by Tracy Grant
"It seemed far safer for you not to know."
"For once I can see your point.” Mélanie settled her shoulders against the bedpost. "If Fouché knew this ten years ago, why didn't he blackmail or torture it out of St. Juste long since?"
"I don't think Fouché knew the whole story. Only that St. Juste was in possession of a document that could be damaging to Josephine. In the end, Bonaparte did divorce her, the war worsened, and Fouché's attentions turned elsewhere."
"Could St. Juste have hidden the Dauphin in England?" Charles asked.
"He could have hidden him anywhere."
"Yet England has certain advantages. It would be unexpected for a French agent to hide him in the heart of the enemy. And at the same time, England has a number of Royalist sympathizers who could be counted on to protect him. It's where I'd have chosen."
"So would I," Mélanie said.
O'Roarke's mouth curved slightly. "All right, yes, I might—I probably would—have done so as well. It doesn't mean that's what brought St. Juste to England now."
"But the boy's never been more valuable,” Charles said. “Whoever could put him on the throne could control France. The only people who might not want him back are the current king and his adherents. Just about everyone else could use him to further their own agenda. Us, the Russians, the Austrians, a dozen different factions in France—"
"Bonapartists who might see a puppet king as preferable to the current monarch," O'Roarke added. "But no, I haven't been trying to find him."
"Why not?" Charles asked.
"France should be a Republic."
"That didn't stop you from supporting Bonaparte."
"Rival monarchs lead to weak countries and infighting. You have only to look at your own country's history."
"Did Hortense know about the Dauphin?" Mélanie asked.
A shadow crossed O'Roarke's face. "If Josephine confided in the Tsar— It's possible she said something to Hortense at the end of her life."
"You think Hortense Bonaparte would be part of a plot to put the Dauphin on the throne of France?" Charles asked.
Mélanie pleated a fold of her skirt between her fingers. "Hortense—at least the Hortense I knew or thought I knew—didn't care much for rulers. But if she thought putting the Dauphin on the throne would allow her to return to France—” Mélanie shook her head. "When we recover the papers she wants from Carfax and see what they really are that will tell us something."
"Not to mention it would be good to find out what else Carfax knows.” O’Roarke shifted his gaze to Charles.
Charles stared at his father. “You’re telling me to break into Carfax House.”
“I’ve never told you to do anything, Charles. You’ve never worked for me. I’m suggesting it as a possible course of action.”
"You already offered to get Hortense's papers back," Mélanie said. "I'm just suggesting we look at what else Lord Carfax may possess."
"I'll look,” Charles said.
"You might not know—"
"You want me to take you with me."
"Actually I was going to suggest you take Raoul."
"No."
"He could recognize—"
"If you think there's a chance in hell I'm going to turn a former French spymaster loose among Carfax's papers—"
“This is no time for social niceties, Charles,” O’Roarke said. “Or for paying old debts.”
“I don’t see where debts come into it,” Charles said.
“No? My mistake then.”
"We need to learn the truth—" Mélanie said.
“We don’t know that Carfax could get us an inch closer to the truth. And you’re the last person who ought to be flinging that word about, Mel.”
“Thank you, darling. I’m aware of that fact.”
“Look—“
For the third time that night, a rap sounded on the door. “I’m sorry,” Laura Dudley said. She stood in the passage outside the door, her face as composed as ever, but her gown smeared with blood. “I’m afraid we have a bit of a crisis.”
Chapter 23
I spent an informative half hour engaged in flirtation with one of Talleyrand's attachés at Count Nesselrode's last night (see attached notes). Charles spent most of the evening in the library. He's the least jealous man I've ever known. It's delightfully refreshing—though I confess at times my vanity feels a twinge of pique.
Mélanie Fraser to Raoul O'Roarke,
5 May, 1814
The embers were still banked in the library fireplace. Which was a good thing, Mélanie decided, for the room sorely lacked any other sort of warmth. Bet Simcox stood alone by the fireplace, gripping her elbows. The flare of firelight as Charles stirred the embers showed splotches of drying blood on the white sarcenet of her dress.
Alexander Trenor hovered a few feet away. Roth leaned against the library table. He had removed his greatcoat and his neckcloth was askew and stained with a variety of substances. His face sagged with self-recrimination.
It was a moment or two before he seemed to notice that Raoul had followed Charles, Mélanie, and Laura into the room. He lifted his head and stared at Raoul through the shadows. “O’Roarke. I didn’t realize. But perhaps it’s as well.”
“O’Roarke? Raoul O’Roarke?” Bet Simcox hurled herself across the room and grabbed Raoul by the lapels of his silk dressing gown. “Did you order him killed?”
Raoul drew a sharp breath, but he caught Bet by the shoulders in a gentle grip. “I think there must be some mistake, madam. I own to my share of sins, but none so recent as your brother’s death.”
“How do you know Billy’s dead?”
“Miss Dudley told us on the way downstairs.”
“He was working for you.” She tightened her grip on him. “Him and that man St. Juste.”
“I haven’t worked with Julien St. Juste since the war, and I never worked with your brother.”
He looked down at her, his gaze soft. He had the damnable ability to seem to understand the innermost workings of one’s mind and soul. And most of the time he did understand. It was the uses to which he put that understanding that could be terrifying.
Bet’s shoulders relaxed. At last, she released her grip.
Charles set down the poker and stepped away from the now blazing fire. “Miss Simcox, I’m sorrier for your loss than I can express. But it seems we were wrong about O’Roarke’s involvement in the matter. There was an attempt on his life tonight. Very likely orchestrated by the same person who was behind your brother’s murder.”
She turned round. “But—“
“I think we’d best all sit down,” Charles said. “We have a number of things to discuss.”
He went to the drinks trolley and passed round glasses of whisky and brandy. Bet sat on the sofa. Trenor dropped down beside her but took care that his trouser leg didn’t brush against the folds of her skirt. Roth and Laura sat on the settee. Raoul moved to one of the high-backed chairs by the fireplace. Charles sat in the other. Mélanie perched on the chair arm. Given the dynamics of the evening it seemed a good idea to stay close to her husband.
Bet clutched the glass of brandy Charles had given her. “Billy sent me a message—at Sandy’s lodgings. He wanted to me to meet him at the Running Hare.”
Trenor stared at her across two feet of coffee velvet upholstery that might as well have been stone ramparts. “You could have told me.”
“I couldn’t, Sandy. He sent word in the strictest confidence.”
“But I’m’—” Trenor fell silent. Your lover. It’s supposed to be different. Which, Mélanie supposed, it was. If one played by a certain set of rules.
“I slipped out and went to see Billy. He was—” Bet's smooth brow creased. “He was frightened. I don’t think I’ve seen him truly frightened since he was five years old and afraid the Ransom twins were lying in wait for him in the alley behind our lodgings. He told me—” She put her fist to her mouth. “He said he’d never have got involved if he�
�d known what it meant.”
“What?” Roth was leaning forward, his notebook open on his lap, his pencil in his hand. “What did it mean?”
“He didn’t say. But he kept saying he wasn’t a killer. And I must have looked like I didn’t believe him because— What the bleeding hell, you can’t arrest him now. It wasn’t as though he’d never killed before, see, though always in a fair fight. Well, a fight anyway. But when I pointed that out, he muttered something like ‘Those weren’t innocents.’”
Roth scribbled in his notebook. “Did your brother say whom he was working for?”
“No. Only that he’d do his best to stop this person, but he wasn’t sure he’d succeed and meanwhile it might not be safe for me and Nannie. That no matter what I should be sure he’d tried—“
Her face crumpled. Trenor dropped his arm round her. She sat perfectly still, as though unaware of his existence.
“Did your brother say anything specific about what he had done, Miss Simcox?” Roth asked.
She frowned. “He said he’d thought it was a lark at first. That he hadn’t realized how much was at stake. Not until Chelsea and Harris."
"Harris?" Charles said. "Captain Harris?"
"You know who he was talking about?"
"I know a Captain Harris who retired to Chelsea."
"From the Peninsula?" Mélanie asked. It wasn't a name she was familiar with.
"From when I was a boy. Captain Harris was attached to the Ordnance Office,” Charles said, his voice carefully level. “He was an aide to Lord Carfax."
Mélanie controlled her breathing.
"Did your brother say anything else about Harris and Chelsea?" Charles asked Bet.
She shook her head. "Just that that was when he began to understand whom he was really working for.”
“St. Juste?”
“No. Someone else. Someone who’d been to see him today. It was his visit had really scared Billy. That must be who the note was from.” She glanced at Mélanie and Charles. “Mr. Roth searched Billy’s pockets before we left the Running Hare. He found a note setting up a meeting for tonight. I didn’t recognize the hand.”
“Billy said nothing about this person he met with today?” Charles asked.
“Only that he was dangerous. I want to help stop whatever it is, Mr. Roth. That was Billy’s last wish.”
“You have helped, Miss Simcox. At least we know what we’re up against.”
She ran her finger over the rim of her brandy glass. “My brother wasn’t a bad person. But for him to turn on his employer—it had to be mortal bad.”
Roth nodded. “What do you think might have been bad enough?”
“Something that might catch up innocent bystanders. He turned down a breakin at a jeweler’s once because he found out two apprentices slept behind the shop.” She stared at a rust-colored patch on her sarcenet skirt. “Who are these people? What do they want?”
“That’s what we’re endeavoring to discover.” Roth was silent a moment. “I’m sorry I wasn’t quicker. Your brother shouldn’t have died.”
She gave a jerky nod and took a swallow of brandy. The dusting of freckles on her nose stood out against her pale skin.
Raoul's chair creaked as he leaned back. “Someone’s tidying away the evidence. Simcox who worked with St. Juste. Me, perhaps because I spoke with St. Juste recently, and they weren't sure how much he told me.”
“Quite,” Charles agreed. “The question is whether it’s St. Juste’s killer or his employer doing the tidying or if they’re one and the same.”
“Bet’s in danger,” Trenor said. “The man who killed Billy will have seen her. Whoever hired him may be afraid Billy told Bet something before he was killed.”
“Yes.” Roth looked from Trenor to Bet. “And even without that, the killer may be worried about what Mr. Simcox said to his family previously. Miss Simcox, can your sister be relied upon to stay safely hidden?”
“Nannie can’t be relied upon for much of anything, but she and Sam have an instinct for self-preservation.” Bet bit her lip. “Oh, God. If anything happens to her or Sarah—“
“For what it’s worth, Miss Simcox,” Raoul said, “the man you call Sam Lucan has survived more than one threat to his life with surprising agility.”
Bet nodded, though her eyes were shadowed.
“As for you, Miss Simcox—“ Roth said.
“I can look after her,” Trenor said.
Bet shook her head but laid her hand over his own.
Trenor gripped her fingers. “You won’t run away again.”
“I won’t run away again. But I don’t want to just hide. I want to do something, Mr. Roth. Tell me what.”
“For now you need to get some rest. Hopefully we’ll know more in the morning.”
Mélanie got to her feet. “You must stay here. Both of you. I’ll see you settled. Laura, could you help me?” She looked at Charles, Raoul, and Roth. “Start catching up on stories. It’s all right if I miss that.”
In the event, it was well over a quarter hour before she returned to the library. She had been unsure if Bet would prefer to be with Trenor or on her own, but by the time they reached the second floor landing, Bet was clinging to Trenor’s arm. Mélanie left it to Laura to finish up the sleeping arrangements and returned downstairs just as Blanca and Addison were stepping into the entry hall.
“There wasn’t a sign of Mr. O’Roarke at the Crystal Heart.” Blanca tugged loose the ties on her cloak. “He’s been there—we spoke to the barkeep—but he didn’t appear tonight, though we waited for hours.”
“And drank a lot of quite appalling burgundy,” Addison added.
“Never mind,” Mélanie said. “As it happens we’ve found him ourselves. He’s in the library.”
Blanca dropped her cloak on the settle. “What?”
“Along with Charles and Mr. Roth. Addison, why don’t you join them?” Mélanie met Blanca’s stormy gaze. “Let’s go into the study.”
“You’re insane,” Blanca said as the study door clicked shut. “Completemente loco. You know that, don’t you?”
“I’ve known it for years.” Mélanie struck a spark to a lamp. “So have you.”
“Mélanie.” Blanca seized her by the arms. “Somehow Mr. Fraser understands. Addison understands. I never thought it would come true, but we’re happy. You can’t throw happiness away like old shoes.”
“I’m not throwing anything away.”
“You can’t have him in the house. Not him of all people. Especially when he was working with St. Juste—“
“We’re not sure whom he was working with.”
“You never think clearly where he’s concerned.”
“If I couldn’t think clearly where Raoul was concerned I’d have been dead long since.” Mélanie detached herself from Blanca’s grip. “He was a great help last autumn.”
“Because he cares about Colin. You don’t know which side he’s on now. You can never tell which side he’s on, that one.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“Do you want to drive Mr. Fraser mad? How much patience do you think he has?”
“Charles will be all right.” Though there were a few details, such as the fact that Raoul was Charles’s father, that Mélanie hadn’t shared even with Blanca.
“If a woman Addison used to sleep with was sitting in the library I’d box her ears.”
“I don’t doubt it. But Charles isn’t you. He doesn't have any illusions about me.”
“He’s already had to face the fact that the dead man was your lover.”
“One night doesn’t make someone a lover.”
“One night can do a lot.” Blanca regarded her for a moment. "I don’t think M. St. Juste forgot you, anymore than you forgot him.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, I never—“
“I can see the memories in your face.”
“Of course. I could hardly forget my first mission. Or one of my few failures.” Mélanie moved to the door
. “I think we’d better join the men.”
“Mélanie—“
“This won’t cause trouble between you and Addison.”
“That’s not the sort of trouble I’m worried about. I know how Raoul feels about you, Mélanie. Better than you do yourself, I think. And I also know he won’t let that stand in his way. Dios, if he could tell you to marry Mr. Fraser to serve his own ends, he’s capable of anything.”
“Not quite anything I think. But he’s capable of a great deal. I’ll watch him carefully.”
“It’ll end in tears.”
“You’ve said that before.”
“And I’m usually right.”
On the whole, Melanie decided, it would be best not to calculate how often this had been true. She led the way back to the library to find that Charles had supplied everyone with more whisky, which at this point probably couldn’t do any harm lack of sleep wasn’t doing already. Raoul was talking, but he broke off when she opened the door.
“Laura’s finishing up the sleeping arrangements,” she said. “Have you caught up on the events of the night?”
“Very nearly,” Raoul said. “Roth is kindly turning a blind eye to some of the revelations.”
“I could hardly arrest you for printing pamphlets I haven’t seen,” Roth said.
Charles handed whiskies to Mélanie and Blanca. “Speaking of which, I want to have a look at those pamphlets, O’Roarke."
Raoul inclined his head. “I’d appreciate it. Perhaps you’ll notice some significance I’ve missed. Though I suspect the person behind the attack on me tonight was the same person who had Billy Simcox killed. In which case, the pamphlets are probably irrelevant.”
Roth pressed his fingers into his scalp. “If I’d had any brains at all I’d have got Simcox out of the Running Hare at once.”
“The assassin would have fired as you left,” Charles said.
“If I’d been a half-second quicker—“
Mélanie moved to Roth’s side and touched his shoulder. “Everyone in this room is more adept at self-flagellation than followers of the Marquis de Sade, but I think we all know how singularly pointless an exercise it is.”
