Fraser 03 - The Mask of Night

by Tracy Grant

  "Seeking solace in nature? How Wordsworthian. Though there are other ways we could have found solace on this journey. I have quite agreeable memories of two years ago."

  She opened her eyes and bit back a curse. She should have heard him long before he spoke. "Two years ago was work."

  St. Juste dropped down beside her, arms hooked round one knee, his other leg dangling over the bank. "Meaning you don't indulge outside of business?"

  "Meaning I'm rather fastidious about whom I indulge with."

  "Fair enough.“ He pulled a silver flask from his coat. "Thought perhaps you could do with this."

  "Am I so obvious?"

  "The press of emotions in the inn was a bit thick even for me."

  Mélanie accepted the flask and took a swallow. "How was she when you left?"

  "Quiet. Flahaut was the one who looked as if he was going to be sick."

  "It's his baby too."

  "And unlike some men, he seems to be aware of that. Hortense will pull through. She's got more of her mother in her than one would think."

  "Is Josephine so strong?"

  "When she needs to be."

  Mélanie fixed her gaze on the water rushing dark over the stones of the streambed. "I can steal. I can kill. I can do things I never thought I'd be capable of. Things I'm not proud to be capable of. But what Hortense did today— I don't know that I could do that. Put my child into the care of someone else—even someone I trusted—and know that he would grow up without me. Perhaps it's just as well that I'm exceedingly unlikely ever to have a child of my own."

  "You're a bit young to be swearing off parenthood."

  She returned the flask to him. "Do you? Have children?"

  "Not that I know of. We don't exactly live a life that's suited to it. Which doesn't mean I've never thought of it."

  "Don't tell me you have a secret longing for a rose-covered cottage and a nursery of fat babies."

  A smile pulled at his mouth. "Hardly. But the thought of home has a certain seduction."

  "Has it been a long time since you were back?"

  "So long I was quite another person."

  "That could mean yesterday."

  "So it could.“ He took a swallow from the flask. "I used to think what I wanted more than anything else was my freedom."

  "You're the most free person I know."

  "Ah, but then you don't really know me at all, do you?"

  "Used to think?" she said.

  "Lately I find that even I am subject to the occasional cliché longings. The land one's ancestors trod. The air one breathed in childhood. The smile of one's first love.“ He reached out and tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear.

  Mélanie steeled herself against any reaction. "Was she your first love?"

  "Who?"

  "Josephine."

  "I was young enough that she might have been.“ He returned the flask to his pocket and held out his hand. "Come back to the inn, cara. Hortense will need you. All we can do is take care of what needs to be done, one step at a time."

  She accepted his hand and let him pull her to her feet. "That's what Raoul says."

  "And O'Roarke has an annoying habit of being right."

  London

  January, 1820

  Do what needs to be done, one step at a time. Don’t get side-tracked by panic even if the situation seems urgent. Especially if the situation seems urgent. Raoul’s words ran through Mélanie’s head as she rang the bell of the Pendarves house in Upper Brook Street. Raoul’s advice often ran through her head when she was worried. And God knew she was worried now, far more than she’d admit, even to Charles. Hortense had failed to appear for their scheduled rendezvous this morning, though Mélanie had waited an extra half hour and circled the square. Which could mean she was in trouble, as Flahaut had feared. Or that, far from being a victim, she had been involved in Raoul's abduction. Or that she was working with Raoul, and he hadn't been abducted at all.

  Mélanie had a bone-crunching fear that Raoul was already dead or that he was being killed even as she went through the maddeningly slow motions of trying to get him back. And she had another, deeper, more gnawing fear that Roth’s speculation was right. That Raoul had orchestrated his own disappearance because he’d been working against them all along. His touching farewell to Colin could simply mean he was turning against Colin’s parents.

  Memories clustered in her mind. Wind-twisted trees in the camp where the bandits had held her. Sinking into a darkness that offered escape from a pain she could no longer bear. A familiar voice, unusually sharp. Gunshots. His hands gentle on her bruised skin, untying her, lifting her. His arms encircling her as they rode over rocky ground. His lips against her hair. His voice, when they had reached safety telling her to rest, trying to talk to her about what had happened. And her own. For God’s sake don’t talk. Just take me to bed. I don’t want to think.

  Close on those memories came another, so distinct she had could feel the cold, clean bite of the Spanish mountain air. Slipping out of bed and touching her fingers to his sleeping face before she went off on a mission. She’d never gone in for formal farewells, because that would risk giving way to sentiment. And because it would be admitting that they might never see each other again, and they had never admitted that. There were a lot of things they’d never admitted.

  The glossy blue-painted door of the Pendarves house was opened by a footman in faultless gray livery. His face indicated that, while he was far too well-trained to say so, it was early for callers. Mélanie gave him her card. She’d scrawled “urgent” on the back.A few moments later, she was shown into a first-floor sitting room hung with forget-me-knot paper where Lady Pendarves sat with her children, a girl of ten or so and a boy of about five. Mélanie apologized for not bringing her own children and admired the fort the young Pendarveses were building out of blocks.

  Lady Pendarves rang for the nurse and a tea tray.

  “Thank you for indulging the children,” she said, when the nurse had taken them off. “We’ve just come back from church, and I usually spend the morning with them.“ She lifted a hyacinth-splashed Spode teapot and began to pour. “Did you enjoy the opera?”

  “Very much. I only wish I could have seen more of it.”

  “So lovely to think that Angelina and Don Ramiro have a happy future ahead of them. I always worry about Rosina and the Count after Barber of Seville, because one knows Le nozze di Figaro lies ahead. And Mozart—well, there’s always something unsettling about him, no matter how glorious his music, isn’t there? I find Mr. Rossini much more comforting. Milk or lemon?”

  “Milk.“ Mélanie accepted the cup being held out to her. Though she saw Lady Pendarves at a score of entertainments during the season, they seldom had a tête-à-tête. In truth, she had dismissed Lady Pendarves as a woman whose conversation rarely extended beyond fashion and the latest round of engagements. She hadn’t even known the other woman’s fondness for music. “Lady Pendarves—I’m afraid this isn’t a social call.”

  “I thought it probably wasn’t.” Lady Pendarves added a lump of sugar to her own tea. In a cream-colored round gown trimmed with pale blue ribbon, her dark hair dressed in loose ringlets, she looked more a schoolgirl than a matron. The lamplight showed only the faintest of lines about her delicate mouth and wide-set blue eyes. But her gaze held a worldly wisdom that took Mélanie by surprise. She was reminded of the knowing the glances that gave an unexpected twist to the innocent faces in some French paintings.

  “It’s silly to pretend I don’t know you’re investigating the murder,” Lady Pendarves said. “But while I was at the ball, along with three hundred or so others, I’m afraid I don’t know anything.”

  Mélanie took a sip of tea. “We found an earring in the garden. It’s been recognized as one of yours.”

  “You found my earring!“ The china rattled as Lady Pendarves set the cup down. “Oh, thank goodness! I’ve been quite frantic, for they’re a very fine pair and I know my husband wo
uld be dreadfully cross if I lost one. Do you have it with you?”

  “No, Mr. Roth has it, but I’ll arrange to have it returned to you. Lady Pendarves—“

  “You want to know if I saw anything in the garden. ” Lady Pendarves adjusted her Paisley shawl. “But my dear Mrs. Fraser, naturally I’d have told you straight off if I’d seen anything that might have the smallest bearing on the murder.”

  “You might not realize the significance,” Mélanie said with a friendly smile. “What time did you go out to the garden?”

  “Let me think. It must have been just past eleven-thirty because I looked at the clock while I was dancing the boulanger with Lord Sheriton and it was after that I realized I’d grown quite overcome by the heat and wanted some air. He was kind enough to go outside with me.”

  “Lord Sheriton?”

  “No, Mr. Vickers.“ Lady Pendarves squeezed a wedge of lemon into her tea.

  “Neil Vickers? Who was in your box last night?”

  “He was at school with my husband you know, and he’s a cousin of St. Ives’s.“ She took a careful sip of tea.

  Sits the wind in that quarter? Would Lord Pendarves be less anguished about betraying his own marriage vows if he knew his demure wife was amusing herself elsewhere without the least sign of guilt? “Was anyone else in the garden?”

  “No. Goodness, I’d have told you. As I said, Mrs. Fraser, I don’t know anything.”

  “Did you see anything to indicate anyone else might have been there?”

  Lady Pendarves settled the cup carefully in its saucer. “Not that anyone had been there. But just after we came back in I did see Isobel go out.”

  “Isobel?”

  “Yes. I expect she wanted some air too. Not to mention a moment alone. Entertaining can be so overwhelming, don’t you find?”

  “Quite.“ Mélanie took a sip of tea. The delicate blend sat bitter on her tongue. Or perhaps the bitterness was the realization that Isobel had once again lied to her.

  St. Ives was not at home when Charles walked round to Grosvenor Square, but if the viscount was attempting to dodge an interrogation he had not covered his tracks well. The footman said, without any hesitation, that he believed his lordship was at Boodle’s.

  Charles made his way to St. James’s Street and the cool, classical building of brown stone and white plaster that housed one of London’s most exclusive clubs. He himself was not a member of Boodle’s, belonging to the more political and resolutely Whig Brooks’s in the baroque building across the street. He stared at the medallions above Boodle’s bow window, wondering if St. Ives would deny him if he had the porter take in his card. Then he spotted a familiar figure stepping beneath the columned portico.

  “Quen.”

  “Charles. What are you doing here?“ Viscount Quentin took a step toward him, black greatcoat flapping in the wind. “I thought you were in the midst of another investigation.”

  “I am.”

  “Good God, at Boodle’s? What’s the world coming to? Boodle’s is supposed to be free of all strife, political and otherwise.“ Quen’s mobile face sobered. He regarded Charles for a moment. “Can I help? We were there, of course. At the Lydgates’. But we didn’t see anything and then we left as soon as we could to get back to the baby. Aspasia’s still nursing him.”

  “Understandable.“ Charles smiled at the man who had once been a boy he carried about on his shoulders. “How are you enjoying fatherhood?”

  Quen’s face brightened. “It’s a funny thing, Charles, having a child of your own. I knew I liked the idea, and God knows Spasy and I were trying, but I don’t think I’d quite realized—“

  “I don’t think one can,” Charles said. “Not completely, not until it happens.”

  “No I suppose not.“ Quen glanced at the door. “I can take you in. Thanks to my father I’m a member of just about every club in London. Who are you looking for?”

  “St. Ives.”

  “Good God is he mixed up in this?”

  “Possibly.”

  “You’ll have to tell me about it when you have time. I’m dining with Val. He says he chose Boodle’s because I’m getting too political these days, but actually at first he wanted to go to White’s so I’d get a lot of Tory frowns over my latest poem. He’d have found that amusing.”

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  Quen grinned. “I suppose a bit. Oh, all right, yes. But now that I’m a father I’m supposed to be sober and take life seriously.”

  “Don’t take it too seriously. Your son will like you the better for it. Give my love to Aspasia.”

  Charles found St. Ives in the morning room, alone save for a copy of the Times and a cheerful fire burning in the grate. He looked up quickly at the opening of the door. Then he smiled and tossed the paper aside.

  “Good morning, Charles. Enjoy the opera last night?”

  “What I saw of it.“ Charles dropped into a chair. “You left early yourself.”

  “Never had much taste for music.”

  “I thought perhaps you wanted to avoid me after your talk with David.”

  St. Ives dropped his hand on top of the newspaper. The pages rustled. “Confound you, Charles.”

  “Tell me about Arthur Mallinson.”

  “I told David last night. I assume David told you.”

  “As far as it went.”

  “What I told David is as far my knowledge goes.”

  “We know Arthur didn’t die in the sailing accident.”

  St. Ives’s fingers tensed atop the newspaper. “Don’t play games with me, Charles.”

  “I don’t have time for games. Did you know he was still alive?”

  “Christ, wouldn’t I have told someone if I had?”

  “Not if you knew why he had to leave England.”

  “Why the devil would Arthur have had to leave England?”

  “You tell me.”

  St. Ives sat back in his chair. “Good God, you know.”

  “Quite a lot I think. Arthur was selling secrets to the French.”

  St. Ives glanced away. His gaze drifted over the fireplace, the oval looking glass, the hunting prints on the walls, the silver and ivory writing set on the desk. “My family can trace our lineage back to a bastard knight who came over from Normandy with the bastard conqueror. Nearly eight hundred years. It’s a funny thing. It’s supposed to mean something. England. The country of one’s birth. The crown one’s family have paid fealty to for generations. The thought, the idea— But in the end an idea doesn’t seem much beside one’s oldest friend.”

  “When did you know?”

  St. Ives turned his gaze back to Charles’s face. Somehow his features seemed to have reshaped themselves to show far more intelligence than Charles was accustomed to seeing on his countenance. “Not until the day of the accident. If I’d known while it was actually going on, I’d like to think that I’d— In any case he met me that morning as he had on countless other mornings. But he told me he had to leave England. That his father was about to expose him for a traitor. I tried to talk him out of it. I said it couldn’t be as bad as he made out, that surely we could make his father see sense. That was when he spelled out exactly what he’d done

  “What did he tell you?”

  “He’d been selling information, information he’d got from reading his uncle’s dispatches. When I tried to say it couldn’t have led to anything serious, he said that information was responsible for the disaster at Skælskør. That’s when the whole thing stopped seeming like a fantasy to me. I remembered getting the news about Christopher Pendarves.”

  “Did Arthur say why he’d done it?”

  St. Ives twisted his signet ring round his finger. "He said, ‘because I wanted to see if I could pull it off.’ And then he gave one of those damnable smiles that made it impossible to know if he was telling the truth.”

  “Do you think he was telling the truth?”

  “No actually. I think he did it because of Christopher.”

&
nbsp; “Christopher Pendarves? He and Arthur had quarreled?”

  “Arthur and Christopher had been rivals in everything since they were in leading strings. Their families had neighboring properties. They were both clever, they both rode and shot and fenced better than most. Arthur had a quicker mind, but Christopher was a year older and several inches taller. They were always trying to outdo each other. Anything one of them had the other would decide he wanted. The Christmas before we’d all been at a house party at the Eglintons’ in Scotland. Caroline’s family—Lady Pendarves now. Arthur and Christopher were both flirting with Sylvie.”

  “Your wife was there as well?”

  “Long before she became wife. She and Caroline were still in the schoolroom., but Sylvie was already turning men’s heads. She turned mine, only I knew I hadn’t a prayer with her. Christopher started flirting with her, even though he was half-promised to Caroline. So Arthur started vying for her attentions as well. Sylvie, being Sylvie, knew just how to play them off against each other.”

  “You think Arthur sold government secrets and sent men to their deaths because he was jealous over a girl?”

  “Sylvie was just a symptom. I told you, Arthur and Christopher’s rivalry went back to the nursery. Anyway Arthur was only sixteen. I don’t think he realized—“

  “From what I remember and what I’ve heard recently, I’d say Arthur Mallinson had an exceptionally keen understanding.”

  St. Ives met Charles’s gaze without flinching. “Yes. He did. At that same house party, I overheard my father tell Mr. Eglinton that Arthur was just the sort of young man who gave him hope for England’s future. No secret that I was a bit of a disappointment to the pater. He’d have liked me more ambitious, quicker to study, quicker with words…. I can’t argue with his assessment. But he was wrong about Arthur. Arthur was the last sort of person any sane man would want leading the country. Because clever as Arthur was, I don’t think he was capable of believing in anything.”