by Tracy Grant
Or perhaps to find escape. He brushed his fingers over the hair spilling across his shoulder. Sometimes-especially in the weeks since Colin’s abduction—she would make love to him with a passion that sought oblivion in intensity. She would use fingers and lips and teeth with expert skill, dragging him with her into places that were as dangerous as they were seductive. To meet passion with passion was no difficulty, but afterwards as he held her in his arms, grateful that she was finally asleep, he would wonder if she wouldn't have preferred to go to bed with some anonymous stranger and was only making do with the husband she loved as a poor substitute.
A shadowy image of Julien St. Juste as he might have been in life hovered before his eyes. A dark room filled with books and trunks of Spanish leather. Glasses of cognac. Mélanie in a peacock blue gown. A torn ribbon tossed onto the coverlet or discarded on the floor beside satin slippers and a lace-edged chemise.
He shut his mind to the images and found himself seeing Raoul O’Roarke in their place.
Mélanie pushed herself up on one elbow and looked down at him with eyes blinking awake. “Do you remember how many guests we ended up with last night?”
“Six.” Charles forced his attention to the present. “No, five. Trenor and Miss Simcox arrived, but Simon went home.”
“I didn’t mean to sleep so late.” She pushed back the covers, letting in a draught of cold air, and reached for her dressing gown. Her dark hair tumbled over her creamy shoulders and the curve of her back.
She must have been aware of his gaze on her, because she turned, half wrapped in green silk and foaming white lace. A selkie emerging from the sea to mate with a mortal. “Charles—“
“What?”
For a moment he thought she meant to let it drop. Then she said. “You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t wonder sometimes.”
“About?”
“Other men I’ve known. In the crudest sense of the word.”
Her gaze held scars that would never heal. He wanted to pull her to him, sweeping aside her words and his qualms. But that wasn’t any sort of solution. “I’ve said it before, Mel. I don’t care how many other men you’ve slept with. But what we’ve always had between us—even at the beginning, when neither of us dared think of anything more—was honesty. At least that’s what I thought.”
“Until I told you the truth.”
“Yes."
"We had pleasure, mutually exchanged. That was honest. It may have been the one honest thing in our marriage."
"It wasn't anything of the sort. It was one more game. I don’t like being used, least of all in my bed.”
“I never—“
“The woman I took to bed on our wedding night—the woman who hadn’t known anything but violence—that wasn’t you. Not the sum total of you.”
“Not the sum total, no. But it wasn’t all pretense. You can’t think—I’m not that good, Charles. I’ve never needed to pretend with you.”
He stared into her eyes, shutting his mind to a host of memories. “That doesn’t change the general principle.”
“What happened between us was never the same as—”
“As what you did with Julien St. Juste? Oh, but it was, mo chridh. It’s not making love, it’s using sex to distract me. Or yourself. Or both of us. Sometimes I think you prefer it that way.”
“It can’t always be sublime communion, Charles. Not for me. It’s been too many other things. A tool. A weapon. A defense. An escape.” She pulled her dressing gown tight about her. “I told you once that my acting abilities deserted me in the bedchamber. That was true when I was in the brothel. I was too young to put on more than a crude show. But later— Sometimes it was sordid. Sometimes it was mechanical. But sometimes—slipping into a fictional skin, making love to someone for the night, knowing it’s just that night. There’s no freedom quite like it.”
She got to her feet. “More honesty, perhaps, than you wanted. I’ll make sure someone’s organized breakfast.”
Ten minutes later Charles followed his wife into the breakfast parlor to be greeted by the welcome smell of freshly-brewed coffee, hot buttered toast, and various grilled and roasted dishes. And the sound of his children’s voices. Jessica was perched on Will Gordon’s lap, watching as he transformed a folded napkin into some sort of toy. Colin was sitting next to O’Roarke, peppering him with questions.
A sharp mew rose above the conversation. Berowne, on the floor by Hapgood’s chair, demanding more pieces of grilled kipper.
Mélanie walked toward Laura who was pouring out the coffee. “Thank you, Laura. What shockingly remiss hosts we are. I trust everyone slept well.”
“Laura said not to wake you,” Jessica said. “Mr. Gordon’s making me a boat.”
“Mr. O’Roarke’s telling me about Ireland,” Colin said.
Which, Charles thought, accepting a cup of coffee from Laura, was probably one of the safer stories O’Roarke could tell. He held out a chair for Mélanie. Her hair was pinned into a neat coil above the muslin handkerchief tied round her throat. She had put on pearl earrings and lip rouge, as though this were any ordinary day. He had done up the hooks on her gown, but they hadn’t spoken more than commonplaces after their first conversation. Fragments of that exchange swirled in his head. He couldn’t begin to sort out how he felt about them.
Bet and Trenor came in a few minutes later. Bet hesitated on the threshold, but Trenor took her arm and drew her forward. Mélanie introduced the children.
“That looks like one of Laura’s dresses,” Jessica said, running over to Bet and studying her high-necked dark blue gown.
“It is.” Bet bent down to Jessica’s level. “Miss Dudley lent it me.”
“It’s pretty. I like your hair.” Jessica caught Bet’s hand and pulled her over to the table. “Look at the boat Mr. Gordon made for me.”
Charles was midway through his second cup of coffee and beginning to feel almost like a member of the human race when Michael entered the room. He crossed to Charles’s side and leaned down to whisper in his ear.
“Lord Carfax has called, sir. I’ve shown him into the library.”
Charles put his hand to his chin. He hadn’t shaved, but it couldn’t he helped. He glanced at Mélanie. A dozen questions flickered in her gaze, but all she said was, “Straighten your cravat, darling.”
Carfax was standing by the library windows. He had relinquished his greatcoat and hat but was holding his gloves clutched in one hand.
Charles pushed the library doors to. "I was planning to call on you."
"I thought I'd save you the trouble. Good God, you look worse than you did after a week in the Cantabrian Mountains.”
“Yesterday was a long day. May I offer you some coffee, sir?”
Carfax slapped his gloves down on the library table. "Don't prevaricate, Charles."
"St. Juste had been in England for at least a fortnight. He'd taken lodgings in Rosemary Lane."
If Carfax had employed the man Charles and Roth had caught searching St. Juste's rooms, not a muscle in his face betrayed it. "What did you find there?" Carfax asked.
"Some coded papers that I'm going to need a code book to break. And this.” Charles pulled the list of Radical disturbances from his coat pocket.
Carfax took out his spectacles and scanned the paper. "I always wondered if these events were orchestrated."
"You didn't orchestrate them yourself by any chance?"
Carfax regarded him from over his spectacles. "Certainly not. Agents provocateurs have their uses, but this would be going too far."
"Not that you'd tell me if you had been behind them."
"No, I daresay I wouldn't.” Carfax's gaze returned to the paper. "St. Juste seems to have been trying to discover who planned these incidents."
"Quite."
"What else have you learned?"
"St. Juste had hired a young ruffian from Seven Dials named Billy Simcox."
"To do what?"
"I'm not sure. But when Simcox re
alized what it entailed, he couldn't go through with it. He turned on St. Juste over something that happened in Chelsea involving someone named Harris. The Captain Harris who used to be your aide retired to Chelsea, I believe."
Carfax set the paper down on the table. "Your memory has always been remarkable. You couldn't have been more than thirteen at the time. Yes, Harris lives in Chelsea. At least that's where he went when he sold out of the army."
"When did you last hear from him?"
"It must be close to five years. He came to me a couple of times requesting loans for business ventures. He made some imprudent decisions and his marriage was unfortunate. I thought it best not encourage the connection."
"Did his work for you involve intelligence?"
"He was my chief aide. His work could scarcely have failed to involve intelligence."
"Why did he leave your employ?"
"He married. As you should understand, it gives some men a desire for a more domestic life."
"Have you engaged his services on any missions since he left the army?"
"Certainly not. He was a desk man, not an agent."
"But he must have had knowledge others might find useful."
"Very out of date knowledge."
"St. Juste seems to have had an interest in him. And in you."
"Why me in particular?" Carfax asked.
"He sought out your former aide."
"Possibly. You don't know how Harris fits in or even if it’s the same Harris.” Carfax removed his spectacles and folded the wire frames shut. "If you suspect St. Juste had an interest in me, I think you've discovered more you aren't telling me about.” He tucked the spectacles back into his pocket. "You know about Isobel."
Charles looked from Carfax's hooded gaze to his steady fingers. "When did you find out?"
"Just over a week ago. Talleyrand wrote to me. He'd got wind of it in Paris. A friendly warning, he said, for old time's sake.” A muscle tightened along the earl's jaw. "I didn't believe him at first. So I had Bel followed. I received confirmation the day of the ball. Even then I wasn't sure Talleyrand was right about it being St. Juste until I saw him lying dead in the garden.” He looked Charles straight in the eye. "I know what you're thinking. Given the chance, I might have killed St. Juste with my bare hands. But someone else did it first."
"Why?" Charles asked. "Why target Bel?"
"I've asked myself that a dozen times. St. Juste should have known I wouldn't reveal information to her."
"Did he know she was your favorite?"
"I don't have a favorite child."
"You're closest to Bel."
"Perhaps. What are you getting at?"
"Could St. Juste have been after revenge?"
"I can't recall that I ever did anything to cause St. Juste to harbor that type of animosity toward me. Besides, he wasn't the sort to waste time on revenge."
"Then I can only conclude that he wanted a hold over you. He seduces your daughter. He decodes a list of activities he may have—"
"My dear Charles."
"May have thought you were behind. Why?"
"I believe that's what you're investigating. You've questioned this Billy Simcox?”
"Roth tracked him down last night. Someone shot Simcox in the head before Roth could question him."
"Simcox is dead?"
"Very much so."
"Any idea who shot him?"
"No, but he'd been meeting someone in the tavern. We found a note on him with a seal I recognized. The Elsinore League."
Carfax regarded Charles across the table. "Still tilting at windmills, Charles?"
"When I find clues to them in the midst of a murder investigation."
"I know it's difficult to get past your father's death. But to turn an undergraduate club into some sort of conspiracy—"
"Undergraduate club or not, someone associated with the Elsinore League had an appointment to meet Billy Simcox at the Running Hare and may have killed him. And Le Faucon de Maulévrier was a league member and is very likely still in England."
"We don't have definitive proof of ¿that."
"You've had men killed on less definitive evidence."
Carfax's brows snapped together. "I don't deny there may be some sort of connection," he said at last. "But don’t turn this into something it isn't because you want to refight an old battle."
"Believe me, sir, I'm not the one who has trouble seeing the playing field's changed in past twenty years."
"Spare me the political debate.” Carfax picked up his gloves and ran them through his fingers. "When did you last hear from Raoul O'Roarke?"
Charles's senses quickened, as though he'd heard a telltale creak in territory beset with snipers. "A letter before Christmas. I believe he was in Paris."
"I've had reports that he's back in London. One of my informants thought he caught a glimpse of him at the ball.” Carfax began to pull on his gloves. "If by any chance you did know he was in London, I can understand your not wanting to tell me. He's an old friend of your family, and I know he used his Spanish contacts to help you get Colin back last autumn."
"For which Mélanie and I will be forever grateful to him. But we're hardly on such terms that O'Roarke would confide secrets to me. Are you saying you think O'Roarke may be the one who hired St. Juste? Because of something relating to Spain? Or Ireland?"
"It's a bit more complicated.” Carfax flexed his hands, smoothing the leather of the gloves. "O'Roarke employed St. Juste in the past."
"In Spain? For the Spanish resistance?"
"In Spain. But not for the Spanish resistance.” Carfax rested his gloved hands on the marble table. "O'Roarke's work with the Spanish resistance to the Bonaparte regime was only a cover. He was a double for years. He was working for the Bonapartists. He ran one of their best networks."
For a moment, Charles felt every drop of blood in his body go cold. "How long have you known?"
"Since fairly early in the Peninsular War."
"O'Roarke was in and out of Lisbon throughout the war."
"Mingling with our people at embassy parties and military reviews. I thought several times about trying to take him into custody, but it would have compromised too many of our own assets. And he'd only have been replaced with someone we couldn't identify. I'm sorry, Charles. Because of your personal history it's something I wanted to keep from you."
"To spare my feelings? Or because you didn't trust me with the information?"
"A bit of both. Raoul O'Roarke is a brilliant man who would like nothing better than to bring down the monarchies in France and Spain and very likely England as well. I daresay he still has agents here. I'm sure he's in touch with a number of former Bonapartists. And his connections with St. Juste go back to the Directoire."
"How do you know?"
"Because St. Juste is the one who told me O'Roarke was a Bonapartist spy."
Mélanie was holding Jessica in her lap and telling Bet about the mock medieval tournament at the Congress of Vienna when Michael re-entered the breakfast parlor to tell her that Isobel Lydgate had called.
“She didn’t wish to join you here, madam. I’ve shown her into the small salon.”
Jessica, inured to such interruptions, stretched her arms out to Bet, who gathered her up with the competence of a woman used to children. Mélanie took a last sip of coffee and murmured an apology to her guests. She could feel Raoul and her son looking at her with sharp eyes as she left the room.
Isobel sprang up from the sofa when Mélanie entered the small salon. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t face Charles or anyone else. Am I interrupting?”
“Nothing that can’t be interrupted.” Mélanie surveyed her friend. Beneath the stark white silk of her bonnet, Isobel's face was the pale, unfamiliar mask from yesterday. "I was going to call on you this morning in any case."
"You want an explanation."
"I'm afraid in the circumstances I need an explanation."
"Of course."
Isobel re
turned to the sofa. Mélanie sat in a chair opposite. They looked at each other across the room in which they had discussed children’s illnesses, debated transcripts from the House of Commons, struggled with seating arrangements, shared advice on settling disputes among staff. “I think yesterday is the first time I've managed to shock you," Isobel said. "Haven't three years among the beau monde taught you that not everyone’s marriage is as idyllic as your own?”
Mélanie choked back a laugh that stung. “I don’t think anyone’s marriage is idyllic, outside of fairy tales and lending library novels.”
"The rules are different for different couples.” Isobel folded her hands in her lap. “As I said yesterday, it began last autumn when Lucinda and I were staying in the south of France with our sister Cecilia and her husband. I met Gerard—the man you call Julien St. Juste—one morning when I was out sketching. He was—” Isobel’s gaze froze, fixed on the rain-streaked glass of the windows. “Attentive. Interested. Interested in me, interested in life. Like no one I’d ever known before.”
Memories shot through Mélanie’s mind. That was not the way she’d have described Julien St. Juste. And yet—
“When he first started flirting with me, I was startled, then amused," Isobel said. "But I flirted back. I never used to know what to say to gentlemen. Suddenly with him I tossed back repartee without thinking twice about it. He started appearing when I went on my morning rides."
"You didn't introduce him to your sisters?"
Isobel shook her head. "He told me he was rusticating to recover from an unhappy love affair. I didn’t tell Cecy or Lucy that I’d met him. Partly to preserve his privacy, partly because even then I knew there was something illicit about the acquaintance. We’d ride together or Gerard would keep me company while I sketched. He was far too much the gentleman to importune me, but I could see he—“
