by Louise Allen
I almost slumped back in the seat in disgust, then I remembered my training and concentrated on studying the body language of the larger group. They were clearly comfortable together and they had absorbed the brothers without any sideways glances or signs that they were guarding their words. Two were chatting easily to James, another was speaking to Luc and seemed to be reminding him that they had met on some previous occasion.
The rest – I counted eight – included Reece who was holding forth on something, presumably throwing his weight about in an effort to recover his self-esteem. I was pleased to see that there was a grass stain on his beautiful cream-coloured pantaloons from where I had decked him. The men around him were holding their own in the discussion, I thought, not apparently cowed by the boss’s nephew.
Luc glanced across the lawn and I saw he was watching the Comte de Hautmont strolling towards them. Then the others became aware of his approach too and I was reminded of a pack of dogs spotting another hound they knew but were wary of. He’s French, I reminded myself, and they are the group responsible for intelligence. Are they as suspicious of him as I am?
Then I saw Elliott Reece’s face and thought, Is my enemy’s enemy my friend? Because if so, I’m on de Hautmont’s side. Which was irrational and dangerous thinking. Elliott was a scumbag, but that didn’t mean that the Count was on the side of the angels just because he didn’t like him.
The Count acknowledged the larger group with an elegant lift of his hat and joined the four nearer me. They seemed to accept him happily enough, drawing him into the dispute over which of two stallions was going to produce the better progeny. I watched him and, over his shoulder, the sour expression on Elliott Reece’s face, then jumped when the Frenchman looked directly at me and dropped one eyelid in a slow wink.
I couldn’t help it, I grinned back. Suspicious I might be, but the man had style. And charm. But a successful spy wouldn’t creep around with a repellent expression and wearing a long black cloak. Style and charm were perfectly compatible with espionage. But for which side? I wondered suddenly, now thoroughly confused about what I thought of the Count.
‘You’re not allowing the froggy boy-lover into your syndicate I hope, Smithson.’ Reece’s voice was so close that I jumped. For a moment I was distracted by the discovery that calling Frenchmen “frogs” went back this far, then I took in the full import of the insult. Reece was saying that the Count was gay? Was my gaydar that out of tune?
de Hautmont turned. ‘I take exception to your statement that I am a lover of boys, Reece.’ He sounded quite calm and very dangerous under it.
‘Oh, I apologise unreservedly. I completely acquit you of buggering boys. A lover of men, I should have said.’
From the expressions on the faces around him I could see that Reece had gone far too far, that his colleagues were appalled. Several of them stepped back, distancing themselves from him, and I saw the realisation dawn that he’d gone out on a limb far too fragile to support him.
I felt a flicker of understanding. I had humiliated him in front of a witness and now, with what he thought of his pack around him, he had lashed out at the outsider to make himself feel big.
‘You will withdraw that remark and apologise, Reece,’ the Count said.
Reece had gone pale, but he shook his head. ‘Why should I do that?’ My slight sympathy faded. He had neither the grace nor the wit to apologise.
‘Then you will name your friends, Monsieur.’ The Count’s accent had become stronger, the only outward sign of his anger.
The group around Reece drew back even further except one young man who went to his side and began to whisper urgently in his ear.
Reece shrugged off his hand. ‘Will you or won’t you act for me?’
‘Surely if you explain that was in the heat of the moment, the wine – ’
Reece snarled something that made the other man flinch. ‘Very well, if you must. Robins – will you join me?’
Luc stepped forward. ‘Monsieur le Comte, I will act for you. It seems you may not have any friends close by.’
‘And I.’ James joined him and they handed cards to the opposing seconds who were still looking bemused until a question from Luc had them scrabbling in pocket books and producing their own.
‘Tomorrow then, gentlemen? I would be glad to offer you coffee at about midday if you would care to call at Albany?’
There was a lot of formal bowing then Luc, James and the Count turned and strolled off across the lawn. I got up and skirted round the edge, aiming to meet them on the far side. Somehow I thought it could only inflame matters if Reece saw me with the Franklin brothers, let alone the Count.
‘You are acquainted with Miss Lawrence, I believe,’ Luc said when we finally met.
‘But of course. I am delighted to meet you again, Mademoiselle.’
‘Count.’ I managed the bare minimum of a smile and a bob before I turned on Luc. ‘What the blazes do you think you are doing? You promised not to challenge him!’
‘And I did not.’
‘You are acting as second for someone who has. I’m furious with you.’
‘Have I committed some faux pas in accepting the kind offer of these gentlemen?’
‘This gentleman – ’ I stabbed a finger at Luc, ‘was going to call out Reece for making a pass at me. He agreed not to for various reasons and now he’s involved with the man again.’ I glared at all three of them equally and realised with a jolt that Luc was looking far paler than usual. ‘And you should be resting. Take that damn hat off and let me look at your head.’
They all blinked at the language, but Luc did sit down when I prodded him in the chest. He took off his hat and I peered at the back of his head.
‘Not bleeding,’ I admitted grudgingly. ‘Have you got a headache?’ He shook his head. Carefully. ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘You are hurt, Monsieur?’
‘Someone hit him with a cosh on Friday,’ I said. ‘He should have stayed in bed.’
Luc growled and the Count raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. Elegant but affected and probably infuriating for the man on the receiving end. ‘Is that something to do with the unfortunate Mr Coates? That is why you came to our office the other day, is it not?’
Yes, the Count was intelligent and, no doubt, in intelligence. Translator my foot, I thought.
‘A friend of a friend,’ Luc said and replaced his hat gingerly.
‘Was it murder?’
‘No. We believe suicide. What drove him to it is another matter.’
‘Blackmail, no doubt. I suspect that the accusations that young fool Reece threw at me were because I had, in some small way, taken Coates under – what do you say? My wing, that is it.’
‘You knew he was – ’
‘In what way – ’ James’s question cut across mine.
‘I sensed it. I may have been wrong.’ The way in which he did not look at James when he replied made the tension curl in my stomach. Just my imagination… ‘And he seemed unsettled in his work, interested in mine. I do more than simple translation, you understand. I also look at information about foreign nationals in this country. He implied that he was intrigued by that line of work.’
‘So you told him about it?’ Luc asked.
‘A very little. No detail, no names, you understand. It is all very sensitive. But he was a young man with some promise, his French was good and he had some Spanish and Italian, although those needed work. There might have been possibilities for him.’
‘Who – ’ Luc began, then broke off. ‘What the devil is it now? One of Reece’s seconds is heading this way.’
The men stood up, a solid wall in front of me, and I sat quiet and listened.
‘Gentlemen.’ It was the man Robins, the second second as it were.
Does that make him a third? I wondered.
‘Yes?’ Luc said. I remembered that it was the duty of the seconds to stand between the two principals in all matters before the actual duel.
&n
bsp; ‘I have a letter of apology from Mr Reece to Monsieur the Count.’ The man sounded as though he was going to choke on the message. I swayed to one side so I could see him through the gap between James and Luc. His face was red.
‘Give it to me, if you please.’ Luc held out his hand and there was the sound of paper crackling. ‘Count, this is an unreserved apology and withdrawal of all aspersions upon you for which Reece blames the irritation of the moment and too much to drink. Has he shared this retraction with all those within earshot of the original slur?’ Luc demanded.
‘Yes, my lord. Sir Th– That is…’
‘Sir Thomas Reece has become involved?’
‘He… Someone fetched him. He shouted at, that is, he reasoned, with Mr Reece who, er, saw the error of his actions.’
‘Sir Thomas is no doubt aware that I am accounted a very good shot,’ the Count said dryly.
And as the injured party he had choice of weapons. It seemed Sir Thomas was prepared to humiliate his nephew rather than risk his skin. I tried to imagine Elliott’s state of mind just now – knocked down by one woman and mocked by another, challenged and then forced into a shameful climb-down by his uncle in front of his colleagues. If Elliott Reece was the villain of the piece then he would be an exceedingly dangerous man after that. Even if he isn’t our murderer or blackmailer, he’s going to be like an unexploded bomb, I thought.
‘Monsieur le Comte,’ Luc said formally. ‘Are you prepared to accept this apology?’
‘I am.’
‘Then, Mr Robins, kindly convey the Count’s acceptance and his withdrawal of the challenge.’
There was a flurry of formal bowing and Mr Robins, the back of his neck positively glowing with embarrassment, walked away. The men turned back to me.
‘That will make for an interesting atmosphere in the office tomorrow,’ I remarked.
‘Indeed it will. I am enchanted to have had the opportunity to meet you again, Miss Lawrence. Might I hope for a dance this evening?’
I glanced at Luc, caught James’s concerned expression as he watched his brother and shook my head. ‘I am afraid we will not be staying for the ball, but thank you, I would have enjoyed dancing with you. Perhaps on another occasion.’
Luc waited until the Frenchman was out of earshot before demanding to know what I meant.
‘Look.’ I took the little mirror from my reticule and handed it to him. ‘You’re a ghastly colour. If you were a mushroom I wouldn’t cook with you.’
James snorted but, tellingly, Luc did not rise to the bait.
‘In fact,’ I decided, ‘We’re going home now. Are you coming, James? And how do we find Garrick?’
‘I know where he’ll have gone,’ James said. ‘Follow me.’
He led the way through the shrubbery – I refrained from pointing out the bench where I’d hit Reece in case it inflamed Luc’s temper even more – slipped a coin to a footman guarding a back gate and went out into what proved to be the mews behind the house. It was congested with carriages, their drivers and grooms talking, sleeping or smoking pipes.
We went out of the end, turned into a small street and down an alleyway and in through the door of the Running Footman public house. I immediately wanted to pick it up, shift it through time and install it in my street. ‘This is wonderful,’ I breathed.
‘Why?’ Luc asked. ‘I am not at all sure you should be in here.’
‘It’s so authentic,’ I said, then realised how idiotic that sounded. Of course it was authentic, this wasn’t a theme park, this was 1807 London. Everything was authentic. Even so, the mellow smoke-stained wooden panelling, the settles against the walls, the gleam of pewter pots – everything right down to the buxom serving maid leaning her elbows on the bar with a fine display of cleavage, looked like the dream of an old English pub. ‘It seems perfectly respectable,’ I added as Garrick got to his feet from a table in the corner where he had been playing cards with three other men.
He took one look at Luc, scooped up a handful of coins from the table and nodded to the other three.
‘We’re off then?’
‘Apparently,’ Luc said, with a sideways look at his brother and me.
‘We’ve been having a very exciting time,’ I told Garrick brightly as we made our way to another side street where a small boy was standing guard over our carriage.
From the way he grinned at Garrick and caught the coin he tossed him, he’d helped out before. ‘I watered ’em, Mr G and I chased off Piggy ’iggins and his bruvver what wanted to look inside.’
‘Good lad.’ A second coin went spinning into the grubby hand as James opened the carriage door and flipped down the step for me. Luc followed, then James got in and glared at him.
‘You’ve overdone it.’ He leaned forward and stared into Luc’s eyes. ‘They look all right. How’s the headache?’
Luc waved a hand dismissively and I resisted the urge to fuss over him. When I said nothing and didn’t attempt to wave smelling salts under his nose, or dab his forehead with a dainty handkerchief soaked in lavender water or whatever the typical Georgian female response was expected to be, he visibly relaxed.
‘I need to process what I’ve learned today,’ I said. ‘Can we wait until we get back before we talk about it?’ I saw them both mentally translating process then I closed my eyes and hoped that they would too. At least there was silence.
Chapter Fifteen
‘Two minutes.’ I peered into the vast iron frying pan that I’d found while Garrick was inspecting Luc’s head wound and James was, from the muffled curses filtering through from the bedchamber, holding his brother down.
I’d changed into my modern clothes, banged on the door and said I’d do dinner and had gone to forage. What I was cooking now that we’d all gathered in the kitchen was an un-Spanish Spanish omelette crossed with a frittata. I’d parboiled some potatoes while the men were otherwise engaged, fried them sliced along with onion, mushrooms and ham and now I was pouring in the beaten egg. There was no peppers or garlic but I’d found some interesting hard cheese to grate over the top and James was cutting slices off a vast crusty loaf while Garrick ground black pepper for me in a pestle and mortar.
Apparently Luc had slept for about twenty minutes and that seemed to have made him feel better, although not having a hat pressing on his battered head probably helped even more. When I spoke he got up, went into the scullery and came back with a jug of ale, then took the handle of the pan and heaved it into the middle of the table. ‘What do you call this?’
‘If I had sweet peppers and garlic and some spiced sausage I’d call it a Spanish omelette. As it is, call it the Lawrence Improv.’
‘I call it bl– very good,’ James said after two mouthfuls.
‘Tell them about Lady Turnham,’ Luc said. ‘Save Reece until later. I can’t talk about him and eat at the same time.’
I explained about what I’d told Chloe and why I’d confided in her. ‘And if she discovers anything she’ll let us know here.’
To my relief they seemed to accept that it was a good idea. ‘She doesn’t know we think the murder and the suicide are linked?’ Garrick asked.
‘She knows that they knew each other socially. And she knows that Talbot wasn’t interested in women – I told her we discovered that from his valet.’
James nodded, clearly taking the point that I’d kept him out of it. ‘Can we trust her?’
‘Her discretion, I’m sure of. And we can trust her to ask the right questions without giving anything away. She’s very bright and she’s so lively and interested in everything that I think the ladies she’s talking to won’t suspect her motives.’
We polished off the omelette, dumped the dishes – I was going to find out how much the maid was paid and insist she got a bonus – and retreated to the drawing room and the incident boards with a bottle of port, a bowl of nuts and the remains of the cheese.
To my surprise Luc poured wine all round then took his glass and a handful of walnut
s and hitched on hip on the table by the boards. ‘So, what do we know that is new?’
‘That Elliott Reece is a complete little toe-rag and that he likes women and hates the Count,’ I contributed.
Luc grinned at the description then sobered. ‘Sir Thomas is prepared to sacrifice family honour to keep his nephew safe.’
‘Coates was baited by Elliott Reece in the weeks before his death and his colleagues – Coates’s, that is – did wonder whether he was interested in changing sections and working on intelligence matters or whether his new interest in it was because of Reece,’ I said.
‘Or vice versa,’ James mused. ‘Reece gives George a hard time for whatever reason, George starts digging into something that is strictly speaking Reece’s province in order to… what? Show him as being incompetent?
‘On the other hand Elliott has a powerful patron in his uncle. George had no-one,’ James continued, arguing against himself. ‘It would take more than incompetence to oust Reece, that’s too easily covered up.’
‘What are his politics?’ I asked. ‘Reece’s, I mean.’
‘His uncle will be Tory, or at least a Whig with strong Tory leanings, like Portland, the Prime Minister, or he wouldn’t hold the position he has. I expect young Reece is the same. Why?’
‘He was needling me about my political views as an American, which I’d told him I was. He asked why I had come here when the English were my enemies and the French my natural allies. When I said I didn’t approve of the Terror and so forth he made some remark about democracy and people rising on merit, which I thought was pretty hypocritical, given his uncle no doubt got him his position.’
‘If he is secretly pro-French,’ James said slowly, ‘then why is he constantly suggesting that the Count is a French spy?’
‘True.’ I had to agree. ‘I think he’s a spiteful trouble-maker who likes to prod at people whenever he can see what he thinks is a weakness.’
