The Mayfair Affair

by Tracy Grant

  The duchess shook her head. "It didn't seem fair to burden him. Or to put him at risk. The last thing either of us needs is him attempting to ride to the rescue. There's no easy rescue from a situation such as this."

  "The duke didn't know your lover's name?"

  "I'm quite sure not." Mary Trenchard pressed her hands over her lap. "I knew I was running risks, but it's no more than many women in our set do once they've given their husband an heir and spare. Sometimes, before that. Provided the succession isn't at stake, husbands like Peter Cowper lend their name to other men's children with every appearance of equanimity. Old Lord Melbourne even made the best of it when Peniston died and William became his heir, though he must know William isn't his by blood. I didn't want Trenchard to find out, but I didn't think he would kick up such a fuss." She gripped her elbows. "He said I could sleep with whom I chose—though he used a cruder word for it—but he had no intention of giving his name to my bastard."

  "What did he suggest?"

  "He didn't so much suggest as command." Mary Trenchard's pale fingers tightened against the dull black fabric. Her wedding band gleamed in the morning sunlight. "He said I would go abroad to have the baby—France or Italy, I could choose, as long as it was somewhere secluded. Then he would arrange for a home for it. I would give up the baby and return to England. He seemed to think I should be grateful to him for having things so tidily planned out."

  Suzanne swallowed, the memory of the weeks before her marriage, when she had known she was pregnant with Colin, sharp in her throat. "Unconscionable."

  The duchess shot a look at her. "You think so?"

  "To ask a woman to give up her child? Yes."

  Mary Trenchard's hand slid to her stomach. "I told him as much. I've always been the sort to do what's required to preserve the forms, but in this case I couldn't do so. I told Trenchard nothing would prevail upon me to give up the child. He could divorce me if he chose. He stared at me as though I'd gone mad. Because of course he didn't want to go through the scandal of a divorce."

  "And he'd have found it difficult to prove the child wasn't his," Cordelia said.

  "Quite. As my husband at the time the child was conceived, he'd be the legal father. He was well aware of that, and it made him all the more angry."

  "And then?"

  "Trenchard said if I pushed him, I'd regret it. He could keep Bobby and the girls from me. Did I want to trade them for my bastard?" A flinch showed in her eyes. "I may not be the most effusive mother, but I couldn't bear the thought of losing any of my children. Of course Trenchard couldn't deny them to me without a scandal. I pointed out as much. That we seemed to be at point-non-plus. That made him all the more angry." Her hand came up to her cheek. "He struck me. It's the only time he's done so. A hard enough blow that I fell to the carpet." Her eyes darkened at the memory. "I don't think I knew what it was to hate until I lay there staring up at him."

  That hatred shone from Mary's eyes now. Strong enough to kill her husband? Very likely, Suzanne would have said. Whether or not the duchess had done so was another question. "Did you think about going to your father?" Suzanne asked.

  "And telling him I was pregnant by another man? Oh, he'd have been furious with Trenchard for striking me. But I think he'd have agreed with the plan of my going abroad and giving up the baby. Sweeping mistakes under the carpet is very much my father's modus operandi, after all." She loosed her fingers and took a sip of Madeira with iron determination, then put a hand to her mouth, as though the drink had sickened her.

  Cordelia picked up the plate of biscuits. "Eat one of these. It helps with the nausea."

  Mary gave a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "You'd think I'd remember from my other pregnancies." She took an almond biscuit and chewed a mouthful as though forcing herself to do so.

  Cordelia returned the plate to the sofa table. "What happened next?"

  "We avoided each other. I could see the threat in Trenchard's eyes, but he didn't try to speak to me in private. It was like walking on glass. Or perhaps knives would be more accurate."

  "What did you plan to do?" Suzanne asked.

  "I didn't. I couldn't see a viable move. I'm not sure he could either. It was as though we had each other in check." Mary wiped the crumbs from her fingers with meticulous care.

  Cordelia cast a glance at Suzanne, then looked back at Mary. "And now that the duke is dead—"

  "The world will assume the baby to be his." Mary dropped her napkin on the table as though it burned her. "Quite. It's odd, that wasn't the first thing that occurred to me when I heard the news. But of course it's true. I'll live a lie the rest of my life and be fortunate to do so. Which, I suppose, gives me an excellent motive to have murdered him." She looked at Suzanne over the Madeira decanter, defiance sharp in her eyes.

  "A motive doesn't necessarily make a murderer," Suzanne said.

  "It didn't, in my case, though I can scarcely expect you to believe that."

  "I believe your husband was a complicated man and may have had any number of enemies." Suzanne took a sip of Madeira. "Speaking of which, do you know of any reason why he'd have quarreled with Frederick Hampson recently?"

  "Colonel Hampson? Jane's father?" Mary's brows rose with something more of her habitual expression. "They hadn't seen each other for a year or more. That is, I suppose they might have crossed paths at White's or something—"

  "Lady Tarrington heard them quarreling in this house a month ago."

  Seemingly genuine surprise filled Mary's gaze. "What on earth was Hetty— Oh, I suppose that was the day she brought her boys over to play with Lucy and Emma. I was helping my mother with cards of invitation for her musicale. But I can't imagine what Trenchard would have had to discuss with Hampson. Trenchard wasn't particularly happy about the connection to the Hampsons. Mrs. Hampson's father keeps a shop in Grace Church Street. Trenchard did what was polite, but he seemed eager to let the connection go. Trenchard was a ridiculous high stickler. David said that was half the reason he was so angry about the baby—"

  She broke off. Suzanne set down her glass. "David knew you were pregnant?"

  "He noticed the bruise on my cheek. I tried to spin a story, but the whole wretched thing came out."

  "You can scarcely be blamed for confiding in your brother. I'm glad you had someone to confide in."

  Mary nodded. But her gaze said that she knew full well that by confiding her predicament to her brother, she had also given him an excellent motive to have murdered Trenchard.

  "Memories." Cordelia tightened the ribbons on her bonnet as she and Suzanne descended the steps of Trenchard House. "The suffocating horror of knowing one is trapped. By what should be a cause of joy."

  Suzanne fought against every instinct to agree with her friend. And after all, their cases were not the same. She hadn't been married when she first learned she was pregnant.

  "And I was fortunate in that Harry accepted Livia," Cordelia continued. "Though when I wrote to tell him I was pregnant, I wasn't sure he would."

  "That must have been beastly."

  Cordelia glanced up and down the street. "Hell. The hell I deserved, given what I'd put him through. I told him I was expecting a child, that I wasn't sure who the father was, and I didn't expect him to do anything for either of us. I could have been kinder. Harry wrote back a very formal letter saying he trusted I was in good health, and I could draw on his banker for anything I needed. I was relieved. Though, to my shame, I told myself that he simply wanted to avoid the scandal. It was months, perhaps years, before I could acknowledge how generous he'd been. How we got from there to here— But even at my lowest, I don't think it occurred to me he'd try to offer me the choice the duke gave the duchess."

  When she first learned she was pregnant, with Raoul caught up in the war, Suzanne had been prepared to raise the child alone. But it was one thing to flout convention when one was a social outcast already, and quite another when one was at the heart of society. And she hadn't had other children to t
hink of.

  "I don't know that I'd be capable of killing," Cordelia said in a low voice. "But if anything could push me to it, it would be the safety of my children."

  Suzanne met her friend's gaze in the cool morning light and nodded. "It's going to be hard for Malcolm. For all he says they were never close, he thinks of Mary like a sister."

  "And then there's the fact that David lied to him."

  Suzanne nodded. "Quite."

  Chapter 16

  Theodore Hawkins's chambers spoke of the discreet luxury of one who served the wealthy and powerful, but would not be so vulgar as to draw attention to himself—or to his clients. Thick-piled rugs (English Axminster, nothing foreign). Polished oak furniture with a look of the last century. Leather and velvet upholstery, just worn enough not to look too new.

  A clerk conducted James and Malcolm at once into Hawkins's office. Hawkins, a man of about Trenchard's age, with thinning sandy hair and shrewd hazel eyes, came forwards to meet them. If he was surprised that Malcolm accompanied James, he was too used to accepting his clients' whims to show it. He offered the expected condolences, which James accepted with a thanks that was courteous but did not prolong the discussion.

  Hawkins returned to his desk, and James and Malcolm settled themselves in the leather chairs before the desk. "We obviously have a number of things to discuss," James said. "But to begin with, I am interested in the recent changes my father made to his will."

  Hawkins's spine shot infinitesimally straighter. "If you doubt the authenticity—"

  "Not in the least. But I am curious about my father's reasons. And he is no longer here to ask."

  "He didn't confide in me about his reasons."

  "When did this occur?"

  Hawkins folded his hands on the burgundy tooled leather of the blotter. "Your father came to me to change his will a fortnight before his death, my lor—Your Grace."

  "Are you telling me that was the first time you heard of this Emily Saunders?"

  "No." Hawkins realigned a stack of papers so the edges matched up precisely. "The first would have been—it must be nearly four years now. The summer of 1814. When His Grace—your father—had me set up quarterly payments."

  "To this Emily."

  "For her use."

  James fixed Hawkins with the sort of hard, measured gaze Malcolm had seen him employ across the House. "Who was she?"

  "The duke never said." Hawkins tugged the top paper smooth. "I assumed—a dependant of your father's."

  "His mistress or illegitimate daughter."

  "It wasn't for me to judge or question, Your Grace. She could have been the widow or daughter of someone to whom he felt indebted. A retainer. A friend who died in the war."

  James continued to regard Hawkins as though unsure whether or not to believe him. "My father offered no hint?"

  "You know your father, Your Grace. He was not the sort to disclose information."

  James tapped his booted foot on the floor. "Where is Emily now?'

  "I'm afraid I cannot say, my lord."

  "Damn it, Hawkins." James slapped his gloves down on the carved chair arm. "I suppose your loyalty to my father is commendable. But I'm the Duke of Trenchard now." He said it with faint surprise, as though he were still coming to terms with it himself, and yet with enough force that it caught Hawkins's attention.

  "You misunderstand, my lord. Your Grace." Hawkins coughed. "I am not, and never have been, aware of Emily Saunders' whereabouts."

  "Where did you make the payments?"

  "To a bank account in Maidstone. In the name of J. Smith."

  "An obvious alias."

  Hawkins drew a breath as though to prevaricate, then inclined his head. "So it would seem, my lord."

  "Did J. Smith ever communicate with you?" Malcolm asked.

  "No, Mr. Rannoch. There was never any need. We always made the payments. They were always collected."

  "Father didn't say anything to you about how to contact Miss Saunders in the event of his death?" James asked.

  "No, my— Your Grace. Your father was in good health, and I fear, when settling their estates, the most sensible people can neglect to make plans for unforeseen circumstances. I have been mulling over what to do, but I believe the only course of action is to write to Miss Saunders at the address I have for J. Smith."

  James flicked a glance at Malcolm. "We'll take care of it."

  "My— Your Grace—"

  "We'll need the address," James said.

  "If—"

  "The address, Hawkins."

  "Of course. Your Grace."

  James looked at Malcolm as they descended the steps of Hawkins's chambers. "Do you have someone you can send to Maidstone?"

  Malcolm paused on the bottom step. "Tarr— James—"

  James swung round to look at him. "You're going to send someone to Maidstone in any case, aren't you?"

  "No sense in wasting time denying it."

  "And whoever you send will be ten times better at learning the truth than anyone I could send." James glanced down the street at the fog-shrouded lampposts. "I don't know where this will lead, Malcolm. But I do know I want to learn the truth. I need to learn the truth. More than I need to keep that truth from you. Besides"—he gave a faint half-smile—"I know I haven't a prayer in hell of doing so."

  "Trenchard paid his staff decently, as these things go." Miles Addison dropped into a chair in Malcolm's study. "But more than one housemaid left abruptly, after Trenchard was seen to have been paying rather more attention to her than met with the housekeeper's approval."

  Malcolm grimaced. Love affairs had been commonplace among his parents' set, and in cases where both partners went their own way, he could even acknowledge it could be a solution to the problems of marriages that were often arranged. But taking advantage of those dependent on one was a line he couldn't tolerate crossing. "Were any of the housemaids named Emily?" he asked.

  Addison shook his head. "I asked specifically. But it's possible—"

  "That one of them bore him a child named Emily."

  Addison inclined his head. "Though I confess I would be a bit surprised if the duke left a large legacy to the daughter of a housemaid."

  Malcolm met his valet's gaze. Addison had been with him since his Oxford days. Addison had summoned David and Simon after Malcolm's clumsy effort to slash his wrists. He and Malcolm had shared an uncounted number of adventures in the Peninsula. They had the camaraderie of fellow spies. Malcolm thought of Addison as a friend. But he was also a valet. And because they weren't either of them the sort for confidences, Malcolm wasn't sure how his friend felt about the treatment of his peers.

  It was only in observing Suzanne's relationship with Blanca, in the light of what he now knew about both of them, that Malcolm had begun to see what might be lacking in his relationship with Addison.

  "No," he agreed, meeting Addison's gaze squarely, "I don't think it likely either, knowing what I do of the duke. But we have to consider all possibilities. Any indication any of the servants may have been angry enough with His Grace to kill him?"

  "Not based on my initial discussions with them. But," Addison continued, in his mild, measured way, "I had the distinct sense that His Grace's behavior could have provoked murderous impulses. The clearest argument against it is your description of the murder scene. I can't see the Duke of Trenchard pouring a drink for a servant."

  "Nor can I." Malcolm leaned back in his chair. "I'd like you to go to Maidstone, Addison. There's a bank there that's been making payments to Emily Saunders."

  "Of course."

  It was said courteously, but though Malcolm had always asked Addison to undertake every mission he'd sent him on, they both knew perfectly well Addison would never refuse. "My apologies to Blanca," Malcolm said.

  Addison's mouth curved in a faint smile. "Blanca will only be sorry not to be going along. Not because of me—or not entirely. Because she hates to miss out on a mission."

  That was one change o
f the past three months. Addison's relationship with Blanca was now something they could speak openly about. And Malcolm and Addison now shared more than their adventures of the past ten years. They were both married to women who had been Bonapartist agents. And they each knew the other's wife's secrets. They were both the sort to crave safety in their personal relationships, but if they'd ever been able to retreat into the safety of the roles of master and valet, that door had slammed shut three months ago.

  "I imagine there will be plenty for Blanca to do here," Malcolm said.

  "Valentin can help you in my absence," Addison said. "Your new coats should arrive from Hobbs by the end of the week and the linen is in good order—"

  "Addison," Malcolm said. "It wouldn't bother me in the least if my attire was less than perfect."

  Addison gave a rare full smile. "Perhaps not, sir. But you must permit me the pride of my profession."

  "One of your professions." What might Addison have done if circumstances had allowed him more scope for his talents?

  "I don't see your intelligence work making you any less meticulous about the wording of your parliamentary speeches, sir." Addison hesitated a moment. "I prefer not to operate on instinct, as I'm sure you realize, sir. But I find it very difficult to believe Miss Dudley killed the Duke of Trenchard."

  "So do I," Malcolm said. "Addison," he added, as Addison started to get up.

  "Sir?"

  Addison was one of the few people who knew about the bank account in Switzerland and the papers in the bottom of Malcolm's dispatch box, but still Malcolm hesitated. One could share secrets without being in the habit of referring to them. "It seems Trenchard knew about Suzanne."

  Malcolm had rarely seen such pure fear shoot through his valet's gaze, but Addison merely said, "I see."

  "And apparently someone else knew as well, someone who is attempting to blackmail Suzanne. We're meeting him tonight."

  Addison's gaze didn't waver from Malcolm's face. "Are you certain you want me to leave town, sir?"

  "I give you my word I'll ensure Blanca's safety."