The Berkeley Square Affair (Malcolm & Suzanne Rannoch) (23 page)

“How did Malcolm seem after I left?” Raoul asked, in a voice that was a shade too carefully detached.

“Cautious.” She rubbed at a smudge of eye blacking on her glove. “Unwilling to admit his feelings. Afraid to trust them to me or perhaps even to himself.”

“He thanked me for paying as much attention to him as I did.” Raoul’s mouth hardened, then twisted. “For a moment I caught a glimpse—”

“Of?” She studied his face. It was a study of emotion held in check.

He hesitated as though perhaps he wasn’t going to speak at all. Then, almost as though it was against his better judgment, said, “Of what it might have been like to actually have a son I could acknowledge. I didn’t realize how much it would hurt.” He gave a quick, self-mocking smile. “It’s no more than I deserve.”

“You might still have that. Malcolm is . . .” She hesitated. Why did she have this absurd urge to comfort Raoul? “I think Malcolm is happier than he’ll admit to have found a father. I think he’d like more from you. And he may never learn the truth.”

“But I know the truth,” Raoul said in a low voice.

“And so you’re punishing yourself?”

“If I were the sort to punish myself for my sins I wouldn’t have done the things I’ve done. But nor am I capable of completely forgetting them.”

The loss in his voice cut through to the place inside her that was a mother. “Raoul—” She stretched out a hand as she would to Colin. “I made the decision to marry a man and spy on him. That’s on my head. I have to live with it.”

“ ‘Living with it’ being the operative words,” Raoul said. “At the very least, we both owe it to Malcolm not to make this any worse for him than it is.”

She pulled her shawl about her shoulders as a chill cut through her. “What this is for all of us may come down to a matter of luck.”

“Then we’ll have to do our best to make our own luck.”

Her fingers tightened on the silk and cashmere of the shawl. “Malcolm told me he thinks the Raven might be a war bride. Easier to create a fictional past for a woman than for a soldier or diplomat.”

Raoul gave a wry smile, though she saw the flash of concern in his eyes. “Yes, I thought he might think of that.”

“You—” She stared at him. “Will I never get your limits?”

“It’s an obvious question to ask. At least to a man of his understanding.”

“And you know the way his mind works.”

“That too. A bit like playing chess against a familiar opponent. There’s no reason to think he’ll guess it’s you.”

“Because he trusts me.”

“Quite.”

“A trust I built up under false pretenses.”

“Not entirely false.” Raoul straightened in his chair. “I put out information suggesting the Raven is a man. Malcolm or Davenport should uncover it in their inquiries.”

She nodded, distaste sharp in her mouth.

“It’s nothing we haven’t done before.”

“No.”

Raoul regarded her for a moment. “I saw you with Radley. I almost intervened, but I thought that would only make matters worse.”

“I can handle Radley.”

“So you’ve told me.” Raoul had been worried about Radley as long ago as when she first agreed to marry Malcolm. “Radley’s a dangerous man. He’s stupid enough one tends to discount him but clever and tenacious enough to cause problems when least expected.”

She saw Radley’s mocking gaze. It made her shiver. She wished it didn’t. “Radley’s just one more complication. God knows we have enough of them.”

“Querida—”
Raoul stretched out his hand, then let it fall to his side. “I can only imagine how angry you are at me. Take it out on me how you will. Stop talking to me if you must. But for God’s sake, wait until we get through this investigation.”

She felt a bleak smile twist her lips. “You’re telling me I need you?”

“I’m pointing out that you have too keen an understanding to let personal feelings interfere with help in a crisis.”

“It’s a personal crisis.”

“But not just yours.”

She swallowed, seeing Jessica in her bassinet and Colin curled up with a book by the nursery fire when she’d gone in to say good night before she left for the ball. And Malcolm, smiling at her as they climbed the stairs at Carfax House. Perhaps it was unfair of her, but part of her fear of exposure was what the truth would do to Malcolm.

She looked into Raoul’s steady gray gaze. “I know what I owe to my family. I’d accept help from the devil himself.”

She saw her words settle in Raoul’s eyes with what might have been relief. “You don’t believe in the devil.”

“No.” She smiled again even as resolve hardened within her. “But I do believe in you.”

CHAPTER 19

“Malcolm.” Harry caught Malcolm on the edge of the dance floor when he emerged from his tête-à-tête with Lady Frances. “I’ve been looking for you.” He stopped and scanned Malcolm’s face. “You all right?”

For a moment the impulse to spill out the revelations about his parentage to Harry was so strong Malcolm could feel the words forming in his head. But though he discussed personal matters with Harry more than he did with most of his friends, it was usually by subtext rather than directly. And his own feelings were too unsettled to put them into words, even in his own head. “Just processing.”

Harry watched him a moment longer, but being Harry, he didn’t ask questions. “I’ve had some interesting results in my inquiries about the Raven.”

Malcolm jerked his head towards a window embrasure. It was a relief to move to a part of the investigation that was removed from his personal life.

“I had a word this afternoon with a Spanish émigré who was one of my sources in the Peninsula,” Harry said, when they’d reached the relative privacy of the embrasure. “He worked with the
afrancesados
during the war, but in fact was passing information to me. I helped set him up with a coffeehouse in Covent Garden after the war. He’s still in touch with some former Bonapartists. He put out some inquiries. He didn’t learn much, but according to two of his sources the Raven was definitely a man.”

“Had these sources met the Raven?”

“Apparently one of them had. It’s all second- or third-hand.” Harry dug his shoulder into the gilded paneling. “But the interesting thing is that a third source told my friend he remembered hearing the Raven referred to as ‘La Corbeau.’ ”

“Interesting.”

“Yes, I thought so. Though it rather gets us back where we began.”

“It proves how shrouded in mystery the Raven is.”

“Whoever the Raven is, he or she has gone to earth since the war. By digging all this up, we’re disturbing what may be a very peaceful existence.”

Malcolm shot a look at his friend. “Are you suggesting we shouldn’t dig it up?”

Harry shrugged. “Merely questioning the value. Perhaps I have a particular weakness for those seeking fresh starts. I know how difficult it can be. And how great the rewards.” He gave an abashed smile. “In truth, I came home from my inquiries to be greeted by Livia and Dru rushing out of the library to hug my boots. As I scooped them up I found myself wondering if the Raven has a family.”

Malcolm saw Colin turning the pages of a book and Jessica asleep when he and Suzanne looked into the nursery before they left for the ball. “If I’m right about the Raven, she—or he—had a family with someone she or he married under false pretenses.”

“Which would mean the revelation would do all the more damage.”

“But surely the Raven’s husband or wife has the right to the truth.”

“They might be happier not knowing.”

“Living a lie?” It was the last thing Malcolm would have expected to hear from Harry, the epitome of the hardheaded realist.

Harry’s gaze settled for a moment on Cordelia, waltzing with Simon. “I don’t think Cordy will be unfaithful. Or I choose to believe it won’t happen. But if it did again, I rather think I’d prefer never to know.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“No?” Harry turned his gaze to Malcolm and lifted a brow. “You haven’t been through the pain of your wife betraying you. Why in the name of God would I want to put us all through that hell again?”

In Harry’s eyes, Malcolm saw memories of a bitter misery his friend wouldn’t discuss directly. “It won’t happen.”

“You know better than to say anything won’t happen, Malcolm. You aren’t the sort to offer comforting lies. But I think that’s the point. I’d prefer to believe the lie if I could. After all, as agents we spend enough of our lives telling them.”

“And as agents we know how to spot them.”

“Aye, there’s the rub.” Harry’s gaze moved over the ballroom. “By the way, did you know Frederick Radley’s in London?”

“Oh, Christ. Is he here tonight?”

Harry nodded and jerked his head towards an all-too-familiar golden-haired figure in regimentals waltzing with one of the Harley girls. “Cordy and I found him speaking with Suzanne. She was holding her own, of course, but he was making his usual nuisance of himself.”

“Damnation. I should have been there.”

“Probably just as well you weren’t. Lady Carfax would never forgive you for coming to blows with one of her guests.”

“I don’t resort to such crude methods. Though I confess with Radley I’d be sorely tempted.”

“I understand the impulse. But Suzanne had things well in hand.”

“And wouldn’t thank me for meddling. I can almost hear her telling me to focus on the investigation.” Malcolm glanced about. “I don’t suppose you’ve noticed if your uncle’s here?”

Harry gave a faint smile. “He’s in the card room as usual. I actually exchanged greetings with him earlier. Do you need to talk to him about the investigation?”

Malcolm hesitated, but really this, at least, did not need to be secret from Harry. He already knew O’Roarke was a family friend. “My mother seems to have prevailed upon Alistair and Smytheton to help Raoul O’Roarke escape Ireland in ’98. I want to see if your uncle knew anything about it.”

Harry’s gaze flickered over Malcolm’s face. “You think Alistair might have told him? Or Smytheton?”

“I think my mother might have. Apparently she and your uncle were lovers.”

Harry drew a breath. “Odd, as a child one tends to forget the adults in one’s life have real lives. Uncle Archibald had good taste. Your mother was a very lovely lady. And quite brilliant.” He studied Malcolm for a moment. “I’m sorry, old fellow, I don’t suppose it’s easy to hear.”

“My mother had a number of lovers. And I rather think your uncle was a better man than many of them.”

“Sometimes I wonder if I knew him at all.”

Malcolm thought of his recent conversations with Lady Frances. “Sometimes I wonder that about all our parents’ generation.”

 

“I should engage your services, Malcolm. This is the second time in almost as many days you’ve rescued me from a bad hand and a dull game.” Archibald Davenport surveyed Malcolm across the antechamber to which they had withdrawn. Similar to the one in which they had spoken at Emily Cowper’s, save that the walls were cerulean blue instead of pomona green. “What else have you learned?”

“Is there something you’re expecting me to learn?”

“On the contrary. But I assume you had your reasons for requesting this tête-à-tête.”

“Did my mother say anything to you about Raoul O’Roarke’s escape from Ireland?”

“Of course.”

Malcolm took a quick step into the room. “What?”

“She was tremendously relieved. O’Roarke was a close friend. As of course you know.”

“O’Roarke was her lover.” No need to hide that, and Malcolm wanted to see how Davenport reacted.

“Yes, I know, she didn’t make any secret about that. I think he meant a great deal more to her than I did.” Davenport moved to a side table that held a set of decanters and poured a glass of cognac. “I’ll say this for Carfax, he doesn’t stint his guests.” He held up the decanter to Malcolm.

Malcolm shook his head. “What else did she tell you about O’Roarke’s escape?”

Davenport picked up the glass and took an appreciative sip. “Just something along the lines of ‘thank God he’s safe.’ We were frank and had no illusions about each other, but she was tactful enough not to dwell on her other lovers.”

“She didn’t mention she’d had something to do with his escape?”

“Good lord.” Davenport took another sip of cognac. “Arabella was a remarkable woman. Did she use friends of your grandfather’s?”

“She blackmailed Alistair into helping her.”

Davenport clunked his glass down on the polished walnut of the table. “Forgive me. I find it hard to credit Alistair helping O’Roarke, even given the blackmail.”

“Quite. Which is why it’s of some moment to learn what it was.”

“Because you think it’s to do with the Elsinore League and the Dunboyne leak?”

“Because it might be.”

“Interesting.” Davenport picked up his glass and turned it in his hand. “I can’t imagine what hold Arabella could have had over Alistair. But then I can’t imagine what Alistair had to do with the Dunboyne business. I never knew someone with such contempt for the Irish rebels.”

“What about the art treasures you were smuggling?”

“Interesting idea.” Davenport took another sip of cognac. “I’ve always suspected Alistair was willing to go to considerable lengths in appropriating them. There was little he’d cavil at.”

“Including murder?”

Davenport met Malcolm’s gaze. “You knew your—Alistair. Do you really think he’d have stopped at murder to get what he wanted? I think his only qualms would have revolved round what he thought he could get away with.”

“And if my mother had had proof she might have been able to force Alistair to help O’Roarke.”

Once again, Davenport’s gaze seemed to soften. “It’s only a theory, my boy. But it’s an intriguing one.”

So it was. And it would explain a lot.

Yet despite this, Malcolm was quite sure there was something Davenport wasn’t telling him.

 

A figure slumped on a gold damask sofa in an embrasure between two pillars caught Suzanne’s eye. When someone was hiding it was generally for an interesting reason. She scanned the light brown hair and bit of black coat visible.

As if aware of her regard, the man lifted his head. “Mrs. Rannoch. You’ve discovered me.”

“Lord Harleton.” Suzanne smiled at Crispin and took a step closer to the sofa. “Would you like me to give you cover?”

“Please do.” His grin reminded her of Colin.

She positioned herself so the silver tulle folds of her gown hid him from view. “Whom are you hiding from?”

“My aunt Agatha. Or rather the series of eligible girls she keeps parading for me to dance with. Perfectly nice girls, but their prattle makes me feel ancient. I’m too old for eighteen-year-olds. Even twenty-two-year-olds.”

“But your aunt wants to see you married.”

“Has for years, but it’s got worse since my father died. I’m supposed to ensure the survival of the great house of Harleton. Bit ironic, considering my father’s actual legacy.” Crispin sighed. “I used to enjoy parties like this. Now there doesn’t seem to be much point without Manon.”

And of course Lady Carfax would never receive an actress. Though she had received Suzanne with the warmest of smiles and Suzanne’s past was even more scandalous. Manon had never been a whore. Hypocrisy was another of the sins to add to Suzanne’s account book.

“Look here, Mrs. Rannoch.” Crispin leaned forwards, then ducked out of view. “You’re a friend of Manon’s.”

“I’m very fond of her, though we don’t get much chance to talk.” Suzanne chose her words with care, keeping the narrative thread of her fictional life firmly in mind.

“But she does talk to you. I can tell that. More than she talks to most people.”

Crispin was a dangerously perceptive man. “We’re both exiles in a way. It creates a bond.”

“Yes, I can see how it would. Does she ever—” Crispin’s gaze slid to the side, as though he was searching for the right words and perhaps was afraid of the answer. “Lately I’ve had the sense she’s been pushing me away. I can’t tell if it’s because she’s got some absurd sense that—”

“Your aunt Agatha is right?”

“No. Well, perhaps a bit. That somehow we can’t be together. Or if it’s because—” He swallowed, looked in Suzanne’s face and into his fears. “Because she’s growing tired of me.”

Suzanne fingered a fold of her gown. “I’m not sure,” she said. It was an honest answer, dragged from beneath layers of deception. “There’s no denying Manon is mercurial. But I think perhaps she’s afraid to let herself care for you, because she fears the pain when the affair ends.”

“But why should it end?”

Suzanne saw the sort of white-gowned girl men like Crispin and Malcolm were supposed to marry. “Because I don’t know that Manon would want to share you with your wife.”

Crispin’s brows drew together. “I told you, the girls Aunt Agatha throws at me—”

“But you’re an earl. Sooner or later you’ll marry.” Not for the first time, Suzanne tried to picture the girl Malcolm would have married if he hadn’t met her. For all his protestations to the contrary, she had no doubt he would have married eventually. He might not have Crispin’s aunt Agatha, but with Malcolm’s name and fortune young women were always being thrown in his way. Sooner or later he’d have come to the rescue of a girl left penniless or without protection, as he had thought Suzanne to be. But this girl would have shared his background. Would she have been too conventional for him? Or would he have found it easier to stay connected to his family and world? Or perhaps he’d have married someone he met on one of his missions, someone considered wildly unsuitable, like Rachel Garnier, who had worked as a spy in a brothel. He’d have caused a scandal, but his wife wouldn’t have been a French spy. What really haunted Suzanne was whether he’d have fallen in love. The life she’d robbed him of would undoubtedly have been easier, but would it also have been happier?

Crispin was frowning over her claim that sooner or later he’d take a wife. “I always thought I’d marry. Eventually, at some date in the misty future. But now—Perpetuating the Harleton family honor seems a bit of a joke. And more important, I can’t really imagine life with anyone but Manon.” He looked at Suzanne a moment. “It’s a rare thing, falling in love. To own the truth, I never really expected it to happen. Sort of sneaked up on me. Malcolm is lucky to have found you.”

“I’m lucky to have him. Lord Harleton—” The urge to comfort fought the need for honesty, not to mention the need to conceal the extent of her friendship with Manon. “I know Manon is fond of you. Fonder, I think, than she realizes or would admit.”