Fraser 03 - The Mask of Night

by Tracy Grant

  “When was this?” Charles asked.

  “’Bout seven tonight. He told us the job and handed over the money. We were to have more sent to us tomorrow if we were successful.”

  “Successful at what?” Mélanie said.

  The men fell silent again. Raoul’s captive rolled his gaze toward the knife Charles was holding to his throat. “Him—the one we jumped first—wasn’t supposed to leave the park alive.”

  “The man who hired you told you I’d be in the park tonight?” Raoul asked.

  “Sometime between ten and midnight. Told us to wait by the Serpentine. Said we could keep all the money we found on you, but we were to bring him anything we found in writing. He made sure none of us could read.”

  “Where were you to find him again?” Raoul asked.

  “We weren’t. He said he’d find us.”

  Charles reached into his pocket, pulled out his card case, and flicked it open with one hand. He removed the knife and held out a cream-colored card. “If this man ever contacts you again, you’ll let me know.”

  The captive stared at him. Raoul exchanged a look with Charles and undid the man’s bonds. Will did the same for his prisoner.

  “I did give you my word,” Charles said.

  The two men stared at him a moment longer, as though perhaps the cloudy sky were obscuring his true motives. Then they turned and ran before Charles or any of the others could change their minds.

  Will looked at Charles. “You surprise me, Fraser.”

  “I take my word rather seriously.” Charles struggled out of his sodden greatcoat and squeezed the water from its folds. “Besides, I don’t think any of us fancy having to explain ourselves to Bow Street.”

  Mélanie looked at Raoul. “Good evening, Mr. O'Roarke.”

  “Que—Mrs. Fraser.”

  If he’d almost called her Querida in front of people who didn’t know their past history, he was more overset than she'd realized. She saw that he was swaying slightly and put out a hand to steady him. Her fingers touched something damp and sticky. “You’re bleeding.”

  “A flesh wound. Two of them had pistols. I managed to trick them into firing early, but one of the shots winged me. Then someone got me with a knife. Not the most organized of attacks. If my unseen enemy had hired a marksman to lie in wait in the trees with a rifle, he could have picked me off easily. Still, I suspect they’d have succeeded in the end if the three of you hadn’t happened along. I’m not as young as I once was.”

  Mélanie bent down while he talked, tore a strip from her petticoat, and bound it round his chest to staunch the bleeding. She’d once seen him direct an entire skirmish with a musket ball in his side only to collapse from loss of blood when the enemy were routed. “You need to see a doctor. Charles, you look quite fetching dripping wet, but it won’t be very helpful if you catch pneumonia. We need to get inside.”

  “Yes,” her husband said. “The question is where.” He looked from Raoul to Will. “Where were you meeting the others?”

  “Others?” Will repeated. The fitful moonlight bounced off his crooked spectacles.

  “You and O'Roarke weren’t meeting by the Serpentine. You were both on your way somewhere.

  “Don’t try to argue with him, Gordon,” Raoul advised. He regarded Charles a moment. “You can do what you want with me, but do I have your word you won’t turn my other companions over to the law?”

  “You know I can’t promise that,” Charles said.

  “If you think they don’t pose an imminent risk.”

  Charles was silent for a moment. “All right. Yes.”

  Raoul nodded. “I’m afraid it’s a bit of a walk.”

  Mélanie put a hand on his arm.

  “My dear, Mrs. Fraser,” Raoul said, “credit me with some sense. I promise I’ll give you fair warning if I’m in danger of collapse.”

  Raoul led them away from the water, through a dark landscape where flashes of moonlight threw twisting tree branches into relief against a charcoal sky, to the walled Deer Pound. Two men were waiting, one a gray-haired gentleman Mélanie didn’t recognize, the other taller and younger, his clear, sharp-cut features plain in the moonlight. It was Simon Tanner. A weight like a musket ball settled in her chest.

  “Good evening, Simon.” Charles’s voice betrayed no surprise, but Mélanie could hear the fear and pain beneath his level tone. “Hapgood.” He looked at Mélanie. “Mr. Hapgood, who happens to own the house in which our friend St. Juste was lodging. My wife, Hapgood. I assume the rest of you are all acquainted.”

  “Jesus, Charles,” Simon said. “What happened to you?”

  “Someone tried to kill O’Roarke. You damned fools, after one of your confederates was murdered didn’t it occur to you that the rest of you might be at risk?”

  “Our confederates?” Simon’s voice sharpened. “Who the devil’s been killed?”

  “The gentleman who was lodging with Mr. Hapgood and meeting with O’Roarke and Will in recent weeks. The gentleman we found dead in Isobel and Oliver’s garden last night.”

  “You think—“

  “Explanations are undoubtedly called for,” Mélanie said, “but not here. Charles—Mr. O’Roarke—do you think you can walk as far as Berkeley Square?"

  “I’m soaked, not injured,” her husband said.

  “I told you I’d warn you if I was about to collapse,” Raoul said.

  They trudged out of the Grosvenor Gate and past the cool white town houses of Upper Grosvenor Street to the wide expanse of Grosvenor Square. A party of guests emerged from one of the candlelit houses. Of one accord they all ducked into Charles Street to avoid being seen. God help them if they encountered any of their friends. Even her and Charles’s reputation for eccentricity might not be able to live this down.

  They continued along Grosvenor Street and turned down Davies Street. For once Raoul had probably spoken the truth. She rated his powers high, but if she and Charles and Will had not shown up he’d most likely be dead by now. The thought bit her throat in a way she didn’t care to examine. In a short time she was going to have to confront the truth of whatever the hell Raoul and Will and Simon had been involved in with Julien St. Juste and how Charles would react to it. And how she would react herself.

  Charles had his arm round her. She could feel him shivering and his steps were a trifle erratic, but he remained upright, as did Raoul.

  They were almost at the point where Davies Street met Berkeley Square when a voice stopped them. “Here now? What are you lot doing?”

  It was a night watchman, lantern raised, brows drawn.

  Charles seemed to have been concentrating solely on keeping his footing, but at that he raised his head. “We’re on our way home. My name’s Fraser. Charles Fraser. My wife. And some of our friends. We’ve been at an entertainment.”

  The watchman gave a rough laugh. The lantern cast light over his ruddy face. “You expect me to believe—“

  “Yes,” said Charles. “I do.”

  The watchmen peered at them. His gaze moved past Mélanie, then came back to linger on her. There were advantages to having one’s likeness displayed in print shop windows. “Bloody he—” He coughed. “Begging your pardon, ma’am. Madam. Mrs. Fraser. Sorry to have troubled you.”

  Mélanie shepherded the erratic band up the whitewashed steps to the fanlit door of the Berkeley Square house without further incident. Michael opened the door, relief evident in his face.

  “Charles, you need to change before you do anything else or you’ll be ill,” Mélanie said. “Simon, take the others up to the spare room. Michael, could you have some clean clothes of Mr. Fraser’s sent in? And we’ll need to send to Hill Street for Dr. Blackwell.”

  Raoul touched her arm as Simon and Charles guided the others to the stairs. “No doctor. It’s a flesh wound. You can tend to it.”

  She started to argue, but it was no more than they’d done in the past. And all things considered, it might be better not to bring someone else into
the scene that was no doubt about to ensue, even someone she trusted as much as Geoffrey Blackwell.

  “Mrs. Fraser.” Michael held a folded paper out to her as she moved to the stairs. “Miss Dudley was obliged to go out. She left this for you.”

  Mélanie took the paper, started to open it, then ran up the stairs after her husband. First things first.

  “You can stop being brave now,” she said, when she and Charles were in the privacy of their bedchamber. She tugged off his coat and went to work on his waistcoat buttons with more dexterity than she’d ever shown in an amorous encounter.

  “I’ll live.” He pulled his shirt over his head. "O’Roarke could be—“

  “Dead.” She grabbed a towel from the washstand and wrapped it round him. “It had occurred to me.”

  He began to undo the buttons on his breeches. “Don’t think I’m not grateful to him for fishing me out of the river. But then his courage has never been in doubt.”

  “I’d say the honors on saving each other were even in this encounter.” She handed him a fresh pair of breeches.

  He stepped into the breeches. “What’s the paper?” He nodded toward the note she’d put on her dressing table.

  “Good God, I’d almost forgotten. It’s from Laura. I hope—” She opened the note and read it aloud.

  Mrs. Fraser,

  Mr. Trenor called. He’s worried about Miss Simcox, who has apparently gone after her brother. I’ve taken him to see Mr. Roth. Morag is in my room listening for the children. I will return or send word as soon as possible.

  LD

  P.S. I promised Colin and Jessica that you and Mr. Fraser would look in on them. Colin asked that you wake him.

  “As usual, Laura appears to understand more of what’s happening than she lets on,” Charles said.

  Mélanie put down the note. “Should we—“

  “There’s not much we can do.” He pulled a tan waistcoat on unbuttoned over his shirt as a sop to formality. “Roth will know how to handle it. Meanwhile, we have more than enough to occupy us. You’d better get out of those clothes, you’re not exactly dry yourself.”

  She frowned at the note for a moment, then began to fumble with the clasps on her pelisse. “There’s no doubt St. Juste was lodging with Mr. Hapgood?”

  “Hapgood admitted as much to Roth and me this afternoon, though not that he knew who St. Juste was.”

  She tossed aside her pelisse and started on her gown. “What do you think—“

  “No sense in speculating until we talk to them.” He turned her round and finished undoing the hooks on her gown. “You’re going to have a bruise on your shoulder.”

  “Minor damage.” She turned to face him, her damp bodice slipping down about her shoulders.

  He stretched out a hand to touch her face. “We listen to the evidence and we each make up our own mind and act as we see fit. Same as we’ve always done."

  "And if we make up our minds differently?"

  "It won't be the first time we've been on opposite sides. Only this time the battle will be out in the open."

  Chapter 21

  Laura didn't so much as bat an eyelash at encountering me in the corridor at three in the morning wearing breeches and stinking of God knows what. I sometimes wonder what she makes of us.

  Mélanie Fraser to Charles Fraser,

  3 September, 1817

  Laura Dudley looked across the carriage at Roth and Trenor. “Let me ask the first questions.”

  “My dear Miss Dudley—“

  “Even a whiff of Bow Street will put everyone on their guard.”

  “I’m not from Bow Street,” Trenor said. “And Bet’s my responsibility. I can—“

  “My dear Mr. Trenor, it’s plain you care deeply for Miss Simcox, but she gave you the slip. I don’t think we can count on her being eager to see you just now.”

  “I wouldn’t—“

  “She may have warned those at the Running Hare against you. A defenseless woman has the best chance of getting someone to speak.”

  Roth gripped the strap against the swaying of the carriage. “Miss Dudley, we don’t know what we’re walking into. You aren’t—“

  “I’m not Mélanie Fraser. But then few people can equal her in such situations, man or woman. You and Mr. Trenor may remain discreetly in the background and come to my rescue the moment it seems necessary.”

  Roth found himself nodding, then wondered if the cool steadiness of her voice had lulled him into madness. Either that or Mélanie Fraser’s example had quite turned his judgment upside down. Not that that was necessarily a bad thing.

  Three men in tattered breeches and muddy coats were asleep on the pavement in front of the Running Hare. They looked harmless enough, but Roth took a step closer to Miss Dudley under cover of opening the door for her.

  The interior of the Running Hare was close and humid. Tallow candles set in a tarnished brass hanging lamp and wall sconces tilting on their brackets threw pungent fumes into the air and cast yellow light over the scene. A thin man who looked as if he might be a companion of the three on the pavement was slumped against a barrel. The crowd round the bar was six or seven deep. Roth spotted the silk top hats of young gentlemen probably finishing off an evening at the theatre; the plumed bonnets of birds of paradise; the frayed coats of laborers; and a variety of dress on a handful of persons he’d lay even money were thieves. A barefoot child clad in tattered breeches and a waistcoat that appeared to belong to his father was standing on his tiptoes at the bar, holding out a sauce boat to have it filled with gin.

  A baby’s squall split the air. Roth turned his head in time to see a girl in a grimy white dress and scarlet cloak, with aged eyes set in a teenaged face, tip a flask down the throat of the infant in her arms.

  He turned back to see that Miss Dudley had taken advantage of his distraction to slip up to the bar (somehow managing to negotiate her way through the crowd in half the time it would have taken him). He looked at Trenor, whose eye had fallen on a lady with pale ringlets peeking out from beneath a deep-brimmed bonnet trimmed with tattered purple flowers. He took a half step forward. Roth followed and collided with Trenor as the latter drew up short. Not Miss Simcox apparently.

  “The back room.” Miss Dudley joined them, as quietly as she had left. “Through the curtains.”

  A burly man in his shirtsleeves was guarding the doorway, but he let them pass at a look from the barkeep. Miss Dudley gave a serene smile. Roth wondered what the devil story she’d told.

  The frayed calico curtains gave onto a room of about the same size and a similar complexion, though there was no bar, a few tables and chairs were scattered about, and more of the women had their bodices unlaced.

  Trenor ran forward, elbowing and stumbling his way through the crowd. Roth and Miss Dudley followed to see him come to a stop by a table at which sat a blonde girl of about twenty and a man a year or so younger with curly dark hair. Their short noses, wide set blue eyes, and smattering of freckles made the relationship between them apparent.

  The girl caught sight of Trenor as he came within two paces of the table. “Sandy. Damn and blast everything.”

  “Bet.” Trenor touched her hair. “Why didn’t you trust me?”

  “It’s not about trust. It’s— Who the blazes are they?”

  Roth and Miss Dudley came a stop beside the table, blocking any attempt at flight. Trenor turned to them, face suffused with guilt. “They’re friends. Miss Dudley works for the Frasers, and Roth—“

  “Roth.” The young man sprang to his feet. “I’ve heard your name. You’re a bloody Bow Street Runner.”

  “Sit down, Simcox.” Roth pushed him back into his chair. “You’ll draw attention to yourself. You are Billy Simcox, aren’t you?”

  “Why the hell should I tell you?”

  “Because you’re in a world of trouble, as I’m sure your sister has explained, and I can help you.”

  “Don’t need any help.”

  “Oh, yes, you do, m
y friend. And I think you’re wise enough to know it, or you wouldn’t have sent for your sister. For what it’s worth, I don’t think at the start of this venture you had any notion of whom you’d gone to work for.”

  “I’m not working for anyone.”

  “No? Well, perhaps not at the moment, considering your employer met his death last night.”

  “Says who?”

  “Sam Lucan apparently.”

  “Ha. You’re more fool than you look if you’ll take Sam’s word for anything.”

  Roth leaned toward young Simcox and fixed him with the gaze he’d give one of his sons. “Don’t be stupid. Help us and not only will any charges against you be dropped, you’ll be handsomely compensated.”

  Simcox’s gaze flickered over his face, swift as candlelight. “Why should I trust you?”

  “Because mine’s the best offer you’re going to get tonight.”

  Simcox flashed a look at his sister.

  “Write it out,” Miss Simcox said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “What you just said. That you’ll let Billy go if he helps you. Write it out and sign it.”

  “Betty—“ Trenor said.

  “Stay out of this, Sandy. You’ve already done too much. And mind it really says what it’s supposed to, Mr. Roth. I can read.”

  Roth took his notebook and pencil from the pocket of his greatcoat, pulled the tin candlestick closer, and began to write. He could feel both Simcoxes staring at him as he scribbled. He was just signing his name when he caught a stir of movement out of the corner of his eye. Not particularly fast but odd somehow. Different from the habitual bustle in the room.

  “Get down!” He flung himself across the table and grabbed the Simcoxes as a bullet whistled across the room and buried itself in Billy Simcox’s head.