by Tracy Grant
"And you have a daughter," Will said.
"Emily. I can't believe we were separated for so long. I'm trying to make up for lost time." This was more delicate ground, because her cover story had her memory gone so that she had been unaware of Emily's existence, whereas in fact she had been keenly aware of Emily's absence for those excruciating four years.
"I'm sure you're a splendid mother."
"That's kind of you, Will. But you always did see me as a much better person than I was."
"I saw you truthfully, which I fear few did. The garrison was filled with fools." He looked down at her for a long moment. "I'm sorry. About Jack. I think you know my opinion of him, and I make no apologies for it. But I wouldn't have wished that on any man. And I know you enough to know you mourned him."
That was true, in an odd way. Difficult, now, to sort out her feelings for Jack Tarrington, save that they were a mixture of guilt, frustration, and occasional flashes of nostalgia for something that had never really been possible between them. "Thank you," she managed. "Jack and I scarcely had a comfortable marriage, but he deserved better."
"And Trenchard. I know you were fond of him."
It was fortunate she wasn't holding a glass of champagne because she undoubtedly would have choked or dropped her glass. The thought of what sweet, honorable Will would think if he knew of her love affair with her husband's father might have been comical if it hadn't gone straight to the heart of all the things about her she knew were unforgivable.
"Trenchard's death was tragic," she said. That too was true, though the tragedy was more Louisa Craven's.
Will hesitated, as though not sure whether or not he would speak. "You—saw him before he died?"
Will would have heard, of course. Her discovery of the dying duke and her arrest for his murder were too salacious not to have been reported, despite all Malcolm and Suzanne's excellent efforts.
"I had just recovered my memory," she said. "I went to see Trenchard and found him just after he was shot. He was too far gone for speech. I'm not even sure he recognized me."
It was the story the Rannochs had devised, and given the facts that were public, it worked remarkably well, though it made her look a bit too passive for her taste, and she feared it wouldn't stand up to close scrutiny. Fortunately, most of the people she knew capable of that sort of scrutiny already knew the truth.
"You've been through so much. I feel a fool that I was wallowing in my own grief when you were desperately in need of a friend."
"You couldn't have known. I'm glad to see you came through Waterloo well."
"To think that you were in Paris when I was in the Netherlands." He shook his head. "I can scarcely credit that you were a governess."
Laura smiled, seeing the woman she had been in India. "You don't think I'd have the wit for it? Or the patience?"
"No, of course not. But you were hardly—"
"Until I became Lady Tarrington, it wouldn't seem such a surprising fate. My stepmother was a governess."
"Who married her charge's father."
"And I in turn married far above me."
Will shook his head. "You never cared for such things."
"I don't. Neither do the Rannochs, fortunately, which is part of why we get on so well together. And I learned that I quite like children. Good preparation for being a mother."
"Amazing that you're so sanguine."
"Difficult to be anything else and hold on to one's sanity."
"Yes." He regarded her for a moment, unvoiced questions shooting through his gaze.
She felt something about her own concerns for him was called for. "I was glad to hear from Harry Davenport that you were well."
"You know him well?"
"He and Lady Cordelia are close friends of the Rannochs."
Will shook his head. "A brave man, Davenport. And a brilliant one. He saved my life once on a reconnaissance mission when I was in over my head. He used to swear off marriage with the bitterness of one who has been truly burned. But it seems his attitude has changed." His gaze moved across the room to where the Davenports stood with Crispin and Simon. Harry had his arm round Cordelia's waist and she was leaning in to him companionably, her head tilting against his shoulder.
"I gather Waterloo changed a lot for them," Laura said. "They're a marvel. As are the Rannochs."
"At the time Davenport was advising any who'd listen never to marry, I was inclined to take his advice. Though for very different reasons."
She felt herself color. When was the last time she'd felt a telltale blush? "Difficult to think of the future in the midst of a war."
"Especially when the future seems a bleak wasteland. But a number of things have changed."
A frisson shot through her. Was she horribly shallow to warm so to admiration? But it was more than that. How could it not mean something to know someone cared? At the same time, his words and her response showed her the dangers for both of them.
Chapter 15
"Whateley." Malcolm found Eustace standing alone in the grand salon. "I'm glad to see you here."
"Rannoch. It's too much of an occasion for Cecilia to stay away." Eustace nodded towards his wife, in animated conversation with three other women. "Especially now la Caret is Lady Harleton. I wonder how she finds it to have married into the beau monde?"
"I'm sure you could have an interesting conversation with Lady Harleton about the challenges."
Eustace gave a dry smile. "I think there are more differences than similarities. She doesn't have a fortune that I've heard of, Harleton's pockets aren't to let, and he appears to be, in the common parlance, head over ears in love with her. None of which applies to my marriage to Cecilia." His gaze flickered over Malcolm's face. "Have you learned anything?"
"Several things. Nothing conclusive. But you neglected to tell me how dangerous the goods you were transporting were."
Eustace's brows drew together. "Tea and iron?"
"And guns."
Tension shot through Eustace's shoulders beneath the well-tailored fabric of his coat. "Who the devil says so?"
"A man named Ben Coventry who was doing reconnaissance before he broke into the warehouse and lost his life."
"And you're taking the secondhand word of a thief?"
"Given that I see no particular reason why he should have made this up."
Eustace cast a quick glance round and turned back to Malcolm. "I should have realized you'd work it out. To own the truth, I more than half thought you already knew."
"What on earth made you think I knew you were transporting guns?"
Eustace drew a breath. "It was part of Craven's plan when he brought me the idea for the company. Oh, he made a case that it could be a profitable business venture. But the idea was that it would be a way to transport information and certain goods secretly."
Malcolm stared at Eustace, the pieces falling into place even as he cursed himself for a fool.
Eustace returned his gaze steadily. "You see why I thought you knew. Given that you and Craven both worked for someone who would have need of those services—"
Malcolm found Carfax across the room, moving away from a conversation with Lord Liverpool and the Duke of Wellington. Malcolm touched his spymaster on the arm. "Anteroom across the passage, sir," he said in a low voice. "Unless you want to me make a scene here."
"My dear Malcolm." The gaze Carfax lifted to his face was, if anything, amused. "You had merely to ask."
Malcolm closed the anteroom door with a quiet click, though all his instincts were to slam it. "You didn't think it was relevant information that the break-in occurred at the warehouse of a company you started?"
"Nonsense." Carfax set his champagne glass down on a marble-topped table. "My name isn't on any of the paperwork."
Malcolm sent his spymaster a withering look.
"Yes. All right." Carfax tugged at one of his shirtcuffs. "I may have suggested to Craven that it would be convenient. To own the truth, I don't know why I didn'
t think of it earlier. All the times we had to transport information or people or goods in secret. The times we've had to trust ourselves to smugglers or make use of the navy—and I'm not sure which is worse."
"Were you shipping guns?"
Carfax picked up his glass and swallowed the last of the champagne. "There are times we want to get weapons into certain people's hands unofficially."
"Who were the guns Coventry saw intended for?"
"You can't seriously expect me to answer that."
"Sir—"
Carfax clunked the glass down. "You can't be shocked, Malcolm."
"That you had Craven set up such a company for you? No. That you were shipping weapons? No. That you didn't tell me when I was investigating a murder in the company's warehouse—"
"I knew I didn't have anything to do with the break-in or the murder. It would only have muddied the waters for you."
It was almost the verbatim answer Wellington had given Malcolm when the duke had withheld information during the investigation in Paris three years ago into Antoine Rivère's death. "Damn it, sir. You know one can never tell what information will be relevant."
"And you don't trust that I didn't have anything to do with the break-in."
"That too."
Carfax folded his arms over his chest. "Why would I break into the warehouse? I could simply ask Eustace if I wanted anything there."
"Perhaps Eustace had something he didn't want to give you. Perhaps you thought Craven had hidden something in the warehouse Eustace didn't know about."
"What, for God's sake?"
"I don't know. Yet."
Suzanne stared at her husband. Malcolm hadn't had a chance to tell his wife about Carfax and Whateley & Company until the play was over. Almost as soon as the bows were done, he had pulled her out of their box and into an antechamber at the Tavistock. They had a few minutes to talk while they waited for their friends to assemble for Crispin's post-performance supper party in Manon's honor at Rules restaurant nearby. As usual Suzanne didn't waste time on expressing shock. "I don't know why we didn't see it," she said.
"Nor do I, now we've figured it out."
"It's damnably clever. I don't know why—"
"O'Roarke didn't try it?" Malcolm asked. "He would have had a harder time setting up a shipping company."
"True. But in Paris—Of course, for all I know, he did do something of the sort and never told me."
Malcolm gave a faint smile. There was a lot he was still coming to know about his father, but he knew just how deeply O'Roarke trusted Suzanne. Better perhaps than Suzanne recognized that trust herself. "I think you'd know."
She shook her head. "He tells me a lot, but not everything."
"Compared to Carfax and me—" Malcolm shook his head.
"Carfax has a point," Suzanne said. "It doesn't prove he had anything to do with the break-in."
"No, but it makes it far more likely whatever the thieves were after has something to do with Carfax. In fact the likeliest explanation is that the thieves were hired by someone seeking information to use against Carfax."
Suzanne met her husband's gaze. "Wellington?"
Malcolm frowned, seeing Wellington and Carfax together in the salon with Liverpool. "Carfax and Wellington have always been allies, but far from in lockstep."
"If Wellington disagreed with something Carfax was doing, especially if it involved shipping weapons—"
"Quite. So Wellington could be the one who ordered Fitzroy to orchestrate the break-in. But not because of a love affair."
"And Fitzroy might not have told you because he knows you're loyal to Carfax."
Malcolm gave a short laugh.
"At the very least, Fitzroy would know you might be conflicted when it came to choosing between Carfax and Wellington, darling."
"Or not loyal to either of them." And that was without Fitzroy's knowing the truth about Suzanne. Malcolm scraped a hand over his hair. "You're right. I need to talk to Fitzroy again."
"If Carfax suspects Wellington, he has to wonder about your loyalties as well."
"Carfax always wonders about my loyalties."
"He knows you're you, darling."
"He doesn't know everything about me."
At least, Malcolm profoundly hoped his spymaster didn't.
Chapter 16
The glittering mirror in the private room at Rules caught Manon's dazzling smile, brighter than the profusion of wax tapers. The soft gold walls, the dark paneling touched with gilt, and the red upholstery were the perfect foil for her golden hair and gown of white net over peach satin. She was the effortless center of attention, but somehow as the guests milled about, sipping champagne and waiting for everyone to arrive from the theatre, she contrived to stand beside Suzanne. "I saw Jennifer this afternoon."
Jennifer Mansfield was the Tavistock's other leading actress. Like Manon, she was French, though she had changed her name upon coming to England. Like Manon, she had become the mistress of an English aristocrat, in Jennifer's case Sir Horace Smytheton, a patron of the Tavistock. And like Manon, Jennifer had once been a French agent.
"I waved to her and Sir Horace across the theatre," Suzanne said. "But they seemed to leave early."
"Jennifer said they might," Manon replied with a smile. "She confesses to being unusually tired these days. It seems I'm not the only actress at the Tavistock who is expecting."
Jennifer was a decade Manon's senior, but it should not be so surprising. Suzanne found herself smiling. "I hope she's pleased. I'm quite sure Sir Horace is."
"Prodigiously, I gather. Both of them, though Jennifer is quieter about it." Manon smiled at her daughters, standing on either side of Crispin, looking very grown up in white muslin dresses sashed in peach. "It's also prompted them to confess that they've actually been married these eight years and more."
"Good God. Since before their first child was born? Why on earth keep it a secret?"
"Jennifer said she was the one who insisted on it. She didn't want there to be any question about her continuing her career. She said they knew and they had papers to prove their daughter legitimate should be it be important." Manon cast a glance about. "I think she also feared Sir Horace being tainted if her past ever came to light. But now he knows the truth, and they have Crispin's and my example of an actress continuing her career despite marrying into the beau monde. For which she thanked me."
"I'm glad. For both of them."
"So am I. But there's more. Jennifer received a visit yesterday. From a young man talking of Phoenixes."
Suzanne sucked in her breath. "Did she describe him?"
"French. Midtwenties. Fair hair. Blue eyes. Obviously recovering from a recent wound to the chest, though he did his best to hide it."
"Louis Germont."
"So it seems. Jennifer, needless to say, wanted even less to do with the plot than I did."
"This confirms that Germont is working with whoever is behind the plot, and his warning to me was a set-up." Suzanne fingered the stem of her glass. Jennifer had been an agent in the service of the Revolutionary and Directoire governments, but she had fled France before Napoleon Bonaparte had fully risen to power. She could scarcely be called a Bonapartist. "Their reach is deep," she said.
"My thoughts precisely," Manon said. She looked across the room and met her husband's gaze. The smile she gave was not the dazzling one of Manon Caret, leading lady, but the private one of a wife. She turned back to Suzanne and for a moment her gaze was that of a hardened agent. "And given how many people they've talked to who haven't agreed to be part of the plot, I can only wonder how many others have actually been drawn in."
Simon closed the door of the Rannochs' barouche after handing Suzanne and Laura into the carriage and gave a wave as the carriage set off down Maiden Lane. He turned to David, standing beside him on the pavement. All the guests at Crispin's supper party had now departed. The night was clear, a freshness in the air after the recent rain. He and Simon usually walked home on
evenings such as this, though it was closer to the Albany than to Brook Street.
"We could walk together as far as the Albany," Simon suggested. It would give them time alone together, rare these days.
David twitched his cuff smooth. "Come back to Brook Street."
Simon stared at his lover. "Who are you, and what have you done with David?"
David gave an abashed grin. "At least for a drink."
"We've been drinking for the past two hours."
"Not alone." David glanced up and down the street. A hackney clattered by and a trio of young men emerged from a coffeehouse across the street, but even Covent Garden was beginning to settle down for the night. "I have a key. I told the servants not to wait up. Unless Bridget couldn't get Jamie to sleep—in which case, we will certainly need you—the house should be quiet."
"And then I can climb out a window some time before dawn?" Actually, Simon thought, that wasn't a bad idea. "I've always seen myself as more of a Mercutio than a Romeo."
"If you were Romeo, Juliet might have a hard time getting a word in edgewise." David took a step along the pavement. "We'll sort it out."
Simon fell into step beside his lover. Not quite touching but within touching distance. He felt a crazy desire to laugh. The light of the street lamps seemed to glitter particularly bright. The blue-black sheen on the cobblestones held mystery and promise. Danger could quicken the blood. Danger and time alone with the man he loved.
They talked about the performance, about the crowd's response, about Crispin's obvious pride in his wife.
"Though I can't say which he was most pleased by," David said. "The performance his wife gave or the child she's carrying."
"Oh, that's easy." Simon grinned. "Crispin's very supportive of Manon's career and he has a genuine appreciation of her talent. But he's in transports about the baby. Which is as it should be. Wouldn't be fair to the child otherwise."
