Fraser 03 - The Mask of Night

by Tracy Grant

  “More or less,” O'Roarke said. At least Charles thought he caught the words as he closed his eyes and sank back into a different kind of darkness, one in which he was blessedly free of feeling anything at all.When he came to again, a hand was smoothing his hair and moving lightly over his forehead as though checking for bruises. Mélanie and her efficiency. No, not Mélanie. A finger landed on one of the bruises. “Ouch!”

  “Try to stay with me, Charles. Do you know what day it is?”

  “January 9th, unless I’ve been unconscious longer than I think.”

  “Do you know what year—“

  “1820. I could tell you how many fingers you’re holding up if I could see a damned thing. My name’s Charles Fraser. Yours is Raoul O'Roarke. You’re a spymaster, you used to be my wife’s lover, and you set her to marry me. Oh, and you also happen to be my father.”

  “Obviously no serious damage to your brain. If you can roll over, I’ll untie your hands.”

  Charles complied and found the movement didn’t hurt quite as much as he’d expected it to. His face was pressed against soft cloth that smelled faintly of sandalwood. A coat. O'Roarke’s coat, folded neatly beneath his head.

  O'Roarke pulled the twine from his wrists, and he was able to sit up, which he did a little too quickly. His senses swam for a moment and bile rose up in his throat. He hunched forward and concentrated on breathing. He could see enough now to make out O'Roarke kneeling opposite him.

  “I’m afraid no one bothered to provide such niceties as food or water,” O'Roarke said. “Are—“

  “I’m all right. I’ll be all right. Put your damned coat back on, O'Roarke. You must be freezing. And thank you.”

  He felt O'Roarke’s gaze on him, then heard a stir of fabric as the other man shrugged back into the coat. “Do you think you’ve broken anything?” O'Roarke asked.

  “Not so far as I can tell. How badly did they rough you up?”

  “Minor cuts and bruises.”

  “Has your wound started bleeding again?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Mélanie will be very upset if I get you back only to have you die of infection. She’s been worried.”

  “Old habits die hard. She’d feel responsible.”

  “Yes. But it’s more than that.”

  He heard O'Roarke settle with his back to the wall. “I thought you and Mélanie might think I’d arranged the whole thing to cover my own complicity.”

  “We did wonder.”

  “I’d have been disappointed in you both if you hadn’t. Has it occurred to you that that might still be the case?”

  “That you set all this up and are sitting here nursing me in the dark to win my trust for some nefarious purpose? If you’re that devious, I haven’t a hope in hell of keeping up with you.”

  “I confess it would have to be a very important purpose for me to put up with these conditions,” O'Roarke said. After a moment he added, “I’m relieved it’s only the 9th. I was afraid I’d lost count of time.”

  “Who brought you here?”

  “They didn’t trouble to give me their names. I went to Sam Lucan’s and was quite ingloriously knocked unconscious.”

  “As I understand it, they would have shot Nan Simcox if you hadn’t gone along with it.”

  “Yes, the options did seem limited. By the time I came to, I was lying in the back of the cart, trussed up and gagged with blanket thrown over me. It was pitch dark when we got here, but as best I could tell it’s some sort of country house.”

  “Spendlove Manor. It belongs to Lord Carfax. Was anyone else here when you arrived?”

  “Not that I saw, but someone struck me another cudgel blow as soon as the cart stopped. When I came to I was here, where ever that is.”

  “A cellar presumably. I don’t think the average Elizabethan manor house is possessed of a dungeon.”

  “I felt round the walls once I managed to get my bonds and gag off. It’s about ten feet by twelve.”

  “These men who brought you here—Lucan and Nan described them as ordinary ruffians.”

  “One had a touch of Irish in his voice. Second generation, I’d say. Are they who you ran afoul of?”

  “No. Mine were soldiers.”

  “Soldiers?”

  “Well, they were wearing uniforms. Genuine uniforms, I think, though the one I got a good look at had a coat that didn’t fit well. They said they were acting on Lord Carfax’s orders and that Carfax himself was in the house. But that was before they bashed me over the head, so all bets are off on whether they were telling the truth.”

  “You don’t seem to have known I was here, so something else brought you. I take it we were right that St. Juste was a Mallinson?”

  “Yes. Look here, O'Roarke, a lot’s happened in the past twenty-four hours.“ Charles proceeded to recount their discoveries and surmises, as quickly and coherently as he could. Fortunately the pain in his head had receded.

  “Vickers and Gordon would have no need to come all the way down here unless they were meeting someone else,” O'Roarke said.“Carfax?

  I’m still not sure why they’d have to come so far from London. Why the soldiers? What the hell are they guarding? And why bring you here?”

  “I’ve been trying to work that out. I half expected them to kill me as soon as we got here. When they didn’t do that or interrogate me, I began to wonder—“ O'Roarke was silent for a moment. “I’m beginning to think that I’m here to be a scapegoat.”

  Chapter 36

  All one can do is calculate the risks and proceed accordingly.

  Raoul O'Roarke to Mélanie Fraser

  12 March 1814

  Mélanie tightened her grip on the pistol before Tommy could knock it from her nerveless fingers. “Blow up Spendlove Manor?” she repeated.

  Hortense was staring across the table at Tommy, eyes wide with uncomprehending horror. "That's impossible. What does blowing up Spendlove Manor have to do with the Dauphin?"

  "I'm not sure," Tommy said. "Perhaps they need to remove Carfax before they can put their plan with the Dauphin into effect."

  “Or perhaps St. Juste wanted to get rid of Carfax," Mélanie said.

  “Why?” Tommy asked.

  “Never mind. When’s this supposed to happen?”

  “Tonight. The time wasn’t clear. Of course it’s possible the plan stopped with St. Juste’s death—”

  “I don’t think so. I think this is what Billy Simcox said went too far. Are you asking me to believe you came down here to stop this all by yourself?”

  “I didn’t see a lot of alternatives. If I’d gone to Carfax he’d have had me arrested, and if I’d gone to Charles he’d probably have strangled me.”

  Hortense pushed her chair back from the table. "Carfax isn't the only one in that house. Mélanie—"

  "Yes, I know. We'll get them out.“ Mélanie glanced at the tarnished brass clock on the dining room mantle. Five twenty-five. Charles would be back at the carriage any moment now. If she wasn’t there he’d come looking for her.

  She got to her feet, holding the gun trained on Tommy. “Stand up. Arms out.”

  He got to his feet with economical grace. “I must say I’ve often fantasized about having your hands on me.”

  "Mélanie," Hortense said, "we don't have time—"

  "We need Charles's help.“ Mélanie confiscated a pistol from Tommy's coat pocket. “Out the front door. If you run I’ll take it as a sign of being double-crossed.”

  “You’re taking me to Charles, aren’t you? This will be an interesting test of his opposition to capital punishment. If we’re attacked, it would help if I had a weapon.”

  “If we’re attacked, I’ll throw you one. Maybe.”

  They made their way down the hall and out the front door. Long shadows slanted across the ground, and the sky was the color of a slate smudged with soot. The rain continued to pour down. Tommy glanced up and shrugged his shoulders. “Oh well. If I had an umbrella, I don’t expe
ct you’d let me keep it.”

  By the time they made their way to the waiting carriage her sodden pelisse and gown clung to her skin and the water had soaked through her half boots to her silk stockings. She caught a whiff of tea and meat pie when she opened the door of the carriage. Randall sat inside with the hamper of food. He sprang down from the carriage. “Mr. Fraser’s not back, ma’am.”

  Mélanie pulled aside her pelisse to glance at the gold watch pinned to the bodice of her gown. It was already ten minutes past the agreed upon half-hour. A chill that had nothing to do with the rain spread through her.

  “I suspect he’s run afoul of the guards," Tommy said. "I can get you into the house."

  One of the more irritating things about Tommy was that he was very often right. “Hortense," Mélanie said, "Randall will drive you to the inn—”

  "I'm not leaving—"

  “Jeremy Roth is there," Mélanie continued. "A Bow Street Runner who's working with us. Tell him that Spendlove Manor is probably set with explosives, and Charles is likely held prisoner there. If I’m not back here when Roth arrives, he should use his judgment about how to proceed.”

  "Your coachman can take the message. I'm going with you."

  "You'll only slow me down. I'll get Flahaut out."

  "You can't promise that."

  "I'll have a better chance on my own."

  "But—"

  Mélanie pushed Hortense toward the carriage. "There's no time."Hortense glanced at Mélanie a moment longer, then gave a quick nod and climbed into the carriage.

  Will Gordon looked across the inn parlor at Roth and Addison. “What do we do now?”

  They were spared the necessity of answering by the clatter of wheels and rattle of horse hooves from the inn yard. Of one accord, the three of them went into the hall and opened the door to the yard, greeted by a blast of rain-laced wind. A traveling carriage stood before the inn, but the crest it bore did not belong to the Frasers. Lord Worlsey sprang down, lowered the steps, and handed down Bet Simcox and a second lady with dark corkscrew curls escaping from beneath the hood of a scarlet cloak. Simon Tanner followed, along with Alexander Trenor and a large, sandy-haired man Roth had never seen before.

  “Thank God,” Worsley said when they had spilled into the entry hall. “Where are Charles and Mélanie?”

  “At Spendlove Manor,” Roth said.

  “Oh, Christ.”

  “Well, that’s torn it.“ The sandy-haired man made for the door.

  “For God’s sake, Sam.“ Bet Simcox caught his arm. “Tearing off like that won’t solve anything.”

  Roth jerked his head toward the private parlor door which Addison was holding open. “Let’s talk this through.”

  The group moved into the parlor. In the light from the oil lamps, Roth studied the sandy-haired man and the lady in the scarlet cloak. “You must be Nan Simcox and Sam Lucan. I’m Jeremy Roth.”

  The lady tugged at the ties on her sodden cloak. “You’re a Bow Street Runner.”

  “It’s all right, Nannie," Bet Simcox said. “I keep telling you he’s on our side.”

  “Nineteen years on this earth and you still haven’t figured out no one’s on any side but their own?”

  Roth looked into Nan Simcox’s bright blue eyes, the twin of her sister’s. And of Billy Simcox’s. “I’m sorry about your brother, Miss Simcox. I should have prevented it.”

  Nan laid her cloak over a chair back and tugged the folds smooth. “The way Bet tells it, it wasn’t your fault.”

  Lucan folded his arms across his chest and regarded Roth. “Mélanie and this husband of hers trust you.”

  “We’ve been telling you that all the way from London,” Trenor said.

  “Mélanie’s tough as nails, but I’ve never known her instincts to be wrong. We’ve got to get them out of there.”

  “Where?”

  “Spendlove bloody Manor. That’s where—“

  “They came to tell us—“ Worsley said.

  “We had to—“ Nan Simcox began.

  “Let me,” said Tanner. “Synopsizing’s part of my trade. Mr. Lucan and Miss Simcox left their hiding place—at considerable risk to themselves—because they’d received word through underground sources about the gentleman who had employed Julien St. Juste and Billy Simcox.”

  “Bastard,” Nan said. “Bloody, damned—“

  “What’s he done?” Addison asked.

  “He’s been hiring,” Lucan said. “A crew of the worst ruffians in Seven Dials. Sort who’ll do anything—and I mean anything—for the right price.”

  “What for?” Roth asked.

  “To come down here. Do a job. There has to be killing involved. A lot of killing.”

  Gordon glanced at Roth and Addison and then at Worsley. “There are soldiers guarding Spendlove Manor. Do you think the plan could have been to take them on? Or—“

  “Or they aren’t soldiers at all,” Roth said. “They’re these hired ruffians in British uniforms.”

  “British soldiers are hired ruffians,” Nan said. “Only these’ll be more efficient at it.”

  “Charles and Mélanie are there?” Worsley said.

  “They went to look the place over. They should be back by now. Vickers is there. And the soldiers. And your father apparently.”

  “My father—“

  “See here,” Nan said, “what’s your father doing with a crew from Seven Dials?”

  “He may think they’re soldiers,” Roth said.

  “Or he may be their employer,” Worsley said in an expressionless voice. “And Vickers?”

  “Is apparently an agent for your father. We think he hired St. Juste. If he set the whole thing up—“

  “Too much talk.“ Lucan moved to the door. “If Mélanie and Fraser aren’t back by now, something’s gone wrong. Have to storm the place. We should be a match for those twelve.”

  “Fifteen,” said Nan.

  “No.“ Worsley’s voice cut the air. “We don’t know the situation on the inside. Someone may be holding a knife to Charles’s and Mélanie’s throats. Or my father’s. Or my father may be holding a knife on Charles or Mélanie.”

  "All the more reason to get them out as quickly as possible," Lucan said. "If—"

  A crossfire of voices drowned him out. The verbal melee came to an abrupt halt as the door was flung open. A woman stood there, the hood of her dark blue cloak flung back to reveal disordered golden brown hair. "Which of you is Mr. Roth?" she asked.

  "I am," Roth stepped forward.

  "My name is Hortense B-Beaulieu. I have a message from Mélanie Fraser. If I could speak with you—"

  "If it's from Mélanie, the rest of these people should hear it as well."

  "You've seen Mélanie?" Lucan said at the same time. "Is she out of Spendlove Manor?"

  "No, she's gone in. To look for her husband. We think he's been taken captive. And the building's mined with explosives."

  Lucan lunged for the door. Worsley caught his arm. "This doesn't change anything. An attack will take too long."

  “Well standing about here isn’t doing any good,” Nan said.

  “Be quiet,” Bet told her. “What do you want to do, Lord Worsley?”

  “I’ll go in. They can’t very well deny me admittance to my family’s home without giving the game away."

  "You want to go into a building that's set to explode?" Lucan said.

  "If I can get in and explain to my father, it's the fastest way to get everyone out. Assuming it isn't my father who's set the explosion. In which case presumably he'll be long gone, and I'll warn whoever's left in the house."

  Tanner watched Worsley with a hard gaze, but it was Lucan who spoke. “And if they take you prisoner, too?”

  “Then the rest of you burst in.”

  Roth looked at him a moment and slowly nodded. “Most of the soldiers are patrolling outside, aren’t they?”

  “That’s how it looked when I was there,” Gordon said.

  “And whe
n I was,” Addison added.

  “So while Worsley’s distracting the soldiers at the front of the house, we can take out those at the back. That should even up the odds.”

  Lucan grinned. “Never thought to hear such sense from a Bow Street Runner.”

  “Thank you,” Roth said. “I do my best.”

  Mélanie and Tommy approached the manor house through the beech wood to the north. The sky was almost black and only a faint glow from behind the clouds lit their way. She still had her pistol out, but if Tommy ran she’d be hard pressed to hit him in this light. It seemed to have taken endless time to traverse the estate. She tried not to think about candle ends burning down and trails of gunpowder leading to charges of saltpeter. Surely the explosion wouldn’t be set to go off so early. Surely St. Juste's confederate wasn’t planning to blow himself up along with his targets.

  They were nearly at the edge of the trees when Tommy grabbed her arm and pulled her back. She stumbled against the bark and then she heard it too. Booted footsteps on the damp ground.

  “They’re patrolling,” Tommy muttered in her ear. “We’ll have to draw them off. If I pull their fire, there’s a window straight ahead you can go through. I levered it open earlier before I almost got caught by the soldiers. Do you remember what we did at Almeida?”

  She nodded, the memory of the Spanish farmhouse that had been turned into a makeshift headquarters by French soldiers sharp in her mind. Odd that for all his own treachery, Tommy still didn’t know she’d actually been a double-agent in those days.

  “I had a look round earlier,” Tommy went on, the vibration of his voice against her skin. “The ground floor looks empty at this end of the house. The cellar's the obvious place to hold prisoners. And lay explosives. Though those must be closer to the front of the house if they want to be sure of getting Carfax.”

  She nodded again, already unlacing her half boots. She stripped off her silk stockings and unhooked her pelisse. Pity she hadn’t thought to bring breeches.

  Tommy exchanged a glance with her. She offered him his pistol. He shook his head. “You’ll need it more than I will. I hope.“ To her surprise, he squeezed her hand. “Au revoir, pet,” he murmured, and slipped out from the trees.