The Mayfair Affair

by Tracy Grant

  Malcolm set down his pen. He was working on notes for a speech he was giving against the Indemnity Bill, investigation or no. "Trenchard could have done all sorts of things for all sorts of reasons. We have to wait."

  Suzanne added a block to the tower at the center of the castle. "I hate waiting."

  Colin looked up from arranging his lead knights. "Is Emily going to come here?"

  "We hope so, sweetheart."

  "Em." Jessica picked up a stuffed horse and charged it at the castle. Suzanne scooped her up just before she could send the blocks tumbling.

  Malcolm got up from the writing desk. "Perhaps—"

  He broke off as the door swung open and Valentin showed David and Simon into the room.

  "I'm sorry." David, usually so correct, seemed unsure of what to do. "I know it's late. But Simon convinced me I should talk to you, and I didn't want to wait any longer."

  "Why don't you and Malcolm go into the study?" Suzanne suggested. "And perhaps Simon would keep the children and me company?"

  From David's obvious relief and Simon's ready acquiescence it was plain she had made the right suggestion. Malcolm took his friend into the adjoining study and put a whisky in his hand. David stared at the drink as though unsure what to do with it. "Mary's going to marry Gui Laclos."

  "I'm glad."

  David gulped down a swallow of whisky. "I knew. That he was the father of the baby. Mary confided in me only last week. I hadn't even told Simon. I think he knew I was keeping something from him. And of course I kept it from you."

  "Your loyalties are strained, to say the least." Malcolm poured a whisky for himself and downed a swallow. David had always been one of the easiest people for him to talk to, but ever since Malcolm had learned the truth about Suzanne, it hung in his mind whenever he spoke to his friend. "That isn't why ou came to see me tonight though, is it?"

  "No."

  "Is it Mary or Louisa?" Malcolm suspected David had learned about Louisa's affair with Trenchard.

  "No." David took another gulp of whisky. "It's Father."

  That took Malcolm off guard, if only because Carfax was generally very good at keeping things from his children.

  "I saw something I wasn't supposed to. Years ago. It must have been 1809, because you were in the Peninsula and Simon was working on The Deceitful Heart. I'd gone into his study to look for correspondence with Father's estate agent when he was detained in the country, and I stumbled across this. I wasn't sure what to make of it. But now—" He took a turn about the hearthrug. "Father was paying Craven. He'd just instructed his banker to transfer a large sum."

  "Yes, I know. Craven was one of his agents."

  "His— " David spun round and stared at him. "Malcolm, are you telling me Craven was a spy?"

  "Not in the classic sense. Your father has a whole network of informants. Craven passed information along to him. Your father found it useful to have Craven working with Trenchard."

  David's mouth twisted. How a man like Carfax had come to have a son who took the gentleman's code so seriously was a constant mystery to Malcolm.

  "How long have you known?" David demanded.

  "Not until after Craven's death. Louisa told me your father had arranged to have Craven appointed to assist Trenchard on his mission to India, and I pieced the rest together. I know how your father works."

  David grimaced. "Did Father tell you he was paying Craven?"

  "Not explicitly. He implied the information was a quid pro quo for his help in advancing Craven's career. But I'm not surprised additional payment was involved."

  One would have thought the relatively harmless—by Carfax's standards—explanation would have reassured David, but his frown deepened. "This wasn't a routine payment. It was ten thousand pounds."

  Charles whistled. Carfax was a wealthy man, but that would have strained even his resources. "Surprising, I grant you. But Craven may have undertaken a particular task for your father. Or your father could have been helping Craven and Louisa settle debts."

  David took another sip of whisky and began to prowl the hearthrug again.

  "What?" Malcolm asked. Sometimes it didn't require words for David and him to have a conversation.

  "Craven came to see Father the day after Trenchard was killed. I'd come to Carfax House to give Father a report on Mary. The footman told me Craven was with him, but I didn't see any need to stand on ceremony, so I was going to show myself in."

  "Your heard their voices through the study door?"

  David, the last person in the world to eavesdrop, grimaced. "I couldn't very well help it. Craven was saying, 'I can make the whole thing public, you know.' I couldn't make out Father's reply—he had the wit to moderate his voice—but Craven replied 'Try me.' At that point I'd recovered from my shock enough to beat a retreat, wait a few minutes, and then come back down the passage making as much noise as I could to announce my arrival. Craven excused himself almost the moment I walked into the room. Even then I could tell he was angry. Father was his usual controlled self. I told myself it wasn't any of my concern."

  "A natural response."

  "I couldn't see a direct connection to Trenchard's murder. But then Craven was killed as well." David tossed down a swallow of whisky. "I didn't tell you yesterday, Malcolm."

  "So I noticed."

  "Because, as you said, you have to be an investigator in this, not just a friend, and I have to think of you that way. I had to work out where my loyalties lay. I'm still not sure."

  "Loyalty is rarely clear cut."

  "It should be. One should be able to see the honorable thing to do."

  "David." Malcolm studied his friend's conflicted face. "What are you afraid of?"

  "Isn't it obvious?" David spun to face him. "You said it yourself. Even I admitted to it at the start of the investigation, though at that point I couldn't quite believe it. Father isn't the sort to have his sons-in-law killed for personal reasons. But we both know he wouldn't cavil at it if political reasons called for it. He could well have had a reason to go after Trenchard. And this conversation gives him a clear reason to have gone after Craven."

  "It makes the case against him stronger," Malcolm agreed. "It's far from proving anything."

  "It proves Father had reason to kill Craven."

  "A lot of people threaten your father."

  "If there's proof, you'll find it. You have to, Malcolm. Tell me what I can do to help. I'll go through Father's things if I must."

  "It's a generous offer, David. I know what it costs you."

  David flushed. "I daresay you could do it on your own. But if there's anything— I need to know, Malcolm."

  "Even if you end up hating—"

  "Father? That's his lookout."

  Malcolm regarded the friend with whom he had shared the majority of his life. "I meant even if you end up hating me."

  Simon regarded Colin, now lining up his knights in front of the castle.

  "He's negotiating a parley." Suzanne looked up from Jessica, who had fallen asleep in her arms nursing. "His father's son."

  Simon smiled. "I think that's the influence of both parents." He picked up her glass of whisky and put it in her free hand. "Thank you. For understanding. I think David will say this best to Malcolm alone."

  "Some things can only be said to someone one trusts deeply."

  "And sometimes an old trust is more important than a deep one." Simon reached for his own glass. "God knows I don't understand where this investigation is headed. I know less about it than either of you. But I can't see an outcome that will be anything but painful for David." He took a sip. "And because it's his family, there's a limit to how much he'll tell me."

  Suzanne shifted her arm beneath Jessica. Sometimes she forgot hers wasn't the only complicated relationship among her friends. "He confided in you about Mary's plight."

  "Oh, yes. I was grateful for that. I think it was partly because he needed practical advice on what to do for her. His father is different." Simon took
another drink of whisky. "You became a Rannoch when you married Malcolm, which brings its own set of complications. I'll never be a Mallinson. Not that I'd want to be. Perish the thought."

  Suzanne studied him. His face was set in harsher lines than usual, while at the same time the vulnerability had never shone through so strongly beneath the veneer. Like an adolescent boy, half bravado, half still a child. "I don't think I appreciate— I envy how comfortable you are together. I've long since accepted one can't ever really belong in this world even though one marries into it. But I hadn't thought what it would be like not to be able to even nominally be part of the family."

  Simon gave one of his quick, flexible smiles. "As I said, it also has its advantages. But in this case, I think Malcolm may be able to help David more than I can. Malcolm understands Carfax."

  Suzanne pulled her daughter closer. "Malcolm would claim to be free of illusions where Carfax is concerned."

  "But?" Simon asked.

  "Malcolm respects him. More than that. He cares about him, or I don't think he could have worked for him for so long."

  Simon nodded. "In some ways, Carfax is the closest Malcolm has to a father."

  Carfax and Raoul, but of course she couldn't say that. "You're not the only one anxious about where this investigation may end up," she said.

  "You think Malcolm isn't prepared for what he may learn about Carfax?" Simon asked.

  "Not exactly. I think Malcolm is prepared to discover Carfax has done just about anything. I just don't think he's prepared for his own reaction."

  Chapter 33

  Adolphus Molton's house stood on the edge of town. The drive was short but lined with elms, the house itself cream-washed brick with columns in front and squat wings on either side, a miniaturized version of Palladian splendor.

  "You'd best lead the way," Addison murmured as they pulled up in the gravel drive. "The footman will remember me."

  Raoul handed Laura from the Rannochs' traveling carriage. His touch was perfectly correct, but he gave her fingers the briefest squeeze before he released her. If Addison was aware of the shattering changes of the night before, he gave no sign of it. He'd greeted them cheerfully at breakfast and spoken of the challenges ahead as though nothing had changed. But then, Addison wouldn't let on even if he did notice. And facing him was nothing compared to what it would be like to face the Rannochs when they returned to Berkeley Square. Not that she could really think that far ahead.

  The footman who answered the door regarded them with a disparaging gaze. "Spare us the denials," Raoul said, handing over his card.

  "Mr. Molton—"

  "Tell Mr. Molton that Lady Tarrington wishes to speak with him," Laura said.

  The footman blinked. It made it worth it to use the alien name.

  "My compliments," Raoul murmured, when the footman had vanished up the mahogany-railed staircase.

  "We don't know that it worked yet."

  "If nothing else, curiosity will make him see us."

  The footman returned a few moments later. "Lady Tarrington. Mr. O'Roarke. Mr. Addison. Mr. Molton will see you."

  Laura swept after him, head held high. Odd how a name could change one's image of oneself. She was wearing the pelisse Suzanne had given her, with a bonnet ornamented with black braid and sapphire velvet ribbons. Yet, with the long-forgot name of Lady Tarrington, she could almost hear the rustle of silk skirts and feel the weight of the Fitzwalter emeralds round her throat.

  The footman conducted them to a sitting room filled with fashionably striped furniture and hung with paper painted to resemble silk. Adolphus Molton came forwards at their entrance. He was a stout man of her father's age with thinning dark hair, a florid face, and a stubborn set to his jaw. "Lady Tarrington, a great—"

  He stopped short, the color draining from his face.

  "You were expecting my sister-in-law?" Laura asked. "Hetty is now the Duchess of Trenchard."

  "I believe— that is—"

  "I'm Jane Tarrington. Jack's widow."

  "She died," Molton said with a woeful lack of finesse. Whatever his other crimes, it appeared he hadn't known she was alive.

  "So it was thought for some years. But as you see, I am very much alive." Laura sank down on a gold-and-cream striped sofa and began to remove her gloves.

  "But—"

  "Do you wish me to send to His Grace, the new duke, for confirmation?" Addison asked. "I am perfectly prepared to do so, though it will lead to tiresome delay. And His Grace will not be best pleased to find his brother's widow was doubted."

  Molton's gaze shot from Addison to Laura to Raoul. He dropped down heavily into a chair that was a good imitation of Sheraton. "Forgive me. I am delighted to see you in such good health, Lady Tarrington. How may I assist you?"

  "As I believe Mr. Addison explained, we are looking for a little girl. She's called Emily Saunders."

  "And as I explained to Mr. Addison, there is no such person. The name was"—he coughed—"an alias."

  "I know you spun him a farrago of nonsense about my late father-in-law using it as cover to pay you for covering up one of my husband's peccadilloes. And though goodness knows Jack had plenty of scandals to cover up, it's plainly nonsense. We know who Emily is. She's my daughter."

  "My dear Lady Tarrington," Molton said, "I don't know what His Grace may have told you—"

  "I don't know what he may have told you," Raoul interjected. "But whatever he threatened, His Grace is dead, and we are very much alive and not to be trifled with."

  "Mr. O'Rourke, is it? I don't believe I understand your connection—"

  "A friend of the family." Raoul's tone dared Molton to ask further questions. "Time to cut the line, Molton. We know the girl is at the Murchison School."

  "That's preposterous."

  "No, what's preposterous is you attempting to keep a child from her mother. The payments will stop, you know, whether Lady Tarrington recovers her daughter or not."

  Something shifted in Molton's eyes. "That's—"

  "If we are called upon to investigate the school, there's no telling what we might uncover. Lord Carfax happens to be a close friend of mine. I was at his house only four nights ago. He has a reputation for being hardheaded, but he's very fond of his children and grandchildren. And he's close to Lord Sidmouth and Lord Liverpool. I imagine Carfax and the home secretary and prime minister would not be best pleased if they investigate where the funds that are supposed to be supporting the orphans at Murchison are really going."

  "I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. O'Roarke."

  "No?" Raoul's voice was courteous, but he was eyeing Molton as though the other man were something nasty he had dragged in on his shoe. "Then you won't object to my suggesting Carfax pay a visit to the school. He has a house not far from here. I'm sure Lady Carfax would love to accompany him and see the young pupils."

  Molton drew a breath and twitched the lapels of his coat. "I don't know why we're talking about the Murchison School. I'm honored to be associated with it, but this supposed Emily Saunders has nothing to do with the place."

  Raoul sat back in his chair and folded his arms. "My dear Molton, you gave it away the moment Lady Tarrington walked into the room."

  "Nonsense. I never admitted—"

  "You were shocked. But you recognized her. The only explanation is that Emily looks remarkably like her mother."

  Laura could not suppress an indrawn breath. She'd wondered countless times what Emily looked like. Like that? she would think, sitting in the Berkeley Square garden with Colin and Jessica, or walking in Hyde Park and seeing a little girl of three or four with her gloved hand tucked in that of her mother or nurse or rolling a hoop or leaning out of an open carriage. But Emily's features always remained a blur in her imaginings, as tantalizingly out of reach as Emily herself. Suddenly her imaginings had at least the promise of solidity.

  Molton glanced to the side, as though seeking escape amid the porcelain figurines clustered on the mantel, and th
en down at the burgundy and gold swirls on the carpet. A good carpet, Laura realized. Those vivid reds and golds and the delicate design spoke of something genuinely from India, not a painted imitation like so much in the room. "Lady Tarrington, much as I sympathize with your plight, I fear—"

  The door swung open. "I heard we had guests, my love, I've just asked them to send tea in." A woman drew up short in the doorway. She looked a decade or so younger than Molton, with fair hair teased into ringlets and wide blue eyes.

  "It's not a social call, Sally," Molton began, but both Raoul and Addison had already risen.

  "My compliments, Mrs. Molton," Raoul said, "thank you for receiving us in your house." Leaving Molton with little choice but to introduce them to his wife.

  Mrs. Molton nodded as though she had no appreciation of the social undercurrents, but froze when her gaze settled on Laura. "Good heavens. I'm so sorry, Lady Tarrington, I mistook you for someone else."

  "A child perhaps?" Laura asked.

  "You're the image of her. That is—" Mrs. Molton coughed. Saying anyone bore a resemblance to the children at the orphanage was obviously delicate ground to tread on.

  "We're looking for my daughter," Laura said. "We believe she is at the Murchison School."

  "Good heavens, of course." Mrs. Molton turned to her husband. "You must see it, my dear. That sweet little girl who brought me the flowers on our last visit is like a miniature copy of her. But how—"

  "You must understand." Molton had the look of a man who realizes it's time to change sides. "His Grace insisted on the greatest secrecy. He said in the event anything happened to him he had made arrangements to continue Emily's care."

  "Arrangements with whom?" Raoul asked.

  "I didn't know." Molton tugged at his cravat. "Not until I got the letter after His Grace's death."

  "The letter from whom?" Laura gripped the edge of the sofa.