The Berkeley Square Affair (Malcolm & Suzanne Rannoch)

by Grant, Teresa

  William stared at his hands. “Sometimes, more than anything else, I long for peace,” he said in a low voice. “And yet when I think of life without her—It’s like blotting out the sun.”

  Malcolm’s fingers tightened. He couldn’t think of a more apt description of life without Suzanne. The Suzanne he thought he’d known. And yet that Suzanne was gone.

  “In some ways she’ll always be the girl I married,” William said. “Or at least I’ll always see her that way. And yet—one can’t go back. As much as she swears the past is done, as much as I swear to put it behind us, it’s always there, at the back of one’s mind. Infidelity casts a long shadow.”

  “It makes it difficult to trust. And intimacy and trust go hand in hand.”

  William shot a look at him. “Well spoken for a man who’s never had to deal with the loss of either.”

  Malcolm looked into his friend’s gaze. It would mean a lot to answer William’s honesty with honesty, but he couldn’t do so without risking Suzanne’s safety and his children’s future. “You deserve better, William.”

  “In many ways I’m more fortunate than most. If—Oh, here’s Bessborough.” William lifted a hand to signal his wife’s father.

  “William.” Bessborough moved towards them and recognized his son-in-law’s companion. “Good lord, Malcolm, what are you doing here? Don’t tell me that pretty wife of yours has given you cause to seek refuge?” He gave the hearty laugh of one who didn’t believe it for a moment.

  “Actually, I was hoping for a word with you, sir.”

  “With me?” Bessborough’s eyes narrowed. He cast a glance round the room, then dropped down in a chair beside Malcolm and William. “See here, Rannoch, I already told your wife everything I know about the Dunboyne business. Sorry if you don’t believe me—”

  “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about the events of a decade or so earlier. You spent time in Paris in the 1780s, didn’t you?”

  For a moment, Malcolm would have sworn Bessborough’s impulse was to turn tail and run. Instead the earl settled back in his chair, arms folded in a defensive posture. “Here and there. Pretty much everyone used to pop over to Paris regularly before the Revolution.”

  “Did you spend time with my fath—Alistair Rannoch and Dewhurst and Sir Horace Smytheton?”

  “Among others. Smytheton and Dewhurst were more or less expatriates in those days. Your father spent a lot of time in Paris as well. Used to take a house and give very agreeable parties. He and Dewhurst rather tended to compete, but they were two peas in a pod politically. Loyal not so much to the king as to what the monarchy stood for. They disliked Necker because he’d supported the American Revolution. And I remember them going on one evening about Cardinal Rohan. Got quite vicious. But then they were both supporters of Marie Antoinette, so Rohan’s opposition to the Austrian alliance had never sat well with them. They were quite smug when he fell from power over the affair of the necklace.”

  Malcolm leaned back in his chair. “Were you involved in smuggling works of art?”

  Bessborough’s shoulders jerked straight. “What the devil—”

  “Would you prefer it if William left?”

  Bessborough’s gaze shot to his son-in-law. “No, I think I prefer to have him present.”

  “I know about the Elsinore League smuggling art treasures, sir. It seems to be the source of the collection I inherited from my father.”

  “Alistair would go on about art, and he couldn’t afford half the things he coveted. Always thought it was dangerous.” Bessborough drew a breath and cast a sidelong glance at his daughter’s husband.

  “Sir—” William leaned forwards, hesitated, glanced at Malcolm. “I don’t believe Malcolm will share information on those sorts of details from three decades ago. He’s trying to unravel a larger mystery.”

  Bessborough released his breath and leaned back. “Took a few pieces.” He seemed almost relieved to speak. “Harriet liked them. Brightened up the house. Until—”

  “Your debts got the better of you,” William said.

  “Just so.” Bessborough met his son-in-law’s gaze squarely.

  “But you were still involved?” Malcolm asked.

  “Helped them out a bit after that.”

  “For a share of the profits?” William asked.

  Bessborough shifted in his chair. “Er . . . yes.”

  “Did they ever smuggle jewels?” Malcolm asked.

  “Jewels?” Bessborough coughed. “No, it was art they wanted.”

  “They never smuggled diamonds?”

  Bessborough gripped the arms of his chair. “What the devil do you know?”

  “Not nearly enough. So they did smuggle diamonds?”

  Bessborough’s gaze shifted to the side. “I think that may be what gave them the idea for the whole enterprise. It was before the Revolution. Eighty-five or ’86. Dewhurst gave me passage back to England on his yacht. Never one to stint, Dewhurst. Had the devil of a head and went looking for some claret. Opened a crate and picked up a bottle only to hear it rattle and see something sparkling inside. Dewhurst came into the cabin and nearly took my head off. Then later he said he was having a necklace made for his mistress and not to make too much of it. But if that was the case, I don’t know why he acted so concerned in the first place. Later, when the art smuggling began, I decided he must have got his start with diamonds.”

  “When was this?” Malcolm asked.

  “I told you, ’85 or ’86.”

  “Can you remember which?”

  Bessborough frowned. “Must have been ’85. Probably October. Harriet was pregnant, and Caro was born not long after I got back. Is that important?”

  “It may be very important indeed,” Malcolm said.

  “Suzanne, my dear.” Jennifer greeted her with a smile. “Do come in. I’m just having a cup of tea and going over Simon’s notes. I’ve always been good with lines, but I find I have the most dreadful time keeping this version straight from the original. Let me pour you a cup of tea.”

  There was something to be said for the British ritual of tea, Suzanne thought as she settled herself on the faded blue-striped chintz of the sofa. It gave one something to do with one’s hands. “I’ve just been talking to Manon,” she said. “I didn’t realize you and Claude Lorraine were acquainted.”

  Jennifer went still, the blue-and-white teapot in one hand. Then she filled a cup and set down the teapot without rattling the china. “How foolish. I should have guessed Manon would put the pieces together. I don’t think I realized what good friends you are. You take milk, don’t you?” She added milk to the tea and gave the cup to Suzanne with a steady hand.

  Suzanne took a sip of tea. “You must have been surprised to see Claude.”

  “Or I’d have been more discreet? You’re quite right, I didn’t handle it at all well. But now what’s done is done and there’s no sense wasting breath denying it.”

  “Those old rumors didn’t lie, did they?”

  Jennifer studied her own blue transferware teacup. “I never thought of myself as a Revolutionary precisely. Merely a Frenchwoman, who thought conditions in my country were intolerable.” She took a sip of tea and regarded Suzanne with a level gaze over the rim of the cup. “I make no excuses for the excesses of the Revolution. I refuse to take responsibility for such madness. But the excesses didn’t make me want to go back to 1788.”

  “I can understand that.”

  “Can you? I believe your own family fled France during the Terror.”

  Was it Suzanne’s imagination or did Jennifer lay the slightest stress on “believe”? “My parents were far from monarchists,” Suzanne said truthfully.

  Jennifer leaned forwards and picked up the milk jug. “It was difficult in those days for France to sort out our future. And I confess I took distinct exception to Britain attempting to dictate what that future should be.” She splashed milk into her tea.

  “I can understand that. I confess I didn’t at all care for the
sight of Allied soldiers thronging the boulevards after Waterloo.” Suzanne took another sip of tea. “I think many Spaniards felt the same about both Britain and France during the war in the Peninsula. And so you became an agent for your country?”

  Jennifer picked up a silver spoon and stirred her tea. “Spoken with such charming restraint, Mrs. Rannoch. Yes, it was much as I told you and your husband. As an actress with throngs of young men crowding my dressing room after performances—I don’t mean to boast, but I believe one could call them throngs—I was in an admirable position to gather intelligence. English aristos could still come over to France and they tended to flock to the theatre. Actresses rather have a reputation.” She took a sip of tea. “Some of it deserved.”

  “Your masters wanted you to infiltrate the British expatriates working with the Royalists?”

  “Who were already using the theatre as a meeting place. Dewhurst was my first target. He presented a challenge. Whatever he was, he wasn’t a fool.”

  “And Sir Horace,” Suzanne said.

  “Quite, as Horace would say. Horace was in Paris more and my handlers thought he’d make a better source than Dewhurst. Odd now to think how these things begin.” Jennifer lifted the cup and cradled it in her hand. “Horace and I settled into a routine. We were supposed to be partners working for the Royalist cause. In fact, I was gathering intelligence from him. But as time went on, I found I relished the partnership more than anything.”

  Suzanne’s fingers tightened round her cup.

  Jennifer leaned forwards to refill her cup. “Intelligence has a certain glamour when one is young and the cause is young. The compromises, the double crosses, the petty betrayals, the collateral damage. They all begin to add up. One looks at one’s children and thinks of the future. Not an abstract future but a specific one.” She sat back and looked at Suzanne. “You’re young, but I think you’ve been in the game long enough to understand.”

  “My husband left the game,” Suzanne said. “As best he could.”

  Jennifer’s mouth curved in a smile. “Yes, one can never really leave. But I had some fellow spies who were sympathetic. They were able to start the rumors that I was suspected for my supposed Royalist activities. Then of course Horace was determined to get me safely to England.” She glanced into the depths of her cup and shook her head. “More than anything I think it would bother Horace that his great act of daring in getting me out of Paris was in fact carefully orchestrated by French agents. I’d like to spare him that at least.”

  “He never learned the truth?” Suzanne said.

  Jennifer shook her head. “Dear God, he would curse himself for a fool. We settled in England. I went to work at the Tavistock and Horace became a patron. We had a child. I did my best to forget I’d ever been a French agent. Much of the time I actually succeeded.” She looked at Suzanne again, like an aunt regarding a favorite niece. “You’re probably too young to understand this. But there’s a point where whom one looks at across the breakfast dishes every morning matters more than one would have thought possible. At least for some of us.” She set down her teacup. “I think I’m safe from prosecution. After all, I didn’t betray the British. But I don’t know that Horace will be able to forgive me. One could say it’s only what I deserve.”

  Suzanne tightened her grip on her teacup. Here was someone she could confide in, but for a host of reasons she could not do so. How many families had been smashed by this investigation? “Sir Horace loves you very much.”

  Jennifer reached for her teacup. “Horace loves the woman he thought I was.”

  “Surely by now that’s who you are. You said in the end what mattered was looking at him over the breakfast dishes.”

  “To me. But I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to persuade Horace of that.” Jennifer took a quick sip of tea. “But that’s my lookout, as Horace would say. I’m sure you have more questions for me?”

  Suzanne swallowed, at once wanting to linger in personal waters and relieved to be clear of them. “You worked with my husband’s father—Alistair Rannoch?”

  “No.” Jennifer returned her cup to its saucer. “I didn’t work with Alistair as a French agent.”

  “Did you know he was a French agent?”

  “No.” Jennifer twisted her cup in its saucer. “That’s the thing, my dear. The thing I couldn’t tell you when you and your husband informed me Alistair was a French spy. Well, not without blowing my own cover, and I fear my protective instincts were too strong. I had no notion Alistair was a French spy. In fact, I’m quite sure he wasn’t.”

  Suzanne had thought she was beyond surprise, but she blinked like a novice instead of a trained investigator. “How can you be sure?” As Raoul often said, there were dozens of spymasters.

  “Because before Dewhurst I was supposed to be gathering intelligence from Alistair. Who was a Royalist agent.”

  “You’re sure it wasn’t simply a case of one intelligence network not knowing what another was doing? You know how muddied the intelligence game can be.”

  Jennifer shook her head. “I too have little faith in the perspicacity of spymasters, but my masters knew too much about him. Besides—” Her mouth curved in a faint smile. “If I do say so myself, if Alistair had been a French agent I would have discovered it.”

  “That I confess has the ring of truth.”

  “Thank you.” Jennifer splashed some more milk into her tea. “Alistair was working with the Royalists and genuinely trying to help them. But his real interest was the Elsinore League.”

  “You mean his real interest was indulging himself?”

  “No. That is, he certainly did indulge himself. But the Elsinore League was far more than a hellfire club.”

  Suzanne leaned forwards. She had the odd sense they had got to the heart of the investigation. “They smuggled works of art.”

  “That was the least of it.” Jennifer frowned. “Horace still won’t discuss it. But their work was political.”

  “On which side?”

  “Well, obviously not the French.”

  “Are you saying the Elsinore League were working for the British? Or the Royalists?”

  “By process of elimination.” Jennifer twisted a heavy citrine ring round her finger. “I woke in the middle of the night once to hear Horace arguing with Alistair and Dewhurst. Try as I might—and I tried hard—I couldn’t make out the substance of the argument. But I heard Horace protesting about the risks they were running. And Alistair say, ‘This isn’t a game, Horace. I think you forget what we’re fighting for. What we’ve always been fighting for from the first. And to whom we owe our allegiance.’ ”

  Suzanne kept her gaze close on the other woman’s face. “Which you took to mean—”

  Jennifer studied the play of lamplight on the pale yellow stone in her ring. “I have no proof. But ever since then I’ve suspected the Elsinore League was a British spy ring.”

  CHAPTER 34

  “Mr. O’Roarke!”

  At Colin’s cry, Laura looked up from Jessica, who was crab-crawling over the paving stones at a rapid clip. Colin had run to the Berkeley Square fence and was clutching the black metal railing, pulling Berowne with him. The cat let out a squawk at the sudden change of direction. A tall figure in a gray greatcoat was approaching along Berkeley Street. He stopped, lifted his hand to Colin, hesitated a moment, then approached the square.

  “Good day, young Colin.”

  “Have you come to see Mummy and Daddy?” Colin scooped up Berowne. “They’re Investigating. But you could come in and see us.”

  Laura watched a reluctant smile spread across O’Roarke’s face. Colin was hard to resist. Still O’Roarke hesitated a few moments longer, then moved to the square gate. Laura had the oddest sense that in doing so he was moving far more than a few steps and that his feelings about the move were decidedly conflicted.

  Jessica paused in her crawling to study the new arrival, one hand on the paving stones.

  “She has her own way of c
rawling,” Colin said.

  “It seems quite effective,” O’Roarke observed as Jessica resumed crawling, left leg tucked under her, right foot flat on the paving stones, left hand propelling herself forwards, right raised in the air, clutching a leaf.

  O’Roarke tipped his hat to Laura. “Miss Dudley, isn’t it?”

  Laura got to her feet and inclined her head. “Mr. O’Roarke.”

  Colin tugged at O’Roarke’s arm. “Can you throw a ball? Daddy plays catch with me, but he’s been busy.”

  “I think I can manage.” O’Roarke hesitated a fraction of a second. “I used to play catch with your father when he was a boy.”

  Colin stared at him. “That was a long time ago.”

  “So it was.”

  Colin relinquished Berowne’s lead to Laura and snatched up the ball. He made a slightly erratic throw, which O’Roarke caught one-handed. Colin let out a whistle of approval. “Wizard.”

  O’Roarke shrugged off his greatcoat and the game continued for about ten minutes. Wind cut through the square, tingling Laura’s cheeks and slicing through the merino and broadcloth of her gown and pelisse, but the children seemed impervious. As did O’Roarke. Laura studied the man and boy. O’Roarke was younger than she had realized, probably not much more than fifty and fit for a man of his age. Which made sense for a veteran of the Peninsular War. They said he had fought with the guerrilleros and before that in Ireland. He’d known Mr. Rannoch since he was a boy and had met Mrs. Rannoch after her marriage. Presumably. Her contact’s words from yesterday ran through Laura’s mind.

  At length, Jessica crawled into the midst of the game. O’Roarke rolled the ball between her and Colin for a time, then left them to play and dropped down on the bench beside Laura.

  “You’re kind to them,” she said.

  “They’re engaging children.” He watched as Colin carefully angled the ball to his sister. “One forgets. I’m not about children much.”