The Mask of Night (9 page)

Charles leaned toward her, hands on the tabletop. “I like Roth. He’s a good man with a lot of integrity. But that very integrity could compel him—“

“To betray me. Only it hasn’t done.”

“Yet. Because so far he’s been on our side. Think, Mel. If Roth finds out about your past connection to St. Juste, he could decide St. Juste was at the ball to see you and that you or I killed him.”

"There's no reason for him to find out I had anything to do with St. Juste."

“It’s too damned dangerous.”

“It’s always going to be dangerous, dearest. We’re going to have to get used to it.”

It hung in the air between them, the stark fact of what they risked, what they would risk for the rest of their lives. Assuming they were lucky enough not to get caught.

“Better to have Roth on our side,” Mélanie said. “If we confide in him, he’ll confide in us. And if we tell him enough of the truth to make it look as though we’re being honest, there’s less chance he’ll go poking about for more.”

Charles held her gaze for a long moment. “A nice, self-interested argument,” he said at last.

“And?”

He drew a breath that had the scrape of sandpaper. “And at the risk of compromising my political ideals, for once I find self-interest convincing.”

"Good.” Mélanie got to her feet and walked toward him.

"But we'll have to be sure—"

"Enough talking, Mr. Fraser.” She slid her hand behind his neck and pulled his head down to her own.

His arms closed round her waist. "Mel—"

She caught his lower lip between her teeth. "What?"

"This doesn't change anything."

"No. It's just another moment of parley."

His mouth came down hard on hers. He lifted her against him and carried her to the bed. She wrapped her arms round his neck and closed her eyes, knowing that for a brief while she could make him forget they weren't the people they'd been two months ago.

The danger, of course, was that she'd forget it as well.

Jeremy Roth set down his coffee cup and flipped open his notebook. "This St. Juste was a trained killer. And yet someone managed to kill him and apparently escape unhurt."

Mélanie met her husband's gaze across the Wedgwood coffee tray. The serene calm of their library held invisible knives and unexploded mines. On the sofa opposite, Blanca and Addison, officially her maid and Charles's valet and unofficially a great deal more, sat absolutely still. Blanca, who had met Julien St. Juste more than once, stared fixedly at the polished black toes of her shoes.

"It's possible the killer was another trained assassin," Mélanie said. "Someone who recognized him from the war. Or someone who knew what brought St. Juste to England and was hired to stop him."

"Quite.” Charles picked up his cup and turned it in his hands. "Which brings us to the question of who did hire St. Juste and to do what."

"You said Carfax and Castlereagh suspect English Radicals plotting against the Government?" Roth asked.

"Carfax and Castlereagh suspect English Radicals of everything. But even they admitted it could be anyone. There were representatives of just about every European power at the ball last night, and any of them might have found a reason to employ a man of St. Juste's talents."

Roth leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. "St. Juste had worked for Napoleon Bonaparte in the past. Any chance he still was?"

Roth's voice was beautifully casual. So was Charles's when he answered. "It's always possible. Any communication on or off St. Helena is guarded much more closely than when Bonaparte was on Elba—we may be slow, but never let it be said we don't learn our lessons. But Bonaparte's nothing if not clever at deceiving his opponents. Still it strikes me as likelier St. Juste's mission was focused on England."

"You called him an assassin," Addison said. "You think he came to England because he'd been engaged to kill someone?"

"Perhaps.” Mélanie picked up the milk jug. "But killing wasn't St. Juste's only skill. He could have been hired to steal information or to plant it or to set up a network. The possibilities are endless."

"And did St. Juste's death end the plot?" Roth asked.

Charles's mouth tightened. "His death may have delayed matters, but I doubt the plot, whatever it is, began with St. Juste, and I doubt his death ended it."

"You have people you can question about St. Juste?" Roth asked.

Charles nodded.

"Good. Dawkins is visiting jewelers to see if we can identify the earring.” He looked at Blanca and Addison. "I was hoping you could help him."

"Of course.” Addison sounded as though he was agreeing to help Dawkins review account books or shift furniture. If anything, he was even more adept at keeping his feelings in check than Charles was. Mélanie could never make up her mind which of them had influenced the other.

"I'm much obliged to you," Roth said. "Meanwhile I'll visit some of the ball guests Mrs. Fraser suggested. Shall we meet back here about one o'clock to compare notes?

Roth, Blanca, and Addison all got their feet. Blanca flashed Mélanie a worried look. Mélanie gave a smile that was designed to be reassuring but wasn't sure how well she succeeded. Blanca was good at seeing through her.

Charles saw them from the room and closed the double doors. “Roth’s even quicker than I remembered.”

“Yes, but I don’t think he suspects anything so far.”

“He suspects all sorts of things, but at least he doesn’t seem to be close to the truth. Yet. Where are we going?”

She returned his gaze.

He lifted a brow. “I assume you know someone we can question about St. Juste.”

“Yes.”

“Someone French? Or who worked for French Intelligence?”

“Charles—“

“It’s understandable, though apparently St. Juste worked for the British as much as the French.”

“Yes, but you don’t know anyone who knew him.” She stared into the dark depths of his eyes for a moment. “Darling, you would tell me if you knew anything about St. Juste, wouldn’t you?”

“Being open with you has never been one of my problems.”

“Touché.” For a long moment, the only sound was the rain pattering against the long library windows. Mélanie stood and walked toward her husband. The click of the Lydgates' garden gate when she'd pulled it to behind Hortense reverberated through her head. “Darling—“

“I thought the new rule was that we told each other the truth,” Charles said.

“I thought it was that we told each as other as much of the truth as we thought the other could handle.”

“As much as we could
handle
? Given my reaction two months ago that might send us straight back to lying.”

“Charles, I need you to give me your word that whatever we learn from the people I’m going to take you to see you won’t report any of it to the Home Office or the Foreign Office or anyone else in the British Government. If that’s too much to ask of you, I’ll understand. But in that case—“

“In that case what?”

“I’ll go see them alone and report back to you.”

He reached for her hands. “Mel—“

“I mean it, Charles. I owe these people my loyalty. It may not be a greater loyalty than what I owe to you, but it’s older. I can’t let them be hurt because of whatever’s going on between you and me.”

He inclined his head. “Fair enough.”

“Then—?”

“You have my word.” He squeezed her hands. “Though I thought you were the one who claimed a word of honor was merely a word.

“But a word you value highly.” She returned the clasp of his hands. “Have Randall bring the barouche round. I’ll get my bonnet.”

Chapter 7

Melly mine, by all means go to Scotland after Christmas, much as we'll miss you. I can't imagine what excitement is to be had in London in January.

Simon Tanner to Mélanie Fraser,

15 December 1819

Nat Threxall couldn’t believe his luck. The lady’s gown gleamed the way only expensive fabric did (like the dress Moll Patchett wore in the tap room of the Pig & Whistle for her special customers). The strap on her reticule shone like real silver and he caught the flash of a pearl earring beneath her bonnet.

The gentleman’s greatcoat alone—heavy black cloth with a velvet collar and three capes—would fetch a fortune from the second hand clothes dealers in Petticoat Lane. So would his topboots and silk plush hat, and even the umbrella he held over the lady’s head had a fancy carved handle.

Nat flattened himself against the doorjamb where he was hiding. The soft, damp wood squished beneath his cheek. The lady and gentlemen weren’t even hurrying, the way any sensible folk would in Seven Dials. They had stopped midway down Queen Street and were staring up at the smoke-blackened walls of the overhanging houses. Nat spared a moment wondering what the devil they were doing, but he wasn’t about to question his good fortune.

The lady had her reticule strap round her wrist. The silver was too thick to snip. But the gentleman’s greatcoat flapped in the wind. When a crowd of morts hurried by seeking shelter from the rain, he seized his chance. He darted from his hiding place, slipped his fingers into the gentleman’s greatcoat pocket, lightly tugged the silk of his purse, and—

“I believe that’s mine.” The gentleman gripped Nat’s arm. Nat twisted in a move that had broken more than one constable’s hold, but the man had a vice-like grip.

Nat scrunched his shoulders down and opened his eyes as wide as he could. “I didn’t do nothing.”

“Not for want of trying.” The gentleman dragged him through a gap into Beale’s Passage and pushed him against the wall.

Nat stared up through the rain dripping off his hair. The gentleman’s eyes were the color of storm clouds. His nose and cheekbones and chin made sharp, angry lines. “I didn’t
take
nothing. You can’t prove I did.”

“And I’m not going to try to do so, lad.” The gentleman’s mouth curved in an unexpected smile. “It’s all right, we aren’t going to turn you in to Bow Street.”

Nat shifted his shoulders against the slimy stones at his back. If he could catch the gentleman off guard, he might be able to break his hold. “What the devil do you want, then?”

“Take us to Sam Lucan.”

Despite his plight Nat nearly let out a shout of laughter. “Don’t know who you mean.”

“I think you do.” The gentleman’s voice was pleasant, but his hands tightened on Nat’s corduroy jacket.

Nat glanced from the gentleman to the lady standing just behind him, the umbrella tilted over her shoulder like a parasol. “You’ll never get near him. His men’ll kill you first.”

“That’s our look out,” the gentleman said.

“You’re barmy.”

“Quite possibly.” The lady reached into her shiny silk reticule and moved to Nat’s side. “Nevertheless.”

Bloody hell. She had a knife pressed against his ribs. Nat stared up at her face, framed by the white lace that lined her bonnet like snowflakes. The sort of face that could earn a guinea a night with the right custom. “Who the hell are you?” he asked.

The lady exchanged a look with the gentleman. “I some times wonder,” she said.

The Countess Lieven returned her gilt-edged teacup to its saucer. "Mr. Roth, are you saying you came to question me because you consider me a gossip?"

"Hardly, Countess. But you were sitting near the French windows to the terrace for some time during the ball. And you are known to be a skilled observer of your fellows."

The countess lifted her thin, finely-plucked brows. For a moment Roth thought he had gone too far. Then she gave the sort of faint smile a queen might give to a court jester. "I assume Mélanie Fraser told you as much. I understand that Charles Fraser is assisting you with the investigation. My dear, Mr. Roth, I too have my sources of information."

Roth regarded the countess across the glossy surface of the table. Precise dark ringlets framing a high white forehead, eyes with an unmistakably eastern tilt, a firm mouth. Her husband was the Russian Ambassador. She counted both Tsar Alexander and the Duke of Wellington as confidants, and Prince Metternich, the Austrian Chancellor, was rumored to be her lover. Roth been surprised when she agreed to see him—he'd been denied at two of the other three houses he'd tried this morning and had been replied to in monosyllables at the third. Now it occurred to him that the countess might hope to get information from him as much as he hoped to get it from her.