The Tavistock Plot

by Tracy Grant

  "It sounds practical," Mélanie said.

  "And people in love aren't supposed to be practical."

  "They often aren't. Which isn't precisely the same thing. Do you know who Lady Shroppington will leave her fortune to now Lewis is gone?"

  "His brother, I assume. Or perhaps one of his sisters. Or all of them, I suppose. Why—Good God." Letty stared at her. "Surely you don't think Lewis's brother could be behind this? Or his sisters? The younger sister is barely eighteen."

  Money proved to be at the root of the motive of a great many crimes, but Mélanie felt a wave of protectiveness for the seemingly hardened Letty. "We need to explore all the options. There's also the possibility that someone else might think they would benefit if Mr. Thornsby's brother or one of his sisters were the heir."

  "Who? A woman who wants to marry Thomas? A man who was courting Hypatia or Helen?" Letty dashed her hand across her eyes. "Sorry. I haven't met them, but I'm so used to Lewis's talking about them I feel I know them. I don't suppose I'll ever meet them now."

  "I think they might find it a comfort to meet you," Mélanie said.

  Letty stared at her in disbelief.

  "To hear about Lewis. From someone he cared for."

  Letty shook her head. "I told you. They wouldn't approve of me. And I don't think I was precisely worthy of his regard."

  "But they wouldn't be facing his marrying you now. That might make it much easier to be magnanimous. And what would matter to them is that he cared for you. It might be a comfort for them. And for you."

  "You're odd, Mrs. Rannoch. In one breath you're suggesting Lewis's family might have killed him. In the next, you're offering compassion to them. And me."

  "There are certain questions one must ask in investigating a murder. No matter how much one likes people. Perhaps especially if one likes them, because it can damage one's perspective. But it doesn't do away with compassion. At least it shouldn't. I haven't always been as compassionate as I should."

  "I can't imagine your being anything else."

  "People can change. I certainly have," Mélanie said. Letty hadn't known her in the old days. When she'd been an agent. Or before then, in the brothel. When it had been hard to find room for anything approaching compassion. "Is there anyone else you can think of who had reason to be threatened by Lewis?"

  "Other than those who are afraid of the Levellers? No, no one."

  But Letty paused ever so slightly before she said it.

  In an investigation, sometimes pauses revealed more than what was actually said.

  Chapter 4

  David Mallinson, Viscount Worsley, regarded the man he loved over the wrought iron nursery beds. Simon was tucking the covers round three-year-old Jamie. He had been recounting the events at the Tavistock while they checked on their four sleeping children. Well, properly, David's niece and three nephews, the children of his late sister, but in reality they had become Simon's as much as David's soon after the children came to live with them.

  "Good God," David said. It would have been more of a shock a few years ago—before he and Simon had become embroiled in so many of Malcolm and Mélanie's adventures—but violent death still shook him. David had seen young Thornsby only the day before, when he'd brought the children by the theatre to watch a rehearsal. "You think one of Father's agents planted this drawing on Thornsby?"

  "Malcolm raised it as a possibility." Simon smoothed Jamie's hair. "It's nothing like certain."

  "But you don't think Thornsby really was involved in a plot to assassinate a member of the royal family?"

  "My God, David." Simon straightened up and regarded him across the bed. "Can you imagine I'd have kept quiet if I'd had the smallest glimmering such a plot existed? Among other things, I don't believe in killing."

  "Thornsby could have been involved in a plot without your knowing of it."

  "It's possible." Simon glanced round the beds, at Teddy, George, and Amy, sleeping soundly beneath their quilts, then jerked his head at the door. David followed his lover into the passage. "It's barely possible," Simon said when they were out of the nursery with the white-painted door closed. "But it's not the sort of thing the Levellers do."

  David made it a point to stay as far out of the Levellers' activities as he could, just as Simon made it a point not to involve him. But he knew they didn't espouse violence. At least they hadn't so far. "But Father would like to discredit them."

  "David—" Simon put a quick, warm hand on his arm. "Don't let this drive a wedge between you and your father."

  David gave a rough laugh. "Don't you think that was done long since?" When his father had used the truth of Mélanie Rannoch's past to try to drive a wedge between David and Malcolm and between David and Simon. Because Carfax, above all, wanted things ordered as he saw fit. And part of that included David's marrying and fathering an heir.

  "You've begun to mend things."

  "If by that you mean I can tolerate his presence, and he hasn't actively tried to manipulate us since we returned to Britain, I suppose you're right."

  "No sense in tearing it apart again based on supposition. There are too many unknown factors. Even granted it's likely that someone planted that paper on Thornsby, even Malcolm admits we can't be sure it was your father. In fact, he acknowledges it's a bit blunt for Carfax."

  David nodded. All that made sense. But he found it difficult to trust his father in anything.

  Simon reached for his hand. "Malcolm and Roth are coming to the Tavistock in the morning to talk to the company. And Mélanie will be there, of course. We should know more then. Meanwhile, there's nothing we can do. Best get to bed and face what we have to tomorrow."

  David gave a faint smile and let Simon draw him down the passage. He and Simon had learned to navigate the difficult terrain of their sometimes-conflicting interests as MP and Radical. They knew what questions not to ask, knew when to turn a blind eye. After the events of a year and a half ago, they trusted each other more than ever. They were raising four children together. They were as committed to each other as if they'd made vows in a church.

  But David was quite sure there was something about tonight his lover wasn't telling him.

  Valentin, the footman who had been with them since Brussels during the chaos of the Battle of Waterloo, greeted Mélanie with a smile and steady gaze when she returned to Berkeley Square after her visit to Letty Blanchard. "Mr. Rannoch hasn't come back yet," he said, taking her bonnet. "Mr. and Mrs. O'Roarke are still out as well. Blanca and Addison are upstairs with the children. And Lord Carfax called about ten minutes ago. He's waiting in the library." He regarded her for a moment. "I told him you might have to go up to the children before you could see him."

  Mélanie smiled and touched his arm. "You're the best of men, Valentin. But no, I should see him." She undid the last of the frogged clasps on her pelisse. "In fact, I'm very curious about what he has to say."

  Valentin nodded and slid the pelisse from her shoulders. Mélanie glanced into the mirror over the console table, smoothed the band of black velvet that edged the square neck of her coffee-colored gown, adjusted her hairpins (she was wearing her hair down with the front pulled back as she frequently did now, so it was far easier to repair than a chignon), added a quick swipe of lip rouge from her reticule, then crossed the hall to the library.

  She found Lord Carfax—Malcolm's former spymaster, Britain's unofficial chief of intelligence, the man she had worked against in her years as a French spy, the man who had driven them into exile less than two years since—sitting in one of the Queen Anne chairs by the fire, sipping a glass of whisky.

  "Lord Carfax." She closed the door with a click that was meant to be audible. "I was wondering when we'd see you."

  "Mélanie." Carfax pushed himself to his feet. "Thank you for seeing me."

  "I could hardly do otherwise when you're in our library." She moved to the drinks trolley and poured herself a whisky. "May I refill your glass? I imagine you could do with it. I know I cou
ld after tonight."

  "Er— thank you." Carfax held out his glass, caught off guard, just as she'd intended. "Valentin was good enough to offer it," he added, as she splashed Islay malt into the etched glass. "I wouldn't—"

  "Help yourself to our whisky?" Mélanie set down the decanter. "I rather think that would be the least egregious of your sins where this family is concerned. And I'd have to admit at this point one must consider you part of the family."

  Carfax flushed uncharacteristically, again thrown off balance, which again was what she had intended. In addition to his other connections to the Rannochs, Carfax was the father of Malcolm's sister Gisèle, a fact they had all (including Carfax) only learned a year ago.

  Mélanie took a sip of her whisky and moved to the other Queen Anne chair. "Malcolm isn't here."

  Carfax returned to his own chair and settled his glass on the table between the chairs. "I expect he's still out with Jeremy Roth."

  Mélanie set her glass down beside Carfax's. "You'll have to ask him when you see him. I don't expect my husband to keep me apprised of his whereabouts. As you must appreciate, we lead quite complicated lives."

  "Don't play games, Mélanie." Carfax settled his shoulders against the high back of the chair. "You were at the Tavistock tonight."

  "Yes, I was." She smiled at him. "I've been there most nights for the past fortnight. My play is about to open."

  "But tonight Lewis Thornsby was found dead."

  Mélanie picked up her glass. "How long did it take you to get the news?"

  "My dear Mélanie. Given the activity round the Tavistock, you can't imagine I don't have the place watched. My informant saw the link boy head to Bow Street. Sent, I assume by you or Julien St. Juste. So no, I didn't know before you did, and no, I didn't have Thornsby killed. Though I make no doubt Malcolm thinks I did."

  "I wouldn't say that."

  "Spoken like a diplomatic wife."

  She took a sip of whisky. "I did learn a number of things in the years Malcolm and I moved in diplomatic circles."

  "As well as perfecting your spycraft, which was already exemplary." Carfax reached for his own glass. "It's probably just as well I found you rather than Malcolm. For a number of reasons. I assume you mean to investigate."

  She turned her glass in her hand. The candlelight bounced off the Rannoch crest etched on it. "It would be folly to deny it."

  "Good." Carfax took an appreciative sip of whisky.

  "Good we're investigating, or good I didn't deny it?"

  "Both. I need to know what happened to Thornsby, and you and Malcolm will undoubtedly ferret out the truth. Then I can work out what to do about it."

  "Assuming we tell you."

  "There is that." Carfax took another drink of whisky. "What's Tanner got to do with this?"

  The mention of Simon, Carfax's son's lover, made the ground suddenly set with mines. Mélanie took a measured sip from her own glass. "Nothing, save that it's his theatre. And he happened to be in the basement going through some papers when the children and I discovered poor Mr. Thornsby's body."

  Carfax watched her. "I know you'll protect him. But this business he's involved in with the Levellers could ruin him. And his theatre. And you and Malcolm. And David."

  "I don't think you're giving David enough credit."

  Carfax's fingers whitened round his glass, but his gaze remained steady. "I'm giving David credit for supporting the person he loves, no matter what."

  "Simon's a writer and thinker. Not the sort who takes revolutionary action."

  "One can lead to the other. And the line between the two is often blurry. If I were talking to Malcolm, I'd make an appeal to his patriotism. No sense in trying that with you."

  "I have no desire to overthrow the British government."

  "Don't you?" Carfax adjusted the earpiece of his spectacles. "You disappoint me, Mélanie. Don't tell me you've given up on your convictions."

  "Not in the least. But I don't see how a frontal assault on the government would achieve the sort of change I'd like to see. Or that Malcolm would."

  "You can't tell me you're entirely in agreement with him."

  "Not in the least. I doubt I ever will be."

  Carfax leaned forwards, glass held between his hands. "Tanner's involved in something dangerous. I'd say he's in over his head, save that I know just how clever he is, and I suspect he may be far more ruthless than I credited."

  "Simon's not an agent."

  "No, he's not. Which means he's likely to put a foot wrong. If you're his friend, you'll want to get him out of this before he lands in the briers."

  Mélanie thought back to December, when they'd hidden a fugitive in the Tavistock from both Carfax and an Elsinore League assassin. To a tense moment when she'd been sure Simon was lying to her. To moments in the month since when the feeling had persisted. Carfax was far nearer the mark than she was prepared to admit. "My dear sir. You almost sound concerned."

  "Can you imagine I'm not? For the country, as well as my son."

  "You'll have to do better if you expect me to believe you think Simon is a threat to the country."

  "I told you." Carfax's gaze settled hard on her face, unwavering as that of a hawk watching its prey. "He's not an agent, but he's a brilliant and possibly ruthless man. And a believer. It's a dangerous combination. There's no pragmatism to temper the belief. I don't expect you to listen to me, but I do expect you to want to protect your friend. And to protect Malcolm from the consequences if his friend fell afoul of the law. Or was involved in a plot Malcolm himself couldn't support."

  "My dear sir. You must know I've made Malcolm an expert in divided loyalties."

  Carfax inclined his head but didn't let his gaze waver. "All the more reason, surely, to protect him from more of the same."

  "Malcolm and I know better than to try to protect each other."

  "Do you? Or do you simply know better than to let the other one see that you're doing it?"

  Carfax had a damnable knack for nicking to the bone without appearing to even lift a knife. "You assume we could deceive each other at this point."

  "I have no doubt you could deceive Malcolm. Under the right circumstances, I suspect Malcolm could deceive you. Love can be a weakness. And though I rarely say I'm sure of anything, I'm reasonably sure you love Malcolm. Which is why, going back to my original point, I assume you want to protect him."

  "I'd have thought by now you'd have learned the folly of assuming anything. Particularly when it comes to Malcolm and me."

  Carfax lifted his glass to her in silent acknowledgement. "St. Juste was there tonight, I understand."

  "Does that surprise you?"

  He settled back in his chair again. "Julien's being anywhere is hardly a surprise. Though I think you're more apprised of his actions these days than I am. Was Mrs. Ashford with him?"

  "Surely you have intelligence on that."

  "My dear Mélanie. Even you must realize I don't have intelligence on every detail."

  Mélanie took a sip of whisky. Carfax knew about Julien and Kitty's relationship. A relationship she wasn't entirely sure she understood herself. This seemed something she could give him without a great deal of risk. And perhaps in the process find out why he was so interested in Julien and Kitty Ashford. "She wasn't, as it happens. I'm sure you realize Julien and Kitty Ashford don't live in each other's pockets any more than Malcolm and I do."

  "Julien and Mrs. Ashford are to all intents and purposes living together." There was a faint line between Carfax's brows.

  "Surely even you acknowledge that agents' private lives are their own business. Provided they don't interfere with work."

  "My dear Mélanie. Do you, of all people, really think that's possible?"

  "Certainly." She met his gaze without flinching. "I never let my feelings for Malcolm interfere with my work."

  "A fair point." Carfax didn't blink.

  "And neither Julien nor Kitty could be said to be your agent any longer." Sh
e made it not quite a question.

  Carfax gave a short laugh. "Do you really imagine either of them would work for me at this point? If they did, I'd be rather less concerned. Though still far from sanguine."

  "Because you've never been able to control either of them."

  "It's a problem with some of the best agents. Your husband included."

  What exactly Julien St. Juste was to Carfax remained a mystery to Mélanie. She knew Julien had worked for Carfax, though far from exclusively, and that Julien had then broken free and taken a number of Carfax's other agents with him, by dint of stealing compromising materials Carfax had used to control them. But Mélanie had overheard the exchange between the two men, and both had acknowledged that they could never be entirely free of the other. Why, she wasn't sure. Or how Kitty Ashford, who had also been Carfax's agent in the Peninsula and had worked with Julien there and in Argentina, fit into the picture.

  Mélanie took a sip of whisky. "Assuming Malcolm and I keep you apprised of our investigation as we can, will you keep us apprised of yours?"

  Carfax raised his brows.

  "Whatever your flattering faith in our investigative abilities, you can't tell me you aren't running your own investigation. If we share information as needed it might benefit us both."