by Tracy Grant
Chapter 35
Despite everything, I'm glad we had the chance to become friends.
Hortense Bonaparte to Mélanie Lescaut
10 November, 1811
Hortense stared at the pistol in Mélanie's hand, then lifted her gaze to meet Mélanie's own. "I should have known better than to try to hide from you. But I had to at least make an effort."
Mélanie kept her grip steady on her pistol. "I've learned trust is a chimera. I'm so used to betrayal I almost take it for granted. But I never thought to find myself holding a pistol on you."
"Mélanie—"
"Perhaps you should light the candles. We have a lot of talking to do."
Hortense moved to the table and picked up a tinderbox. "Can you put the pistol away?"
"I don’t think that would be a good idea just now."
"You can't possibly—"
"I think all questions of what is and isn't possible are open to review."
The tapers flared to life. The light danced over Hortense's face, set with a wariness Mélanie had never before seen upon her features, even in the darkest days of their journey into Switzerland. "I was concerned when you didn't keep our appointment today," Mélanie said. "I'm relieved to see no harm has befallen you. Unless you're being kept prisoner here?"
"If I were you I could spin a story about how I'd been abducted. But even then I expect you'd see through me. So I can only ask you to believe that my reasons are good ones. I know you aren't happy with me. But I think we both know you won't really use that pistol, so—"
"Raoul was abducted last night," Mélanie said.
"Abducted—?"
"We don't know if he's still alive. Every moment counts. So don't be too sure of what I would and wouldn't do."
"You'd risk a lot for him. But there are things I'd risk a lot for as well."
"The papers about your and Flahaut's child do exist. But Carfax didn't have them. St. Juste did. He used them to force you to help him. Which included lying to me."
"You're my friend, Mélanie. But I can't trust you any more. You're English now."
"I'm nothing of the sort."
"Your loyalties are here."
"My loyalties are with the people I care for. Including you.“ Mélanie threw the pistol down on the table. "For God's sake, Hortense, if need be, I'll go to France myself and bring your son to England. Charles and I can protect him. I give you my word."
"You can't guarantee that."
"And you can't guarantee he'll be safe if you don't talk to me. But I can guarantee you'll regret it if you don't help me put an end to whatever St. Juste's associates are involved in.“ Mélanie leaned forward, hands on the cool wood of the table, face close to the heat of the candle flames. "Believe me."
Hortense released her breath. "St. Juste came to see me two months ago as I told you. He was polite, charming even. But he made the consequences if I didn't do as he asked abundantly clear.“ She gripped her elbows. "I know what he was to you and to my mother. But he terrified me."
"He terrified me too. I think that was part of his attraction."
Hortense's fingers pressed into the blue velvet folds of her cloak. "He outlined the plan. At least my part in it. First I was to summon M. O'Roarke and ask him to have certain pamphlets printed in England."
"St. Juste wanted the pamphlets printed?"
"St. Juste wanted Raoul in England."
"Why?"
"I'm not sure. He also wanted me to write a letter to M. O'Roarke mentioning the Wanderer. M. O'Roarke never replied."
"Then St. Juste sent you to me. He wanted you to persuade me to retrieve certain documents from Lord Carfax for him."
"You took the documents from Carfax?" Hortense asked.
"Yes."
"What's in them?"
"You don't know?"
"St. Juste didn't tell me. Just what I should say to you to get you to retrieve them."
"They have to do with St. Juste's past."
"His past—?"
"He was English."
"Sacrebleu."
"And after St. Juste's died?“ Mélanie said. "You continued with the plot."
"At first I thought I was free. But after I met you in the park, I received a message in the code St. Juste and I had used. The message made it plain I had to continue with my part of the plot or the truth about my child would be revealed. I was in an even more precarious position, because St. Juste had felt some loyalty to Maman. I don't think his confederate feels anything of the sort."
"Who is his confederate?"
"I don't know. I swear it."
"What were you supposed to do?"
"Contact Flahaut.“ Above the silk ties of her cloak, the pulse in Hortense's throat quickened with fear or guilt. "Ask him to contact Carfax for me. Again saying I had information about the Wanderer."
"Do you know what the Wanderer is?"
The candle flame glinted in Hortense's wide, dark eyes. "You know, don't you? You've learned what was in the paper Maman wanted you to retrieve from St. Juste ten years ago."
"I want to hear you say it."
"It's the Dauphin. St. Juste smuggled him out of the Temple for Maman and Barras and substituted another boy."
"How long have you known?"
"Maman told me after my stepfather was exiled. Not long before she died. St. Juste's confederate ordered me to set up a meeting at this Spendlove Manor with Flahaut and Lord Carfax. I was to come down here in case they were watching me. But I was to wait at the lodge until the meeting was over."
"St. Juste's confederate would meet them in your stead?"
Hortense nodded. "To force Carfax to go along with the plan to restore the Dauphin."
"And Raoul?"
"I don't know. I didn't know they meant to abduct him. If I had—"
Mélanie flung up a hand to silence her. A faint creak had sounded in the passage. A distinct footfall followed. The sort made by a boot heel on squeaky timber. Whoever it was was not taking care to disguise their presence.
"Stay here," Mélanie mouthed to Hortense.
Pistol in hand, she slipped into the passage. No one was in view, but more footfalls sounded from the front hall. She flattened herself against the wall.
A man appeared round the bend in the passage, pale hair catching the wavering light. His features were indistinguishable, but something in his posture tugged at her memory.
“Mélanie, my sweet, these unexpected meetings in deserted cottages are becoming something of a habit.”
Mélanie leveled her pistol at the man she’d last seen wielding a sword against her husband. “What the hell are you doing here, Tommy?”
Roth was sipping a pint of the quite decent home brew and playing his third chess game against himself when he heard footsteps in the entry hall. He went to the door with no very real hope of learning anything. The last two arrivals had been a local farmer stopping to get out of the rain and a couple who’d lost a wheel from their carriage. But this time he saw Will Gordon in the entrance hall, rain dripping from his beaver hat and caped greatcoat.
Roth crossed the hall in two strides and griped his arm. “Good day, Gordon.”
“Roth. What the devil—“
“In here.“ Roth steered Gordon into the private parlor, ignoring the interested gaze of the serving maid.
He pushed the door shut and stood with his back to it. Gordon tossed his hat onto the table and struggled out of his drenched coat. “I suppose you’re here because of the man you had following me. I thought I’d given him the slip.”
“Addison is used to tricks.”
“I was afraid of that. In any case, I’m damned glad to see you. I’m afraid I’m in a bit over my head.”
“You’re having second thoughts?”
“In a sense. At least about the way I went about it. I should have told someone first.”
“Told someone what precisely?”
Gordon stared at him. His hair was plastered to his forehead and dripping
water down the bridge of his nose. Roth was put in mind of his sons.
“You think— Look here,” Gordon said, “I know you had people following us because you thought someone must have betrayed O'Roarke the night before last. But you can’t seriously think that I—“
“Last night you were seen conferring with Mr. Vickers.”
“Damned right I was conferring with Vickers. That’s how— Oh.”
“Start at the beginning.”
Gordon scraped his wet hair back from his forehead. “You know about Vickers’s work. And you think I’m working with him.”
“A not unreasonable assumption based on the evidence.”
“No, I can see that. God, this would be a farce if it wasn’t so bloody serious.“ Gordon dropped into a ladder-back chair. “I’ve heard rumors about Vickers for weeks. I never mentioned it to anyone because I couldn’t be sure. I’m not the sort to claim my word is my bond, but for what it’s worth, you have my word I never worked with him.”
Roth moved to a chair opposite Gordon. “I’m not the sort to take anyone’s word as their bond. Go on. Why were you meeting with Vickers last night?”“Because he asked me to.
I thought he was going to threaten me or try to subvert me. But that wasn’t it at all. He pointed out that we both happen to have romantic attachments to two people who are married to each other and suffering qualms of conscience. He wanted to see if we could arrive at an amicable solution.”
Roth stared at him.
“I know. I’d always thought him a bit stiff-necked, but it seems I misjudged him.“ Gordon leaned forward, hands clasped together. “See here, Roth. I don’t give a damn about my own reputation and even Pendarves can take care of himself. But it’s harder for women. Caroline Pendarves is a sheltered woman with a horror of scandal. I don’t care to do her any more harm than I’ve done already.”
“Point taken. If that’s really what you spoke to Vickers about there’s no need for the conversation to go farther than this room. But in that case why did you try to ditch pursuit right after your talk with Vickers?”
“Because something he said—after one too many glasses of Bordeaux—gave me the impression he was leaving London on secret business this morning.”
“What sort of business?”
“I couldn’t tell. It was all too vague. That’s why I decided to follow him myself before I bothered the Frasers or Simon Tanner or you with it.”
“And?”
“I followed him down here. He stopped at this inn. I took a room and then followed him when he left the inn. He went to Spendlove Manor. It’s a house belonging to Lord Carfax.”
“Yes, I know. What did you see there?”
“It was the damndest thing. There were British soldiers all round. I saw Vickers go into the house. They seemed to be expecting him.”
“Did you see anyone else?”
Gordon shook his head. “But—”
He was interrupting by the opening of the door. “Roth, the maid said you were—“ Addison stopped on the threshold. “Mr. Gordon. Good evening.”
“Mr. Addison. You’re very skilled at following, I must say. But it turns out I’m not the enemy.”
“Gordon was meeting with Vickers about personal business,” Roth said.
“I’m relieved to hear it.“ Addison advanced into the room. “You saw the soldiers at Spendlove Manor?”
"Vickers is an agent for Carfax,” Gordon said. “At least according to rumor. And Spendlove Manor is on the coast. Perhaps Vickers is meeting with someone from the Continent about secret operations. The same secret operations that account for St. Juste being in London and the attack on O'Roarke.”
Roth took a swallow from his tankard. “You’re suggesting that whatever St. Juste was up to was a plot set in motion by Carfax in concert with the French?”
“Or someone in France. Or another country, though France seems likeliest.“ Gordon leaned forward. “Vickers isn’t powerful enough to have ordered those soldiers out on his own. So I want to know who did.”
Tommy Belmont’s face was in shadow, but the hair, the posture, and the voice were unmistakable. Mélanie took a step forward, pistol steady. “Put your hands in the air, Tommy.”
“Mélanie—“
“Now. I don’t like killing, but I’m less squeamish about it than Charles is.“
Tommy raised his hands. “You can spare us all the melodrama. For once I want to talk things over as much as you do.”
She tugged open the door to the dining parlor. “You first.”
Tommy complied with only a faint lift of his mouth for commentary. He went still on the threshold, gaze on the room's occupant. "Hortense Bonaparte, unless my eyes deceive me. The plot thickens."
Mélanie pushed the door shut without turning her gaze or the pistol away from Tommy. "Hortense, I don't know if you've ever been formally to introduced to Thomas Belmont. He used to be a colleague of my husband's. These days I don't trust him an inch."
Tommy's gaze flickered between the two women. "You know each other. Mélanie, you never cease to surprise me."
"Mrs. Fraser and I met after Waterloo, Mr. Belmont," Hortense said.
"When—"
"Sit," Mélanie said. "Hands on the table."
The rain pounded on the roof like hammer blows. Tommy settled into a chair. So did Hortense. Mélanie sat opposite Tommy, her pistol trained on him across the age-darkened oak. “Talk.”
“We used to do this over drinks. Sherry in the embassy library, Rioja in a farmhouse kitchen—”
“That was before you killed Charles’s father.”
“You mean Kenneth Fraser?”
“I don’t know whom else I’d mean.”
Tommy’s eyes glinted cobalt in the candlelight. “My dear girl, we’re on the same side this time.”
“Which side would that be?”
“I want to stop what’s going on as much as you do.”
“What is going on?”
“Haven’t you worked it out?”
“Have you?”
“Some of it.“ Tommy leaned back in his chair. "Julien St. Juste came to England to do a particularly nasty job. But someone murdered him at your friends the Lydgates’ two nights ago before he could carry it out.”
“What do you know about Julien St. Juste?”
“I met him once in the Peninsula in the course of a mission he undertook for our side—forgive me, Madame Hortense."
"No offense taken, Mr. Belmont."
"I think I crossed paths with him a couple of times when he was working for the French. One couldn’t always tell what mischief he was behind.”
“Do you know who he really was? Other than Julien St. Juste?”
“No.“ Interest flashed in Tommy’s eyes. “Damn it, Mélanie, you are good. Have you learned his identity?”
“I’m asking the questions, Tommy. Did you kill St. Juste?”
“I wouldn’t have been foolish enough to try. I wasn’t anywhere near the garden, and I thought it prudent to melt away once the murder was discovered.”
“You were at the Lydgates’ ball?” Hortense said.
“Of course. Charming event. Bel always had good taste.“
“I might have known it," Mélanie said. "Everyone else seems to have been there. What were you doing?”
“Following St. Juste. I told you, we decided he had to be stopped.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
He spread his fingers on the table. The candlelight gleamed off the gold of his signet ring. “I thought you’d worked that out two and a half years ago.”
“The Elsinore League.”
“No point in denying it now, I suppose.”
“Which didn’t die with Kenneth Fraser and which was more than a club of roués."
“You said it, I didn’t.”
“You’re still working for Le Faucon de Maulévrier.”
"What?“ Hortense swung her gaze from Tommy to Mélanie. "That butcher from the Revolution?"
"I'll explain later," Mélanie told her. She looked back at Tommy. "Did Le Faucon and the Elsinore League know about the Wanderer?”
Tommy scanned her face. "The men I work for don’t like seeing the balance of power disrupted. At least not by hands other than their own.”
“Who did hire St. Juste to extract the Wanderer?”
“I’m still not sure. Though I started to get a glimmering from those papers I found in his rooms.”
“You’re the one who attacked Charles and Roth.”
“I was trying to get away. They interrupted me.”
“Going through St. Juste’s papers.”
“Which they were about to go through themselves.”
Mélanie sat watching Tommy. The circle of candlelight between them on the table created an island of intimacy “What brought you to Spendlove Manor?”
“The other paper I found among St. Juste’s things. The one I took with me when I escaped. It took me a bloody long time to decode it. I must say, Charles used to have his uses.”
“What did it contain?”
“The reason for the meeting here today."
"To blackmail Lord Carfax into supporting the Dauphin's restoration," Hortense said. "I already told Mélanie."
"You're more involved than I realized, Madame Hortense. But if that's what you were told, they deceived you. Tonight's meeting had a purpose that had nothing to do with the Dauphin.”
"What?" Mélanie said.
“To blow up Spendlove Manor.”
Charles opened his eyes and found the world about him still shrouded in darkness. He shifted his position. Pain shot through his temple like the slice of broken glass. He tried to clutch his head and found that he couldn’t move his hands. They seemed to be tied behind his back.
Oh, Christ, yes. The passage. Soldiers at either end. The blow to his head. Where the devil had they put him? He seemed to be lying against stone, though there was something softer under his head. The air had the dank, sour smell of underground.
“Charles?”
The voice came out of the darkness. Somehow he knew the inflection without thinking twice about it. “O'Roarke.“ With a part of his brain he knew he would feel relieved if he wasn’t too damned sore to feel anything at all. “You’re alive.”
