by Tracy Grant
Hortense's gaze was so raw Mélanie almost looked away yet so desperate she could not do so. "You'll still be able to see the baby," she said, aware the words had all the comfort of a moth-eaten blanket in the driving snow.
"Rarely. In secret."
"He'll be with his grandmother."
"Flahaut's mother is fond of me. She understands my situation. How could she not? But she was able to pass her baby off as her husband's. Perhaps I should have tried to reconcile with Louis—” Hortense's fingers closed round the handkerchief. "Listen to me. I must pull myself together by morning. I don't want him to see how weak I am."
"Monsieur St. Juste?"
"He'd despise me."
"I'll own to having distinctly mixed feelings about Monsieur St. Juste, but I can't deny he's been nothing but helpful to us thus far."
"Maman trusts him. And I've never known him to be anything but faultlessly polite. But I have a feeling he could shoot a man through the heart and barely give the corpse a second glance."
"Which might be quite useful, depending on the circumstances."
"That's not funny, Mélanie."
"I'm not sure how funny I meant it to be." It was, after all, no less than she'd done herself upon more than one occasion.
Hortense spread the crumpled handkerchief out in her lap. "I've seen the way he looks at you."
"How?"
"Like you’re a puzzle he can't solve."
"Probably because after my bungling attempt to steal the paper at our first meeting he can't believe I've managed to survive two more years as an agent."
"No. I'm no so naïve I can't read the interest when a man looks at a woman." Hortense traced her finger over the initials embroidered in rose-colored silk on the handkerchief. SAB, to match Mélanie's current alias. "Mélanie, I know that when you tried to get that paper for Maman two years ago you—that is, you and he—"
"We spent the night together. He was hardly the first or last man I slept with and I certainly wasn't the first woman he took to his bed. There's no reason we should linger in each other's memory."
Hortense shivered. "He frightens me."
"I rather think Monsieur St. Juste frightens most people. He certainly frightens me. But he has a code of sorts. We can trust him for the length of this mission."
Hortense scanned her face. "Is that what this is? A mission?"
"That's how I thought of it in the beginning. When your mother first summoned me to Malmaison."
"And now?” Hortense's open gaze offered something warm and uncomplicated, something Mélanie had not known since childhood.
Mélanie took Hortense's hand in her own and squeezed it. "Now I'm helping a friend."
"You see the problem," Hortense said, holding Mélanie's gaze across the width of the carriage. "Those papers in Carfax's hands— He's still in France, Mélanie. My little boy. My littlest boy. I used to be able to see him occasionally. Now I'm forbidden the country. If the Royalists learn who is he is—” She gripped her elbows, kneading the rich velvet of her sleeves. "He isn't a Bonaparte precisely, but any Bonapartist connection is the kiss of death in France now. God knows what use some Bonapartists might try to make of him in a crazy plot. God knows what the Ultra-Royalists might do to him for fear he'd be used."
"Not to mention that anyone in possession of the truth would have a hold over you."
"And over Flahaut. It's only thanks to M. Talleyrand that he wasn't proscribed. If it got out that he had a child by a Bonaparte—"
"Among other things it could do serious harm to his marriage," Mélanie said.
"Yes.” Hortense stared at her gloved hands. "I suppose it could."
Mélanie studied her friend. The line between love and vengeance was all too easily crossed. "You want me to steal the papers from Lord Carfax for you."
"I know how much I'm asking—"
"Do you? My husband used to work for Carfax. Carfax's daughter and son are among my closest friends."
"That never—” Hortense bit her lip.
"Used to stop me. Quite. It's amazing the odd quirks of conscience one can develop."
"I didn't mean it that way."
"It's no more than I deserve. But I'm oddly out of the habit of rifling through papers these days."
Hortense locked her hands tight together. "We all risked so much to keep his birth secret. I haven't been able to be a mother to him, but if nothing else I can keep him safe. If your own children were threatened—"
"I expect I'd be quite capable of murder.” Mélanie swallowed, aware of a bitter taste on her tongue. "Do you have any idea where the papers are to be found?"
Hortense released her breath. "They're in code. Disguised as a musical score. With the heading Une Tournure Noire."
"Any other distinguishing marks?"
Hortense shook her head.
"How did Carfax get the papers from St. Juste?"
"St. Juste didn't say. Either Carfax stole them or St. Juste was obliged to give them up as a bargaining chip."
"Do these papers have anything to do with whatever mission St. Juste was about to embark on?"
"No—at least I don't think so. He didn't say anything about the mission beyond that it was dangerous."
"You didn't know the mission would take him to England?"
"I told you last night I had no notion he was in England."
"You also neglected to tell me you'd seen him a scant two months ago."
"I was going to."
"Think. Any clues about where he'd been, where he was going—"
Hortense squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. "He said the air was more agreeable in Switzerland. But I didn't think he meant England at the time."
"He didn't tell you anything else?"
"No. I'd tell you."
"Would you?"
"Of course. Mélanie, do you do trust me, don't you?"
"I'm a spy. I don't trust anyone."
"Not even your husband?"
"More than most."
"But not entirely?"
"I can't afford to. For his own sake as well as mine."
Hortense's brows drew together, puzzling this out. "From what you've said about Charles Fraser— He loves his children."
"Without reserve. That's the ironic part. No one would understand what you're asking of me better than Charles."
Hortense swallowed as though she was afraid to breathe. "You'll help me get the papers back?
"I'll help you get the papers back. If I can."
A ghost of a smile crossed Hortense's face. For a moment she looked like her mother. "There's very little you can't do, Mélanie."
"That rather depends on what enemy we're facing."
A mental image of the first paragraph of code hung before Charles's gaze as he made his way along St. Martin's Lane, head ducked against the wind. Roth had returned to Bow Street where he was due to report to the Chief Magistrate. No hackneys had been readily available, so Charles had set out for Berkeley Square on foot. As he traced the familiar paving stones toward home, he rearranged the letters of the paragraph in his mind, searching for a pattern, as he would listen for the click of tumblers if he were picking a lock.
He sensed he was being followed the way he might register a change in the wind or dampness in the air before he framed the thought that there was a storm brewing. At the next corner he crossed the street and managed to catch a glimpse of the drab greatcoated, beaver-hatted figure crossing in his wake. He cut through Green Park and again the silent shadow followed him, blending into the crowds, but always there to one trained to know what to look for. Down Piccadilly to Bolton Street and along the curve of Curzon Street to Berkeley Square and his front door. He relinquished his hat and greatcoat to Michael and went into the library. Under pretext of pouring a glass of whisky from the trolley by the long windows, he spotted a fold of drab greatcoat and a corner of dark silk hat behind one of the plane trees in the square. The watcher had taken up a position on a bench within the square railing.
>
He returned to the hall and spoke briefly with Michael, then went to the end of the hall and out into the garden. Puddles of rainwater glistened on the flagstones as he crossed to the gate to the mews. He walked along the mews, past softly whickering horses, across Hill Street, and down Charles Street to the far end of the square.
Inclement weather or not, it was the hour for paying calls. A carriage trundled down the street and drew up at the near corner. Three ladies descended. Two gentlemen in military dress stopped to exchange greetings with them. Charles slipped past, paused to nod to an elderly lady with a cane and a younger woman laden with parcels who were climbing the steps of a house farther along the square, and made his way round to the Berkeley Street gate, on the opposite side of the square from the bench where his erstwhile follower still watched his house.
Twilight was beginning to thicken the sky. A Turneresque glow hung behind the clouds. The gnarled, leafless branches of the plane trees showed black against the deepening gray. As a boy, on rare visits to his parents in London, he'd imagined that winter dusk turned the square into a goblin forest. A group of children were rolling hoops down the gravel walks while their nursemaids watched from the benches in the center of the square. A young couple wandered as far away from the others as possible, closely watched by an older lady who sat on the benches.
Charles could move soundlessly. Or at least, quietly enough not to be heard over the wind whipping the branches, the shouts of the children, the rattle of carriage wheels. Especially when Michael, timing it just as Charles had instructed, stepped out of the Fraser house garbed in Charles's greatcoat and beaver hat.
The watcher was on his feet, moving toward the square gate, when Charles's hand touched his shoulder. A friendly gesture to anyone who happened to be watching.
"I have a pistol pointed at your back," Charles said. "I wouldn't risk calling out. We're going to walk through the gate and up the steps into my house."
"But—"
"I don't think you want to have this conversation in public."
The man opened the black metal gate without further protest, crossed the street, and climbed the steps to the door which Michael was holding open.
"Excellently done," Charles said to Michael as they stepped into the entry hall. "We'll be in the library. Ask Mrs. Fraser to join us when she returns home. The double doors to the left," he added to his enforced guest.
He closed the doors firmly behind them and turned to get his first look at the man who had been following him. He had removed his hat and stood regarding Charles with a cool gaze.
"M. de Flahaut," Charles said. "I confess I'm surprised."
Chapter 15
…By the time you read this I shall be a married lady. I never thought my life would turn out so delightfully. I hope you will wish us well, Charles, and that before long I shall be writing to felicitate you upon a similar occasion…
Lady Isobel Mallinson to Charles Fraser,
2 May, 1809
John, the Lydgates’ footman, admitted Mélanie with a smile. The Fraser and Lydgate households had always been on terms of easy intimacy. Mélanie remembered John from the day he had first come up from Carfax Court. His Sussex accent had a faded a good deal since then.
He showed no surprise when Mélanie asked to see Mr. Lydgate rather than Lady Isobel. Oliver had more than once asked Mélanie’s advice about a speech or a piece of legislation. On one or two occasions she had offered such advice unasked. Mr. Lydgate, John said, was not at home to guests in general but of course it was different with Mrs. Fraser, and she could find him in his study.
Oliver was seated behind his brass-inlaid mahogany desk. The bronze lamp was lit and papers were spread before him, but his gaze was fixed on the charcoal drawing of Carfax Court that hung over the fireplace. It took a moment for him to register that someone had come into the room. Then he sprang to his feet, his face lit by the same careless, dazzling smile Mélanie remembered from their first meeting.
“Mélanie.” He came round the desk, took her hand, and kissed her cheek. “You’re a sight for sore eyes even on a day like this. Just what I need to drive away the dismals.” He squeezed her hand a little more tightly than was his wont. “Have you learned anything?”
“Yes.”
He scanned her face and gave another smile, perhaps the slightest bit forced. “Then you’d better tell me about it. I’ll pour us some sherry. Unfortunately Bel’s gone round to her mother’s.”
Mélanie dropped down on the bronze-green velvet sofa, untied the strings on her bonnet, stripped off her gloves, began to unhook her pelisse. Stalling for time.
Oliver moved to a rosewood table that held a silver tray with a decanter and sherry glasses. “I keep telling myself St. Juste’s enemy could have found him anywhere. But somehow that doesn’t stop me from feeling we should have been able to prevent it.” He pressed a glass of Oloroso into her hand.
She took a sip. Dry, nutty, far more welcome than rataffia. “I just called on Lady St. Ives.”
Oliver went still for a moment, but if she hadn’t been watching for it she probably wouldn’t have noticed. “Yes?” He let himself into an armchair beside the sofa.
Mélanie folded her hands round the stem of her glass. “You and Lady St. Ives were overheard in the garden, Oliver. No, let me finish,” she said, as he made a strangled noise of protest. "Lady St. Ives told me about the jewelry you helped her sell to settle her gambling debts.”
Oliver subsided in his chair. “Poor Sylvie.” He shot a quick look at Mélanie. “We were once—we once hoped to marry. Long before I was betrothed to Bel and she to St. Ives. But I swear to you all I did was sell her jewelry for her.”
“So Lady St. Ives said.”
He shook his head. “She never could resist wagering over a game. Even Lottery Tickets. Her husband is an indulgent man with a comfortable fortune, but even he’d blanch if he knew the extent of her debts. She worries herself ill and then she goes out and gambles more to take her mind off it.”
“It’s understandable that you’re concerned for her. But apparently Lady St. Ives is concerned for you as well. She said you told her last night that you’d had a report from the man you’d hired to follow Bel.”
Oliver’s gaze jerked to her face. “Damn it, I didn’t give her leave—“
“This is a murder investigation, Oliver. Confidences don’t mean what they do in normal times.”
“You’re Bel’s friend.“
“And yours.”
He set down his glass and scrubbed his hands over his eyes. “How much do you know?”
“Lady St. Ives said you engaged this man’s services a week ago. And that last night you told her he’d reported following Bel to a rendezvous.”
His gaze went to the drawing of Carfax Court again. “We don’t talk about our pasts much, do we? You, me, Charles, Bel. David and Simon. Too many ghosts lurking about. Not good dinner table conversation.” He reached for his glass. “What you must have gone through in Spain— I can guess enough to know it must have been worse than I can possibly imagine. I had a comfortable childhood. Loving parents. No fear of imminent danger. Enough food to eat. I have no right to compare anything I’ve been through to anything you’ve— But have there been times when you've found it difficult to marry a Fraser? To marry the Duke of Rannoch’s grandson?”
“At times,” Mélanie said, “I've found it bloody impossible.”
Oliver gave a faint smile. “At times I feel much the same about marrying Earl Carfax’s daughter.” He stared into the brown-gold depths of the sherry. "Even in the throes of calf love I knew what Sylvie and I felt for each other wouldn’t withstand drafty lodgings and mended gloves and mutton five nights a week. Scrimping by on a lawyer’s income. Which is funny, if you think about it, because that’s all my parents’ had—and a country lawyer’s income into the bargain—and they did well enough.”
“But it wasn’t the life Sylvie was born to.”
“No. Nor the lif
e I aspired to.” He stood and took a turn about the room. “I wonder sometimes if Charles understands ambition. Oh, I know there are things he wants passionately to achieve. But he’s never had to face not being able to have something because it was beyond the reach of his purse. He decided he wanted to enter Parliament, David found a seat for him, and he came home from Paris and stood in a by-election and that was that.”
“Far too easy Charles would say. One shouldn’t be able to buy one’s way into Parliament.”
“Yes, but the fact remains that at the moment one has little choice. He could and did. I couldn’t. Not until I married Bel.” Oliver continued pacing the Axminster carpet. “I like to dress things up with pretty speeches, but Bel made it clear where we both stood from the first.”
“Where was that?”
He scraped a hand through his hair. “I remember when I first saw her. David had invited me to stay at Carfax Court. Charles was already there. He and David picked me up in a gig at the inn where the mailcoach stopped. We came round a bend into view of the house and— There it stood, all that shimmering white stone on the edge of a lake. A bit overwhelming to a boy who’d grown up in a Devon village where the squire’s redbrick manor was the most imposing thing for miles.”
“I felt much the same when I first saw Dunmykel,” Mélanie said, thinking of her first visit to Charles’s family estate.
“I’d always known David was the heir to an earldom, but I don’t think I actually understood what it meant until then. When we pulled up to the house Bel was on the lawn with a couple of retrievers. She ran over the carriage with muddy paw prints on her skirt and said ‘You must be David’s friend.’ She seemed so very human in a place where everything was on an inhuman scale.” He ran his fingers down the crystal of his glass. “I got more at home at Carfax Court. And elsewhere. But I always felt particularly comfortable with Bel. After Sylvie and I— I knew if I were to have a prayer of achieving my ambitions I’d have to marry an heiress. I was fond of Bel. I thought perhaps she was fond of me. One evening at a party at Carfax House I began—“
