by Tracy Grant
"What did he say?"
"Merely that he was afraid he’d have to answer this at once and could I ask my mother to push back dinner half an hour. The next day he left for London. I didn't see him again before we got the news he was in Newgate."
"Where's Oliver?" Malcolm asked.
"Outside in the carriage."
"What?"
"He came to London with me. But he wasn't sure you'd want to see him."
"Oh, for God's sake." Malcolm strode into the hall, pulled open the front door, and waved to Oliver. His Oxford friend, whom Carfax had paid to spy on him, descended from the carriage and climbed the steps of the house, wariness in his posture.
Malcolm didn't embrace him as he once would have done, but he did touch his arm. "I thought we'd at least established when you came to Dunmykel that we're still on speaking terms."
Oliver met his gaze without flinching. "For which I'm inestimably grateful. But I didn't want your feeling about me to color your willingness to help Carfax."
"My dear Oliver. Whatever is between us pales beside what's between Carfax and me."
Malcolm led the way back into the library, where Isobel was waiting. Uncertainty flickered across her face, but she moved to Oliver's side, which was interesting in and of itself.
"What can we do?" Oliver asked.
"See if you can persuade Carfax to talk," Malcolm said. "Though I doubt anyone can. But after you see him, I think you both can both do the most at Carfax Court, making sure Lady Carfax and Lucinda get through this as well as possible."
Isobel nodded. "We're not at Carfax Court. We've removed to Spendlove Manor. It's closer to London. I brought Mama to see him once just after he was arrested. I'm not sure what they said to each other. But I think he asked her not to come back. I can't be sure what Mama's thinking or feeling. But then our family never show their feelings much. Lucinda's the most upset."
"Lucy can show she's upset," Oliver said. "Which is probably a very good thing."
"I know Father wants us to stay in the country," Isobel said. "I know Mama and Lucinda need us. But I feel so much better knowing you're investigating, Malcolm."
"I’ll do my best to uncover the truth."
"Which will help Father because he’s innocent."
"I can’t be sure what it will do."
Isobel nodded, her gaze tight on his face. "I can’t ask for more."
Chapter 11
Colin scrambled up the steps of the Berkeley Square house, Livia and Emily close behind him. Mélanie swallowed a pang as Raoul handed her from the carriage. Six months gone and the house was still home.
Home, where Malcolm was. For all the dangers and uncertainties, in a few minutes she would see him.
"Home," Jessica said from Mélanie's arms.
"Quite right, querida," Mélanie murmured as Raoul handed Laura and Cordy from the carriage and picked up Berowne's basket.
Valentin opened the door. Colin and Emily hugged him. Livia, who knew him almost as well, shortly followed suit. Valentin hugged them back and met Mélanie's gaze over their heads. "Mrs. Rannoch. We weren't expecting you. Mr. Rannoch's gone up to Surrey with Colonel Davenport for the night."
"Surrey?" Mélanie climbed the steps and stepped under the fanlight.
"Yes, madam, to visit Lord Beverston."
Tommy's godfather. Mélanie exchanged a quick look with Raoul, Laura, and Cordy as they all reached the hall.
Valentin glanced at the children. "I have some cakes in the kitchen. I can bring them into the library."
Jessica and Drusilla wriggled to be put down and ran after the older children. Valentin met Mélanie's gaze before the adults followed the children. "There've been some unexpected developments, madam. I'm sure Mr. Rannoch would have left you a letter if he'd known you were coming. Lord Carfax has been arrested for murder."
Lord Beverston was a short man, though he carried himself with a brisk purpose that made him seem much taller until one was actually face to face. As he and Malcolm were when Malcolm and Harry were shown into the study of his country house in Surrey.
"Rannoch. Davenport." Beverston crossed the Turkey rug to greet them. "I didn't know either of you was back in Britain, let alone in Ipswich."
"Most people don't. It's a quick visit. My condolences, sir. I can't imagine anything worse than losing a child." Whatever Malcolm thought of John Smythe, the condolences were owed. And Malcolm wanted to see how Beverston took them.
"Thank you." Beverston drew a breath. He had himself well in command, but the flash in his eyes said he wasn't entirely without parental feeling. "I understand you saw John in Italy."
"Both Davenport and I did," Malcolm said. "He was involved in some very complicated things, but what happened to him was certainly a tragedy."
"It's been hard to comprehend, as I'm sure you'll understand. I've been concerned about Diana. Though of course we're pleased about the news of the baby."
"As I think Diana is." That, Malcolm thought, was the truth. Diana Smythe's marriage to John had been a hell she could not but be relieved to have escaped, but though she'd seemed shocked to realize she was pregnant weeks after his death, she also seemed to be happy about the baby as something quite apart from John.
"But I don't expect you called just to offer condolences," Beverston said.
"Quite." Malcolm took a step forwards. "Given the offer your godson made to me in Scotland, we can dispense with the pleasantries, sir. Or, rather, with the fiction that the Elsinore League do not exist."
Beverston's gaze locked on Malcolm's own. "I always thought you were dangerous, Rannoch. In one of my last conversations with Alistair he warned me not to underestimate you."
"You surprise me. I never thought Alistair had much use for me. Or, rather, that he paid enough attention to have any thoughts about me at all."
"You should know by now that Alistair kept a great deal to himself." Beverston jerked his head towards three claret leather chairs before the fireplace. "I trust you've given proper consideration to our offer?" he said when they were seated.
"To protect us against Carfax?" Malcolm said. "He's hardly much of a threat now."
"That depends upon how much reliance you place upon his remaining in prison."
"Are you suggesting he didn't kill Mrs. Spencer?" Harry asked.
Beverston spread his fingers on the carved arm of his chair. "The more pertinent question is, do you think he did? And given that you're both apparently investigating her death, I would imagine the answer is that you don't."
"You know we're investigating her murder?"
"My dear Rannoch. I have excellent sources of information, even in the country. I also presume your investigation means that you're prepared to deal with the consequences of Carfax out of prison."
"Which should answer your question about your very obliging offer," Malcolm said.
Beverston held his gaze across the cold, hard marble of the table between their chairs. "You're a dangerous man, as I said, Rannoch. And in many ways your flexibility of thinking is impressive. But you're not seeing the full picture here. Carfax will always be a threat. To you. Certainly to your wife. And from what I understand of your parliamentary speeches, he's opposed to just about everything you believe in."
"Whereas the League are a hidden bastion of reform?"
Beverston settled back in his chair and crossed his legs. "I won't deny that most of our members are opposed to much of what you believe in. But fundamentally our actions aren't driven by setting policy."
"No, they're driven by enriching yourselves."
"And how, precisely, does that makes us different from nine-tenths of the men in the beau monde or Parliament?"
"They don't kill to do it," Harry said. "Or amass blackmail."
"I understand you were close to Miranda Spencer." Malcolm made the switch abruptly, hoping against hope to catch Beverston off guard.
A shadow that might have been grief flitted across Beverston's face. "Tragic what happened to h
er. But surely of all my activities, my friendship with a girl who was employed at the Barque of Frailty doesn't shock you."
"No, but it does when that girl was murdered and the League's greatest enemy stands accused of her murder."
Beverston's fingers curled on the chair arm. "I'm not sure I'd call Carfax the League's greatest enemy. But he's certainly high on the list."
"You were at the Barque of Frailty the night Mrs. Spencer was killed," Malcolm said.
"So I was. I'm there many nights. That may be hard for two men so known to be devoted to their wives to understand, but I doubt it surprises you if you have any understanding at all of most marriages in the beau mode. I saw Miranda leave the room with Carfax, as I'm sure you know from the investigating you have already done. To my eternal regret." Beverston shook his head. "If only I'd intervened. I almost did so."
"Because you'd have been afraid of what Mrs. Spencer might tell him?" Malcolm asked.
"For God's sake, Rannoch, do I seem like the sort of man who confides dangerous secrets to a young whore across the pillow? My sense aside, believe me, I had more important things to talk to Miranda about. Using 'talk to' in the loosest possible sense of the term."
"You took Mrs. Spencer out with you a number of times."
"So I did. The Barque of Frailty is convivial enough, but sometimes one wants a change of surroundings. I think Miranda enjoyed it too."
"According to those who witnessed your first meeting with Mrs. Spencer"—Malcolm didn't want to draw undue attention to Daisy Singleton—"you gave the impression that you recognized her from somewhere else."
"Did I? Usually I pride myself on not giving anything away. But there's no particular reason to be secretive about it. And I own it was a shock. Miranda was the daughter of the curate who had the living at one of my smaller properties. Woodbury in Bedfordshire. I'd seen her off and on as a child and young woman. She disappeared two years ago. The story was that she'd gone to stay with an aunt in Shropshire, but it was fairly common knowledge she'd run off with a half-pay officer. Given that, I really shouldn't have been surprised to find her at the Barque of Frailty. But it was still a shock to come face to face with her."
"You didn't think of—" Harry hesitated. Rare for him.
"Rescuing her?" Beverston raised a brow. "My dear Davenport. Miranda had already put herself outside the bounds of society. I suppose I could have tried to invent a history for her and find her a place as governess or companion, but the truth of her past would always be a risk. And she seemed content enough where she was. I'll own at first I simply spoke with her to learn of her past. But Miranda was—out of the common way. Had she still been the gently bred girl I'd known, I'd never have let my interests run in that direction, but given where life had taken her, our association seemed quite natural."
It was plausible. The third plausible story Malcolm had heard to account for Miranda Spencer's past. And he wasn't sure he believed it any more than the other two. "Mrs. Spencer had a jade pendant she wore a great deal," he said. "She was wearing it the night she was killed, but it wasn't found on the body."
Beverston frowned with a surprise that might have been genuine. "I know the pendant. She wore it a great deal. I assumed it must have been a gift from her family or her first lover. But if you're suggesting the killer took it because it meant something to him, I can't imagine any of her family or her former lover in the Barque of Frailty. One generally needs more exalted connections to get past Rosamund's doors."
"Mrs. Spencer didn't indicate to you that she'd recently seen anyone from her old life?"
"Certainly not. She didn't seem to wish to speak of it at all."
Malcolm watched Beverston for a moment. "When did you last see Tommy Belmont?"
"When I sent him to Scotland to make our offer to you. I assume you've seen him much more recently."
"Then you don't know he's back in London?" Malcolm hesitated, but at this point, shielding Gisèle's reputation seemed less important than finding her. "In company with my sister?"
Beverston raised his brows again, though whether at the facts themselves or at Malcolm sharing them, Malcolm couldn't be sure. "My word."
"That wasn't part of the plan when you sent Tommy to Scotland?"
"I don't deny the intricacies of our planning, Rannoch. Or that Tommy is very useful to us. But surely you realize a man like Tommy could have reasons for going off to London with a pretty young woman that have nothing to do with the League."
"He could. The League could also want to control my sister."
"Possibly, I'll grant you. But Alistair was quite fond of Gisèle."
"Alistair's dead."
"But still engenders a great deal of loyalty within the League."
"Damn it, sir." Malcolm lunged out of his chair and grabbed Beverston by the flawless lapels of his coat. "What do you know about my sister?"
"Rannoch, for God's sake." Beverston's voice was hoarse. "Do you think—"
"Yes." Malcolm tightened his grip.
"I don't know. Strangle me if you will, but that's the truth."
Malcolm threw Beverston back in his chair. "Convenient."
Beverston straightened his neckcloth. "I'm proud of Tommy, I confess. I've often lamented that he wasn't my son, instead of—but that is neither here nor there. I brought him into the League. I trusted him with things I would never have trusted John with. But I've never had any illusions I could control him. It's part of what I admire in him."
"Do you deny he undertakes jobs for you?"
"Not in the least. But he also undertakes missions for others in the League. The last time I saw Tommy was in early December, when I sent him to Scotland to make our offer to you. I received a curt response that he'd been unsuccessful. I haven't seen him or heard from him since. I certainly said nothing to him about running off with your sister."
Beverston's voice had the ring of truth. Though Malcolm no longer was as confident of his ability to judge such things as he once had been. "But you tasked him to look for the Wanderer," Malcolm said.
For a moment Beverston's face went still. Malcolm had the dubious satisfaction of knowing he had shaken the other man. "That sounds fanciful for something I'd involve myself in."
"That rather depends on who—or what—the Wanderer is."
Beverston held Malcolm's gaze. "You have no reason to take advice from me, Rannoch. Or to believe I wish you well. But upon my honor, this is truly meant. Stay away from the Wanderer. You don't know what you're involving yourself in, and it will only lead to disaster for you and your family."
Chapter 12
"I wish I could tell you more." Archie cast a glance round the Berkeley Square dining table, where Valentin had done an admirable job of assembling a cold supper out of a hamper from Fortnum's, supplemented by a salmon salad assembled from leftovers from Frances's kitchen. "But I only learned about Carfax myself yesterday morning, when Malcolm and Harry called on me."
"And to think I thought we were prepared for the unexpected." Frances took a sip of coffee. "I was tempted to call on Amelia, but I hear she's in the country. I did pay a round of calls on my friends yesterday—those who are back in London—and there are rumors flying, but precious few facts I could discern." She cast a glance through the open door across the hall to the library where her nine-year-old daughter Chloe had taken the younger children to play, but the shrieks of excitement suggested that even the sharp-eared younger generation weren't attending to their parents' conversation.
"I thought about talking to Rosamund myself—" Archie said.
"And I told you I hadn't the least objection," Frances interjected.
"But I decided to wait and see what Malcolm and Harry learned. They sent us a note yesterday afternoon saying they were going up to see Beverston." Archie picked up a walnut and cracked it. "So, whatever they learned from Rosamund must have sent them after him."
Frances's brows drew together. "I'm still surprised they didn't come to see us before they left."
>
"They'd have been in a hurry." Archie handed his wife half the walnut. "And they may not have been entirely sure what to tell me. Given my past connection to Rosamund, and my other activities."
Cordelia stared at her husband's uncle across the table. "But that's all in the past."
"Rosamund is." Archie crumbled a bit of walnut shell between his fingers. "As to the rest—these things are never fully in the past, as both Malcolm and Harry know. And they've both learned to question everything."
"If they hadn't already, some of us have taught them that." Mélanie frowned into her coffee.
"Are you saying the murdered girl—Miranda Spencer—was a French spy?" Cordelia asked. "Or Rosamund Hartley is?"
"Neither, to my knowledge," Archie said. "Which doesn't mean neither of them is or was. Or that Malcolm and Harry aren't wondering."
Raoul reached for an orange and began to peel it. "For what it's worth, Beverston never was an agent. At least, not that we know of."
"That's the only connection to Gisèle." Frances picked up her coffee again, as though she wanted to keep her hands busy, which was unlike her. "That Beverston is Tommy's godfather and recruited him into the League. But I can't think how—" She shook her head and set the cup down untasted.
"Jeremy must know what's going on." Mélanie stared at her untouched slice of fig cake on the silver-and-burgundy-edged plates Cordy had helped her choose at a china warehouse, in what seemed like another lifetime.
Raoul handed round segments of the orange. "We don't know how much he knows and what Malcolm's told him. Calling on him would only advertise your presence in London to Bow Street and the home office."
