The Berkeley Square Affair (Malcolm & Suzanne Rannoch)

by Grant, Teresa

  “The footman?”

  “Yes.” One would think he could make the effort to keep the servants’ names straight. She’d been reporting to him on many of the same people since Paris. “I think someone was trying to steal the manuscript. The next night someone set fire to the kitchen and tried to break in. There hasn’t been trouble since. I assume they’ve moved the manuscript.” She paused. Not the first time her impulse had been to hold something back. But she knew that way lay disaster. “Also Raoul O’Roarke’s been to the house.”

  She felt his attention quicken as though he had scented something on the wind. “Interesting. Because of the investigation?”

  “Or something connected to it. Mr. and Mrs. Rannoch . . .” She hesitated, fingering a fold of the serviceable kerseymere of her pelisse.

  “What?”

  The words stuck in her throat, an intolerable invasion of privacy. Damn it. This was what came of letting people in under her guard. First it was Colin’s small hand in hers, then it was Jessica’s smile echoing her own, next thing she knew she was caring about their parents. “Something’s . . . shifted . . . between Mr. and Mrs. Rannoch.”

  “They’ve quarreled?”

  “Not that I heard. Not that there’s been any servants’ gossip about. They’re faultlessly polite with each other. But I can feel the constraint between them.”

  “When did it start?”

  Laura gave the question honest consideration. “She’s seemed under strain for some days now. But the first I noticed something wrong between them was when they came into the nursery last night to have supper with the children.”

  “Do you think he has a mistress?”

  Laura blinked. “I can’t imagine—”

  “Your incredulity is touching, Laura, but he is a man after all.”

  “You know I’m anything but a romantic. But I’m also a good observer. If you’d seen the way he looks at her—”

  “Mooning about after one’s wife is no guarantee.”

  “It’s not that. He’s one of the least romantic men I’ve met. And yet—He looks at her as though she holds the secret to his soul.” The words tumbled out without thinking. She braced herself for his derision. Instead, she sensed his appraising gaze.

  “Perhaps she’s the one who was unfaithful.”

  Laura frowned, unease prickling the back of her throat. Somehow that seemed more plausible. “She loves him.”

  He gave a low laugh. “I’m sure she’d say she does.”

  Laura tugged at her braided cuff. “A love affair is the obvious explanation when there’s trouble between a couple. But with Mr. and Mrs. Rannoch, the obvious explanation is rarely the correct one.”

  “You have a point.” He shifted as though trying to see her better in the shadows. “How did O’Roarke seem when he visited the house?”

  “Polite.”

  “How did he seem with the Rannochs?”

  “They were all serious.”

  “Any unease from any of them?”

  Laura cast her mind back. O’Roarke talking with Colin and Mr. Rannoch. Suzanne Rannoch nursing Jessica, her gaze on the men. “They were friendly enough. Even took time for the children. But no one was in what I’d call an easy humor.”

  “Interesting.”

  “You don’t think O’Roarke—”

  “Raoul O’Roarke is a complicated man. With a complicated relationship to the Rannochs.”

  Laura scanned his face. As much as she told herself she was better off not knowing details, it was difficult not to search for clues. Natural curiosity. But more than that. The Rannochs intrigued her, but they had also got their hooks into emotions she had thought safely suppressed. “Mr. Rannoch knew Raoul O’Roarke as a boy.”

  “Indeed.”

  “But there’s more?”

  “Not that you need to know.”

  She felt the ribbons on her bonnet tighten as she lifted her chin. “Surely I can gather information more ably if I have more to work with.”

  “As I’ve said in the past, you can do your job better without distractions.”

  Frustration rose up in her throat. For a moment, the temptation to turn and walk away was almost overmastering. They wouldn’t be able to find her. Surely they wouldn’t look that hard. She could start again. Not an easy task for a woman on her own, but she had been taking care of herself for a long time. She could feel the satisfaction of staking out her independence ripple through her. But only for an instant. Because then the memory of everything she had to lose coursed over her, rooting her to the ground. She swallowed her anger and her thirst for autonomy. “Are you implying O’Roarke could be connected to Suzanne Rannoch? That he could be her lover?”

  “What do you think?”

  She checked an instinctive denial. She had few illusions about fidelity, but she’d seen the bond between the Rannochs. And yet Raoul O’Roarke’s visits were connected to the start of the constraint. An image lingered in her mind as O’Roarke and the Rannochs crossed from the square garden to the house. Mr. O’Roarke’s gray-gloved fingers extended and then checked as though he had pulled himself back, inches from the mulberry velvet folds of Mrs. Rannoch’s pelisse. Sometimes restraint could tell far more than an open display of affection. “I think Mrs. Rannoch loves her husband.”

  “So you’ve said. Love doesn’t preclude infidelity.”

  The urge to protect (often a traitorous urge) warred with the need for honesty. She dragged herself back to the rules of ruthless practicality that had served her so well in the past. “You’re right. His relationship to the Rannochs is complex. What else?”

  “Who’s been to the Berkeley Square house besides O’Roarke?”

  “The usual people. Mr. Lydgate and Lady Isobel and the children. Colonel Davenport and Lady Cordelia and their children. Simon Tanner and Lord Worsley.”

  “To talk about this play?”

  “I assume so. I’m not privy to their conversations.”

  “You bring the children into the drawing room after dinner. I know full well the Rannochs spend more time with their children than many couples. And I know how good you are at gathering intelligence.”

  “They’re trying to verify the authenticity of the play. Mrs. Blackwell is helping. And the Duke of Strathdon.”

  “Ah, yes. I heard he’d come to stay. Impressive this brought him to London.”

  “One can imagine him being drawn in by a Shakespeare manuscript. He went to see Mr. Tanner this morning.”

  “And Mr. Rannoch?”

  “Of course he’s spending time with Mr. Rannoch.”

  He took a step closer to her. His breath smelled of coffee. “Don’t play games, Laura. It doesn’t become you. How are they getting on?”

  “They would hardly quarrel in front of me.”

  “But?”

  She swallowed. “Family relationships are usually complicated.”

  “And you’ve proved excellent at decoding them. It’s part of what makes you such an effective asset.”

  Her fingers twisted in the skirt of her pelisse. Ruthless practicality. “I believe Mr. Rannoch and the duke have been discussing his parents. The investigation seems to have opened questions about Alistair Rannoch’s death. Mr. Rannoch now wonders if it was an accident.”

  “Damnation.”

  Laura stared at him in the shadows. “You mean it wasn’t? Good God, did you—”

  “Don’t be stupid, Laura. Why would I—we—have wanted Alistair Rannoch dead?”

  “I haven’t the least idea why you want anything.”

  “You’re a tough woman, Laura, but you’ve lived with them for some time.” His voice held an odd sort of sympathy, which was somehow worse than derision. “And the Rannochs can both be very disarming. You’ve seen them en famille, playing with their children, being kind to their staff. They’re really quite ruthless.”

  A laugh escaped her lips unbidden. “Remarkable coming from you.”

  “It takes one to know one. I know Suzann
e Rannoch seems like the perfect wife and mother—”

  “Actually, what I like about her is that she’s well aware that she’s not perfect.”

  “—but you have no idea what she’s capable of.”

  Laura saw Mrs. Rannoch coaxing Jessica into her pelisse. “Doing it much too brown. Just because she’s not a milk and water miss—”

  “Suzanne Rannoch is a great deal more than that. She’s not what she seems.”

  “No, she’s much more capable and less decorative. Men always talk this way about a woman who can think and act for herself.” And yet certain memories sprang to mind. Meeting Mrs. Rannoch in the upstairs passage in the middle of the night in Paris. Mrs. Rannoch had been dressed as a groom. Easily enough explained by her investigations with her husband. As was the time Laura was quite sure there’d been bloodstains on the triple-flounced skirt of Mrs. Rannoch’s morning dress. But there was one occasion she was quite sure Mrs. Rannoch had climbed in through the breakfast parlor window and Mr. Rannoch hadn’t had the least idea about it. Laura had kept silent of course. Because that was what a governess did. And because her sympathies were directed towards Mrs. Rannoch.

  “Suzanne Rannoch has a great deal to lose and that makes her dangerous,” Laura’s companion persisted. “Rannoch has a few more scruples, but even he’s done things you’d cavil at. Don’t waste your sympathies on them.”

  “I don’t waste my sympathies on anyone.”

  “You’re a clever woman, Laura. But you have more compassion than you admit, perhaps even to yourself. If you don’t take care, it could be your undoing.” He reached out and touched her hand.

  Laura jerked away from his touch. “I always take care.”

  “It’s those with the most confidence in their abilities who make mistakes.” The floorboards creaked faintly as he shifted his weight from one foot to another. “Does Carfax share Rannoch’s suspicions about Alistair Rannoch?”

  “I’m not sure. I don’t think Mr. Rannoch fully trusts Lord Carfax. But I do know Mr. Rannoch is asking questions about the League.”

  She felt the jolt of tension that ran through him. “And?”

  “For the moment he seems to think it’s a hellfire club.”

  He gave a short laugh. “God knows there’s an element of truth to that. One can only hope there’s enough smoke to distract him.”

  “Mr. Rannoch has a way of unearthing the truth. So does Mrs. Rannoch.”

  She felt the pressure of his gaze on her face. “Just remember the consequences for all of us if they unearth this particular truth.”

  She drew her reserves about her. It would never do to let him see her shiver. “You’ve reminded me of it often enough.”

  He nodded. “Next week. The same time.”

  She tugged on her gloves. Her hands were clammy.

  “Laura,” he said in a soft voice.

  She looked at him in the shadows.

  “I don’t need to remind you of the consequences if you have any foolish thoughts about confiding in the Rannochs, do I? If I told them the truth, it would ruin any trust they have in you. Not to mention other repercussions.”

  She tugged her second glove, breaking a stitch, and nodded. It was damnably hard to maintain one’s autonomy when one was playing a wretched hand.

  Crispin scowled at the pilasters that flanked the library fireplace at the Richmond villa. “I had such high hopes for those birds. They look like ravens.”

  Suzanne studied the carved birds that topped each pilaster. “I think they may actually be hawks. We were looking for ravens.” Ravens seemed to be everywhere these days.

  “In any case, there’s nothing hidden behind them.” Malcolm pushed himself to his feet. He had been kneeling in front of the pilaster, tapping to look for a secret panel. Harry was doing the same with the other pilaster.

  Happy shrieks came from the window seat, where the children were bouncing. Suzanne glanced over, but the capable Roxane had things well in hand. The five adults moved to the central library table. Crispin leaned against the gleaming oak, brows drawn together. “It looks as though we have to move on to another room. I was so sure this was where Eleanor Harleton would have hidden something. It’s the heart of the old house. And the story is that it was her favorite room.”

  Excited young voices bounced off the fretted ceiling. The children were marching towards the fireplace now the adults had moved on. Jessica, Suzanne noted, was walking holding Livia’s hands. “I think we’ve checked every possibility for a hidden compartment,” she said. “Perhaps—”

  She broke off because out of the corner of her eye she saw Jessica’s foot catch on a corner of the hearth rug. Suzanne was already running across the room before Jessica stumbled. Livia caught her, but the rug slipped and both girls landed on the floor in a tangle of muslin, merino, and lace-edged petticoats. When Suzanne reached Jessica, her face had the stillness of breath being drawn for a scream. Suzanne snatched her daughter up just as Jessica let loose a full-throated howl.

  Suzanne pressed her lips to her daughter’s head. “I’m here, querida, it’s all right,” she murmured. She’s fine, she mouthed to Malcolm, who had run across the room after her, the other adults close behind him.

  Livia looked up at Suzanne and Jessica with stricken eyes. “I’m sorry. I thought I was holding her steady.”

  “It’s all right, sweetheart,” Suzanne said. “You just slipped.”

  Cordelia moved to touch her daughter’s hair.

  Clarisse was peering at the floor. “Did Jessica hit her head? It looks like there’s blood.”

  Colin plopped down on the floor and touched his fingers where she was pointing. “It’s just a bit of stone,” he said, relief in his voice.

  As she was occupied stroking Jessica’s hair, it was a moment before Suzanne made the connection. She glanced at Malcolm. He had already dropped down beside Colin. The square before the fireplace, which had been covered by the hearth rug, seemed to be inlaid with a pattern. Malcolm tugged at the rug. “It seems to have been nailed down,” he said. “Then a corner came free. Do you have a hammer somewhere, Crispin?”

  While Crispin went in search of a hammer, Suzanne and Cordelia took the children to the kitchen and settled them under the watchful eye of a kitchen maid with lemonade and cookies. Jessica, enthusiastically breaking off pieces of cookie, had long forgot the fall and even Livia seemed to be over her worry about it.

  Suzanne and Cordelia returned to the library to find Malcolm pulling up the last nail. He rolled the hearth rug back to reveal an image of a dragon with a sword between its teeth.

  “Good lord,” Crispin said. “It’s the Harleton crest. I never knew it was there.”

  “The hearth rug had been carefully positioned over it,” Malcolm said. He touched the carnelian that formed the dragon’s eye. “Bloodred. The copper of the sword hilt could be called fire.”

  “The tip of the dragon’s tail looks like onyx,” Cordelia said. “Raven black.”

  “And the sword blade is mother-of-pearl,” Suzanne said. “Not exactly dove gray, but—”

  “Poetic license.” Harry dropped down beside Malcolm. “The aquamarine in the hilt is obvious for the sea, but what about the mire?”

  “There’s the bronze on the dragon’s spine.” Cordelia knelt beside her husband. “At least unpolished it looks sort of muddy, like a mire.”

  Malcolm pressed his fingers against the carnelian, the copper, the onyx, the mother-of-pearl, the aquamarine, and last the bronze. The central square tilted beneath his fingers. He pressed again. Hinges creaked and the square of floor with the Harleton crest slid to the side to reveal a shallow compartment.

  CHAPTER 31

  Crispin released a breath of wonder. “My word. It really does exist. Half of me thought we were on a wild-goose chase.”

  “That’s the thing about investigations,” Harry said. “One often has to put in a damnable amount of time before one knows if there’s anything to it.”

  Cr
ispin studied the plain brown box in the compartment before them. “Of course I haven’t a clue where the key might be.”

  “I wouldn’t worry, Lord Harleton,” Cordelia said. “You have quite a collection of proficient lock pickers present.”

  In the end it was Malcolm who went to work on the box once they had carried it into the library and set it on a table by the mullioned windows, with the added light of a lamp. Suzanne watched her husband’s long fingers go through the familiar motions with his picklocks. It was an old lock, and from the tension in his neck and shoulders she knew picking it was harder than he made it look. The kitchen maid had taken the children to the garden. The children’s gleeful shouts carried through the windows, a counterpoint to the quiet tension of the adults in the library. Her two worlds colliding. Or two of her many worlds.

  “There.” Malcolm sat back in his chair. “Do you want to do the honors, Harleton? It’s your family’s treasure.”

  Crispin hesitated a moment, then moved to the table. For all the layers of deception in the room, Suzanne felt the thrill that ran through the company. She and Malcolm and Harry might be hardened agents, but the prospect of unearthed treasure awakened something in them as young as the children scampering on the lawn outside.

  Crispin pushed back the lid of the box. Two drawstring bags, one of brown wash leather, the other of black velvet. Crispin picked up the leather bag first and tugged at the drawstring. A necklace, bracelet, coronet, and earrings spilled onto the chamois cloth Malcolm had spread on the table. Emeralds sparked in the sunlight, undimmed by the years. The setting was gold, aged to a fine luster, the design suggested the fifteenth century. Crispin drew a breath of wonder. “So she did hide the jewels away.”

  “You’re sure that’s what these are?” Cordelia asked.

  “Oh yes. I can show you a painting in the stairwell of Eleanor Harleton wearing them. And they all seem to be accounted for. Which makes me wonder about the other bag.” He reached for the velvet and tugged the string. Loose stones spilled onto the chamois cloth, glittering with fire against the dark fabric.