Fraser 03 - The Mask of Night

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Fraser 03 - The Mask of Night Page 33

by Tracy Grant


  “I don’t—“

  Charles took two steps forward. “Tell us about St. Juste.”

  Carfax sank into a chair, heedless of the fact that Mélanie was still standing. “Tell me who you think he is.”

  “One theory is that he’s your brother’s by-blow by the actress Mrs. Robinson."

  “My brother’s— Yes, that’s a plausible explanation. Perhaps I could have—“

  “But that’s not it, is it?” Mélanie said.

  “No. Julien St. Juste was my brother’s son and heir. Arthur Mallinson.”

  “You’re sure?” Charles said.

  "Of course I'm sure. I'm the one who recruited him."

  Charles looked down at the exhausted face of the man who had been ten steps ahead of him more times than he cared to admit. "You're saying you sent your nephew, your brother’s son and heir, to be an agent in France when he was still in his teens? Why in God’s name?”

  Carfax stared back at him as though even now he could not frame the words.

  “Because Arthur was going to be exposed for committing treason,” Mélanie said.

  Carfax turned to her, almost, Charles thought, with relief. Mélanie dropped down on her knees in front of the earl. “It wasn’t your own treason Captain Harris was blackmailing you over, was it? It was Arthur’s.”

  Watching Mélanie look up at Carfax, her hands on his knees, Charles knew how right he’d been to insist she be present for the scene. He’d made an appalling number of confidences to her himself, at a time when he should have had his defenses in place for more reasons than one.

  “It was Arthur's.“ Carfax laid his hands over Mélanie’s own. “Though I should have caught it. Should have realized he’d picked the lock on my dispatch box, should have guessed— It was Harris who worked out the truth. He came to me and had the audacity to ask for money to cover up my nephew’s perfidy. At first I couldn’t believe it. It was all still circumstantial. I went down to Spendlove Manor and talked to my brother. We went through Arthur’s things and found a coded letter from a French man—“

  “Renaux,” Charles said.

  “Yes. We spent the night and a good part of the morning talking about what to do. My brother was adamant that Arthur had to pay for his crimes. I kept trying to point out that there were family issues to think of, but he’d have none of that. At last we decided we’d confront Arthur when he returned in the evening. He was out sailing with young St. Ives. He never returned.”

  “You must have wondered—“

  “Of course we wondered. Then a week later a body washed up. Badly mangled but wearing Arthur’s clothes and his signet ring. We buried him as Arthur."

  "But you suspected."

  "Wouldn't you? Arthur covered his trail well. It took me over a month to track him down in France. He'd already found employment as an agent for Fouché."

  "And so you recognized his talents?" Mélanie said, still on her knees before Carfax.

  "How could I not? My first impulse was to drag him home, though I'd probably have had to tie him up and render him unconscious."

  "Neither of which is beyond your capabilities," Charles said.

  "Not if the situation calls for it. But if I had got him home, my brother would have insisted on turning him over to the crown. A sad waste."

  "So you recruited him," Mélanie said.

  "Even then I couldn't control him exclusively, but the fact that I had a paper proving his original treason gave me a certain leverage."

  "Which enabled you to get him to tell you things he wouldn’t reveal to any of his other employers," Charles said.

  "To a degree," Carfax didn't so much as glance as Mélanie as he said it. It was impossible to read how much he knew.

  "You're the one who set him to seduce Josephine de Beauharnais," Charles said.

  "I thought she could prove useful. She was Barras's mistress, and Bonaparte soon began to show an interest in her. Not that I for a moment believe Arthur told me everything he learned from her."

  "When was your last communication with St. Juste?" Charles asked.

  "Last summer. He procured a document I needed from the Russian Embassy in Vienna."

  "Did you know he was in England?"

  "Not until Talleyrand wrote to me about St. Juste's affair with Bel. And as I told you this morning, I wasn't sure until I had Bel followed."

  "You must have been shocked," Mélanie said. "And furious."

  "A massive understatement.“ Carfax's shoulders straightened against the gilded chairback. "I also wanted to know what the hell he was up to. I still can't work it out."

  “It’s beginning to look as though personal matters may have brought him back to England," Charles said.

  Carfax’s gaze had hardened. "No sense dancing round it. Arthur was the rightful Earl Carfax. Technically, my title and estate and fortune belong to him. Or did until someone stuck a knife in him. But if you think I’d stab my brother’s son to death—“

  "Your brother's son who had committed treason and seduced your daughter and whom you'd been using as an agent for twenty-five years while occupying the title that was his by birth. Who else knew about Arthur’s treason?”

  “Only my brother. And Harris.”

  “Who met his death three days ago in a Chelsea tavern brawl.”

  Carfax’s eyes widened in what was either genuine surprise or a very good counterfeit. “I didn’t know. His papers—“

  “Are now in my possession. At least the ones I could find in his study. But there was nothing conclusively damning, certainly nothing to implicate Arthur.”

  “Then someone else got to them first.”

  “So I suspect. I can think of two explanations for why Arthur came back to Britain. He was hired to do a job here. Or he decided to reclaim his heritage.”

  “He couldn’t. Not without—“

  “Getting rid of the evidence. Which would account for Harris’s death. If you’re telling me the truth about who knew of his past, the only other person he’d have had to get rid of is you.”

  "I appreciate the warning. But while Arthur may have contemplated taking back his heritage, I'm quite sure that isn't the reason he came to England.“ Carfax got to his feet, strode to the door, and called to one of the footmen in the corridor. He spoke to the man in muffled tones for a few moments. Then he closed the door and turned back to Charles and Mélanie. "Charles, when I told you this morning that Raoul O'Roarke might be in London, I didn't tell you everything I knew."

  "What a surprise."

  "I assume you've told Mélanie what I told you. If not, I imagine you'll catch up quickly, my dear. O'Roarke went to visit Hortense Bonaparte in Arenenberg in December."

  "Hardly surprising if he was a Bonapartist spymaster as you claim," Charles said. "Besides, it's no secret that O'Roarke was close to Josephine Bonaparte. They were imprisoned together during the Terror."

  "O'Roarke went to see Hortense Bonaparte in secret, which again is perhaps not surprising given the nature of his work. But a fortnight later, Talleyrand's agents intercepted a message from Queen Hortense to O'Roarke. Yes, I know, she might have had a dozen reasons for writing to him. But this was in code. And it made reference to locating 'the Wanderer'."

  Charles employed every trick he knew to keep his face from betraying the least flicker of response. "The Wanderer?"

  "The term goes back to the days of the Directoire. It was used to describe the Dauphin."

  "Are you saying—"

  "There've been rumors for years that Barras replaced the Dauphin with a double and that Josephine was involved in the plot. I've always suspected that if there was such a plot St. Juste was involved. He vehemently denied it of course."

  Carfax began to pace the carpet. "When Talleyrand wrote to me about St. Juste's liaison with Bel, my deepest fear was that whatever St. Juste was up to in England somehow involved the Dauphin, though I couldn't work out how. When St. Juste was murdered, I was even more convinced. Quite frankly, Charles, due
to your connections to O'Roarke and my connections to St. Juste, I'd have preferred to keep you out of the investigation, but Castlereagh wanted you involved."

  "I imagine you had me followed," Charles said in a pleasant voice.

  "It seemed a sensible precaution."

  A rap fell on the door. "Ah, good," Carfax said. "Come in.“ And then, as the door opened, "I believe you are acquainted with Charles Fraser and his wife?"

  "Of course," said a smooth, lightly accented voice. "Fraser. Mrs. Fraser.“ The Comte de Flahaut stepped into the room and pulled the door to behind him.

  Chapter 30

  You will always have my gratitude, Mlle. Lescaut. A poor thing, but I hope you realize how heartfelt it is.

  Comte de Flahaut to Mélanie Lescaut

  3 November, 1811

  Flahaut inclined his head with just the right degree of formality. Charles had to admit that for a man not trained as an agent, the comte did a very creditable job of concealing that the Frasers were anything more than casual acquaintances to him.

  "Charles has been investigating St. Juste's death," Carfax said. "I've told him of my suspicions regarding the Wanderer. In the circumstances, I think you'd best tell the Frasers what you told me earlier this evening."

  Flahaut's gaze flickered to Charles and Mélanie then back to Carfax. "Are you sure—"

  "Given what they already know, we don't have a choice."

  The comte advanced into the room, hands clasped behind his back. "As you no doubt know my friendship with Hortense Bonaparte is of some years standing. Though we have not been in communication much since I came to England. Since I married." He paused and looked from Charles, leaning against the table, to Mélanie, now seated in the chair Carfax had abandoned.

  "But you still have ties," Mélanie said. "Naturally."

  "Just so. I received a communication from Queen Hortense earlier today. It was brief to the point of curtness, but it was undeniably Hortense's hand. She asked me to go to Lord Carfax and tell him she had information about the Wanderer which it was vital he hear. I asked Lord Carfax to meet me here this evening. I didn't know what the Wanderer referred to until he told me."

  Charles looked at Carfax. "If Queen Hortense was involved in a plot with O'Roarke and St. Juste concerning the Dauphin, why would she want you to know about it?"

  "Because I suspect Queen Hortense was an unwilling participant in the plot," Carfax said. "I think St. Juste and O'Roarke used some means to compel her to help them. They must have needed assistance only she could provide. Perhaps ultimately they wanted to use her to give Bonapartist legitimacy to a restored Dauphin."

  "Hortense hates intrigue," Flahaut said. "Even when Bonaparte was Emperor, she'd have been happier if she could have retired to the country. She's had Bonapartists plots swirling round her since her stepfather was exiled, but she just wants to keep her children safe."

  "And so after St. Juste died, her qualms got the better of her, and she decided to contact me," Carfax said.

  Charles continued to stare at his former spymaster. "You think O'Roarke—"

  "O'Roarke hates the current French monarchy."

  "O'Roarke hates all monarchies. He's never made a secret of that."

  "But he was willing to work with Bonaparte, even after he made himself Emperor. If the Dauphin is alive, if O'Roarke could find him and be the power behind putting him on the throne of France— Far easier than getting Bonaparte off St. Helena. And far easier to control the Dauphin than a former Emperor."

  "Where's Queen Hortense now?" Mélanie asked Flahaut, for all the world as if she hadn't seen Hortense Bonaparte for years.

  "She didn't say. But she wrote that after I'd spoken with Lord Carfax, she'd contact me to arrange a meeting. So she must be in England."

  "You'll tell us when you hear from her?" Charles said.

  "We'll pass on information that seems relevant," Carfax replied in the crisp tone he used to indicate a briefing was at an end. "Now I suggest we get back to the theatre before our combined absence is commented upon. You go first, Flahaut."

  Flahaut moved to the door. "It goes without saying that all of this is in confidence."

  "Naturally," Charles said.

  When the door had closed behind the comte, Carfax fixed Charles with a hard stare. "I know you're second guessing everything I've told you. You wouldn't be doing your job if you didn't. I only ask that you don't discount my theory out of hand.

  "You should know me well enough to know I never discount a likely scenario."

  "I'm relieved to hear you’ve still got your wits about you.“ Carfax nodded to Mélanie and moved to the door. "Enjoy the rest of the opera."

  Mélanie stayed stock still until thirty seconds after the door closed behind Carfax. "What in God's name—"

  "Not here. I don't trust Carfax not to be listening."

  "Do you believe him?"

  "I'm not sure."

  The corridor was empty save for the footmen, but when they were halfway down it, Flahaut emerged from an alcove and fell in step beside them. "What the devil was that about?“ His voice was fierce but pitched to their ears alone, and he spoke in French.

  "You know as much as we do," Charles said in the same language.

  "Somehow I doubt that. I'm not going to stand by if Hortense is in trouble."

  Mélanie shot a look at him.

  "Surely I don't have to tell you what she still means to me. Political realities don't change that."

  "I'm supposed to see her tomorrow morning," Mélanie said. "No don't ask me where. But I'll tell you what I learn. If she contacts you, come to us before you go to Carfax."

  Flahaut flicked a glance at Charles. "You don't trust Carfax?"

  "These days I don't trust anyone," Charles said.

  Laura Dudley smoothed the covers over the sleeping Jessica, then touched her fingers Berowne’s head. Berowne rolled on his back to have his stomach scratched, blinked up at her, stretched, and then burrowed more deeply into the covers.

  Laura went through the connecting door to Colin’s room and froze on the threshold. A tall figure stood beside the bed, staring down at Colin’s still form.

  Raoul O’Roarke turned his head and met her gaze across the shadowy room. His eyes were dark and unreadable but his mouth lifted in a smile. Laura pulled the door to, and glanced at Colin, then moved to the door to the passage. O’Roarke followed her out of the room.

  “I just wanted to make sure he was all right,” O’Roarke said. “He’s had a difficult time of it.”

  Laura looked up into his deep-set eyes, myriad suspicions and surmises and fragments of information tumbling in her head. “You’re very fond of him.”

  “He’s a remarkable little boy. He reminds me of his father at the same age.”

  “I forget,” she said. “You knew Mr. Fraser when he was young.”

  Veiled memories shot through O’Roarke’s gaze. “He had Colin’s inquisitiveness and sensitivity. Though he wasn’t as fortunate in his parents.” O’Roarke hesitated, as though perhaps about to say more, but instead he turned down the passage toward his own bedchamber. “Good evening, Miss Dudley.”

  Laura watched him, throat tight with something that was absurdly like sympathy. “Good evening, Mr. O’Roarke.”

  Simon dropped into a fragile, gilded chair beside Pendarves while on stage Don Ramiro, disguised as his own valet, stumbled across the unsuspecting Angelina. Pendarves was staring at the stage with a rapt expression Simon remembered from choir at Winchester. It was a moment or two before he turned and took in that it was Simon sitting beside him.

  “No one else seemed interested in the opera,” Simon murmured.

  Pendarves’s expression relaxed a trifle. An empty champagne glass stood beside his chair. Simon was aware of the unworthy thought that drink had always loosened Pendarves’s tongue.

  Pendarves turned his gaze back to the stage. So did Simon. A short while later, the curtains stirred at their back, and the ladies stepped into t
he box, drawing a ripple of attention from the boxes about them. Simon and Pendarves moved to the back row, giving the women the three seats at the rail. Lady St. Ives spared a brief, dazzling smile for the crowd. Lady Pendarves nodded and smiled at several acquaintances and fixed her gaze on the stage. Isobel sat with her hands locked tightly together. Simon wondered if she was hearing a note of the music.

  When the curtain came down, Lady Pendarves turned round to look at her husband. She must be more than a decade Mélanie’s senior, Simon realized, yet she retained a wide-eyed ingénue quality he doubted Mélanie had possessed since childhood. Her careful pink-and-white prettiness always put him in mind of one of Jessica Fraser’s china dolls, but now her eyes were alight, lending her face an unusual animation. “It is quite splendid, isn’t it? Far better than the piano score.”

  Pendarves’s face softened. “Yes, quite. Do you want a lemonade, Caroline?”

  “Oh, no. But thank you, my love.”

  The box swiftly filled with guests. Simon and Pendarves got to their feet to make way for the throng, most of whom had come to see Lady St. Ives.

  “A lot of humanity in the music," Simon said as they moved into the anteroom. "And a surprising amount in the story. One can’t help but feel for Don Ramiro, obliged to take a bride without love.”

  “But in the end he does find love.”

  “Where he doesn’t expect it.”

  Pendarves drew a breath. "I love Caroline. I always have. I just— What did you want to talk to me about?”

  “Did I say I wanted to talk to you?”

  “God, Simon, I can still read you that well. Did Mrs. Fraser send you with more questions? I fear I was less than polite to her last night.”

  “You’re always faultlessly polite. And I sought you out because I was worried about you.”

  Lord Tilbury came through the door with his widowed sister whose name Simon could never remember. Simon exchanged greetings, then touched Pendarves on the shoulder when Tilbury and his sister had gone through the curtains into the box. “Let’s go somewhere we can have a conversation.”

 

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