Secrets of a Lady (34 page)

Jemmy Moore dropped his head in his hands, then winced as he touched his forehead. “Which one of you hit me? With what?”

“I did.” Charles moved away from the door. “With a dice box. It was the nearest thing to hand. Sorry for the bruises. We weren’t prepared for you to run.” He walked to the table, leaned his hand on it, and stood looking down at Moore in the glow of the single lamp. “Miss Trevennen told you she’d be in danger if anyone knew where she was. Caring for her as you do, you took that very seriously.”

“Yes, I—” Moore dropped his head forward as his nose started to drip blood again. “Don’t suppose it would do much good now to say I’ve never heard of a Helen Trevennen?”

“None at all.” Charles walked to the fireplace, took a brimstone match from a jasperware jar on the mantel, and held it to the fire. “I don’t know what this lady told you, but her name is Mélanie Fraser, and she’s my wife.” He lit the tapers in the brass candlesticks on the mantel. “Our six-year-old son was taken from our house last night and we think Miss Trevennen may—quite unwittingly—hold the key to getting him back.”

Moore gave a bark of laughter. “You expect me to believe a story like that?”

“Not really,” Mélanie said. “That’s why I didn’t try it to begin with. But it happens to be the truth.”

Moore looked at her for a moment, from an awkward angle, his head still tilted down. “It’s mad.”

“It most certainly is.” Charles tossed the match into the fire and turned to face Moore. “And this madness could cost our son’s life.”

Moore swallowed. “But—”

He was interrupted by a scratching at the door, followed by the entrance of one of the waiters with a decanter of brandy, glasses, a champagne bucket full of ice, and plentiful towels. Charles poured the brandy. Mélanie supplied Edgar and Moore with ice wrapped in towels to apply to their various bruises.

“How do you know my name?” Moore asked, as Mélanie handed him the towel.

“Helen’s sister Susan told us.”

His mouth quirked. “Susy. I haven’t seen her in years.” He pressed the ice-filled towel to his forehead. “What do you really want with Nelly?”

Mélanie sank into one of the painted beech chairs clustered round the table. “What we’ve told you is true. We’d never invent something so fantastic.” As quickly as possible, she sketched the story of the ring and why they believed it was in Helen Trevennen’s possession.

Moore listened in patent disbelief, which changed to amazement and then, just possibly, to the faintest stirrings of acceptance. By the time she finished, he was slumped back in his chair. His nose had stopped bleeding, but he looked as if he had just received another blow to the face. “If that’s true,” he said at last, “it’s monstrous. But—”

Mélanie leaned forward, hands spread palms-down on the table to still their trembling. “Mr. Moore, you’re our last hope.”

Moore sloshed the brandy in his glass. “I knew when I brought Nelly to London that I wouldn’t be able to keep her to myself for long. Still, I thought there’d always be something between us…”

Charles had moved to a chair beside Mélanie. “Susan said her sister kept coming back to you.”

“Every now and again.”

“I can’t believe she’d have left London without saying good-bye to you.”

“Oh, she said good-bye. Nelly was good at saying good-bye. She came to see me the night before she left London. She said she had to go away, she was going to be all right—more than all right—but she couldn’t come back. It wouldn’t be safe. I didn’t really believe her.” He shook his head. “She’d always come back before.”

“Did she say why she had to go away?” Charles asked.

“I assumed she was going off with a man. I didn’t want to humiliate myself by asking. I half thought the secrecy was just Nelly giving herself airs. But there was a note in her voice—She was afraid of something, and Nelly didn’t frighten easily. When the months went by and I didn’t hear a word from her, I—I worried. It would take a lot to keep Nelly away from London.”

Charles held Moore with the steadiness of his gaze. “And then you did hear?”

Moore released his breath in a long sigh of capitulation. “Four years ago. I had a letter. She said she was well and I mustn’t worry about her, but that it still wasn’t safe to tell me more.”

Mélanie heard a gasp of relief and realized it came from Edgar. She drew a breath. Her necklace felt cold and hard round her throat. “Did she say where she was?”

“No. Nothing so specific.”

“Did she mention friends?” Charles asked. “Landlords, employers?”

Moore shook his head. “She didn’t mention anyone, by name or by implication.”

“Activities?” Charles drilled him with his gaze. “The climate, the surroundings—”

Something flashed in Moore’s eyes. He hesitated, then spoke in a rush. “She said she was growing to like the sea air. And then she added that the Prince Regent’s taste in architecture was as garish as one heard.”

Mélanie looked at Charles. She felt as though a crushing weight had just been lifted from her chest. “The Pavilion. Brighton.”

“Very likely.” Moore took another swallow of brandy. “If Nelly did leave London, it’s like her to pick somewhere stylish.”

Mélanie took a piece of paper and a pencil from her reticule and began to sketch in quick, broad strokes. “Did she say anything else?”

Moore screwed up his face as though in an effort to remember. “That she might not be able to write again, but I should know she’d be thinking of me. That she”—he turned his head toward the fire—“that she treasured her memories of our time together.” This last seemed to be a quote committed to memory. “Damned sentimental language for Nelly.”

Charles picked up the decanter and refilled the glasses. “What sort of paper was the letter written on?”

“Paper?”

“Was it foolscap, pressed paper, scented—”

“Oh, I see what you mean.” Moore closed his eyes. “Nice cream laid paper. Smelled like lavender. Not the sort of scent Nelly wore when I knew her. I suppose—that sounds as though she’s doing rather well for herself, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” Charles said. “It does.”

Mélanie set down her pencil and pushed her sketch across the table to him. “Does that resemble Miss Trevennen at all?”

“Good lord.” Moore stared at the sketch. “I thought you said you’d never met Nelly.”

“I haven’t. I based it on Susan Trevennen. Does it look like her?”

“Quite a bit. Her eyes are a trifle wider set and her mouth curls up a bit more. And—” His fingers drifted over the drawing. “Her brows arch more,” he said, as though only just realizing it.

Mélanie pulled the paper back, smudged out some lines, redrew them, and returned the sketch to Moore.

He studied it for a long moment. “Yes, that’s Nelly. To the life.” His eyes misted. He put an impatient hand to his face. “Sorry. But it’s rather nice to look upon her face again.”

Edgar rested his head against the greasy squabs of the hackney. “Christ.” His voice trembled, roughly equivalent to the way Mélanie’s insides were behaving. “I didn’t think we’d pull it off. I forgot you could throw like that, Charles.”

“I’ve had a fair amount of practice of late.” Tossing a ball to Colin, but Charles didn’t add this last.

The cracked leather of the squabs creaked as Edgar turned his head. “I had no idea you had a talent for portraits of people you’d never met, Mélanie.”

“Parlor tricks.” Mélanie folded her hands round her reticule. The drawing was tucked safely inside along with her pistol. “Someone showed me once, a long time ago.” She felt Charles looking at her. He would realize, as clearly as if she had said the name, that she was referring to Raoul O’Roarke.

“So we go to Brighton,” Edgar said into the silence.

“As soon as we can pack.” Charles’s voice was matter-of-fact, conversational even, as though they hadn’t just been pulled back from the yawning precipice of failure.

“Four years since Miss Trevennen wrote the letter to Moore.” Edgar drew a breath. “You sound so confident.”

Charles turned his head. “My dear Edgar.” Mélanie could feel the force of the gaze her husband turned on his brother. “We can’t afford to be anything else.”

“I’m coming to Brighton with you. You need at least one person who isn’t a member of the walking wounded.”

Charles was silent for a moment. “You certainly won your spurs in that brawl tonight.”

“Look, Charles, if you don’t want me—”

“On the contrary.” Charles’s tone was warmer, the vocal equivalent of a hand clapped on the shoulder. “We’ll be glad of your help. Addison can go to Surrey and talk to Mrs. Jennings.”

They pulled up in Berkeley Square, paid off the hackney, and climbed the steps. “Nothing definite,” Mélanie told Michael, who greeted them at the door, “but we have a promising lead. We’re leaving for Brighton as soon as possible.” She unfastened her cloak. “Ask Randall to ready the traveling chaise.”

“I’ll send word to the stable at once, madam.” Michael lifted her cloak from her shoulders. “There’s a parcel on the table that came for you while you were out.” He gestured toward the console table beneath the hall mirror. A paper-wrapped parcel lay on its polished surface, beside the silver filigree basket for calling cards.

“Who brought it?” Charles asked.

“Scruffy-looking lad of no more than ten.” Michael took Charles’s hat and greatcoat. “He said a gentleman paid him a shilling to deliver it.”

Mélanie walked to the table. Nothing was written on the parcel. It looked innocuous enough, yet she hesitated. Charles moved to her side, leaning on his stick. “Want me to open it?”

“No, I will.” She tugged at the string wrapping. It got tangled, perhaps because her fingers weren’t steady. Edgar gave her his penknife. She sliced through the string and it fell away. The paper rustled as she unwrapped it. Inside was a box, a plain wooden box, about four inches high and six deep.

A chill seemed to rise up from the marble floor and seep beneath the folds of her gown. She was vaguely conscious that Charles had moved closer to her. She opened the lid of the box, hands trembling.

Inside was her son’s severed finger.

Chapter 22

M
élanie choked, turned her head, and vomited onto the scoured marble tiles.

Charles gripped his wife’s shoulders. A sour taste clogged his own throat. He held Mélanie, one hand on her shoulder, the other wrapped round her waist, until the retching stopped. In his years in the Peninsula he had seen shattered skulls, entrails spilling onto the ground, heads cut from the body with the mouths still twitching and grimacing. Mélanie had seen as much. He had never known her to react like this, nor had he reacted so himself.

“My God.” Edgar’s voice came from behind him. “Are you sure—”

Mélanie wrenched herself away from Charles, wiped her hand across her mouth, turned back to the open box. “It’s Colin’s.”

Charles forced himself to follow her gaze. The branch of candles on the table cast all too much light on the contents of the box. It was a child’s pinkie finger, severed just below the second knuckle. Beneath the smears of blood, the skin was pale and creamy. Like Mélanie’s. Like Colin’s. But—“Are you certain?” he said. His voice didn’t sound like his own.

“It’s the little finger of his right hand.” Mélanie’s voice was without expression. “There’s a scratch by the second knuckle from where he fell down playing knights with Jessica yes—” Her voice caught as though she suddenly couldn’t breathe. “Yesterday.”

A cloud of rage darkened his vision. He ran his gaze over the box with deliberation. For the first time he noticed a white card tucked into the side. He picked it up by the corner. The writing on the card matched Carevalo’s letter this morning.

Just in case you think I don’t mean what I say.

He dropped the card on the table and snapped the lid of the box shut. “Michael. Go round to Mr. Roth at number Forty-two Wardour Street. If he’s not at home, try the Bow Street Public Office. Ask him to come to Berkeley Square as soon as possible. Tell Randall to ready the traveling chaise. We’ll leave for Brighton as soon as we’ve seen Roth. Is Addison back? Good. Have him and Blanca pack valises for Mrs. Fraser and me. Enough for a day or two. And tell Addison to pack some things for Captain Fraser as well.” He put his hand on the back of Mélanie’s neck. “Library.”

“We’d better bring the box,” she said in the same expressionless voice. “And the note. Roth should see them. Edgar, perhaps you could—”

“Yes, of course.” Edgar reached for the box, paused for a moment, then gathered up both it and the card.

They walked the few steps to the library without speaking, Charles still with his hand on the back of Mélanie’s neck. Inside the room, she pulled away from him and dropped down on the sofa, hugging her arms round her.

Edgar set the box and card on the table nearest the door and began to pace the carpet. “The bastard. The goddamned lily-livered, spineless, immoral—”

“Edgar.” Charles tugged his handkerchief from his pocket and splashed it with water from the pitcher on the drinks table. “That’s not helping.”

“I don’t think—” Mélanie spoke in a low, rough voice, her gaze on the carpet. “Part of me didn’t believe he’d go through with it until now.”

“Yes.” Charles dropped down in front of her and wiped her face with the damp handkerchief.

She jerked away from him. “Charles, we can’t—we don’t have time to wait for Roth,” she said, as though his words in the hall had only just registered with her.

“We can afford an hour.” He sat back on his heels, ignoring the twinge in his leg. “Roth should know about this. It may affect the search for the people who are holding Colin. And we should tell him we’re going to Brighton and what we’ve learned and how to reach us.”

She retched again. She was shuddering, hunched over, as if fighting some private war with herself.

“Do you want some tea?” Charles said. “Or—”

“I’m all right, Charles.” The words slapped against his skin. “I don’t need cosseting. Colin does.”

In two swift motions he was off the floor and on the sofa beside her. “Christ, Mel. You don’t have to do this alone.” He gathered her against him.