London Gambit

by Tracy Grant

  Oliver spun away and took a turn about the room. "I didn't—I didn't tell him everything, Malcolm. I didn't tell him about David and Simon. Once I figured it out for myself, that is. But—damn it, we weren't doing anything illegal. We weren't plotting anything. There was no reason he couldn't know most of our activities."

  "No reason except that they were our activities. Which we believed to be private."

  Oliver met Malcolm's gaze across the stretch of carpet, worn smooth by the well-made boot heels of countless well-heeled members of Brooks's. "You have no idea what it was like. The things you and David and Simon could do without thinking. Counting my coins before I agreed to go out to dine or letting one of you pay the reckoning. Sending my coats home to my mother to darn instead of ordering new ones. Not understanding the rules of the games played in your world, whether fox hunting or flirtation. Sharing dreams with you, but knowing that if I ever wanted to make a difference in the world I needed money. I saw what my father could do as a country lawyer. I knew I wanted to play on a larger stage."

  "An alliance with Carfax would hardly help you make the sort of difference you wanted to make."

  "It let me step onto the playing field. I told myself I could control how I played."

  "Always a mistake with Carfax." Though one, Malcolm acknowledged, that he himself had made.

  Oliver passed a hand over his face. "Even with everything I wanted, I think I'd have thrown his words in his face. If I hadn't met Sylvie on my visit to Carfax Court."

  Malcolm remembered the Fancots coming to stay at Carfax Court for the midsummer ball, remembered Oliver unable to take his eyes off Sylvie. And Sylvie unable to take her eyes off him. It had left Malcolm the one unattached one in their little band. A state he'd rather expected would endure forever.

  "I knew I'd never have a prayer with her without position and influence," Oliver said. "Ironic, given how things played out. I don't even know—But at the time, it seemed she held all my happiness. And I was mad enough to think we could have that happiness living in lodgings on a barrister's earnings."

  Despite everything, Malcolm felt a flash of sympathy at the remembered yearning in Oliver's gaze. "St. Ives has a title and fortune. Difficult to compete with."

  "Yes. Sylvie might have married him anyway."

  "Anyway?"

  Oliver swallowed hard. Malcolm knew that look. He saw it on his wife's face more often than he could count, of late. He knew he wore it himself. An agent calculating how much to admit. "Sylvie married St. Ives because Carfax ordered her to."

  Malcolm stared at Oliver. "Carfax—"

  Oliver raised a brow. "You hadn't worked that out? But if I hadn't told you, I daresay you would have done. I didn't know when I first met Sylvie. When I agreed to work for Carfax. It wasn't until that Christmas when I saw her at Carfax Court again and we—we confessed our feelings to each other. She'd been gathering information for Carfax for over a year. There's a lot to be learned from the prattle of young girls. Especially when they have powerful fathers. Sylvie may have been an outsider, but she moved in exclusive circles."

  Malcolm had always known Carfax had a network of agents in London. He just hadn't realized how extensive it was. Or how many people it included whom he knew. "Sylvie would have needed the money as well."

  "Yes, although—" Oliver's brows drew together. "It was more than that. Carfax has some hold on her. Something to do with her father. Which is why when he told her he wanted her to accept St. Ives, she couldn't stand against him." Oliver's hands curled into fists at his sides.

  "That must have been hard to take," Malcolm said. "The more so as I imagine you trusted Carfax to a degree." He knew what it was to trust the spymaster and then have him turn on one.

  "He told me I'd get over it." Bitterness twisted Oliver's mouth. "In some ways, he was right. In some, he wasn't."

  "I understand now why Carfax consented to your marriage."

  "You think—" Oliver stared at him. "Malcolm, no. Carfax didn't order me to marry Bel. In fact, I don't think he was best pleased with our betrothal, though perhaps he was more willing to accept it because he thought he had a hold on me. But—God, he's never controlled my votes. Do you believe me?"

  "I'm not sure what I believe."

  Oliver nodded. "I deserve that. You may not believe this either, but I stopped reporting to him after we all came down from Oxford. You went to the Peninsula. David stood for Parliament."

  "Carfax thought we'd compromised."

  "He didn't seem as worried. I went my own way in Parliament. But every so often he'd ask me for a favor. An errand. I was his son-in-law. But though he never said so, it was plain between us that he could tell Bel and David and you what I'd done if I refused."

  "Yes. He's good at making his wishes known that way. You met Maria Monreal through Carfax?"

  "He wanted her to recover some papers from the Spanish embassy two years ago. I'd been there, so he needed me to give her tactical advice."

  "And then he tasked the two of you and Sylvie to recover papers Craven had left?"

  "What?"

  "Harry saw Sylvie leaving Maria's house this morning. Given that you all worked for Carfax, I assume he put the three of you up to this. The only thing I'm not sure of is what he wanted you to recover."

  "Carfax didn't want us to recover anything. Malcolm, you've got it the wrong way round for once. We weren't working for Carfax. We were working against him. We'd made up our minds to be free of him once and for all."

  Malcolm regarded Oliver. He couldn't afford to let betrayal befuddle his brain. "You and Sylvie and Maria Monreal were working against Carfax together?"

  "Yes. That is—" Oliver scraped a hand over his hair. "It wasn't just the three of us. I don't think we'd have been mad enough to take on Carfax on our own. That's the secret of his power, in a way. No one would be willing to take him on on their own or even with one or two as back-up. He had us all trapped. Even you've said you don't feel you can walk away from him completely."

  "True enough."

  "But he doesn't have something on you or his other official agents like Tommy Belmont. It's different for the rest of us. The unofficial ones working in the shadows. The feeling of powerlessness—" Oliver shook his head. "I thought I'd always be under his thumb. Until a month ago."

  "What gave you the idea you could challenge him?"

  "Oh, it wasn't me." Oliver gave a twisted smile. "I'm not clever enough. Or brave enough. It was another of those he's entrapped into serving him. Apparently Craven had been in touch with him before he died, saying he had papers Carfax would give a great deal to keep from the light of day. He argued that if we all worked together, we could obtain our freedom. He contacted Sylvie before me. When Sylvie first told me, I said it would never work. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized how insupportable it was to continue at his beck and call."

  "Who?" Malcolm said. "Who organized you?"

  "I don't know."

  "For God's sake, Oliver, having told me this much—"

  "I'm not lying. I truly don't know. I don't think Sylvie does. That was part of the plan. A number of us were working together but we couldn't identify each other. My role was to call at Whateley & Company in the guise of talking to Eustace about Louisa's marriage settlement and have a look about. Note any likely hiding places, the position of the door, learn what I could about when the warehouse would be empty."

  "And this unnamed person engaged Coventry?"

  "No, that was—" Oliver drew a breath. "That was Cuthbertson."

  "Cuthbertson? William Cuthbertson?" Malcolm stared at his friend, seeing Cuthbertson waltzing with Laura the night before. "I didn't realize he worked for Carfax."

  "Nor did I, until recently. But you can see why Carfax would want a source in the army, close to Wellington."

  "And Cuthbertson was a comrade of Fitzroy Somerset. He's the one who asked Fitzroy to engage Ennis to engage Coventry, isn't he?"

  "If you've already worked
that out for yourself, I don't suppose there's any point in denying it. You know how Carfax has an ear to everything in London. We wanted to keep it as far away from ourselves as possible."

  "No, it was clever. The trail led back to Fitzroy, which was enough to confuse anyone. Enough to confuse me for a time."

  "Hopefully enough to confuse Carfax."

  Malcolm regarded Oliver. "What happened? How did Coventry die?"

  "I don't know." Oliver's gaze held seemingly genuine torment. "I had no idea he was dead until you told me. As far as any of us knew, he went into the warehouse alone."

  "So someone else was after the papers?"

  "Presumably. Perhaps the murderer recovered them, but we couldn't be sure."

  "Which is why Maria broke into the Brook Street house."

  Oliver nodded. "I wanted to search myself, but they said I couldn't search while David and Simon were there, and Maria would be better at doing it secretly. Which was right."

  "Did she find anything?"

  "No." The word was clipped, but fear haunted Oliver's gaze.

  "You must have considered that the other person who broke into Whateley & Company, who killed Coventry, who may have taken the papers, could be working for Carfax."

  "God, how could I not?" Oliver slumped against the paneling. "It's one of the things Sylvie and Maria and I were meeting about today."

  "Have you seen any sign that he knows?"

  "No. But you've actually spoken with him about the investigation. Have you seen any?"

  "Merely denials. Which is what one would expect of Carfax, in any event." Malcolm regarded Oliver for a moment. "What did Carfax ask you to do last night—"

  Oliver's eyes widened. "What—"

  "Lucinda overheard you."

  Oliver gave a slow nod. "And that's how you put the pieces together. Poor Lucy. She's been through more with her family in seventeen years than anyone should." He met Malcolm's gaze without flinching. "Carfax wanted me to report to him about your investigation."

  "Did he say why?"

  "Merely that you were clever, but he'd never been able to entirely trust what you'd do with your information."

  "And you argued with him?"

  "My God, of course. I always argue with him when he asks me to spy on you."

  "Always?"

  "Well, always since Oxford. Carfax of course reminded me I was hardly in a position to refuse."

  "The fact that he asked you to watch me could mean he didn't know you had anything to do with the break-in."

  "So I tried to tell myself. But you know as well as I do that if Carfax was behind Coventry's death, it's just the sort of thing he might do to keep watch on both you and me."

  Malcolm met Oliver's gaze and nodded. When he walked into Brooks's, he'd never have guessed that after half an hour's talk, he and Oliver could be in such perfect agreement.

  Chapter 33

  Raoul turned into Berkeley Square. The drizzle had let up. The air had the crisp freshness that follows rain. The gray skies had given way to white clouds that scuttered across an expanse of blue, and the green leaves on the plane trees in the square stirred in the breeze. He remembered his own trepidation opening the metal gate of the square garden at Colin's invitation and stepping inside to play catch with him. Was it really only six months ago? And only three months since he had sat on a bench in the same garden beside Laura and made a pledge that grew stronger by the day?

  Laughter and the whinny of horses cut the air. Open carriages clustered round Gunter's. Footmen hurried from the confectioner's bearing ices to ladies in the carriages, while other fashionable patrons sat at the tables on the pavement. A flash of sunlight glinted off the bright curls escaping the bonnet of one of the women. Raoul turned to get a better view, saw the dark hair of the woman sitting with her, the unmistakable posture of both, the three children clustered round them. He hesitated a moment, but there was no reason now for him not to join them. And then, Colin looked up and waved, deciding the matter.

  Raoul crossed the square. Mélanie had Jessica in her lap. Jessica was midway through a raspberry ice, managing very well with a spoon (she had her mother's dexterous fingers), though a considerable amount was smeared over her face. Colin and Emily were taking more restrained bites of their own ices.

  Laura set down her lemonade and looked up at him with a smile. "When the rain let up, we couldn't resist. It seems so glorious after a gloomy morning."

  "Absolutely. One must take advantage of the sunshine when one can."

  Emily jumped up. "You can have my chair." She held up her arms to him.

  Raoul hesitated a fraction of a second, the unreality of his present life washing over him. Then he said, "Thank you. A very generous offer." He scooped Emily up and dropped into the chair, settling her in his lap. He remembered the first time she'd taken his hand, getting into the carriage in an inn yard on the journey from the orphanage that had been the only home she'd known for most of her young life to the Berkeley Square house. Later that night, lifting her sleeping form from Laura's lap when they'd arrived in Berkeley Square. She'd been a boneless weight in his arms, but when he stepped down from the carriage, cradling her against him, she'd opened her eyes and blinked sleepily up at him. He'd thought she might be afraid to realize this man she scarcely knew was carrying her, but instead she'd given him a heart-stopping smile. Something had cracked open in him in that moment that he'd thought would remain forever closed.

  It was only the following day that she'd first climbed on his lap. Laura had been talking with Malcolm, and Emily had seemed to be seeking reassurance in a household still reeling from the news of Louisa Craven's death. She'd clutched the fabric of his coat and looked about her with wide eyes. Now she snuggled against him with comfortable assurance and reached for the spoon for her ice.

  "Were you Investigating?" Colin asked. "Daddy's Investigating."

  "Something of the sort," Raoul said. "I can't say I learned very much."

  "I'd like to Investigate." Emily took a bite of her white currant ice. "Like you and Uncle Malcolm and Aunt Suzanne. You help people."

  Raoul exchanged a look with Mélanie. "That's part of it."

  Emily licked currant droplets from her spoon. "You helped me. That's how you found me."

  "That is how we all found you," Raoul said. "But mostly it was your mother."

  Emily gripped her mother's hand. "Mummy's good at Investigating too."

  "A bit." Laura wiped a trace of ice from her daughter's cheek. "I learned most of it from Uncle Malcolm and Aunt Suzanne and Uncle Raoul."

  "Actually," Raoul said, subduing the impulse to reach for Laura's hand, "your mother was very adept before any of us met her. She always"—he leaned back in his chair and went on speaking, alert as always to his surroundings. Two ladies, a mother and daughter by the look of it, in a landau to their left, two young women flirting with two officers under the gaze of their chaperone, at a table to the right. A fair-haired man crossing the paving, juggling a trio of ices with dexterity as he—

  Raoul's blood turned several degrees colder than the iced confections before them. For, as the fair-haired man crossed the pavement, Raoul caught a glimpse of his profile.

  "What?" Colin asked. "What did Laura say then?"

  Raoul realized he had stopped speaking. Rare for him to be so rattled. But then it was, thank God, a rare occasion to see anything as unsettling as the sight of that burnished blond head and that deceptively mild gaze. A gaze he profoundly hoped had not taken in their own group.

  He met Mélanie's gaze across the table for only a fraction of a second, but knew she had seen it too.

  "Laura said one should never forget a promise. Which I quite agree with. I distinctly remember I promised you a game of pirates when we got home."

  "Pirates!" Colin and Emily exclaimed almost in unison.

  "'Rats," Jessica said with enthusiasm.

  The fair-haired man was standing beside a closed carriage a little removed from them to the
right, delivering the ices to the unseen occupants. His back, thankfully, to them. Mélanie got to her feet, cradling Jessica perhaps a trifle closer than necessary. Raoul swung Emily up, which made her laugh. Colin held out his hand to help Laura up in a very grown up way.

  Proceed as though all were usual. Don't make too much of it. Don't, above all, rush or look over one's shoulder. Standard operating procedure he'd followed dozens of times in similar circumstances. But not with three children in tow. How in God's name did Malcolm and Mélanie manage?

  Mélanie carried Jessica. Raoul held Emily's hand, and Laura, Colin's. The children chattered enthusiastically. Carriages clattered by. Patches of rainwater glistened in the sunlight. The plane trees still rustled in the breeze. The white clouds still scuttered overhead.

  And the unthinkable had happened.

  Roth regarded Malcolm across the same table at the Brown Bear they had occupied the day before. "I'm honored. That's quite a confidence."

  "It's part of the investigation."

  "It's a secret about your friend."

  Malcolm set his fingers on the scarred wood of the table. "You're my friend."

  Roth returned his gaze. For a moment, the smoky air between them was thick with memories. Roth reached for the cup at his elbow, which today contained coffee, as did Malcolm's. "I should get you something stronger."

  Malcolm shook his head. "I need my wits about me."

  Roth took a sip of coffee. "Do you think Lydgate could have broken into Whateley & Company and killed Coventry?"

  Malcolm curled his hands round his cup, as if the warmth of the pewter could still his instinctive recoil. Whatever he had learned of Oliver today, he couldn't see him as a killer. But then, there was so much he hadn't been able to see Oliver as until a few short hours ago. "I'm not sure. Despite today's revelations, it's true he's not a trained agent in the way Maria Monreal is. Logically, it's more likely Maria Monreal was the one who broke in. And then most likely killed Coventry." He took a sip of coffee, hot and bitter on his tongue. "But just now, I'm not sure how much of a grasp I have of logic. I still can't quite accept the idea that Oliver might have killed a man hours after he was playing on our drawing room carpet with his children and my own at Colin's birthday party."