Fraser 03 - The Mask of Night

by Tracy Grant

  He half expected Pendarves to object, but he merely nodded and followed Simon from the box. He was a man who desperately needed to talk. What he didn’t need was his friend and former lover trying to pry information out of him.

  An alcove round a bend at the end of the corridor was comfortingly empty yet not so secluded that they would raise eyebrows. Simon leaned against the alcove wall. “Have you seen Will Gordon since last night?”

  Pendarves cast a swift glance about, but the nearest people were a lady and gentleman several feet off, busily engaged in their own conversation. “Briefly. He dressed me down for interfering. Said he could take care of himself. But so help me, Simon, at your age you should know better than to lead him into trouble.”

  “At the moment, I’m trying to keep everyone out of trouble. But perhaps Gordon hadn’t explained matters to you thoroughly.”

  “There are things best not put into words.”

  “That can lead to misunderstandings. You and I used to be able to talk more freely.“ Simon hesitated, then decided to risk it. “I remember the night you told me how it had felt to lose your brother—“

  “Why the devil bring that up now?”

  “Perhaps because it’s one of the few times we spoke freely,” Simon said. It was perfectly true. He could see Pendarves, head sunk on his folded arms, shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs. Simon would have said he loved him then.

  For a moment he thought he had pushed it too far. Then Pendarves’s shoulders relaxed a fraction against the gilded plaster wall. “You were a good friend to me, Simon. You're the only one I was ever able to talk to about losing Christopher.”

  “I never had a brother or a sister. I can scarcely imagine that sort of bond or what it would be like to lose the person.”

  “I used to envy Christopher how easily he took things. That’s the devil of it. He should have lived. He’d have made a better Viscount Pendarves than I do.”

  “I doubt it. Part of your talent for the role is your ability to take things seriously.”

  “If I hadn’t—“

  “If you hadn’t become the heir you wouldn’t have had to marry?”

  Pendarves frowned at the molding on the wall opposite. “Caroline’s my mother’s god-daughter. Christopher was fond of her. Everyone expected— I think they’d have been happy together.”

  “One can never be sure any two people will be happy together.”

  “No. But when I offered for her, Caroline as good as admitted that she’d already given her heart away. I suppose that made it easier for me not to be able to offer her more myself.”

  Simon sought clues in the once familiar features. Had he been better at reading Pendarves when they were younger? Or simply more arrogantly sure he knew what he was seeing. “I don’t think I realized then the scope of the tragedy at Skælskør. Or what lay behind it.”

  Pendarves grimaced. “No one knows what lay behind it to this day. If I did— I’d give a great deal to see those responsible brought to justice. But then justice is hard to come by, as you’ve always tried to tell me.”

  Simon didn’t get the chance to frame an answer, because the man with whom he presently shared his life strode into the alcove, face white, gaze hard. “Pendarves, I need to talk to you,” David said.

  A chill closed over Pendarves’s face. He cast a quick glance to either side. The interval had ended and the corridor was emptying.

  “St. Ives says you were with them when my cousin Arthur drowned,” David said.

  Whatever Pendarves had feared or expected it was not this. “Good God,” he said.

  “Do you deny it?”

  “It seems pointless to deny the truth.”

  “What happened?”

  “You know what happened.”

  “I want your version of it,” David said. “For God’s sake, Pendarves, you can’t get in trouble for running away from your books now.”

  “Arthur and St Ives told me the day before they were taking the yacht out. I said I had to stay in, I was supposed to be working at a Cato translation. I'd come home from Winchester when Christopher died, and I needed to cram before the autumn term began. Arthur rolled his eyes, as if to say no one should actually have to work at a Cato translation. St. Ives tried to smooth things over, the way he always does. And of course the next day dawned clear and fair and the worst sort of weather for studying. So I slipped out of the library and met them down by the cove. Odd, the places the most casual decision leads one.”

  “Where did this one lead you?”

  “To always wonder if I could have prevented the accident. I was on deck when it happened, but at the other side of the boat. It was a fair day, but rougher than we were used to. I heard the splash. I wasn’t sure what it was at first. I shouted to St. Ives. We both dived in the water, but we couldn’t find anything.”

  “And then?”

  “We went ashore. St. Ives told me there was no point in letting on I’d been there—I’d only get a birching to no purpose. He kept saying perhaps Arthur had swum ashore and would be waiting for us. But somehow I knew even then. Perhaps it was having lost my brother so recently. I no longer believed people our age were immortal.”

  Sylvie St. Ives surveyed the crowd in the anteroom for the interval. “I don’t know what’s more a fairytale. That goodness and moral courage shine through any mask or that a handsome prince with a golden palace could bring everlasting happiness.”

  She was sitting on the chaise-longue again, white net and apricot satin skirts spread about her, as golden and lovely as she must have been when she captured Oliver’s heart. Isobel straightened the ruby links of her necklace. For all Oliver's talk of his ambition, she was convinced it was the woman sitting opposite her who had caused him to sacrifice his principles and the trust of his friends. The question was how much was he still willing to sacrifice for her.

  “I think it’s a nice story,” said Caroline Pendarves. “Everything turns out just as one could wish.”

  “She’ll be bored with him within a year,” Sylvie said. “I wonder which of them will take a lover first.”

  “You’re a cynic, Lady St. Ives.“ Neil Vickers, who Isobel had always thought stiff and humorless, gave an unexpectedly charming smile and handed Lady St. Ives a glass of champagne.

  “Oh, no, Neil. True cynics are disappointed romantics. I don’t think I ever was romantic enough. Perhaps that was my problem.”

  Because if she’d been romantic enough she’d have thrown caution to the winds and married Oliver? Isobel studied Sylvie’s restless gaze. She’d always thought that Sylvie and Oliver would have made each other miserable. But was Sylvie happier married to Lord St. Ives? Would she have made Oliver unhappier than Isobel herself had done?

  “Bel.“ Lucinda pushed her way through the crowd to her sister’s side. “What on earth is going on?”

  “Lucy. Are you enjoying the opera?”

  “Don’t talk to me like a child, Bel. First Papa decides he has to attend the opera. Then Charles and Mélanie come into our box and Papa goes off to talk to them for nearly the whole of the first act. And now Papa’s back insisting everything’s fine but all the time looking as though he just saw Frankenstein's monster.”

  Isobel dropped her arm round Lucinda. “Charles had to ask to him some questions.”

  “About the murder.”

  “Yes.”

  “And I don’t suppose you can tell me anything more.”

  “Not now. No.”

  Lucinda scoured her face. “Oliver was at Carfax House earlier today. I ran down to see him but he slammed out before I could stop him. I know Papa’s sometimes hard on him, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen them actually quarrel.”

  “Lucy.“ Caroline Pendarves moved toward them. “You get prettier every day. Would you like a glass of champagne? Or shall I ask Mr. Vickers to procure some lemonade?”

  Lucinda stared at Caroline for a moment, then smiled. “Champagne’s lovely. Mama’s not here to frown.”
>
  Caroline handed Lucinda the glass Mr. Vickers had poured. “I won’t tell if you won’t. To be seventeen again. It seems so long ago, doesn’t it, Bel?”

  “Centuries and centuries.”

  The sound of the orchestra came from the theater. The gathering began to break up, but a new couple slipped past the departing guests and stepped into the box. It was Charles and Mélanie.

  “Where’s St. Ives?“ Mélanie asked Isobel.

  “He went off to talk to David.”

  “He’s gone home or to his club or something.“ Sylvie glanced over her shoulder and nodded at Charles and Mélanie. “He sent me a note by one of the footmen. I like your hair, Mrs. Fraser. Is it a new style?”

  “It’s the result of not having time to heat the curling tongs.”

  “Well, I daresay it will be all the rage by morning. Speaking of which, I suppose we should put in another appearance.“ She stepped through the velvet curtains which Mr. Vickers was holding open. Caroline Pendarves followed.

  Isobel looked from Charles and Mélanie to her sister. “Lucy—“

  “I have to talk to you.” Lucinda’s eyes were like hard glass.

  “Yes, love, but not—“

  “Not you. I mean not just you. I have to talk to Charles and Mélanie.“ Lucinda glanced toward the velvet curtains. The orchestra had struck up, drowning trivial chatter, but she still took a step closer to the door to the corridor. “Lady Pendarves. Her dress. The rose-colored satin bodice with the slashed sleeves like an Elizabethan lady. I remember the last time I saw her wearing it. At Lady Jersey’s, just before Christmas. She's wearing pearls tonight, but at Lady Jersey’s she had on a diamond necklace and matching earrings. Set with a star pattern. Just like the earring you found in Bel and Oliver’s garden.”

  “Are you sure?” Mélanie said.

  “Positive. As soon as I saw her in the gown tonight I remembered. I think it was made to go with that jewelry—it has that v neck with crystal beads to set off the necklace.”

  “Lucy, you’d make a good Bow Street Runner.” Charles squeezed her shoulder. “When this is over, I promise I’ll explain as much as possible.”

  Lucinda gave a smile, the sort of whole-hearted smile Charles Fraser could draw from people when he put his mind to it, and left the box.

  “Caroline Pendarves was probably in the garden for reasons that have nothing to do with the murder,” Charles said. “But she may have seen something.”

  “We can’t question her here,” Mélanie said.

  “Charles.“ Isobel gripped his arm. “Did Father—“

  But as she spoke, her brother and Simon came into the anteroom, followed by Pendarves. Pendarves drew up for a moment, nodded at the company, and strode through the curtains to the box.

  “Do you know where St. Ives went?” Charles asked David.

  David shook his head. “He isn’t here?”

  “He left. Was he upset by your talk?”

  “He spoke readily enough. He was in cabin when Arthur drowned. Pendarves was with them on the yacht as well. He ducked away from his studies so they kept quiet about it to spare him a birching. He was on deck but on the other side of the boat. Charles—“

  “St. Juste was Arthur. Your father just confirmed it.”

  “Good God. But why—“

  “Because Arthur was the one selling secrets to the French.”

  Isobel released her breath and heard her brother do so at the same moment.

  “My word,” Simon said. “Talk about being precocious.”

  David put a hand to his throat. “So Father—“

  “Was paying the blackmail to protect the family from scandal. There’s a great deal to be said, but not here. Can you stay and keep eye on your father? Watch anyone he talks to?”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To hunt down St. Ives.”

  “I’ll go sit in my parents’ box,” Isobel said. “You and Simon can keep an eye on Pendarves and watch from here.”

  She went into the corridor with Charles and Mélanie. Her hands were shaking. She tightened her grip on her reticule and fan. “Thank you, Charles. At least one thing isn’t as bad as we feared.”

  They reached the stair head and she was about to turn down the corridor toward her parents’ box when she saw a young man hurrying up the stairs. Alexander Trenor, she realized, whose brother was a colleague of Oliver’s.

  “Thank God you’re still here,” Trenor said. “It’s O’Roarke. He’s gone missing.”

  Chapter 31

  I should be back Monday next. If not, I believe you know all you need to know. Take care of yourself, querida.

  Raoul O'Roarke to Mélanie Lescaut,

  11 August, 1810

  Charles heard his wife make a small sound, the sort of in drawn breath she might give if someone stuck a knife in her ribs. “Missing?” he said. “You mean he’s gone off somewhere?”

  “No. That is, yes, he did, but that’s not why he’s missing. He was taken.”

  “Abducted?” Mélanie said.

  “He got a message from Sam Lucan."

  Mélanie took a step forward. "Is Sam—?"

  "He's all right. So's Nan. Lucan's outside in the carriage. He can explain better than I can."

  Charles looked at Isobel. “Bel—“

  Isobel nodded, squeezed Mélanie’s hand, and went down the corridor to her parents’ box.

  “I brought your carriage,” Trenor said as they descended the stairs. “I thought you’d want me to—“

  “Yes.“ Charles clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ve done well.”The barouche was drawn up in front of the theatre. Randall sat on the box, hands easy on the reins though he shot them a look of concern.

  Charles opened the carriage door. The spill of light from the theatre caught the bruise rising on Sam Lucan's cheek and the dried blood below his nose. Charles handed Mélanie into the carriage and swung in after her as did Trenor. The carriage swayed as they pulled away from the pavement.

  "The bastard," Lucan said. "I'd like to rip his throat out."

  "Raoul?" Mélanie asked.

  "Whoever's taken him.“ Lucan slammed his fist into his palm. "Nan and I went into hiding. We laid a false trail, we covered our tracks. I know the drill. I triple-checked the locks. I kept one ear pealed for anything out of the ordinary. But God help me I didn't hear anything until they were in the inner room and had a pistol to Sarah's head."

  "Nan's little girl?" Mélanie said.

  Lucan gave a curt nod.

  “Who?” Charles asked.

  “Four men. English. Londoners by the sound of it. They tied us up—Sarah, Nan, me. At another time I might have tried something desperate. But not with a pistol held on a child.”

  “Of course not,” Mélanie said.

  “They said if we cooperated they’d let us go. We weren’t the game they were after. I was trying to work out an escape plan if I could get my bonds loosened. I’d almost got my hands free when he arrived.”

  “Raoul,” Mélanie said.

  “They sent a note to Berkeley Square.“ Trenor took up the story. “Miss Dudley found it later. At the time we all thought O’Roarke had retired to bed. The note told him to come to a direction in Shepherd Market within half an hour and to come alone unless he wanted to see another of his agents dead.”

  “He rapped at the door,” Lucan said. “He said he had a pistol, but he’d throw it down if they sent the three of us out.”

  “And they did?” Charles asked.

  “They refused at first, but O'Roarke said in that case we’d all have a long, cold night. Finally they sent Sarah out. O'Roarke held out longer, but when they cocked the gun on Nan he threw down his pistol and walked in. They hit him over the head as he stepped across the threshold and carried him out unconscious.”

  “They left the three of you unhurt?” Charles said.

  Lucan nodded. “I went to your house in Berkeley Square. I didn't like leaving Nan and Sarah, but Nan insist
ed they wouldn’t come back tonight, and she'd know how to deal with them if they did. Trenor and Bet told me about Billy. Damn the bastards."

  The carriage pulled up before the King's Arms in Shepherd Market. Lucan led them through the crowded common room of the tavern—where the air was thick with the nutty smell of ale, the rattle of dice, and voices raised with the uninhibited good cheer of a few pints—and out the back to an alley lit only by the meager moonlight. Down a few paces and he pulled an implement from his pocket and levered open the barred grate on a ground floor window. "Mind your heads," he said over his shoulder before he scrambled through.

  It was pitch black inside, but they could hear Lucan's footfalls and then three raps on what sounded like a door. "It's me," he said.

  A moment later a door was pulled open and Nan appeared the doorway, outlined by smoky lamplight. She held a pistol in one hand. A little girl of about six with curly dark ringlets clung to her skirt. "No trouble," she said. "It's all right, Sarah, they're friends."

  The room inside was a scene of chaos. A table was upended, a doll, a set of blocks, and a basket of clothes spilled over the floor, the shattered remnant of a glass sparkled in the lamplight.

  "Sam said not to touch anything until you saw it," Nan said.

  "I'm sorry, Miss Simcox," Charles said. "I wish we could have spared you this. How do you do, Sarah, my name is Charles."

  Sarah gave him a shy smile, pressed her face to Nan's skirts, then peeped out at Charles again.

  Nan stroked her daughter's hair. "It's O'Roarke I'm sorry for. Whatever else he's done, the man has courage. And he's loyal to his people. Don't know what would have happened to us if he hadn't shown up. What do you need?"

  She lit another lamp and Charles and Mélanie poured over the scene before them. Scuff marks on the floorboards, strands of hair of varying shades, broken hemp still wrapped round the slats of the straight-backed chairs. But nothing to identify the four men or where they might have taken O’Roarke.

  “If they’d wanted him dead—“ Trenor said.