by Tracy Grant
"On the contrary," Suzanne said with truth. "I married into this family. I need to understand them. And your cousin is anything but forthcoming."
"Malcolm? Perish the thought. I think he'd sooner muck out the stables than talk about his feelings. Oh, look, there's a footman with champagne. I find it makes these evenings go by more quickly."
Suzanne smiled at her husband's cousin with genuine gratitude. She was fast coming to care for Aline more than she had ever imagined she could care for a daughter of the British aristocracy. And in a quarter hour of conversation with Aline she had learned more about her husband's family than she had in a year and a half of marriage. But she couldn't lose track of her mission to intercept Edward de Belcourt's transfer to Karl von Stoffel.
It was easy enough to tell Aline she was quite parched for the sound of French. It wasn't far from the truth. She and Malcolm switched languages, sometimes in the same conversation, but even in British diplomatic and military circles she'd never been as constantly surrounded by English as she now was.
Aline seemed pleased to have a task to focus on. Not a quarter hour later she said, "Oh, there are the de Belcourts. They've been in Britain for decades, but I'm sure they'd welcome a chance to use their French."
Edouard de Belcourt was a tall man with dark hair just touched by gray, a sharp-featured face, and shrewd blue eyes. A clever amateur, Suzanne deduced as he bowed over her hand. The sort who would also see espionage as a game and who was just clever enough to think he was cleverer than he was and get himself into trouble. From which the professionals would inevitably have to extricate him.
And he was selling out his employers. She should understand betrayal but it turned her stomach. She wondered what had driven him to take the step of spying in the first place. Personal belief? He might have convinced himself of that, but it was probably more the need for adventure. And now? The need for money? Amazing how that could supersede all else.
"Madame Rannoch. A pleasure to meet another refugee. Did you grow up in France?"
"No, in Spain. My mother was Spanish. We fled there during the Reign of Terror." A mix of truths and lies.
"I was fourteen when we left. I haven't been back to Paris since."
"I haven't spent much time in Paris myself. But it still sounds like home to me."
De Belcourt inclined his head in understanding. "For many of us it always will be."
"Do you plan to go back to France now?"
"Perhaps." De Belcourt cast a glance at his brother and sister-in-law, who were talking with two other couples. "Getting estates restored seems to be more complicated than one might think. And you? Do you have family in France still?"
"None, I'm afraid. And our French estates were destroyed in the wars." Her backstory was well worked out and documented, but she wasn't sure it would stand up to really close scrutiny from someone intimately acquainted with the French aristocracy.
De Belcourt's gaze swept the room. It was difficult to find space to stand and more guests were pouring through the door from the passage. "And what do you think of your adoptive country?"
Enough wax tapers to feed a Spanish village for a year. Enough jewels to fund goodness knew how many missions. A buzz of conversation in a language she would forever associate with decoding documents. "It's my husband's country. How could I be other than charmed?"
"You are obviously the perfect diplomat's wife. But may I be selfish and say I hope you will always think of yourself as a Frenchwoman?"
"Oh, I assure you I always shall." Odd how in the midst of a deception one ended up speaking the truth. Though how selling information to the Austrians made Edouard de Belcourt a Frenchman was another story.
Edouard de Belcourt excused himself, saying he was promised in the card room. When Suzanne said she was going in search of Malcolm, Aline seemed relieved, though she said, "Are you sure you don't want me to come with you? I rather think Malcolm would give me a glowering look for leaving you on your own."
Suzanne smiled. "Your cousin is a remarkable man and very advanced in his understanding of the institution of marriage, but at times he can be ridiculously overprotective. He himself would tell you I accuse him of it. I shall be quite all right. I suspect you're dying to finish that equation you were working on in the carriage."
"Do you really not mind?" Aline said. "It's true, if I just had a few moments I could jot down the ideas I was mulling over as we stood in the endless line on the stairs. I think I nearly have it."
"You're just like your cousin. He takes refuge in the library. I daresay that's where I shall find him now. No, don't worry. I've been alone in the Pyrenees with a six-month-old. I think I can navigate a ballroom. Even in London."
"Probably ten times better than I can. You're a good sort, Suzanne."
It was, Suzanne realized, high praise in the Rannoch-Dacre-Hammond family.
Edouard de Belcourt was still in the first-floor passage outside the drawing room. He appeared to have stopped to speak with some acquaintances but was extricating himself when Suzanne emerged from the drawing room. Fortunately he was tall and walked with a certain easy arrogance that was almost a swagger. Easy enough to keep her eye on him as she slipped between the guests. And since she hadn't been presented to most of them no one stopped to speak with her.
De Belcourt was at the top of the stairs. She could say she'd gone downstairs in search of Malcolm. De Belcourt was probably making for the library. What would she do if Malcolm had really taken refuge there? Oh, devil take it, there was Malcolm, leaning against the wall not far from the stairhead, talking to David. How was she going to get past him? If—
Something damp and cold splashed against her side. She staggered and would have fallen if a hand hadn't closed on her elbow.
"I'm so sorry. That was quite unforgivable of me. And we haven't been introduced, so I can't even properly apologize."
She looked up to meet a pair of quizzical eyes of an indeterminate color. He looked to be in his late forties or early fifties, with sandy hair and an ironic twist to his face. She was about to extricate herself, using their lack of acquaintance as an excuse, when a familiar voice stopped her.
"Alistair, it's too bad of you. Whom did you prevail upon to present you to her?"
The hazel eyes focused on Suzanne's face. "Good God. I confess it never occurred to me—Have I managed to collide with my daughter-in-law?"
CHAPTER SIX
Suzanne stared into the mocking gaze. He wasn't at all what she had pictured.
"Suzanne," Lady Frances said, "may I present Alistair Rannoch? Your husband's father."
"You must forgive me, my dear. You aren't at all what I was picturing. I never imagined Malcolm capturing a diamond of the first water."
"Don't talk fustian, Alistair." Lady Frances said. "We're extraordinarily fortunate to have Suzanne in the family."
"My point exactly. Assuming the word family can be applied to us." Alistair Rannoch turned his gaze back to Suzanne. "One of the few things Malcolm and I have in common is our lack of convention when it comes to family matters."
How many minutes had de Belcourt been out of sight? She was risking the ruin of her mission. But to extricate herself risked the ruin of the larger mission that was her marriage. "It's an honor to meet you, Mr. Rannoch."
"Doing it rather too brown, my dear. Malcolm must have told you something about me. I don't normally spare much attention for my heir's starts, but I confess, having met you, I'm intrigued to hear the story of this unconventional courtship."
Anger on behalf of the boy her husband had been shot through her. She gave a smile with the sweetness of lemon ice. "Malcolm came to my rescue in the Cantabrian Mountains. As I'm sure you realize, your son is an extraordinary man."
"Not precisely the word I would have chosen. But I never thought to see him a husband and father. I rather wondered if his inclinations ran a different way entirely. I assure you I'm generally more adept than my clumsiness with my champagne glass would indicat
e."
***
Leaning against the gilded paneling by the stairhead, Malcolm had a good view of the drawing room doorway. Edouard de Belcourt thankfully was tall. Easy enough to catch a glimpse of him moving down the passage. Malcolm extricated himself from his conversation with David and moved down the stairs a bit behind de Belcourt. A risk, but he was quite confident of where de Belcourt was headed. He feigned interest in an oil of Panshanger, the Cowper country seat, a position that afforded him a view of the hall as de Belcourt came down the stairs, glanced round, and went into the library. De Belcourt emerged no more than three minutes later and paused to converse with Corisande and Charles Ossulston, who had just come into the house. Reasonably coolheaded, though he hadn't done a good enough job of checking the terrain.
Malcolm waited, the library in sight, until de Belcourt had vanished up the stairs. Then Malcolm slipped into the library. Hardly a surprise to anyone who happened to glimpse him. It was well known to be his favorite haunt.
The room was empty, lit by a lamp on the library table and a pair of tapers in silver gilt holders on the mantel. Malcolm paused to glance about. De Belcourt had been so quick he must have had his hiding place picked out. Nothing out of the ordinary on the bookcases flanking the fireplace. He turned. There. One volume of Debrett's pushed back slightly further than the others. De Belcourt had had the wit to move the library steps a little to one side, but the marks showed in the carpet. He didn't have the thoroughness of a trained agent. Malcolm pulled the library steps back to the shelf with Debrett's, climbed up, and retrieved the volume. Two closely written sheets were tucked inside, not even pushed into the binding. He glanced at them enough to see coded writing. So he wasn't accidentally retrieving someone's love letters (unless they were written in code). He tucked them into his coat, replaced the book, climbed down the steps, and returned to the hall.
He paused to adjust his cravat before the hall looking glass, then strolled back up the stairs. Midway up he passed Karl von Stoffel and nodded. Poor fellow. He was going to be in for an unfortunate surprise.
***
Raoul's training and years of experience had taught Suzanne that impatience could unravel everything. It had taken all her willpower not to break away from Alistair Rannoch and Lady Frances, regardless of their reaction. At last, when she judged it safe, she said she was on her way to the library to look for Malcolm. At least Malcolm was no longer by the stairs talking to David, though she hadn't seen him move away. It must have happened during the contretemps with Alistair Rannoch's champagne.
"Hardly worth the trouble of Malcolm attending an entertainment at all if he's going to spend it in the library, is it?" Alistair said. "I would hope he'd have more care for a treasure such as his wife. Ah, there he is."
Malcolm had seen them and was striding quickly towards them from the stairhead. No way to leave now.
"Sir." Malcolm's hand closed on her elbow as he joined them. For all the stresses of the moment, a jolt of warmth shot through her at the solidarity. "I see Aunt Frances has been before me in presenting you to my wife."
"Actually I collided with Suzanne and spilled champagne on her gown. I usually pride myself on more finesse, especially when it comes to beautiful women. You're to be congratulated."
"Thank you."
It would be hard to say whether Alistair's voice or Malcolm's was more devoid of emotion.
"You really ought to keep a better eye on her, my boy. She doesn't know London ways, and if her husband isn't seen to properly appreciate her, many other men would be glad to step in."
"I assure you, sir, I am well aware of my wife's worth. And my wife is well able to take care of herself."
"It's never wise to make the mistake of overconfidence, Malcolm."
"Alistair," Lady Frances said, "if you're a gentleman you'll get me a glass of champagne."
Alistair Rannoch gave a mock sigh. "Duty calls. Suzanne. Your servant."
"Good of Aunt Frances," Malcolm murmured as his aunt and Alistair moved off, "especially as she has almost as little use for Father as I do." He looked down at Suzanne. "I'm sorry. I had no notion you'd have to meet him alone."
"It's all right. He told the truth, we rather collided in the crush of guests. And I don't have family history to complicate things." She touched his arm. She could feel the tension running through it. "You're to be commended for keeping your temper, darling."
"I should manage it better. Given what I think of him, Alistair has a damnable ability to get under my skin."
"He's your father."
Malcolm drew a short breath. "Odd the weight that word has."
"Dearest." Suzanne squeezed his arm before she released him. "I shall be quite all right. I was on my way to search out Aline, who I fear has disappeared somewhere to work on her equation. Quite like someone else in the family I could name. I know you wanted to speak to Lord Holland."
"You're sure?"
"Absolutely. Judith tells me it doesn't do for husbands and wives to live in each other's pockets. I wouldn't want to be thought unfashionable."
"If you start worrying about being fashionable I shall wonder what happened to the woman I married." To her surprise, for he was not given to such gestures, he took her hand and kissed it.
At last she was able to slip into the crowd and make her way to the stairs. She had lost at least ten precious minutes. Malcolm was walking in the other direction, but if he or anyone else questioned her, looking for Aline was a good excuse and the press of arrivals on the stairs made it easy to lose herself.
From what she'd seen of London houses, she'd guess the library was the second room along the ground floor hall, a pair of double doors beneath an ornate carved doorcase. She had taken a half-dozen steps down the hall when those doors opened. The man who came out was instantly recognizable because she had had Aline point him out to her in the ballroom when he arrived. It was Karl von Stoffel, and at the look on his face her heart sank into her satin slippers. For his dismayed, abstracted expression told of a man who had been disappointed in his quest. Which meant that she had failed in her own.
She considered following him, but she doubted he and de Belcourt would risk a conversation at the ball if they hadn't risked the exchange. Instead she went into the library. A book lay open on the library table. A volume of Debrett's. The pages hadn't been cut, but it had plainly been examined meticulously.
She had been watching the stairs as best she could. Who had been before her? Even as she wondered, she had an image of her husband leaning against the gilded paneling by the stairhead, laughing with David. And then a few minutes later coming up the stairs, not noticing her at first because his attention was elsewhere.
Of course. The papers she had been tasked to recover, the papers that could wreak havoc for Bonapartist agents in London, were in the hands of her husband.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Think. Her fingers closed on the carved walnut of the table, so hard she could feel the imprint of the laurel leaves through her gloves. This was hardly the first time she'd had to improvise in the midst of a mission. Carfax wasn't present tonight. Malcolm wouldn't be able to give him the papers. Which meant he would have to bring them home. Where she could retrieve them.
Save that if the papers disappeared from their bedchamber, Malcolm would have a limited circle of suspects. She had taken papers from him occasionally, but usually she was careful to copy things and leave the originals. Copying these would not solve the problem.
Suzanne saw her husband's face as he had bent over her hand in the upstairs passage. What else he felt for her she couldn't be sure, but he trusted her. He wouldn't easily suspect her. And yet—He was an agent. He knew how to analyze evidence. He knew, on some level, to trust no one. To take the papers was a risk, a risk to everything she valued. But to leave them was to risk the safety of an untold number of people.
People at risk in the same crazy game that was her life.
***
Colin snuggled in Suza
nne's arms, nursing industriously. He was such a little person these days, but when he nursed, cuddled up in her arms in his nightshirt with his head in the crook of one elbow and his legs flopping over the other, he still seemed a baby. Malcolm had placed him, squirming and blue-tinged, on her chest seconds after she had given birth to him. In that moment it had hit her. She had brought a person into the world. And she was responsible for him.
It wasn't just her own future she risked if she took de Belcourt's papers from Malcolm and set in motion a chain of events that could lead to her being exposed. It was Colin's as well. He'd been born in the midst of a war. His short life so far had been unsettled, dangerous even. He'd been in field hospitals, a bandit camp, even the edge of battle. But he'd always had the security of his parents' love and the stability of their relationship. Whenever she had qualms about taking him into danger, she'd comforted herself with the thought that he was better off with the two people who loved him best.
If Malcolm suspected her, she might have to run and take Colin with her. Once that had seemed a possibility. Before Colin was born. Before she'd seen how Malcolm loved him. Before Colin had begun to bond with Malcolm.
Colin squawked. Suzanne willed her fingers not to clench.
"Suzette?" Malcolm looked up from unfastening his shirt cuffs. "Are you all right?"
"Of course." As was her custom, she forced a smile to her lips. She willed herself not to let her gaze stray to his dispatch box. He probably hadn't had a chance to put the papers there in any case. Most likely they were in his coat. "Just thinking over the evening."
"You were remarkable. But then you're always good in enemy terrain."
She kept her smile steady. He couldn't know how right he was.
"At least now you've met Alistair we may not have to see him again," Malcolm added.
