by Tracy Grant
Charles tapped his fingers on the damask tablecloth. “I suspect she went to see him but didn’t tell him she was leaving London. Because she wanted the visit to appear perfectly ordinary.”
Edgar leaned forward. “I say, Charles.”
“What better hiding place than a debtor’s prison?” Charles said. “She knew there was little chance of her uncle leaving.” He pushed back his chair. “Mr. Moore, thank you. This may prove invaluable.”
“Oh, of course. Glad to help.” Moore seemed to have quite forgotten his earlier mistrust of them. But then this was a man who had been able to forgive and forget all too easily with Helen Trevennen.
“Is there anything else?” Mélanie asked, looking into his eyes. “Any other detail you can remember about the last time you saw her, even if it seems insignificant?”
Moore ran his fingers down the stem of his champagne glass. “No. I’m afraid not. Except…” He scratched his head. “I told you I didn’t ask if she was going off with another man. That’s not strictly true, though I don’t like to remember it. I did ask in the end. Couldn’t help myself. Nelly just laughed and said, ‘Not exactly. But I’ll be well taken care of, thanks to poor Tom.’”
“Tom? Do you know who that was?”
“Haven’t the faintest idea. Probably just one of Nelly’s jokes. I never knew when she was being serious or when she was funning.”
Mélanie pressed his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Moore. My husband is right. Your help has been invaluable.”
“We can’t get into the Marshalsea at this hour,” Edgar said as they descended the stairs. “The gates will be locked until morning.”
“The gates will be locked, but we’ll manage to get in.”
“Christ, Charles, you aren’t going to break into a prison?”
“Only as a last resort. I’m going to pull rank as I never have before.”
They had reached the street. “Should we travel separately?” Edgar asked as Charles hailed a hackney.
“Now?” Charles said. “Velasquez is in no fit state to follow us. I admit it’s possible there’s someone else after the ring, but I’m more concerned with not wasting time.”
The streets round the docks were relatively free of traffic at this hour, but the drive to Southwark still seemed to take far too long. The porter at the Marshalsea was disinclined to let anyone in or even listen to their story. It took a quarter hour to persuade him to show them into a small, airless sitting room and summon the jailer and another quarter hour for the jailer to appear. Charles, in his most biting tones, proceeded to invoke the names of his ducal grandfather, the Foreign Secretary, the Prime Minister, and the Leader of the Opposition. Mélanie contributed the most winning smile she could muster and a discreet display of the clocks embroidered on her silk-stockinged ankles.
At length, they were escorted down a passageway to another room, given a lantern, and set free to seek out Hugo Trevennen.
“I say,” the jailer exclaimed. “What’s become of the other gentleman?”
What indeed. Mélanie realized she hadn’t seen Edgar since they’d left the sitting room.
“I daresay we’ll find him,” Charles said. “Very enterprising of Edgar,” he murmured to her as they started down the walkway. “He’s either learning from us or being corrupted by us, depending on one’s view.”
The walkways that had been full of activity yesterday afternoon were dark and still. Light shone behind a few windows and occasionally voices drifted through the glass, but for the most part the Marshalsea had settled down for the night.
Charles knocked once on Hugo Trevennen’s door, turned the knob, and walked in without waiting for a reply. “Trevennen? Edgar?”
The smell of tallow candles hung in the air. The wavering light made shadows out of the cracks in the wallpaper and bounced off the grimy glass that covered the theatrical prints. Trevennen stood in the center of the room, wrapped in a brocade dressing gown, eyes wide with amazement. Edgar was in front of the fireplace. He held one of the fireplace tiles in his left hand. With his right hand, he was reaching into a gap where the tile had stood.
Mélanie froze and felt Charles do the same. Trevennen started, turned round, gave a smile, and broke the wax-thick silence. “‘But soft, the fair Ophelia.’”
Edgar swung his head round.
“For God’s sake, Edgar.” Charles strode across the room. “What have you found?”
Edgar withdrew his hand from the aperture, clutching a handful of papers. Mélanie hurried after Charles. Edgar glanced up at them, then unwrapped the papers without speaking. The tallow light caught the glint of gold. Mélanie felt a film of sweat break out on her forehead.
Charles reached into the paper wrappings. He lifted out an oval pendant set with carnelians. No lion, no rubies, no ring. Disappointment rushed through her, leaving her dizzy.
Charles had gone completely still. For a moment, his gaze met Edgar’s. Some sort of silent communication passed between them that she could not begin to fathom.
Charles turned the pendant in his hand. Mélanie started to speak, then checked herself. Charles ran his fingers over the pendant and pressed two of the carnelians. The front of the pendant fell open, revealing a small pocket. Nestled within that pocket was the gleam of darker gold and a bloodred glow that could only be rubies.
Charles lifted it out. A circle of gold and a lion’s head with ruby eyes.
Chapter 32
F or a moment, all Mélanie could do was stare. The ring shimmered before her. The ring Princess Aysha had commissioned for her husband or her secret lover. The ring Ramón de Carevalo had taken as plunder or received as a gift of love. The ring that had been the cause of victory and betrayal and murder. The gold had a luminous sheen, perhaps because of its age or the fineness of the metalwork or perhaps because one saw it through layers of history.
Mélanie put her fingers to the cold metal to be sure it was really there. She looked into Charles’s eyes and saw a relief so profound it could not be put into words. For all that the ring had been coveted throughout the centuries, surely no one could have valued it as much as they did in this moment.
Edgar wadded up the paper wrappings and tossed them onto the fire.
“I take it you’ve found what you needed?” Trevennen said.
“Yes,” Charles said. “Oh, yes.”
“And to think I never knew it was there. Extraordinary. But why on earth did she think it necessary to hide it? The necklace is a pretty thing and the ring might have fetched her a tidy sum.”
“We may never know.” Charles unhooked his watch chain, strung the ring on it, and rehooked it.
Trevennen shook his head. “Nelly always was one for freakish starts. But I would never expect her to hide away something of value. She didn’t exactly agree with the Bard that ‘The purest treasure mortal times afford / Is spotless reputation.’ Quite the reverse, in fact.”
Edgar didn’t speak until they were back in the hackney. “I don’t believe it,” he said then. His voice was faint, as though he was still in shock. “To own the truth, I don’t think I really believed you’d find it.”
“You found it, brother,” Charles said.
“Only because I was there first.” Edgar’s voice shook with the remnants of disbelief. “So we now have to wait until morning to place an advertisement in the Morning Chronicle and then wait on Carevalo?”
“Damnable, I know. But I don’t think Carevalo will want to wait any more than we do. We should hear from him early tomorrow.”
“Will he give Colin back?”
Charles was silent for the distance between two street lamps. “He’ll agree to meet us. We’ll make sure he gives Colin back.”
Mélanie rubbed her hands over the velvet of her cloak. Her palms were damp. The first euphoric rush of the ring’s discovery had faded. The constant need to think and plan was gone, leaving a hollow void inside her. All the fears she had forced herself to hold at bay during the search crowded into that voi
d.
Her legs felt unsteady beneath her as they climbed the front steps in Berkeley Square. Her arms quivered, as they did after she’d carried Jessica back from a long walk. She was conscious of aches in her muscles that she hadn’t been aware of before.
“Mr. O’Roarke arrived a short time ago,” Michael told them as he took their cloaks. “He’s in the library.”
They hurried into the library. Raoul was standing over the chessboard, a pawn in one hand. “Mélanie. Fraser. You’ll forgive me, but—” He scanned their faces. “You’ve found it?”
Charles paused just beyond the threshold. One gray gaze met another. In that moment, Mélanie thought that she was a fool not to have seen long since that they were father and son. Charles unhooked his watch chain and held out the ring.
Raoul stared at it. “My compliments.”
“It was Mélanie who steered us in the right direction, and Edgar who actually found it. You remember my brother?”
“Captain Fraser.” Raoul inclined his head.
Edgar returned the gesture with a stiff nod. “O’Roarke.”
Raoul’s gaze turned back to the ring. “I always thought all the fuss about a bit of gold and gems was foolish. Yet it does have a certain power, if only because so many generations have endowed it with that power. Where was it?”
Charles returned the ring to his watch chain. “In her uncle’s rooms in the Marshalsea.”
Raoul lifted his brows. “Remarkable. But why hide it?”
“Insurance against a bleak future, perhaps?” Charles said. “The truth is, we don’t know and perhaps never will.”
Mélanie walked into the room. “Why are you here, Raoul?” Belatedly, she remembered Edgar’s presence and realized she should have said “Mr. O’Roarke.”
Raoul set the pawn back on its black square on the chessboard. “I know where Carevalo is.”
Mélanie was at his side in an instant. “What?”
Raoul squeezed her fingers and detached her hand from his sleeve, a warning in his eyes. “Earlier today—yesterday, strictly speaking—I attempted to trace a lady of Carevalo’s acquaintance who plies her wares in Soho. She goes by the name of Corinthian Nan. She has no permanent address, so it was difficult to track her down, but I left numerous messages with offers of a generous reward. She arrived at my hotel shortly after you left tonight.”
Charles closed the distance between them. “She’d seen Carevalo?”
“Not for several days. But apparently he talks to her more than to anyone else—perhaps he feels free to do so because she’s so far removed from the circles in which any of us move. He seems to have enjoyed boasting to her about his other conquests, which is about the level of finesse one could expect from Carevalo in the bedchamber. According to Corinthian Nan, Carevalo’s been much preoccupied with a Mrs. Grafton, who possesses a convenient Thames-side villa in Chiswick to which she can escape while business keeps her husband in town. The villa is kept shut up, except when the family go there in the summer. Mrs. Grafton even gave Carevalo a set of keys—he showed them to Corinthian Nan as a boast of his powers.”
Charles frowned. “That doesn’t prove—”
“No. But after Nan left, I turned to last week’s editions of the Morning Chronicle—I had sent out for them earlier, thinking they might be of help. Which they were. According to that estimable paper, Mr. and Mrs. Grafton departed for Paris on Friday last. Leaving a conveniently empty house in Chiswick to which Carevalo possesses keys. I was going to wait for you another quarter hour, then set off for Chiswick myself.”
Charles nodded. “It’s not conclusive, but it’s definitely worth investigating.”
Edgar stared at Raoul from beneath drawn brows. “You’re being very generous with your help, O’Roarke.”
Raoul turned his gaze to him. “My dear Captain Fraser.” His voice was gentle. “The boy is my grandson.”
Edgar flushed and lowered his gaze.
Charles paced the carpet. “If you involve yourself, Carevalo will know you’re working with us.”
Raoul’s mouth tightened. “At the moment that seems of little concern. I find I’m rather averse to the idea of Carevalo surviving this business.”
Charles met his gaze with the force of one sword striking another. “We get Colin back before we even think of vengeance.”
“That goes without saying. I think we can safely take one of your carriages. There seems little risk of being followed.”
Mélanie saw Charles bridle at the word “we,” consider the value of help, and come to a decision. “I’ll order the carriage. We can leave in a quarter hour.”
“We’ll need to reload the pistols,” Edgar said. “I’ll fetch dry powder. You still keep it in your study?”
The Fraser brothers strode from the room. The heavy doors closed. Mélanie found herself alone with her former lover.
She felt his gaze on her. He could read her like no one else—except Charles, which was odd, as she’d kept so much from Charles. “Are you going to be all right, querida?” His voice had that cashmere softness that was so rare and so devastating.
She walked to the fireplace, arms wrapped round herself. “If we get Colin back, the rest of it doesn’t matter.”
He followed her with his gaze. “I don’t think even you believe that’s true, Mélanie. Getting Colin back of course comes before everything else, but I think your life with Charles matters very much to you.”
“Thank you, Raoul.” Her voice was so dry it cut. “I must be getting very slow. I keep forgetting that you know me better than I know myself.”
“Never that. But I may on occasion see things you miss.” He regarded her, his head tilted to one side. “It strikes me that Charles’s capacity for forgiveness and understanding is remarkable.”
Charles’s face, when the full realization of her betrayal had broken on him, was imprinted on her memory like a battle scar. “Some things are beyond forgiveness, Raoul.”
He wandered back to the chessboard and stared down at it. “Like marrying your mistress to your son?”
She watched him, the graceful hands, the loose, elegant limbs, the face that could hide more than that of any man she knew. “Among other things.”
“Most of which, no doubt, I’ve done in my life.” He picked up a knight and moved it. “Who was playing white, you or Charles?”
“I was.”
He reached for a rook and paused with the crenellated top between his fingers. “He had you quite neatly boxed in. You saw a way out?”
She stared at the board. Memory of that two-day-old game returned like the plot of some long-forgotten play. “I was going to use the pawn on the far left to block his bishop, then bring up the rook to put him in check.”
“Yes, that’s what I would have done myself. He could protect his king, but you’d have him on the run.”
She watched his elegant fingers hover over the board. Memories coursed through her with unexpected strength. Fingers brushing her cheek as she drifted into sleep. A steady hand teaching her how to fire a pistol and wield a knife. The glow of cannon fire reflected in his eyes. The feel of his hands tossing her into the saddle. The knowledge that only he could understand the way their work corroded the soul. The rush of one mind meeting another, as sweet as a caress, as intoxicating as champagne. “I knew you used me,” she said, “like you used everyone else. But I thought you were honest about it.”
He moved her rook to the attack, then moved one of Charles’s knights to protect his king. “If I’d told you Charles is my son, would you have made a different choice?”
She bit back an angry retort and forced herself to consider. “I don’t know. But I should have been able to decide for myself.”
He turned from the chessboard and looked her in the face. “Are you sorry you’re married to him?”
“Not for myself. But we did an unforgivable thing to him, Raoul. I don’t expect him ever to trust me again. I only hope he doesn’t lose his ability to trust at al
l.”
“Charles is too sensible a man to do that.”
“He has as many scars as the rest of us. Perhaps more. He’s just adept at hiding them.” She looked into his steady gray eyes. A painful truth burst from her lips. “Oh, God, Raoul, I probably would have married him even if I’d known he was your son. Part of me couldn’t resist the opportunity. Not just for liberty or the future of Spain. For the sheer challenge of it. What could be more difficult? To deceive my own husband.” And not just any husband. A man with whom she seemed to share her soul. With whom she did share her soul. “It was my greatest role.”
“And you played it superbly.”
“Because, as in all good performances, I found the truth within it. I learned to love Charles and that made it easier to betray him. You taught me well.”
Instead of meeting the challenge in her eyes, his gaze softened, most unfairly. “Even if Charles can forgive you, can you ever forgive yourself?”
“I don’t know.” She swallowed, aware of a bitter, empty place deep inside her. “I’ve long since faced the fact that much of what we did was unforgivable.”
He looked down at the chessboard again, the pieces frozen in the midst of plot and counterplot. “Betrayal has such a black-and-white sound, doesn’t it?” His fingers drifted over the squares of the chessboard. “But like most things, it really isn’t anything of the sort. Betrayal of a country, an ideal, a lover, a spouse, a friend. It’s often impossible to be loyal to all. Which loyalty comes first?”
She glanced at the Siena marble table, the Aubusson carpet, the silver candlesticks, the intricate fretwork on the walls. “I claim to believe in liberty, equality, and fraternity. And I live here.”
“A point. Though judging by those of Charles’s speeches I’ve read, his political ideals are remarkably similar to yours. Or mine, for that matter.”
“That’s true. And he wouldn’t let them be compromised by the challenge of a game.”
“He moves in a different world than we did. He plays within the system, which can be damnably difficult when the system itself is corrupt.”
