by Tracy Grant
Malcolm swung his gaze to her. She met it like a sword cut. "Don't you dare suggest I stay home."
"On the contrary. This will take all three of us. Just don't faint on me."
"Honestly, darling." She tucked her hand through his arm. "I'd give you fair warning."
Malcolm nodded. "You should go with O'Roarke. I'll meet you in Cavendish Square."
She raised her brows.
"Roth will question anyone in the park, even the homeless. He's less likely to connect a description of you and O'Roarke with someone he knows than a description of you and me."
Malcolm had just sent her off on a mission with Raoul. Without showing obvious qualms. Odd how the simplest gesture, at the most unexpected of times, could indicate a sea change. She touched her husband's face.
Raoul didn't say anything as they moved through the trees, but she sensed he felt the sea change as well. The dark forms beneath the trees were beginning to stir. Smoke curled from the occasional cooking fire to blend with the mist. They left the park by the Grosvenor Gate and moved through the mist and shadows of Mayfair. Terraced houses. A few lights now showing behind windows, a few curtains thrown back, smoke rising from early fires, laid to warm the house before the family rose. A scullery maid shook out a mat by the area steps. A footman swept by a front door. A carriage clattered by. A young man sprang down, clutching his hat and moving with extreme care. Raoul pulled Suzanne into the shadows. The young man half fell over the area railings of the nearest house and was violently sick over the iron spikes. He straightened up, stared at the house, frowned, moved to the next house over, and staggered up the steps.
Raoul and Suzanne moved on and turned into Davies Street. Craven had lived in a large house of cream-dressed stone in Brook Street. Suzanne had been there once, to a reception, the previous November. She could see Louisa Craven, a little colorless in a gold and ivory gown, greeting guests at the head of the stairs. She didn't recall actually seeing Craven and Louisa together in the course of the evening. But that wasn't unusual for a Mayfair couple hosting a party. Even she and Malcolm were often consumed by their separate duties.
They went behind to the mews. Malcolm detached himself from the shadows and fell in beside them. "Dodged round a gentleman I swear had slipped out of a lady's bedroom window," he said. "Fortunately, he was as eager to avoid notice as I was."
"We encountered a young man being sick," Suzanne said. "I don't think he was in a state to notice much either."
They slipped down the mews, past the occasional stir of horses' hoofs hoofs and the smells of manure and oiled leather. Malcolm used his picklocks to unlatch the gate to Craven's back garden. Suzanne stared up at the dark mass of the house, thinking of the people sleeping behind those walls, still unaware of Craven's death. "Was the Cravens' marriage a happy one?" she asked, remembering Louisa's dry comments on the married state at Lady Carfax's musicale.
"I haven't the least idea," Malcolm said. "I didn't see much of Louisa once she was out of the schoolroom. David isn't in the habit of talking much about his sisters' personal lives. Neither is Bel, for that matter."
"Still. Whatever the terms of their marriage, he was her husband."
"Don't get sentimental, querida," Raoul murmured. "The man was prepared to destroy your life."
As they watched, a light flared in the kitchen. "Early preparations," Malcolm said. "We can only hope they aren't in the habit of lighting a fire in Craven's study too early." He scanned the house. "The bottom left corner, at a hazard."
"It's probably the study or the breakfast parlor," Suzanne said. "So if we're wrong, we just have to get across the house. If one of you boosts me up, I can get a window open."
She more than half thought Malcolm would protest, but he merely nodded and handed her his picklocks.
They both lifted her up and she levered open the window onto the smell of stale cigar smoke. Just in time, she noticed the tray of decanters right below the window. She edged it aside, got her feet over the ledge, and dropped onto the polished surface of a table. She found the edge of the table and eased herself to the floor. There was enough pre-dawn light that she could see to move the tray with the decanters from the pier table to the desk in the center of the room. She pushed the sash higher and helped pull Malcolm over the sill and then the two of them helped haul Raoul in. There was a hiss as Malcolm struck a flint and lit of spill of paper. And then all three of them drew in their breath.
The room was a shambles. The drawers pulled from the desk, the sofa cushions pushed aside, a end table upended, books pulled from the bookcase and strewn over the carpet.
"Interesting," Raoul murmured.
"That's one word for it." Malcolm's hand had tightened on Suzanne's arm.
"They might have missed something," Raoul said. "We should still search."
"Right." Malcolm was already holding the paper spill to the candles on the desk. Suzanne brought him a bronze lamp from a table near the door to the hall. "Take the desk, Suzette," Malcolm said. "That should spare your arm. I'll do the books. O'Roarke, can you do the rest of the room?"
"Right. Better grab anything locked or coded. We don't have time for a prolonged search."
They set to work. The papers strewn over the desktop and on the floor round it proved to be correspondence with the steward on Craven's estate, a large quantity of bills from tailors, bootmakers, and a modiste—Lady Craven's? Or a mistress's—whose crumpled state suggested they had been stuffed into the back of a drawer. She found a yellowed bundle that looked older. "I didn't realize Craven had been in India."
Malcolm looked up from a gilt-embossed volume. "Nor did I. Or I forgot."
"There are a series of letters here from his steward. Apparently Craven went to India in 1811 with Trenchard and stayed for over two years." While she and Malcolm were on the Peninsula in the early days of their marriage. She glanced at another letter.
"Not necessarily surprising he was attached to Trenchard's mission," Malcolm said, "but an interesting connection. Though I don't know where it gets us."
A creak echoed through from the passage. All three of them went still.
"Right," Raoul said. "There's a time to run risks, and a time to beat a retreat. Grab whatever you've got."
Malcolm doused the candles. Suzanne turned down the lamp. The door creaked open, seconds after they all three darted behind the curtains.
A flare of light as though from a candle through the cracks between the curtains. A squeak and a gasp. "Mr. Thornton!"
Footsteps retreated into the passage. Without pausing for speech or even thought, the three of them darted from behind the curtains and out the window into the gathering dawn light. Fortunately, the day was cloudy. They could only hope it was still too early for anyone to see them. The area windows from the kitchen didn't look out onto the garden.
Through the gate, into the mews, where the horses stirred and stamped their feet in anticipation of their morning hay. Into Davies Street, where a pale dawn sheen glinted off the cobblestones. A nursemaid passed by, jiggling a fretful child who had probably woken early.
They turned into Berkeley Square and nearly walked right into a night watchman. He blinked and drew himself up. "Who goes there?"
Suzanne summoned up her most brilliant smile, designed to remind him of her face in printshop windows. "Mr. Jenkins. How nice to see you. I'm afraid we stayed far too long at the Esterhazys'."
Mr. Jenkins opened his mouth to protest, then blinked again and stared at her. "Mrs. Rannoch?"
"The oddest theme for a ball, we were all supposed to wear black. A midnight ball, she called it, but I must say I found it dreadfully dreary. What's the fun of a ball if one can't dress up? I do hope you haven't seen anything amiss. I always worry a bit when we're away from the children this long."
"Nothing at all, ma'am. Quiet as a church. Mr. Rannoch. Sir." He tipped his hat to Malcolm and Raoul.
"My compliments," Raoul murmured to Suzanne as they moved along the square.
/> "There are advantages to having one's face in printshop windows."
They went through the front door this time. Valentin didn't blink—he had seen them return at odder hours, in odder apparel—but merely asked if they would like coffee sent into the library.
In the oak and bronze velvet of that apartment, Suzanne sank down on the sofa. She was shaking as though she had a fever. "I don't know why I'm so missish."
"You were shot." Malcolm dropped down beside her and pushed back her cloak.
"I've been shot before."
"But this is London." Raoul prowled across the room. "One doesn't expect to go from a ball to blackmail and—"
"Covering up a murder." She hunched her shoulders.
Malcolm put a whisky in her hand. "Drink that. I'm getting your medical box."
Raoul watched Malcolm leave the room. "He's handling this remarkably well."
"Losing himself in his work. It has its own challenges, but in an odd way it's a distraction." Suzanne pushed her fingers into her hair. "Last night Malcolm broke into his spymaster's study and stole papers. This morning he covered up the murder of Carfax's son-in-law, a murder that's going to play merry hell with his friend's investigation, and broke into another house. Because of me."
"Because of Trenchard. Don't claim too much credit, querida."
She jabbed her fingers into her hair, knocking loose pins and pulling at her wound. "I should have—"
Raoul regarded her with a steady gaze. "Yes?"
Not married Malcolm? Left him and taken their child? She'd been through the options before and they were none of them tolerable.
"Besides," Raoul said, "I know him well enough to know a part of him enjoyed it. Just as you did."
"My corrupting influence."
Malcolm came back into the room, dropped her medical supply box on the library table, and flipped open the lid. "Start going through Craven's papers, O'Roarke."
Raoul was already carrying them over to the marble library table.
"We were at the folly for at least a quarter hour after Craven was shot," Suzanne said as Malcolm unwound his temporary bandage from her arm. "The killer could have got to Craven's house and ransacked it before us. Just."
"Just." Malcolm splashed more alcohol on her arm, which was tiresome, but necessary. "Potentially he or she could even have taken cover in the house when they heard us outside the window."
"Or he or she might have ransacked Craven's study before going to the park to kill Craven." Raoul looked up from spreading papers on the table. "Perhaps it was something he or she found, or didn't find, that led to the murder."
Malcolm placed a pad of lint over Suzanne's wound. "Of course, given the connection to Carfax, we have to wonder if he was behind it. Though it's hard to imagine an agent of Carfax's being so sloppy, even if caught unawares."
Raoul held a paper to the light of the lamp. "You've considered—"
"That Carfax could be behind both murders?" Malcolm wrapped a length of linen over the bandage, his fingers ruthlessly steady. "How could I not? I can't see Carfax simply losing his mind and having his daughters' husbands killed, but I can see him not letting the fact that they were his sons-in-law stand in the way if he thought he had reason to get rid of them."
"Leaving the fact that we don't have a reason," Suzanne said. "Though we know both Trenchard and Craven wanted to steal information from Carfax."
"And they didn't have it yet, so covering it up isn't a motive." Malcolm knotted off the bandage. His fingers lingered on her arm for a moment. She felt the unbidden tremor that shook him. "Two of Carfax's sons-in-law knew about Suzanne."
"Trenchard was in the Elsinore League with your—with Alistair Rannoch," Suzanne said. "He could have learned it from Alistair. And Craven learned it from Trenchard. Or Craven was in the Elsinore League as well."
"Perhaps. Too many Elsinore League members know too damned much. But we also have to at least consider the possibility that they both learned it from Carfax."
Suzanne swallowed, cold in a way that Valentin's well-laid fire burning briskly in the grate could do nothing to dispel. "Darling, if Carfax knew about me—"
"He'd put the information to use?" Malcolm put the lint and scissors back in her medical kit. "Probably." He snapped the lid shut. "Unless he was waiting for the right time."
"Carfax trusts you with a great deal of information," Raoul said. "Surely he'd at least have taken care if he had suspicions about Suzanne. Knowing Carfax, I can't imagine him believing Suzanne had given up her work for the French."
"Perhaps. But if Carfax wanted me to believe he trusted me, he'd know just what to do. Tell me you've never done the same with an asset you thought questionable, sir."
"A point," Raoul said. "Though not with an asset of your abilities."
"My dear O'Roarke. You and Suzanne pulled the wool over my eyes for five years."
Raoul returned Malcolm's gaze without flinching. "Point taken. Though the circumstances were rather different. If—"
The crack of the door being flung open drowned out his words.
"Is it true?" Mary Trenchard ran into the room, the hood of a black wool cloak falling back from her hastily dressed dark hair.
Valentin appeared in the doorway behind her, anxious gaze going from Malcolm to Suzanne. Obviously Mary had pushed past him. "It's quite all right," Suzanne said, resisting the impulse to draw her dress up over her wound. That would only draw attention to it. "We don't stand on ceremony with the duchess. But please have coffee sent in."
Mary's gaze went from Malcolm to Suzanne. She seemed oblivious to Raoul's presence. "Is it?" she repeated.
"Is what?" Malcolm went to her side and took her hands, shielding Suzanne in the process, which afforded the opportunity to put her gown to rights.
"You must have heard. My second housemaid had it from the Cravens' bootboy even before Louisa sent word to me. Craven was murdered last night. In Hyde Park. Shot."
Appalling to be caught without an agreed-upon story. Though in fairness, the night's adventures had been enough to try even the most experienced spy. To even exchange glances with Malcolm and Raoul was to risk betrayal, so Suzanne remained where she was and let her husband respond to his childhood friend.
"Yes," Malcolm said, for all the world as though he'd been prepared for hours. "Blanca just reported that she had the news from one of the Cravens' footmen. I'm so sorry."
Mary Trenchard sank into a chair. "I'd hardly claim Craven and I were close. But— is some madman killing all my father's sons-in-law?"
"It's too early to know if the murders were even connected." Malcolm dropped down in front of Mary's chair. "Other than being married to sisters, were Trenchard and Craven particularly close?"
"No, but—" Mary's gaze settled on Raoul as though his presence had finally intruded on her consciousness.
"Have you met Mr. O'Roarke?" Suzanne asked, for once grateful for the formality of social conventions. "The Duchess of Trenchard."
"At your reception last January." A social mask settled over Mary's face.
"I'll make my excuses," Raoul said. "My condolences, Duchess."
"No. That is— Are you involved in the investigation?"
"O'Roarke has been assisting us," Malcolm said. "He was an agent in the Peninsula."
Mary gave a quick nod. "Then you might as well stay. God knows we have to get to the bottom of this. There's no sense in keeping secrets to preserve the family honor. Not if someone is killing members of the family."
This time Malcolm didn't deny the connection between the two murders. For the moment it was working to their advantage. He touched the duchess's hand. "Do you know of any additional connection between Trenchard and Craven, Mary?"
The duchess drew a sharp breath. Her shoulders hunched. Then she gave a desperate laugh. "That depends. Do you call it a connection that Lord Craven's wife had an affair with the duke?"
Chapter 23
The stunned silence that followed this announcement
ended anticlimactically with a discreet rap on the door, followed by Valentin entering with the coffee service. Suzanne poured out a cup, stirred in plentiful milk and sugar, and gave the cup to Malcolm to put in Mary's hand. Mary stared into the silver-rimmed porcelain. "I assure you I'm not hysterical."
"I can't imagine you being hysterical." Malcolm sat back on his heels and regarded her. "You're telling us that Louisa—"
"Shocked, Malcolm?" A touch of mockery sharpened Mary's voice. "Did you think sisterly feeling would have prevented her? We were hardly bosom bows. Or did you think Louisa was too faithful a wife? She certainly liked to give that impression. I own I was surprised myself."
"When did you realize?" Malcolm's voice was gentle.
"Not as quickly as I did with most of his conquests. I underestimated my sister. Or overestimated her sisterly feeling, depending on one's perspective." She turned her cup in her hand. "I always rather thought she settled for Craven. She was in her fifth season, and she never pretended to anything approaching romance. Of course, I didn't with Trenchard, either. But Craven ranked below Papa. Odd how those things used to matter." She took a sip of coffee. "It was a Christmas house party at Beauvalet. I didn't realize it until I went into Trenchard's dressing room to ask him about the seating for Christmas dinner and spotted Louisa's handkerchief on the floor. Then the pieces fell into place. I was a fool not to have seen it sooner. The odd thing was it was Louisa who went after him. She'd been laughing at his jokes and hanging on his arm and contriving to sit beside him for the entire house party. Only, because it was my sister—because it was Louisa—I didn't notice."
So much for sisterly feeling not mattering. Mary's response combined dismissal of a younger, less beautiful sister with a genuine sense of betrayal perhaps even she wasn't aware of.
"I've got used to Trenchard's conquests," Mary continued. "We hardly lived in each other's pockets, but one can't help but notice such matters when it comes to one's husband. Normally he was the one who initiated the flirtation. I think he enjoyed the chase. I've often wondered if he'd have noticed Louisa if she hadn't thrown herself at him." She took a sip of coffee, then stared into the cup, as though surprised to find it empty.
