The Berkeley Square Affair (Malcolm & Suzanne Rannoch)

by Grant, Teresa

  “But why in God’s name would Harleton be making a fuss about a suspected French agent?”

  “Perhaps as cover. Perhaps because whatever his own sins, he didn’t want his son tainted by them.”

  “So what? He wanted to know what you and Alistair knew about her?”

  “He wanted our help in ending the liaison.”

  “What did he try to use as leverage?”

  “He didn’t require any. He was appealing to us as members of the Elsinore League.”

  Malcolm stared at Dewhurst in the flickering light of the wax tapers. “You knew Harleton was a French spy.”

  “Suspected. He was still an Elsinore League member.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  Dewhurst twitched his cuff smooth. “That I’d see what I could learn about Mademoiselle Caret that might put an end to Crispin’s infatuation.”

  “You agreed—”

  “Whatever Harleton’s crimes, I saw no reason why Crispin should suffer. My own son may have shut me out, but I could help someone else’s.”

  “How altruistic of you.”

  “We have to look out for our own. It wasn’t just La Caret’s questionable past in France. Harleton thought Crispin was a bit too fond of her.”

  “And you couldn’t but be sympathetic to a man who thought his son was the victim of an inappropriate infatuation.”

  Dewhurst met his gaze with the cool of carved ice. “What father wouldn’t be sympathetic?”

  Malcolm folded his arms across his chest. “What did Alistair say to all this?”

  “That Harleton was a fool if he thought he could control his son. As I recall, Harleton said he was a fine one to talk with a perfect set of grandchildren. Alistair snorted and said not to be taken in by pretty pictures.”

  Malcolm bit back a harsh laugh. “I’m sure he did. Why didn’t you tell me any of this two days ago?”

  “Because I knew anything I said about Alistair and Harleton would only cause you to ask more questions—as you’re doing now—and distract you from your investigation.”

  “How thoughtful of you.”

  “Believe it or not, I really do think it would be best for the country if you could learn who was behind Alistair’s and Harleton’s deaths and the Dunboyne leak. If you will excuse me, I need to speak to Castlereagh. The business of the country hasn’t stopped for this investigation of yours.”

  CHAPTER 20

  “Harry.” Archibald Davenport approached his nephew, moving with an agility that belied his walking stick. “Good to see you attending entertainments more.”

  Harry met his uncle’s gaze, at once indolent and sharp. He recalled some mild barbs in the early days of his marriage on his reluctance to go out. “Cordy enjoys society.”

  “Glad you’re accompanying her. It may not be fashionable for husbands and wives to live in each other’s pockets, but it can do wonders for a marriage. Speaking as a bachelor, of course.”

  For the first time it occurred to Harry that Davenport’s barbs all those years ago might have come out of concern for his marriage rather than simply to make caustic conversation. “I hope I’m somewhat wiser than I was a decade ago.”

  “I make no doubt that you are. Besides, going out in society must be part of your work.”

  “You think I need to observe modern-day revels to write about the Julio-Claudians?”

  “Perhaps. But I was thinking about your other work.”

  “I’m no longer in military intelligence.”

  “No?” Davenport turned the jeweled handle of his walking stick. “I assumed you were assisting Malcolm Rannoch. Or is it just Cordelia who is assisting Mrs. Rannoch? I assume you know they came to see me two days ago?”

  “Cordy said you were very obliging.”

  “Always happy to see Cordelia and the girls, and the Rannoch children are quite charming. As is Mrs. Rannoch. Also damnably astute. And I suspect more ruthless than her husband.” Davenport flicked a bit of lint from the glossy black of his coat sleeve. “I confess I did find it interesting that you sent Cordelia instead of coming to see me yourself.”

  “I know you’ve always been fond of her.”

  “So I am. Though I would venture to say I’m more than passingly fond of you as well.”

  “You know what I mean, sir.”

  “That you haven’t found me the easiest person to talk to?”

  “No. That is—”

  “I’m not offended, I assure you. I was hardly cut out to communicate well with a young boy.” Davenport smoothed a lace frill that fell over his wrist. “Rannoch just spoke with me himself. Did he share that with you?”

  Harry met his uncle’s gaze. “You mean about you and Arabella Rannoch? I’m hardly shocked. From what I remember of her, she was a beautiful and brilliant woman.”

  “Interesting.”

  “That I’m not shocked or that I paid attention to Arabella Rannoch?”

  “That Malcolm Rannoch trusts you with his family secrets. I don’t think he trusts any more easily than you do. I’m glad you’ve found a friend.”

  A waltz sounded from the ballroom, something sweet and simple. Harry looked at his uncle’s sardonic face, at once familiar and still that of a stranger. For the first time he considered what it must have been like for Davenport, at much the age Harry was now himself, to suddenly become the guardian of a withdrawn nine-year-old. “Talking with Malcolm recently, I was reminded that you were remarkably diligent about attending my speech days, sir,” Harry said, a rare moment in which he spoke on impulse. “It was good of you.”

  Davenport gave a twisted smile. “It was little enough.”

  “I don’t think I was properly appreciative.”

  “You’d just lost your parents, my boy. You had enough to contend with without trying to be appreciative. I’m sorry there wasn’t more I could do.”

  Harry shot a surprised look at his uncle. “You didn’t ask to be saddled with me. I imagine a nine-year-old boy was the last thing you wanted intruding on your bachelor existence.”

  “True enough. Though mostly because I wasn’t in the least sure how to talk to you.”

  “All things considered, probably just as well we avoided each other.”

  “Harry—” Davenport surveyed him. “I never wanted to become a parent.”

  “Nor did I precisely.” Hot shame washed over Harry at the memory of the years he’d more or less ignored Livia’s existence. “And you at least gave me a home.”

  Davenport’s gaze softened with what might have been understanding. “Cordy, fond as I am of her, put you through a great deal. I suspect you stayed away from Livia more because you weren’t sure of your welcome and of her mother’s wishes than because you didn’t want to be a parent.”

  “Perhaps. But I should still—”

  “You always were too hard on yourself, Harry.”

  It was not what Harry would have expected from Davenport. He was surprised his uncle had noticed. “I—”

  “Your capacity for forgiveness with Cordelia is remarkable, my boy. Try a bit of that on yourself.”

  “Sir—”

  Davenport touched his arm. “You’re an excellent father, Harry. Far better than I could ever be. But I was going to say that little as I thought I wanted to be a father and imperfect as I may have been at it, I’m inestimably grateful that you gave me the chance to try.”

  “Oh, Malcolm, good.” Carfax somehow materialized in front of Malcolm by the door to the supper room, blocking his egress. “Got a report for me?”

  “I assumed you’d have other things on your mind tonight, sir.”

  “Nonsense, what’s the point of entertaining if one can’t gather information? Amelia couldn’t have held this ball at a more advantageous time. I trust you’ve been making the most of the opportunities the night affords.”

  “Can you doubt me, sir?”

  “I never doubt your abilities, only your point of view.” Carfax folded his arms over the discreet blu
e brocade of his waistcoat. “What have you learned?”

  Carfax’s steady gaze and the blessed non-intrusive calm of his voice that day he offered Malcolm his diplomatic and intelligence position echoed in Malcolm’s mind. Without the man before him he would never have met Suzanne. He wouldn’t have Colin and Jessica. He might well be dead one way or another. But he knew full well how Carfax turned personal information to his own ends. It was one thing to share Alistair’s secrets. Malcolm owed his putative father no allegiance. But now it was a question of his mother’s secrets. And O’Roarke’s.

  “Dewhurst thinks Smytheton and possibly Jennifer Mansfield were French agents. Smytheton and Mrs. Mansfield suspect the same about Dewhurst.”

  Carfax adjusted his spectacles. “Interesting but hardly surprising. One of them is probably correct.”

  “Care to hazard a guess?”

  “Guessing is a dangerous business, and if I knew, I wouldn’t need you. What were you talking to your aunt about?”

  “The duel,” Malcolm replied without hesitation. “She can shed no light on it other than that she didn’t have much use for either man.”

  “Astute woman, Frances. Pity I couldn’t have set her to gather information on Alistair. Though I couldn’t have been sure which way she’d jump. She always seemed a bit too fond of him.”

  “Jennifer Mansfield also told Suzette that Alistair was involved in Royalist missions.”

  Carfax frowned. “I knew Alistair dabbled in such activities. I didn’t realize how deep it went.”

  “But the timing is wrong for him to have been the source of the leak that Smytheton and Dewhurst each blame the other for. Which leaves us with one of them.”

  “Or Mrs. Mansfield.”

  “Quite. Assuming she’s been deceiving Smytheton all these years.”

  “It’s been known to happen.”

  “Dewhurst claims Harleton asked to meet with him and Alistair to get their help ending his son’s liaison with Manon Caret.”

  “Interesting. Do you believe him?”

  “I’m not sure. At the very least, I think there was more to it.”

  “Harleton should have paid more attention to his own scandals. Though I can certainly understand the concern for a son and heir.”

  Malcolm stared at Carfax. Carfax stared back, as though silently daring Malcolm to bring up Simon’s name.

  After a long moment, Carfax said, “Anything else?”

  “Not that’s worthy of report,” Malcolm said with only enough hesitation to indicate he was genuinely sifting through the information.

  Carfax regarded him in silence for a moment. “Do you know I still remember the day I engaged your services, Malcolm? I can’t say that about every agent. But I distinctly remember thinking you were going to be one of the best agents I’d ever employed. So long as your scruples didn’t get in your way.”

  Malcolm met his mentor’s gaze. It was not a coincidence Carfax was referring to the day Malcolm had gone to work for him. The ruthlessly unsentimental earl wasn’t above emotional blackmail. “Are you saying I’m letting my scruples get in my way?”

  “I’m saying it’s not your job to agonize over those scruples. You collect the information and give it to me. I decide what to do with it. The moral compromises are on my head.”

  Neatly said. Assuming Malcolm trusted Carfax’s morals. “Did you really think that would convince me, sir?”

  Carfax’s smile was ironic acknowledgment. “No, but I thought it was worth a try. You can’t make everything your responsibility, Malcolm.”

  “No. But nor can I abrogate responsibility entirely.”

  Suzanne watched as Malcolm stroked his fingers against Jessica’s cheek. Suzanne had put the baby in his arms when she finished nursing. Jessica’s head flopped back against the burgundy silk of his dressing gown arm, and her small feet dangled over his other arm below the scalloped muslin hem of her nightdress. “Oh, to sleep so peacefully,” Malcolm said.

  “And to sleep whenever one wants.” Suzanne did up the peach silk tie that closed the muslin frill at the neck of her own nightdress. There was something about nightclothes that was particularly decorous. She never felt she looked so wholly the demure wife. “When she fights falling asleep I want to tell her how fortunate she is.”

  “Quite.” Malcolm smoothed the peach fuzz of Jessica’s hair. “Harry told me Radley was at the ball.” He lifted his gaze to Suzanne, his eyes dark with concern. “I’m sorry you had to deal with him alone.”

  Malcolm’s understanding about the man he knew to be his wife’s former lover summed up what an extraordinary man he was. And the secrets she was still keeping about Radley summed up just how much she had betrayed Malcolm and how precarious the state of their marriage was. “Cordy and Harry soon came to my rescue. And there’s really nothing you could have done.”

  He gave a twisted smile. “Meaning I’m a fool to think I can try to protect my wife?”

  “Never that, dearest. Your support is invaluable. Though satisfying as it would be to see you plant Radley a facer, I fear it would only complicate the situation.”

  “I said much the same to Harry. In theory I know better than to think violence would resolve the situation. But I confess I would have been sorely tempted.”

  “Precisely.” The reminder of all the reasons she loved him brought a smile to her eyes and an ache to her throat. “Radley’s unpleasant, but he can’t really threaten me now that I’ve told you the truth.” Which would be true if she had told him the whole truth.

  “No. But I can’t help but . . .”

  “What?” Suzanne asked as he trailed off.

  “Want to spare you unpleasantness.” He gave a sheepish smile as he laid Jessica in her cradle.

  Beneath the demure peach silk bow her heart turned over. “That’s very sweet, dearest.”

  “But foolish.” He slid his hands from beneath the sleeping baby and straightened up.

  “That doesn’t render it any less sweet.” She moved to the cradle and settled a blanket—white and silver, a gift from Lady Frances—over Jessica’s legs, where there was no risk of her pressing her face against it. She looked down for a moment at Jessica’s even breathing, her long lashes veiling her eyes, her turned-up nose, the sparse hair clinging to her skull. So real, so warm. So vulnerable.

  Suzanne turned, putting her back to Malcolm. “Could you undo the clasp on my necklace?”

  Malcolm’s fingers were cool against her skin as he undid the silver filigree clasp on her pearls. “According to Aunt Frances, Alistair was furious at having had to save O’Roarke. And he as good as admitted Mama blackmailed him into it.” His breath brushed Suzanne’s neck.

  “Do you think she knew Alistair was working for the French?” It wouldn’t do to avoid the obvious question.

  “It’s the obvious answer.” Malcolm lifted the pearls from her throat and pressed a kiss to the nape of her neck. He’d been awkward at helping her undress when they first married, as though she were a china doll that might break, but now he was quite adept. The feel of his fingers dancing against her spine could be deliciously tantalizing, but now he was all business. Seduction was too simple an escape tonight. “In which case I wonder how long she knew.”

  Suzanne took the pearls from him and put them in their velvet box on her dressing table. “She probably saved Mr. O’Roarke’s life, darling. She would have been putting the personal ahead of the political.”

  “Not necessarily a choice I disagree with.” Malcolm adjusted one of the dressing table tapers that was tilting in its base. “Archibald Davenport claims not to have known Mama had anything to do with O’Roarke’s escape. When I asked him if she might have used the art treasures as leverage, he said he wouldn’t have been surprised by Alistair going to great lengths to acquire them. Including murder.”

  “Did he have someone specific in mind?”

  “He didn’t say so. But I couldn’t help but think he was holding something back.” Malcolm wiped a tra
ce of wax from the side of the taper. “Apparently Aunt Frances also knew O’Roarke is my father.”

  Suzanne spun round to face him. “Darling—”

  Malcolm’s smile was at once sweet and defensive. “She said it wasn’t her secret to share, which I suppose I can’t argue with.” He turned away and picked up her dressing gown from the bed. “According to her my mother wrote to O’Roarke about me. Weekly.”

  Suzanne heard Raoul’s voice speaking about Malcolm at the ball with the sort of care that he would only employ to cover feelings too raw to touch. “He obviously took a keen interest in you, darling.”

  “It’s not O’Roarke’s interest that surprises me. It’s my mother’s. Aunt Frances said she went on writing to him after my mother died.” He held out the dressing gown for her to slip on. “I feel a bit as though I’ve missed major chapters in the story of my own life.”

  She kept her arms steady as she slid them into the seafoam silk of the dressing gown. “I suppose everyone’s life story appears different from their parents’ perspective.” God only knew what questions Colin and Jessica would have about their parents. She could only hope they would never know to ask the worst of those questions, yet it would always rankle that they didn’t know the truth of who their mother was.

  “And I’m not the only one to not know who his parents are,” Malcolm said. “True enough, no sense in wallowing.”

  “You’ve had more to contend with than most.”

  “I saw you speaking with O’Roarke at the ball.” There was no suspicion in his voice, only curiosity, held in check as though he was afraid to care too much or at least to reveal that he did.

  “Yes.” She pushed back the lace cuffs on her dressing gown. “He sought me out. He wanted to know how much I thought the day’s revelations had disturbed you.”

  Malcolm’s mouth twisted, with bitter acknowledgment or perhaps at the irony of the situation. “What did you say?”

  “That you couldn’t but be disturbed. But that I also thought you were relieved to have a father you liked better than Alistair Rannoch.”

  Malcolm’s gaze moved from the cradle to the door to Colin’s room. “I can’t imagine how unspeakable it would be to have a child one couldn’t acknowledge was one’s own. Not that O’Roarke would have seen himself as my father. But—” He turned away and moved to the chest of drawers, pausing to pet Berowne, who was curled up on their bed. “Harry had some news as well. A source of his claims to have heard the Raven referred to as a man.”