by Tracy Grant
Lady Pendarves gave a peal of laughter. "That sounds like something from a lending library novel. I can't believe Arthur has been alive these past twenty-five years, but if he had been, I assure you he made no attempt to contact me."
"I believe you. He was caught up in a life of danger and risk. But I don't think he forgot you."
"You can't—"
"He kept a ribbon of peacock blue satin. Blue is your favorite color, I believe?"
For an instant, Caroline Pendarves's lapis eyes were shot with truth. "I'm very fond of blue. But I'm hardly the only woman to wear it."
"He called one of his mistresses cara. I expect that was his pet name for you."
"Any man conversant in the Italian tongue might use it for a beloved. Why, after all these years—"
"The war was over. People like Arthur were left trying to make sense of where they stood when the music stopped playing. Arthur said that ennui was the curse of peacetime. Until he'd looked across a London theatre and for the first time knew what he wanted.“
"I wasn't—
"You were symbol of everything he'd given up. Everything he found himself wanting again, twenty-five years on, when adventuring was beginning to pall. He wouldn't be the first man to think a woman could give meaning to his life."
"You just said he was having a rendezvous with Isobel Lydgate."
"He needed her for his mission. He needed to wait until the mission was carried out. Then he'd be free to claim his heritage and you as well. I don't think he had any intention of seeking you out at the ball. But you overheard Isobel confront him. It must have been a great shock to realize your first husband might still be alive. Of course you ran down the terrace steps to see if it was really Arthur.“
“My dear Mrs. Fraser, do you seriously imagine I could have killed Arthur? Even as a boy he was brilliant at fencing and boxing.”
"But he was the sort of man who's at his most vulnerable when he loses control of the situation.“ Mélanie saw again the violence in his eyes that night in Paris when she'd got her hands untied. The one moment in their encounter when she thought she might have overpowered him. "I can only guess at what happened, but obviously you took Arthur by surprise. And it would have soon become clear to him that you had no desire to resume your first marriage. I don't know if you got close enough to him to reach for his knife or if he drew it first in anger and you struggled. Was it self-defense?”
“My dear Mrs. Fraser. It wasn't anything at all.”
“I can still make inquiries in Scotland.”
Caroline Pendarves tucked a dark ringlet behind her ear. “I’m very comfortably situated. I’m fond of my husband. I believe we will be able to work out an amicable arrangement for living our lives. But even as a girl I knew how very precariously lives such as ours are balanced. If I had a moment of folly in my girlhood, it only taught me that folly leads to madness and despair.”
“People who make love in gardens during masquerade balls can’t be said to have entirely put folly behind them.”
“I’d drunk rather too much champagne. I wasn’t myself that night.”
“Precisely my point.”
“I wouldn’t want to put Pendarves through a scandal. I wouldn’t want my children branded bastards. You’re a wife and mother. You should be able to judge how far a woman would go in such circumstances. Particularly when she feared for her own safety.”
It was more of a confession than Mélanie had hoped for. “Thank you,” she said.
Lady Pendarves broke off a piece of biscuit and crumbled it between her fingers. “You could go to Neil with your story. But that would be cruel. And I don’t believe you’re cruel.”
“Not without good cause.“ Mélanie reached for her gloves and reticule and got to her feet. “My regards to your husband. Tell the children I’ll bring Colin and Jessica next time.”
“Mrs. Fraser,” Lady Pendarves said as she moved to the door.
Mélanie turned back.
Caroline Pendarves stood facing her, hands at her sides, chin lifted. “He was the most exciting man I’ve ever met. Even as a girl I knew he was dangerous. That was what drew me to him. I always feared he’d be my undoing. And you see, I was very nearly right.”
Chapter 40
You and David must come to dine soon. I think I shall invite Oliver and Isobel as well. It's the only way we all have a hope of getting past this.
Mélanie Fraser to Simon Tanner,
15 January 1820
The Comte de Flahaut sat on the edge of the jade satin sofa in the small salon, gaze fixed on his clasped hands. "When I got the message from Hortense asking me to set up the meeting at Spendlove Manor, I should have come straight to you instead of going to Lord Carfax and my father.“ He lifted his head and looked at Charles and Mélanie and then at Hortense, an apology in his eyes.
"We didn't realize then that Talleyrand was in London and working with Carfax," Mélanie said. "That changed things for you."
Flahaut nodded. "Half the time I'm not sure whether or not he's telling the truth. I still don't fully understand the association between him and Carfax. But he is my father. Can you understand that?"
"Yes," Charles said. "Oddly enough I can."
Mélanie watched her husband, but his gaze remained on Flahaut.
Flahaut shook his head and reached for the paper Hortense had given him. "I can't believe Lady St. Ives returned this to you."
"Loyalty can appear in unexpected places," Mélanie said. "Lady St. Ives was loyal to St. Juste, and St. Juste was loyal to Josephine and therefore to her daughter."
Hortense moved to the sofa and touched the paper without touching Flahaut's hand. "I thought we could burn it together. Then the past will be behind us, where it should be."
Flahaut studied his former love across the paper that held the secret of their child's birth.
"I'm leaving for Arenenberg tomorrow," Hortense said. "Mr. Fraser has been kind enough to use his contacts to arrange for me to travel incognito."
"I didn't realize you'd be going so soon," Flahaut said.
"It's folly to remain here. We're none of us ever going back to where we were before Waterloo."
"No.“ Flahaut held the paper out to the candle flame. "But I'd like to think there'll be a time when we can be happy to remember."
An infectious melody drifted through the drawing room. From the opera of ten days ago, Charles realized. Mélanie was at the piano. Lucinda was on the carpet in front of the fireplace, organizing a game for Colin and Jessica, the young Lydgates, and Roth’s two sons. Isobel sat on the sofa with Roth’s sister Harriet. Roth, David, Pendarves, and O'Roarke were gathered by the windows. Simon, Bet, Trenor, and Will Gordon stood laughing round the tea table. To all outward appearances it was the sort of gathering they’d had countless times in the past. Yet there were discordant echoes in the room that it would take more than Rossini’s melodies to drive away.
Charles took a champagne bottle from its cooler and walked over to Oliver who was standing a little apart from the others. “I’m glad you could come today,” he said, refilling Oliver’s glass. “It’s good to see the children together.”
“They’ve been looking forward to it.“ Oliver took a long drink of champagne. "I didn't think you'd ever want me in your house again."
“Sylvie was right about one thing. We were all pawns in the same game.”
Oliver's fingers tightened round his champagne glass. "I used to think I didn't have any illusions about Sylvie. I knew she'd never be mine, but I thought we'd always have something between us. And God help me, I'm not sure the rest of her revelations would have changed that. But what she and St. Juste did to Bel—“ Oliver's gaze shifted to his wife. She was laughing at something Harriet Roth had said, but some elemental spark had drained from her the night of the murder.
“It can’t be easy,” Charles said.
“No. We occupy the same house. We spend time with our children. I don’t think we’ve treated each other so dam
n politely since our wedding day. But whenever she leaves the house I find myself wondering where she’s going. Whenever I say something I can see her wondering if I’m lying. I expect she looks over her shoulder in case I have someone following her again. One can apologize, one can even forgive, but one can’t rebuild trust.”
The melody shifted into a more plaintive key beneath Mélanie's skilled fingers. “Not all at once," Charles said.
“David doesn’t trust me anymore. I can see it in his eyes. I’m not sure you do. I can't blame you.”
"It's folly to dwell on the past."
"But you're going to think twice before you confide secrets to me. You'd be a fool if you did otherwise."
Charles took a sip of champagne. “Whom do you identify with in Julius Caesar?”
“Antony.“ Oliver's mouth twisted. “Like him, I’ve been known to make questionable alliances.”
“One revelation isn’t enough to wipe out a decade of friendship. Or a marriage.”
“The trouble is, I’m not sure what Bel and I have to build on. Or perhaps what we once had is too badly damaged. We said the right things at the wrong times. Or to put it more bluntly, I found out too late that my wife used to love me.”
A quarrel between Billy and Rose Lydgate, which Oliver was obliged to referee, put an end to the discussion. Charles returned to refilling champagne glasses. It was something, he thought, that they were all able to be in the same room and that genuine laughter filled the air. A fortnight ago, he would not have laid even money on the prospect.
Some time later he went down to his study to fetch a book he'd promised to show David. The door clicked shut softly behind him. He turned from the glass-fronted bookcase to see that O'Roarke had followed him with his usual soundlessness.
"I'm sorry," O'Roarke said. "But I wanted to say something to you, and it seemed best not to do so in front of the others. Thank you for including me in the invitation. I don't imagine it was easy. For what it's worth, I'm grateful."
Charles nodded. He meant to leave it at that, but he stood there for a moment, running his fingers over the supple leather of the bookbinding. “When you encouraged Mélanie to accept my proposal of marriage. How much of it had to do with the fact that you knew I wouldn’t try to take the easy way out of life again if I had a wife and child?”
“My dear Charles. Surely you don’t believe I’d make such a decision based on purely personal motives.”
“Not purely.”
“Besides if I was that worried about your mental state, wouldn’t I have been concerned for how you might react if you learned the truth about Mélanie?”
“But you might have known that whatever became of my marriage I wouldn’t let down a child that I’d made my own.”
O'Roarke took a step forward, out of the revealing light from the windows. “I haven’t made nearly enough decisions in my life with you at the forefront, Charles.“
He too seemed to mean to leave it there. Charles continued to watch him. O'Roarke drew a breath. "But you were one of the reasons I didn’t take Mélanie off to South America.”
Charles stared at him.
“Would you go half way across the earth if it meant you’d most likely never see Colin again?”
Charles continued to look at his father. “No,” he said. “I wouldn’t.“ His fingers tightened on the embossed Morocco. "Look—Mélanie likes being able to see you. I’d go so far as to say she needs you.”
“Mélanie doesn’t need anyone. I wouldn’t read—“
“I’m not jealous. Not in that way. Mostly not in that way. Mélanie’s happier when you’re about. I want her to be happy. And I don’t think I should deny you the right to see your—“
“Grandchildren?”
“Yes.”
Silence stretched between them. The door opened before either of them could break it. "Charles—“ Mélanie paused on the threshold taking in O'Roarke's presence.
"We were about to come back upstairs.“ Charles moved away from the bookcase. "Sorry to be gone so long."
"Lucinda's asking for the music to the new songs Schubert sent us. I thought I might have left it here—"
"On the desk.“ Charles tucked the sheet music beneath his arm together with the book.
"Thank you, darling.“ Mélanie flashed him a smile. Her gaze flickered between him and O'Roarke.
"O'Roarke is going to dine with us next week," Charles said. "We've been settling on a date."
A host of questions shot through Mélanie's eyes and remained unspoken on her lips. "What a good idea. Perhaps Thursday next would do?"
"Admirably," O'Roarke said.
"It's settled then.“ Charles moved to the door. "We should rejoin our guests."
Unspoken words and unvoiced sentiments drifted through the air. "It’s shockingly difficult to navigate the conversation and remember who knows what," Mélanie said in her usual bright tones. "I need the two of you to back me up before I get hopelessly muddled."
"I can't imagine you being anything of the sort," O'Roarke said.
"Nor can I.“ Charles opened the study door and the three of them returned to warmth and lights of the drawing room.
Historical Note
As all my books do, The Mask of Night blends real people and events with fictional characters and plot lines. The fate of the Dauphin, the son of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette, was a subject of much speculation. Rumors persisted that Josephine and her lover Barras had exchanged him for another boy and smuggled him out of prison. Tsar Alexander claimed Josephine had confided as much to him when he met her in 1814. DNA testing in 2000 confirmed that the Dauphin did in fact die in prison.
Hortense de Beauharnais Bonaparte did have a long-term affair with the Comte de Flahaut. In 1811, pregnant with Flahaut’s child, she went in to Switzerland in secret. Flahaut joined her before the birth of the child. His mother took the baby and raised him.
After Waterloo, Flahaut married Margaret Mercer Elphinstone, an heiress whose father, Admiral Keith, had escorted Napoleon to exile on St. Helena.
In 1820, Hortense was living in exile in Arenenberg with her children. There is no evidence that she ever visited Britain. But that doesn’t mean that she couldn’t have done…
Discover Tracy Grant
Rannoch / Fraser Historicals
Secrets of a Lady
The Mask of Night
Vienna Waltz
The Paris Affair
His Spanish Bride
Imperial Scandal
Lescaut Quartet
Dark Angel
Shores of Desire
Shadows of the Heart
Rightfully His
About the Author
Tracy Grant has been making up stories as long as she can remember and writing them down since third grade when she was assigned writing a story and realized she had a wealth of characters and plots inside her head. She studied British history at Stanford University and received the Firestone Award for Excellence in Research for her honors thesis on shifting conceptions of honor in late fifteenth century England. She lives in the San Francisco Bay Area, where she is on the board of the Merola Opera Program, a training program for professional opera singers, coaches, and stage directors. For more information about her books, please visit her website at http://tracygrant.wordpress.com
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Historical Note
Discover Tracy Grant
About the Author
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Historical Note
Discover Tracy Grant
About the Author
