The Mayfair Affair

by Tracy Grant

  Malcolm nodded. "I'll do my best."

  "Malcolm," Carfax said.

  "Sir?"

  Carfax pushed his spectacles up on his nose. "I've accused you in the past of being too sensitive to the feelings of those involved in your investigations. I trust I can rely on your regrettable sensitivity continuing in this case?"

  Pity was not an emotion Malcolm associated with Carfax. The earl never ceased to take him by surprise. "You can, sir."

  At the sound of the decisive footsteps outside her door, Laura felt her mood lighten, even as she tensed with wariness. Odd that she recognized even his footsteps. She didn't know him that well. The monotony of prison must really be grating on her if she was cheered by the prospect of another interrogation.

  "I was wondering how long it would take you to come," she said as Raoul O'Roarke stepped into the room.

  "I'd have been here sooner, but I stopped for supplies." O'Roarke advanced into the room and set a hamper on the table.

  The key scraped as the turnkey locked them in. Laura regarded the hamper. She had seen similar ones tucked into the Rannochs' open landau on expeditions to picnic at Richmond. "That's from Fortnum's."

  "Do you object to Fortnum's?" O'Roarke opened the hamper, took out a linen cloth, tossed it over the table, and then proceeded to extract a loaf of bread, a hunk of cheddar and one of Stilton, scotched eggs, and apples and oranges. "Perhaps it's hypocritical of me to relish such a symbol of the British establishment, but I confess I'm quite fond of their hampers."

  "It seems a bit extravagant for Newgate."

  "On the contrary." O'Roarke pulled two glasses from the hamper, followed by a wine bottle. "It seems precisely what is called for in circumstances like these."

  Laura raised her brows. "It's not yet noon."

  "Don't tell me you're the sort to let tiresome conventions stand in your way." O'Roarke pulled a corkscrew from his greatcoat pocket and extracted the cork with one clean twist.

  The aroma of good Bordeaux filled the cell, driving out the mildew. "I have a feeling I'm going to need my wits about me."

  "I promise not to take advantage." O'Roarke filled a glass a third full and handed it to her.

  "My dear Mr. O'Roarke. Surely you don't think I trust you any more than you trust me."

  "Actually, I trust you more than any number of people I could name." He pulled a chair out from the table and handed her into it.

  "I thought you were wiser than that."

  "I make no pretensions to wisdom. But I am a reasonably good judge of people." O'Roarke put a hand on her elbow as she dropped into the chair. Perhaps an automatic courtesy, perhaps an unexpected gesture of support.

  "Did you come here to judge if I told the Rannochs the truth last night?"

  "I came here for a number of reasons. Including the fact that I thought you deserved a good meal." He dropped into the chair across from her and poured himself a glass of wine.

  "They do feed me," Laura said. "Mr. and Mrs. Rannoch have been very generous."

  "I don't doubt it. But I doubt you've had a great deal of variety." He picked up the cheese knife. "My memory of this Stilton is that it's quite good. May I cut you some?"

  Unbidden tears gathered behind her eyes. She took a determined sip of wine to still them. And then, against all her instincts, she found herself saying, "My father always said there was nothing like the taste of Stilton to bring back England."

  "Interesting how smells and tastes do that. Olives never fail to take me back to Spain, and cabbage does the same for Ireland."

  She took the bread and Stilton he was holding out and took a bite to prove she could do so with equanimity. "You're a man with two countries."

  "You must know a bit about that. India and England."

  Damn. She'd meant to turn the conversation to him but instead had turned it back to herself. "Until I came here with the Rannochs a year ago, I'd only visited England twice. At five and at fifteen. What I chiefly remember from the first visit is thinking how cold it was. And from the second, lamenting that my clothes were hopelessly behind the fashion."

  O'Roarke picked up one of the oranges and began to peel it. "I understand Malcolm and Suzanne saw your parents yesterday."

  She took a defensive sip of wine. "You should understand that I've changed so much I can scarcely think of them as my parents anymore."

  "It's an odd thing about playing a role. One may lose track of whom one started out as, beneath the layers of defense. But I've found that that core is still there." He began to break the orange into quarters.

  "Do you think Suzanne Rannoch would agree?"

  "I think she's still sorting it out for herself." O'Roarke offered her a piece of orange.

  She couldn't resist. Even with the Rannochs, who could send for them from orangeries at various country estates, oranges were a delicacy. "Oranges must make you think of Spain," she said.

  "Actually, they make me think of Christmas. Which I haven't celebrated in years, except in disguise."

  "We always had them at Christmas." For a moment, the sharing of memories, safe, childhood memories, eased the tension in the room.

  O'Roarke handed her another quarter of orange. "Did you meet Lord Craven when he came to India with Trenchard?"

  She blinked at the question, but then that had probably been O'Roarke's point. The past quarter hour over the Fortnum's hamper had been the equivalent of small talk to put her at her ease. She had known that, but still she had succumbed to the companionship and the brief escape. "Of course. Craven was assisting Trenchard. They both dined with us nearly every night." Lord Craven seemed a relatively harmless conversational subject, but her defenses still slammed into place.

  "Did Craven know what had happened to you?"

  "I don't know." She realized she was gripping her elbows. She forced her fingers to unclench and folded her hands in her lap. "I asked Trenchard about that when the Rannochs told me we were moving to London. Trenchard said not to concern myself. I don't know what that meant—that Craven already knew, that Trenchard didn't think we would meet, that he'd deal with him if we did."

  "Did you meet?" O'Roarke brushed the bits of orange peel into his hand and tossed them in the hamper.

  "No. I saw Lady Craven in the park not long ago with Mrs. Rannoch and the children. But I never encountered Lord Craven."

  O'Roarke took a sip of wine. "Did he have anything to do with whatever your husband and Trenchard quarreled about?"

  "Whatever caused Trenchard to have Jack killed? Not that I know of. But not knowing what they quarreled about, I'm not in a good position to speculate. In truth, it never occurred to me that he might. Trenchard didn't seem to hold him in particularly high esteem. What's happened? Have you found some evidence that Craven was working with Trenchard?"

  O'Roarke set his glass down. "So you really haven't heard about last night's developments."

  "In here? Only you and Mr. and Mrs. Rannoch give me anything that could be called news. "

  For a moment she'd have sworn O'Roarke was considering how to best spare her feelings, though it was more likely he'd try to shock her into revealing something. "Lord Craven was murdered last night."

  She thought she was prepared for anything, but she could not control her shocked gasp.

  O'Roarke was on his feet before she realized he'd moved. He picked up her glass and held it to her lips. "It may be the equivalent of Dutch courage, but it will help."

  She gulped down a sip. It did ease the knot of panic inside her. She drew a breath. The smell of Trenchard's blood washed over her. She could hear his harsh dying breaths. "How was Craven—"

  "He was shot in Hyde Park." O'Roarke perched on the edge of the table.

  "Do they think the murders are connected?"

  "They aren't sure. But obviously, you can't be blamed for Craven's death."

  "I hadn't even thought—" She pressed her fingers to her temples.

  O'Roarke gave a faint smile. "No, you wouldn't. You're innocen
t."

  She drew back against the hard slats of her chair. "You sound very sure."

  "I am, as it happens. More and more so, the more time I spend with you. Especially now I know who you really are."

  "My dear Mr. O'Roarke. Surely you of all people realize we can never really know who anyone is."

  "Point taken. I should have said, now that I know some of the facts of your history." He regarded her for a moment. Something about the softness in his gaze made her draw her defenses closer about her. "If Trenchard wasn't dead, I think I could quite cheerfully murder him for what he did to you."

  "A bit excessive, surely." Her voice was hard, to deflect sympathy. "I imagine you've seen a number of horrors, given your background. One grows inured."

  "Too much so. But taking a child from its mother and then using that child to control the mother is enough to shake even me."

  "I did rather get myself into this situation."

  "I don't have much respect for the marriage vow," O'Roarke said. "But even if one held it sacred, nothing you've done could possibly justify what Trenchard did to you. You're too sensible a woman not to realize that."

  Her throat went tight. Damnation. How could his calm words cut through to ease a guilt she scarcely even realized she was carrying? "Giving birth in secret and giving the child away is a common-enough solution to unwanted pregnancy in our circles."

  "When the woman chooses it for herself. Though given society's strictures how much of a choice it is is open to debate." He got to his feet and returned to his chair. "I've seen the grief that can come from the most seemingly rational choice. But what Trenchard did to you is unconscionable. Speaking as a man who has frequently been accused of entirely lacking a conscience myself."

  "You're providing me with an excellent murder motive."

  "Save that Trenchard knew where Emily was."

  And the knowledge had died with him. All these years, all the times she could have tried to get him to tell her—

  "Malcolm sent Miles Addison to Maidstone to make inquiries into Emily's whereabouts," O'Roarke said. "Addison's an excellent agent. It may take time, but they'll find her."

  Laura gripped her hands together. It seemed she could hear the bones scrape, like the key turning in the lock. "That night, I was so determined to force Trenchard to tell me where Emily was. Truth to tell, I'm not sure how far I'd have gone if I hadn't found him, beyond threatening. I only knew I was going to get Emily back, whatever the cost. But one has a lot of leisure to think, in prison. And when I do think, I wonder how appallingly selfish I am. Emily may be perfectly happy where she is."

  O'Roarke was silent for a long moment. In the gray light from the window, his face was ashen, his eyes hooded. "It can be a mistake to think one's children are better off without one. At its worst it can be an excuse, a way of letting oneself off."

  Laura studied him. "That sounds like the voice of experience."

  He looked her straight in the eye, yet his gaze was veiled. "I'm a good observer."

  She continued to watch him. It was a relief to push the conversation from her ground to his, and yet, even now, she hesitated to put it into words. "How much did you see Mr. Rannoch when he was a boy?"

  For a moment she'd swear the blood had frozen in O'Roarke's veins. She could not deny the stab of satisfaction. So often it was other people probing at her secrets. "I was friendly with the family," he said in a voice of carefully calibrated normalcy. "I visited a fair amount, especially at his grandfather's estates in Ireland."

  Laura held his gaze for a long moment. "He looks remarkably like you. It's a wonder I didn't see it sooner."

  She thought the air between them would smash to bits. Something broke in his eyes that had probably remained contained since Malcolm Rannoch's birth. "Forgive my dimness, but see what, my dear Miss Dudley?"

  Triumph gave way to compassion in a sudden rush. "My dear Mr. O'Roarke, given what you know about me, don't you think we're beyond such polite fencing? I think I should have known when you told me last December that you were not so fortunate as to have children. The look in your eyes has lived with me since."

  He reached for his wine glass. The armor slammed back into place in his eyes. "I knew you were dangerous the moment I met you. I was just fool enough to think the danger was to Malcolm and Suzanne, rather than to me."

  "You can't think I'd betray them."

  "I think it's very difficult to predict what anyone will do under the right pressure. As you should understand better than most."

  "Does Mr. Rannoch know?"

  O'Roarke took a sip of wine. "That I was friends with his mother and grandfather?"

  She kept her gaze steady on his own. The torment in those gray eyes was so clear, now one knew where to look for it. "I don't know what's worse," she said. "Never to even meet one's child, as I did, or to watch the child grow but not be able to acknowledge him. Even between the two of you."

  He drew in his breath and released it, as though letting go of something buried so deeply he could scarcely acknowledge its existence. "I was luckier than most." His voice was low and rough, unlike anything she had ever heard from him. "I wouldn't trade the time I had with him for anything."

  She found she was holding her breath, for she sensed he was revealing things he had never dared voice, even to those closest to him. Which probably meant Suzanne Rannoch. "I confess, I envy you," she said. "I'd give anything for even a fraction of what you've had with him. And yet I also know how painful it must have been."

  "One could make a fair case I've had far more than I deserved," he said in the same low voice.

  She considered and rejected all the obvious platitudes that rose to her lips. "Did you know Mr. Rannoch and Suzanne were going to be married?"

  Her words seemed to bounce off the hard self-mockery in his gaze. "I didn't actually orchestrate it, if that's what you mean. But yes, I knew. And I didn't stop it. I didn't even discourage it."

  "That must have been difficult."

  "I wouldn't have survived this long had I not learned to live with self-disgust."

  "I was thinking of what Suzanne Rannoch means to you."

  The defenses slammed home in his eyes again.

  "I know she was your agent," Laura said. "But I'm not asking you to admit that. I meant giving up the woman you loved."

  The pause before he replied spoke volumes. So did his tone, so dry it could have crumbled to dust. "My dear Miss Dudley. Surely we're beyond such sentimental twaddle. And surely you know better than to ascribe such sentiments to me."

  "On the contrary. Long before I'd even begun to suspect any of the rest, it was obvious to me how you felt about her. It was Trenchard who first pointed it out."

  "Good God. Surely you know better than to believe such a source."

  "In general. But he was a good judge of people in all their complexities, I'll give him that." She remembered when Trenchard had first questioned her about O'Roarke and Suzanne Rannoch. Her surprise, her defensiveness on behalf of the Rannochs' marriage, and the sudden realization of what should have been blindingly obvious long before.

  She sat back, studying his face. How in God's name had the interview twisted so that sympathy for her interrogator washed over her? "It must have been difficult."

  "What?"

  "Seeing your son marry the woman you love."

  "My dear Miss Dudley. You're too astute a woman to see life in lending library terms."

  "I don't. I observe and make judgments accordingly. I have few pretensions, but I am an excellent observer."

  "Even a good observer can give way to sentiment."

  "I don't know the meaning of the word. I can quite understand your pretending in front of Mr. and Mrs. Rannoch to protect them, but as you said, between the two of us such deception only complicates the situation."

  A faint, unexpected smile curved O'Roarke mouth. "You're a dangerous woman, Miss Dudley. But whatever I felt for Suzanne didn't stop me from playing chess with her and Malcolm,
as she'd be quick to point out. Twist the facts how you will, it's hardly the stuff of romance."

  "A man giving up the woman he loves to his son who also loves her?"

  "Malcolm would say he didn't love her when he first proposed."

  "But I suspect you saw the possibilities between them before either of them did."

  "Perhaps. But even a far more starry-eyed and less astute individual than you could hardly find anything remotely noble in my behavior. I've been driven by commitment to a cause for nearly all my life. And that's become so intertwined with playing a game that it's difficult to tell where one leaves off and the other begins."

  "None of which means you don't love her."

  "Damn it, yes." The words seemed to be torn from him, slamming against the stone walls with a reverberation that surprised them both. "It's a hackneyed word, but there's no other word to describe it adequately. I loved her. Perhaps foolishly, at times. But not so foolishly that I lost sight of the game."

  "Or that you stopped thinking about your son."

  He drew his self-control about him like a torn cloak. "I don't believe that I've admitted any such relationship to Malcolm Rannoch. But at the time, he was my opponent. In a war it mattered desperately to me that we win."

  "If you were such a hard-headed pragmatist, you wouldn't speak with such self-loathing."

  His gaze slid to the side. "All right. Happiness is damnably elusive. I may have thought Suzanne and Malcolm had a chance of snatching a bit of it. It didn't stop the other games I was playing."

  "Which they were playing as well. I don't think either of them would thank you for talking about them as though they were mere pawns."

  A faint but very real smile crossed his face. "There I can't but agree with you."

  She watched him for another few moments. "And your other son?"

  He went still.

  "Don't forget I've bathed him and watched over him and tucked him into bed for a year. The resemblance is obvious."

  He shifted in his chair, leaning a little more into the shadows. "Given the theory you've constructed, surely Malcolm being his father accounts for that."