by Tracy Grant
"We've both always been good at meeting a challenge."
Her smile was bright as armor. "Quite." She pushed a hairpin into the hasty knot she had twisted her hair into when they left for the Brown Bear. "Darling— have you considered that there's one person this new information gives an excellent motive to have killed Trenchard?"
He didn't pretend to misunderstand or make the instinctive denial he would have three months ago. "Trenchard had just written the letter. You couldn't have known."
"Unless I learned some other way." She adjusted another hairpin. "Or Trenchard decided to summon me instead."
"You were in bed with me when Trenchard was killed."
"I expect I could have slipped out without waking you." She took another pin from a heart-shaped enamel box, a gift from Simon and David at Christmas. "In fact—"
"You've done it before."
She touched her fingers to the enamel. Malcolm had a clear memory of David telling him he had never thought to see Malcolm so happy. "Yes."
Malcolm inclined his head. "Fair enough. For that matter, it's possible Trenchard was also trying to blackmail me with the truth about you and that he'd already made contact." He leaned back, hands braced on the satin-covered bench. "I expect I could also slip out without waking you."
She twisted towards him. "Darling—"
"Let's at least dispense with pretending that either of us can be entirely certain of what the other might or might not do. At least I can dispense with it. You presumably never had such illusions."
"I know there are some things you aren't capable of, dearest."
Malcolm kept his gaze steady on the face he could trace from memory. "Then you're as blind as I once was, my darling."
Simon Tanner watched David in the gathering pre-dawn light as David finished recounting the events of the night. Simon knew better than anyone how to read the signs of strain in David's face. The tension in the set of his mouth, the lines about his eyes. He hadn't seen such strain on his lover's face since their time in Brussels during Waterloo, bringing wounded soldiers back from the battlefield and watching many of them die along the way. And even then, David's eyes hadn't had the haunted look they now held.
Silence filled the sitting room when David finished speaking. The sitting room they had shared since they came down from Oxford, which usually held the sound of his pen scratching, a newspaper rustling, the pages of a book turning, the clink of glasses, friends' voices.
A piece of coal fell hissing against the grate, breaking the stillness. "I've always liked Laura Dudley," Simon said. "Though I can't claim to know her very well. In fact, it was that very self-contained quality of hers that intrigued me. She managed not to lose herself in the role of governess."
"Malcolm and Suzanne are convinced she's innocent."
"And you aren't?"
David frowned at the signet ring on his left hand. "The circumstances are against her. But— I remember her with Colin and Jessica and find it hard to think of her as a murderer."
"My dear David. You'd find it hard to think of anyone as a murderer."
David lifted his head to meet Simon's gaze. "I've been about Malcolm and Suzanne enough to see what the most seemingly guileless people are capable of."
"And yet Suzanne and Malcolm think she's innocent. Of course, it would be difficult to accept that the woman they'd engaged to look after their children was capable of such an act."
David shot a look at him. "I thought you'd agree with them."
"I don't know enough to agree or disagree." Simon took a sip of whisky. "How was Mary when you left?"
"Stoic. As you'd expect Mary to be."
"Mary could be crumbling to bits and she wouldn't let you see it."
David reached for his own glass. "For someone who despises everything she stands for, you've always had a good understanding of her."
"I don't despise Mary. I admire her singleness of purpose. Though, if anything, I feel sorry for her. I'm not sure she's happy with the choices she's made." Mary and Simon were creatures of different worlds, with little in common save David. Yet Simon had caught the restlessness in Mary's gaze and the occasional flash of brilliance. She had, in his view, too keen an understanding for the life she had chosen.
"You don't think she wanted to be a duchess?"
Simon swirled the whisky in his glass. "I think she wanted to be. I'm not sure she found everything in it she had hoped for. She'd have made a splendid general or politician if the world allowed it. Or a spymaster like your father."
David shuddered. "God save us from another like Father. I don't know that it was being a duchess that disappointed Mary, it was the man Trenchard was."
"Whom she chose because he was a duke."
David scraped his hands over his face. "If—"
Simon pushed himself to his feet and put a hand on his lover's shoulder. "David, you can't blame yourself. Despite all your instincts."
David gave a wry grimace. "That's much what Malcolm said."
"Malcolm knows you well." Simon stared down at David's tousled dark hair, wondering how much to say and how to frame it. Part of him wanted not to stir the conversational waters. It could be damnably difficult to take words back once they were spoken. And yet he owed David his support, and with that went honesty. "David—I know this is an intolerable situation."
"Yes, I think my sister's husband being murdered qualifies as intolerable."
"On its own." Simon dropped down on the sofa beside David. "And then there's your father putting his own stamp of interference on it. And your best friend running the investigation."
"Malcolm will manage things well for Mary."
"But it also complicates your own choices."
David shot a look at him. Simon met the look and stepped forwards onto uncomfortable ground. "How much did you tell Malcolm?"
David held his gaze for a moment, as though seeing five steps ahead in the conversation. But when he spoke, it was an opening gambit, not the endgame. "I told him the truth."
"All of it?" Simon got to his feet and moved to the drinks trolley.
"I told him I was convinced Trenchard had struck Mary. That I had told Father about it. That I realized it gave both Father and me a motive to have killed Trenchard."
Simon picked up the whisky decanter. "And?"
"When Malcolm said that in Father's defense, if he were guilty he probably wouldn't have wanted Malcolm involved, I pointed out that Father might have wanted Malcolm to keep a check on Roth."
"You're learning to appreciate deviousness." Simon crossed to David's chair, refilled David's glass and then his own. "You realize of course that it also gives Mary a motive."
David's hand jerked as he reached for the whisky. "That's—"
"Undeniable." Simon set the decanter on the sofa table. The lamplight caught the Mallinson crest etched on the glass. "Having a motive doesn't mean she's guilty." He took a sip of whisky. It seemed to burn more than usual. "Did you tell Malcolm the rest?"
David met Simon's gaze. This time he didn't pretend not to understand. They were beyond opening gambits. "Simon—"
"I'm not saying you should have done." Simon stared down into the pale gold liquid in his glass. It cast an opaque haze over the pattern of the carpet at his feet. "I'm not sure what I would have done in your situation."
"Simon." David sprang to his feet and gripped Simon's arm. "You can't—"
"You think I'd go to Malcolm behind your back?"
"Yes, if you felt it was called for. You have your own sort of honor."
"I wouldn't call it honor." To Simon, the word would never lose its aristocratic trappings. "But you may be right. In the right circumstances. But not in this. This isn't my fight. "
David nodded, gaze on his whisky glass.
"Not that I don't care about your family," Simon said. "You care for them, so I do as well. But when it comes to how to protect them, it's your judgment to make."
David's gaze shot back to Simon's face. When
it came to issues concerning the Mallinson family, David could look at once as vulnerable as a schoolboy and as remote as the future Earl Carfax. "Then you accept my decision in this?"
"I accept that it's your decision to make. But Malcolm won't let go of it, you know."
"I have every faith that Malcolm will find Trenchard's killer."
Simon nearly asked David if he was sure he wanted Malcolm to learn who had murdered Trenchard, but instead he said, "In the process, Malcolm is very likely to learn that you lied to him."
David swallowed. "That's a risk I have to take."
Simon nodded. Malcolm, he would swear, mattered to David as much as David's family. And yet David was a Mallinson first and foremost. Before he was Malcolm's friend. Before he was Simon's lover. "David?" Simon asked, even as his mind told him to leave matters where they were.
David looked at him in inquiry.
"Did you tell me the whole of it?"
David took a sip of whisky. "Of course. We've never had secrets from each other."
Simon regarded the man he had loved for a third of his life, the man who meant more to him than anything on earth. It wasn't just Malcolm David was lying to. He had just lied to Simon as well. And with a chill no whisky could drive out, Simon realized he could not be certain how far those lies went.
Chapter 8
Suzanne twitched the quilt smooth over Jessica, then went into the night nursery and tucked Colin's his stuffed bear into the crook of his arm. The gray light of dawn seeped into the room, casting a cool wash over the white-painted furniture, but both children would likely sleep for hours yet. Suzanne smoothed Colin's hair, then looked up at Blanca, her maid, her friend, her companion in deception. "I don't know how long we'll be at Newgate. If the children wake before we return—"
"I'll give Jessica a cup of milk and read Colin a story. Don't worry, Colin's clever, but I'll make sure he doesn't realize something's wrong with Laura until you get back and can talk to them."
Despite the strains of the past hours, Suzanne smiled. "What would I do without you?"
"You'd manage. But you'd have a harder time of it."
Suzanne laughed and went back into the bedroom. Malcolm had already gone downstairs. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to help with the children for a bit. I can dress myself and get myself to bed, and if anything gets torn we can leave off mending it."
Blanca waved a hand as she followed Suzanne into the room. "It's no matter. You dress yourself half the time anyway. You're a much less demanding mistress than most ladies I hear about."
Suzanne pulled a face at her friend.
Blanca pulled the door to. "You think Laura will come back?"
A difficult question to answer for myriad reasons. "I don't know," Suzanne said.
Blanca nodded. "I like her. She doesn't talk much, but she's sensible. I'd like to help."
"Watching the children will be a tremendous help. Perhaps you could also make inquiries among the Trenchard House maids."
Blanca crossed to Suzanne and straightened the shoulders of her gown. "You're working with him, aren't you?"
"Who?"
Blanca snorted. "You'd think I'd never been an agent myself. Do you really think I don't know Raoul was in the house last night?'
Suzanne suppressed a sigh. She should have seen this coming. "He's caught up in the investigation."
Blanca tugged hard on one of Suzanne's sleeves. "Raoul never gets caught up in anything he doesn't choose to embroil himself in."
"Be that as it may, we're all involved."
"Let him run his own investigation." Blanca adjusted one of the frogged clasps on the bodice of Suzanne's gown. "Away from you and Mr. Rannoch."
"We need to share information."
"Mélanie." Blanca was one of the few people who still used Suzanne's real name. She'd been born Mélanie Suzanne Lescaut. "Have you gone mad?"
"Probably. You frequently say I always have been."
Blanca seized Suzanne's arms. "It's worse, you've lost your memory. You can't have forgot what we both almost lost, a scant three months ago—"
Suzanne touched Blanca's shoulder. "Whatever happens, this won't affect how Addison feels about you."
Blanca took a step back and folded her arms. The wedding band Miles Addison had put on her finger last month glinted in the early morning light. "It's not Addison I'm worried about at this point. It's Mr. Rannoch."
Suzanne slapped a bright smile over her own doubts. "Malcolm can handle it. Better than I would have expected. He was quite practical about the need to work with Raoul."
Blanca snorted. "Oh, course he's not going to admit it bothers him. Even to himself, I daresay. But for God's sake, the man was your lover. Could you work calmly beside Mr. Rannoch's former mistress?"
Memories from the investigation into Tatiana Kirsanova's murder in Vienna danced in Suzanne's mind. "I'd manage. Malcolm and I don't have a relationship built on illusions. Especially now."
"And you'd be tearing yourself apart inside. As he will be."
Blanca knew more of Suzanne's secrets than almost anyone, but she didn't know Raoul was Malcolm's father. That revelation wasn't Suzanne's to share. "I won't pretend it's comfortable, but then what in our life is? Malcolm knows what was between Raoul and me is in the past."
"It will never be in the past, and you know it."
"Blanca!"
"I don't mean you'd act on it. Or he would. You're both too ridiculously honorable."
"You must be the only person on earth who'd call Raoul honorable. Or me, for that matter."
"You both put everything before your own feelings. But the feelings won't go away."
Suzanne drew a breath, seeing the look in Raoul's eyes in the library just now. "Perhaps. But those feelings aren't the same as they once were."
"I'm not sure Mr. Rannoch will appreciate the distinction." Blanca regarded Suzanne for a moment. "You like having him back."
"Don't be ridiculous." An unbidden memory of the warmth she'd felt at Raoul's smile sharpened her voice. "If you think for a minute I fail to appreciate the complications—"
"I didn't say that. I said you're happy when he's about."
Suzanne bit back her instinctive retort. It was true there was a part of her only Raoul could understand. A part she wouldn't even want Malcolm to understand. He didn't see the world that way, and she hoped he never would.
"I understand it," Blanca said. "Just don't make the mistake of pretending you can handle everything."
Suzanne dropped her arm round Blanca's shoulders. "Whatever comes of this, I won't let it touch you and Addison. I promise."
"Mélanie, you fool." Blanca brushed her hair back from her eyes. "I told you I'm not worried about Addison. You're my friend. I want you to be happy."
Suzanne's throat went tight. "Oh, querida, after everything I've done, don't you think that's a bit much to expect?"
Malcolm slapped the bundle of letters down on the scarred deal table in the tiny cell to which they had been shown in Newgate. "My compliments. Suzanne and I aren't easy to deceive."
Laura looked up at him with an unblinking blue gaze. "I think you overestimate my reach, Mr. Rannoch."
Malcolm gripped the edges of the table and leaned forwards. "You were spying on us."
Laura met his gaze, her own steady. "That's a fraught word, Mr. Rannoch. As I'm sure you can appreciate, given your own work, it can cover a multitude of activities."
Malcolm kept his gaze on Laura, though he was aware of Suzanne watching him. He himself had always had difficulty with the word spy. Squeamishness, his wife would say, and no doubt she'd be right. "Whom were you working for?"
Laura tilted her chin back to look up at him. "You can't think very highly of me, Mr. Rannoch, if you imagine I'll simply answer that."
Malcolm straightened up and drew a breath. He wasn't handling this well. He usually had more finesse with interrogations. The shock of betrayal had particular impact just now. Not that that was any e
xcuse for sloppy tactics. He should know better. He pulled a straight-backed chair out for Suzanne. Other than the table and chairs, the room held a narrow cot covered in a frayed blue blanket. A smell of damp hung in the air, but the floor appeared to have been recently swept, and he saw no obvious evidence of rodents.
Suzanne dropped into the chair Malcolm was holding out. "Did they give you breakfast?"
"Yes. Mr. Rannoch's money has ensured I'm well taken care of. Thank you. Though I imagine you're now regretting it."
"On the contrary. Nothing else you've done negates what you've done for the children." Malcolm dropped into the third chair Roth had had brought into the cell and regarded Laura across the table. Her hair was combed and neatly pinned and she had somehow managed to smooth the creases from her gown, though she hadn't been able to get rid of a smudge on her collar.
"You obviously have a theory." She tugged her cuffs straight, a rare sign of unease. "Why don't you tell me what it is."
Malcolm leaned back against the hard slats of the chair. "Trenchard had placed you in our household to spy on us."
Laura's fingers tensed on the narrow lace frill that edged her cuffs. "Why on earth would the Duke of Trenchard do that? Wouldn't it be a simpler explanation that I was merely his mistress?"
"Are you admitting you were his mistress?"
Laura spread her fingers on the tabletop. "I'm not admitting anything. Merely pointing out that your and Mrs. Rannoch's history may make you given to overly elaborate theories."
"The simpler explanation doesn't account for these." Malcolm touched the bundle of letters.
"You don't know that they're connected to Trenchard."
"No. But I think he put you in our household because he's an Elsinore League member."
Laura's gaze froze for an instant.
"Don't pretend you don't know what it is," Malcolm said.
"I'm not pretending anything."
Malcolm watched the conflict of a dozen possible decisions racing through Laura's gaze. How odd that now, of all the moments in this interview, he should feel compassion for her. "Let me tell you what I think," he said, falling back into interrogation techniques honed through years in the field. "Trenchard recruited you somehow. He may have had a hold on you or you may simply have been in need of money, and desperate. He arranged your references—or perhaps they were real?—and assigned you to get yourself engaged as governess to our children and report to him on Suzanne's and my activities. I imagine he cloaked it in nobility. Made it look as though I was a dangerous subversive, and reporting on my activities was a matter of national importance." Malcolm kept his voice even and his gaze direct. It was what Trenchard might have said to Laura about Suzanne that had the bite of panic cutting into his throat.
