by Tracy Grant
“I don’t doubt it, Mr. Trevennen.” Mélanie smiled at him. “Were the girls close?”
Trevennen snorted. “Close as Hermia and Helena.”
“I see. Sewing on the same sampler one minute, ready to tear each other’s eyes out the next?”
“Exactly. Do you have sisters, Mrs. Fraser?”
“One younger sister. It can be a complicated relationship.” One would swear Mélanie was telling the truth. Perhaps, Charles realized, she actually was telling the truth. He knew nothing about her real family, save that her father had been an actor and had died when she was fifteen. “Susan hasn’t heard from Helen in the last seven years either?” Mélanie asked.
“Susy hasn’t mentioned Nelly at all for longer than that. They had some sort of falling-out, though neither of them saw fit to explain it to me, and I thought it best to keep well clear. They shared rooms when Susy first came to London. Nelly was at the Drury Lane and Susy was an opera dancer at the Covent Garden. Then they must have quarreled about something or other. Nelly moved to finer rooms and Susy moved to Clerkenwell and neither of them mentioned the other when they came to visit me.”
“Is Miss Susan Trevennen still in Clerkenwell?” Charles asked.
“No.” Trevennen shifted his position in the chair as though he was trying to inch away from something. Falstaff gave way to Desdemona’s deceived father. “I know nothing of Nelly’s life in recent years. What I know of Susan’s I fear has been…unfortunate. A true daughter of the game.”
Charles felt Mélanie go still at this echo of the words she had quoted about herself, but her face betrayed nothing.
Trevennen’s shoulders sank deeper into the chair. “Susan is now employed at the Gilded Lily. In Villiers Street, off the Strand.”
He seemed to think the name would not mean anything to Mélanie. Charles was fairly certain that it did, but he didn’t disabuse Trevennen.
Mélanie got to her feet with a gentle swish of her skirts. Before the men could rise, she dropped down beside Trevennen’s chair and pressed his hand. “Mr. Trevennen. Do you have any idea where Helen went?”
Trevennen looked at her with the air of a man longing to transform himself back into Hotspur or Prince Hal. His pale blue eyes filled with regret at having to disappoint her. For an instant, Charles had a sheer craftsman’s admiration for his wife’s technique. “I’m afraid not,” Trevennen said. “Knowing Nelly, she hasn’t immured herself in some backwater.”
“Did she ever mention any friends, in London or outside of it?”
“Nelly was never one to volunteer information, unless she thought it could get her something, and then the odds were it wouldn’t be truthful.”
Mélanie sat back on her heels. “Did she ever seem afraid of anything? Or anyone?”
“Nelly?” Trevennen threw back his head and gave a rich laugh that echoed off the low ceiling as though it were the rafters of the Drury Lane. “‘Of all base passions, fear is most accurs’d.’ Or so Nelly would have claimed. We Trevennens may be a foolish lot, Mrs. Fraser, but we don’t frighten easily, and Nelly had more courage than my brother and I put together.”
Charles got to his feet. “One last question, Trevennen. Has anyone else asked you about your niece recently?”
“About Nelly?” Trevennen shook his head. “Good God, no. I don’t get many visitors and I doubt most of the people here even remember I have two nieces.”
Charles nodded. “A dark-haired man with a Spanish accent was asking questions about her at the theater. I’d advise you not to talk to him. We have reason to think he doesn’t wish Miss Trevennen well.”
Trevennen squared his shoulders with the dignity of King Lear. “Don’t worry, Fraser. I don’t volunteer information to anyone I don’t care for.”
A light rain was falling when Charles and Mélanie stepped back out onto the gallery. The wind slapped against the stone, bringing a sour smell from the ground below and warning of a more violent storm to come. The gallery was crowded with visitors hurrying home and Marshalsea residents hurrying back to their rooms before the storm hit.
“I take it the Gilded Lily is a brothel,” Mélanie said. The press of the crowd forced her to walk close to Charles, but she hadn’t taken his arm.
“It is.”
“I won’t ask how you know,” she said, as they reached the head of the stairs. “Shall we try it first or—”
She got no farther. Charles, his gaze focused inward, didn’t see what actually happened. One moment Mélanie was speaking. The next, she gave an abrupt cry and fell headlong down the steps to the hard stone below.
Chapter 13
M élanie came to to the feel of rain falling and the brush of fingers against her face.
“Mel.” Her husband’s voice, low and urgent. She opened her eyes and looked into his own. His brows were drawn, his mouth set. He released his breath in a harsh sigh. “Can you sit up?”
“I think so.” She reached back against the rain-slick stone, then winced as a burning pain tore through her side. Charles’s arm came round her or she would have fallen backwards. She felt him stiffen, heard his quick intake of breath. “What is it?” she asked.
“You’re bleeding.” He looked up and spoke more loudly. “My wife has injured herself. I need a quiet room, warm water, bandages.”
A murmur of conversation followed. Mélanie realized a small crowd had gathered at the base of the steps where she was lying. Solicitous hands helped her to her feet. The voices kept fading in and out round her. Her vision blurred, clouded, faded to black, then returned in a burst of color that sent a stab of pain through her head.
Charles’s voice sounded in her ear. “Can you walk?”
“Yes,” she said, because it seemed ridiculous that she could not, but she swayed when she tried to take a step. In the end he half carried her across an alley, through a low doorway, and then through another into a small sitting room. She sank into a worn blue velvet wing chair before the welcome warmth of a fire. She heard Charles say he could tend to his wife himself and then deliver some instructions she couldn’t follow. Her head was spinning and her side burned and she couldn’t seem to stop shivering.
A few moments later, Charles returned carrying a tray with a steaming bowl of water, a stack of cloths, a bottle, and a glass. He dropped down beside her, splashed something into the glass, and put it in her hand. “Drink. It’ll help.”
“What is it?”
“Brandy, supposedly. I wouldn’t swear to the quality.” He cupped his hand round hers and guided the glass to her lips. It tasted as harsh as sandpaper, but its warmth spread through her, and she stopped shaking. She had a memory of him giving her whisky to drink in the Cantabrian Mountains. With that memory came another. She jerked, spilling the brandy. “Charles, we don’t have time for this.”
He put the glass on the floor. “Hold still, Mel. You can’t afford to get killed just now.” He undid the ribbons on her damp, crushed bonnet and set it on the hearth rug to dry. “Can you move your arm? I need to look at the wound.”
She lifted her right arm and gasped at the jolt of pain that ran down her side. “I can’t think what I cut myself on. Was there broken glass?”
“Someone stabbed you. We need to get your pelisse off. Lean forward and I’ll manage the fastenings.”
He unclasped her pelisse and slipped it off her shoulders, unhooked her gown and did the same. Instead of trying to pull her chemise over her head, he ripped the linen in two from shoulder to waist, which was a good thing because it hurt quite damnably to move her arm.
He wrapped a blanket round her shoulders as best he could without covering the wound, then dipped a cloth in the water and pressed it against her side. “How much do you remember?”
Her head had stopped spinning and her senses were flooding back. She could see the black smoke stains on the fireplace tiles, smell the damp and the coal smoke, hear the drip of rain on the roof. The pain was sharper, in her side and her back and her head, but her me
mory had sharpened as well. “I was pushed.”
“So I thought.” He took the cloth away, splashed some brandy on a fresh cloth, and dabbed at the wound. “Did you see who pushed you?”
She winced. The brandy burned as much against her side as it had down her throat. “No. All I remember is a hand on my back and then pain and falling. I didn’t realize I’d been knifed. But it couldn’t have been an accident or a robbery attempt. Whoever it was didn’t grab for my reticule and in any case it would be silly to—”
She sucked in her breath. White-hot pain closed her throat.
“Sorry,” Charles said. “Almost done.” He put the brandy glass into her free hand.
She took another long sip. “In any case, it would be silly to stab someone when all you wanted to do was steal her purse.”
“Very silly.” He pressed a clean pad of linen against her side. “Hold that, will you? No, there’s no doubt the attack was deliberate. Someone doesn’t want us to find the ring.”
She set the brandy glass on the arm of the chair and held the makeshift bandage in place with her left hand. “Iago Lorano hasn’t been to see Mr. Trevennen. You’d think he would have if he knew Helen Trevennen had an uncle in the Marshalsea.”
Charles unwound a long strip of linen and wrapped it round her chest to hold the bandage in place. “Suppose Lorano paid someone at the Drury Lane to send word to him if anyone appeared inquiring about Miss Trevennen.”
Mélanie forced her mind to focus. Her head had a tiresome tendency to throb. “And this same person overheard you direct Randall to the Marshalsea? He sent word to Lorano, Lorano rushed to the Marshalsea, lingered outside Trevennen’s rooms, and then knifed me. Or else hired someone else to do it while we were with Trevennen.” She calculated the time. “It’s possible. Just.”
Charles tied the linen into a smooth knot. “He might see it as a way to delay us while he picks up the trail of the ring himself.”
“In which case he’ll be talking to Trevennen right now.” She gripped the threadbare arms of the chair. “Charles!”
“Sit down, Mel.” He drew the ruined remnants of the chemise about her with gentle fingers. “I have a lad keeping watch on Trevennen’s rooms. He’ll let us know if Lorano appears. Though if Lorano’s got a grain of sense—which is debatable—he’ll wait until we’re out of the prison. Let’s get your dress back on before you catch a chill.”
She struggled back into the dress, or rather he pulled it back over her shoulders. “How hard is it to breathe?” he asked as he did up the hooks.
She started to draw a deep breath to prove she could do so, then thought better of it. “Not very.”
“Surely you can lie more adroitly than that. You may have cracked a rib, I couldn’t tell for sure. The wound’s long, but not too deep, and it didn’t hit anything vital.”
A knock sounded at the door. Charles went to open it. A woman’s voice, cheerful and with a faint Yorkshire accent, said, “I made you some tea and sandwiches, Mr. Fraser. Is your poor lady recovered? Are you sure we shouldn’t send for a doctor?”
“I don’t think that will be necessary, thank you. But the refreshment is much appreciated.”
“Never you mind that, Mr. Fraser. We don’t get much company, not since my poor husband lost everything on the Exchange after Waterloo. Even the children don’t come above once a quarter. It’s a treat to have someone to fuss over.”
Charles came back into the room, carrying a second tray, this one bearing a chipped cream lustre tea service and a plate of sandwiches. Mélanie started to protest, but the part of her mind that had learned to survive at all costs reasserted itself. Neither of them had had anything to eat since the lobster patties at the Esterhazys’ sometime before three in the morning. It was now the middle of the afternoon and God knew when they would have a chance to eat again. They needed sustenance if they were to keep going, and for Colin’s sake they had to keep going. She pulled off her gloves, accepted the cup of tea Charles held out to her, and bit into a salty fish paste sandwich.
Charles walked to the fireplace, teacup in one hand, sandwich in the other. “There’s another possibility,” he said, as though there’d been no pause in the conversation. He set his teacup on the mantel and looked at her. “Your friend O’Roarke may have decided it’s safer to eliminate us than to risk the chance that we’ll tell Carevalo he was once a French agent.”
She straightened up, so suddenly that the tea spattered into the saucer and pain slashed through her side. “No.”
“Damn it, Mel.” Charles slammed his hand down on the mantel, sending a bit of cracked plaster into the grate. “Just because you made the beast with two backs with the man doesn’t mean you know him, any more than I know you.”
She forced a mouthful of the strong, bitter tea down her throat. “Sleeping with him is the least of it, Charles. And don’t assume you don’t know me just because you weren’t aware of all my activities.”
He picked up his cup with whitened fingers, but didn’t drink. “I’m not assuming. I’m stating a fact. The woman I thought I knew, the woman I married, the woman I—loved—wouldn’t have done the things you’ve told me you’ve done. O’Roarke may not be the person you think he is, either.”
She cupped her hands round the warmth of the teacup. “Raoul’s capable of a lot. I expect he’d be capable of killing me, if the stakes were high enough. He might even be capable of sacrificing Colin. But not simply to protect himself from Carevalo.”
“No?” Charles’s eyes were chips of gray ice. “If Carevalo learned the truth about O’Roarke, he’d probably kill him. He could certainly ruin him in Spain, with the royalists and the liberals alike.”
“But Raoul would never act out of fear of a man like Carevalo. He’s much too proud. He’d be sure he could outwit him. Besides, I told you he has his own code. If he did sacrifice me or Colin—or anyone else—it wouldn’t be simply to save his own skin. He’d never—”
“For God’s sake, Mélanie. Have you forgotten how to think?”
Given the value Charles placed on intellect, it was just about the most scathing thing he might have said to her. “It’s not a question of thinking, darling, it’s—”
“Stop it, Mel. Stop sounding so damned all-knowing.” He stalked across the room, then whirled to face her. She could see the urge to destroy something in his eyes. “You may have run rings round me for seven years, but you don’t understand what the hell’s happening now any more than I do. It’s criminal folly to pretend otherwise. If you’d been thinking about Colin from the first—”
“I wouldn’t have married you. I’d have turned my back on anything that smacked of espionage and devoted myself to my child.” She flung the words at him. “I’m no bloody Madonna, Charles.”
“No, by God you aren’t.” He stared down at her, his face white with anger. “You lied to me from the moment we met, you used your son to get me to marry you, you betrayed our friends. You played me like a damned pianoforte—with, I’ll grant you, every bit as much skill as you show at the keys. If you owe me nothing else now, you owe me honesty. If you’d been honest with me sooner—”
“Then Colin might not have been taken?” She gave herself the sharpest cut before he could do so.
“If I’d known the French—if I’d known your people never got the ring, I’d have taken Carevalo’s threats more seriously.”
“If you’d told me Carevalo was demanding the ring—”
“Yes? What then?” His voice battered the stone walls. “You’d have told me the truth about your past?”
“How can I know—” Shame washed over her in a cold deluge. “No, probably not. I was too afraid of losing you.”
“I hadn’t realized you valued me so highly. How can you lose what you only had under false pretenses?”
She set her cup down with a clatter. “This isn’t about what’s between you and me, Charles. I know you must be fearfully jealous of Raoul—”
“Jealous? You give your
self too much credit, madam. I can’t feel anything for you anymore. Why should I care what you feel for another man?”
“Whatever I felt for Raoul—”
“Don’t.” The word was like a hand slammed across her mouth. “I don’t want to know. When this is over the two of you can run off to Spain or Ireland or South America and plot revolutions to your hearts’ content. But meanwhile, don’t think I’m going to stand by if he’s trying to kill us.”
“Charles, if Raoul was behind the attack—”
“You’d deny it even as he stuck the knife in your ribs. The man’s obviously bewitched you.”
“Damn you, Charles, don’t you dare shrug off what I did as romantic infatuation.” She gripped the arms of her chair, heedless of the pain in her side. “Call me whatever names you like, but at least credit me with the wit to make decisions for myself. Do you think I’d have run the risks I’ve run and blackened my soul simply for the love of a man?”
“Hardly. I’d be shocked you know the meaning of the word.”
“Five minutes ago you said you didn’t know me at all.”
“I know love doesn’t act the way you’ve acted.”
“Charles, you can’t—”
“Can’t what? You’re not in any position to dictate to me, madam.”
“If you can’t be rational—”
“Who the hell are you to talk? If you’d thought anything through, if you’d had a scrap of sheer common sense, decency and honor aside—”
