by Tracy Grant
Isobel gave a wry smile. She was impeccably gowned in pale blue crêpe, her thick fair hair swept into a smooth knot, but strain showed between her brows and about her eyes. "Oliver says I worry too much. I haven't got your wonderful sangfroid when it comes to entertaining, Suzanne."
Suzanne put an arm round her friend. "Meaning you still have illusions that perfection is possible, whereas I've long since accepted that it isn't. The trick is not minding when something goes wrong."
Isobel shook her head, dislodging a strand of her straight hair. "So says the woman who gives the most exquisite parties in Mayfair. But as Oliver said to me when we left for the theatre, we're as ready as we're going to be, so there's no sense in staying home and being nervous. Not that we'd miss Simon's opening." She turned her gaze to Laura. "You are coming tomorrow, aren't you, Laura?"
"I promised Ellie and Billy and Rose I would, so I can't very well back out now."
"Thank goodness for my children's powers of persuasion. You know Billy still tells everyone who'll listen that he's going to marry you."
Laura laughed. Isobel had always treated her more like a friend than a governess, and Laura seemed more at ease with her than with many of the mothers she'd known in her governess days. "I thought Billy had transferred his attentions to Emily."
"He'll probably have to fight Colin for her if he does," Suzanne murmured.
Laura shook her head. "Amazing what—Simon." Her face broke into a smile as Simon approached them. "The production is quite splendid. I'm intrigued to see how you handle the ending."
Simon grinned. "Brandon accused me of going soft in rehearsals."
"So you see Isabella accepting the duke's proposal?" Suzanne asked. At one time she'd have disagreed with that ending. Now she found she rather hoped for it.
"I think so. On her own terms."
"She's a fortunate woman if she can dictate them," Isobel said.
"I think the events of the play teach her that she can't hide from the world," Laura said. "And—Oh, there are James and Hetty. I should speak with them."
Laura moved off, head held high, to speak with her brother-in-law and sister-in-law. Isobel's attention was claimed by Emily Cowper. Suzanne turned back to Simon, who had retrieved two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter. "Isabella will be able to do a lot as a duchess," Suzanne said, accepting one of the glasses. "And I've always thought—well, since I had Colin—that seeing her brother and Julietta's baby makes her want children."
Simon gave a wry smile. "There is that. I suppose children are on my mind these days."
Suzanne studied him. They'd had less chance for private conversation in the months since he and David had taken the children. Usually both their children were with them, even when other adults weren't. "It's quite an adjustment, adding children to a relationship. And you and David have started with four."
Simon dug his shoulder into the gilded paneling of the wall behind them. "In some ways we're closer than ever. In others it seems we barely talk anymore."
"Parenthood can do that to you. You exchange greetings over the nursery breakfast or pass a crying child back and forth."
"Yes. But—" Simon drew a breath.
Suzanne searched her friend's face. "It's different because they don't seem like your children?"
Simon lifted his glass and contemplated the bubbles. "In some ways I'm amazed at how much they do. How naturally Jamie snuggles in. How I find myself thinking about them during rehearsal. How hard it is to remember a time when we didn't have them. But—" He hesitated again. "David can be clear about his commitment to them. Can say they have a home with him forever. All I can say is that I'm their uncle's friend."
"Your commitment to David gives you a commitment to them."
"Difficult to articulate that to the children when I can't articulate my relationship to David to them. And—" His eyes darkened. As steadfast as his commitment to David and David's to him—Suzanne knew few married couples with relationships as deep and enduring—Suzanne knew that Simon worried what the pressures of David's role as future Earl Carfax would do to the bond between them. She'd never heard him quite articulate it—as though he feared to put it into words. That he'd come close as he had to doing so was a sign, she thought, of the level of trust between them.
"I can't tell you how often I've envied how at ease you and David are with each other," Suzanne said. A truth she wouldn't speak to many.
Simon's mouth twisted. "That's the years."
"Those years are what go to make up a marriage. Because that's what you have, you know."
"Not in the eyes of the world. Or David's family. Or most of our acquaintance."
"Surely it's what it means in your and David's eyes that matters."
Simon met her gaze. It was one of those moments when she was sure he saw more about her than she'd confessed to him. More perhaps than was safe for either of them. "You can't really believe that, Suzie mine. You can't really believe two lovers can exist in a soap bubble. Or even if lovers could, parents certainly can't."
She laid a hand on his arm. "Of course the world touches all of us. But it doesn't have to define us or our options."
"It's not my options I'm thinking about. It's David's." Simon drew a breath. "Having children brought you and Malcolm together. I saw that. Much as I love them, the children remind David of all the reasons we can't be together."
"They'll sort it out for themselves. They'll understand."
"You think so? Why on earth should they be different from so much of the rest of the world?'
"Because the two of you are raising them."
Simon gave a faint smile. "A good answer. Though you may be putting too much faith in our childrearing skills. Not but what getting Teddy out of Harrow would be a step in the right direction."
Bertrand joined them to offer his congratulations to Simon with every appearance of being no more than an enthusiastic theatregoer. But when Simon moved off to speak to Sir Horace Smytheton, one of the Tavistock's chief patrons, Bertrand turned to Suzanne, his posture still easy but his gaze gone serious. "I haven't been able to find a trace of Germont. He's vanished with the skill of a more seasoned agent than he appeared to be."
"Do you think he could have met with foul play?" Suzanne remembered the fear and urgency in Louis Germont's fever-wracked voice.
"Only if whoever attacked him covered their tracks exceedingly well."
Suzanne bit back a cry of frustration. A visit today to Sancho had merely given her a vague description of an anonymous-sounding man, fairly obviously in disguise, who had sought Sancho out with news of the Phoenix plot.
Bertrand took a sip of champagne and gave a smile intended for the benefit of anyone observing him. "I did talk to someone who knew him in France. Apparently Germont's mother was the daughter of a minor French aristocrat who married into the bourgeoisie. My contact couldn't remember the family name, but he thought Germont had an uncle or aunt who might have escaped France during the Terror and settled in Austria or possibly England."
"He didn't mention them to you?"
"No, but there's obviously a great deal he didn't mention to me."
"So he could have sought refuge with his family in Britain."
"Potentially, though it sounds as though he hadn't been in contact with them for years. I'll make inquiries in the émigré community."
Suzanne drew a breath. "If only we'd—"
Bertrand gripped her wrist. "I know. But it does no good to refine upon it. And whatever's driving Germont, he made his own choice to leave."
Chapter 14
"Mrs. Rannoch."
Bertrand had moved off, and Suzanne found herself smiling into the handsome face of Auguste-Charles-Joseph, Comte de Flahaut. "Monsieur Flahaut. It's been too long."
Except for greetings exchanged in groups at large entertainments, she and Flahaut had not spoken since her ball in April, when Suzanne had given him a letter from Hortense Bonaparte, his former longtime lover. Seven years ago,
Suzanne had helped Hortense through the secret birth of her child by Flahaut, who now lived with Flahaut's mother.
Flahaut himself had fought for Napoleon at Waterloo and had sought refuge in England after the Bourbon Restoration. He was making every effort not to let his past intrude on the refuge he had found here, particularly his marriage to the Scottish heiress Margaret Mercer Elphinstone. The fact that he had sought Suzanne out and the concern she saw in his gaze sent a frisson of fear through her.
"A man stopped me yesterday morning when I was walking alone by the Serpentine," he said, his voice pitched for her ears alone. "I could scarcely credit—"
"Let me guess," Suzanne said, keeping her voice level. "It was something about mythical birds that rise from the ashes."
Fear shot into his gaze, the gaze of a man who had faced countless battles. "Oh, God. Are you—"
"I've only heard rumors. No one's even approached me. And I'm certainly not involved."
Some of the tension left Flahaut's shoulders. "I couldn't. My life is here now." His gaze shot across the salon to his wife, standing with Emily Cowper and Rupert Caruthers. "Even a whisper of involvement—"
"I know," Suzanne said.
"And yet, if there were a chance—" Conflicting loyalties tore at his face.
"I know," she said again, in a different tone.
"So much honor lost."
"You fought honorably. You have nothing to reproach yourself with." Suzanne might not believe in honor, but she knew what it meant to Flahaut.
"My life changed that day." Flahaut's hands clenched at his sides, as though involuntarily. "I can't go back."
"We none of us can."
He cast a quick glance round the salon again, looked at his wife for a moment, took in Carfax talking to Malcolm, looked back at Suzanne. "Who? Who is behind it?"
"I don't know," Suzanne said. "Yet. This man who approached you—did he give a name?"
"He said it was Moreau. But I very much doubt he was telling the truth."
"What did he look like?"
Flahaut frowned as though in an effort of memory. "Late thirties or early forties. Brown hair. Middling height. Not heavy but not particularly lean. Brown eyes. Or perhaps gray. Or even blue. I kept thinking there was something familiar about him, but I couldn't place him."
"The perfect spy."
"You've never been anonymous."
"Perhaps not. But I was always good at blending into a role."
Flahaut shook his head. "Talleyrand would be horrified." Prince Talleyrand, who had been Flahaut's mother's lover and was Flahaut's true father, had helped Flahaut escape to England after Waterloo. "Unless—" Flahaut broke off, unvoiced questions racing through his eyes.
"No," Suzanne said. "Talleyrand wouldn't."
"Can you really be sure of that?"
Suzanne drew a breath that was not as even as she would have liked. She thought of Talleyrand, out of power, living in semi-retirement with her friend, Dorothée. Doro's letters made him sound happy. But would a man like Talleyrand ever truly stop scheming? "As sure as I can be of anything when it comes to Talleyrand."
"Precisely." Flahaut watched her a moment. She could swear he was seeing into the past, and then into the possible future. "One way or another, this is bound to involve people we know. If it unravels—It could connect back to us in any case."
That, Suzanne knew, was a very real risk. But she managed the brightest smile she could. "All the more reason to find out whatever we can."
"Malcolm."
The sight of Carfax brought Malcolm up short. "I didn't expect to find you here, sir."
"I may not always have time for the theatre, but I find it agreeable enough. And given the interest my son takes in this theatre, I thought the least I could do is put in an appearance."
"I don't imagine you think much of the play's commentary on government. In fact if it was a contemporary play, I imagine you might have the censor shut it down."
"The censor doesn't work for me, Malcolm. Though I must say the duke in the play seems to have let matters get sadly out of control. And having done so, turning the city over to a man like Angelo is hardly the solution. Still, one must make allowances for Shakespeare." His gaze settled on Malcolm's face. "What have you learned?"
"Was Craven keeping papers for you?"
Carfax's fingers froze adjusting his spectacle wires. "What have you learned?" he said again, voice sharper.
"Nothing conclusive. I take it that's a no?"
"What kind of idiot do you take me for? I may make my share of mistakes, but I knew better than to entrust anything of value to a man like Craven."
"And I don't suppose you had Suzanne grabbed at gunpoint last night and the pair of us threatened if we didn't leave off the Whateley & Company investigation?"
Carfax's brows snapped together. "Suzanne's all right?"
"Suzanne's fine. She freed herself with more daring than sense."
Carfax gave a faint smile. "I'd hardly have tasked you with the investigation and then tried to warn you off."
"Not unless you were playing a very deep game indeed." Which sounded entirely like Carfax. "Roth's identified the dead man. A former soldier named Ben Coventry."
Carfax gave a nod, as though his mind was elsewhere. "I don't suppose it really matters much."
"No?" Malcolm asked, remembering Sue Kettering.
"He was just hired for the job. Collateral damage."
"I think I must be growing up," Cordelia said. "I find the intrigue on stage much more interesting than the intrigue in the salon."
Laura smiled at her friend. "I was just saying something of the sort. Though it was good to see James and Hetty." It never failed to amaze her how genuinely kind her brother-in-law was compared to her late husband.
Cordelia scanned the salon." I don't suppose there's much we can do to further the investigation."
"For once, a lot of the investigation is outside the beau monde," Suzanne said. "Though Malcolm is talking to Carfax. Oh, there's Harry."
Harry Davenport was crossing the drawing room towards them, a man at his side in dress uniform. A tall man with tanned skin, finely sculpted features, and hair that gleamed golden in the candlelight. Laura went still, her blood turned to ice, as she stared at her past approaching through the ranks of well-dressed guests.
"Cordy," Harry said with a grin. "Suzanne. Laura. May I present Lieutenant-Colonel William Cuthbertson? We served together in the Peninsula. Though I don't think he needs presenting to Laura."
Will inclined his head to the three ladies with faultless politeness, but his gaze lingered on Laura.
"Colonel Cuthbertson." Laura gave him her hand with an automatic smile.
"Lady Tarrington." Will pressed her hand to his lips, very correctly, but just a shade longer than was necessary.
She heard the others exchange introductions, though she could scarcely follow the words. A few minutes later the Davenports moved off to speak to Crispin Harleton. Suzanne lingered, her gaze going to Laura. Laura sent her friend a silent assent. She was going to have to talk to Will alone at some point. It wasn't so much that she didn't want to as that it stirred feelings and memories she wasn't sure she was ready to face.
"I could scarcely believe it," Will murmured when Suzanne moved off, his voice in an entirely different key. "Dear God, Jane, if you knew—But I understand you prefer to be called Laura now."
"I answer to both. But I've been Laura so long it seems more natural in some ways."
His gaze moved over her face as though seeking something he'd lost. She'd got used to people looking at her that way—her father, her stepmother, other friends and acquaintances. But only her father had come as close to scraping beneath her defenses as Will did. "I knew men with head injuries in the war," he said. "A damnable thing. Thank God your memory came back."
She suppressed an inwards grimace, as she always did over her cover story of amnesia. Though it seemed to be holding up reasonably well. "Being in Engla
nd helped," she said. It was a lie grounded in truth. Being in Britain and about people she had known had helped her come to terms with who she was. Forced her to, really. Raoul would approve. He said the best cover stories were grounded in truth.
"If you knew how I grieved—" He shook his head. "I don't mean to turn maudlin. My feelings are the last thing you should have to think about."
"Will, no." Remembered tenderness welled to the surface and she pressed his hand. "I'm so sorry for everyone who suffered through my misfortune." That was true too, even if her misfortune was different from the cover story.
His fingers tightened over her own. "I was in Paris when I heard you were alive. I'd have got the news sooner but I was traveling from the south. As soon as I could get leave I came to London."
She jerked inwardly at the declaration. Will had been a romantic, but she wouldn't have thought that level of feeling would have lasted for so many years. He'd been a confidant, a haven from both Trenchard and Jack. And something more. Something born partly of her need for escape, partly perhaps of her desire to prove she could have a relationship separate from her husband and his father.
"I'm honored," she said.
"Can you doubt it?" He lifted her hand to his lips again and held it there a trifle longer this time.
Five years ago she would have laughed at the word "fidelity." Her life had made a mockery of it and so had the two chief men in her life then. But now—
She had a lover. A word that sounded far too transitory for what was between her and Raoul. Though precisely what that was remained undefined. Nights of mutual comfort. Stolen kisses and furtive handclasps. Looks exchanged across crowded rooms where so much could not be said. Letters often in painstaking code. Unexpected moments of kinship, mostly involving the children. She couldn't be certain he'd be back. He'd warned her of as much. How odd that one would feel a commitment when nothing had been formally declared. I have no right to ask you to feel any obligation, Raoul had said three months ago. But I feel one.
Coming from him, it was perhaps in the nature of a declaration. She knew what she saw when she looked into his eyes. And what she felt in response. For some reason her fingers tightened. Why now, of all times, should she desperately want to see him? And yet she couldn't deny that it was pleasant for a few moments to be with Will and to recall a time when everything had seemed simpler. Though at the time she'd have laughed bitterly at the idea that her situation could ever be called simple.
