Fraser 03 - The Mask of Night

by Tracy Grant

"But—"

  "He knows the truth about me."

  "Not all of the truth apparently," Charles said, looking from his wife to Flahaut.

  Mélanie set her reticule and gloves on the table. Her wedding band gleamed steady and golden on her left hand. "M. de Flahaut and I are old friends, darling. Though not in the manner you might be pardoned for suspecting."

  "Mrs. Fraser—" Flahaut said.

  "Hortense is in London. I've just seen her."

  Flahaut gripped the edge of the table. "Is she—?"

  "She's in health, if that's what you mean. You can probably guess the state of her spirits. She was at the ball last night. She saw you with your wife."

  "Mélanie," Charles said. Surprising he could keep his voice so soft.

  She turned to face him. Her eyes were black smudges beneath the brim of her bonnet. "I'm sorry, darling. I almost told you last night. But it wasn't my secret to share."

  "By all the devils in hell—"

  "Don't blame your wife, Fraser," Flahaut said. "Not over this. I owe her more than I can possibly say."

  "A somewhat ambiguous statement, Flahaut. For what it's worth, this morning I gave my wife my word that I wouldn't betray any of her former colleagues. Whatever she may have kept from me, that promise still holds."

  "Charles is the most fair-minded man I've ever met," Mélanie said.

  "Don't push things, Mel."

  Flahaut scraped a hand over his hair. "I knew St. Juste was in London a fortnight ago. My father wrote to me."

  "Talleyrand?"

  "I assume we're beyond polite fictions. My fath-Talleyrand's agents had got word of St. Juste in Provence in the autumn. He was—” Flahaut hesitated.

  "He seduced Isobel Lydgate," Mélanie said.

  "What?” Charles swung round to stare at her.

  "I only just learned of it, darling.” Mélanie tugged loose the strings on her bonnet. "I've seen Bel. She admits to it, though I haven't got more than the bare bones out of her."

  "St. Juste followed Lady Isobel to England," Flahaut said. "My father wrote asking me to keep an eye on him. As Lady Isobel is Lord Carfax's daughter, he suspected there was an ulterior purpose to the affair and to his visit to London."

  "You'd been following St. Juste?"

  "No. I hadn't been able to trace him. As you pointed out, I'm not a trained agent. But I was quite sure he'd be at the ball last night."

  "You saw him?"

  "No, but when I heard about a mysterious murdered man no one seemed to recognize I was suspicious. Especially when Carfax and Castlereagh took an obvious interest in the matter. I heard the rumors that you were investigating. I wanted to learn what you discovered. So I followed you."

  "All that simply because of Talleyrand's vague suspicions?"

  "Yes," Flahaut said.

  "No," Mélanie said. "Flahaut. He has to know. If you don't tell him I will."

  Flahaut's gaze locked with hers. "You gave your word."

  "I know.” Mélanie would never allow herself to indulge in self-loathing, but Charles saw the flinch deep in her eyes. "I'm sorry."

  Flahaut drew a breath that had the rasp of sandpaper. He turned to Charles, shoulders set with military precision. "Eight years ago, your wife did Queen Hortense and me a great service. As did St. Juste. Hortense found herself with child. She went away to give birth to the baby. Your wife and St. Juste saw to it that the birth remained secret."

  Charles closed his eyes for a moment. Another layer of tissue had been torn from a wound he thought already raw. He opened his eyes and looked at his wife. "You said Queen Hortense was at the ball as well. You saw her?"

  Mélanie nodded. "Just before we discovered the body. I didn't have any reason to think she was connected to the murder."

  "You knew she was connected to St. Juste."

  "So I did."

  "And you were lying when you said that the first time you saw St. Juste after your encounter in 1809 was at the Duchess of Richmond's ball."

  "So I was.”

  "Fraser," Flahaut said. "I don't know that Hortense would have got through that time without Mélanie's support. I'm quite sure I wouldn't have done. I don't know what lies between the two of you, but I hope you'll believe that in this case her deception springs from the loyalty of a true friend."

  "My wife is far too complicated a woman to do anything for one reason alone.” Charles scanned Flahaut's face. The lengthening shadows gave a drawn cast to his features. Or perhaps that was due to other causes. "So Talleyrand's concern for what St. Juste was doing in London was simply because he knew of St. Juste's past connection to you and Queen Hortense?"

  "Isn't that enough?"

  "Men like Talleyrand rarely act on so intimate a canvas.” Charles drew a sheaf of papers from his coat and spread them on the table in the light of the candles. "I took these from St. Juste's rooms. Do you recognize the hand that penned any of them?"

  Even in the shadows, he could read the start of recognition in Flahaut's eyes. "No," the comte said.

  "Odd," Charles said. "In Vienna I got quite good at identifying who had penned coded papers that fell into our hands. These"—he touched two of the papers—"look remarkably like other papers written by Talleyrand."

  "They're block capitals. You can't possibly be sure."

  "No."

  "And if they were my father's, that doesn't prove any current connection between him and St. Juste."

  "No. It doesn't prove it."

  Flahaut's gaze flickered over his face. "Did you find—"

  "Anything concerning your and Queen Hortense's child? Not so far. But I haven't broken the codes. Flahaut—” Charles hesitated. "I've no wish to harm you or Queen Hortense and certainly not an innocent child. I'll do what I can to protect all of you."

  "Thank you, Fraser. Though I've learned that promises, even well meant ones, bind more like iron than steel.” Flahaut pulled on his greatcoat and picked up his gloves. "I must be on my way. My wife and I are dining at the Russian Embassy. Mélanie. My thanks for your unexpected hospitality."

  His gaze dared Charles to try to stop him from leaving, as though he would half relish a fight. Charles saw no sense in obliging him.

  The thud of the double doors closing reverberated through the library. The sky had faded to indigo beyond the windows. The plane trees made a black scrawl against the darkening sky. Lights shone in the houses across the square. As a child, Charles had made up stories about the happy families he was sure lived behind those rectangles of golden warmth.

  The only light in the library came from the circle cast by the branch of candles on the table. Mélanie stood on the edge of it. "I've been a fool," she said.

  "You have?” His voice came out rough.

  "In November I told you I was done lying to you. I couldn't even keep the promise two months. And the damnable thing is if I had it to do over I can't say I'd act differently."

  "No," Charles said. "I don't suppose you would."

  She lifted her gaze to his. Her eyes shone with the bleak hopelessness of Persephone trapped in the underworld. "'I'm sorry' seems quite inadequate. Not to mention disingenuous."

  He stared back at her, neither yielding nor ceding ground. "We were both naïve last November. There's no way we're going to be able to avoid lying to each other."

  She raised a brow. "We?"

  "You aren't the only one with complicated loyalties."

  "Charles, are you trying to say—"

  "No, I've been telling the truth for the past twenty-four hours. As far as I know it.” He crossed to her side and gripped her shoulders. "We haven't time for guilt anymore than we've time for anger.

  Her hand closed like a vise on his sleeve. He pulled her tightly to him and pressed his lips to the smooth coils of her hair. She shuddered. For a moment he sensed she was a handsbreadth away from burying her face in his coat.. Being Mélanie, instead she lifted her head and said, "I suppose you want to know about my dealings with St. Juste eight years ago."


  He released his breath. "Quite."

  "They were remarkably brief.” She moved away from him and began to draw the heavy velvet curtains over the windows. "I traveled with Hortense. St. Juste made the travel arrangements for us, provided us with forged travel documents, made pages from the official register disappear."

  "His demeanor?"

  "Efficient. Kind to Hortense in a detached sort of way. Unfailingly professional with me. But there was one evening in Mont Blanc—”

  "What happened?"

  She turned to look at him, one hand resting on the brown velvet curtain. "I'm not quite sure of the answer myself."

  Mont Blanc

  August, 1811

  The light from the stone fireplace flickered over the whitewashed walls and oak beams of the inn's common room, glanced off pewter tankards, warmed the roughened complexions of the farmers and tradesmen gathered at the trestle tables. It smoothed the shadows from Hortense's eyes and softened the pinched look her features had taken on in the seven weeks of their journey.

  St. Juste took another walnut from the dish on the table. "Your mother would have me shot for bringing you to a place like this. Rightly so."

  Hortense gave a half-smile, faint but real, the first Mélanie had seen her give him. "It doesn't seem so dreadful."

  St. Juste cracked the walnut between his thumb and forefinger. "You don't belong in a common room, madame."

  "That depends what part of my life we're talking about. At ten I was the daughter of an executed traitor. Besides the whole point of this journey is that I'm not myself."

  St. Juste separated a piece of walnut meat from the shell and held it out to Hortense. "Rather nice, not to be oneself for a bit." He turned to look at Mélanie. "Don't you agree, Mlle. Lescaut?"

  Mélanie took another sip of wine. "It's been so long since I've been myself for two weeks together that I can't remember."

  "I have a feeling could make yourself at home anywhere," St. Juste said.

  The door to the common room banged open, making the lamplight jump over the white walls. "I don't know," Mélanie said. "There are a number of settings I haven't tried."

  St. Juste snapped the empty walnut shell in two. "You'd make a superb duchess."

  "Oh, yes," Hortense said. "Or a politician's wife."

  "Only in playacting."

  St. Juste reached for another walnut. His fingers didn't falter, but Mélanie felt the change as his hand skimmed over the fluted cream lustre rim of the bowl. He leaned back in his chair and broke the second walnut in two.

  Mélanie met his gaze.

  "Have the carriage readied," he said. "I'll meet you in the inn yard."

  Hortense's gaze shot between them. "What—"

  Mélanie laid a hand on the other woman's wrist. "Yawn. Pretend we're retiring for the night."

  Mélanie lifted her shawl from the back of her chair and tossed it round her shoulders. She let her gaze drift over the room and took in the man in the dun-colored coat who hadn't been there a few minutes before, the man whose arrival had caused such a change in St. Juste. Middle years, stooped shoulders (not his real posture), brown hair graying at the temples. She didn't recognize him.

  "I'm quite exhausted," she murmured to Hortense as they threaded their way between tables to the door. "There's nothing more wearying than a day of travel."

  "Not to mention two glasses of wine.”

  Mélanie gave her a nod of approval. They went through the door into the inn's entry hall where two greatcoated men had just come through the double front doors, letting a blast of night air. Instead of moving to the newel staircase, Mélanie made for the passage that led to the back of the inn. They passed the doors to two private parlors and went out a side door into the cobbled yard.

  Hortense released her breath, as though she'd only just realized she'd been holding it.

  A light rain was falling. The glow of torches to the left showed the direction of the stables. Mélanie waited a moment, letting her senses soak up the sound of ostlers calling to each other in the front yard, the shod feet of restless horses on the cobblestones, a whicker from the stables. She reached for Hortense's wrist and stepped away from the wall. As she rounded the corner of the inn, she walked into a knife at her throat.

  Mélanie released Hortense, went limp in her attacker's hold and twisted, catching him in the stomach with her elbow. Her attacker gripped both her arms. "We have your friend. Don't struggle. You're only the bait."

  The ladder-back chair was hard and splintery. The twine bit into Mélanie's wrists, made worse as she'd worked to loosen it. Her neck smarted where the knife had cut her when she tried to get away. Across from her, Hortense was pale as bleached linen but her chin was high. An Empress's daughter indeed. With her arms jerked behind her, the fabric of her gown stretched taught over her belly. Her locked jaw told of the sheer force of will with which she was holding herself together. Mélanie met her friend's gaze with a silent message of hope. Raoul could have read it instantly. Surprisingly, Hortense seemed to as well.

  They were in an attic room of a building only a stone's throw from the inn. The man left to guard them sat by the windows, tossing dice, a pistol in his free hand. He lifted his head and looked from Mélanie to Hortense. His dark eyes were not unkind. He was a stocky man with untidy brown hair who looked more like a farmer than a trained agent, but he handled the pistol with the air of a professional. "They plan to let you go. They don't want you. They want the Wanderer."

  "I've never heard our friend called the Wanderer," Mélanie said.

  "Not him, the—” The man bit back his words. "Just wait."

  The door opened to admit the man who had first grabbed Mélanie. Dark-haired, wide-shouldered, slightly florid. He moved with the authority of command. "My apologies, ladies. You will not be detained much longer. Your friend is on his way. I'm glad to see I wasn't mistaken about his sense of honor."

  Mélanie permitted herself a small, inward sigh of relief. She had one loop of twine loosened from her wrists. Only three to go.

  Either their captors didn't have the remotest idea who Hortense was, or they were exceedingly good actors.

  A few minutes later, a wrap sounded at the door. "I am here, as requested," said St. Juste, his accent—Norman this time—flawless as usual. "As a sign of good faith, I believe you should send one of the ladies out first."

  "I don't believe signs of good faith are necessary when we hold all the cards. You have my word that once you surrender yourself, we will release the ladies."

  "How comforting.” St. Juste stepped through the doorway. The leader lifted his pistol to St. Juste's head. "Always the gentleman. I'm impressed."

  Mélanie let her gaze meet St. Juste's briefly and saw the response in his eyes. She snapped her bonds free and sprang from her chair, catching the leader with a kick to the groin. His pistol shot went wide, shattering the window. St. Juste sprang at the second man and sent his pistol spinning across the floor. Mélanie snatched it up. "I believe the cards are now ours."

  St. Juste whirled round, the now unconscious guard's pistol in his hand, and shot the leader through the temple. He slumped to the floor, dead before he could utter a sound. Mélanie was already cutting the bonds on Hortense's wrists. Hortense seemed beyond speech, but she sprang to her feet. St. Juste had the door open.

  They were in their carriage before anyone spoke. "I was sure they were after the baby," Hortense said. "But they scarcely seemed interested in us."

  "I don't think they had the faintest idea who you were, except pawns. They were after me.” St. Juste turned his head against the squabs to look at Mélanie. "My thanks. I'd have thought you might simply take your freedom and abandon me to my fate."

  "We need you," Mélanie said. It was the truth but not the whole truth. "What's the Wanderer?" she asked.

  She was sure he was going to lie. Then his mouth curved slightly. "My dear girl. You're a thousand times better off not knowing."

  Chapter 17
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br />   I'll say this for Julien St. Juste. The man is nothing if not efficient.

  Mélanie Lescaut to Raoul O'Roarke,

  22 October, 1811

  London,

  January, 1820

  "The Wanderer?” Charles studied his wife's still figure, outlined against the brown velvet library curtains.

  "St. Juste never told me what it meant. Given all the different masters he served, it could relate to anything. I don't even know if it's a person or an object. I asked Raoul the next time I saw him. He said he'd never heard of anything or anyone called the Wanderer."

  Charles reached into his pocket. “I found this in the trunk in St. Juste’s room.” He held the peacock blue ribbon up so it caught the candlelight.

  Mélanie's fingers tensed against the velvet for a moment. “I told you he liked blue.”

  “Peacock blue. Apparently torn from a lady’s gown. You said he tore one of the ribbons from your gown?”

  “I doubt it was a unique occurrence.”

  “The color matches.”

  “You can’t—“

  “I remember the dress.”

  She met his gaze. The memories between them were so thick he could feel the slithery silk ties that fastened the gown, taste the warmth of the creamy skin at the crook of her neck.

  Mélanie moved to draw the curtains on the last of the windows. “It doesn’t necessarily mean—“

  “It means he didn’t forget you. I wondered if O'Roarke was looking for you at the ball. Now I’m beginning to think St. Juste was.”

  “That doesn’t make sense, Charles. I could have blown his cover.”

  “Not if he held the threat of your past over you.”

  “Raoul would have told him—“

  “You think O'Roarke would have tried to protect you?”

  She tugged the curtain smooth. “I don’t know."

  "Why did Queen Hortense come to London?"

  Mélanie picked up the tinderbox and lit the tapers on the mantle. In seven years, how had he failed to see how very good she was at employing delaying tactics? "To retrieve some papers concerning the birth of her son. St. Juste had warned her about them."