The Tavistock Plot

by Tracy Grant

  "And the rifle?" Kitty asked.

  Malcolm looked at Julien. "Your husband and I are going to find it."

  "Mrs. Rannoch." The prince regent looked round as Mélanie and Frances came through the curtains into the royal box. The equerry in the antechamber had recognized Frances and let them past without questions. "It's a splendid play. Didn't expect to laugh so much."

  "I'm flattered, sir." Mélanie curtsied and then dropped down beside the regent's chair, her skirts pooling round her. Her head was below the rail and the regent had to bend down to speak with her, which put him at a safer angle. "But I fear I need to ask you to leave. And everyone in your party." She glanced round the box.

  "Good lord! But surely—"

  "There's no time to waste, sir." Frances put a hand on his shoulder, an intimacy that seemed to break through to him.

  The prince's attendants were already helping him to stand and moving towards the door.

  "Surely I can stay," Sir Horace said.

  "No." Mélanie caught his arm in a firm grip. "On no account, Sir Horace, I beg you."

  He raised his brows but let her hustle him from the box.

  "Damned shame," the regent said in the antechamber. "Wanted to see how the play ended."

  "We'll bring the company to the palace and give you a special performance, if you like," Mélanie said.

  "Would you really, my dear? That's splendid. Do hope Gideon and that charming Fiona can patch it up. I quite like them."

  "There's a side way I can take you out of the theatre. Archie Davenport has arranged to have your carriage brought round. I promise we will explain more later, but now I beg you will go quickly. We can't afford to have a panic in the theatre. I know you may be relied upon to do what is best."

  The prince nodded and patted her hand as though he had been entrusted with a commission of the greatest importance. "You may depend upon me, my dear."

  Malcolm and Julien examined the damask-hung walls of the antechamber to the box occupied by Emily Cowper, Palmerston, and the Lambs. Malcolm could hear the clash of blades from the stage. They must be at the scene in which Brandon, as Gideon, fought with Will, who played the young man who ran off with Gideon's sister, played by Letty.

  "That pedestal with the vase has been moved," Malcolm said. "You can see the indentations in the carpet."

  They shifted the pedestal with the vase of roses to the side, and the bulge in the gold damask wall hanging behind was obvious. Julien tugged at the fabric, which had been loosely tacked. He reached beneath and pulled out a very serviceable looking rifle.

  "Good thing the assassin thinks like you," Malcolm said.

  While Julien disarmed the rifle, Malcolm went through the curtains into the box.

  "Malcolm." Emily Cowper looked over her shoulder in surprise. "What on earth are you—"

  Malcolm knelt down and looked among his friends. "Has anyone unexpected been in here? Anyone you don't know?"

  "A score of people at the interval," Palmerston said, eyes narrowed, "but all friends, or at least acquaintances."

  "Good. Have you ordered champagne?"

  "No," Emily said. "We were debating it."

  "Do me a favor and don't. I'll make sure you get plenty afterwards. And I'll explain then. I promise."

  "Do you need help?" William asked.

  "The best help you can all be is to stay here and act normal."

  "Malcolm." Caroline caught at the sleeve of his coat as he got to his feet, eyes even wider than usual. "Should we be frightened?"

  Malcolm smiled at the woman he'd known since childhood. Caro could be fanciful at the best of times. "No. Just watchful."

  Brandon and Will were shaking hands on stage. Letty ran into Will's arms, her brother's opposition to their marriage ended. Brandon as Gideon turned to Manon as Fiona, who had gone with him to stop the elopement.

  Malcolm went back out into the passage. Julien was lolling against the wall across from the box. Kitty was a little further down the passage to the left, pretending to be fixing her hair in a pier glass, though Malcolm knew she was watching every flicker of movement in the reflection. Raoul was to Julien's right, seemingly examining the program. Harry was sipping a glass of champagne still further to the right while Rupert and Bertrand and Roth and Addison were further to the left.

  Malcolm exchanged a quick look with Julien and took up a position between him and Raoul.

  Even with the excitement of a new play by one of Mayfair's most dashing political hostesses, the passage was far from empty while the performance went on. People passed by, bent on flirtation or in search of liquid refreshment, and in one or two cases, MPs or diplomats seeking a quiet place for a colloquy. Malcolm had done the same, at times, for all his love of theatre. Harry stopped one footman with a tray of champagne and carried the champagne into the designated box just to be safe.

  They should be approaching the last scene of the play, if Malcolm's memory was right. And with any luck, by now Mélanie, Frances, and Archie had the regent and his party, including Sir Horace, safely away.

  And then, suddenly, there he was. A footman in a blue-and-silver coat and a powdered wig like all the others, making for the door of Emily and Palmerston and the Lambs' box, a tray of champagne expertly balanced.

  Kitty was suddenly in front of him. She snatched up the bottle and filled a glass with champagne. "Oh, how lovely, I'm so parched."

  "Here now, those are spoken for." The footman tried to tug the tray away.

  "I'm sure they won't mind." Kitty added more to her glass. The footman tugged again. The tray and bottle went flying, sending a fountain of champagne into the air and scattering a hail of broken crystal on the floor. Kitty tripped and fell into the footman, who tumbled to the floor. Probably because she'd kneed him in the groin when she bumped into him. Malcolm lurched across the passage and sprang on top of the footman, only to feel a sharp jab in his arm. The assassin had a knife.

  Malcolm's recoil was enough for the assassin to push himself to his feet. Julien grabbed him. The assassin jabbed the knife into Julien's hand. Malcolm caught the assassin's leg before he could run. Julien had hold of the assassin's knife arm, and was struggling for control of the knife. Kitty brought the silver champagne tray down on the assassin's shoulder. Raoul ran up and dealt the assassin a blow to the jaw that sent him tumbling to the floor again.

  By the time Harry, Bertrand, Rupert, and Roth ran up, they had him under control. Raoul was lashing the assassin's hands with his cravat when Palmerston and William Lamb came out of the box.

  "Sorry," Palmerston said. "There was a limit to how long we could act normal—good God, do you need help?"

  "All under control." Malcolm pushed himself to his feet, avoiding the litter of broken crystal.

  "Your arm's bleeding," William said.

  "A scratch. St. Juste has one too."

  Palmerston surveyed the group. "Is this anything to do with those pamphlets about Carfax's secret meetings that have been the talk of Whitehall and Wesminster the past few days?"

  "In a roundabout way. I promise I'll explain. As much as I can." Malcolm looked down at the bound assassin who remained completely silent. "Meanwhile, I hate to say this, but we need Carfax."

  Chapter 43

  "Oh, good," Cordelia murmured, leaning over the rail that separated her box from the Rannoch box, where Laura sat with the children. "They're all out of the royal box."

  Laura watched as Mélanie, the last to leave, slipped from the box, her rose-violet skirts disappearing from view. Curious glances were directed to the royal box from those on either side, but in general, attention in the theatre still seemed to be on the stage. The duel was over and the younger lovers reunited, and Fiona and Gideon were finding their way back to each other. The performance was going splendidly, but it took all of Laura's willpower not to run after her husband and Cordelia's, and Malcolm and the others. If it weren't for the children—

  "I know,” Cordelia said. "It's beastly waiting."
>
  Laura gripped her friend's hand on the rail between the boxes. "Beastly."

  "If—"

  Cordelia broke off as the curtains stirred at the back of the box. Edith Simmons ran in, in a plain gray gown, hair slipping from its pins about her face. "Mrs. O'Roarke. Cordy." She dropped into an empty chair behind Laura, next to the rail, where she could speak to both of them. "Lady Shroppington came to see me this afternoon."

  "Does she know?" Laura asked. The guilt about the situation she might have put Edith in had hovered over her ever since their talk.

  "She knows you both talked to me and that I spoke with you again, but she just thinks you were trying to get information. She actually said she was confident I wouldn't betray her trust, not only because of my brother but because I wouldn't be able to bear the thought of Thomas's knowing what I'd done." Edith locked her hands together. "Little does she know. Of course, I'm eaten away by what I've done to Thomas. But in the end, what does his thinking well of me matter if I don't think well of myself?"

  Cordelia touched her arm. "I don't think Lady Shroppington is the sort to think to that way."

  "No. Thank goodness. She wanted to see me about Thomas. She wants me to find out if Lewis left any papers for his brother."

  "What sort of papers?" Laura asked.

  "She didn't give details. She rarely does. She said if there were any papers, I had to retrieve them. She said she knew I could get Thomas to confide in me, because she knew how he felt about me and how I felt about him. But she also said that she knew I wasn't so foolish as to think our relationship could go anywhere, as Lewis had done with Miss Blanchard. She said she knew she could count on me to find the truth and retrieve any papers, because I'd want Thomas to be safe. I couldn't make sense of the whole thing. But there was something about her expression—I've never seen it so hard. It doesn't matter. I made up my mind to stop working for Lady Shroppington when I talked to you, but I thought I could get more information. I talked to Elsie. She's the Wiltons' under housemaid, and her cousin Molly works for Lady Shroppington, though I doubt Lady Shroppington even knows the connection. She doesn't miss a lot, but her concern doesn't tend to extend below stairs. It was Elsie's evening off tonight. She had a word with Molly. Elsie just came home and reported to me." Edith looked from Laura to Cordelia. "Lewis Thornsby called on his aunt the night before he was killed. They quarreled."

  "We knew she didn't want him to marry Letty Blanchard," Cordelia said.

  "Yes, but Molly heard him say, 'I can bring this whole thing down about your ears, and don't you forget it.'"

  Laura had already scraped back her chair by the time Edith finished speaking.

  "Go," Cordelia said. "Edith and I will watch the children."

  Laura ran.

  Laura found her husband tying a napkin round Malcolm's arm in the passage behind Emily Cowper's box. Kitty was performing a similar office for Julien. Two footmen who appeared to really be footmen were cleaning up a wreckage of broken glass on the damp carpet. The smell of spilled champagne filled the air.

  "He had a knife," Malcolm said. "He managed to get both Julien and me."

  "But he didn't get away." Kitty knotted off the handkerchief round Julien's hand.

  "Where is he?" Laura asked.

  "Roth's taken him to Bow Street. So far, he's refusing to talk. Bertrand and Rupert went with him. Addison's making sure Archie got the regent away. Harry's getting Carfax. Because, much as I never thought I'd say this, we're going to need Carfax to make sure the assassin isn't set free or murdered before we can get his story. I said I'd go to Bow Street as soon as I get bandaged up. But first I need to talk to Mel."

  "There's someone else you need to talk to." Laura looked round the group, then back at Malcolm. "You need to find Lady Shroppington."

  Mélanie went backstage after seeing the regent's carriage off. Sir Horace had refused to leave the theatre, but Frances and Archie had him in charge. She could hear Manon and Brandon speaking the lines of the last scene as she neared the stage. Simon was standing in the wings, the glow from the footlights slanting over him. He gave her a quick smile, but raised his brows in inquiry. Mélanie mouthed, "I'll tell you later," and went to stand beside him. Manon looked at Brandon and delivered the last line Mélanie had worked so hard to craft.

  The curtain tumbled down on Gideon and Fiona's fragile rapprochement, and applause broke from the audience.

  "Listen." Simon turned her towards the audience and put his hands on her shoulders. "You did that."

  "Not me alone."

  "No. But we couldn't have built this world without your words. Remember. For all the times in the future you'll struggle to get the words right." He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "It's your moment. Drink it in."

  "Oh, Rannoch." Lady Shroppington met Malcolm's gaze without apparent alarm, and with only mild surprise, as he stepped into her box. Half the occupants had left. The others, Lord and Lady Sheffield, a couple of Lady Shroppington's generation with whom Malcolm was slightly acquainted, were gathering up their things. "Should have thought you'd be busy congratulating your wife," Lady Shroppington continued. "I have to admit it was quite a diverting play. I don't agree with the points she was trying to make, but I'll concede she made them well, and it's a good story. She certainly writes as someone conversant with secrets in a marriage."

  "I need to have a word with you. In private."

  Lady Shroppington opened her mouth as though to protest, then looked at the Sheffields. "I'll see you in the lobby. There's sure to be a dreadful crush waiting for carriages, in any case."

  Lady Sheffield drew her swansdown-edged cloak about her shoulders. "You're sure, Henrietta?"

  "Yes, if I don't, Rannoch will be pestering me in the morning before I've finished my chocolate."

  Lord Sheffield cast a hard glance at Malcolm, then gave his wife his arm and led her from the box.

  Lady Shroppington regarded Malcolm. "With your beautiful wife to congratulate, why on earth are you wasting time on me?"

  "I might say, to let you know your plot didn't work. But then, you know that, don't you? You probably knew it the moment the regent and his party left the royal box. I expect you're hoping your man realized his target was gone, and called the whole thing off. But he didn't have a view of the inside of the theatre. We caught him going into Emily Cowper's box."

  Lady Shroppington's face gave nothing away. She was a match for Carfax and Raoul when it came to self-command. "My dear Mr. Rannoch, this story sounds more fanciful than your wife's play, and rather less coherent. I was a bit surprised Prinny left, as he seemed to be enjoying himself. But then, he's always been fickle. In any number of ways. But I can't imagine why you think it should be any concern of mine."

  "Because you'd hired a marksman—probably a former rifleman—to shoot someone in the royal box."

  Her brows shot up towards her elaborate waves of hair. "I beg your pardon? Mr. Rannoch, I don't know how many glasses of champagne you've consumed, but you seem to have me confused with your Leveller friends."

  "It was clever." Malcolm leaned against the wall of the box, legs crossed at the ankle. "Carfax and his agent had fabricated a Radical assassination plot that was never meant to go further than some suspicious papers. You learned about it from Lewis—who had set himself to uncover Carfax's agent provocateur plots as a way to ingratiate himself with the Leveller leadership—and you decided it was an ideal way to get rid of Sir Horace Smytheton. It would be put down to an assassination plot gone awry, and discredit the Levellers into the bargain."

  "Good lord, Mr. Rannoch." Her gaze showed a perfect combination of amazement, amusement, and beneath it, a touch of frustration. "I scarcely know where to begin. Why on earth should I wish to get rid of Horace Smytheton, of all people? Save for his questionable taste in marrying an actress, he's entirely blameless."

  "An excellent question. Save that he's also a member of the Elsinore League and worked with Alistair Rannoch and Lord Dewhurst in France."


  For the first time he thought he caught the faintest crack in her gaze. It revealed not fear, but a glint of implacable hardness. "What on earth is the Elsinore League? A theatrical society?"

  "You undoubtedly know more about them than we do. We had no idea women had positions in the League until we learned about you. We also know Lewis was working for the League."

  "Are you claiming I embroiled him in this society?"

  "No, apparently my brother did that."

  "Captain Rannoch? My dear Mr. Rannoch, I begin to fear for your mental state."

  "But I think Lewis was reporting directly to you after Edgar died," Malcolm said. "He was trying to recover papers that may betray Alexander Radford's identity."

  "Who the devil is Alexander Radford?"

  "I only wish you would tell me. We still don't know. Save that he is trying to wrest away control of the Elsinore League from the founders and you are evidently working with him. But Lewis balked at killing Horace Smytheton. Or he decided to use what he knew to threaten you, so you'd agree to his marrying Letty Blanchard. In any case, you realized he was a liability." Malcolm studied her across the box. "I'll do you the credit of saying I think it cost you something to get rid of him."

  Lady Shroppington's gaze settled on his own. The mask was gone, leaving only the hardness. "You can't prove a word of that, Mr. Rannoch."

  "No," Malcolm agreed, "I can't. But I wanted you to know what I knew. For one thing, so you realize how any further action against Horace Smytheton will be met."

  Lady Shroppington's gaze remained on his, steady as a sword's point. "I always knew you were a threat. From the time you were quite small."

  "My dear Lady Shroppington. You didn't meet me until a few days ago."

  "Officially. I have been aware of you for a very long time indeed, Rannoch.”

  A dozen questions race through Macolm's mimd as he met that steely gaze, but he merely said, "Good evening, Lady Shroppington. I imagine this is far from the last time we will speak."