The Duke's Gambit

by Tracy Grant

  "I do the same thing with my wife," Malcolm said.

  Derenvil stared at him. "Your wife is a remarkable woman. Rannoch. But it's hardly the same—"

  "Isn't it? It's talking through ideas, getting advice, planning strategy. Sharing one of the most important parts of one's life. Difficult for a woman to be a politician's wife without sharing that. Lady Caroline is the daughter of a politician. I don't know her well, but I would think it's in her blood."

  "Caroline's father isn't the sort to share such things with his daughter. Caro has been very sheltered. It's not the upbringing I'd want—"

  "For your own daughters?" Harry asked.

  Surprise shot through the fog of self-disgust and regret in Derenvil's gaze. "No," he said. "It's not what I'd hope for my daughters. Should I be fortunate enough to have them."

  "Did you talk to Mrs. Spencer about more than politics?" Harry asked.

  "You mean did I talk to her about the war? About Waterloo?" Derenvil squeezed his eyes shut. "I'd never have thought to. But I woke one night in her bed, sweat-drenched, screaming like a frightened child—If I'd had my wits about me I'd have taken myself off at once. But before I'd even recalled where I was, she was putting a cold cloth on my head and asking me if I'd been in the war." He hesitated a moment, gaze lost in the past. "I said things to her I've never said to another living person."

  "It must have been a great relief," Malcolm said.

  "So often since, I've asked myself why. Why I could talk to her, when she hadn't been anywhere near Waterloo. Why she could seem to understand so instinctively."

  "Did Mrs. Spencer talk to you about her past?" Malcolm asked.

  Derenvil shook his head. "Very little. Save to indicate she preferred not to dwell on it. It did occur to me that she'd obviously been educated."

  "She had an upbringing very much like that of your fiancée," Malcolm said.

  Derenvil's eyes widened. "They're not—"

  "Their lives have gone in different directions," Harry said. "They began in much the same way. Though arguably, by the time you met her, Mrs. Spencer was less sheltered."

  Derenvil frowned. "Once she said she'd come to realize that one had to accept the past. Not to be happy with it, but to understand that it didn't define the future. That one had to move on. I did wonder—what had brought her to the Barque of Frailty. But I didn't like to ask. I confess I talked about myself more than I asked questions of her." He looked at Malcolm for a moment. "Do you know—had she—"

  "She ran from her family with a man who expressed himself through violence," Malcolm said. "She may not have been through battle, but she must have had more than her share of demons to face at night."

  Derenvil's face twisted. "I wish—but when I learned truths about her, they were of a very different sort."

  "It must have been a great shock," Malcolm said. "To realize she had been set to gather information on you."

  Derenvil's gaze jerked to Malcolm's. For a moment, his gaze blazed with stark anger, an anger that took Malcolm back to the moment he had punched a street lamp, to the rage that had clouded his vision when he confronted Mélanie in a dusty theatre.

  "I couldn't believe it." Derenvil's voice was low and harsh, the words seemingly torn from his throat. "I heard what Beverston was saying. I could guess where he'd got the information, but I simply couldn't credit that Miranda would have done that. Listened to my thoughts, held me through my nightmares, encouraged me to say more, and all the while—"

  "It's painful," Malcolm said. "Particularly when one has a hard time making confidences in any case." He could feel Harry's gaze on him, but he didn't risk a glance at his friend.

  "I'd never—" Derenvil glanced away, gaze on the roiling water. "I said things to Miranda I'd never said to anyone else. I know I was betraying Caroline, but it never felt cheap and sordid. I never doubted what was between us was real."

  "It was real," Harry said. "Even if it didn't mean what you thought it did. And you don't know that Mrs. Spencer's feelings were all feigned."

  Derenvil stared at him. "She was being paid by Beverston—"

  "You were paying her to begin with," Harry said.

  Derenvil's hands curled into fists. "I never thought to find myself the subject of blackmail. I told Beverston he could tell whom he liked whatever he liked about my past. I knew it probably meant I'd lose Caroline. Probably does mean I'll lose her. Though to own the truth, the thought of her not being upset enough to call off our betrothal was almost worse. I knew her father could end my prospects for advancement in the party. But chiefly I was aware that I'd been a fool. And that if I let Beverston make me destroy my integrity I'd never forgive myself. I could scarcely see when I walked away, I was so angry."

  "Did you see Mrs. Spencer again?" Malcolm asked.

  Derenvil's gaze shot to his face. "Didn't you know? I thought that was why you came to find me. I confronted Miranda the night she died."

  "You were at the Barque of Frailty?" Malcolm could scarcely keep the surprise from his voice.

  "Yes. The footmen let me in, and I went right upstairs. I found her alone in her bedchamber."

  "What time was it?" Malcolm asked.

  "Past midnight. Just. I heard the clock striking twelve-fifteen as I climbed the stairs."

  "Did you see Carfax?" Harry asked.

  Derenvil shook his head. "Only Miranda. I realized I might find her with a man, and to own the truth, I was so angry I didn't care, but she was quite alone. She was standing by a shelf of books holding a paper, with an odd expression on her face. Surprise, and maybe hurt as well. But as soon as she looked up and met my gaze, I think she knew I'd learned the truth. I—wasn't kind."

  "Did you—" Malcolm hesitated.

  "What? Strike her? No, of course not. But I called her names I thought would never cross my lips when it came to a woman. She just stood there and took everything I said. I'd never seen her face so drained of color. Finally, when I stopped my rant, she just said she could make no excuse for herself, but that she owed Lord Beverston more than I could possibly understand. I said, 'Including being completely faithless?' And she said she'd lost the luxury of being able to think about being a good person a long time ago. I said, ‘Was that really a luxury?’ And she said, with the life I lived, could I really know? I just stared at her. I felt as though I was looking at a stranger."

  For days after he'd learned the truth about Mélanie, Malcolm would glance at his wife's familiar features and find himself thinking the same thing. "And then?" he asked.

  "I turned on my heel and stormed from her room and down the backstairs. That was the last moment I saw her." He drew a sharp breath.

  "You didn't see Carfax?" Harry asked.

  Derenvil shook his head. "I didn't see anyone."

  Which meant Carfax had left Miranda's room and returned—either to kill her or to find her dead.

  "This paper she was holding when you came in," Malcolm said. "Do you have any idea what it was?"

  "No. It seemed to be a sheet of notepaper. I didn't give much mind to it, but when we were quarreling—when I was calling her names—Miranda looked down at it and said people could disappoint you. That someone had just disappointed her." Beverston frowned, as though picturing the scene. "There was an open book next to her. I had the sense she'd taken the note from the book. Perhaps a letter from someone from her past that she'd kept hidden there? She was still holding it when I left."

  "Can anyone vouch for your timing?" Malcolm asked.

  "The footman on duty, if he remembers letting me in. No one saw me leave."

  "Where did you go after you left?"

  "I walked the streets for hours. Miranda's words kept repeating in my head. In particular, what her life had been as opposed to mine. I can't say I forgave her, but my perspective shifted. I wanted to—talk to her again. And now, of course, I'll never be able to do so."

  Loss shone from his eyes. Malcolm had no doubt that sense of loss was real. But Derenvil wouldn't be the
first killer to feel a sense of loss at the realization that he'd never see his victim again.

  Derenvil met Malcolm's gaze. "You're thinking I don't have an alibi, aren't you? That there's nothing to prove I didn't kill Miranda when I confronted her. And it's true there's no proof. A week ago, I think I'd have asked how you could think such a thing of me. But learning the truth about Miranda destroyed my faith in everything."

  Chapter 25

  Harry and Malcolm walked from Hyde Park to Brooks's, where, thanks to a communication from Rupert, they suspected they could find Matthew Trenor. They covered most of the ground in silence, gazes on the hard path through the park or the paving stones along the street. But as they turned into St. James's Street, Harry said, still with his gaze fixed ahead, "No sense pretending we'll ever forget. And I'll own to the occasional nightmare. More than occasional, at first. But recovering from my wounds to find Cordy at my bedside, reconciling with her right after the battle—that changed things. God knows what a wreck I'd be otherwise."

  Malcolm nodded. "Mel has nightmares. She has as long as I've known her." She'd had the first one in the Cantabrian Mountains when they'd just met. He still remembered how stiff and awkward he'd felt holding her. "From losing her family, I thought. Which was true, though not in quite the way I thought it was. She doesn't have them as often now. But they haven't gone away."

  "I don't suspect they will," Harry said. "Just get easier to put up with."

  Malcolm turned, met his friend's gaze, and nodded.

  The yellow brick and Portland stone of Brooks's were suddenly before them. Once Malcolm had avoided it as a bastion of the establishment, even if it was a Whig bastion. But since he'd gone into Parliament, it had become a place he met to strategize with colleagues, to commiserate, or even occasionally celebrate. And if he preferred such meetings in Berkeley Square, where Mel could be present, he could not deny the bittersweet bite of the memories as he stepped beneath the fanlight.

  "Rannoch. You back?" Henry Brougham's voice stopped them at the base of the stairs.

  "Temporarily," Malcolm said.

  "Pity. We need all the sanity we can get." Brougham paused to clap a hand on Malcolm's shoulder.

  "A number of people, including several I used to work for, have been known to call my speeches mad."

  "Precisely why we need you, old fellow." Brougham nodded to Harry. "Are you looking for someone?"

  "Matthew Trenor."

  Brougham's eyes narrowed. "Oh, Christ. You're here about the Carfax business."

  "Do you have reason to think Trenor was connected to it?" Harry asked.

  "Only that I heard rumors he was there that night. Thank God I wasn't. Never been there at all, as it happens. Think I saw him about somewhere. Try the small drawing room."

  They did indeed find Matthew Trenor in the small drawing room, and alone, as luck would have it, a glass of claret at his elbow, the Morning Chronicle spread before him. He looked up at their entrance, his gaze narrowing with understanding but not alarm. "I was wondering when you'd seek me out."

  "How did you know?"

  "You're very thorough, Rannoch. I assume eventually you and Davenport will talk with everyone connected to events at the Barque of Frailty. Or your wives will, though this may be a particularly difficult investigation for them to undertake. Besides, my brother mentioned he'd seen you, though he was a bit vague about the circumstances."

  Malcolm sent silent thanks to Alexander Trenor. Matthew Trenor was not very like his brother. Fair-haired where Sandy was dark, solidly built where Sandy was lanky, assured where Sandy had a boy's puppyish awkwardness. Matthew Trenor and Malcolm had overlapped briefly as attachés in Paris. Trenor had always struck Malcolm as diligent and engaged with the work he was doing. Which was more than could be said for a number of diplomats.

  Malcolm dropped into a chair opposite Trenor. The sort of leather-covered, deeply cushioned chair designed to invite sporting talk over a glass of port rather than an interrogation about a murder. "You knew Miranda Spencer," Malcolm said.

  "I knew her." Matthew Trenor's hand tightened round his glass. "I liked her." He picked up the glass, as though determined to keep his hand steady, and took a sip. "It's difficult to tell for a certainty with a woman in her profession, but I think she liked me too."

  Harry moved to a chair beside Malcolm. "According to one of her friends at the Barque of Frailty, she had marks on her wrists after having spent time with you."

  Trenor's gaze moved from Malcolm to Harry. His mouth was still a tight line, but it held faint amusement. "My dear Davenport. My dear Rannoch. Surely I don't have to explain to either of you that there could be reasons for a woman—or a man, for that matter—to have such marks after an amorous interlude without anything occurring that either participant found disagreeable."

  Certain things Mélanie had told him about her encounter with Julien St. Juste shot through Malcolm's memory. Six years of marriage in which physical intimacy had come more easily to them than any other sort of intimacy, and there were still things about his wife's tastes that could surprise him. "Tell us about the night Mrs. Spencer was killed," Malcolm said.

  Trenor took another drink of claret. "I didn't—spend time with Miranda that night. I had gone there hoping to do so, but I arrived to find she was already engaged. With Lord Carfax. Which I confess startled me."

  "It startled me as well," Malcolm said.

  Trenor settled back in his chair and crossed his legs. "I don't know Carfax anything like as well as you do. But given the general opinion about him and Lady Carfax, it did occur to me to wonder if he was there in search of information."

  "Did you have any reason to think Mrs. Spencer would have information Carfax might want?" Harry asked.

  "No," Trenor said, with every appearance of not having the least idea Miranda Spencer had been an agent for Lord Beverston. "But given the sort of men who frequent the Barque of Frailty, I imagine there could be any number of reasons Carfax would have found her a useful source of information. I might even have asked her." His face clouded. "Had I seen her again."

  "You stayed at the Barque of Frailty that night," Malcolm said.

  "Oh, yes. I spent a convivial couple of hours with another of the girls. Charity Wentworth." He raised a brow. "Shocked? You knew I frequented the Barque of Frailty. I liked Miranda, but I was hardly in an exclusive relationship with her. I'm not married. I'm a busy man. I find an establishment such as the Barque of Frailty suits my needs better than keeping a mistress."

  "How you arrange your life is your own business, Trenor," Malcolm said. "Were you with Miss Wentworth until you learned of Mrs. Spencer's death?"

  Remembered horror shot through Trenor's tightly controlled expression. "No, I'd gone to one of the sitting rooms for a smoke. I heard a scream. Ran into the passage. The screams were coming from Miranda's room. I ran straight down and stopped in the doorway, staring at her. I dropped to my knees. "

  "What did you see?" Malcolm asked.

  "Miranda lying on the bed. I couldn't take my eyes off her." Trenor passed a hand over his eyes. "I didn't even notice Carfax at first. He was off to one side, talking to Mrs. Hartley. I think Daisy Singleton was the one who screamed. She was crying." Trenor took a drink of claret. "I confess I started to cry myself. Then Mrs. Hartley said Bow Street were on their way and asked us all to wait downstairs. The footmen poured the liquor plentifully, which I availed myself of. Eventually, a constable came in and took down our names and directions and told us we could go home. I was a bit surprised not to be questioned more fully, until the next day when I heard they'd arrested Carfax." Trenor looked from Malcolm to Harry. "You don't think he did it?"

  "Do you?" Malcolm asked.

  Trenor turned his glass in his hand. "If so, he's a remarkably cool customer. But then, I suppose he is in any case. He was certainly composed that night. Though also shaken, I think."

  "Did Mrs. Spencer ever talk to you about her past? "Malcolm asked.

  Trenor
raised a brow. "Certainly not. Nor did I talk to her of mine, if it comes to that. We had more—present—matters to engage us. I assumed there was a sad story that had led to her presence at the Barque of Frailty, but it wasn't my place to ask, and Miranda wasn't the sort to dwell on the past or to ask for sympathy."

  "Did anything she said lead you to think she feared anyone?" Harry asked.

  "Feared?" Trenor frowned, then shook his head. "No. But there was one odd thing. I actually learned it before I learned Miranda had been killed. Charity told me a woman had been to the kitchens to visit Miranda the previous day. Apparently she claimed to be an errand girl, but from the length of her conversation with Miranda, everyone was convinced she wasn't. Miranda wouldn't talk about it, so naturally the whole house was speculating. It may have nothing to do with Miranda's murder, of course. But it is interesting it happened just the day before."

  "Yes," Malcolm said. "So it is."

  Laura accepted Lady Frances's coachman's hand and descended from the elegant barouche in South Audley Street. Mostly her pregnancy didn't impede her, but there was no denying climbing in and out of carriages was more awkward than it had once been. When she'd collected Emily from Frances's to visit her family, she could not deny her relief that Frances had insisted she take the carriage. Far more comfortable than a hackney. It was even more of a relief now as they returned to Frances's after a comforting afternoon with her father, stepmother, and half-siblings.

  Emily had already scrambled up the steps of Frances's house. South Audley Street was quiet in the middle of the afternoon, with much of the beau monde still in the country. Two ladies were descending from a carriage at the corner and a gentleman was walking down the street towards them, but no one she knew. No need to decide whether to raise a hand in greeting or make it easy for them by pretending not to see them. Laura nodded to the coachman and moved to the steps. The footman was already opening the door.