London Gambit

by Tracy Grant

  Something flared in Isobel's eyes. Then her arms closed over her chest. "If Maria Monreal isn't your mistress, who is she?"

  Oliver drew a breath. The air seemed to have grown heavier. "A friend."

  "Whom you met in secret."

  The story he'd given Malcolm stuck on his tongue. It should be easy enough to give. Unlike Malcolm, Bel might actually believe him. And yet—

  Bitterness clogged his throat. Because while he might not have been Maria's lover, he knew full well how much reason he had to feel guilt.

  Suzanne looked across the carriage at Malcolm's set profile and at Raoul's contained face beside him, and then glanced at Laura beside her. Malcolm, she suspected, wasn't ready to share his discoveries about Oliver, but there was one development of the evening she needed to confide to all three of them. "I told Bertrand about the Phoenix plot."

  Malcolm drew a quick breath. Raoul's eyes narrowed.

  "He's looking for Germont," she said. "He might have stumbled across it in any case. Besides—" She clutched the carriage strap, though they had taken the gentlest of turns. "Darling, I learned you trusted Bertrand with the arrangements for us to leave Britain should it prove necessary."

  Malcolm released his breath. "I'd have told you. I didn't want to—"

  "Burden me." She met his gaze and managed a smile. "I know. And I understand." As much as she could understand any of it. As much as she could bear to contemplate that they might have to leave Britain. "But given that Bertrand knows I'm the Raven, I think we can trust him with this."

  Malcolm nodded, though his fingers were tense on the carriage seat. "There are few people I trust so well."

  "Nor I," Raoul said. "And his contacts could be useful. I'd been thinking we should consider confiding in him."

  "There's something wonderfully reassuring about Bertrand," Laura said. She cast a quick smile at Raoul and then at Malcolm and Suzanne. "Not that there isn't about the rest of you."

  For all the chill that ran through her, Suzanne found herself echoing her friend's smile. Odd the four of them sitting like this, enclosed in the intimacy of the carriage, matter-of-factly sharing the details of investigation. At least for this precious moment, they were allies.

  "Surely with all of us looking for information, we can learn who is behind the Phoenix plot," Laura said.

  "I hope so," Suzanne said.

  The question remained, what happened then?

  Raoul pulled off his coat and tossed it over a chair back. "Climbing through the window has a certain piquancy, but all things considered it's more agreeable to stroll through the door."

  Laura smiled at him. The four of them had received a report on the children from Blanca and Addison and climbed the stairs to the second floor together. Suzanne and Malcolm had gone into their bedchamber and she and Raoul into their separate rooms on either side of the passage. Raoul had waited a few minutes and then rapped lightly at her door. Laura glanced at the door to the night nursery. She'd already peeped in at the children and by now Suzanne and Malcolm should have done so as well. She looked back at Raoul, hesitated a moment, wondering if this might be stepping further than he wanted, then said, "Do you want to—?"

  She saw a quick flash in his eyes and at the same time a hesitation. But more that he didn't want to push too far than that he wanted to hold back. At least, that was what she thought. She moved to the door and eased it open. A few moments later, Raoul moved soundlessly to her side. She felt the warmth of his breath over her shoulder.

  Jessica's bassinet was empty. Suzanne would have taken her to her cradle in the bedroom. But Emily was curled on her side, facing the door, her red-blonde hair falling over her face, snuggling the stuffed rabbit Raoul had given her before he left for Spain the first time. And Colin was flopped on his back, his stuffed bear Figaro and his new stuffed horse in the curve of his arm, the covers slipping down round his waist. Laura slipped into the room, smoothed the covers over Colin, pressed a kiss to his forehead, then moved to Emily, smoothed her hair back from her face, kissed her as well, patted Berowne who was curled up at the foot of the bed. She deliberately didn't look at Raoul as she did so, not making too much of it, leaving it to him to decide what to do, how far to go.

  She looked up to see he had taken a half step into the room. He was standing still, every muscle seemingly held in check, gaze alight with feeling. Laura went to his side and took his hand. They stood together for a moment, in the sort of stillness that hums in the air, then moved back into her bedchamber.

  "Thank you," Raoul said when she closed the door, his voice a bit rough.

  Laura nodded. "I never get tired of seeing them sleep."

  Raoul glanced at the nursery door, hesitated a moment, drew a breath. "Sometimes I'd be at house parties at Dunmkyel. Or the Duke of Strathdon's estate in Ireland. I'd slip up to the nursery when I could . . . "

  "And watch Malcolm sleep?"

  He nodded, gave a quick smile, looked away, looked back into her eyes.

  Odd how the simple sharing of a memory could be at once a statement of trust and a window into someone's soul. She touched the side of his face. "Somehow the simplest things can mean the most."

  They stood together again, the lamplight spilling over them, his coat tossed over the chair back, the children asleep just beyond the door. A domestic scene that seemed entirely alien to both of them and yet somehow oddly natural. And yet—

  She put her hands on his chest. "Raoul—"

  He looked down at her, the smile still in his eyes but more guarded now. "Sweetheart?"

  "Will Cuthbertson. I saw him last night at the theatre. For the first time in years. When you came back, it didn't seem—"

  He put his hands over hers. "You don't owe me an explanation, Laura."

  "Of course I do." She gripped his hands. "Given how I felt just over what I imagined about Lisette Varon—"

  He grinned. "Don't ever let Lisette know about that. She'd be mortified. I'm quite sure I'm in the uncle category. Maybe even father. She's a friend. I have a number of friends. So do you."

  "Will was more than a friend." She forced herself not to let her gaze move from his face. "The operative word being was."

  His smile continued easy. "I thought as much."

  She managed a smile of her own. "It's difficult having a spy as a lover."

  "How he feels, at least, was fairly obvious."

  "He was an escape, when I needed one. I don't think I realized how much it meant to him. It was good to see him again, I won't deny it," she added, the words tumbling from her lips even as she wondered if she was talking too fast. "To remember a time that now seems simpler, God help me. But I realized tonight I had to make it clear—I told him I have no desire to be a wife again."

  "Of course." Raoul's voice was almost without expression.

  "You know what I mean. I couldn't tell him—And it's not a possibility."

  "No." His hands were still twined round her own but they felt curiously rigid.

  "Will's conventional. He said he wants to protect me, of all things. He'd never understand what you and I have." Not that she understood it herself half the time.

  Raoul released her hands, but only to pull her into his arms. His kiss was sweet and urgent, but she had the oddest sense he was trying to commit each moment of it to memory. As though his mind had jumped ahead to goodbye.

  She tangled her fingers in his hair and pulled him closer, dragging him back to the present.

  Suzanne dropped her shawl and reticule on the dressing table and regarded her husband. He had had himself well in hand by the time they left the music room and had even danced with her again. But now they were alone, the shadows were plain on his face and in the depths of his eyes and the line of his mouth. Bruises to his soul that were just beginning to form as the reality of the night settled over him, like blood pooling beneath the skin. "Harry's right," she said. "This can't but sting."

  "More than it should." Malcolm stripped off his coat. "God knows I've
faced worse."

  Suzanne pulled off one of her gloves. "Perhaps it's the who more than the what. Especially coming so soon after Fitzroy."

  He unfastened his waistcoat with precise, mechanical fingers. "Oliver and David and Simon—they were my family in a way for a time. But I should know better than anyone that family aren't always to be relied upon."

  "Darling." Suzanne hesitated, holding her second glove by the fingertips. But not saying it wouldn't make it go away. "Harry couldn't know this, but it has to have made you think of me."

  Malcolm started on his shirt cuffs. "At least from the moment I learned you lied to me, I knew why and about what."

  She dropped her glove on the dressing table in a puddle of ivory silk. "Whatever the truth about Oliver, it can't possibly be as bad."

  Malcolm stripped off his neckcloth and threw it on top of the waistcoat. "So if I could survive my wife's duplicity, I should be able to handle whatever Oliver's lying to me about?"

  Suzanne controlled an inwards flinch. "I can't imagine anything worse than your wife's duplicity."

  "I can. But I trust whatever Oliver's doing isn't so extreme. On the other hand, I doubt his reasons are as good as yours." He dragged his shirt over his head. "Damn it. We've always turned to each other when we were in trouble."

  "He may feel he's trying to protect you. There are certainly things you haven't told Oliver."

  "A point. But surely he sees—"

  Malcolm broke off, right hand curled into a fist. She could see the tension running through his shoulders and in the set of his mouth. Perhaps there was one thing she could do to help. She moved to his side. "Nothing more we can do tonight, darling. It will look better in the morning."

  He managed a bleak smile. "Will it?"

  "There's always the hope." She slid her arms round him and reached up to pull his head down to her own.

  He tensed beneath her touch. His hands went to her shoulders, holding her, but also putting distance between them. "I'm sorry, Mel. I'm afraid I'm not much use to you tonight." He squeezed her shoulders and moved to the bed to pick up his dressing gown.

  She watched the precise control in his hands as he wrapped the burgundy silk round him. He'd always avoided any whisper of using her to exorcise his demons. And now she herself was the cause of those demons. When he'd first learned the truth about her, she'd been afraid he'd never make love to her again. But in fact, it hadn't taken so very long. Their wedding anniversary had helped, and the tacit sense they'd both had that if they waited too long it might become unbearably awkward. Relief had flooded through her when she kissed him in a cautious overture, a light kiss that could go either way, and he responded, deepened the kiss, and at last carried her to their bed. Yet at the same time, she'd been afraid. For all his own skills at deception, Malcolm was too honest a lover to act in the bedchamber. It would be understandable if anger had leached through, but that wasn't what she'd feared. It was contempt. Contempt for a woman who'd used her body as a spy and, before that, as a whore.

  But she'd underestimated her husband. Malcolm had been more tender than ever. As he tugged gently at the tapes on her gown while his lips moved over her temple, she'd realized he was making love to her differently, but he was making love to the girl she'd been. The girl who had been raped by English soldiers, who'd lived on the streets and found a sort of bleak refuge in a brothel. The girl he hadn't been there to save. She'd wanted to weep.

  That was how he'd made love to her since. As though she was something fragile that could be broken. Or that had been broken and was barely mended. Or perhaps, she sometimes thought, because he was afraid of what he'd reveal if he let himself go.

  Which sometimes was precisely what she wanted. But if she craved abandon, she had to drag him there with her. As always, Malcolm was quick to give her what he sensed she wanted.

  But tonight the problem wasn't what she wanted, it was what he needed. Even if it meant moving across boundaries she usually didn't cross. Even if anger leached through. Even if contempt forced its way between them. They were strong enough now to handle it. Or they should be.

  She undid the cord at her waist, unfastened her gauze overdress, tossed it on a chair, and moved towards him, clad only in her silver gray silk slip. "It doesn't matter that you're angry, darling."

  He looked up quickly, tying the dressing gown belt. "It's not—"

  "It doesn't matter that you're angry at me. I can handle it."

  He reached out, perhaps to hold her off, but his hands settled on her arms. "I'm not going to inflict myself on you like this, sweetheart. You deserve better. You can't—"

  She pulled him to her again. He went still for a moment, but this time he didn't pull away. His mouth closed over her own. His breath was harsh against her skin, his kiss rough and raw, but not so much with anger as with desperation. He crushed her to him as though he was drowning and she was his last hope of survival, while at the same time he feared to pull her under with him.

  He dragged his mouth away from her own. "I'm in no fit state—"

  "I won't break, Malcolm." She slid her hands beneath his dressing gown, reminding him of everything she could offer. "We won't break." She fell back on the bed and pulled him down with her, catching his lip between her teeth, tangling her fingers in his hair, melding him to her.

  If she couldn't banish his demons, at least she could share them.

  Chapter 29

  David splashed brandy into two glasses. Simon had come back from Bel and Oliver's with him, this time as though it were a matter of course. They'd both tensed as they entered the house, but the footman had still been awake and the house encased in quiet. A visit to the nursery showed all four children asleep. Even though David had sent the footman to bed, they'd returned downstairs to the library. What happened later was still open to question. Besides, much as David wanted other things from his lover, he needed to talk to him. "Malcolm seems to think Oliver has a mistress who is involved in the investigation somehow."

  Simon stared at David as he accepted a glass of brandy. David wasn't given to personal speculation, even about his family, even with Simon.

  "Are you surprised?" David asked.

  Simon took a drink of brandy. "That Oliver has a mistress or that she's connected to the investigation?"

  David tossed down a long drink of brandy. "Both."

  Simon swirled the brandy in his glass. "Difficult to tell about the investigation, as we don't know what the devil is behind it. As to Oliver having a mistress—"

  David watched his lover. He had worried about Bel from the moment he learned of her betrothal to Oliver, but he had never discussed it with Simon. It had seemed worse somehow to put it into words. And yet he couldn't believe Simon, of all people, hadn't seen what he had.

  "That doesn't surprise you?" David asked.

  "I'm not sure." Simon took another drink of brandy.

  "Simon." David regarded his lover. "I may not have your insights into people, but it was obvious even to me that their marriage wasn't—"

  "That they weren't madly in love? No. Not in that sense. Not both of them."

  "You mean Bel was." David grimaced as he moved to the sofa.

  "You have plenty of insights into people. And yes, I think she was." Simon dropped down beside David. "But Oliver's always been fond of her. And while he flirts, I'm not sure it goes beyond that."

  David's fingers froze on the etched crystal of his own glass. It wasn't like Simon to put a romantic gloss on things. "Why?"

  Simon raised a brow. "I may not be a romantic, but I'm not such a cynic as to think infidelity is inevitable. Oliver cares for Bel. More, I'd judge, as the years have gone by. And I think he's all too conscious of what he's gained by marrying her. The Mallinsons aren't an easy family to marry into. In some ways I'm fortunate that I can't."

  David frowned. "You think Oliver's faithful to Bel because he thinks he owes her a debt?"

  "I think Oliver's very conscious that he owes Bel a debt. Whether or
not he's faithful is still open to question. Who is this supposed mistress?"

  "Apparently her name's Maria Monreal. I don't know any more." David dug a hand into his hair.

  Simon dropped an arm across David's shoulders. "Malcolm isn't going to share everything with you. He can't. Not at this point."

  "No. I do realize that. He only shared this because he thought I might have information." David took a swallow of brandy. It was a smooth vintage but it burned his throat. "God, remember the days when the four of us used to tell each other everything?"

  "Well, not quite everything." Simon's arm tightened round him. "We never told Malcolm and Oliver about us."

  "Not in so many words."

  "I think it took Oliver a while to work it out."

  David thought back to those years. The four of them with papers and books spread on scarred tables in coffeehouses. Lounging on the floor in one or the other's chambers, sharing their dreams of the future over glasses of red wine. Punting on golden afternoons. Picnics with champagne. And through it all, the sudden silences, the wonder of Simon beside him, the pressure of knowing he couldn't so much as take his hand, even in front of their friends. Simon was right. When one looked back, there'd been more secrets in their charmed Oxford circle than the gloss of memory admitted to. "I wasn't sure—"

  "Nor was I," Simon said. "But Oliver didn't fail us then. Perhaps he isn't failing us now."

  "I thought you thought Oliver had—"

  "Compromised? It was harder for him to enter Parliament than for you or Malcolm. But he's done a lot of good since he's been there. If the Whigs ever get back in power, he might have a prayer of office, which isn't a bad thing. Oh, that's where Jamie's horse got to." Simon set down his glass and knelt on the floor to pick up a wooden horse Jamie had left beneath the sofa table.

  David stared at the black-and-red wood of the toy in Simon's hand. "Do you think Malcolm is right?" he asked abruptly.

  Simon set the horse on the sofa table. "Malcolm is right about a great many things. What are you thinking of in particular?"