's having any such qualms. I strongly suspect she'd be more likely to applaud your ruthless practicality. But I suspect she's also terrified for you. It's a wonder what love will do for people."