by Tracy Grant
"I presume the house is still standing."
"No thanks to Billy."
"Don't exaggerate, Malcolm." Carfax unhooked his spectacles from behind his ears. "Using smoke to get people out of a building is an old trick. I've used it myself as a field agent."
"And we've had it used on us before. It doesn't change the risk. Or the fact that you tried to have the rightful King of France killed. Do you deny it?"
Carfax folded his spectacles. "I don't know whether to say your shock shows naïveté or a sort of touching faith in my scruples. You know perfectly well I've never caviled at what's necessary to protect Britain."
"And this was necessary?"
"France in control of the Elsinore League? Or Fouché? Could you seriously support that?"
"Of course not. But he could be got away from them."
"You'd prefer that I backed him and controlled France?"
"I think the question is what you'd prefer."
Carfax set down his spectacles and spread his hands on the table. "Instability is dangerous. France has a government. Not ideal, perhaps, but it's working."
"So you decided murder was preferable?"
"You're surprised I'd cavil at murder?"
"Not of a crossing sweeper or a dockyard worker. Or of a woman employed in a brothel. But of the legitimate claimant to a throne? Yes."
Carfax tugged a handkerchief from his coat. "I'd say this to few people, but you of all people should know that it's not the actual bloodlines that matter. It's what they represent. There's a perfectly adequate representative of the monarchy on the throne of France now."
"That's quite an admission."
Carfax unfolded his spectacles and polished them with the handkerchief. "As I said, it's one I'd make to few people."
"Billy says you only gave him his orders this morning. That you insisted Lumley had to be eliminated before he got to us."
Carfax set spectacles and the handkerchief down on the table. "I was concerned about what you'd do if you found the dauphin. I think this conversation proves my fears right."
"I haven't told you what I'm going to do."
"Or what O'Roarke's going to do?"
"O'Roarke doesn't want him on the throne of France any more than you do."
"Or so he tells you."
"Don't. I've had enough of people trying to sow discord between us." Malcolm got to his feet. "The only thing I'm not sure of is if you killed Miranda Dormer to bury the secret of the dauphin. Whether or not you did it, I'm quite sure you're capable of having done so."
"Malcolm." Carfax's voice stopped him. Unusually sharp. "What are you going to do?"
"Protect Gerald Lumley. Who was perfectly ready to admit he comes from France but didn't give a hint of his true origins. He doesn't seem like a man who wants to reclaim his heritage. I'm not sure how much he even remembers. It's no secret his jailers tried to render him unfit to ever be king."
"That won't stop others from trying to use him." Carfax watched him for a moment. "It will be on your head, you know. If this brings about a war."
"And I don't relish that. But if you taught me nothing else, sir, you taught me that one has to live with the consequences of the decisions one makes."
"We can lock him up," Jeremy Roth said as two constables marched Billy down the steps of the Berkeley Square house and into a waiting carriage. "I can't vouch for how long it will last. It didn't very long last time."
"Carfax will have more difficulty pulling strings from prison," Raoul said, "though I have no doubt he'll be able to pull some. But at least it gives us a bit of time."
Mélanie glanced towards the back of the hall. The door to the breakfast parlor was slightly ajar and she could just hear the high-pitched voices of the children. The company were gathered there sharing a makeshift collation. It was a long time since any of them had eaten and feeding everyone had seemed a good solution to fill the time until Malcolm returned from his visit to Carfax. "Thank you, Jeremy," she said.
Roth nodded. "Billy Hopkins is clearly guilty of a number of crimes only today, let alone in the past." He looked from Mélanie to Raoul. "Do you have any idea why he attacked Lumley?"
"It's a bit of a mystery," Raoul said in an easy voice.
"We think Lumley may know something about Miranda Dormer that Carfax is concerned about," Mélanie added. Most of the people currently sitting in her breakfast parlor knew about the dauphin, but not all. And Lumley was either carefully avoiding talking (ingrained instinct, perhaps) or genuinely didn't remember his heritage. "Something about which he doesn't realize the significance."
Roth's brows drew together. "So you're inclined now to think Carfax killed her?"
"Malcolm never ruled that out," Mélanie said. And indeed, Lumley's being the dauphin and Carfax's trying to kill Lumley made it more likely that Carfax had killed Miranda Dormer. "But whether or not he killed her, Carfax plainly had an interest in what Miranda Dormer knew."
Roth nodded again, with the gaze of one piecing together the evidence. He had a quick mind. If they weren't careful, he'd piece together the truth about the dauphin, just as Mélanie had always been afraid he'd piece together the truth about her. And they really couldn't afford for Jeremy, in his position, to know the rightful King of France was hidden in Britain.
Assuming Lumley managed to stay hidden.
Roth pressed Mélanie's hand, nodded at Raoul, and followed his constables from the house. Mélanie closed the door—Valentin was in the breakfast parlor taking a well-deserved break—and looked at Raoul.
"So far, so good," he sad.
Mélanie nodded and glanced down the hall again. The rightful Louis XVII was sitting at her breakfast parlor table having supper. For all they'd been through, she'd never envisioned a situation like this. And close as they'd been to major events, she wasn't sure they'd ever been involved in something that could so irrevocably shake their world.
"We're not going to be able to keep this quiet," she said.
"One step at a time," Raoul said. "We don't know what he wants. We don't know what he remembers."
"Whatever he remembers, I'm not sure he's going to be allowed to have what he wants."
The front door swung open and Sylvie St. Ives stepped into the hall.
"Forgive me, the door was open," said the woman who had been Beverston's mistress, Carfax's agent, and was now presumably working for Fouché. "I know you're understaffed. Since we're old friends I know you won't expect me to stand on ceremony."
Curse it, Mélanie thought, she'd been about to bolt the door. Though she wouldn't have put it past Sylvie to come in through a window. Mélanie faced Lady St. Ives, whom she had last seen in an antechamber in Apsley House the night Mélanie accused Sylvie of murdering Ben Coventry. The night before they'd had to flee London. "I'm sorry, Lady St. Ives. As you say we're understaffed. I fear we aren't even officially at home."
Sylvie pulled off her gloves, exquisitely stitched pale blue kid to match her pelisse and bonnet. "Seeking refuge in formalities. It's what I'd do myself. But we can stop the pretending. I know he's here. And I can take him off your hands."
"A very obliging offer, Lady St. Ives," Raoul said. He was positioned between her and the hall to the breakfast parlor. Not that there was a great deal she could do on her own against all of them, and theoretically she didn't want Lumley dead. But she had killed before. "But surely there's no point in detailing the reasons we wouldn't accept it."
Sylvie raised a well-groomed brow. "Would it really be so much worse than the situation in France now?"
"Fouché in charge of the country? Probably. And we'd have a lot of bloodshed getting there."
"So you'd rather he fall into the League's hands? Because that's what will happen you know. Unless Carfax kills him first. You're a master of control, Mr. O'Roarke, but you won't be able to control this."
"My dear Lady St. Ives, as I'm sure Fouché could tell you, I've never been one to listen when anyone tells me I can't do something."
"You can't keep him in this house forever. We can at least protect him."
"Call us arrogant," Mélanie said, "but I'm quite sure we can do that ourselves."
"The secret's out," Sylvie said.
"Yes, but you won't spread it about," Raoul said. "You don't want even more people after him. And the League's resources are greater than Fouché's."
"It's kind of you to call, Lady St. Ives," Mélanie said, "but we really aren't equipped for guests, and as you see there is nothing more to discuss, so—"
She broke off as the sound of the bell cut through the hall. She was, she realized, so used to having servants to answer it, that it was a moment before she quite realized what had happened. A glance through one of the windows that flanked the door showed a footman on the steps in a red-and-buff livery that she thought belonged to Lord Beverston. She exchanged a quick look with Raoul, then opened the door while Raoul kept an eye on Lady St. Ives.
The footman blinked at seeing her open the door rather than one of his peers. "Yes?" Mélanie said, and had the absurd thought that the story that she had opened her own door might prove to be the greatest scandal of their time in London.
"From Lord Beverston." The footman held out a sealed paper. "It's for Mr. Gerald Lumley. I've been instructed to put it into his hands personally."
Mélanie hesitated. She could deny the footman the house, but they needed to know what Beverston wanted. The footman looked conventional enough but he could be an agent. She wouldn't put it past Beverston. Still, she and Raoul were both there, and Beverson, like Sylvie, didn't want Lumley dead. Quite the reverse, in fact. "Come inside," she said. "I'm afraid I must ask you to let us search you for weapons."
The footman's eyes widened. Either proof that he was who he said he was or that he was a very good actor—or agent—indeed. But he stepped into the hall and stood as still as if he were on duty at a ball as Raoul patted him down for weapons, while Mélanie kept an eye on Sylvie.
"He's clean," Raoul said.
Mélanie nodded. Nothing to be done about Sylvie. Save watch her. She met Raoul's gaze for a moment, then walked to the breakfast parlor.
Lumley was staring into a cup of tea. He frowned at the news that Beverston had a message for him, but did not appear anything like as alarmed as he should. At a look from Mélanie, Archie also accompanied them into the hall, as did Robby Simcox, who evidently took his commission to protect Lumley seriously.
"Lady St. Ives is also there," Mélanie said to Lumley. "She'll ask you to trust her. Don't."
Lumley turned a confused gaze to her. "I don't even know her."
"And you don't need to," Mélanie said. "She'll want you to leave with her. On no account are you to do so."
"Mr. Lumley," Sylvie said, right on cue, when Lumley appeared. "I don't believe we've met."
"No, madam, we have not," Lumley returned with surprising firmness.
Mélanie and Archie beside him, Lumley took the letter from the footman. "Lord Beverston said to wait while you read it," the footman said. "He said you might want to leave with me afterwards."
"You can wait outside," Mélanie said, as Archie opened the door. The footman hesitated. Mélanie gripped his arm, Archie propelled him outside, pushed the door to, and set his shoulders to it.
Frowning, Lumley slit the seal. Mélanie had no compunction about reading over his shoulder.
Lumley,
Miss Harker and Danny are with me and asking for you. I trust you will join us at my villa in Richmond. I know how important they both are to you.
Beverston
Lumley read it through twice, then looked up at Mélanie, his face pale. "I should go."
"Mr. Lumley." Mélanie put a hand on his arm. "You can't trust Lord Beverston."
"For God's sake, Mrs. Rannoch, I've known him half my life—"
"He knows who you are."
Something flickered in Lumley's gaze. Perhaps recognition. The dawning of a memory?
"And he may have killed Miranda." At least it was a possibility.
Lumley's jaw tightened. "All the more reason I need to go. He has Faith and Danny."
"Mr. Lumley, we'll make sure—"
"Can you deny he's threatening them?" Lumley waved the note.
Mélanie, whose mind had been working rapidly on how to protect Faith Harker and Danny from the moment she saw the note, met Lumley's gaze. "I'm quite sure Beverston won't hurt his grandson from everything I've heard."
"But he won't have such qualms with Faith. He's not a man who's careful with servants."
"Mr. Lumley—"
"I have to protect her."
"And we will, but—"
The bell rang again.
"Your husband appears to be at the door," Sylvie St. Ives said.
Mélanie unbolted the door and let Malcolm into the hall. "I assume there's a reason one of Beverston's footmen is on our doorstep?" He paused and took in the company.
Lumley held out Beverston's note. "I have to go. I need to rescue Faith and Danny. If I understand nothing else that's going on, I understand they're in danger."
"We certainly need to rescue them. But not by risking you."
"You can't keep him shut in here forever," Sylvie said.
"Good day, Sylvie." Malcolm met her gaze. "Kind of you to call."
Sylvie regarded him with a shrewd gaze and faintly mocking smile. "You don't want this, Malcolm."
"No, but I seem to be stuck with it."
"Rannoch," Lumley said. "I can't just stay here—"
"My point precisely," Sylvie interjected.
The door from the study swung open. A slender figure strolled into the hall, fair hair gleaming in the candlelight. "Well, well. Glad to find you all here," said Julien St. Juste.
Chapter 40
"Do you ever ring, St. Juste?" Malcolm asked.
"We came through a window. It seemed more prudent overall."
A woman followed St. Juste from the study. It was Gisèle.
Malcolm stared at his sister.
"You found him," she said.
"We rather stumbled across him." Malcolm's voice was not quite steady.
"Sylvie," Julien said. "I should have known I'd find you here. You really should learn to keep information to yourself, you know."
"You really should learn not to share it," Sylvie said, though Mélanie thought her skin was paler than it had been a few moments before.
"I tried, Mr. St. Juste," Robby Simcox said. "I've done everything I could to keep him safe."
"Thank you, Simcox," Julien said, his gaze still on Sylvie.
Lumley was studying Julien. "You're—"
"You recognize me? I fancy you've changed more than I have."
"I have to get Faith and Danny."
"Beverston's Richmond villa is secluded," Malcolm said. "He'll try to keep you there, Lumley."
"That's not—"
"And he won't let Miss Harker and Danny go." Malcolm glanced round the hall. "Out through the breakfast parlor, I think."
"What—?"
"Across the garden to the mews. Beverston's footman will figure out we're gone before long, but he won't be able to follow us. Archie, you're in charge of Sylvie. Aunt Frances!" Malcolm called.
Lady Frances emerged from the breakfast parlor with a celerity that indicated she might have been listening at the door. She went still as her gaze fell on Gisèle.
"I'm sorry to have caused you trouble, Aunt Frances," Gisèle said.
Frances squeezed her eyes shut and reached out to grip the edge of a console table. "Dear God."
Malcolm moved to his aunt's side. "We have a great deal to discuss. But first, if I ever needed you to call in a favor with the regent, I do now."
Frances met his gaze, her own now clear and alert. "Gladly, but you've always told me to keep him out of it."
"Not this time. Only he can get us what we need. O'Roarke and Mel will go with you." He turned to Gisèle. "For God's sake, at least stay here with Archie until we'r
e back, Gelly.
Gisèle inclined her head. She was standing very still, her hands at her sides. "I promise."
Malcolm held her gaze for a long moment, then nodded and turned to Julien. "You're coming with us, St. Juste."
Julien raised his brows. "I have every intention of doing so. But I thought I'd have to follow."
"On the contrary. We need you to convince Beverston of who Lumley is."
Beverston surveyed the trio his footman (a different footman from the one who might still be in Berkeley Square) had shown into the library of his villa in Richmond. Malcolm, Lumley, St. Juste. His gaze settled on St. Juste and lingered.
"St. Juste. What are you doing here?"
"Observing, for the moment."
Beverston gave a grunt that might have been acknowledgment. Or an indication of suspicions. "I wasn't prepared for such an entourage. Or if this many of you descended on us, I thought some might sneak in the back. Or try to." He raised a brow.
"No," Malcolm said. "We didn't bring others."
"I don't believe you, of course. But I think I have the house well guarded."
"We've come for Miss Harker and Danny. Send them out and we'll trouble you no further."
Beverston stared at him for a moment, then gave a guffaw of laughter. "You've got guts, Rannoch, I'll give you that. In your shoes, perhaps I'd have tried the same. You have few other options. My grandson isn't going anywhere, and Miss Harker, as his nurse, is naturally staying with him. Mr. Lumley is welcome to join them. In fact we would be quite desolate should he not do so."
Lumley cleared his throat. "Lord Beverston."
Carriage wheels and horse hooves sounded on the gravel drive outside. Malcolm glanced out the window. "Oh, good. My wife and O'Roarke. And our other guests."
Mélanie and Raoul came into the room a few minutes later, accompanied by Jeremy Roth and Lord Carfax.
"Good," Malcolm said. "I knew Aunt Frances could pull it off."
"Carfax," Beverston said. "I must say this is a surprise."
"To me as well," Carfax said. He was pale but managed, as usual, to look in command of the situation, despite the fact that he was wearing handcuffs. He met St. Juste's gaze for a moment. St. Juste, leaning against the oak-paneled wall, his ankles crossed, raised a brow but said nothing.
