The Berkeley Square Affair (Malcolm & Suzanne Rannoch) (12 page)

“Caro made it her business to learn.”

“Why—Because of Byron?”

“Precisely. I think she thinks the prospect of a lost Shakespeare play will intrigue him. And despite—or because of—all her denials to the contrary, Caro isn’t the least bit over him. She asked me if I could get her into a rehearsal. I told her Simon was very particular. I thought he’d prefer I said that than risk Caro causing a scene that could upstage even
Hamlet
.”

“Very diplomatic.” Suzanne watched Jessica and Drusilla, who were now waving their hands at each other and babbling back and forth.

Cordelia scanned her face. “So this does concern the
Hamlet
script?”

“In part. Someone attacked Simon when he was bringing it to our house two nights ago.”

“Good God. They wanted the manuscript?”

“Or possibly something coded in the manuscript.” Suzanne watched the girls clap their hands gleefully, then surveyed her friend. “Cordy, it may concern Harry’s uncle.”

Cordelia’s eyes widened. “Archibald Davenport?”

“And Lord Bessborough.”

“Good God.” Cordelia put up a hand to the brim of her sapphire velvet hat. “One doesn’t expect people one’s known since one was a girl to be involved in anything cloak-and-dagger. Lord Bessborough was always just ‘Caro’s father’ to me. And Mr. Davenport—” She touched Drusilla’s hair, then glanced up the stairs from whence Livia’s and Colin’s shrieks emanated. “It would be woefully inaccurate to say he and Harry were ever anything approaching close. But he’s the only family Harry has. Harry would laugh at the suggestion that he cares for his uncle. But then Harry often laughs at the things that matter to him most.”

“Much like Malcolm with his father.”

“Is Alistair Rannoch caught up in this as well?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Cordelia watched Drusilla, who had found a raven’s feather and was holding it out to Jessica. “I didn’t see Mr. Rannoch and Malcolm together much. But I remember a party at Carfax Court when the Rannochs were staying there. One of Alistair and Lady Arabella’s rare appearances together. I was about seven, so Malcolm must have been ten or so. I’ll never forget the look on his face when the nursery party came in. Alistair could cut Malcolm with his gaze. And draw blood.”

“I’m sorry.” Suzanne looked at Jessica and clapped her hands. Jessica grinned and clapped back. “We’ve pulled you into something personal again.”

Cordelia gave one of her brilliant, defiant grins. “I asked for it. And at least this time it doesn’t involve one of my ex-lovers. I take it you want my help talking to them? Mr. Davenport and Lord Bessborough?”

“If possible.”

“It’s odd, they neither of them seem particularly political, for all Lord Bessborough is part of the Devonshire House set. Mr. Davenport is a Whig M.P., but he seems to spend most of his time going to parties at Carlton House. And ogling ladies. Which are much the same thing. Though I must say—”

“Yes?” Jessica took three careful steps over to Suzanne and grabbed her knees. Suzanne bent down to scoop her up.

Cordelia watched as Drusilla ran to the doorway. “I scarcely saw Mr. Davenport that first year Harry and I were married. The year we lived together. When Harry did mention him, his words were unusually dismissive, even for Harry. But after Harry and I—After he left.” Cordelia swallowed. She had, she freely admitted, married Harry on the rebound from the loss of her childhood love, desperate less for a husband than for an establishment and a position in society. A year into her marriage, her old love had returned from the Peninsula and they had tumbled into an affair, though he too was married. Harry had discovered it, with disastrous consequences.

“When you were apart,” Suzanne said.

Cordelia tucked a strand of hair beneath her bonnet. “I don’t know why I should be shy to mention it. It’s nothing you don’t know after all. After Harry left, Mr. Davenport came to see me. Which was rather a surprise, as I was a distinct social pariah at that point. Even my own family looked at me askance. I fear I was rather inclined to pull the covers over my head and feel sorry for myself.”

“You had reason.” Suzanne set Jessica on the ground. Jessica toddled after Drusilla on stiff, careful legs, arms held out for balance. After four steps she dropped down and crawled the rest of the way.

“Well, yes, but it wasn’t doing me any good. You’d have rallied much sooner. Not outside, darling.” Cordelia turned Drusilla round before she could go out of the door and then crouched down to turn Jessica round as well. “Then Mr. Davenport arrived on my doorstep—earlier than I’d have expected him to be abroad—and said he might not know me well, but he’d seen enough of me to know I had too much bottom to be overset by a bunch of scandalmongers. When I said Harry might not thank him for taking an interest in me, he said he knew better than to get between a husband and wife, but I was still his niece. Then he insisted I put on my prettiest bonnet and go for a drive with him in Hyde Park. And of course since I was with him, people could not but stop and talk to us.” She bent down to take a leaf from Drusilla’s fingers and gave the baby her comb instead. “It saved me from receiving the cut direct. The next week he invited me to dine. The Duke of York and Lady Melbourne were among his guests. After that, though I lost my vouchers to Almack’s and wasn’t invited by the highest sticklers, I was no longer a social outcast.” She cast a glance at Suzanne. “It sounds funny to talk about being an outcast after Waterloo and everything we’ve been through, but such things can matter. More than you think. More than they should.”

“There’s nothing odd about not wanting to be alone.” Suzanne watched Jessica scoot back to her, one leg tucked under her, one hand held aloft. Jessica pointed a finger up at the ceiling. “Ma,” she announced as though she’d made a great discovery.

“I appreciate life’s complexities more now,” Cordelia said. “But at the time such things mattered to me more than I care to admit. And it made life seem less cold. When Livia was born Mr. Davenport insisted on giving her christening breakfast.” Cordelia touched Drusilla’s hair and cast a quick glance up the stairs. “Though he must have known I couldn’t be certain who her father was.” She forced a smile to her lips, the smile with which Suzanne had seen her face down gossip. “I can help you talk to him. He’s fond of the girls, I think. And more inclined to talk to me than to Harry. And I can talk to Caro about Lord Bessborough.”

“You’re a good friend, Cordy,” Suzanne said, as Colin’s and Livia’s footsteps pounded back down the stairs.

Cordelia gave a crooked smile. “To own the truth, I’ve been growing rather nostalgic for our Continental adventures.”

CHAPTER 10

“Cordelia, my dear.” Archibald Davenport came forwards with a smile that lit his face and kissed Cordelia’s cheek. He was a tall man, with strongly marked features. His hair was lightly powdered and his coat was cut in the style of the last century, which reminded Suzanne of Prince Talleyrand. As did the shrewdness in Davenport’s blue eyes. “You’re growing.” He ruffled Drusilla’s pale hair. Drusilla, in her mother’s arms, grinned with delight. Davenport bent over Livia. “And you’re turning into a young lady. As stylish as your mama.”

“Thank you, Uncle Archie.” Livia smiled and lifted her face for his kiss. Davenport swept a courtly bow and kissed her cheek.

“You know Mrs. Rannoch.” Cordelia extended a hand. “And her children, Colin and Jessica.”

“Quite a nursery invasion,” Davenport said. But he smiled as he said it. “I believe there are some cakes in the kitchen. Let me ring and see what my staff can muster.”

Livia giggled, obviously well at ease with her great-uncle. Davenport bent down, a little stiffly, and scooped her into his arms.

“We’ve been to the Tower,” Livia informed her great-uncle. “Did you know Guildford Dudley scratched Lady Jane Grey’s name on the wall of his cell?”

“Did he? Surprisingly romantic.”

“Yes, especially since their parents made them get married. She was only eleven years older than I am. I’m lucky I have Mummy and Daddy for parents.”

Davenport smiled at Cordelia over Livia’s head, then looked back at his great-niece. “So you are, my dear, so you are.”

A quarter hour later the children were settled round the fireplace with cakes and lemonade while Davenport poured glasses of a pale gold Tokay for Cordelia and Suzanne. “Now to business. Tiresome word that.” He settled back in his wing-back chair, glass held negligently between two fingers. “I take it you are here because of some investigation you are engaged in with your husband, Mrs. Rannoch?”

“Uncle Archie.” Cordelia opened her eyes very wide. “I didn’t say anything about an investigation.”

“Of course not, my dear. You’re much too discreet.” Davenport took a sip of wine. “But I could hardly fail to be aware of the swath the charming Mrs. Rannoch has cut through society in recent years. And contrary to the general opinion, I was not solely aware of her lovely person. Not that you aren’t thoroughly noteworthy on that account, Mrs. Rannoch.” Davenport gave Suzanne a smile that was an expert blend of the fatherly and the flirtatious.

“Thank you, Mr. Davenport. You’re too kind.”

Davenport lifted his glass to her and took a sip. “But though few would credit it, I do have a certain amount of political awareness. Enough to notice when spies are being ferreted out.”

Suzanne regarded Harry Davenport’s uncle over the rim of her wineglass. “Why don’t you tell us what you know, Mr. Davenport?”

“What I know? Oh, nothing.” Davenport leaned forwards and reached for the decanter. “What I infer? Why, that you and your husband are looking into the deaths of my friends Harleton and Alistair Rannoch and the source of the Dunboyne affair.”

“How fascinating,” Suzanne said with a bright smile. “What makes you think that?”

“My dear Mrs. Rannoch.” Davenport topped off her glass. “I do have connections at Whitehall. Which doesn’t only mean that I drink port with the prince regent, though I confess that is a large part of how I spend my time. But my interests are broader. As are my connections.”

For the first time, Davenport put Suzanne in mind of his nephew. It was something about the bright hardness in his eyes and the mockery and challenge in the curve of his mouth. “Perhaps you should tell us what you surmise, Mr. Davenport.”

“You think the source of the Dunboyne leak was at a certain dinner party, a dinner party more notable after the fact than at the time. Though I must say any dinner party at which someone is challenged to a duel is memorable, if perhaps in poor taste.”

“Challenged to a duel?” Cordelia had been letting Suzanne do the talking, but this roused her to speech.

“Yes. In rather poor taste, as I said. I have the greatest admiration for the many attributes of your sex, but I hope you will forgive me for saying that one really shouldn’t let a woman sully an evening of good port and billiards.”

“Uncle Archie.” Cordelia cast a glance at the children, who were building a fort out of the green silk sofa cushions, then leaned towards her uncle, hands in her lap. “Who challenged whom to a duel?”

“Harleton.” Davenport took a sip of Tokay. “Never could hold his drink particularly well. And apparently also couldn’t hold on to his women. And didn’t have the sense to see that if one can’t hold on to a woman, the best way to avoid embarrassment is to at least pretend that one doesn’t care.”

Suzanne watched her son put a steadying hand at Jessica’s waist as she pulled herself to her feet, gripping the edge of the pillowless couch. “Whom did Lord Harleton challenge?”

Davenport set down his glass. “You’re a woman of the world, Mrs. Rannoch. I don’t expect you’ll be shocked. Your husband’s father. Alistair Rannoch.”

Suzanne sat back in her chair. Always exciting when the puzzle pieces shifted, showing new patterns that might bring one closer to the solution to the mystery. But that excitement held a frisson of fear when the people involved were people close to one. And particularly close to one’s husband.

“Lord Harleton and Alistair Rannoch were involved with the same woman?” She cast a glance at the children, but Colin was helping Drusilla run and Livia was clapping with Jessica and their cheerful squeals showed they weren’t listening. Even if they’d been able to make sense of it, considering she herself was baffled by the affairs of the Glenister House set.

“Apparently.” Davenport took a sip of wine. “Hardly unusual in our set.” He too flicked a glance at the children. “I’m sure you’re both too much women of the world to be shocked. In general, as I said, one either doesn’t care or at least has the wit to pretend one doesn’t. But of course it isn’t always that tidy. One can have no concept of fidelity oneself and still feel possessive towards a lover. As my own past experience tells me.”

“Who was the lady Harleton and Alistair quarreled over?” Cordelia asked.

“I don’t know. I have a fair ear for gossip, but I hadn’t heard anything. The first I knew of it was before dinner. We were about to sit down and suddenly I heard the sound of a fist smashing into a jaw. Harleton had drawn Alistair’s cork. I must say Alistair was remarkably restrained. Got to his feet with a bloody nose, pulled out his handkerchief, and said perhaps he and Harleton could talk in private. Harleton said something along the lines of”—Davenport cast another glance at the children—“ ‘you upstart bastard, never could keep your hands off what wasn’t yours.’ Then he said”—Davenport frowned—“ ‘You’d steal it, too, if you could get your hands on it.’ ”

“ ‘It’?” Suzanne repeated. “Not ‘her’?”

“No, he definitely said ‘it.’ ” Davenport shifted in his chair, crossing his legs. “And the odd thing is that’s when Alistair looked angry. More than that—alarmed, I’d say. He said, ‘If you can’t keep your women satisfied—,’ but I’d swear he said it to provoke Harleton, to turn the conversation back to the woman in question instead of to whatever else Harleton had been referring to. And it worked. Harleton pulled off his evening gloves and slapped Alistair in the face. Alistair said he was delighted to meet him and strode from the room. Harleton followed shortly.”

“That was why they both left early,” Suzanne said.

“Quite.” Davenport settled back in his chair. “Their idiocy kept them both from being suspected of the Dunboyne leak.”

“What happened at the duel?” Cordelia asked.

“I don’t know. Thankfully I wasn’t called upon to be the second for either man.”

“Did you ever hear anything more about the quarrel?” Suzanne asked. “About the lady or about the other matter?”

“No.” Davenport frowned. “The odd thing is, the next time I saw Alistair and Harleton was at White’s. They were in the morning room drinking port together as though nothing had occurred. I actually stared for a moment to make sure it was really them. Later I passed Harleton on the stairs and commented I was glad they’d patched things up. Harleton said—” Davenport frowned.

“What?” Cordelia asked.

Davenport took a sip of wine. “ ‘Best keep your enemies close.’ ”

 

Trees overhung the twisting waters of the Serpentine in a sodden tangle of bare branches with touches of lingering russet and gilt. The sky was washed gray. Few were abroad on this drizzly morning, but a man sat on a bench by the water’s edge, wrapped in a greatcoat, a sketch pad in his lap, a charcoal in his hand. Malcolm sensed Hugo Cyrus was aware of his and Harry’s approach from the moment they emerged from the tree line, but the man continued sketching and didn’t look up until Malcolm and Harry dismounted and led their horses up beside the bench.

“Rannoch.” Hugo Cyrus’s pale blue gaze skimmed over Malcolm. “And Davenport.”

“Good day, sir,” Harry said. “Is Hugh well?”

“I think so. Haven’t heard from him for a few weeks. My son keeps to the country and has a surprising affinity for farming. But we needn’t waste time on niceties. I’ve been wondering when you’d seek me out.”

Malcolm brushed a hand over the damp bench and dropped down beside him. “What made you think we’d seek you out?”

Cyrus gave an unexpected grin. “Come now, Rannoch. I have an ear to the ground. You’ve been talking to Carfax. You’ve been to Smytheton’s beloved Tavistock. This
Hamlet
manuscript came from Harleton.” His gaze shifted over the water. “When I left the house today I actually gave even odds on whether you’d seek me out. This seemed as good a place as any to talk.”

“You come here often?”

“I like the view.”

Malcolm glanced down at the sketch pad. It showed a half-finished charcoal of the river and trees, dark bold strokes, impressionistic and strong. “I didn’t realize you drew.”

“Not what one expects of a military man? Had to find something to fill the empty hours on campaign.” He glanced at Harry. “I imagine you understand, Davenport.”

“The need for distraction on campaign?” Harry murmured a command to the horses and dropped down beside Malcolm. “Quite. Also the need to create something of beauty in the face of numbing destruction.”

“You’re more poetic than I, Davenport, but perhaps there’s an element of that as well.” Cyrus squinted at the sky. “Most artists prefer to draw in the sunlight, but I’ve always liked the shadows. So much interesting hidden in them.” He smiled at Malcolm and Harry as though the irony was quite lost on him, though Malcolm was sure it was not.

Malcolm turned on the bench to face Cyrus. “What do you know?”

Cyrus twisted the charcoal between his fingers. “I may not have your level of erudition, but I have enough wit to decipher that you’re looking into the Dunboyne business.”

Cyrus was an astute man, but it was quick for him to have arrived at this intelligence. “Have you discussed it with the others who were at the dinner party?” Malcolm asked.

“Would you believe me whatever I said?”

“I’d be interested in what you say regardless.”

Cyrus gave a wintry smile and set the charcoal down in the sketch box beside him. “Smytheton came to see me last night. Said you and your lovely wife had been at the theatre, asking questions about the manuscript, and that it could lead to Harleton and then to Dunboyne.”

“Why should the manuscript and Lord Harleton necessarily lead to the Dunboyne leak?” Harry asked.

“Harleton was at the dinner party where the Dunboyne information was uncovered.”

“But he left before the information was taken,” Malcolm said. “As did my father. And there’s no reason any of it should be connected to the
Hamlet
manuscript.”

Cyrus shrugged. “Smytheton always was excitable.” He rubbed the charcoal from his fingers. “Couldn’t figure out if he was warning me or seeking reassurance. Or both.”

“Were you able to reassure him?”

Cyrus’s smile deepened. “I told him if he had as little to do with the whole business as I did, he had nothing to worry about.” He turned, stretching one arm along the back of the bench, as though laying claim to it. “But of course from your perspective, one of us must have had a great deal to do with it.”

“It?”

“Don’t play games, Rannoch, you’re not pretty enough to pull off the coyness. The leak. The disaster at Dunboyne that took my brother’s life.” Cyrus’s fingers tightened on the back of the bench. He’d missed a smudge of charcoal on the knuckle of his third finger.

“You must have wondered who was behind it,” Malcolm said.

“Of course I wondered.” Cyrus’s voice rippled across the water. “Even without Carfax asking questions. Bungling drives me mad, but I own losing Thomas put it in a whole different key.”

“I can understand that. I have a brother myself.” Malcolm felt the weight of Edgar’s wounded body when he lifted him in his arms after Waterloo. “And?”

Cyrus flexed his fingers against the wood. “I’ve never been the sort to claim my friends are saints. I’ve seen enough in war to know what the most seemingly honorable men can be capable of. But one still doesn’t like to think—” He shook his head. “If there’s one line one doesn’t cross it’s betraying one’s fellows.”

“Do you include my father and Harleton in that?”

“Your father was—” Cyrus broke off, the explanation dangling in the air like condensed breath.

“An outsider.”

“No sense in wrapping it up in clean linen. At least he was an outsider when we met at university. By the time of the Dunboyne business, he’d come into his money and married your mother.”

“But he was still an outsider.”

“He was the Duke of Strathdon’s son-in-law.”

“And an outsider even to my grandfather.”

“His relationship to your mother may have had something to do with that.” Cyrus tapped his fingers on the back of the bench. “We were none of us lacking in funds at the time. At least I didn’t think so.” He cast a glance at Harry. “I always suspected your uncle’s gambling debts were worse than he let on, despite his generous income. It takes deep play and lavish living to keep up with Prinny’s set.”