by Teresa Grant
“And then? Lord Dewhurst—”
“Lord Dewhurst arrived claiming I was Gui Laclos and he’d come to restore me to my birthright. I protested there was some confusion. Dewhurst persisted. Finally my foster father took me aside and told me not to be a fool. He said this could be the making of me. I’d have a life most could only dream of. That this is what my mother would have wanted for me.”
“Gui.” Cordelia touched his hand, still struggling to make sense of his revelations. “You were so young. Is it possible—”
“That my memories are distorted and I’m actually Gui Laclos? No,” he said in a flat voice. “I was five. I remember my mother and father. I remember the real Gui. I knew I was going along with a lie when I let Dewhurst bring me to England. I’ve known it all these years.”
“You were a child.”
“I was fifteen. Boys my age fought and died at Waterloo on both sides.” He scraped the toe of his evening shoe over the floorboards. “I didn’t realize. What it would be like to be an outsider. An outsider as an émigré and an outsider to the family who took me in. The kinder they were, the more of an outsider I felt.”
“And so since you couldn’t tell them the truth, you were determined to prove how unworthy you were?”
He turned to her with a twisted smile. “A bit simplistic perhaps. A lot of it was sheer love of indulgence. But there may be a degree of truth in what you say.”
“And then Étienne and Bertrand were gone—”
“And the cuckoo became the Comte de Laclos’s heir. I suppose a revolutionary would approve. But Oncle Jacques would be horrified.”
“Everyone knows Caro’s husband, William Lamb, is most likely Lord Egremont’s son. And Talleyrand as good as acknowledges the Comte de Flahaut.”
“But they didn’t knowingly pass themselves off as impostors.”
Cordelia pressed her hands over her lap. “Rivère knew?”
“God knows how. The man had an unholy knack for uncovering secrets.”
“What did he want?”
“My influence with Lord Dewhurst to convince the British to get him out of France. He seemed to think as Dewhurst’s godson my pleas would hold some weight.” He looked into her eyes. “I was angry. And frightened. I don’t deny it. I’d lived with the secret for so long that to hear someone voice it was like the first crack that set my world crumbling. But I didn’t kill Rivère. In fact, I told him I’d do what I could with Dewhurst, though I wasn’t sure how much weight my pleas would carry.”
“I believe you.”
“You’re far too trusting, Cordy.”
“Perhaps. But my instincts rarely fail me.” She hesitated, understanding the choices her husband and Malcolm and Suzanne regularly faced. “Gui—”
“You have to tell your husband and the Rannochs. I know. I knew that before I confided in you. Do what you must. I’m going to talk to Gaby and Rupert.” He pushed himself to his feet. “It’s time this comedy came to an end.”
Gabrielle stared at her brother. At the man she had thought of as her brother for twelve years. “I remember you. From France. Before.”
Gui’s mouth twisted. They were in the study in Rupert’s and her house in the Rue d’Anjou. He was sitting on a straight-backed chair, a little removed from her and Rupert, out of the circle of light cast by the branch of candles Rupert had lit. “You were only three.”
“But I remember.” She leaned forwards on the sofa and looked into his shadowed eyes, conjuring up memories of that dark-eyed boy with the untidy brown hair, trying to overlay his face over Gui’s own. “You used to play dolls with me sometimes when I teased you. You were a deal kinder to me than Gui was, actually. I remember—” She bit back the words, stared for a long moment at the man she had called brother, then spoke them in any case. “I remember wishing you were my brother.”
Gui drew a sharp breath. “Gaby—” He turned his head away.
Beside her on the sofa, Rupert had been staring fixedly at Gui. Now he pushed himself to his feet. “What did my father know about this?”
Gui’s gaze shot to him, wide with surprise. “Merely that someone told him I was Guilaume de Laclos.”
“Are you sure?”
“Why else would he have brought me to England and given me into the care of his closest friends?”
“I don’t know. But I do know he’s capable of anything.”
“Rupert.” Gabrielle got to her feet as well and touched her husband’s arm. “This has nothing to do with—”
“You can’t know that, Gaby.” Rupert wrenched himself away from her. “My father sent Étienne on the mission that led to his death. He had Bertrand killed—”
“What?” Gui sprang to his feet.
Rupert met Gui’s gaze directly. “Your cousin—your supposed cousin—Bertrand wasn’t a traitor. My father set him up. Because he wanted him out of the way.”
“Why—”
“Because he thought that was the only way to convince me to marry and produce an heir.”
Gabrielle saw the realization register in her brother’s—her supposed brother’s—eyes. For a long moment he simply stared at Rupert. Then his gaze shot to her, filled with questions and a concern that unexpectedly tore at her chest. “I know,” Gabrielle said. She reached for Rupert’s hand. “Lord Dewhurst manipulated both Rupert and me.”
Gui’s gaze returned to Rupert. “I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve the trust you just placed in me, Rupert.”
Rupert held Gui’s gaze with his own. “You knew Bertrand. I couldn’t bear to have you think the worst of him. And you need to know what my father is.”
Gui inclined his head. “I may not be part of this family anymore, but I don’t think I’ll ever stop thinking of it as mine.”
“Gui.” Gabrielle moved to his side and touched his arm. His muscles were taut beneath her fingers.
“Don’t you think you’d better start calling me Victor?”
“I’ll always think of you as Gui. You’ve been my brother for far too long for that to change. I don’t know—” She looked at Rupert, then back at Gui. “Oncle Jacques and Tante Amélie have suffered so much. I don’t know that it would serve any purpose for them to learn the truth.”
“For God’s sake, Gaby.” This time it was Gui who jerked away from her touch. “It was bad enough that I lived a lie as a teenager. That I went on living it—” He shook his head, self-disgust washing over his face. “You can’t expect me to continue to do so. I’ve never claimed to have much in the way of honor, but I’m not quite so far gone.”
“I’ve always thought you had a deal more honor than you let on,” Rupert said, crossing to stand beside her and Gui. “But whatever is said—if anything—we need to discover what my father’s game is first. I’m done being a chess piece he can move as he wills.”
Gui started to protest, then slowly inclined his head. To Gabrielle’s surprise, he reached out and touched her hand, though he continued to look at Rupert. “Whatever comes of this, I’ll always think of Gaby as my sister.”
“I know,” Rupert said. “That’s a large part of why I trusted you.”
Malcolm poured whisky in the salon in the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. Candlelight flickered over the sea green wall hangings, the white plasterwork, the striped satin upholstery. A decorous setting for a convivial end to an evening with friends. They’d shared many such with the Davenports in the past months. Save that on this occasion, they were gathered together because Cordelia had gripped Suzanne’s arm with iron fingers and said she had something she had to relate to the three of them, as soon as possible.
Suzanne glanced at Cordelia, seated beside her on the sofa, her face pale, her hands locked together. Soft ringlets fell about her face, but tension radiated from the straight line of her spine and the taut angle of her head. Suzanne’s own confrontation with Fouché still reverberated through her. Her chest was knotted and her mouth dry. But she was used to boxing up fear and pushing it to a place where it c
ould be, if not forgot, at least ignored as one ignores the ache of a troublesome wound or the nag of a headache.
Malcolm put a glass of whisky into Cordelia’s hand. “Whatever it is, sharing it probably won’t worsen the situation. And it may help.”
Cordelia gave him a smile and took a quick sip of whisky. Harry sat watching her with an intent gaze. Cordelia cradled the glass in her hands and looked from her husband to Malcolm to Suzanne. “Gui Laclos is an impostor.”
Once the first words were out she recounted the rest of what Gui Laclos had revealed in brisk, concise tones. She had the makings of an admirable agent. Though her hands remained locked round the glass, white-knuckled.
Harry got to his feet and put a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “That was brilliantly done, Cordy. And it can’t have been easy.”
She looked up at him. “I was so proud of myself for drawing him out. Only to discover I’d stumbled into the midst of someone else’s nightmare.”
“Which unfortunately has relevance for us.” Malcolm leaned forwards in his chair. “Gui had no idea how Rivère learned of this?”
Cordelia shook her head. “I believe Gui when he says he didn’t kill Rivère. But I don’t expect you to.”
Malcolm looked at Harry, then at Suzanne. “As it happens your trust in him means a great deal, Cordy.”
“But you can’t be sure,” Cordelia said.
“No. And we have to explore every avenue. I’ve learned to be wary of even those closest to me.”
“Rivère knew a shocking number of the Laclos family’s secrets,” Suzanne said. “And this one he couldn’t have learned from either Gabrielle or Étienne.”
Harry dropped down on the arm of the sofa, his hand still on Cordelia’s shoulder. “Did Gui have any idea what made Dewhurst think he was Guilaume de Laclos?”
“Gui seemed to think it was misinformation from a relative of his mother’s who was trying to do him a good turn.”
“This could be what Bertrand discovered just before he was killed,” Suzanne said. “What he told Louise Carnot changed everything. And why he was considering going home. Christian Laclos told Doro and me that Bertrand had written asking him about Gui just before he—Bertrand—was killed.”
Malcolm nodded. “Living in France, Bertrand could have stumbled across information that cast doubt on Gui’s story.”
“He wasn’t in France when he died,” Cordelia pointed out.
“No, but he could have set inquiries in motion before he left for the Peninsula. Perhaps he’d just heard from someone with decisive information. Or perhaps he met someone in the French army who had information.”
“I wonder if he could have written to Rivère for information as well as to Christian,” Suzanne said. “He may have known Rivère had been his brother’s confederate. Perhaps that’s how Rivère learned the truth about Gui. Or perhaps Bertrand revealed enough for Rivère to ferret out the rest.”
Harry flicked a glance at Malcolm. “Dewhurst doesn’t strike me as the sort of man to be taken in easily.”
“No.” Malcolm turned his glass in his hand. “He survived working in the field with the Royalists in France for years. Though when one has lost people, one can be quick to grasp on to a shred of hope. Difficult to see what reason Dewhurst would have had to foist an impostor off on his old friends.”
“Unless his old friends were in on it,” Suzanne said, twisting her glass in her hand as she turned over thoughts in her head. She looked at Cordelia. “Gui told you he was born shortly after his parents’ marriage, didn’t he?”
“You’re suggesting he was a Laclos by-blow?” Harry asked. “That he shared a father with the real Gui?”
“It would explain the generosity of the Laclos family to Gui’s parents,” Suzanne said. “And why Gui was allowed to mingle so freely with the Laclos children.”
“In which case perhaps the Comte de Laclos has always known the Gui he took into his house isn’t the real Gui,” Malcolm said. “He could have set his old friend Dewhurst to look for his brother’s by-blow with the idea of taking the boy into the family. Of course at the time he’d not have thought it likely Gui would become his heir.”
“You think he had second thoughts about taking Gui into his family after his sons died?” Harry asked.
“Or perhaps the opposite. Perhaps he wanted to protect Gui’s position as his heir.”
“Which Rivère’s knowledge could threaten,” Cordelia said.
“Quite. If Gui were exposed as an impostor, the next heir would be Christian Laclos.”
“Who is a bit of a bumbler,” Suzanne said.
“Precisely. And who grew up away from the comte. The comte might well prefer Gui, whom he’s come to think of as a son. Of course it’s all supposition. We don’t know that the comte knew Gui was an impostor or that he knew about Rivère threatening Gui. Or that Gui is a Laclos by-blow. That’s the problem with pretty theories. One errant fact can knock them down like a house of cards.”
“We need more information,” Harry said. “I suggest a return to Christine Leroux.”
Cordelia managed a smile. “You look entirely too cheerful about it.”
Harry reached for her hand and lifted it to his lips. “Christine Leroux is a clever woman. But you’re brilliant.”
“Harry seemed to take Cordy’s concern for Gui quite well,” Suzanne said to Malcolm, closing the door of their bedchamber.
“Harry’s testing himself. But so far I’d say he’s passing the test.” Malcolm tossed his coat over a chairback and struck a flint to steel to light the tapers on her dressing table and the escritoire. “I always knew Cordy had nerves of steel, but I must say even then she impressed me tonight. She’s taken to intelligence work almost as quickly as you did.”
Suzanne’s fingers froze behind her neck on the silver filigree clasp of her pearl necklace. Because of course when Malcolm met her she’d been far from a novice at espionage. Just as she’d been far from a novice in the bedchamber. One of her greatest challenges in the early days of her marriage had been not to reveal that extent of her expertise in either area. “Cordy’s a clever woman who hasn’t had an outlet for her cleverness. Though I hate for her to see the ugliness of what we do. She got a taste of that uncovering Gui’s secrets.”
“Married to Harry, she can’t hide from it. And God knows she saw enough of that ugliness in Brussels.” Malcolm dropped down on the edge of the bed and began to unwind the folds of his cravat. “Talleyrand put Tatiana up to the affair with Étienne Laclos. To keep an eye on the plot.”
Suzanne stared at her husband. She’d been so caught up in her own confrontation with Fouché and then Cordelia’s revelations about Gui that she’d missed the shadows that drew at Malcolm’s face. “He admitted it?”
“With surprising celerity for Talleyrand. But he claims he and Tania weren’t the ones who betrayed the plot.” Malcolm frowned at the crumpled linen in his hands. His voice was stripped of expression. “He says Tania insisted that they stop the plot without betraying Étienne.”
“Darling.” Suzanne set the necklace she had just unclasped down on the dressing table and moved to sit on the bed beside him. “That could very well be the truth. I don’t see why Talleyrand would make it up.”
“Talleyrand could have any number of reasons for making it up, each more complicated than the last. But it is possible Tania genuinely cared for Étienne.” Malcolm frowned at the cravat, then tossed it across the room to the chair where he’d left his coat.
“Gabrielle Caruthers told me she had the impression her cousin was in love with someone much more—well, I suppose, innocent for want of a better word—than Tatiana,” Suzanne said. It was hours since she and Malcolm had been able to talk in private, and those hours were thick with revelations. “That he seemed desperately in love and that he tended to fall for young, helpless females.”
Malcolm continued to frown, as though trying to piece together his sister’s past from a miasma of half-truths. “Love can
take one by surprise.”
“That’s what I said to Gabrielle.” Suzanne hesitated. For all her deceptions, she knew one couldn’t comfort a man like Malcolm with half-truths. But there was honest comfort she could offer. She curved her fingers round his arm. “As I said, the fact that she became pregnant indicates she lost control enough that she forgot to take the usual precautions.”
“Love isn’t the only reason one loses control.”
“But it is one possibility.”
Malcolm frowned at the buttons on his waistcoat as he unfastened them. “Tania always claimed not to believe in love.”
“So did you.”
He shrugged out of the waistcoat and threw it after the cravat. “I stopped after I met you.”
“Darling.” She made her voice playful to hide a host of emotions that shot through her at his words. “Don’t tell me you made a heartfelt confession of your feelings to anyone. I don’t think you were remotely aware of them at the time.”
“Quite. But I was aware enough of the conflict to stop making any claims about love at all.” He fumbled with his shirt cuffs, avoiding her gaze. “Later—certainly by this winter in Vienna and then in Brussels—if Tania had still been alive . . .”
“You’d have talked to her?”
“Perhaps.” He gave a reluctant grin. “Tania would have seen it and forced me to talk.”
“And you think you’d have seen it if she’d fallen in love with Étienne Laclos?”