The Berkeley Square Affair (Malcolm & Suzanne Rannoch)

by Grant, Teresa

  “You seem very adept with them.”

  “I spent more time with young ones in the past.”

  “With Mr. Rannoch.”

  “Yes, among others.” He settled back on the bench. “I was friends with the family when he was a boy.”

  Rather a good friend if he’d taught Malcolm Rannoch how to play catch, though from the little Laura had seen of Alistair Rannoch, it was difficult to imagine him in that role. Laura watched Jessica crawl over the paving stones after the ball. “She crawls all over the house, but for some reason she seems to enjoy the paving stones.”

  “Her mother’s sense of adventure.”

  Impossible not to wonder if those few words held more than passing knowledge of Suzanne Rannoch, though two days ago Laura probably wouldn’t have noticed. “She definitely has that.” Laura stroked the cat, curled up in her lap.

  “They’re fortunate to have you.”

  It sounded oddly like thanks. Laura met his gaze. “Mr. and Mrs. Rannoch are very devoted parents. They spend far more time with their children than most parents in their set. It makes a nurse or governess less important.”

  “Still. You’re with them a great deal. You went to work for them in Paris?”

  The question was asked in the lightest, most casual of tones, but all her defenses slammed into place. “Yes. Mrs. Rannoch said she knew she’d found the right governess when I didn’t bat an eyelash when the kitten jumped up on the tea tray and began to lap the cream during our interview.” Laura rubbed Berowne behind the ears.

  “Clearly the right quality for this family. Did you expect to take up residence in England?”

  “She warned me Mr. Rannoch was considering leaving the diplomatic service.” Laura had felt mixed emotions at the news, though she’d had little choice. She’d been under orders.

  O’Roarke leaned back on the bench in the sort of posture that invited confidences. “Happy to return to England?”

  “In a way. I went to work on the Continent in search of adventure.” That much was true, though she’d found far more than she could possibly admit to. “But England seems less staid and dull now. Or perhaps I’ve grown more cautious as I’ve grown older.”

  “Spoken by a very young woman.”

  “Not so very young. I’ve been a governess for some time.” And she’d hardly been in the first blush of youth when she became a governess, but she glossed over those early years, as they were difficult to account for.

  O’Roarke shifted on the bench and crossed his legs. “There is something about home. Something one perhaps doesn’t appreciate until one is older.”

  She turned her head to look at him, aware of her bonnet brim impeding her view. “But England isn’t home for you, is it?”

  “No, for all the time I’ve spent here. In truth I’ve lived so many places it’s difficult to call any home. But I suppose I’ll always think of Ireland and Spain and France as home before England.”

  She turned her head to look at him. It was a personal admission, and he did not seem a man who made personal admissions easily. Letting down his guard? Or giving the appearance of doing so to make a breach in her own defenses?

  “It must be agreeable to be close to your family after so many years,” he said.

  Her defenses slammed into place. “My family are gone,” she said, in the tone she’d mastered to discuss them.

  “I’m sorry. Particularly difficult at Christmas.”

  For a moment she could taste mulled wine and disappointment on her tongue. Berowne let out a yowl of protest as her fingers tightened on his fur. She hoped O’Roarke would put it down to painful memories. Which was the truth, though not in the way he thought. Her family would be gathering for the holidays soon. They were far from gone. The only way she’d been able to risk coming back to England was the certainty that her path would not cross with theirs. Only of course, she couldn’t really be sure of it at all. She couldn’t so much as leave the house without half-expecting to catch a familiar face out of the corner of her eye.

  “I’m accustomed to being on my own.” She gave Berowne an apologetic stroke between the ears. Mollified, he twisted his head so she could scratch under his chin. “And Christmas is really a holiday for children after all.”

  “So it is.” O’Roarke’s gaze followed Colin as he retrieved the ball from a hedge under Jessica’s watchful eyes.

  “Do you have children of your own?” Laura asked.

  “No, I haven’t been so fortunate.” His tone was easy, but she was skilled enough at keeping her own defenses in place to recognize them in others. “So I enjoy the children of my friends.”

  “As do I. That is, of my employers.” She forced her fingers not to tighten on Berowne’s fur again.

  Jessica crawled over to the bench with determination and pulled herself up. A smile broke across O’Roarke’s face. “Well done, Miss Jessica.”

  “Ma,” Jessica announced, and pointed straight up in the air.

  “You don’t say,” O’Roarke said.

  Laura smiled despite herself. “Mrs. Rannoch says she despairs of ever being certain Jessica means her when she says ‘mama’ because she uses it for so many things.”

  Jessica gripped the edge of the bench and bounced on her heels, face screwed up with concentration beneath her red velvet hat.

  O’Roarke reached out and touched her small hand. Again, Laura had the sense he was giving way to impulse against his better judgment. “It’s a big thing, I would think, to hear one’s child say one’s name for the first time.”

  Laura’s throat closed as though she had swallowed hot coals. “Yes,” she said. “I would think so as well.”

  “Malcolm.” Crispin nearly collided with Malcolm in the passage outside the Subscription Room at Brooks’s. “Thank God, I was looking for you. That is, I came here because I couldn’t think where else to go, but you’re just the person I want to see. Can we talk?”

  Crispin’s hair was even more disordered than usual, his face haggard, his gaze dark with confusion. “Of course.” Malcolm took his friend’s arm and steered him into the nearest sitting room. “What’s happened?”

  Crispin took a turn about the room, sat down, ran a hand through his hair, sprang to his feet, sat down again. “Manon’s told me. She said you already knew.” He stared at Malcolm, fear overtaking the confusion in his gaze. “I hope to God she’s right or I’ve just been an unconscionable fool.”

  “I suspected.” Malcolm dragged a shield-back chair over and sat facing his friend. “And you haven’t admitted anything. You’re to be commended.”

  Crispin slumped back and stared at the plaster frieze on the ceiling. “Manon thought—I’m not sure what. That I’d throw her over or something. As if—I mean she was only spying for her country. It’s no more than you’ve done.”

  Malcolm nearly choked. “A novel viewpoint.”

  Crispin’s gaze shifted to Malcolm’s face. “I’ll own the revelations about Father surprised me, but he was spying on his own side. Betraying people he knew.”

  “So you find the thought of betraying strangers easier?”

  “You’re the spy. You tell me.”

  Malcolm swallowed. He felt as though he’d taken a mouthful of burned coffee. “It corrodes either way. But though it shouldn’t be worse with people one knows, of course it is.”

  Crispin nodded. “Manon says I’ll never understand and she wouldn’t want me to. I daresay she’s right. All I need to know is that it doesn’t change the way I feel about her.” He paused, then said as though relishing the words, “I’m going to marry her.”

  “My dear fellow. I’m happy for you.” The words came unbidden. Oddly, as with Addison, Malcolm found he meant it.

  “Shocked?” Crispin straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin. He put Malcolm in mind of a defiant schoolboy.

  “Surprised.”

  Crispin faced him squarely. “Because she’s an actress or because of the other?”

  “Both. One
doesn’t expect—”

  “Gentlemen to marry their mistresses?” Crispin’s mouth twisted. “That’s what Manon says. I’m still trying to talk her into it. But I will. I’d made up my mind to it before I even knew about all this. Now it’s more vital than before. How else can I protect her and the girls?”

  Manon Caret did not strike Malcolm as a woman who would take kindly to the idea of being protected, any more than Suzanne would. “If you want to persuade her, stress protecting the girls.”

  “Yes, that’s what I thought.” Crispin’s fingers tightened on the arms of his chair. “I’m not going to be talked out of it.”

  “Have I tried to talk you out of it?”

  “No.” Crispin sat back in his chair. “I was sure you would.”

  “My dear fellow,” Malcolm said, without planning his words. “I wish you very happy. And I have the greatest admiration for you. You’re a brave man.”

  “I’m a man in love.”

  “Love is an act of bravery.”

  CHAPTER 35

  Colin’s and Jessica’s voices carried on the air as Suzanne approached Berkeley Square. Normalcy. At least their lives were still untouched. Though sooner or later surely they would notice the constraint between their parents. Colin was a sensitive child and sharp-eyed. She was surprised he hadn’t picked up on it already. Still, for the moment, Suzanne could indulge herself in the fantasy that all was as it had been.

  She started across the street to the garden and saw what had been hidden by a tree. A man sitting on the bench beside Laura. All Suzanne could see was the back of a beaver hat and shoulders of a gray greatcoat, but something in the angle of his head was unmistakable. She quickened her steps.

  “Mummy.” Colin ran over to the black metal railing. “Mr. O’Roarke came to see us. Well, to see you, but he played catch with me. And Jessica, she can roll the ball. Wasn’t that splendid of him?”

  “Splendid.” Suzanne put a hand on her son’s head, anchoring herself. “Good day, Mr. O’Roarke.”

  “Mrs. Rannoch.” Raoul lifted his hat.

  “Where’s Daddy?” Colin asked. “Is he Investigating somewhere else?”

  “Just so, darling. He’ll be along in a bit.” Suzanne stepped through the square gate. Jessica crawled over the paving stones and flung her arms round Suzanne’s knees. As Suzanne scooped her up, Malcolm came into view down Hill Street. Suzanne swallowed at the image they must present, she holding Jessica, Colin chattering to Raoul. But after a brief gaze that took in the scene, Malcolm merely said, “O’Roarke. I suppose you have news.”

  “Yes. Forgive me for calling unexpectedly—”

  “No, it’s as well. Let’s go in the house.”

  “Mr. O’Roarke threw a ball with me, Daddy,” Colin announced.

  “Splendid, old chap. Very good of him. I know I haven’t been playing with you as much as I should.”

  Colin’s gaze shot from Malcolm to Raoul. Suzanne realized that her fairy-tale window of the children being deaf and blind to the undercurrents in the house was fast closing.

  They crossed the street to the house and went into the library, just as they had the day Malcolm asked Raoul about his parentage. Three—was it really only three?—days ago. A different world in which Malcolm had been able to turn to her for comfort.

  “I know I’m the last person you want to see just now,” Raoul said.

  Malcolm gave a dry smile. “I think Fouché ranks a bit higher on the list.”

  Raoul’s answering smile was equally dry but had a bit less of an edge. “For once I can say I’m pleased to be outranked by Fouché.”

  Malcolm waved a hand towards the Queen Anne chairs. “Sit down, O’Roarke. We’re still in the midst of an investigation.”

  Raoul dropped into one of the chairs. Suzanne sat on the sofa. Rather to her surprise, Malcolm sat beside her instead of taking the other chair, though not close enough to touch, even accidentally.

  Raoul leaned forwards, fingers tented together. “I think it’s time—probably past time—I told you both what I know about the Elsinore League.”

  “You mean you know as well?” Suzanne asked, startled into speech.

  Raoul’s gaze shot to her. “What do you know?”

  Malcolm looked from her to Raoul. “You mean they were a French spy ring?” he asked, overlapping Raoul’s question.

  “Not according to Jennifer Mansfield.” Suzanne picked her way through Jennifer’s revelations. “She thinks they were a British spy ring.”

  “With two French agents as members?”

  “Malcolm—” She wasn’t going to be able to keep Jennifer’s confidence. But Jennifer herself had seen that. “According to Jennifer, Alistair wasn’t a French spy.”

  “How does she know?”

  It still stuck in Suzanne’s throat to betray someone else’s secrets. “Because the French set her to gather intelligence on Alistair.”

  “She was a good agent,” Raoul said.

  “You knew?” Suzanne asked.

  He nodded. “I knew most French agents. It’s why I could never credit the supposed revelations about Alistair.”

  Malcolm glanced at Raoul, then looked back at Suzanne. “Tell me. Tell me everything she said.”

  Suzanne recounted her exchange with Jennifer Mansfield. “I have to say I believe her when she says that if Alistair were a French agent she’d have found evidence of it,” she concluded.

  Malcolm gave a short laugh. “Her talents ranking considerably higher than mine.”

  “But she was looking for evidence, darling. You had no reason to investigate me.”

  “Very true. I was too blind even to see the need to look for it. If Alistair wasn’t a French spy how do you account for the letters to Harleton?”

  “The references to the Raven are because somehow he knew about me and knew what his daughter-in-law being exposed would do to the family.”

  “Whatever his opinion of his putative son. All right, that makes sense. But when he talked about how they could ruin each other—”

  “I think he was talking about the Elsinore League,” Raoul said.

  Malcolm’s gaze shot back to Raoul. “Was Jennifer Mansfield right? Were they a British spy ring? And if so why do you know when Carfax doesn’t? Although knowing Carfax, he could have simply had his reasons for not telling me.”

  “Very likely,” Raoul said. “But as it happens they are not a British spy ring. Nor are they simply a hellfire club.”

  “Jennifer said she overheard Alistair saying they had to remember what they were fighting for and to whom they owed their allegiance,” Suzanne said. “To whom do they owe their allegiance?”

  Raoul’s mouth curved. “Themselves.”

  “You mean they were driven by self-interest?” Malcolm said. “In the service of what?”

  Raoul sat back in his chair. “I can’t claim to have been privy to the group’s founding. I went to university in Paris, and I wouldn’t have been in their set in any case. But as I understand it, this group of young men joined forces with the aim of working to ensure their mutual benefit.”

  “In politics?” Malcolm asked.

  “In politics. In the army. I think the goal was at first to work within Britain, but some, your fath—Alistair in particular, had ambitions with larger scope. They saw that the world was changing. Like many, they wanted to influence that change. But not in the service of a particular set of beliefs or ruler or even a particular country. The goal of the Elsinore League is to maintain a balance of power on the Continent favorable to the League’s members.”

  Suzanne stared at him and felt Malcolm doing the same. “You’re saying they tried to influence international events to benefit themselves?” Malcolm asked.

  “I’m saying they did.” Raoul crossed one booted foot over the other. “They’re powerful men. They’ve pooled their resources to become even more powerful.” He smoothed a crease from his sleeve. “Did you ever wonder why two astute politicians like Castlereagh and
Canning let things get so far between them that they actually fought a duel and Canning ended up wounded?”

  “The Elsinore League were behind that?” Suzanne asked.

  Malcolm’s mouth tightened. “Father never liked Canning.”

  “In the fallout, Alistair received a cabinet position himself,” Raoul said. “And Dewhurst was able to get funding for his Royalist activities which Canning had been holding up. I’m quite sure the League are also responsible for exacerbating Wellington’s difficulties after his time in India. Wellington’s temper is certainly part of it, but without the League, Richard Wellesley would have been able to get his brother a command in the Peninsula much sooner.”

  “So in that case their interference benefited the French,” Suzanne said.

  “Inadvertently.”

  “And Hugo Cyrus was promoted to general,” Malcolm said.

  “Quite.”

  “How do they do it?” Malcolm asked. “Blackmail?”

  “Frequently. Sometimes more complicated ruses worthy of an intelligence mission. There are enough of them to provide cover for each other, and the one who gets his hands dirty is rarely anywhere close to benefiting from that particular manipulation. They have friends and relatives to protect them. And they’ve made themselves feared.”

  “I wonder if they knew Lord Harleton was a French spy,” Suzanne said.

  “They must have done,” Malcolm said. “Dewhurst suspected him.”

  “I suspect they’d have seen it as an advantage,” Raoul said. “In aiming for a balance of power favorable to their own interests, it would help to have a foot in both camps. Or rather several camps.”

  “Did you know Harleton was a member when you recruited him?” Suzanne asked, before she could think twice.

  “You recruited Harleton?” Malcolm asked Raoul.

  “For my sins. And yes, I suspected he was an Elsinore League member at the time. It was part of why I thought he’d make a doubly interesting asset.”

  Malcolm folded his arms. “So Harleton and my wife shared a spymaster.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Raoul said, “but you could say so. Save that Harleton was purely a source of information, not a field agent. And I never trusted him.”