The Duke's Gambit

by Tracy Grant

  Beverston inclined his head. "I'll own that had occurred to me."

  "Had you tried to blackmail Derenvil?" Malcolm demanded.

  Beverston took another turn about the room. "I had frank conversation with him a week ago."

  "Before Miss Dormer was killed."

  "Yes, damn it. But if you think—"

  "Miss Dormer could have damaged his marital and career prospects."

  "I knew of their involvement. Any number of people could have placed Derenvil at the Barque of Frailty. Miranda's death doesn't protect Derenvil from truths coming out that could damage him in the eyes of his betrothed. Or her father."

  That, Malcolm acknowledged, was a fair point. But—"If Derenvil knew you put Miss Dormer up to spying on him, he might have been quite angry."

  Something sparked in Beverston's eyes that might have been fear. "Few men aren't angry in such circumstances. He told me to go to the devil. But I imagine he'll come round eventually. And I didn't tell him Miranda had been working for me."

  "But he might have worked it out. It isn't easy to be betrayed by someone one was intimate with."

  "As you should know."

  Malcolm didn't flinch from Beverston's gaze. "My point precisely."

  Beverston's face relaxed with sympathy, yet Malcolm was sure Beverston knew exactly to what use he was putting that sympathy. "You have to be one of the most tried men in history in that regard, Rannoch. And yet I doubt you came anywhere near close to killing your wife."

  "But I'm not Derenvil."

  A shadow of doubt flickered across Beverston's face.

  "We'll talk to him," Malcolm said. "Is there anything else we should know?"

  "No," Beverston said.

  Which was almost certainly a lie.

  Faith Harker regarded Malcolm and Harry across the small bedchamber across the passage from the sitting room. "You'll do everything you can to learn who killed Miranda?"

  She sat on the edge of the bed, Danny napping in her lap. Lumley hovered protectively nearby.

  Malcolm nodded. "I can make no promises, but we've had success in the past, and we have some leads to follow. Meanwhile, should you and Danny have need of anything, don't hesitate to send word to me." He held out one of his cards. Odd that the Berkeley Square house was once again, for the present, the place to find him.

  Faith Harker took it and nodded, but said, "Lord Beverston left me a generous sum and says he will send more. I don't pretend to agree with everything he's done, but he cares for Danny. And I think he cared for Miranda, in his way."

  "And you know you may rely upon me." Lumley reached for Miss Harker's hand and lifted it to his lips.

  Miss Harker gave him a quick smile that suggested this was the first time he had made such a gesture, and also that it was not unwelcome. "Thank you, Gerald."

  "Do you know of anyone who would have had reason to harm Miss Dormer?" Malcolm asked.

  Miss Harker frowned, as though she'd been puzzling over this herself. "She didn't talk about her life much when she was with us. Mostly she played with Danny. Her greatest fear was Mr. Smythe finding her. It was a great relief to her when we learned he was dead." Her gaze flickered from Malcolm to Harry. "I know that sounds dreadful—"

  "It's understandable," Malcolm said.

  "More than understandable," Harry muttered.

  Miss Harker nodded. "It was a relief for me, too." She smoothed Danny's hair. "Then, a month ago, Mrs. Smythe came to see us."

  "Mrs. Smythe?" Malcolm said. "Not Diana?" Diana Smythe had been in Italy with her father and the Contessa Vincenzo when the Rannochs had left, little more than a month since.

  "No, Mrs. Roger Smythe. Roger is John's younger brother," Faith added. "He married Dorinda. Miranda's cousin."

  "And Miss Dormer was in touch with her?" Malcolm asked.

  Miss Harker shook her head. "No one from Miranda's family had contacted her once she ran away. Not that I know, at least. Miranda was as shocked as I was when Dorinda—Mrs. Smythe—called here."

  "Do you know how Mrs. Smythe found Miss Dormer?" Harry asked. "Or why she came to see her?"

  "No." Miss Harker frowned down at Danny's fair hair between her fingers. "I took Danny in here, and they spoke in the sitting room. The sound of the voices carried at times. Not the words, but the tone." She hesitated. "It wasn’t the tone of reconciliation."

  "Did Miss Dormer say anything to you about the visit after Mrs. Smythe left?" Malcolm asked.

  Miss Harker met his gaze, fingers trembling slightly on Danny’s hair. She’d likely known Dorinda Smythe most of her life. "Miranda said if Dorinda ever called again, I was to forbid her the house."

  Chapter 23

  "I know Dorinda Smythe a bit," Cordelia said. "My stepfather has a distant connection to the Smythe family. It should be enough for us to call on her."

  They were gathered in the Berkeley Square library, Mélanie and Malcolm, Cordelia and Harry, Raoul and Laura, sharing information and a cold collation Valentin had assembled. Andrew had gone to talk to Gisèle's friends who were in London, to see if any had seen or heard from her. The children were spending the day at Frances's.

  "I don't think I ever met Miranda Dormer," Cordelia added. "But it's difficult to credit—"

  "Anyone being so barbarous to his daughter, among other things." Harry's voice was as grim as Mélanie had ever heard it.

  "It's not easy," Laura said. "Being a woman without resources." Laura had once been a woman without resources. She hadn't landed in a brothel, but she had fallen into the control of the Elsinore League.

  Raoul put his arm round her. "It does shake even my supposed lack of illusions about human nature." He was frowning. Mélanie found herself wondering, as she had so often lately, what he was thinking.

  "I should have realized John Smythe likely had other victims," Malcolm said.

  "We were in Italy, darling." Mélanie reached for her husband's hand. "You wouldn't have known where to look for them."

  Malcolm slid his fingers through her own, but his face remained grim. "Roger Smythe was elected as a Whig in the General Election. Rupert wrote to me about it. But I've never met him personally."

  "Cordy and I'll talk to Dorinda Smythe," Mélanie said.

  Malcolm nodded. "Harry and I should seek out Hugh Derenvil. And Matthew Trenor."

  "And I’ll see if I can find a trail for Thomas Ambrose," Raoul said.

  "Do you know him?" Mélanie asked. She'd shared her interview with Manon, but with the news about Miranda Dormer, there'd scarcely been time to discuss it.

  "A bit. I engaged his services once or twice, over a decade ago. A competent agent, though the sort with whom one always watches one's back. There can be advantages to agents who work for hire rather than belief, but with Ambrose I was always very much aware he might in fact be serving another master."

  "More so than with Julien?" Mélanie asked.

  "Oddly enough, yes."

  "Anyone could have hired him to break into Dunmykel and search for the information about the Wanderer," Malcolm said. "But presumably not the League, since they sent Tommy, who already knew his way about the house. And presumably not Carfax, who sent Oliver. He might have hired a professional as well, but Carfax knows the house enough I wouldn't think his agent would have had to ask the locals for information, either."

  "So we're back to a third person or group who are after the Wanderer," Harry said. "Though no closer to knowing what or who the Wanderer is."

  "Whoever or whatever it is," Mélanie said, "the search seems to have brought both Ambrose and Tommy to London."

  "Do you think Ambrose is the one who attacked Tommy outside Dunmykel?" Cordelia asked. "Could he be behind the attack on Malcolm and Andrew? And the one on Malcolm and Harry?"

  "I'd say it's likely he attacked Tommy," Malcolm said. "Or set up the attack. As to the other attacks—it could be Ambrose. Or it could be Tommy and the League trying to slow us down."

  With or without Gisèle's knowledge. Malco
lm didn't add that, but the shadows in his eyes said that he was full well aware of it.

  "Tommy knew John Smythe growing up," Mélanie said. "He must have known Roger and Dorinda Smythe as well. And he'd likely have met Miranda Dormer."

  "Yes," Malcolm said, his gaze hardening. "So he would."

  Dorinda and Roger Smythe lived in a smart house on Upper Grosvenor Street. Everything from the glossy red paint on the door to the red and cream striped window curtains bespoke new and stylish. Mélanie and Cordelia had spent the brief walk from Berkeley Square strategizing what to do if Dorinda declined to receive them, but the footman who answered the door glanced at their cards and then conducted them up a mahogany-railed staircase to a sitting room filled with satinwood furniture upholstered in red and cream stripes to match the window curtains.

  Dorinda Smythe rose at their entrance. Mélanie's first impression was of dark hair cut in a fashionable crop, perfectly groomed brows, and direct dark eyes. Her gown of dove gray cashmere trimmed with black braid and fastened down one side with gold clasps was almost an exact copy of a fashion plate Mélanie had seen in a copy of La Belle Assemblée Gisèle had at Dunmykel.

  "Lady Cordelia," Dorinda said, when the footman had withdrawn to procure tea. "It's some time since we've met."

  "I don't believe you've met Mrs. Rannoch." Cordelia performed introductions quite as though it were an ordinary social occasion.

  "It's kind of you to receive us, Mrs. Smythe," Mélanie said, shaking hands.

  "I almost didn't. But I decided on the whole it would be best to confront the inevitable questions." Dorinda Smythe gestured to the sofa and matching chairs grouped before the fireplace. "I trust we can dispense with any pretense that this is an ordinary social call. You're investigating Miranda Spencer's murder. If you're here, you must have learned that Miranda was in fact my cousin Miranda Dormer, and that I called on her and quarreled with her."

  In all Mélanie's experience of interviews in the course of murder investigations, this was unusually direct.

  Dorinda paused in the midst of settling her perfectly gathered skirts and raised a brow, as though to acknowledge as much. "No sense in not admitting what we all know. I don't suppose any of us wishes to prolong this interview. I've heard of the murder investigations you and your husband undertake. All Mayfair have. I know Lady Cordelia and Colonel Davenport work with you. I have no desire to confront questions in public or to remain a prisoner in my home. And whatever our quarrels, I truly would like to know what happened to Miranda."

  "Faith Harker said you hadn't been in touch with your cousin since she disappeared," Mélanie said.

  "That's true. Until a little over a month ago, I didn't have the least idea what had become of her." Despite her assertion that she wanted to learn what had become of her cousin, her voice was as cool and brittle as the crystal girandoles that glittered on the wall sconces.

  "And so, understandably, you went to see her. Why did you quarrel?" Mélanie plunged to the heart of the question, hoping to break Dorinda's shell of control.

  Dorinda put up a manicured hand to tuck a perfect ringlet behind her ear. "Because I'd learned she was my husband's mistress."

  "Your—Roger?" Cordelia had been leaving the interrogation to Mélanie but she was startled into speaking.

  "I've only had one husband. You're understandably surprised, because she had run off with my husband's brother? Yes, that surprised me too. More than her being Roger's mistress, truth to tell. Not that it was a pleasant revelation. Oh, here's Edward with the tea."

  Conversation ceased as the footman set a silver tray on the sofa table. Dorinda Smythe poured tea into translucent silver-rimmed cups. She was going against her own words and acting as though it were a social call, but perhaps she had recognized the advantage of a distraction.

  "It was early in December," she said, when the footman had withdrawn, settling back on the sofa with a teacup carefully balanced in her steady hands. "I'd come up to London with Roger to do some last-minute shopping for Christmas while he attended to legal business. I encountered Maria Worcester in Fortnum's and she informed me—in that odious way one's supposed friends can talk about one's husband—that she'd heard Roger was seen outside a house in Mayfair with a quite lovely fair-haired woman." Dorinda took a sip of tea. Her hands were still steady but her knuckles were white round the delicate handle of the cup. "I should probably have left it there. A wise wife would have. But I wanted to know. So I made some inquiries. I learned what sort of a house it was. I couldn't go there myself, obviously. So I engaged a Bow Street runner to investigate for me in his spare time." She met Mélanie's gaze. "Not the runner you work with, I think. But it did occur to me that word of the investigation was likely to get back to your friend now, and then to you. Yet another reason it seemed best for me to speak with you. In any event, this runner—Jenkins is his name—learned the young woman in question was named Miranda Spencer. From his description, I began to have suspicions. Jenkins told me Miranda visited rooms in Fenchurch Street regularly. So I had him send word to me the next time she did so. For all my suspicions, until I actually called at those rooms, a part of me couldn't believe it really was Miranda."

  "It must have been a shock," Mélanie said.

  Dorinda leaned forwards to refill the teacups, back straight, mouth taut. "From what Jenkins said, Miranda obviously charmed the people at the Barque of Frailty. Miranda charmed people her whole life. It's my first memory of her. Miranda with jam and biscuit crumbs on her face charming everyone at a garden fête while I got scolded for having a stain on my frock." She set the teapot down precisely on its lace cloth. "My mother is Sir George Dormer's younger sister. My father was a soldier. He was gone most of the time. I was the third of eight children. Sir George and Lady Dormer took me in when I was eight. It was kind of them." She picked up a wedge of lemon and squeezed it into her tea. "That was what I was told growing up, again and again."

  "It's not easy to be a charity case," Mélanie said. She knew such arrangements were not uncommon, wealthier relatives taking in a niece or nephew whose parents were still living, but she couldn't but think of it as barbaric.

  Dorinda met her gaze. "No. The idea was that Miranda and I would play together. Which we did. But I don't think Miranda wanted another sister. One can't blame her. A lot of children don't want siblings, and I wasn't even her real sibling. She and her sister Elinor weren't that close as it was, but Elinor was three years older. Miranda and I shared a nursery, but the toys were hers. I grew up wearing her cast-off frocks." She smoothed the skirt of her gown. "I was always trying to behave myself, so I wouldn't get in trouble and be sent home, and Miranda was always up to something. "

  "She was restless in her life," Cordelia said.

  Dorinda raised a brow. "Some of us never had the luxury of being restless. I'd have gone mad, I think, if it hadn't been for Roger."

  "Your husband," Mélanie said. John Smythe's brother. Miranda Dormer's lover, according to Dorinda.

  "He wasn't my husband then." Dorinda's hands curled round her cup. "He was Lord Beverston's second son. One of the crowd of children who played with the Dormer children. We both liked books better than games, so we'd sit and talk while the others were playing."

  "You must have been lonely when he was away at school," Cordelia said.

  "Dreadfully. I lived for the holidays when he'd come back. I never thought much of the future, never expected anything, until—" Dorinda's fingers locked together in her lap. "I overheard Lady Beverston telling my aunt that it might be advisable to make sure I didn't have any unrealistic expectations when it came to Roger." Her mouth tightened. "It actually took me a moment to understand what those expectations might be. Until then I'd thought of him as my friend. My one friend. A friend is a rare and precious thing, so I won't say 'nothing more', but I hadn't considered—"

  Yet once she had realized people were thinking of her and Roger as a couple, even in a negative sense, she had realized her own attraction to him
. She didn't say so, but her face betrayed as much. Her careful poise cracked to reveal both the wonder and the embarrassment of her girlhood discovery.

  "I couldn't think how I was to face Roger when he returned from Oxford for the Christmas holidays. I both wanted to see him and was terrified to do so. But as it turns out, I needn't have worried. He walked into the Dormers' drawing room for their Christmas party and saw Miranda standing beneath a pine garland and had eyes for no one else. I saw the whole thing happen."

  The man she had just realized she loved, realizing he loved the cousin she was constantly being measured against. No wonder Dorinda Smythe was bitter.

  "He couldn't take his eyes off her all night," Dorinda said. "He and I scarcely spoke, but if I'd had any doubts, when we met the next day he confessed the whole to me. How he felt he'd never seen Miranda before. How he could scarcely imagine how he could fall in love so quickly. I listened, of course."

  "That must have been painful," Mélanie said.

  She shrugged, shoulders hunched. "It's what a friend does. And we were friends, after all. Before anything else. We weren't anything else at all. Save in other people's imaginations." Dorinda picked up the spoon and stirred her tea, though she had added no more lemon. "He asked me how Miranda felt. And I couldn't honestly tell. She flirted with him. But Miranda flirted with a lot of gentlemen. She liked the attention. She seemed happy with Roger, but not more so than with other gentlemen. I asked her about it once, and she said she had no thought of marriage. She was determined to enjoy herself first. I said if she didn't have a partiality for Roger, she should indicate as much. That he loved her desperately and it wasn't fair to keep him hanging. She just laughed and said at Roger's age he couldn't know the meaning of love." The fabric of Dorinda's sleeve pulled taut as her fingers curled inwards. "I asked her if she did."

  "What did she say?" Mélanie asked.

  "That she thought perhaps she might. But it was too early to be sure. She wouldn't say if it was Roger. But I don't think it was." Dorinda spread her fingers in her lap, as though willing them to unclench. "We went on like that all winter. Roger writing letters from Oxford, asking after Miranda. Through the Easter holidays. Watching Roger watch Miranda. Watching her dance with him. Letting him bring her a glass of champagne or fetch her fan or her shawl. Giving him just enough encouragement to keep him glued to the flounce of her gown. Not that I'm sure he'd have unglued himself even if she'd stopped talking to him. But if she knew she didn't want him herself she could at least have tried, instead of crooking her little finger whenever it amused her. It was worse that summer. Roger home. The rounds of parties. Country society—the only society I really knew at that point—where one sees the same people five nights a week at various engagements. Roger and I still went for walks or sat sketching, but he talked about Miranda the whole time."