The Duke's Gambit

by Tracy Grant

  "So did Julien," Mélanie said. Eight years ago she and Julien had worked together on a mission helping the Empress Josephine's daughter Hortense conceal the birth of her illegitimate child. On their journey with Hortense, they'd been attacked by men trying to get the secret of the Wanderer from Julien. "And there's not much Julien considers dangerous."

  "Yet another reason we can't neglect looking into the murder," Harry said.

  "There's one other thing Sanderson told me," Archie said. He'd been frowning. Now he set down his coffee cup. "Apparently Beverston has a new mistress. Lady St. Ives."

  Harry let out a whistle. Sylvie St. Ives had been an agent for Carfax until she and others, including Julien St. Juste, broke away from him six months ago. She also had a long association with Julien that none of them fully understood, save that Julien had told her the truth about Mélanie. and she had told Carfax.

  "One wonders which of them is spying on the other," Mélanie said. "Is Beverston trying to get information about Julien from Sylvie St. Ives, or is she trying to get information about the League? Or both?"

  "Or has she gone to work for the League now that she's broken away from Carfax?" Malcolm said.

  "And how much did St. Juste tell her about the Wanderer?" Cordelia added.

  "And if she's working for the League, how much has she told them?" Malcolm's voice was grim.

  Mélanie reached for her husband's hand. "Several of the League already know about me, darling. Including Lord Beverston. I don't know that Sylvie could do that much more damage there."

  "Lady St. Ives certainly has her reasons for wanting to destroy Carfax," Harry said.

  "Are you suggesting she killed Miranda Spencer?" Cordelia asked her husband. "And framed Carfax?"

  "Not necessarily—though it wouldn't be the first time she killed. But if the League are involved, she certainly might have helped push suspicion onto Carfax."

  Malcolm grimaced. "We need to talk to Mrs. Spencer's brother. Or supposed brother." He drew a breath and glanced about the company. "And I think I should talk to Castlereagh about the government's attitude towards Carfax's arrest."

  "Of course," Mélanie said.

  Malcolm reached for her hand. "There's no 'of course' about it, sweetheart. I'd as lief Castlereagh had no idea we were in London."

  "Darling." Mélanie tightened her fingers round her husband's own. "He almost certainly knows already."

  "Yes, I know." Malcolm met her gaze, a rueful twist to his lips. "Deluding myself."

  "Actually," Raoul said, "it would be good to have a sense of what Castlereagh knows. And there's nothing to suggest he knows about Mélanie."

  "No," Malcolm admitted. "And I actually doubt Carfax would have shared such a valuable piece of intelligence. Still—"

  "If he does know about me, darling," Mélanie said, "the more we know about what he knows, the better."

  "I can't argue with that," Malcolm said. But he continued to frown.

  Mélanie set the shawl and reticule she'd taken to Frances's down on her dressing table. The polished walnut looked strangely bare with so many of her things still in Italy. She began to peel off her gloves, the events of the day echoing through her brain. Except for a flurry of dressing for dinner, with the children running in and out, this was the first time she and Malcolm had been alone together since their conversation with Raoul about Julien St. Juste.

  Malcolm put Jessica, sound asleep on his shoulder, down in her cradle, then went to the chest of drawers and poured two glasses of whisky. Contrary to his usual habit, he took a long drink himself before he crossed the room and put a glass in her hand.

  Mélanie met her husband's gaze as she took the whisky from him. His eyes had the steadiness of glass that could shatter at the slightest pressure. She took a sip of the whisky. It burned her throat. "Raoul was lying to us."

  "I think so, yes."

  Her fingers tightened round the crystal etched with the Rannoch crest. "He'd know we're likely to see through him. So if he thinks it's worth lying—"

  "He has very strong reasons for keeping the truth from us." Malcolm took another drink of whisky. "Which could be to protect us."

  "Including to protect us from whatever he's involved in." For a moment she was back in the Peninsula, a young agent, aware that, though her spymaster and lover trusted her far more than he trusted most people, there were innumerable things he kept from her.

  "Possibly," Malcolm acknowledged. His hand was steady but his fingers were white round his own glass.

  "We could confront him. Tell him we know he's lying. But he probably still wouldn't admit anything. And—"

  "He'd be more on his guard. Quite."

  "So we're left with trying to outthink him."

  "Well, there are two of us and one of him." Malcolm swallowed the last of his whisky. "And he trained us well."

  "So, we see what we can learn. While working with him to find Gisèle." She kept her gaze on Malcolm, the words not quite a question.

  "You mean do I trust that he's trying to find Gelly?" Malcolm set his glass down. "As much as I trust anything. As we discussed at Frances's, everything seems to be intertwined."

  "He's seemed as desperate to find her as the rest of us these past weeks," Mélanie said. "And he told Victor to come to me with news."

  She swallowed the last of her own whisky. Their lives had always been impossibly complicated, but she suddenly, desperately wanted to go back to this morning, which seemed so much simpler it was almost like a fairy tale.

  Malcolm brushed the backs of his fingers against her cheek. "It could be worse, sweetheart. We're together."

  She met his gaze and went still, taking him in. In Spain they'd been apart for longer. But their marriage had been very different then, new and uncertain. And though he'd meant far more to her than she'd have admitted, he hadn't meant nearly what he now did. Nor had she to him, she was quite sure. And for all they'd been in the midst of a war, the risk of being separated by a continent hadn't overhung them. She found herself scanning his face, absurdly relieved to find a glint in his eyes and the familiar lift of his mouth.

  She slid her arms round him, not taking her eyes from his face. His own arms closed round her with unexpected force. She lifted her head and his mouth came down on her own, raw with longing and relief, as though he were learning her anew.

  "Reunions," she said, when he finally lifted his head. "The only good thing about a separation."

  "I suppose we have to take what we can get." He stroked a thumb against her cheek. "I kept telling myself you couldn't come to London. That it wasn't safe. That I should hope to God you were sensible enough to remain in Scotland or go back to Italy."

  "Malcolm, this is no time to turn Hotspur—"

  "And all the time I was hoping against hope to see you every day." His other hand came up to cup her face.

  She leaned her cheek against his hand. "You have no idea how I've missed you."

  "Not possibly more than I've missed you. I'm very fond of Andrew, but I far prefer sharing a room with you."

  She slid her arms round him and leaned into him for a moment, drinking in their closeness. He rested his chin on her hair companionably, but then she felt his sudden stillness. She lifted her head to look up at him. "What is it?"

  "It's just—I never thought we'd be back in this room."

  "I know." She kept her gaze on his face, but she was keenly aware of the soft blue-gray walls, the theatrical prints, the green and burgundy of the coverlet. The moss green of Malcolm's favorite chair.

  "I've been sleeping in the dressing room," he murmured. "Where I swore I'd never sleep. But I couldn't face our bed without you. Not after being gone for so long."

  "I understand. I slept in the nursery last night." She looked into his eyes and saw a hope she knew he wouldn't dare let himself put into words. She touched his face. "We're here now, Malcolm. Let's enjoy that."

  "We haven't got time to enjoy it, sweetheart."

  "We have ton
ight. We're not going to learn anything new before morning." She took his hand and drew him to their bed. "Might as well reclaim our bed. For as long as we have it."

  Chapter 18

  Laura closed the door of the night nursery. Strange to see the children back in their familiar beds, canework instead of the iron in Italy. And only Emily and Colin. Livia had been sharing the nursery with them for months. So much the same, yet different. She looked at Raoul. He'd gone into the nursery with her to tuck Emily and Colin in, and seemed as focused on them as ever, but now he was staring at a tapestry chair back as he laid his coat over it.

  "At least we know more than we did at the start of the day," she said. "And we know that Gisèle is unhurt, and not a victim."

  Raoul looked up and met her gaze. "No, there is that. Although—"

  "The League can control people? As I should know better than anyone?" She went round the other side of the chair and knelt on it, facing him. "But I was without friends, and Trenchard was using Emily to control me. Gisèle's son is safe, and she has family and friends she must know she can turn to. And whatever she may have done, I can't imagine she feels the weight of guilt I did."

  Raoul reached across the chair back to grip her hands. "She could be afraid for Malcolm, though I suspect you're right. That she's acting on her own. Which leaves the question of why. Though as you say, we're in a better position to answer that than we were last night." He turned her hands over in his and kissed her palms. "Have you thought about going to see your family?"

  "I did." She smiled into his eyes, keeping her voice determinedly normal. "That is, I went to see James and Hetty today. I left Emily in Hill Street with Cordy." After they'd been cut by Lady Langton, she'd realized it was imperative she speak with her late husband's brother and his wife before they heard of her presence in London—and her pregnancy—from other sources.

  Raoul's gaze darted over her face "I'm a brute not to have asked you sooner."

  "We've had rather a lot to talk about, and scarcely a moment on our own." Laura tightened her fingers round his own. "I own I was rather dreading it."

  "My darling—"

  "You couldn't possibly have made things better by being there."

  "No, I know. Quite the reverse, in fact. Which doesn't make me feel any less of a worm."

  "It wasn't nearly as bad as my imaginings. James said you were a good man."

  Raoul's gaze remained steady on her face. "Somehow I doubt that's all he said about me."

  "He's concerned. I'd hardly call James a creature of society, but I think it's hard for him to imagine someone who could be at its heart choosing to live outside it."

  "I imagine he's also concerned for Emily."

  "Yes." Laura wasn't quite prepared to tell her lover just how strongly James had expressed those concerns. Though at least he hadn't gone so far as her deepest fear and said anything about attempting to gain custody of Emily himself. "I don't think he can fathom that I'd prefer my daughter not grow up a duke's granddaughter. But he acknowledges the security Emily's found with us and the Rannochs. And he said that after what his brother put me through, I deserved every happiness I could find."

  "He's right there."

  "Leaving aside the question of what I put Jack through." James didn't know his own and Jack's father had fathered Emily—and for both James's and Emily's sakes, Laura profoundly hoped he never did.

  She didn't add that, in addition to James's concerns about her own and Emily's social ostracism, he'd expressed worries about the lack of stability in a relationship with a man who was gone for weeks, months even, at a time, risking danger and arrest. "Though I don't agree with O'Roarke's politics," he'd said, "I admire his commitment. But the man's already had to flee Britain once. He's in no position to be a husband and father, and the fact that he already has a wife is the least of it." Laura had countered that the same argument might have been made about her own father when he was an active soldier. James had gone silent at that, but the troubled look hadn't left his eyes.

  "I said we'd be going back to Italy before too long," Laura continued. "I offered to stay away while we're in London to spare them embarrassment. James told me not to be foolish."

  "One could make a fair argument that I'm not a good man, but James certainly is."

  Laura tightened her grip on his hands. "He is. And so are you, there's no sense in trying to deny it. As I was leaving, Hetty ran after me. She said James was bound to feel he had to behave as the head of the family, but that she could quite understand being happier raising one's children in quiet. That she and James were happier than she'd ever dared hope to be, but that in many ways she missed the old days when they could retreat to the country without a staff of twenty and didn't have to dine out seven nights a week. She said she'd never have chosen to be a duchess, but she happened to have fallen in love with a man who became a duke. So she could understand choosing a life that might not seem comfortable, because one had fallen in love with a different man."

  "My dear—"

  "I haven't made my life round you, sweetheart. I've told you that more times than I can count. We're making our life together. But I am grateful to Hetty for understanding. She said not to worry about James. That he could be stubborn, but with time he sees sense. Which is another way of saying Hetty helps him see sense." Laura leaned in to Raoul across the chair back. "I'll see my father and Sarah tomorrow. But I know from their letter that they're happy for us. Of all the things we have to worry about, this is the least of them. We'll be back in Italy before long, and society's opinion will seem singularly unimportant. But I'm glad James and Hetty know, and that I was able to tell them in person."

  Raoul's gray gaze darkened. She knew what he was thinking. In the eyes of the world he had rendered her, the widow of a marquis, a fallen woman, outside the bounds of society. No matter that he had spent his entire adult life fighting against society's strictures, no matter that he claimed to care little for what people thought of him, it still bothered him. They were none of them entirely free of the code they had been raised on. And little as he might care for anyone's opinion of him, he cared very much what they thought of her and their children. And she loved him for that.

  "I want to see your parents while we're here," Raoul said. "But probably best you see them alone first, for a number of reasons."

  "Are you going to see Charlotte Leblanc again tomorrow?" She realized as she said it that it might sound as though she was suspicious, but she didn't think he would take it that way. They were beyond that sort of jealousy.

  "Better at this point for Mélanie to talk to her, I think. I want to see if I can recruit some more people to keep watch."

  Laura tilted her head up to look at him. "You're setting up a network."

  "I suppose I am, in a manner of speaking. The first network I've had in London. A bit ironic."

  "But a number of your former agents are here." She scanned his face. "Are you going to look for St. Juste?"

  "I think it would be a waste of energy. Julien will appear if he wants to be found. But it's possible some of my contacts have wind of what he's doing."

  Laura slid her hands from his clasp and put them on his chest. "It's just that I can't forget the Elsinore League wanted to hire him to kill you."

  "And he refused." Raoul leaned over the chair back and kissed her. "I may not be able to claim to be a match for St. Juste, sweetheart, but I think I can say I have more experience than he does."

  Laura pressed her head against his shoulder, hiding her face. "I fully believe you're a match for him, my dear. But it doesn't stop me from worrying."

  Much later, lying in the bed that had been hers as a governess, that they were now openly sharing for the first time, his arm round her, her head in the hollow of his shoulder, she stared up at the frame of the canopy. For once, he had fallen asleep before she did. From the first night they'd spent together, the night before she'd found Emily, she'd always felt secure in his arms. It was the place she didn't have
to worry or pretend. Tonight his touch was no less tender. His arm no less sure round her. Yet she was quite certain he hadn't told her the full truth when she asked about his network and Julien St. Juste. Not that there weren't other times he'd kept things from her, but he was usually open about it. This time he'd been concealing something.

  She couldn't ask him about it. He'd never promised to tell her everything about his work, after all. And, she realized, she couldn't talk to Mélanie or Malcolm or Cordy or Harry. Not without jeopardizing Raoul's relationships with them. Which meant that she was alone. For the first time since she had found Emily and Raoul and accepted that the Rannochs were her friends and family rather than her employers.

  Once being alone had been a familiar sensation. Now it felt damnably uncomfortable.

  A faint splash and whir woke her. Mélanie rolled onto her side and watched her husband by the looking glass on the chest of drawers, whipping the shaving soap into a lather with the brush.

  He caught her eye in the mirror and then turned to look at her over his shoulder. "I didn't mean to wake you."

  "You didn't." She studied him, the lower half of his face white with shaving soap. "It's just a while since I've woken to the sound of you shaving."

  It was such a hallmark of a British gentleman. When she first met him in the Cantabrian Mountains, he'd shaved every morning, even though they were camping in the snow. But in Italy he'd rarely bothered until later in the day, and occasionally he'd omitted shaving altogether. Just as he'd often gone days together without putting on a cravat. Or a coat on hot days.

  He turned back to the glass and reached for the razor. "Yes, well. We're not in Italy anymore." He drew the razor along his jaw. "It's a while since I've unlaced your corset."

  Mélanie studied the pile of their clothes on the foot of the bed. Well, strewn over the bed and floor, actually. Her corset was dangling half off the bed with a rose-embroidered garter caught on one of the hooks. "It took a bit of getting used to," she said. "It's a good thing I have so many front-lacing ones as I've been managing without either Blanca or you. Mind you, I thought about leaving it off." Odd, when six months ago she'd been so keenly aware of missing Britain, to be missing Italy. "But though we may not precisely be going about in society, given the people we're seeing, it feels—"