by Tracy Grant
"I'm doing some rewrites and I thought I could focus better here. Laura and Cordelia stopped by the Tavistock with the children, and I walked back with them. They'd been to see Edith Simmons—a friend of Thomas Thornsby's."
"Yes, Harry and I saw Thomas this morning. I gather Edith would be his betrothed if he were in better circumstances."
"So do I. Though apparently she has some qualms about the restraints of marriage. An interesting sounding young woman. Colin was particularly excited to be part of things. He talked to the children Miss Simmons is governess to and learned that Miss Simmons had been crying and also that Thomas Thornsby is very kind and once gave them each a shilling. Cordy and Laura are upstairs with the children now." Mélanie regarded her husband. "What did you and Jeremy learn in Rosemary Lane?"
"Quite a lot, as it happens." Malcolm pulled a chair over, sat beside his wife, and told her about their visit, the attack, and Lewis Thornsby's second identity as Montford.
Mélanie's gaze widened with a shock Malcolm wasn't used to seeing on his wife's face. "Lewis Thornsby was living a double life?"
"An exceedingly well-constructed one. Complete with letters to verify his persona should anyone search, a different scent, a full wardrobe change."
She shook her head. He could see her sifting the pieces. "You'd think someone leading a double life wouldn't surprise me, of all people. But Lewis Thornsby—"
"I doubt anyone suspected you," Malcolm said. "I'd like to think it wasn't totally obvious when I was undercover."
"No, of course not." Mélanie pushed her fingers into her hair where it fell over her shoulders. "But we're trained agents. We're—"
"Supposed to be able to spot this sort of thing. In theory. Yet you deceived me." He sat back in the chair he had pulled up beside the writing desk and kept his voice easy. "Under the right circumstances, I might even be able to deceive you."
Mélanie's gaze stayed steady in the flickering firelight. "I'm quite sure you could, darling. I suppose—I wonder if either of us ever seemed as uncomplicated to those we met on missions as Thornsby did on the surface. That's a terribly self-centered thing to say, isn't it? But Thornsby wasn't a trained agent—"
"That we know of."
"He was barely out of university. Of course, you'd been out even less time when you went to the Peninsula."
"And St. Juste was stealing state secrets, assassinating the odd target, and seducing a future empress in his teens."
"Well, Julien's an exception to just about everything." Mélanie frowned. "And I'm not sure who did the seducing, Julien or Josephine."
"Fair enough. The meticulousness of the persona Thornsby had set up suggests he was trained by someone. I agree a young man fresh from university probably wouldn't think of tricks like using a different shaving soap and creating elaborate cover documents to deceive searchers. All of which leaves the question of why set up a second identity in London?"
"To move in different circles? Which is interesting, because he was already one of the Levellers under his own identity."
"To spy on someone. Or to undertake a plot."
Mélanie's gaze darted over his face. Level, but he saw an echo of his own fears. "A plot for the Levellers?" she asked.
"We can't overlook the possibility. But it also could be against them."
"Which would mean Thornsby was undercover as a Leveller, but also needed a second identity for something further."
Malcolm frowned at the muddy toes of his boots. "If you'd infiltrated a group under your own persona, why would you set up a second identity?"
"Because I needed to do something that couldn't be traced to my real identity. Or to secure the trust of people who wouldn't trust me in my true guise. You're right, he could be doing both of those for the Levellers or against them. But it seems very elaborate lengths to have gone to—"
"Unless the prize is very valuable indeed." Malcolm reached in his pocket and pulled out the papers he'd brought back from Rosemary Lane. "Roth and I found the lodgings Thornsby used as Montford. We surprised someone in the act of searching."
Mélanie took studied the coded papers. "You've tried to break these?"
"Not yet. I think I'll take them to Aline and see what she can do. I also found this in his rooms in Rosemary Lane, though I'm not sure what to make of it." Malcolm pulled the glued-together sheet and Thornsby's decoded version from his coat. "Roth and I wondered if they could be drop dates."
Mélanie scanned the list. "There's something familiar about at least one of them, but I can't quite remember what. Perhaps—"
She broke off as the door opened to admit Cordelia. "Look who I found in the hall when I came down from the nursery," she said.
David followed Cordelia into the room but hesitated a few steps behind her, as though not quite sure of his welcome. "I confess I felt singularly useless at home," he said, "with the children doing lessons, and Simon at the theatre. I came round to see if there was anything I could do."
Malcolm got to his feet and surveyed his friend. They had made tremendous progress, but their friendship was still a fragile thing, something they were trying to nurture and rebuild. Much as he and Mélanie had once done with their marriage, though he wondered if he and Mel had ever been quite so estranged as he and David had become. Odd how different betrayals could cut differently. Mélanie was his wife and had spied on him. David was his friend and had simply failed to accept what Mélanie had done. Yet that had created a deeper breach—perhaps because it was easier for Malcolm to understand Mélanie's actions than David's.
And yet in the old days, David and Simon had largely been outside their investigations. Long before he knew the truth about Mélanie, David had often been horrified by the life of an agent. Now, knowing the truth about the League, knowing Gisèle was his sister, David was part of the fight and more of a pragmatist. He and Malcolm might not have fully recovered what they had once had, but David was far less shocked by the life of an agent and far more ready to be an ally.
"How well did you know Thornsby?" Malcolm asked.
"Not well." David took a step forwards into the room. "I'd spoken with him in the green room once or twice, but usually I take the children home and don't linger. He seemed agreeable enough, but for someone who apparently was one of the Levellers, he didn't seem particularly knowledgeable about political matters. He hadn't even heard of your capital punishment bill."
"Apparently he was living a double life," Malcolm said.
"Good God," Cordelia said.
"Thornsby?" David said, with the same shock Mélanie had shown.
Malcolm gave a quick account of his and Roth's visit to Rosemary Lane.
"Is everyone you know a spy?" David demanded when he had done.
"Thornsby's just about the last person I'd have thought would be," Malcolm said. "Though we don't know he was a spy, precisely."
"Why else would he have set up a second identity?" David asked. "Isn't being undercover practically the definition of being an agent?"
"More or less," Malcolm agreed. "Though there could be other reasons."
"Such as conducting a love affair," Cordelia said. "Plays and operas are full of it. Look at Count Almaviva. Though if Thornsby was being Montford to woo a lady in secret, it obviously wasn't Letty Blanchard."
"No," Malcolm agreed. "It would have to be another love affair, which, given what we've learned about Miss Blanchard, would also indicate a level of deceit." He avoided Mélanie's gaze because there was Kitty's story, not that he believed it. "And from Thornsby's level of skill in setting up his persona, it does appear he was trained by someone."
"You searched his rooms?" David asked. "I mean, the rooms he had in this other identity?"
"We haven't found much so far. A few papers."
David glanced at the list of dates which Malcolm had set on the marble library table. "Was this one of them?"
"Yes. It looks to be something Thornsby took from someone else and decoded. We thought they might be drop date
s."
"Lancaster, 3 November," David read. "That's the date of the protest meeting that turned into a demonstration."
"The exact date?" Malcolm asked.
"I'm sure of it. Will Carmarthen got himself in a bit of trouble and I had to go up to Lancaster and speak to the magistrate to get him released from jail. Don't you remember? Simon and I were dining with you when we got word about it two days later. Mélanie was saying that she still didn't understand Guy Fawkes Day when the footman came in with the message."
"I remember," Cordelia said. "You had to leave in the middle of dinner."
Malcolm nodded. The exact date had been lost in the emotional chaos following Edgar's death, but he well remembered Simon's frown and muttered curse on scanning the note about Will Carmarthen. Even then, Malcolm had been sure Carmarthen was one of the Levellers.
Mélanie was scanning the other dates. "Long Eaton, 21 November. Wasn't there a fire in a factory at Long Eaton?"
"A textile mill," Malcolm said. "I don't know the exact date, but it was in November."
"The 11th," David was staring down at the paper, an odd look on his face. "The Tavistock company went on there after Lancaster."
"And there was Luddite activity round Rochdale last December," Mélanie said, looking at yet another entry. She turned to David, whose face had darkened. "David—"
"Ned Blakeney's from there." Ned was another of the actors in the Tavistock company."
"Another of the Levellers?" Malcolm asked.
David's mouth tightened. "I avoid asking Simon certain questions, just as he avoids asking me. But yes, I think so." David stared down at the list, brows knotting together. "Are you saying you think Father was right and Thornsby really was involved in Radical plots? With Carmarthen and who knows which others? That the assassination plot is real and not something designed to discredit the Levellers?"
Mélanie ran her fingers over the glued-together paper. "Thornsby decoded this. Which doesn't make a lot of sense if he's behind the incidents."
"Unless the list was put together by someone trying to uncover what was behind the incidents rather than the person who orchestrated them," Malcolm said. "Assuming they were orchestrated. Assuming the list means what we suspect. In any case, it's worthwhile talking to Carmarthen."
"Have you talked to Simon about this?" David asked.
"I've talked to him about a lot of the investigation," Malcolm said.
David met Malcolm's gaze, with less shock and more understanding than he'd have displayed in their investigations a couple of years ago. "But you're not sure you can trust what he's telling you."
"I'm not sure of that with anyone in an investigation."
David nodded. "The Levellers—"
"The Levellers are working to do a lot of good. As, I hope, are you and I, in our own way. And you're right, it's been better for us to work without knowing too much of what the other was doing. Unfortunately, with the investigation, we can't continue to do that. Loyalties can conflict. And it's not always a simple question of one loyalty coming first. There are always choices. My father taught me that. As did my wife." He reached for Mélanie's hand.
David looked between them. "I don't know how you got through it."
His gaze held an understanding Malcolm had never thought to see. But also fear for the future. Mélanie touched his hand. "Nor do I, often. But it can be done."
"It’s amazing what people can get past," Cordelia said. "Sometimes just by muddling through."
David gave her a quick smile, then turned back to Malcolm. "I don't mean to keep you. You'll want to get to the theatre and talk to Will."
"Simon sent the actors home for the afternoon," Mélanie said. "All but Manon and Brandon. But he'll know where Will lodges."
"It's a Tuesday," Cordelia said. "He'll probably be at Paul and Juliette's tonight."
Malcolm exchanged a look with Mélanie. "That might be a good place to find him."
Writer Juliette Dubretton and painter Paul St. Gilles held a salon every Tuesday evening. Malcolm and Mélanie attended when they could, and Will Carmarthen was usually to be found there, as were a number of others in the Tavistock company.
"It might be a good place to collect information in general," Mélanie said.
Malcolm glanced out the window. The shadows were lengthening over the Berkeley Square plane trees, but evening was still some way off. "We have a few hours." He looked at Cordelia. "Would you be willing to call on Lady Shroppington with me?"
"Of course. I was going to offer to." Cordelia wrinkled her nose. "In the general scheme of things, I'd do a great deal to avoid calling on Lady Shroppington. But in this case, I should be positively disappointed not to be part of it."
"I need work on the revisions and then go back to the theatre," Mélanie said. "And in any case, I suspect my theatrical associations wouldn't help with Lady Shroppington."
"I fear not," Cordelia said.
"I can see what my mother knows about the Thornsbys," David suggested.
"That would help," Malcolm said. "Thank you."
David met his gaze and nodded. And with that exchange, perhaps a tiny bit more had been repaired.
Chapter 14
Lady Shroppington lived in Brook Street in a stuccoed terrace house with an Ionic portico that seemed a surprisingly modern abode for a dowager.
"Her husband always refused to purchase a London house," Cordelia said as she and Malcolm climbed the freshly scoured steps. "She bought the house when he died. Rather a declaration of independence, I thought. It never struck me as a love match. But then, in one's teens, one rarely thinks of one's parents' generation as having love matches, let alone one's grandparents' generation."
The footman recognized Cordelia and took them in without checking to see if his mistress was at home, which suggested to Malcolm that Lady Shroppington knew about his role in the investigation and had anticipated his calling on her. The footman led them across a high-ceilinged entrance hall and up a gilt-railed staircase to a first-floor sitting room with scagliola columns, peacock blue wall hangings, and striped chintz furniture.
"Cordelia." Lady Shroppington addressed them from an armchair positioned so the light from the windows fell at a flattering angle across her face. "About time you called on me. I can see your mother in you as you get older. And your grandmother. Though you're more striking than either."
"You are too kind, ma'am." Cordelia stepped forwards and bent to kiss Lady Shroppington's cheek. "I don't believe you've met Malcolm Rannoch."
"No. Though I've certainly heard of you, Rannoch. From your foreign marriage to your work in parliament to your wife's habit of gallivanting about the stage, you have a way of making yourself talked of."
Lady Shroppington surveyed Malcolm. Even seated, she was plainly not a tall woman, but she had the ability to dominate the room. She was a pretty woman, but her features, which Malcolm suspected had had a girlish softness in her youth, had hardened into lines of determination. Her blue gaze said she knew how to play the social game but didn't necessarily feel she needed to anymore. She was a generation older than his mother and Cordelia's mother and his aunt Frances. She'd have been a child during the Jacobite uprising in 1745, a young adult when the American colonies broke away, in her fifth or sixth decade by the time of the French Revolution. There was a crumpled handkerchief beside her chair and even the flattering light betrayed a faint redness about her eyes, but her face was set in a controlled mask.
Her gaze went from Cordelia to Malcolm. "I must say I'm a bit surprised to see Cordelia with a gentleman other than her husband. Or perhaps I mean I wish I could say I was surprised."
That was plain speaking for the drawing room, but then Lady Shroppington's generation tended to be franker about these matters than the younger generation. And plain speaking and scandal could be one refuge in the face of grief. God knows everyone needed something.
Cordelia gave one of her irrepressible laughs. "Dear ma'am, pray don't worry. I'm quite besott
ed with Harry, and he's surprisingly devoted to me. I came with Malcolm because he needed to talk to you, and I thought it might be easier for both of you to have me present."
"Hmph. You want to talk about Lewis, of course. Suppose I was trying to distract myself by talking about Cordelia. Thomas told me you were assisting Bow Street, Mr. Rannoch. Glad they have someone of your quality involved."
"I'm very sorry for your loss, Lady Shroppington. Lewis Thornsby was an engaging young man."
"He was, but people always find platitudes to say about the dead. He's no more agreeable for having got himself stabbed to death, and we want to arrive at the truth. You'd better sit down. The new footman has a good leg, though not a great deal in the brain pan, but he should manage to come in with the tea shortly."
"I understand you were particularly close to Lewis," Malcolm said as he and Cordelia moved to straight-backed chairs close to Lady Shroppington.
"I don't have children of my own. Never been sure, watching my friends with their offspring, if that was a blessing or a curse, but no sense wasting time on it now. My husband left the settling of our fortune in my hands, so I needed to pick an heir. My nephew's younger son made sense—Thomas already has an estate he'll inherit, and Helen and Hypatia are pretty enough they should marry well if they have a scrap of sense—not that they necessarily do, girls seem sillier and sillier the older I get, or perhaps that's me. Oh, here's the tea."
Conversation stopped while the footman set the tea tray on a table close to Lady Shroppington's chair. Lady Shroppington watched the door close behind him. "In any case," she continued, picking up the teapot. "Lewis seemed a sensible choice."
"Seemed?" Malcolm said.
Lady Shroppington poured out a cup of tea with a steady hand. "He'd got a bit wild. Well, young men will do that, as I'm sure you know from your own experience. Some young women too." She gave the cup to Cordelia. "Easier for the men, of course, as Cordelia could tell you. And mostly they grow out of that sort of behavior and of spouting off that sort of nonsense." She handed Malcolm a second cup. "With some exceptions, of course."
