by Tracy Grant
"Shall I approach her?" Mélanie asked. "Pretend you and I aren't on the same side entirely?"
"Not yet, I think," Raoul said. "First, I'm going to do some reconnaissance. Ask questions about her neighborhood. I called on Pierre Ducot on my way home. I have him watching her lodgings, and trailing her if she goes out. She'll be on her guard, but Pierre's good enough she may not get wind of it."
Mélanie nodded. Pierre had been an able scout in the Peninsula. Since he'd settled in London, he'd once or twice undertaken errands for her and Malcolm.
"More waiting," Cordelia said.
"At least until Malcolm and Harry get back," Raoul said. "We'll know more then. About a number of things."
"And meanwhile, you get to have all the fun," Laura said.
"My apologies." He reached for her hand and laced his fingers through her own. "But before we're done, I'm quite sure there's going to be plenty of work to keep all of us busy."
"I lost my temper." Malcolm scowled at the path ahead as he and Harry rode back towards London.
"With great provocation." Harry steered his horse Claudius round a mud puddle. "And you didn't reveal anything to him. Except the extent of your determination. You may even have alarmed him."
"I doubt it. Beverston is much too secure in his position to fear anything I might do." Malcolm forced his hands not to clench on the reins, then reached forwards to pat Perdita's neck. It was good to be on her back again.
"Whatever he knows about Miranda Spencer's death, he's grieved by it," Harry said. "Which doesn't necessarily mean he didn't kill her."
"Quite. In fact, if he'd confided in her across the pillow and then thought she was talking to Carfax, he has an excellent motive."
"Quite. The more so as he appears to have had some genuine affection for her. To the extent Beverston is capable of feeling affection for anyone."
"If—"
Malcolm broke off as a report sounded from the trees. He fell forwards on instinct against Perdita's neck and felt a bullet whistle by. He heard a thud and looked up to see Harry sprawled on the ground.
"Harry." Malcolm flung himself down beside his friend in an echo of Waterloo, even as he was aware of the sound of retreating hooves from the trees.
"I'm all right." Harry pushed himself up on his good elbow. "Lost my balance."
"I think the bullet took off a lock of your hair." And it had left a scrape on Harry's temple.
"It’s all right, Cordelia doesn't love me for my looks." Harry pushed himself to his knees. "Are they—"
"They're long gone, whoever they were."
"No permanent damage done."
"No," Malcolm said. "But it could have been."
Chapter 14
"So much worry and urgency," Cordelia said. "And now London looks remarkably placid."
Raoul had left before breakfast to make further inquiries about Charlotte. The women had succumbed to the pleas of the children, who had been cooped up in a carriage for days, and taken the younger set to the Berkeley Square garden. Hardly a return to London society, yet it felt at once alien and oddly normal, Mélanie found, to be sitting on the wrought metal benches, beneath the leafless winter tracery of the plane trees, the children's laughter cutting the air, familiar brick and stucco houses all round.
Few people were abroad on a January morning. They'd glimpsed a nursemaid walking two young charges, but the group had continued out of the square without stopping in the garden.
"Odd to be so on edge here," Laura said. "When I was Colin and Jessica's governess, it seemed the center of my world." She smiled at the game of hide-and-seek that was in progress. Emily was persuading Jessica to stay hidden behind a gnarled tree trunk. Colin was behind another tree with Drusilla, who grasped the game a bit better than Jessica. Livia had her hands over her eyes and was counting.
"We have to snatch a few moments respite while we can," Mélanie said. "Or at least the children can." In truth, she found it damnably hard to sit still. She remembered Frances pacing the night before. She stroked Berowne, who was curled up in her lap, willing her body to relax.
"How did this happen?" Cordelia said. "The men are all off having adventures and we're sitting in a garden watching the children play. Not that I don't quite like watching the children play in the general run of things, but when we're in the midst of a crisis—"
"Maddening," Mélanie agreed. "But I'm trying to be sensible."
"I still wonder if I should be making a round of calls, as Lady Frances is," Cordelia said. "But I'd be bound to get questions about you and Malcolm and Italy. Besides—" She chewed on her gray-gloved finger. "I want to be here the moment Harry and Malcolm return."
Carriage wheels and horse hooves cut the air. Mélanie tensed instinctively, but the yellow and blue barouche that rolled into view bore the crest of Lord and Lady Langton, their neighbors across the square. On a chill winter day, the top was raised, so she didn't entirely relax until the carriage came to a stop and the footman let down the steps and handed down a fair-haired lady in a purple bombazine pelisse and a high-crowned bonnet lined with lavender silk who was unmistakably Lady Langton. She and Malcolm had not been on close terms with the Langtons, who were Tories, but they had been invited to the Langtons' larger parties and had invited them to their house in return. The family had six daughters, the elder two of whom followed their mother from the carriage. The younger two had occasionally played with Colin and Emily. Mélanie lifted a hand in greeting. Best to act as though all were normal.
Lady Langton didn't seem to see her. Marianne, the second daughter, waved. That caught her mother's attention. Lady Langton put a hand on her daughter's arm. Her gaze moved from Mélanie to Laura to Cordy. Then she turned pointedly away and shepherded her daughters into the house.
"Well," Cordelia said. "Quite like old times. When Harry and I first separated, I received the cut direct so often it quite lost its sting."
It was actually the first time it had happened to Mélanie. Ironic, considering that if even a fraction of her true history were known, most doors in Mayfair would be barred to her. "I always thought Lady Langton was small minded," she murmured.
"She's worried about her daughters," Laura said in a quiet voice. "Felicia's going into her second season, and Marianne will be out this year. She has six daughters to see settled, and the title and most of the property go to Lord Langton's nephew."
"You're more charitable than I am, Laura." Cordy said.
"And you know more about the Langtons than I do," Mélanie said.
Laura shrugged. "The governess used to bring the younger girls to the garden when I was here with Colin and Jessica. She liked to settle in for a gossip. And it's nothing I wasn't expecting. I'm sorry for the two of you, though."
"It couldn't bother me less," Cordy assured her.
"Or me," Mélanie said. "In many ways it makes it easier. The less we talk to people, the less chance of exposure."
Colin ran over to the three women. "Why didn't Estella and Corinthia's mummy wave back at you?" he asked.
"I daresay she was just preoccupied and didn't see us," Mélanie said.
Colin's dark brows drew together against his pale skin. "Marianne saw you."
"Marianne has the eyes of a seventeen-year-old. I've long thought Lady Langton needs spectacles."
Colin continued to frown. Livia ran up and seized his hand. "People don't see things all the time when they're thinking about other things. Especially grown-ups. Let’s get back to the game."
Livia, Mélanie was quite sure, remembered her mother receiving the cut direct and had a very shrewd idea of what it meant. Colin's brows were still drawn, but he let Livia pull him off.
"Your daughter's a diplomat," Mélanie said to Cordelia.
"I've always known she was observant, but I don't think I realized quite how much she was aware of at three."
"Her father's a scholar, after all," Laura said.
Cordelia turned to smile at her friend. "Yes," she said, "so he is.
"
Which was true. Cordelia might not be sure who Livia's biological father was, but Livia took after Harry in a number of ways.
Movement caught Mélanie's eye before she heard the sound of footsteps over the stir of the wind in the branches. A small figure seemed to be making for the Rannoch house, but when he caught sight of the group in the garden, he veered over to them. It was Victor Ducot, Pierre's son. Mélanie's pulse quickened. He'd brought messages from his father before.
Victor waved to the children—he'd tossed a ball with them in the past, but was bent on more serious business now. He opened the gate and trotted over to Mélanie. "Madame Rannoch. Papa sent me with a message for Monsieur O'Roarke. But he said he might be out and, if so, I should talk to you."
"Yes, he is out," Mélanie said. "But I'll make sure he hears whatever it is."
Victor nodded. He was thin and wiry like his father, with dark hair and pale skin. "Madame Leblanc hasn't gone anywhere unusual. But she sent a message about an hour ago. Papa had someone track the messenger. He went to St. Giles. Near the Red Lion. Papa thought it might be helpful for you to know right away."
Mélanie stared into Victor's intent blue gaze. "Thank you, Victor. That's very helpful, indeed." She turned to Cordy and Laura. "I'm going to have to go out for a bit. If Raoul returns or Malcolm comes back, give them Victor's message."
Mélanie made her way through a maze of streets, yards, and courts. The close-set brick buildings, smoke-mottled and unleavened by greenery or ornamental white moldings, seemed to swallow one up. Once or twice a hand snatched at her mulberry velvet pelisse, but thanks to the cold and damp, few people were abroad. A light rain was falling and the tug of the wind promised more.
She paused in a narrow court, beside a public house with a faded sign proclaiming the Dolphin. The grimy glass of the windows was so thick that the scene inside wavered, like a charcoal drawing smudged with water. A scattering of customers was visible, but instead of studying them, she ducked through a gap between the public house and the next building over and opened a side door covered with peeling varnish.
A narrow passage with patches of damp on the peeling wallpaper stretched before her. The only illumination was the fitful light from the open door, which showed the outline of a staircase. The murmur of voices and clunk of tankards came through the wall from the common room next door. She climbed the splintery windowless staircase and eased open a door onto a small room that smelled of mildew, gin, and tobacco. A man seated over a game of solitaire spun round and pointed a pistol at her.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
"I'm here to see Mr. Lucan," Mélanie said.
The man gave a coarse laugh. "He's not here."
"You're just guarding the door on general principles?"
The guard got to his feet and walked towards her, pistol extended. He had a round, determined face, and while he was not overly tall, his shoulders were broad and he carried himself with the air of a man accustomed to using his fives. He'd not been the one on duty the last time she'd come here.
"Stand still," he said. "Arms out. No funny business."
Mélanie complied. It would be faster this way. She stretched out her arms, silver and silk reticule dangling from one gloved wrist. The guard stared at her as though she were a rare tropical bird, equally likely to break or bite him.
"It's all right," Mélanie said. "I'm not vicious when handled with care."
He gave a grunt that might have been annoyance or apology, took her reticule, and snapped it open. A scent bottle tumbled to the floor and rolled into a corner.
"Oh, dear," Mélanie said. "I'm afraid I have a shocking tendency to try to carry too many things at once."
The guard backed towards the corner, pistol still pointed at her, retrieved the scent bottle, took her silver nail scissors from the reticule and tested his finger on them, then returned the lot to the reticule, closed the clasp, and returned the reticule to her. He regarded her a moment longer, then patted his hands gingerly over her pelisse.
"Very politely done," Mélanie said. "Now will you be so good as to tell Mr. Lucan that Juana Murez is here to see him."
"Who the devil—"
"Tell him."
The guard disappeared into the inner room. Thirty seconds later he returned, scratching his head, and nodded towards the room beyond. "He says you're to go in."
The inner room was larger and the smell of mildew less pronounced. Perhaps the latter was due to the smoke from the tarnished brass lamp on the gateleg table in the center of the room. A man with thick side-whiskers and a lady with a cascade of curly dark hair were bent over papers on the table. The man pushed back his chair and got to his feet, gaze on Mélanie.
"Hola, Sancho." Mélanie stared at the man she vividly remembered drinking Rioja with in a Spanish tavern. Moments before a knife fight had them both under the table.
"Mélanie." Sancho stared at her with equal surprise. She'd been to see him a few times in London, but not in months. And their last encounter had been round the supposed Phoenix plot.
"Who is she?" The curly-haired woman came round the side of the desk and stared at Mélanie.
"Mélanie Lescaut. Also known as the Marquesa Ferante, Juana Murez, and a number of other names. Oh, and Suzanne Rannoch, which is what she calls herself now that she's living in Britain as an English aristo's wife."
"I'm calling myself Mélanie again. Malcolm isn't an aristocrat—at least, he doesn't have a title—and we're not living in Britain any more."
"You used to work with her?" the woman demanded.
"Don't come all jealous, Nan. Not that it's not appealing. She wasn't mine, she was O'Roarke's."
"I wasn't anyone's," Mélanie said. "Though it's true I used to be Raoul's lover. But these days I'm loyal to my husband. In all senses of the word."
"That must be challenging." Sancho regarded her, arms folded across his chest. "All things considered."
The curly-haired woman stepped on his foot. "Nan Simcox," Sancho said. "Sorry. Mélanie Rannoch, or whatever she's calling herself now. One of the best damn agents it's been my pleasure to work with."
"Thank you, Sancho. It's good to meet you, Miss Simcox."
Nan was eying her with less surprise and more curiosity. "You've had an interesting life. Or are having one."
"You could say that."
"Leaving aside the question of why you came to see me," Sancho said. "Not that I'm not pleased."
"I came in search of my sister-in-law. Why the devil she'd be hiding here—"
"Your who?" Sancho's look of surprise was very creditably done and might once have deceived her. Before she knew him.
"Spare me the denials, Sancho. Charlotte Leblanc sent you a message earlier today."
"Charlotte's an old friend."
"Charlotte is in touch with Tommy Belmont."
"Who?"
"Don't play games, Sancho. I know you sold weapons to both sides in the Peninsula. It's not a wonder you crossed paths with Tommy. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised he turned to you now. But I don't think you know who he really is."
Sancho's gaze hardened. "You know me, Mélanie. I've never been squeamish about who I do business with. You used to be a deal less squeamish yourself."
"We're talking about my husband's sister." Mélanie crossed to stand a handsbreadth away from him. "For God's sake, Sancho, she's only twenty."
"When you were twenty—"
"And she doesn't belong in this game."
Sancho looked down into her eyes. "I'm sorry, Mélanie. But you can't expect me to talk—"
Mélanie pulled a knife from her bodice and pressed it against his throat.
"Damnation. Mick was supposed to search you."
"He did. You need to train your men better. Raoul would rip you to pieces for employing such shoddy guards."
Nan gave a gasp that might have been either shock or appreciation.
Mélanie pressed the knife deeper into Sancho's flesh. "Where's To
mmy Belmont?"
"You're not a cold-blooded killer, Mélanie. Unless marriage has changed you."
"Damn it, Sancho—"
"Don't, Mr. Lucan. There's no sense in more lies."
A side door had opened while they were intent on their confrontation. Mélanie recognized the voice, but it was a moment before her brain made sense of it. She turned and found herself staring into her sister-in-law's green eyes.
Gisèle wore a plain chestnut-colored gown. Her hair was simply pinned back, her color good. But her eyes had a hardness Mélanie had never glimpsed before. "I'm sorry, Mélanie," she said. "I shouldn't have put Mr. Lucan in the position of having to lie to you. But I was afraid—"
As she spoke, the door burst open. Four men ran into the room. Mélanie felt a rush of movement. Then a blow knocked her into the wall.
Chapter 15
The world spun like a boat in a gale, then stretched into dreamlike slowness. Mélanie recovered her balance and slashed her opponent with her knife. He screamed. Then she felt the press of a pistol barrel against her temple. She caught a glimpse of the unconscious form of the guard through the open door. A yank on her arms forced her gaze back to the center of the room. One of the men who had burst into the room had hold of Gisèle, a knife pressed to her throat. A third man, apparently unarmed, was holding Nan.
The fourth, pistol in hand, walked up to Sancho. This man wore a snuff-colored coat, out of style, but of a cut that bespoke a good London tailor. The product of one of the secondhand clothes dealers in Petticoat Lane or Rosemary Lane, most likely. Where Mélanie had sent her companion Blanca to acquire costumes a few times. A cut above the rough homespun and corduroy of the other three men.
The man in the snuff-colored coat stared at Sancho for a long moment, then struck him a blow across the face. "Mr. Eckert wants to see you."
Sancho returned the man's stare. "Then he can bloody well come here himself."
"He knows you peached on him to Bridges."
"What?"
