“Possibly.” He touched his fingers to Jessica’s head. “There’s more. Carfax has a theory about who killed Alistair and Lord Harleton and is after the Hamlet manuscript.”
He quickly outlined Carfax’s revelations about the Dunboyne leak and the five suspects.
Suzanne swallowed, a host of possible scenarios racing through her mind. “The General Cyrus we knew in the Peninsula?”
Malcolm nodded. “Shock waves would reverberate through the British army if he proved to be a traitor. His brother died in the Dunboyne affair. But Carfax says the mole wouldn’t have known Thomas Cyrus was part of the mission at the time he betrayed it.” His gaze fastened on Jessica, her face relaxed in sleep, one leg tucked under her, the other sliding off the edge of Suzanne’s lap. “I find it hard to believe he could live with the guilt.”
Her fingers curled over Jessica’s sparse hair. “You don’t know how easily he did. If he is the one. Who else?”
Malcolm reached down to pet Berowne, curled up in a basket by her feet. “Sir Horace Smytheton, who was so eager to share his thoughts on Hamlet at the rehearsal this afternoon. His role at the Tavistock doesn’t obviously make him more likely to be guilty. But at the very least it’s an odd coincidence. Lord Bessborough.”
“Caroline Lamb’s father?” Suzanne forced her hands not to tighten instinctively round Jessica. Lady Caroline Lamb was the childhood friend of Suzanne’s friend Cordelia Davenport. Caro Lamb was also the wife of Malcolm’s friend William Lamb.
Malcolm nodded, mouth grim. “Bessborough’s in less of a powerful official position than the others. But he’s the late Duke of Devonshire’s brother-in-law. The current duke’s uncle. Part of the inner circle of the Devonshire House set, which makes him minor Whig royalty. And for all the Whigs have been tweaked on sympathy for Bonaparte, to imagine one a traitor—”
The word “traitor” sliced through her. She needed to make herself hear it a hundred times a day to get past this. She drew a breath, focusing on the boneless weight of Jessica in her arms and the even rise and fall of the baby’s breathing. “Who else?”
“Archibald Davenport.”
Jessica let out a squawk as Suzanne’s hands tightened. “I’m sorry, querida.” Suzanne shifted the baby against her. “Harry’s uncle?”
“Who raised him after his parents died, though he appears to have done so at a distance.”
Suzanne had only met Archibald Davenport once, at the theatre with Harry and Cordelia. A tall man with a jovial manner, shrewd eyes, and breath laced with port. “Isn’t he a crony of the prince regent?”
“One of his inner circle. Yet another who would cause shock waves to reverberate should he prove to have been betraying his country for years.” Malcolm’s gaze fastened on Colin as their son galloped a knight on horseback up to the castle. “I don’t know whether to be in awe that Carfax has trusted me with this investigation or furious that he’s blithely throwing me to the wolves. How do you feel about having to go live in exile?”
How odd to hear one’s husband blithely summing up one’s worst fears for the future. “Even Carfax couldn’t force you into exile.”
“It might not be so bad. We’d be free of my family.”
“You’d miss your family.” She knew now, having seen him with them, how much his siblings and aunt and cousins meant to him.
“Some of them.”
The truth of course was that Suzanne wouldn’t mind exile so much if she was with him and the children. But if her past drove her into exile, they almost certainly wouldn’t be together.
Jessica lifted her head without opening her eyes and flopped back down in a different position. She’d left a milky smudge on the moss green velvet of Suzanne’s spencer. “Harry and Cordelia could help us with Archibald Davenport and Lord Bessborough.”
“I know. Carfax acknowledged as much. He said it was up to me how much I told them. Well, how much I told Harry.” Malcolm’s gaze returned to Colin, who was now staging a tournament with two knights on horseback. Or a fight. She hoped it was a tournament. “Harry and his uncle are far from close. But as I learned with the revelations about Alistair, that doesn’t make it easier.” One of Colin’s knights fell to the pavement. Colin lifted the second from his horse and had him go help the fallen rider. “Carfax said he thought I’d have tried to protect Alistair if I’d known while he was alive.”
“You’re loyal. To people as well as countries.” A conflict that would tear him in two if he learned the truth about her, she feared. He might not expose her, but he’d never trust her again. “Do you think Harry would protect his uncle?”
“I don’t know. Harry can be ruthless. But Cordelia’s made him no stranger to betrayal. And forgiveness. If their marriage can survive what it’s been through, God knows what’s possible.”
Suzanne swallowed. Harry and Cordelia’s miraculous marriage both terrified her with the possibilities of what could go wrong and gave her an odd sort of hope. “Yes.”
Malcolm scratched Berowne’s ears. “I know if I were him I’d want to know the truth. I owe him that as my friend.”
Jessica’s head was slipping to the side, heavy with sleep. Suzanne curled her arm up, carefully, so she anchored Jessica without waking her. “Cordy can help with Lord Bessborough. She was in and out of Caro Lamb’s house growing up. Unless you don’t want to involve her in something so delicate?”
Malcolm reached down and touched Jessica’s tiny black-booted foot. “No, I think the more we can keep the investigation as unofficial as possible with this group, the better. And after what we’ve been through with Harry and Cordelia we know we can trust them.” He gave a twisted smile. “I may not have known my father, but I know them.”
Suzanne twitched a fold of blanket closer round Jessica. Such simple words. But in theory, Malcolm knew her far better than he did Harry and Cordy. Perhaps it was simply that some betrayals were unimaginable. “Who is the fifth suspect?”
“Lord Dewhurst himself.”
For a moment, two years were gone, and Suzanne saw Dewhurst in the private parlor of an inn in the French countryside, nose streaming blood while his son stared at him with unmitigated hatred. “That’s . . . unexpected.”
“Lovely understatement, sweetheart. Carfax told me to use the events two years ago as leverage to get Dewhurst to talk.”
“How much does Carfax know about two years ago?”
“Enough. More than I realized. He usually does.”
“Dear God, if Dewhurst proved to be a French spy—”
“The irony is exquisite. But speaking of fathers and sons, it won’t be easy on Rupert.”
Suzanne stroked Jessica’s hand as Jessica reached for the ribbons on her mother’s bonnet. “I talked to Gabrielle at the Granvilles’ last week. Rupert still isn’t speaking to his father. She said Rupert cut Dewhurst dead at the opera.”
“But hating one’s father doesn’t make it easier to accept his crimes.”
She cast a quick glance at him. Malcolm gave a reluctant smile. “Yes, I confess I’m not entirely immune to caring about Alistair. And Rupert takes honor and loyalty more seriously than I do.”
“You take honor and loyalty exceptionally seriously, dearest,” Suzanne said, as Jessica’s fist closed round her fingers. “In many ways you and Rupert are much alike. That was clear two years ago.”
Malcolm caught her free hand in his own and squeezed her fingers. “Rupert will manage. He has the support of the person he loves. That counts for a lot.”
Suzanne returned the pressure of her husband’s hand and concentrated on the weight of her daughter in her arms.
“Mummy! Daddy!” Colin’s voice carried across the square. “I captured the castle.”
Malcolm waved to their son. “Are we dining out tonight?”
Suzanne swallowed the bitterness that welled up in her throat and waved to Colin as well. “No, but we promised to look in at Holland House.”
“Let’s go early and make sure we’re ba
ck by eleven. I’ll talk to Addison and Valentin about setting up shifts to keep watch in the study.”
Suzanne scanned her husband’s face. “You think they’ll attempt to steal the manuscript again tonight?”
Malcolm grinned and touched his fingers to Jessica’s head. “I hope they will.”
Sitting in the dark, careful not to make any telltale movements, all senses keyed for the scrape of a picked lock or the creak of floorboards, one had plenty of leisure to think. To reflect on the man who had bought this house and whose works of art still filled it, for all Suzanne’s wonders at redecoration. Who had given one a name and whose very absent disdain had shaped one in more ways than one cared to admit.
Malcolm eased his legs straight. It wouldn’t do to let his muscles cramp. He’d always known he and Alistair Rannoch were opponents. He’d just thought that the divide was between a diehard Tory and Radical reformer. Not a British agent and a French one.
Alistair’s mocking face danced just beyond the reaches of his memory. As though leaving a mystery Malcolm couldn’t solve was one more way of pointing out his putative son’s inadequacy. Malcolm pushed aside the image of Alistair. Instead, the image that filled his mind was Colin, flopped in his bed upstairs with his stuffed bear when Malcolm had looked into the nursery before he came downstairs to keep watch. Had Alistair ever paused to look at Malcolm sleeping, even in babyhood? Had he felt any tug of tenderness, any concern for the young life he was helping to shape, at the start at least? Or even then had he simply ignored his eldest child? Or found him a source of anger?
A cry cut the air. From the passage. Malcolm pushed himself to his feet, crossed the darkened room by instinct, pushed open the door. The acrid smell of smoke greeted him.
“Fire in the kitchen.” Addison, Malcolm’s valet, poked his head out the baize door at the end of the passage. “Mary Beth caught it. We have it under control.”
Suzanne came hurrying down the stairs in her dressing gown. “The children are fine,” she said in response to a look from Malcolm. “I’ll go to the kitchen. You should go back into the study. This must have been meant as a diversion.”
Though every instinct said to check that the fire was under control, Malcolm knew she was right. Whoever was after the manuscript knew they would be on their guard. The attempted theft would follow quickly on the fire. Malcolm slipped back into the study, but instead of returning to the chair, he flattened himself against the wall. He counted out a minute, then another. The smell of smoke seeped into the room. Was it just his imagination or was the smoke stronger? Good God, what was he doing here? He should end this farce—
The window scraped in its frame. Malcolm forced himself to stay stock still as the window slid up. In the thick darkness, he could hear the thud of the intruder dropping to the floor. He gauged where the intruder would have moved to, then launched himself across the room and caught the intruder in a flying tackle. A fist smashed him in the eye. He grabbed one of the intruder’s wrists. With his other hand, the intruder managed to land a blow to Malcolm’s jaw. Malcolm maintained his grip on the intruder’s wrist and struck a blow that, judging by the satisfying crack, slammed the man’s head into the floorboards.
Suzanne appeared in the doorway holding a brace of candles. “Oh, good, you’ve got him.”
“Throw me a rope, will you?” Malcolm grabbed the intruder’s other wrist.
The intruder appeared to have had the wind knocked out of him. In the candlelight, Malcolm could make out a pockmarked face and short-cropped dark hair. He looked to be in his midtwenties. “Who hired you?” Malcolm demanded.
The intruder drew a ragged breath. “No one—”
“Spare me the denials.” Malcolm caught the rope Suzanne tossed him and lashed the man’s wrists together in front of him. “You’ll never make me believe you simply decided to break into our house on your own account. We can take you to Bow Street or you can give us an explanation. Who hired you?”
Still lying on his back, the intruder looked from side to side, as though seeking escape. “Gentleman. Older. Don’t know his name. Don’t expect you to believe me—”
“I believe you. He wouldn’t have been fool enough to tell you his name. Who set fire to the house?”
“Didn’t—”
“Your denials try my patience. You and your companion set fire to my house. With my children in it.”
“My mate Bert. Was only supposed to be a diversion. Just long enough to fetch what the gentleman wanted.”
“What did he tell you to take?”
The intruder glanced at Suzanne, who had advanced into the room holding the brace of candles. “Blimey, they said your wife was a beauty—”
“What did your employer tell you to steal?” Suzanne said.
“He didn’t—”
“Spare us.” Malcolm tugged the knot on the rope tighter.
“Papers. Some sort of old play.”
“How were you supposed to get this manuscript to him?” Malcolm asked.
“He—”
“He wouldn’t have given you an address. You must have planned to meet him?”
“Tonight. Monmouth Street. Off Covent Garden.”
It was in Seven Dials, one of the worst parts of London. “Good. We’ll go there with you.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“My husband and I,” Suzanne said.
The intruder stared at her, then looked at Malcolm. “You’re going to let your wife go to Seven Dials?”
“My wife tends to make decisions for herself. You’ll lead us to your employer.”
“He’ll kill me.”
“We won’t let him. We need your evidence. On the other hand, if we take you to Bow Street, burglary and attempted arson are hanging offenses.”
“How do I know you won’t take me to Bow Street when we’re done in any case?”
“You have my word.”
He gave a low laugh. “If I relied on any bloke’s word—”
“Nevertheless. You may rely upon mine.”
The intruder stared at Malcolm a moment, then snorted. “Looks as though I don’t have much choice.”
Addison and Blanca, Suzanne’s maid, appeared in the doorway.
“The fire’s out,” Addison said. He had black smudges on his face and shirt. “No damage beyond a couple of scorched floorboards.”
“That’s a relief.” Malcolm got to his feet, one eye on the intruder. “We’re off to Seven Dials to discuss the night’s events with this man’s employer.”
Blanca cast a glance at the man lying on the study floor. “His employer has to realize he might have been intercepted.”
“Quite,” Malcolm said. “This shows how desperate he is.”
“He’ll be armed when you meet him.”
“Probably.” Malcolm looked at Addison. “I’d appreciate it if you’d come with us.”
“Of course.”
“Addison should stay here,” Blanca said. “In case they try anything else at the house. Take me instead.”
Malcolm hesitated.
“She has a point,” Suzanne said.
“You’re going to take two women?” the intruder said from the floor.
“I’ve learned to rely on my wife’s good sense,” Malcolm said. He smiled at Blanca. “And on that of her friends.”
CHAPTER 6
Shadows cloaked the street. Seven Dials was a crooked maze of winding streets, close-set buildings, and cracked cobblestones on the brightest of days. Tonight, clouds rippled over the half-moon, leaving a faint glow. The dark washed over the grime but did not take away the stench of too many people packed into too-tight quarters. Suzanne hadn’t had much excuse to explore this part of London, though it was close to Covent Garden. But whether in Paris, Brussels, or Vienna, slums were remarkably similar.
Malcolm was marching the intruder along, holding his bound wrists, while Suzanne walked behind with her pistol pointed in the man’s back. Blanca, armed with a knife, kept watch on the man�
�s other side. At approaching four in the morning, Seven Dials had quieted down, though the thick yellow light of tallow candles spilled from a few windows, at least some of which were undoubtedly brothels. And they’d glimpsed more than one tired-looking woman leaning in a doorway and heard the thuds and grunts of crude lovemaking from a shadowy alley. Memories clawed at Suzanne’s skin. She kept her gaze fixed on the dark outline of the intruder’s back and concentrated on keeping her footing on the uneven cobblestones.
The appointed corner was up ahead. Malcolm pulled out a knife and cut the bonds on the intruder’s hands. “We’ll be watching,” he told the intruder. “And we’re armed.”
“As will he be. I can’t win.”
“We offer the best chance of staying alive,” Malcolm said.
The man rubbed his wrists. “So you say.”
They flattened themselves in doorways on either side of the street, Malcolm in one, Suzanne and Blanca in the other. The intruder advanced into the swirling shadows and gave the low whistle he had told them was his agreed-upon signal with his employer.
Suzanne stayed still, face pressed against the rotting wood of the doorframe. An agonizing minute or so later a shadowy form approached at the end of the street. Greatcoat, hat. Middling height.
“Come on,” Suzanne muttered. “A little closer.”
The man moved down the street. A gust of wind tossed the clouds over the moon.
The intruder reached into his coat and pulled out a sheaf of papers Malcolm had given him. The greatcoated man took a quick step forwards and snatched the papers. The wind ruffled the clouds. The light fell on Malcolm flattened in the doorway across the street. The greatcoated man froze, then spun round and ran. Malcolm lurched from the doorway in pursuit. The greatcoated man spun towards him and fired off a pistol. Malcolm fell to the ground.
Suzanne screamed and ran to her fallen husband. Even as panic drove the breath from her lungs, a part of her brain registered that she’d heard the bullet strike the cobblestones.
The Berkeley Square Affair (Malcolm & Suzanne Rannoch) Page 7
