The Carfax Intrigue

by Tracy Grant

  Julien set down the decanter and bottle and picked up his own glass. "Here’s to the autumn."

  Mélanie closed the door of the night nursery, where their son Colin and daughter Jessica and Laura and Raoul’s daughter Emily were sleeping. Colin had woken for a moment and asked about the ball when she went in to check on them, but now he too was back asleep. "I knew tonight would be challenging, and we’d all need our wits about us," she said to Malcolm. "But I had no notion quite how much."

  "No. Though you’d think we’d be prepared for League intrigue at any moment." Malcolm was sitting on the edge of the bed, petting their cat, Berowne.

  "And I think we’re going to have to be prepared for intrigue round the queen and king at every turn in the coming months, as well." Mélanie sat beside him and ran her fingers over Berowne’s soft gray head. "But I think we came though tonight quite well. And Julien and Kitty did splendidly."

  Malcolm scratched Berowne under the chin. "I don’t envy them the attention they’re going to get from the beau monde. I’m glad to be out of it."

  "We’re not going to be able to stay out of it, darling. Not with the queen’s trial engulfing political London. A lot of the fight’s going to play out in drawing rooms and ballrooms."

  "Once more unto the breach." Malcolm leaned back on his hands. The light from the candle on the night table caught the shadows round his eyes. "Even before the incident with Lady Derby’s bracelet, Sandy was struggling, balancing Bet’s being there with his parents."

  "Yes." Mélanie thought of the way Bet’s gaze fastened on Sandy in unguarded moments. There had been one such moment tonight, when Sandy turned to a footman to get Bet a glass of champagne. Bet had been laughing, but for an instant she’d looked at Sandy as though committing every detail to memory. Mélanie had once looked at Malcolm that way, she suspected. She’d certainly lain awake trying to memorize the contours of his face against a moment when she might never see him again.

  "I wish Bet weren’t so generally known," Malcolm said. "That there was a way to devise a history for her, as we did for Rachel."

  "That wouldn’t really solve things, darling."

  Malcolm rubbed Berowne between his ears. "It would if enough people believed it."

  "Covering up her past wouldn’t change the fact that prejudices are unjust."

  He looked up into her eyes. "Well, no. It doesn’t mean we should stop trying to change things. But meanwhile, it would make Sandy and Bet happy."

  "You think he’d marry her if his parents wouldn’t be scandalized?"

  "Don’t you?"

  Mélanie pulled the pins from her hair and shook it our about her shoulders. "Not everyone is you, Malcolm."

  "Oh, Sandy’s much more sensible than I was at his age. He isn’t afraid to admit what he wants."

  "And he doesn’t worry he doesn’t deserve it."

  Malcolm smiled. "That, too."

  "But he doesn’t have your flexibility of thinking."

  "Can you look at him and doubt he’s a man in love?"

  "Love and marriage don’t go hand in hand for a lot of people."

  Malcolm’s gaze settled on her own. "Sadly true." He leaned forwards across Berowne and put his mouth to hers. "How fortunate that we aren’t among their number."

  Julien pulled the stickpin from his cravat and regarded it. "Have I told you I’m proud of you, Kitkat?"

  Kitty unclasped her necklace. "I had a lot of help from Mélanie and Cordy. And the servants did most of the work. As for the search for the papers, all the others got to do more than I did."

  Julien set the stickpin beside his shaving kit. "Not the ball or the investigation, though both were a triumph. The way you fight for what you believe in."

  Kitty laughed as she snapped her jewel box closed. "I’m a hardheaded pragmatist, my love."

  "You’re an idealist who can be ruthlessly practical about achieving your goals. Your ability to believe astonishes me. It’s even kindled some embers in me."

  Kitty turned, leaning against the dressing table, and studied her husband. "You’ve always believed in a lot, Julien. You just wouldn’t admit to it."

  Julien unwound his cravat. "I couldn’t or wouldn’t believe I could make a difference. Which perhaps was a way of letting myself off the hook. Staying out of the mess doesn’t accomplish anything but let the bastards win."

  She gave a rough laugh. "It’s true I don’t avoid messes. I’ve never been satisfied with what I find about me."

  "Nor have I." Julien tossed the cravat in the laundry basket. "But I wasn’t as focused as you. To put it mildly."

  "It doesn’t always make it easy for our family."

  "It’s going to make a better world for our children, I profoundly hope." Julien unfastened a shirt cuff but paused, the button held between two fingers. "I think we accomplished a lot tonight."

  "We’re not going to be dismissed. But we made some enemies."

  "We already had enemies. We made the lines clear. And that we aren’t going to be easily cowed."

  Kitty watched her husband, wondering if anyone else was aware of just how much strategy lay behind his seemingly quixotic guest list for the evening, or the apparently effortless way he had moved about the room. "Did you declare war on the House of Lords tonight, Julien?"

  "Oh, no. I’m not O’Roarke. I don’t rush into lost causes. But I did stake out some positions." Julien undid his other cuff. "Malcolm’s quite right that the House of Lords should be abolished. But meanwhile, the fact that I’m unelected and no one can get rid of me has its advantages." He paused a moment. "I wonder if it will make Uncle Hubert rethink the value of the House of Lords. Which would be worth it, in and of itself."

  Kitty went up to him and slid her arms round him. "I love you."

  He kissed her, then drew back and smiled. "I was sure we were going to get tired of saying that."

  "It has a persistent ring." She reached up and threaded her fingers through his hair, then felt reality settle over her. "Tonight was only the beginning, Julien. Of a lot of things."

  "Oh, yes." Julien reached for her hand and kissed it, then folded it between his own. "The next few months are going to prove very interesting."

  The Westminster Intrigue Excerpt

  Malcolm and Mélanie Suzanne Rannoch's adventures

  in espionage and investigation continue

  in Tracy Grant's new historical mystery

  The Westminster Intrigue

  On sale May 2021

  London

  October 1820

  New arrivals were always a source of interest at the Chat Gris. Men were a source of potential revenue. Certainly to the women who worked the rooms above the common room, but also to the men and women who played games of dice and cards at the cracked tables or lifted a purse, a watch, a snuff box, or an embroidered handkerchief in the course of a game or while serving ale or gin or moving between the tables. Or upstairs in the rooms over the common room before or after—or even during—bedsport. New male guest were also potential rivals for the pickings on offer. Or for the women who worked the tavern. New female guests were less unlikely to come to the Chat Gris plump in the pocket, but they too might be rivals for the night’s pickings, whether those were purses or watches or other trifles to be lifted or gentlemen with money to spend to be enticed upstairs. So the women who worked the Chat Gris eyed female new arrivals with suspicion. And the men who frequented the tavern surveyed them with the interest posed by novelty.

  When a tall man in an olive drab greatcoat that could keep most of the denizens of the Chat Gris in funds for weeks came through the door, shaking raindrops from his beaver hat and the four capes on his coat, he drew a gaze from all round the common room. He made his way to a table in the center of the room, set down the hat, and shrugged out of the coat to reveal the high shirt points, padded shoulders, and nipped in waist affected by a dandy. They all knew the type. Sort who fancied himself daring for drinking a pint of ale in St. Giles. The newcomer with the
high shirt points ordered an ale and joined a game of cards, then laughed when he lost heavily.

  Several women sidled up to him, but he showed no interest, though one helped herself to his purse. He also showed no interest in three women, also new to the Chat Gris, who arrived not long after. Despite the fact that they were a striking trio—one dark, one with guinea gold ringlets, one a redhead. Their sarcenet and lustring gowns had once been fine, but any of the discerning women in the tavern could recognize hems that had been turned and lace and ribbon that had been added to cover stains and wear. That and the low-cut necks and spangled scarves said they came from a different world than the gentleman with the high shirt points, even if they were all new to the Chat Gris tonight.

  The three women sauntered up to the bar and ordered gin. Then they separated and moved about the room with the air of those going to work, something nearly every other woman in the Chat Gris recognized well. The red-headed woman attempted to the catch the eye of the man with the greatcoat but had no more luck than the Chat Gris’s regulars. Then she fell into conversation with a man in a claret coat who was also new to the Chat Gris. Not long after they wandered upstairs, the man’s arm draped round her shoulders and his hand slipping between the green velvet ribbons on her bodice. The dark-haired woman cast a look of annoyance at her redheaded friend, who was having better luck than she was herself, then tossed down the last of her gin and ordered another. The blonde woman was bent over the man with the high shirt points, who actually looked up and gave her a smile. Emboldened, the blonde woman dropped down on his lap.

  Five seconds later, the door opened to admit another man, taller than even than the man with the high shirtpoints, though he slouched more and his swagger said he was more at home in St. Giles. He cast a look about as though in search of something. His gaze lit on the blonde woman. He pushed his way between the tables, grabbed the blonde woman’s arm, and yanked her off High Shirt Points’s lap.

  "Take your bloody hands off my woman."

  "Take your bloody hands off me." The blonde woman tugged against the new arrival's grip. "What do you think you’re doing, Will?"

  "I should be asking you that, witch."

  "No offense meant." High Shirt Points pushed his chair back. "I had no notion—"

  "He doesn’t own me." The blonde woman yanked her arm from the grip of the man she called Will.

  "I’ve spent enough on you." Will grabbed her again.

  "That doesn’t give you rights."

  "Here now." High Shirt Points sprang to his feet. "I believe the lady asked you to leave her alone."

  "Mind your own business." Will dragged the blonde woman closer.

  "Julie." The dark-haired woman, who had been watching with apprehension, broke away from a stout man she’d been flirting with and ran over to the blonde woman. "You know what he’s like when you set him off."

  "He had no business following us," Julie said.

  "How the bloody hell else am I supposed to know what you’re doing?" Will dragged Julie closer. Julie pulled away from him and stumbled into the next table. When Will reached for her again, High Shirt Points stepped between them.

  "Leave the lady alone, sir."

  "The lady is no lady, she’s a—"

  High Shirt Points drew his fist back and aimed a blow at Will’s jaw. A surprisingly strong blow ("Must train at Jackson’s" someone murmured). Except he got his booted foot tangled in the legs of his chair and the folds of the greatcoat he’d flung over it. So he lurched into Will. Will drew his fist back to counter, but instead the two of them went down with the chair and greatcoat in a tangle of broken wood and torn wool.

  "Now look what you’ve done," the dark-haired woman said to Julie.

  "Serves him right," Julie declared, pulling her skirt out of the way to reveal silk stockings worked with clocks and cherry red satin ribbons tied round her ankles.

  Will yelped.

  "Oh, Will, are you hurt?" Julie flung herself down beside him.

  Will put a hand to his face. "That devil fair near broke my nose."

  "Poor darling." Julie looked up at a High Shirt Points. "You beast."

  "See here, madam—"

  "Oh, Will." Julie now had his head in her lap. She bent down and kissed him.

  High shirt points stared down at them. "I suppose all’s well—I say!" He clapped a hand to the side of his closely tailored coat. "My purse is gone."

  "Don’t look at me." Julie was smoothing Will’s hair, gaze locked on Will’s own.

  "Julie." The dark-haired woman caught her arm. "Let’s out of here."

  "Not before—"

  "Hunh—" Will sat up and shook his head. "Did you accuse my woman of stealing?"

  "No. That is—" High Shirt Points straightened his padded shoulders. "My purse is gone. And I'm sure I had it when she sat down."

  "Don’t remind me that you were pawing her." Will scrambled to his feet.

  "I was not—"

  The dark-haired woman tugged Julie to her feet and pulled her towards the door.

  "I say." High Shirt Points grabbed Julie’s blue satin sash. "Don’t start running off."

  "Take your bloody hands off her." Will lunged at High Shirt Points. High Shirt Points blocked the blow and struck back. They lurched into the table, upending High Shirt Points’s tankard of ale. The dark-haired woman dragged Julie through the crowd of interested onlookers. Julie’s skirt caught on a splintery chair leg and tore. The dark-haired women pushed open the door and pulled Julie into the street. High Shirt Points lurched after them. Will grabbed him and the two of them tumbled out into the street after the women, grappling as they went, to the accompaniment of shouts and calls of encouragement from the onlookers.

  Someone threw a tankard after them and someone else slammed the door shut on the wind and rain and mêlée.

  Malcolm Rannoch cursed the tight-fitting coat of his costume as he stumbled into the street. He aimed another blow at Harry Davenport, the supposed Will. Several stitches gave way in his coat, which made it easier to move. Harry hit him back as they both staggered in the mud. Mélanie and Julien had already run down the alley at the side of the Chat Gris. Malcolm pushed himself up on one hand, before he could collapse in the mud, and staggered to his feet. He and Harry stumbled into the alley after Mélanie and Julien.

  The alley was darker than the street, the ground squishy with rotted food from the Chat Gris kitchen and most likely worse. Julien paused below a window, the skirt of his filmy pink gown held up, and gave an owl call good enough to have fooled Malcolm had he not been watching. An answering call sounded and then the casement window above swung open and the candle within the room caught a gleam of tawny hair. A leg clad in a silk stocking and ribboned garter swung over the sill, and with almost no sound, Kitty Mallinson let herself out the window, climbed down the upper story, and dropped into Julien’s arms in a stir of green skirts and lacy petticoat.

  "Good timing," she said. "I’d just secured the papers and our target is out like a doused candle. Everything go all right on your end?"

  "As much like clockwork as an improvisation can." Julien steadied her and put his hands on her shoulders.

  "I think we put on a good enough show that no one was thinking about what you were doing upstairs," Malcolm said.

  "Thank you," Kitty said.

  "Good to be back at work," Julien said. "Though I’m rather sorry I didn’t get to play your part, Kitkat."

  Kitty’s grin flashed in the moonlight. She touched her fingers to Julien’s blonde hair piece. "There’s a limit to how far you could have carried the masquerade, darling, however good you are at it. And no, I didn’t have to go particularly far with him before the drug took effect."

  Julien grinned. "I didn’t ask."

  "Your husband kissed me." Harry was stripping off his side whiskers, which were coming loose in the rain. "Quite convincingly."

  "I should hope it was convincing." Julien pushed his blonde ringlets back from his face. "I try not t
o do things that aren’t convincing on a mission. Hopefully that report will throw off anyone who happened to be there or who hears about it later and remotely guesses it might have been us. My apologies to Cordelia."

  "Oh, Cordy won’t mind that." Harry stowed the whiskers in his pocket. "I don’t think she’s quite forgiven all of us for going off without her, though she claims to understand if was risky for someone not trained to fight."

  "Speaking of which we should get home," Malcolm said. "Before Cordy and Laura lose patience. And before we run more risks." He looked at his own wife, who was grinning with the excitement of a successful mission. Which he admitted he couldn’t but share himself. He reached for her hand. Just as three men rushed down the alley.

  Harry, who was closest, knocked one to the ground first. Another rushed at Malcolm. A glancing blow to the shoulder knocked Malcolm backwards. He stumbled, then used the force of his weight to throw the attacker off balance. A third man screamed as Mélanie tossed the contents of her scent bottle in his eyes.

  Malcolm glanced over his shoulder and saw that a fourth man was holding Kitty at the opposite end of the alley, a knife to her throat. Julien had gone still. Kitty fell back as though in a faint, knocked her attacker backwards and twisted away. Julien grabbed the man and yanked on his knife hand. The man screamed and the knife went flying. Julien twisted the man’s arm behind his back and forced him to his knees. "Who sent you?"

  Kitty snatched up the knife and tossed it to Julien. "Who sent you?" he repeated, the knife now at the man’s throat.

  The man made a hoarse sound. The man Malcolm had been fighting broke away and darted down the alley towards Julien and Kitty. The man Julien held slumped to the ground, a knife protruding from his chest.

  The other attackers scattered. Julien dropped down beside the man who had attacked Kitty and gave a curt nod. "Gone. Damnation. I should have seen that coming. I’m getting rusty." He pushed himself to his feet and touched Kitty’s arm. "You all right, Kitkat?"