by Tracy Grant
Kitty took a sip of whisky. "Darling Malcolm. You're assuming that I have principles."
"You do, sweetheart. Far more than you'll let on. Among other things, they made you send me away eight years ago."
Kitty set the glass down on the sofa table by Mélanie's medical box. "But I did that to protect myself."
"I'm arrogant enough to think I had something to do with it."
"Oh, of course, you did, Malcolm. But that doesn't mean I'm a figure of romance, or that my relationship with Julien is the sort of fairytale happily-ever-after that yours with Mélanie is."
Malcolm gave a whoop of laughter. "Now who's talking in romantic terms? My relationship with Mel is a lot of things—including the core of my life—but it's far from a fairy tale, and how can we talk about anything ever-after when we're still muddling through life?"
Kitty smiled, head tilted to one side. "It's a matter of perspective. You and Mélanie are living a fairy tale compared to anything Julien or I could imagine. But then, we don't all want the same thing."
"Precisely. Mel and I are still working out what we want. You and St. Juste have a lot of time to work it out for yourselves."
"Even if that doesn't include each other?" Kitty smoothed the sleeve of her borrowed dressing gown. "That will disappoint you, won't it?"
"I hardly think what does or doesn't disappoint me should have anything to do with what you want." He reached forwards to tuck her hair behind her ear, where it had fallen loose from its pins. "I want you to be happy, Kit. Whatever that works out to be."
Kitty shook her head. "Oh, Malcolm. Since when have I had the luxury of thinking about happiness?"
Simon let himself into the Craven house in Brook Street with his latchkey. That is, it had been the Craven house. The home of David's sister Louisa and her husband, Lord Craven, a rather cold house in more ways than one and not particularly like a home, despite the presence of four children. It was less cold now, and not just because of the thick red-and-gold Turkey rug they had added in the hall. And it was starting to feel like home, Simon realized as he closed the door, much as their flat in the Albany once had done. That precious flat had symbolized his and David's ability to craft a life together. He'd have sworn leaving the flat would have meant they had lost the chance of sharing a life together. And yet here they were, raising four children in what had once seemed a cold mansion.
A lamp burned on the hall table and a light shone from the library. The footmen and Tim Marston, who had been David's valet since Oxford, would have gone to bed long since. As the Rannochs had done, David and Simon had taken to insisting the staff not wait up, and even Marston had eventually relaxed his standards enough to go along with them.
Quick footsteps sounded and David came out of the doors from the library. "Simon, thank God." David's gaze moved over Simon's face. "I was staring to worry."
"Sorry. I didn't think I'd be this late." Simon moved to David's side and kissed him. Because he wanted to. Because it was still a wonder that they could kiss in this house. Because he wasn't sure where the conversation was headed. "Children asleep?"
"I even got Jamie down."
"I'm impressed." Simon moved past David into the library. A welcome fire glowed in the grate and a book lay abandoned on the arm of David's favorite chair. "Once the play opens, it will be easier to have story time. I suppose they hear that a lot."
"They're used to it. But I thought you didn't have a rehearsal tonight?"
"We didn't." Simon shrugged out of his damp greatcoat and tossed it over the sofa back.
David stared at Simon's mud-stained clothes. "For God's sake, where have you been?"
"Attending a secret meeting to plot illegal activities with dangerous subversives."
David's gaze flickered over his face. "Oh, Christ. You mean it."
"More or less." Simon went to the drinks trolley and poured two glasses of whisky. "You'd better sit down, this is going to take a bit. I think I've told more lies in the past few days than in the entire time you've known me."
David drew a sharp breath, but accepted one of the whiskies and returned to his chair. Simon sat opposite him with the other whisky (which he needed for any number of reasons) and told him about Kitty and the pamphlets smuggled out of Spain, Hapgood and Kit Montagu, Carfax's secret meetings, and the events of the evening.
"No one's hurt?" David said when he had done.
"Kitty lost a lot of blood, but she didn't need stitches and Mélanie thinks she'll be all right."
David stared across the room at an oil of the Seine in winter that had been painted by Simon's father. They'd brought it with them from the Albany flat. "I know there've been times in the past you haven't told me things. When you thought I was better off being able to deny any knowledge of your activities."
"Occasionally. " Simon leaned forwards and touched his lover's face. "We may not have made vows in a church, but I know what I owe you."
"You wouldn't take vows made in a church seriously anyway."
"Probably not. That doesn't change the general point."
David put up his hand and covered Simon's fingers with his own. "I trust you with my life. I think you trust me with yours."
"But?"
David drew their clasped hands down to the chair arm. "But I know there's a part of you that despises me for being part of a government that would hang us for what we do every night."
"Every night may be a bit of an exaggeration. Especially since we've had the children."
"That doesn't change the general point."
"You aren't part of the government. You're in the Opposition. And I don't think I could ever despise you, even if you turned Tory. Well, maybe then."
David gave a faint smile, but his gaze remained serious. "This started in December," he said.
"Yes. I got the first papers the night of the pantomime."
"You've been keeping these secrets a long time." All through the holidays. All through their first Christmas with the children in London. Walking to the Rannochs' on Christmas night. Boxing Day dinner at Mivart's Hotel, which Raoul still hosted though it was no longer his London home. Sledding in Hyde Park. New Year's Eve at Frances and Archie Davenport's. New Year's Day at Harry and Cordy's. Where Kitty had given him some more papers.
"Not compared with the time a lot of our friends keep secrets," Simon said. "But yes, it's been a challenge." He tightened his grip on David's hand, as though he could bridge the chasm David had alluded to. "I couldn't put you in the middle, David."
There was a time when David would have said that was a ridiculous way to talk. Now he inclined his head. "You thought I wouldn't have wanted these papers published?"
"I thought you wouldn't be sure what you should do. I thought it might be good for you to be able to deny any knowledge of them. And with these last, I thought it might seem like a betrayal of your father."
David gave a short laugh. "Is it really possible to betray Carfax?"
"He's still your father."
"Who betrayed everything I hold dear when he tried to use Mélanie to drive a wedge between me and Malcolm and separate me from you. Who tried to murder an innocent young man solely to cover up his own past actions, and didn't cavil at shooting into our friends' drawing room with children and two pregnant women present."
"He didn't actually shoot the rifle himself."
"I thought you'd be the first to say ordering something is the same as doing it. In any case, I doubt Father would have hesitated to fire the rifle if he hadn't needed his own deniability and wasn't in the habit of not doing his own dirty work." David tossed down the last of his whisky. "Do you think Father was behind the attack on Kitty?"
Not so long ago, even knowing Carfax, David would have been horrified at the idea. Now he said it quite calmly, though his fingers were white round his glass.
"I don't know," Simon said. "It's not that I think he'd have hesitated—Kitty's an agent, after all, and to Carfax that probably makes her fair game—"
/> "To my father everyone is fair game."
"But if he's that desperate to suppress the papers, it's even more complicated than it seems. And I'm not sure why he'd assume Kitty had the papers on her tonight. She didn't, as it happens. So unless he was planning to kill all of us and thought that would end the publication, I'm not sure what his endgame would have been."
David pushed himself to his feet and splashed more whisky into his glass. "He might have meant to kill all of you. You said there were two sets of attackers."
"There were. But it's hard for me to imagine Carfax's thinking he could count on taking all of us out."
"He wouldn't have known Malcolm and Mélanie would be there. Or St. Juste or O'Roarke. This Hapgood sounds middle-aged, you and Kit aren't trained agents—"
"True enough. Kitty's undoubtedly the best fighter among those of us who were supposed to be present."
David picked up Simon's glass. "Kitty could have been killed."
"Yes. We were all well aware of it. St. Juste looked ill. And I never thought to see him so terrified."
"He's afraid of losing the person he loves. I can sympathize." David refilled Simon's glass. "What's going to happen with the papers?"
"Malcolm wants to make sure they're published."
"That's good." David touched his glass to Simon's. "I do as well."
Carfax, as usual, was in his study in Carfax House when Malcolm called. "Amelia and Lucinda are at the theatre," he said when the footman ushered Malcolm in. "Drury Lane, not the Tavistock. Easier often these days for them to go out on their own. Bit of a relief, actually." He pushed his spectacles up on his nose. "I take it there's news?"
Malcolm pushed the door to. "Was Lewis Thornsby working for the League?"
Carfax set down his pen. "That's an interesting idea."
"Don't play games, sir. We haven't got time for it."
"I should think not. I'm an exceedingly busy man. I don't play games."
"Your whole life is a game. Was Thornsby working for the League?"
"My dear Malcolm. Surely I don't need to remind you that I am just as much the League's enemy as you are. How would I know who was working for them?"
"Doing it much too brown, sir." Malcolm hooked a chair leg with his ankle and dragged the chair in front of Carfax's desk. "You're investigating the League just as much as we are. You were having Thornsby watched."
"He's a Leveller."
"There are a lot of Levellers."
"Don't remind me."
"Sir. You had a reason for choosing Thornsby. He wasn't obviously a leader. Were you paying as much attention to Simon Tanner and Kit Montagu and Roger Smythe?"
"I always pay attention to Tanner. For obvious reasons."
"You had Thornsby's rooms searched."
"Thornsby was murdered."
"Sir."
Carfax sat back in his chair. "All right. I had my suspicions about Thornsby. He was Lady Shroppington's heir and she's close to the Beverstons. But they were no more than suspicions. I didn't want to prejudge your investigation."
"But you have your own source among the Levellers."
"I believe I admitted as much."
"Did you ask your source about Thornsby?"
"Yes. He didn't know."
Malcolm folded his arms across his chest. Carfax raised a brow. "Believe me or not."
"Does the name Alexander Radford mean anything to you?"
Carfax frowned in what looked like genuine puzzlement and may have actually been so. "Is he one of the Levellers?"
"He may be the man who is trying to take control of the Elsinore League. Or an alias for him."
Carfax's eyes narrowed. "Interesting."
"And Lewis Thornsby was seen with him."
"In London?"
"In Italy. By Nerezza Russo. I thought perhaps that was why you were so keen to take her into custody."
"What? Oh, no, I was just doing a favor for the minister of police in Naples, who had dallied with her. I know she's been staying with Caruthers and Laclos. I don't feel any need to pursue that. Not that I necessarily have illusions I could extract her from Caruthers and Laclos. They're both very capable agents."
From Carfax that was high praise. "Yes," Malcolm said. "They are."
"She knows who this Radford is?"
"She knew him as Radford. She doesn't know who he really is. I suspect the League—or his part of the League—are after her because she could recognize him."
"And the description—"
"Fifties to sixties. Sandy hair. Middle height. Sharp hazel eyes that could appear green or blue in different lights. Ironic manner. From things he said to her, it sounds as though he may be someone who's been living in exile from Britain, whether self-imposed or imposed from without."
"Well, we know a number of people who've done that."
"And apparently he wants to come back."
"We know a number of people who've done that as well. Thankfully." Carfax frowned. "Beverston is connected to Thornsby. But Beverston is in the other faction."
"Yes, I know. Thornsby could have changed sides. Or he could have been trying to get information about Radford for Beverston."
"Which would have given Radford a motive to have had him killed."
"Or Beverston, if Thornsby had changed sides."
"You think this is what Thornsby's Montford persona was about?"
"Possibly."
Carfax tented his fingers together. "One way or another, he was betraying the Levellers. So that still gives any of them a motive to have killed him."
"That would be convenient for you, wouldn't it?" Malcolm held out a copy of the list of Radical disturbances. "Do these mean anything to you?"
Carfax glanced at the list. "They're Radical disturbances. That turned violent, as such protests often do. Where did you find it?"
"In Thornsby's things."
"If you're suggesting he was behind the incidents—"
"He appears to have decoded the list, which makes that less likely."
Carfax glanced at the list again. "The one in Lancaster is when David got young Carmarthen acquitted."
"How much do you know about that?"
"That someone shot a pistol during a demonstration. That it still isn't clear whether it was Carmarthen or not."
"And the other incidents?"
Carfax smoothed the edges of the list. "As I said, I've heard of all of them."
"You don't happen to have been behind them, do you?"
Carfax raised his brows.
"I know you employ agents provocateurs. It's just a question of if you did here."
"It's easier to believe that than that your comrades actually turn to violence, isn't it?"
"I have no illusions that people with whom I'm in sympathy don't turn to violence on occasion. It doesn't necessarily mean I'm in sympathy with the violence. I tend to think it produces the opposite result of what's intended. Which is why you employ agents provocateurs to orchestrate such incidents."
"My brother used to say the youth of England would be its salvation or its downfall, and he couldn't be sure which."
"It may depend on one's viewpoint." Carfax's brother had, if anything, been even more reactionary than the current Lord Carfax. "Which did he think his own son would be?"
Carfax's eyes narrowed. "I think his not being sure about Arthur was part of why he said it."
"It's a pity he didn't have the chance to find out. I liked Arthur." Though it was difficult now to imagine anyone but Hubert Mallinson as Lord Carfax, he had only succeeded to the title when his brother died, following the death of the brother's only son, Arthur, in a sailing accident. Malcolm could still remember how the mantle of being the heir had seemed to physically weigh David down when he returned to Harrow, no longer David Mallinson but Viscount Worsley.
"One of the tragedies of someone's dying young," Carfax said. "One never knows what he'd have made of himself." He leaned back in his chair. "Was there more you wanted to ask me abo
ut?"
A great deal, such as if Carfax had been behind tonight's attack. But as he couldn't mention the night's events without mentioning the papers—and Carfax wouldn't tell him the truth anyway—Malcolm merely said, "Not yet."
"You aren't any closer to knowing who killed Thornsby?"
"We've learned a lot about him—including that he was seemingly far more complicated than just about anyone who knew him realized—but no, I can't say we're closer to knowing who killed him."
On the way out, Malcolm stopped before a painting that hung in the hall beside the stairs. A dark-haired lady in a peach-colored gown and a boy of about eight with her gleaming dark hair and fine-boned features. The lady was the Countess Carfax. Not Amelia, David's mother, but Pamela, Carfax's brother's wife, who had died when Malcolm was a baby, probably shortly after the portrait was taken. As Malcolm had told Will, like Hetty Bartlett and their friend Josefina Lopes, Pamela Carfax had been the daughter of a former slave, but unlike Hetty and Josefina, she had been a considerable heiress. Her father had been a wealthy planter who had sent his only child to England to make her debut. Malcolm studied Pamela's portrait, wondering how she had found it trying to fit into London society. Not an easy task, he knew from his own wife's experience. Pamela's eyes were kind, but he thought he caught an echo of sadness in them. Her hand was curled tenderly round her son's head. Arthur Mallinson looked to be about eight in the painting, before Malcolm could remember him, for he had been eight years Arthur's junior. Arthur had his mother's face, but his eyes were a bright, piercing blue.
Arthur had been kind to David and Malcolm, in an indulgent way. Arthur's death had changed David's life, but Malcolm had felt the loss of Arthur on his own account. He smiled at the portrait for a moment. Even at eight there'd been a certain mocking irony in Arthur's smile and in the gleam in those arresting blue eyes. Malcolm found himself staring, struck by something in that smile he couldn't quite articulate. He shook his head, accepted his hat from the footman, and descended the steps of Carfax House.
