by Tracy Grant
Raoul gave a smile carefully calibrated to be casual. Archie and Fanny were two of his best and oldest friends, but there were some things he wasn't prepared to share with them. "Lady Tarrington is settling back into society after a difficult time. She's needed the support of friends." He turned his gaze back to Laura, now dancing with Cuthbertson, willing it to disinterest. "She'll soon have plenty of dancing partners her own age."
"Careful, my dear," Frances said. "I'm not that much younger than you, and Lady Tarrington can't be much more than a decade my junior. You should never make comments about a lady's age."
Raoul lifted her hand to his lips. "You're ageless, Fanny."
"Hmph," Fanny said, but her smile was sweet and almost girlish.
"It's good to see you back in England," Archie said. "And I hope recent developments mean you'll be here more often."
Raoul met his friend's gaze. From the days two decades ago when Archie had first given him information of use in the United Irish Uprising, Archie had been one of the closest people Raoul had to a confidant. The instinct to secrecy warred with an odd, unfamiliar instinct to share his happiness. "I have a number of reasons to return to Britain as often as I can."
"Glad to hear it." Archie touched Raoul's arm. "Speaking of dancing with younger women, I'm promised to Cordelia for the next dance. Should go and find her."
Archie moved across the room in search of his nephew's wife. Frances watched him for a moment, a smile playing about her lips. "Odd, I never appreciated Archie properly when I was younger. Of course, I always thought he was in love with my sister, which does rather dim a man's attractions." She smiled at Raoul. "No offense."
"None taken. Though in Archie's case, I don't think you're right. He admired Arabella. They were friends, but they weren't lovers, and I don't think he was in love with her." Archie had pretended to be Arabella's lover as part of the investigation six months ago, but that had been a smoke screen to cover his work with her against the Elsinore League.
"You can't know that," Frances said.
"No. One can never really know what goes on in another's head."
"Or heart." Frances turned back to Raoul. "It's good to see you smiling."
Raoul lifted a brow. "My dear Fanny. I've always been perfectly capable of smiling. It's seen me through some of my darkest moments. To smile any more would risk vulgarity."
"You don't give a damn about vulgarity. Isn't that what you've been so busy fighting for, to have us all considered equal? Perhaps I should have said it's good to see you happy." She glanced round. "This calls for champagne. For once, not because we need it, because we need to celebrate."
Raoul retrieved glasses of champagne from a passing footman. Of one accord he and Frances moved to a settee set against the wall between two potted palms. Frances lifted her glass. "To the future. It's nice to be able to drink to it."
Raoul clinked his glass against her own. They had shared many drinks through the years, glasses of champagne or claret, or more likely, drams of whisky. Usually, as she said, to dull the pain of a crisis. One of Arabella's breakdowns, or later, coping with the gaping hole her death had left in both their lives. Their shared fears for Malcolm, particularly after his mother's death.
Frances smoothed the purple-striped gauze of her skirts over the blue-and-gold satin of the settee. "She's very lovely. More to the point, she has a keen wit and she appears to have a good head on her shoulders. She won't drive you mad the way Arabella did."
Raoul's fingers tightened round the fragile stem of his glass. In the light from the candle sconces above, the cut glass sparkled with all the brilliance of Arabella Rannoch's smile. For a moment her blue eyes danced in his memory, sharp and brilliant as crystal. And just as likely to shatter and draw blood. "I don't suppose there's much sense in my saying I don't know who you're talking about?"
"Only if you want to indulge in verbal fencing."
He took a sip, holding the glass steady in the flickering light. "And to think I've been known to pride myself on my talent at deception."
"I shouldn't think it would be obvious to someone who didn't know you. You were careful not to hang about her too much, and I didn't see you so much as press her hand the entire time I was at Malcolm and Suzanne's dinner last April. In fact, I'd say the way you were careful not to reveal anything gave the most away. Well, that and the expression in your eyes when I caught you looking at her in an unguarded moment. Not to mention the look in your eyes when you were dancing with her tonight."
Raoul settled back in his corner of the settee with a carefully calibrated nonchalance that was probably a waste, given Fanny's powers of perception. "My dear Fanny. You are sounding distinctly like a lending library novel."
"Some lending library novels have remarkably keen insights into human relationships."
He rested his elbow on the settee arm with an assumption of ease. Fanny knew him well. Better than most people. But there were gaps in her knowledge. Such as his having been a French spy and his relationship with Suzanne. "She's a remarkable woman. She's been through a great deal."
"Obviously. I don't for a moment believe that farrago about her lost memory. If that was the best you and Malcolm and Suzanne could come up with, the truth must be extreme indeed." Frances put up a hand. "No, I'm not asking you to confide in me. Goodness knows I can understand secrets. The little girl is adorable. For her sake, not to mention her mother's, I rather hope Jack Tarrington isn't her father. The man was quite appalling. It wasn't the indiscriminate nature of his liaisons I object to, it was his wanton disregard for the trail of destruction he left in his wake." Her brows drew together. "I hope I was never that unfeeling."
"You know perfectly well you weren't, Fanny." Raoul took another sip of champagne, relieved at the change of subject. While Jack wasn't in fact Emily's father, the truth was, if anything, worse, both in terms of the implications and the nature of the man who had fathered her. Fortunately, Raoul was a firm believer that the nature of one's parents didn't form one.
Frances adjusted the folds of her shawl. "I always thought you'd make a good father."
"I'm hardly Emily's father."
"There are different ways of defining these things. You certainly looked paternal, when the children came into the drawing room at the dinner last April. You were far less on your guard with the little girl than with her mother."
"Emily's been through her own sort of horror." For a moment, Raoul could smell the cold, sterile air in the school where Laura's daughter had made her home—after leaving the care of a wetnurse, who had tended God knew how many children. Countless children lived in worse conditions. It was part of what drove him in his work. And yet Emily's plight never failed to cut him to the quick. Mélanie's voice sounded in his head. It's different when it's your own.
Frances took a sip of champagne. "They're fortunate, both the girl and her mother, to have you."
"On the contrary. Any good fortune in the situation—about which I admit nothing at all—is entirely on my side."
For some reason Frances's smile deepened at that. As though she understood something she wouldn't venture to articulate. Something he couldn't even articulate—perhaps didn't even understand—himself. "I won't tease you further. We're all entitled to our secrets. Speaking of which, do you have any idea what's been going on between my nephew and his wife?"
Raoul nearly choked on a simple breath of candle-warmed air. He took a sip of champagne, pleased his hand was steady. "They seemed well enough when we arrived at the ball an hour since."
"Yes, things are better now. But something happened near Christmas. To own the truth, I was quite concerned for a few weeks. I can't imagine either of them being unfaithful—" She shook her head, her blonde ringlets stirring about her face. "That sounds absurd coming from me. If anyone should be able to imagine infidelity under any circumstances—But I'd swear if any man is incapable of infidelity, it's Malcolm. Suzanne obviously adores him, but I could perhaps imagine her under the right
circumstances—or perhaps I should say the wrong ones—"
"It's not infidelity," Raoul said. Stupid. Far better for Fanny to imagine infidelity than to get anywhere close to the truth. But somehow he couldn't bear to have her mind drift that way. Of course whether or not it was infidelity depended on one's definition of the term.
Frances lifted a well-groomed brow.
"I don't know precisely what went on between them," he said. Which was true, leaving aside that he knew more than Frances—he hoped—could possibly guess. "But I think it had to do with Malcolm's work on the Peninsula. It's difficult for an agent to leave the game behind."
"As you would know better than anyone." Frances shook her head. "It was about the same time he learned you were his father."
Raoul's fingers tightened round his glass. He started to take a sip, an automatic defense, but his throat was too raw. Myriad memories choked him. The moment, six months ago, when he'd finally admitted he was Malcolm's father. The vulnerability and surprising openness in Malcolm's gaze. The bleak anger in that same gaze a short time later when Malcolm learned the truth about Mélanie and Raoul and the deception behind his marriage. Malcolm, last April, calmly mentioning he'd had a guest bedchamber made up for Raoul and saying the Berkeley Square house was the closest thing Raoul had to a home in London. Playing pirates with the children by the Thames on a warm spring afternoon at Richmond. Arguing the source of a Shakespeare quote. Malcolm's casual greeting in the breakfast parlor this morning, and other fleeting moments in the past six months when it had almost seemed that something he'd thought would always be out of his reach might be within his grasp.
"He was investigating Alistair's death at the same time," Raoul said. He trusted Frances would put the roughness in his voice down to the fact that he'd always been raw when talking about Malcolm's parentage.
"True," she said, though her gaze told him she didn't think she'd got to the bottom of it. "He faced a number of challenges in that year. And he does tend to withdraw when he faces emotional challenges. I suppose if Suzanne sensed that—I know how challenging it must be for her when he turns inwards, but I'd swear—" She shook her head. "It's all right, I won't tease you to say more. In any case, I'm glad Malcolm knows you're his father."
Raoul managed a sip of champagne, though it caught in his throat. "I don't know that he sees me as his father. But it's good he knows the truth."
Frances's gaze was shrewd and sharp as a blade. "I wasn't just watching you and Laura Tarrington and the child the last time we were all in Berkeley Square. I never thought to see Malcolm so at ease with you. In fact, I rarely see him so at ease with anyone."
"He's a remarkable man." There, at least, he was telling Frances the unvarnished truth. "I'm fortunate to know him. But the revelation of a biological fact three decades old doesn't make someone a parent."
"No. But I think what you shared when he was growing up does. You were a better parent to him than Arabella."
Raoul felt his head jerk up.
Frances regarded him with a steady blue gaze. As keen and shrewd as Arabella's, but warmer. "I loved her too," Frances said. "But she was the devil on people who cared about her. Her children included. You deserve some happiness, my dear. Don't let Laura Tarrington slip away."
The width of the settee suddenly seemed far too confined. "I rather think that's up to Lady Tarrington."
"I hope so. I hope she knows enough not to let you get tripped up by your scruples."
"Fanny, I don't know what's more amusing. Your talking about scruples or the idea that I possess them."
"Just because you trained yourself to keep your feelings about Malcolm to yourself doesn't mean you have to do so with everyone."
"You're too much of a realist for fairy tales, Fanny." Here he felt on firmer ground. "I wasn't made for a domestic life."
"I imagine she realizes that. After living with Jack Tarrington, I doubt that's what she wants."
"It might be precisely what she decides she wants. Given that she's never had it."
Frances's gaze drifted towards the dancers. "That colonel would bore her in a week. If he hasn't already done so over the course of a dance."
Raoul took a sip of champagne. "I think you may be underrating what he can offer her."
"What's that?" Frances sounded genuinely curious.
"Stability. As one who's made a practice of living without it, I confess I can see the attraction."
Chapter 26
"I've asked the footmen to throw open the ballroom windows." Isobel Lydgate stopped beside Suzanne near the doorway between the ballroom and adjoining salon. "We were actually worried it was cool before the guests arrived. I've had a report from the kitchen that there was a near disaster with the lobster soufflé for supper, but apparently all is well. And Lucinda found Hugh Carstairs being sick into one of the potted palms, but he's now settled in the library with a pot of coffee. Just a typical Mayfair ball."
Suzanne squeezed her friend's arm. "It's a great success."
Isobel smiled even as her gaze darted about the room. "I'm not sure we have enough scandal for it to become a true on-dit." She turned back to Suzanne, her gaze gone serious. "I suppose you're pursuing your investigation even here."
"A ball can be an excellent place to find people one needs to talk to. And to catch them off their guard." Suzanne fingered one of the silver tassels at the waist of her smoke blue gauze gown. Eustace Whateley had sent Malcolm to talk to Oliver, but in some ways Bel was even closer to the man whose papers they seemed to be seeking. "Bel—Craven was your brother-in-law."
Isobel gave a mirthless laugh. "So was Trenchard. I can hardly claim to have known either of them. It sounds very uncharitable, but to you I can admit I didn't want to know either of them."
"I understand. But you saw them. You talked to your sisters. Did Louisa ever say anything about Whateley & Company?"
"Good heavens, no." Isobel gave a quick, rather awkward smile. "I think Louisa was embarrassed by Craven's dabbling in trade, for all other gentlemen do it. I don't think I'd have even known about Whateley & Company if Craven hadn't mentioned it to Oliver."
"Oliver went to see Craven at the warehouse recently."
"Yes, to talk about Louisa's marriage settlement. Oliver told me Malcolm had been to see him about it. But you can't think—"
"Just trying to get a full picture. Someone obviously thinks Craven had something of import."
"Surely that must be to do with—"
"Bel, darling." A woman in spangled yellow crêpe swept by and pressed her cheek to Isobel's. Marianne Fairchild, Suzanne realized. It still sometimes took her a few moments to sort out faces and names of those on the edges of her social circle. If memory served, Marianne was a second or third cousin of Bel's on Lady Carfax's side. "A lovely party. Mrs. Rannoch." Marianne turned to give a careless nod to Suzanne, then looked back at Isobel. "I saw Oliver this afternoon. Outside my dressmaker's, of all things. He was talking to a quite stunning brunette. You're fortunate to trust your husband so well, Bel."
Marianne Fairchild swept off. Bel had gone still, seemingly rooted to the polished floorboards. Suzanne took her friend's arm and steered Bel to a sofa set behind a potted palm. "What a dreadful woman. It's always those who've known us since we were children who seem to be able to hurt us the worst."
"It's all right, Suzanne." Bel gave a shake of her head, gaze focused again. "I'd like to think that I was made of sterner stuff than to be overset by a mention of my husband and his latest mistress."
Suzanne stared at her friend, whom she'd have sworn had one of the happiest marriages in Mayfair. "Dearest—"
Isobel's mouth curled. "Did you really think I escaped the fate of most Mayfair marriages? Of my sisters?"
"But you and Oliver aren't—"
Isobel gave a smile startling in how bitter it was. "No, Oliver isn't Trenchard or Craven. He's much more charming, much more handsome, and a much kinder person. He hasn't got a title or even an old family name. And I
'm not Mary or Louisa. I haven't got their beauty or their charm or their knack with clothes. I know people said Louisa lived in Mary's shadow. But I never even tried to compete."
"I don't imagine you wanted to."
"No. Their concerns didn't seem particularly interesting. And I knew I hadn't a prayer of keeping up. I never particularly wanted to. But it did rather leave me at a disadvantage when it came to securing a husband."
Suzanne remembered Isobel and Oliver as she had seen them on her first visit to London four years ago. In the drawing room of this house, Oliver with their son on his shoulders, Isobel with their elder daughter clinging to her skirts. Isobel's and Oliver's shoulders had been a handsbreadth apart, not quite touching. Because they clearly didn't need to. Suzanne wasn't given to jealousy, but envy of what the Lydgates shared had shot through her, a palpable ache. "Darling, I can't imagine you wanting to—"
Isobel raised a brow, suddenly looking like Lord Carfax's daughter. "I was tired of writing out Mama's cards of invitation and seeing her strain to find new eligible bachelors to seat me next to. I wanted my own establishment. I wanted children. Is that so surprising?"
"Of course not. But Oliver—"
"Oliver—" Isobel shook her head. "I could scarcely have failed to notice Oliver, could I? From the time David first brought him down to Carfax Court from Oxford. I may not have tried to play Mary's and Louisa's games, but I wasn't immune to that smile."
"Even I wasn't," Suzanne said. "And I was a married woman in love with my husband when I met him. But I've seen the way he looks at you, Bel."
Isobel shook her head. "You're a romantic, Suzanne."
"I'm not in the least—"
"You love your husband, and you project that onto other people. You've seen Oliver and me settled into marriage. Oliver cares for me. As his partner. The mother of his children. If you could have seen us when we met—Suffice it to say, I had no illusions. Besides, Oliver had eyes for no one but Sylvie de Fancot at that point."
"Sylvie de Fancot?" Suzanne frowned, searching her memory. "Do you mean Lady St. Ives?" She pictured the lovely blonde viscountess, like her a French émigrée who had married into the beau monde. Her husband was in the Life Guards and she had been in Brussels with him before Waterloo.
