The Paris Affair

by Teresa Grant

  It was the planned script, save that they had not expected to have to include Christian in the invitation. Only of course she could hardly fail to include her cousin. Christian, deaf to any undercurrents that he might be unwanted—but then Christian was always deaf to undercurrents—bounded cheerfully up the stairs after the ladies.

  In their private parlor, she saw David’s gaze flicker to Suzanne, so briefly she doubted anyone else noticed. Then he set about pouring out wine and passing out cakes. Pierre and Marguerite knelt on the window seat and peered down into the inn yard.

  “Pity your father fell, Rupert,” Christian said, accepting a glass of wine. “Should be a splendid party. Good of old Gui to take him back to Paris.”

  “Gui is the best of brothers,” Gabrielle said.

  “Oh, quite,” Christian said, though Gabrielle caught a note of doubt in his voice.

  “A cart just pulled in,” Pierre reported from the window seat. “It looks like peddlers.”

  “Anyone will stop at inns these days,” Christian said.

  Dorothée took a sip of wine. “Lovely weather we’re having.”

  They made desultory conversation about the weather until footsteps pounded on the stairs. Gabrielle barely had time to be worried before her brother burst into the room. He checked for a moment, taking in Christian with a quick glance.

  “What happened?” Rupert demanded. “Did Father—”

  “He’s unconscious,” Gui said.

  “What?”

  “He tripped in the inn yard.”

  “I’ll take a look at him.” Suzanne was already on her feet. Dorothée moved to take Colin.

  “Good lord,” Christian murmured as Gabrielle sprang to her feet as well. “Dewhurst does seem accident prone today. I hope it isn’t his heart.”

  CHAPTER 36

  “What really happened?” Suzanne muttered to Gui as they ran down the stairs with Rupert and Gabrielle behind them.

  “Dewhurst appeared to trip over a coil of rope. But I have the strangest suspicion the Kestrel made it happen. We met him coming out of the stables. He’d just arrived. Davenport and Lady Cordelia are with Dewhurst.”

  Rupert shook his head as they reached the ground floor. “Didn’t the Kestrel realize you were getting Father out of here?”

  Gui’s brows drew together. “I had the oddest feeling he was afraid.”

  “Of Father? He doesn’t even know Father.”

  “I think perhaps he thought your father would recognize him.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense. They don’t know each other.”

  “How do you know?” Gabrielle said. “We don’t know who the Kestrel is behind all that makeup.”

  Lord Dewhurst lay on the floor in the stable. Cordelia knelt on one side of him, Harry on the other. “His pulse is steady,” Cordelia said, looking up at Suzanne.

  Suzanne dropped down beside Cordelia and ran her fingers over Dewhurst’s head. No blood, and his breathing was steady. “He should come round,” she told Rupert and Gabrielle. “We should carry him inside and put him somewhere he can be comfortable and not catch a chill.”

  Suzanne and Cordelia ran ahead to ask the innkeeper for a room on the ground floor to find that Wilhelmine had already done so. Dorothée came in, carrying Colin, who wriggled to be set down. David went to help the men with Dewhurst. Rupert and Harry laid Dewhurst on the sofa in the parlor. Suzanne knelt beside him to check his pulse. It was still strong.

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Rose squawked. A moment later, Juliette poked her head into the room, jiggling a fussing baby. “Have you seen Pierre and Marguerite? I went to change Rose and suddenly they were gone.”

  “Perhaps they ran outside,” Dorothée said. “We can—”

  A yelp from the inn yard put an end to her words. “Stay with Lord Dewhurst,” Suzanne murmured to David. She scooped up Colin, who was clinging to her skirts, and ran outside, followed by the others.

  They found Christian Laclos in the center of the yard beside a chaise, clutching his arm. A defiant Pierre and Marguerite faced him.

  “What happened?” Suzanne asked, arms tightening instinctively round her own son.

  “I bit Monsieur Laclos,” Marguerite said.

  Juliette ran to her elder daughter. “Why on earth—”

  “Because he was trying to make Pierre go into his carriage.”

  Christian Laclos put his hand up to his cravat. “There’s been a misunderstanding—”

  “It wasn’t a misunderstanding.” Pierre ranged himself by his sister.

  “You’ve been very brave,” Suzanne said, aware of Colin taking in the scene with wide eyes. “And it occurs to me we’ve shockingly neglected giving you anything to eat. Cordelia, could you take the children to the kitchen?”

  “Of course,” Cordelia said.

  Marguerite looked at the adults in indignation. “We stopped him—”

  “I say—,” Christian sputtered.

  “—and now you’re going to just send us away?”

  Juliette knelt down beside her daughter. “We’ll tell you later, sweetheart.”

  “All of it?”

  Juliette drew a breath but kept her gaze steady on Marguerite. “As much as we can.”

  “That’s not—”

  Pierre touched his sister’s arm. “Come on, Marguerite. They can’t talk with us here.”

  Cordelia took Colin from Suzanne’s arms and reached for Marguerite’s hand. Marguerite cast a lingering glance over her shoulder, but when Pierre took her other hand she permitted herself to be led away.

  A gust of wind cut across the cobbled yard. “Terrible misunderstanding,” Christian Laclos muttered.

  “My children are remarkably unfanciful,” Juliette said, pulling Rose tight against her. Rose craned her neck to look around, eyes bright with curiosity. “Or are you calling them liars?”

  “Of course not. I was just trying to . . . distract them.”

  “An interesting euphemism for kidnapping,” Suzanne said.

  Christian Laclos stared at her. “My dear Madame Rannoch, what on earth would I have wanted with the child?”

  Suzanne stared into that affable face and those wide blue eyes. If this was an act, he was a master. And yet—“An inheritance.”

  Juliette glanced towards the kitchen, where Cordelia had taken her children.

  Christian blinked. “Get things a bit confused, but don’t see how a painter’s son could have anything to do with—”

  “Not unless you realized the identity of the woman who had given birth to him. And the man who might have fathered him. You were part of Étienne Laclos’s failed plot. It would have been only natural for Étienne to have confided in you about his feelings for Tatiana Kirsanova.”

  Christian’s gaze slid to the side. “Well—er—yes.” He coughed. “Ladies present. Don’t like to—”

  “I assure you we aren’t in the least shocked,” Wilhelmine said.

  Christian’s gaze lowered to his boots. “Of course Étienne did mention it. Princess Tatiana. He was mad for her. Are you saying—One of those children is theirs?” He shook his head in a perfect show of confusion.

  “The boy may be,” Juliette said.

  “ ‘May be’?” Christian shook his head again. “You don’t know? Well, that’s—that’s Princess Tatiana, I suppose. That is—no wish to cast aspersions. But even if you were sure he was Étienne’s son, the boy wouldn’t inherit anything.”

  “He would if his parents had been married.” Suzanne glanced at Juliette. “There are more papers hidden somewhere, aren’t there?”

  Juliette drew a harsh breath. Horse hooves pounded, cutting the still air. Malcolm, Raoul, St. Gilles, and Simon rode into the inn yard. Suzanne met her husband’s gaze. A gasp sounded. She looked round to see Christian holding a pistol to Dorothée’s temple.

  “Don’t be an idiot, Laclos,” Malcolm said in the sudden taut silence. “You can’t get past all these people.”

  “On the c
ontrary,” Christian said. He glanced at the chaise, but there was no coachman on the box. “All of you back away. I’m going to the stable. When I’ve ridden out of here I’ll release Madame Talleyrand.”

  “You bastard,” Wilhelmine said.

  “Oh no, I assure you, madame la duchesse, I’m a Laclos to the core. Unlike Gui over there.”

  Christian backed into the shadows of the stable, pulling Dorothée with him. Doro was stone still, her face white above the satin ribbons on her bonnet. He’d let her go, Suzanne told herself. Probably. He was a desperate man and so much could go wrong when someone held a pistol. She met Malcolm’s gaze and then Raoul’s, weighing the pros and cons of action. Too dangerous with the gun to Doro’s temple. But if Christian drove off with her—

  The inn door swung open. A maidservant ran out and screamed. Christian spun towards her, leveling his gun. Malcolm hurled himself across the yard and knocked the maid to the ground. A report echoed through the yard.

  A scream tore from Suzanne’s throat, but it was Christian who crumpled to the ground, blood gushing from his temple. Dorothée swayed and would have fallen to the ground as well, but the Kestrel, still garbed as the old peddler woman, stepped out of the shadows of the stable and caught her in his arms. In one hand he held a smoking pistol.

  Malcolm helped the maidservant to her feet and ran to Christian. Rupert got there at the same moment. Malcolm put his fingers to Christian’s throat, looked at Suzanne, and shook his head. Wilhelmine ran to take Dorothée from the Kestrel. Suzanne came up beside them as the Kestrel dropped down beside Christian. “God help me,” he said in English, a low, barely accented voice that Suzanne had never heard from him before. “I hoped I was done with killing.”

  Rupert sat back on his heels and stared at the Kestrel. He didn’t move a muscle or utter a sound, but Suzanne felt his absolute stillness.

  The Kestrel lifted his head and the look that passed between them would have smashed glass.

  Rupert drew a breath that trembled in the air. “Bertrand?”

  CHAPTER 37

  The man known as the Kestrel gave a wry smile. “I should have known. You were always damnably good at seeing past appearances.”

  Rupert stared at the man kneeling across from him with the expression of one who sees but cannot accept reality. “You—” He broke off, hoarse with disbelief.

  The Kestrel sat back on his heels. “I’m not a ghost, I assure you. Or perhaps that’s not true. Bertrand Laclos died four years ago.”

  Wonder battled with uncertainty in Rupert’s gaze. And something else that might have been anger. “For God’s sake, why—”

  Bertrand cast a quick glance round the assembled company, but when he spoke it was straight to Rupert. “It’s a long story, which I agree must be told. But first—” He looked down at Christian.

  It probably took only a quarter hour to move Christian’s body inside and reassure and mollify the innkeeper (Raoul did that, few dared question him), but it felt longer. As though, Suzanne thought, they had stumbled late into someone else’s story. Which was inextricably bound up with their own. At last they all gathered in a parlor across the hall from the one where David and Simon sat with Dewhurst. Bertrand Laclos was now dressed in a shirt and breeches. He had removed the wig to reveal a shock of auburn hair and the putty from his face to reveal fine-boned features and the sort of flexible face that melds effortlessly into a variety of characters. Rupert’s gaze shot to Bertrand at once. Then Rupert crossed the room and stood leaning against the wall, arms folded as though physically holding himself in check.

  Bertrand’s gaze lingered on Rupert for a moment, then swept the company, settled on Gabrielle for a moment, moved on, carefully neutral. “I took a knife cut to the ribs in the tavern brawl in Spain. I lost a lot of blood and consciousness. I suspect my would-be assassin really did think I was dead or on my way to it. I thought so myself when the world went black. I came to to find Inez bending over me.” He turned to Rupert. “You remember Inez? The brewer’s daughter with an unfortunate tendency to confuse me with a romantic hero. By that time she’d accepted that we wouldn’t be more than friends, but it seemed to make our friendship stronger. In fact, she’d taken to confiding in me about the draper’s assistant who was courting her. It turned out her cousin Diniz was in the tavern at the time of the brawl. He got me out. Inez’s family couldn’t have been kinder.” He gave a wry smile. Even that lit his face. “Particularly when they realized there was no question of a marriage between Inez and me.”

  “Had you lost your memory?” Rupert demanded in a harsh voice. “Because I can’t see why else—”

  “At first I was too weak to think or do anything,” Bertrand said. “Then Diniz and Inez told me the word abroad was that I’d been killed. I knew the brawl must have been set up. I had Diniz summon one of my contacts. He made some inquiries for me. That was when I realized the British thought I was a traitor. At which point it seemed politic to lie low.”

  Rupert started to speak, then bit the words back. Tension radiated from every line of his body.

  “As soon as I was well enough, I began to make inquiries myself,” Bertrand continued. “I’d acquired a certain knack for disguise and moving silently. Eventually I traced the accusations of treason against me back to . . .” He hesitated. “Their source.”

  “My father,” Rupert said in an even voice.

  Bertrand looked him full in the face with a look that reminded Suzanne of when she had to admit a harsh truth to Colin. “I was hoping you’d never know.”

  “Why? To salvage my relationship with a man who is scarcely worthy of being called a man? If you’d come to me then—”

  “Rupert . . .” Again, Bertrand hesitated.

  Suzanne exchanged a look with Malcolm, but it was Gabrielle who spoke first. “You need to talk alone,” she said to her husband and cousin. “We should see how Lord Dewhurst is.”

  “Gaby—,” Bertrand said, his face a study in conflict.

  “It’s all right, Bertrand.” Gabrielle smiled at him. “I know rather more now than I did before you left.”

  The door clicked shut. Rupert stared across the inn parlor at the features he could trace from memory, still scarcely able to believe he was seeing Bertrand in the flesh. “Do you think Father recognized you?”

  “I can’t be sure. I doubt he’d have seen past the disguise, but I reacted on instinct. I only wanted to distract him.”

  “He deserved worse.”

  Bertrand met Rupert’s gaze for a long moment and drew a breath that was rough with despair and shattered illusions. “All those years. I never realized how much your father hated me.”

  “Not you.” Rupert’s voice shook with rage. “He wanted me married. I think he’d been hoping I’d conform to convention. He’d come to realize that I wouldn’t, so he took drastic action. I only learned what he’d done a few days ago, thanks to Malcolm. I’d never realized how much I hated him.”

  Bertrand regarded him with the gaze of one whose worst fears had come to pass. “Which is precisely why I didn’t tell you I was still alive.”

  Rupert stared at his former lover. “Damn it, Bertrand—”

  “What would you have had me do, Rupert? Bring about a complete breach with your father? Have you accusing him of treason?”

  “Damn it, yes.”

  “And then what?” Bertrand’s gaze locked on Rupert. “There was no chance for us. No place we could be happy. If I hadn’t seen that before, your father opened my eyes.”

  “Damn my father to hell.” Rupert stared at the man he had loved for as long as he could remember. “I wept at your grave.”

  Bertrand took a half step forwards, then froze. “Rupert—”

  “And you thought it was worth throwing away what we had so I could maintain a relationship with the man who tried to kill you—”

  “I knew what it would do to your relationship with your father to know he’d tried to have me killed.”

  “And so y
ou simply decided—”

  “There wasn’t anything simple about it.” Bertrand’s voice echoed from the floorboards to the smoke-blackened beams of the ceiling. He drew a breath that scraped raw. “My God, Rupert, do you think my first instinct wasn’t to go right to you? Do you think I didn’t wrestle with this, didn’t pace the streets, didn’t write you a dozen letters only to burn them? But in the end I saw—”

  Rupert stared across the room at him, held by his lover’s gaze.

  Bertrand’s gaze held the knowledge of unbearable loss. “Whatever he did, he’s your father, Rupert. That doesn’t go away. I loved you too much to give you a choice between me and your family.”

  “I wouldn’t have hesitated for a moment.”

  “And the first time we quarreled?” Bertrand asked in a rough voice. “Or when you became Lord Dewhurst with no heir and no prospect of one, estranged from your family?”

  “I married Gabrielle,” Rupert said in a low voice.

  “I know.” Bertrand’s face was carefully schooled. “You have a son. I’ve followed your life rather closely.”

  “Magnanimous of you. But do you know what it’s done to Gaby to be married to a man who can’t love her as she deserves?” Rupert drew a breath. His chest ached as though it had been pummeled black-and-blue. “I can’t believe you didn’t trust me.”

  “Rupert—I trust you with my life.”

  “You didn’t trust me with my own.” Rupert glanced away, then forced his gaze back to Bertrand. “And so you decided to disappear into the streets of Paris?”

  “I was tired of the war, tired of both sides, tired of the killing.”

  “And I should have been the first one you turned to.”

  “In another world. A world without families and conventions. Where we could be ourselves.” Bertrand’s mouth twisted. “A world that doesn’t exist.”

  Dorothée shook her head. Her skirt was damp where she’d attempted to sponge out Christian Laclos’s blood. “Why did it never occur to me that Christian’s bumbling was just a shade too perfect?”