The Duke's Gambit

by Tracy Grant

  "When you loved him yourself," Mélanie said. It was a bold move, but she sensed she could catch Dorinda off guard. Which could be vital in interrogating a suspect.

  Dorinda's gaze widened and locked on Mélanie's own. The gaze of a girl in her late teens, set in the controlled, plucked, delicately rouged face of a fashionable matron. "He was my friend. I was shocked to hear Lady Beverston suggest there could be more between us."

  "Yes. People are often shocked when friendship turns to love."

  Dorinda glanced away. "I never hoped—I never had a chance to hope. I'd no sooner had the idea put in my head than I realized he was head over heels in love with my cousin." Her fingers curled inwards again. "But Miranda could have had a care for my feelings as well as Roger's."

  "Perhaps she didn't realize," Cordelia said.

  "She couldn't have failed—No, that's not true. Miranda was always self-absorbed. She'd promise me something—to help me with sums, to lend me a pair of earrings—and then not do it. Eventually I realized she didn't mean to go back on her word, she just completely forgot." Dorinda pushed a strand that had somehow escaped her carefully coiffed hair back into its pins. "I knew all that summer that Miranda was going to break Roger's heart. I just didn't know how. Two weeks after he went to London to study at one of the Inns of the Court, she disappeared."

  "You didn't know where she'd gone?" Malcolm asked.

  "Is that so hard to believe? We may have been raised like sisters, but we'd never been the sort for confidences. Some sisters aren't."

  "Quite. But you're obviously a perceptive woman."

  Dorinda looked at her hands. "I suspected there was a man. Not Roger. I hadn't suspected for long, actually. But there was that remark about perhaps understanding love. For the month before she disappeared, there was an air of suppressed excitement about her. I caught her tucking a paper into her bodice once or twice. And once, I'm quite sure she slipped out of the house after everyone was abed. I heard a creak and peeped out my door to see her vanishing down the servants' stairs. When she disappeared, I suspected she'd run off with this man. Knowing Miranda, I kept expecting her to return with a wedding ring on her finger, saying what a lark it had been to go to Gretna Green, and charm everyone into offering felicitations and heaping wedding presents on her." Dorinda bit her finger. For the first time something that might have been guilt flashed in her eyes. "Even when Uncle George returned from London and told us we weren't to speak of Miranda again, I didn't know whom she might have run off with. Roger came home when he heard. He was beside himself. He searched for her, but he couldn't find her. Six months later, he asked me to marry him."

  "That must have been—" Cordelia hesitated.

  "The summit of all I wanted?" Dorinda turned her cup on its saucer. "In a way. In that I became Roger's wife. He told me he knew we'd deal well together. That I'd always been his best friend and always would be. He didn't add that I was Miranda's cousin, and by marrying me he could attempt to make it up to Miranda, even though he couldn't find her, but I knew that was part of it. Perhaps I should have taken pity on him and turned him down. But I didn't. And so I got the man I wanted, and I went from being a poor relation to being the wife of a baron's son with a comfortable fortune." She gave a tight smile, her eyes bleak. "I should be grateful. Just as I should have been grateful as a girl in the Dormer nursery. And I have far more now than I did then, in terms of creature comforts. But it's an odd thing. Having the man one wanted—or rather, being married to him—and knowing one doesn't have him at all. When we were growing up, I felt I could talk to Roger about anything. Since we've been married, it seems all we talk about is the household, or social engagements, or our little girl. At times, I'd find myself thinking Miranda had won. I know that must sound monstrous, given what's happened to her, but for the longest time I was convinced she'd somehow managed to land in an enviable situation. She always wanted to break free of Surrey. I pictured her married to a poet, or possibly some rich man's mistress. Not—" Dorinda gripped her hands together.

  "What did she say when you saw her?" Mélanie asked.

  "She denied she was Roger's mistress." Dorinda gave a hard laugh. "Just like childhood. Miranda could claim she hadn't broken Lady Dormer's Sèvres vase with shards of porcelain all over her hands and the most earnest look in her gaze. And nine times out of ten, people believed her. But not me. I reminded her of that. I accused her of having run off with Roger in the first place. Miranda simply said, did I know Roger so little I believed he would abandon a woman and child? Even in my anger, I realized she was right. Roger would never behave so dishonorably. That was when Miranda told me about John." She set down her teacup as though it burned her. "Diana had a bruise on her throat once. She'd hidden it with a fichu, but it slipped, and I saw. I asked about it, and she said she'd slipped getting out of the bath, though I couldn't quite imagine how that could leave a bruise in that place. Then, a few months later, she had a mark on her jaw she'd tried to cover up with powder. Diana and I have never been particularly close, though we've known each other since we were children. She was Elinor's friend, and not an easy person to get close to. Which I suppose I'm not either. But when I saw the second mark, I asked her straight out if John did it, and if she needed help. She just told me not to be silly. I wish now that I'd said something to Roger. Until I heard Miranda's story, I didn't have the least idea how bad it must have been. Miranda was afraid of John. And Miranda had never seemed afraid of anything."

  "You hadn't ever suspected about her and John?" Mélanie asked.

  Dorinda shook her head. "I suspected there was a man, but John, of all people—how in God's name could he have bewitched her when Roger was right there, desperately in love with her and offering her marriage—"

  "Sometimes danger and risk can be the lure," Cordelia said in a quiet voice.

  Dorinda met Cordelia's gaze, no doubt recalling that Cordelia was no stranger to risk and scandal. "Yes, but John never seemed—though I suppose he was dangerous, but I can't imagine Miranda knew he was violent when she left with him." Dorinda reached for her teacup. "I fear my sympathy turned to anger when I thought of how she'd ignored Roger for John, only to turn to Roger now. I accused her of trying to take my husband. I called her a lot of unfortunate names. Miranda just repeated that she wasn't Roger's mistress. I said, did she take me for a fool, and if she wasn't his mistress why on earth was he visiting her? Miranda said she couldn't explain now. In just that high-handed way she'd talked since we were in the nursery. She said that if I really appreciated Roger, I'd try to focus on salvaging my marriage. I said she was a fine one to talk about appreciating Roger—or anyone else, for that matter. I stormed out. So you could say I had an excellent motive to kill her."

  Dorinda drew a harsh breath and put a fist to her mouth. "I can't believe she's gone."

  Chapter 24

  Malcolm and Harry found Hugh Derenvil in Hyde Park, on the banks of the Serpentine, beneath a tangle of leafless branches, hands jammed in the pockets of his greatcoat, gaze on the gray water as it swirled in the wind. He was a tall man with regular features and fair hair. His face was usually set in serious lines, but not in the sort of frowning concentration that now suffused it.

  He looked up at their approach. Recognition and surprise jumped in his blue eyes, but not fear. "Rannoch. Davenport. I didn't realize you were back in London."

  "We just arrived," Malcolm said. "A rather unexpected visit."

  Derenvil nodded. "I hope this means you'll be back in the House. I may not agree with your speeches, but I've missed them. They're certainly livelier and more thought-provoking than many."

  "I could say the same for yours."

  Derenvil met Malcolm's gaze for a moment and nodded. "Sorry, I'm a bit distracted."

  Malcolm considered the other man. This was hardly the first time he'd interrogated someone he knew and liked in the course of an investigation. "It's always a shock, losing someone one's been close to."

  Derenvil's gaze jerked
to his face.

  "We know about your relationship with Miranda Spencer," Malcolm said. "We've just spoken with Lord Beverston."

  Derenvil's gaze stayed fastened on Malcolm's face as the implications sank in. "This is one of your investigations."

  "It appears to be."

  "But I thought Carfax—"

  "Not necessarily."

  He expected fear to leap in Derenvil's eyes at being a suspect, but instead his face twisted. "So, whoever killed her may still—dear God." He pulled his beaver hat from his head, pushed his dark blond hair back from his forehead, replaced his hat. "I'm not the sort—" He glanced away. "I don't spend time, as a rule, in places like the Barque of Frailty. I expect a lot of men say that, but—"

  "Actually," Harry said, "some men would boast about it. Not to their credit."

  A muscle flexed beside Derenvil's jaw. "I was out one evening with Hewitt and Cooperthwaite. We were going to go to White's, but Hewitt wanted to avoid his father, so we ended up in a coffeehouse and shared a bottle of claret. Well, several, actually. Then Hewitt said something about convivial company, and the next thing I knew we were in Mrs. Hartley's sitting room, and Miranda walked over to me while I was still taking in the sort of establishment we were actually in." He looked from Malcolm to Harry. "I don't suppose that sounds very believable."

  "Actually," Harry said, "it sounds like a story no one would make up."

  Derenvil gave a twisted smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I didn't—I knew what I was doing. And I wanted to do it. Wanted Miranda. But from the first, from that first moment she came up to me in the salon, before anything else—transpired—between us, she was someone I could talk to." He drew a breath. "I find that surprisingly rare."

  "You aren't the only one," Malcolm said.

  Derenvil met his gaze for a moment. "I saw you saying goodbye to Mrs. Rannoch at the Duchess of Richmond's ball. I didn't have anyone to say goodbye to. Not then. I was chiefly conscious of relief that the battle we'd been waiting for was finally here. Not that I had any illusions it would be easy. But after the Peninsula, I thought I knew what to expect."

  "I think a lot of us felt that way," Harry said in a quiet voice.

  Derenvil met his gaze, and for a moment what passed between them was something Malcolm knew even he couldn't fully understand, for all he'd been on the field at Waterloo. "And of course, in the end it was like nothing I'd ever experienced," Derenvil said. "I was in Edward Somerset's brigade."

  Malcolm remembered carrying a message from Wellington to Somerset late in the battle, and finding Somerset beside the road with only two squadrons. When Malcolm asked where his brigade was, Somerset had said simply, "Here."

  "The cavalry charge," Derenvil said. "I'd never been in anything like it. The excitement. Everyone was drunk on it. We took an eagle. But then we were surrounded. I'd never experienced sheer chaos until then. I remember running my sword through the throat of a young Frenchman who couldn't have been more than sixteen. Seeing two lads I'd gone to Harrow with fall to bayonet thrusts. I still can't remember the last part. How I was wounded myself. I spent the rest of the battle with my face in the mud, unconscious most of the time, two dead comrades and a dead horse on top of me. That's the only way I survived."

  Harry put out a hand, a rare gesture for him.

  "I don't mean to exaggerate my own situation," Derenvil said. "You were wounded yourself. Many of my comrades who survived lost limbs. I was comparatively fortunate. Once my wounds had healed, one could scarcely tell I'd been in battle at all."

  "Hard, that," Harry said. "Sometimes it makes others forget."

  Derenvil nodded. "It was easier in Paris, somehow. Surrounded by others who'd been through the same thing. I could never forget, but it was easier to live with the memories. Then I sold out and came home. I thought the distance would be good. I took rooms in London, stood for Parliament, visited my parents in the country. Went to my sister's come-out. Danced with her friends. People didn't talk about Waterloo so much. Or if they did, it was as a grand and glorious memory. Some people seemed to forget I'd ever even been in the army. It seemed to me that should make it easier. And during the day I could focus on my work. But alone at night I'd find myself dwelling on the memories. Hard to sleep when one fears what one will see in dreams."

  "Odd," Harry said, "when one's survived battle, to fear sleep. But I know precisely what you mean."

  Derenvil met his gaze again in understanding. "Brandy helps at times. So does staying busy. I talked a bit to other chaps who'd been at Waterloo, but we began to scatter. After a time, it starts to seem silly for the ex-military men to spend entertainments talking together in the library. I tried to get on with my life." He looked from Harry to Malcolm. "I'm betrothed. I don't know that you know that. It's since you left Britain."

  "Yes. I didn't know. But Davenport did." Malcolm paused. Under the circumstances, it hardly made sense to offer his felicitations.

  "Caroline is—I'm beyond fortunate to have won her. In fact, when she first agreed to my suit, I went about in a daze for several hours, sure I'd imagined it. She's beautiful. She's accomplished. She's kind. I could see a life with her from almost the moment we met. The sort of life I'd been fighting for, really." He looked from Malcolm to Harry. "Caroline also has thirty thousand pounds in the funds and her father is influential in Tory politics. I'm well aware of what people are saying about that. I imagine you won't believe me if I say I love her."

  "I don't know about that," Harry said. "Love can come in many forms. What some call love others might not recognize as it."

  "I thought marriage would change things," Derenvil said. "Be a way to move forwards. How could the past haunt me when I was building a new life with Caro? I'm always happy when I'm with her. But it's like sitting in my grandmother's drawing room enjoying tea and jam tarts and being terrified the whole time I'd break a cup or drop crumbs on the floor. I can't believe my happiness is real."

  "I know a bit about that," Harry said. "Quite a lot, actually. Though it was before I was a soldier."

  Derenvil regarded him for a moment. He must know about Harry and Cordelia's past. "I've always been sure of myself when it comes to speaking. At Harrow. At Cambridge. In the House. With Caro, I'm never sure what to say. I feel as though I'm walking on eggshells. I haven't the least idea why she chose me."

  "Perhaps because she's fond of you," Malcolm said. Sympathy could be a good way to draw a suspect out, but in truth he felt more sympathy for Derenvil than he'd have anticipated when he and Harry set out to find the other man.

  "She can obviously tolerate me or she wouldn't have accepted me. At one point, I think, I hoped we could share more."

  "Have you thought about talking to her about your time at Waterloo?" Harry asked.

  Derenvil stared at him as though he'd suggested he take Lady Caroline into White's, or to look at horses at Tattersalls, or something else equally unthinkable for a wellborn lady. "Good God, Davenport, I couldn't. Caro's had the most sheltered upbringing. She could scarcely imagine even a fistfight, let alone—" He shook his head. "I thought I'd be able to move beyond that past. Sometimes I'd feel it wash over me and come back to the present to find Caroline pouring me a cup of tea, or offering me a plate of cakes, or asking if I wanted to see the new comedy at Drury Lane. It all seemed so completely pointless—" He shook his head.

  "My wife nursed soldiers at Waterloo," Harry said. "So did Mélanie Rannoch. They saw their own horrors. It made it easier, I think, afterwards, for all of us to move forwards together."

  Malcolm cast a quick glance at Harry. They'd never discussed their wives' response to Waterloo. They'd never really discussed their own, save in the most oblique terms.

  Derenvil nodded. "I don't think Caroline's ever been close to anything so horrible. I did hope that one day she would take an interest in my work. Would take an interest in things beyond my work. But she's never given any indication that she feels anything—anything stronger. Certainly not that she'd welc
ome—"

  "Amorous advances?" Harry said.

  Derenvil colored. "One doesn't—I would never—"

  "You save that for girls like Miranda Spencer?"

  "Damn it, Davenport, it's not the same."

  "No." Harry's gaze had the hardness of a glass that reflects back uncompromising truth. "Lady Caroline has agreed to be your wife and your partner in life. Mrs. Spencer was paid to accept your attentions because she had no other options in life."

  "I'm human. I don't deny the appeal of all Miranda could offer."

  "It can be an escape," Malcolm said. "When demons keep one from sleeping." An escape he'd sought with his own wife, though he'd always balked at the idea that he was using her in that way.

  He expected Derenvil to shy away, but the other man nodded. "In truth, I slept better in Miranda's bed than I had in months. Years. But not just because of—of our intimacy. I could talk to her. She never offered any judgment. She seemed genuinely interested. Talking to her—meant a great deal to me. She'd even ask me questions. I found myself telling her about the bills I'm trying to steer through Parliament. I even read her some of my speeches and she made suggestions."