The Mayfair Affair

by Tracy Grant

  Suzanne's fingers tightened round his arm. "I don't think that's an option, dearest. Unless we go to a remote desert island."

  "Don't imagine I haven't thought of it."

  "I've told you before it isn't wise to try to protect me, Malcolm. The recent revelations don't change that."

  Malcolm looked down into her bright eyes. There had always been a hardness beneath the glow. He was just more aware of it now. "I'm not just protecting my wife. I'm protecting the mother of my children."

  "Darling—"

  "You've always run risks with your safety, Suzette. Knowing the truth of your past, I understand just how far you've gone. But it's different now. Colin and Jessica make it different. There's no room for extravagant gestures. Whether they come from indulging a craving for adventure or trying to expiate guilt."

  Her chin jerked up. "I'll own to a taste for adventure, but I'm not in the least given over to guilt. In fact, one could say I've been all too able to commit all sorts of betrayals without showing any proper guilt at all."

  "My dear girl. Don't show off. I may have been criminally blind to a number of things where you were concerned, but in other ways I can read you rather well. I know you. I know what you've been doing to yourself. And it's folly—it won't improve matters for any of the four of us."

  She glanced away. "Damn you, Malcolm—"

  "Because I think we agreed. Before anything else, we're parents."

  "I never forget that." Her voice was low and rough.

  "I know. But sometimes you're so busy looking after everyone else, your forget to look after yourself."

  "All right. I won't give in to any extravagant guilt-driven impulses—not that I'm admitting to having them in the first place—if you won't give in to any extravagant protective impulses."

  "Fair enough. If—"

  From the sudden tension that ran through her, he felt her sense what he had in the same instant. Nothing as defined as footfalls or movement in the shadows or a rustle of clothing, but someone was following them.

  "Diversion," she murmured.

  The uncomfortable moment was gone. They were a team again. Of one accord, they moved into the doorway of a shuttered shop. Malcolm pulled her close and pressed a quick, hard kiss against her lips. Suzanne drew back with a silent laugh. "Hotspur," she whispered against his cheek. Then she slipped from the doorway and moved down the street. A few seconds, perhaps half a minute later a figure went past in the darkness. Malcolm hurled himself from the doorway and tackled the shadowy form.

  They thudded to the cobblestones in a tangle of greatcoats and boots. The man Malcolm had tackled drew a winded breath that was half a laugh. "Malcolm, for God's sake, I was trying to catch up with you without yelling in the street."

  Malcolm sat back on his heels and stared down at the man he was sitting on. Even in the darkness, the eyes burned bright and the mouth gleamed with mockery. Malcolm got to his feet and extended a hand to the other man. "Damn it, O'Roarke, what are you doing here?"

  Chapter 5

  Raoul O'Roarke sprang to his feet with his usual catlike grace. Suzanne's former spymaster and lover. Malcolm's childhood mentor and friend. Who also happened to have been his mother's lover and Malcolm's own biological father. The revelations of three months ago had at once smashed the ties between them and created stronger ones.

  O'Roarke looked from Malcolm to Suzanne, who had come running back to the two men. "I imagine I'm doing the same thing you are. Looking into the Duke of Trenchard's death."

  The unease that had coiled within Malcolm from the moment he saw O'Roarke tightened into dread. "How do you even know Trenchard is dead?"

  "Janet sent word. The underhousemaid at Trenchard House. She's been in my employ for some time."

  It was all Malcolm could do not to reach for Suzanne and pull her tight against him. O'Roarke's words, O'Roarke's involvement, O'Roarke's very presence threatened their fragile marriage on any number of levels. "Why do you have a source in Trenchard House?"

  "Because Trenchard was a member of the Elsinore League."

  Malcolm bit back a curse. The Elsinore League, the mysterious club begun by a group of powerful, ambitious young men with the aim of manipulating the world to their own advantage. Their membership remained mysterious, but it was without question that Alistair Rannoch, Malcolm's putative father, had been one of the founding members. That Malcolm's mother, Arabella, had been involved in trying to unearth the club's secrets and put an end to their actions; that she had very likely even married Alistair for that reason. And that she had involved her lover Raoul O'Roarke in that quest.

  "Damnation," Malcolm said.

  Something softened in the hooded depths of O'Roarke's gaze. "I'm sorry."

  "I knew this seemed too disconnected from everything else," Suzanne said in a voice of worn silver plate polished to show the brass beneath. She cast a glance at Malcolm. "We can't stand here discussing this in the street."

  "Quite." Malcolm jerked his head at O'Roarke. "You'd better follow us to Berkeley Square, O'Roarke. At a bit less of a distance than you were."

  And so the three of them proceeded down Berkeley Street and across Berkeley Square to the house Malcolm had inherited from Alistair Rannoch. Valentin, the footman who had come with Malcolm and Suzanne from Brussels to Paris and then to London, opened the door without surprise. O'Roarke was a relatively frequent visitor, often at odd hours, despite the revelations of three months ago. Or perhaps because of them.

  The fire was still banked in the library. Malcolm poked it up, while Suzanne lit a lamp and a brace of candles. O'Roarke remained quiet. To do him credit, he still displayed a certain amount of caution in their house. Malcolm crossed to the drinks trolley, splashed whisky into three glasses, gave one to Suzanne, and put the other in O'Roarke's hand. "Talk."

  O'Roarke took a sip of whisky. "Trenchard and I go back some time. To Paris in the eighties."

  Suzanne dropped down on the sofa. "Why does everything seem to go back to Paris in the eighties?"

  O'Roarke flashed a faint smile at her. "So many people in our world are still reacting to events of the Revolution one way and another."

  "Was that what connected you and Trenchard?" Malcolm seated himself beside Suzanne. "The events of the Revolution?"

  "Not at first. We quarreled over a woman, as it happens. Not one I was involved with. It was shortly after your birth. I was—"

  "Loyal to my mother?" Malcolm was surprised at the lack of irony in his own voice.

  "In a manner of speaking. This woman was a young actress, Louise Doret. She'd become entangled with Trenchard and was having difficulties freeing herself."

  "Was he violent?" Malcolm asked.

  O'Roarke's brows lifted. "Yes, as it happens. How did you know?"

  "He appears to have not caviled at hitting his wife."

  O'Roarke's mouth tightened. "That type is dangerous. I helped Louise and the young actor who was her lover escape to Italy. Oddly enough I had assistance from Robert Jenkinson. Lord Liverpool now."

  "The prime minister?" Suzanne asked in disbelief.

  Raoul smiled. "He was just a young man of nineteen acquiring some Continental polish. Even then we were hardly political allies, but he was a great admirer of Louise. He came to me to offer help arranging travel papers for her through connections of his father's. Perhaps the only time we've ever seen eye to eye. Though I've always thought part of the reason I was eventually able to return to British society after the uprising in ninety-eight was owed his influence. Trenchard wasn't best pleased with either of us, to say the least. He tried to challenge me. I told him I saw no reason to risk my life and violate my principles to satisfy his antiquated notions of honor."

  Malcolm found himself smiling. "I don't imagine that went over well."

  "No. A series of unpleasant altercations followed whenever we encountered each other. Like many young men in his set, Trenchard continued to come over to Paris after the Revolution. I was looking into the Elsinore
League with your mother."

  "You knew Trenchard was one of its members?"

  "Yes, that was what had first thrown me in his orbit. He doesn't seem to have been at the heart of the intrigues that so absorbed your fath—Alistair and Dewhurst in those days, but he was part of their circle."

  "Did he know you were investigating them?"

  "I'm not sure. I like to pride myself that he didn't. And I tend to think that if the League had been on to me I'd have known it. Trenchard took various petty revenges on me, none more than a nuisance. I confess I underestimated him. Woefully."

  "What did he do?" Suzanne asked. Her throat sounded tight.

  "He denounced me to the Committee of Public Safety as a dangerous subversive."

  Malcolm heard the sharp slice of his wife's indrawn breath while his memory flashed back to his mother's white face when she slit the seal on a letter from Paris a quarter-century ago. He looked across the library at the man he now knew was his father. "That was how you ended up in Les Carmes?"

  Raoul nodded. "It probably would have happened eventually, without Trenchard's intervention. I was far from an enemy of the Revolution, but I wasn't happy with where it had gone, and I wasn't the sort to keep silent. But Trenchard certainly hurried things along."

  "And almost sent you to the guillotine."

  "If Robespierre hadn't fallen first. I've often wondered if Trenchard regretted that Robespierre didn't hold on to power just a bit longer."

  Malcolm released his breath. He had always known, of course, but this was the first time he had relived those months since he'd learned O'Roarke was his father. As often as he told himself it shouldn't change anything, in some ways it changed everything.

  "Did Trenchard take further action?" he asked.

  "Yes, but nothing so drastic. Oh, there was the time in the Peninsula he thought he betrayed me to the French, but since I was in fact working for the French it came to nothing."

  "Have you had an agent in his house all this time?" Suzanne asked.

  "No." O'Roarke took a sip of whisky and crossed his legs. "It was Archie Davenport who put me on to Trenchard recently." Archibald Davenport, the uncle of Malcolm's friend Harry, was an Elsinore League member who had been feeding information to Arabella Rannoch and O'Roarke for years. "Archie isn't part of their inner circle," O'Roarke continued, "but a couple of months ago a stray comment made him think Trenchard was seeking political backing from other Elsinore League members. Precisely what for was unclear. But they resisted. It was enough to make both Davenport and me want to learn more. Establishing a source in Trenchard House seemed prudent."

  Malcolm dropped down on the sofa beside Suzanne. "You said nothing of it to us."

  O'Roarke's gaze flickered between Malcolm and Suzanne. "I've been doing my damnedest not to intrude on either of you. You've had enough to contend with in recent months. And this isn't your fight."

  "You and my mother made it our fight."

  "Fair enough. I didn't have enough information to come to you as yet. All we were doing was gathering intelligence."

  "What was Trenchard's connection with Laura Dudley?" Suzanne asked.

  "I didn't know of one until tonight. I still don't know the nature of it." O'Roarke crossed his legs. "An interesting woman, Miss Dudley. I always thought there was more to her behind the governess facade than she let on, though I had no notion it was this."

  "Not that we know what 'this' is," Malcolm said.

  "Quite. But from what I observed this evening, I'd lay even money that she didn't kill Trenchard."

  "What you—" Malcolm stared at his father. Beside him, he felt Suzanne's absolute stillness. "You were at Trenchard House tonight?"

  O'Roarke took a sip of whisky. "I didn't mention that?"

  "You know damn well you didn't."

  "Stop playing games, Raoul," Suzanne said.

  "Sorry." O'Roarke set his glass on the table beside his chair. "I didn't think it was best to have this conversation in the street."

  Malcolm eyed his father, a host of possibilities racing through his head. "When precisely did you get to Trenchard House?"

  "When I heard Trenchard was dead, I thought it best to have a look at the scene."

  "No one saw you?"

  O'Roarke reached for his whisky. "Does that surprise you? I knew about the secret passage from my investigations. I waited in the passage until the study was empty. I believe I got a look at the study before you did."

  Malcolm stared at O'Roarke. "What makes you sure of the timing?"

  "Because if you'd found what I did, I'm quite certain you'd have removed it."

  Dread coiled within Malcolm's chest. "What was it?"

  O'Roarke's fingers whitened round the etched crystal of his glass. "A letter from Trenchard to Suzanne, threatening to reveal her past."

  Chapter 6

  For several seconds, shock held Suzanne motionless. Swiftly followed by a dip in her stomach and a wave of nausea. The certainty that she should have known all along that this was bound to happen sooner or later slammed through her. Ever-present fear transformed to reality in a bone-crushing instant.

  She could feel the same fear coursing through Malcolm, for he dropped his arm round her shoulders as though he could physically shield her from the threat. Foolish. But heartening.

  "Did you know Trenchard knew about Suzanne?" Malcolm asked in a voice of iron control.

  "Feared it. It's another reason I was watching him." The strain cracked through the control in Raoul's voice as well.

  "Alistair knew about me. And Lord Harleton." Suzanne spread her fingers over the twilled sarcenet of her gown to still their trembling. "We knew it was a risk that others in the League did as well. It was probably folly to hope none of them did."

  "Quite." Raoul's voice was even but the look in his eyes reminded her of the time she'd been taken prisoner by a band of guerrilleros. Her memories were fragmented, but she could still hear his voice when he cut her bonds and lifted her in his arms, as incisive as ever but with such a raw note she scarcely recognized it. "But one can always hope. I was particularly afraid Trenchard would try to use it as vengeance against me. I'm sorry to have caught you up in this, querida."

  She made a dismissive gesture with her hand. "We're all too entangled as it is. But why make use of his hold on me now? Surely it might have proved useful in the past. Trenchard has hated you for years. Do you think he just learned?"

  "Possibly. But I think it's more likely Alistair held him in check."

  Malcolm frowned. "You think Alistair protected Suzette? No, I suppose he would. He wouldn't want the scandal for the family. That would trump however he felt about me."

  Suzanne swallowed. "What did Trenchard want me to do?"

  "You should see for yourself." Raoul reached inside his coat. "I'm surprised one of you didn't notice something was missing."

  "I did." Malcolm said. "But I saw no sign of your presence."

  "I'm relieved my skills are still so sharp. You aren't easy to deceive." He held out the letter.

  Absurd the way she hesitated to touch the cream laid paper. Reading the words wouldn't make it any more real. She forced her fingers to be steady as she carried it over to the library table and set it down in the light of the brace of candles, where she and Malcolm could read it together.

  My dear Mrs. Rannoch,

  Or should I say Mademoiselle Lescaut? It must be odd to go by the name of a man you married under false pretenses. The challenges of life under cover. I know a bit about that, though I've never attempted anything approaching the scale of your masquerade.

  No doubt you are surprised that I know. I won't waste time on the details of how I discovered the truth behind one of the most charming and improbable fairy tales among Mayfair marriages. You must have been aware of the risks you have run. That you have got away with it for as long as you have is something of a miracle. As an Englishman, my duty is clear. However, I would not be where I am did I not know how to put information
to use. Were I simply to take your secret to my father-in-law, you would be ruined and your marriage destroyed, but I would have nothing to show for it save Carfax's thanks (and I can't even be sure of that). Instead, I offer you a trade. I am prepared to keep your secret in exchange for information. Carfax has a file entitled Notes from Smytheton. I can't be certain where he keeps it, but I would hazard a guess it's in his study. I'm sure it won't be the first time you've retrieved information from your husband's spymaster. Get the file for me and I will consider us even. At least for the present.

  Yours, etc.

  Trenchard

  Malcolm's fingers curled inwards. He lifted the paper and held it out to the candelabrum.

  "Darling, no!" Suzanne snatched it back.

  "For God's sake, Suzette, now we've read it—"

  "It's evidence. The last words of a murder victim."

  "I don't see anything in it to cast light on who murdered Trenchard."

  "You know as well as I do one can't see everything at this point in an investigation. If it wasn't to do with me, you wouldn't dream of destroying it."

  "Which leaves aside the question that it is to do with you."

  "Much as my impulse is to agree with Malcolm," Raoul said, "I can see Suzanne's logic."

  "You would." Malcolm glanced at him. "You trained her to be ruthless."

  "I was plenty ruthless on my own." Suzanne folded the letter and tucked it into her bodice. "It's not as though we don't know how to take precautions with sensitive documents."

  Malcolm drew a rough breath and turned to Raoul. "Trenchard was dead when you went into the study?"

  "Quite dead." Raoul crossed one booted foot over the other. "Of course, you only have my word for it, and I own this letter gives me a capital motive for murder. In fact, if I had known of the letter's existence before Trenchard was killed—"

  "Yes?" Malcolm asked.

  "I'm not sure." Raoul took a sip of whisky. "I'd have been sorely tempted. But murder is a messy business and tends to create more complications than it resolves."