The Mayfair Affair (16 page)

"I know precisely what you mean, Lady Cordelia," Raoul said with a smile.

A few moments later he was claimed by Lord John Russell with a question about parliamentary reform. "It's nice to have him about," Cordelia said. "I've always liked him."

Cordelia's face showed nothing but simple appreciation. It was a bit surprising, Suzanne thought, that her discerning friend was apparently blind to undercurrents concerning Raoul. Unless Cordelia did realize it and her deliberate pose of normality was designed to reassure Suzanne. Cordy was a good enough actress to pull it off. She'd have made a formidable agent with the right training.

"I've heard a great deal of gossip," Cordelia continued, as they got to their feet and joined the throng moving back into the first-floor hall. "But nothing of substance. I spent the most time trying to persuade Gui not to drink too much. I haven't seen him like this since Paris."

Gui Laclos, Bertrand's cousin and Gabrielle's sister, was also a friend from their Continental days. Like Schubert, he'd played an important role in one of their investigations. But he was something more to Cordelia. A good reminder that Suzanne wasn't the only one with an ex-lover to complicate her life. "Has something happened?" she asked, as they slipped past a trio of giggling debutantes.

"Not that I know of." Cordelia's brows drew together. "He'd been seeming more comfortable with the family than I'd ever known. Then tonight I found him brooding in a corner with a glass of brandy. Quite like old times. I need to try to find out what's going on. Fortunately, Harry seems to have come to terms with Gui. One really can be friends with a former lover."

Suzanne wondered if she would call Raoul a friend. Beneath the layers of deception, practiced together and practiced on each other, perhaps that's what he was.

"It's not as though everyone isn't talking about Trenchard," Cordelia said, as they stepped through the open double doors back into the drawing room. "The gossip's as thick as face cream. Cheap face cream. I tried to drop leading comments, but mostly people were trying to get information from me." She looked over her shoulder at Suzanne as they threaded their way along the side of the room. "They seemed to be sure I had pertinent information, because we're friends. The word must be out that you and Malcolm are investigating."

"Or that our children's governess is the prime suspect." Suzanne stopped, leaning against a convenient pilaster.

"Yes, I'm afraid I had plenty of questions about Laura." Cordelia pulled her trailing skirts away from the unsteady footsteps of a red-faced gentleman moving past. "But the most I could draw out about Trenchard were some unkind comments about Mary Trenchard looking as though she'd gained half a stone."

"Women can be abominably cruel to other women. I distinctly remember hearing Mrs. Montrose whispering—in the sort of whisper designed for me to overhear it—that it looked as though I was appreciating the embassy pastry chef." At the time, Suzanne had been almost three months pregnant with Jessica, though she and Malcolm hadn't told anyone but their closest friends. Blanca had already had to let some of her gowns out and it wasn't for the high-waisted styles—

Suzanne's gloved fingers dug into the paneling behind her. She stared at the flickering candles in the wall sconces reflected in the pier glass, while her mind whirled and jumped. "Dear God. I've been a fool."

"What?"

"Cordy, when was the last time you put on enough weight to draw some arch comments?"

"Well, there are times of the month when I feel distinctly waterlogged, but enough to draw comment? I suppose when I was expecting Drusilla, and we hadn't—" She stared at Suzanne. "Good God. Do you think—"

"She'd quarreled with her husband. He was angry enough that he was trying to write her out of his will."

Cordelia cast a quick glance about the crowd. "A baby he knew couldn't be his would certainly explain it. But— Mary Mallinson, of all people. It's the sort of predicament women like me are supposed to find themselves in. Not women like her."

"It's the sort of predicament any woman can find herself in." Suzanne saw the duchess's contained face the previous day and thought of what David's reaction would be. And Carfax's. And those were Mary's family. "If—"

She broke off as a footman approached them with a tray of champagne glasses. Suzanne started to wave him off, but he stopped beside them. "Forgive me, Mrs. Rannoch, but someone gave me this note for you."

Suzanne stared at the cream-colored paper he handed her. Her name was written on it in a hand she didn't recognize. Dread coiled beneath her corset laces. "Who?"

"I'm afraid I don't know, madam. I was moving through the crowd and suddenly the card was on my tray. I wasn't sure, but I thought I should give it to you."

"Quite right." Suzanne smiled at him.

Relief shot over the young man's face as he moved off.

Suzanne slit open the note and angled it towards her so no one else could see the writing. Cordelia would understand. Fortunately, the press in the drawing room was so thick it amounted to a veil of invisibility.

Mrs. Rannoch,

I need what Trenchard needed. You will understand the risks. The large stand of willows by the Serpentine, five a.m. the day after tomorrow.

Suzanne's fingers went numb. She clamped them round the note. A chill of terror washed over her that must be similar to what Mary Trenchard was going through.

"Anything I can do?" Cordelia asked.

Suzanne met her friend's gaze. They had shared childbirth, abduction by soldiers at gunpoint, fear for their husbands during Waterloo. But this was a line she dared not cross, even with Cordy. "Just something a bit tiresome."

Cordelia inclined her head. She understood Suzanne had secrets. Sometimes Suzanne felt she understood too much, but Cordelia's discretion was convenient.

"Do you need to—?" Cordelia asked.

"Nothing immediately."

Caroline Lamb joined them, eager to talk about Simon's new play. Suzanne managed to laugh and smile, keenly aware of the pressure of her reticule strap over her wrist and the note inside. So insubstantial, yet the weight had settled within her.

"Mrs. Rannoch. May I steal you away?" It was Raoul. He gripped her elbow and steered her to a sofa set in an embrasure in the now nearly empty music room. "Sit down. It wouldn't do to faint."

Suzanne met his gaze. "Was it that obvious?"

"Only to someone who knows you as I do." Raoul dropped down beside her, back angled to shield them. "Breathe. Whatever it is, it can't be as bad as you're imagining. Was it the note the footman gave you?"

She gave a rough laugh. "You don't miss much, do you?"

"Just now, I have particular cause to be concerned."

She unclasped her reticule and handed him the note. She saw the reaction run through him, a flash of fear, a burst of anger. As with his appraisal of her, she doubted anyone else would have noticed anything at all.

He folded the paper. "You don't recognize the hand?"

She shook her head. "It seems to belong to a man."

Raoul cast a glance round the room. "Malcolm isn't back yet?"

"I don't think so." She drew a breath.

"You should show him before you leave, in case the handwriting means anything to him in light of the guests present."

"I—"

"Mélanie." Raoul's hand closed over her wrist. "You have to tell him."

She stared across the room where Cordelia was speaking with Gui Laclos. "I didn't say I wouldn't."

"No, but you were thinking it."

No sense in denying that. "You don't find it a bit hypocritical for you to be preaching not having secrets from Malcolm?"

"When have I claimed to be free of hypocrisy?" He removed his hand from her wrist, but she could feel the pressure of his gaze. "Old instincts die hard. I know what you're thinking."

She twisted her head to meet his gaze. "What?"

"That you could investigate this yourself, meet the blackmailer, make him go away somehow."

Her fingers closed on the crêpe folds of her gown. "Three months ago that's what I'd have done. What you'd have helped me do."

"But it's not three months ago."

A dozen scenarios raced through her mind. It was her instinctive response to a crisis. One that had served her well in the past. "If I could just find out—"

"
Querida.
" He gripped her hands. "That way lies disaster."

"Malcolm—"

"Malcolm will handle this. What he won't handle is his wife lying to him again."

She saw her husband that evening as they'd dressed for dinner. "He'll go all protective—"

"I'm sure you can handle that."

She could, of course. She'd talked Malcolm out of his protective instincts often enough in the past. And Raoul was right. Malcolm would cope. But the hurt would be there, behind his eyes. "Damn it, it's not fair. On top of everything else, he's having to deal with this."

"I know." Raoul's voice was soft but inexorable. "You want to protect him."

"I—"

"But it's no more helpful than his efforts to protect you. Right now Malcolm doesn't need to be protected. He needs to trust his wife, and to have her trust him."

She shot a look at him. "Couldn't you have been this sensitive to Malcolm's feelings before you encouraged me to marry him?"

"I had a different set of priorities," Raoul said. But she caught the flinch in his eyes.

"We both did. And I'm glad I'm married to Malcolm, even if what we did to him is unforgivable."

"Stop berating yourself. Malcolm would be the first to tell you that." Raoul squeezed her fingers. "We'll get through this."

For all the complications, that "we'll" was absurdly heartening.

"There." Raoul jerked his head across the room. Malcolm was standing with David and William Lamb. "You should probably talk to him alone. For a number of reasons. All right?"

She gathered the silver gauze of her shawl about her shoulders. "I may be getting used to civilian life, but I haven't entirely lost my instincts."

"You couldn't live in civilian life if you tried,
querida
. And you'll never lose your instincts."

"I'll bring Malcolm into the small salon."

Raoul's gaze flickered over her face. "You're sure you want me there?"

"At this point, I think we need to pool information. As you said, this is no time for any of us to be protective."

Malcolm greeted her with an easy smile. The smile of a comrade. Only three months ago, she'd thought they'd never share such a smile again. Remarkable how much they had regained. And how fragile it remained. She discussed the Indemnity Bill with David and William Lamb. The bill, subtitled
for indemnifying persons who, since the 26th of January 1817, have acted in apprehending imprisoning, or detaining in custody, persons suspected of high treason, or treasonable practices, and in the suppression of tumultuous and unlawful assemblies,
was something she passionately opposed, but tonight the discussion seemed interminable.
At last Malcolm found an escape by suggesting they join the couples who had begun to waltz in the drawing room while Isobel played the piano. "Thank goodness for the distraction of the waltz," she said, as his arm encircled her waist. "Though given our reputation for lack of romance, it's likely to be a clue to the keen observer that we have something to talk about."

His fingers closed round her left hand. "I think people are beginning to realize however prosaic I may appear, my feelings for my wife are far from tepid."

At the pianoforte, Bel launched into a new waltz. It was one that had been popular in Vienna three and a half years ago. Before Jessica, before Malcolm knew the truth. Before she left off spying. "Did everything go all right?" she asked.

"Oh, yes. Papers back where they belong."

"You put the papers back with Carfax watching?" Suzanne stared at her husband as they circled the floor. Even now he could surprise her.

"Best of bad choices." He spun her to the side. "If he didn't suspect me, he wouldn't have noticed. If he did suspect me, he'd tear the room apart the minute I left it, and there'd be no way I could get back in without him seeing."

She twirled beneath his arm. "And there's no way he wouldn't have been watching you with eyes in the back of his head while he was in the room with you."

"But this was daring enough even Carfax might not think I'd try it." He pulled her against him, her back to his chest. "At least I had surprise on my side. Or are you saying you rate Carfax's skills higher than mine?"

"No, it's a close run thing, but if I had to, I'd put my money on you, dearest."

"I'm flattered, sweetheart." He twirled her to face him. "Even if you're a prey to delusions." He looked down at her. "What else happened while I was gone?"

Her escape into banter was over. "I'm too transparent."

"Only to one who knows you."

"When the dance is over we need to escape to the small salon."

"That bad?" His voice was light, but concern flickered in his eyes.

"This shouldn't wait until we get home. Or be discussed in public."

Easy enough when the waltz ended for them to leave the dance floor and wander into the small salon. The rooms were still filled with guests, and no one would question Malcolm making himself at home at Carfax House. He was practically one of the family.

Raoul was waiting for them. Malcolm showed no surprise, which said a lot, for better or worse, about how far the three of them had come. Suzanne drew a breath and pulled the note from her reticule. "Apparently Trenchard wasn't the only one who knew about my past."

Malcolm stared down at the paper. Suzanne's throat went tight.

Malcolm's fingers clenched on the paper. For a moment she thought he would crush it. It seemed to take all his instincts as an agent not to do so. But when he looked up, his gaze was level and direct. "This settles it. We're leaving Britain."

Suzanne stared at her husband's taut face. For all her fears about Malcolm's protective instincts, she hadn't thought it would go this far, this fast. "Darling—"

"Trenchard knew. Alistair knew. This other person knows and has no scruples about making use of the information. For all we know, the whole Elsinore League knows."

"That's speculation—"

"Forgive me if I'm not inclined to wait to find out." Malcolm looked at Raoul. "You told me Fouché knows and Talleyrand knows. One never knows how Talleyrand will jump. You said so yourself."

Raoul was observing the two of them with—Suzanne thought—entirely too calm an expression. "I believe I also said I thought Talleyrand's instinct would be to protect Suzanne."

"Forgive me if I don't find that enough to be reassuring beside the risk to my wife's safety."

"Darling," Suzanne said, "it's not as if—"

"Don't say you've run these risks for years, Suzette." Malcolm spun round to face her. "That's all the more reason for you not to go on running them forever. We have two children to think of."

"Who you want to turn into exiles."

"They need you, Suzette. Damn it, I need you."

"I knew it." She folded her arms, anger—mostly at herself—welling up on her tongue. "I knew this would turn you into a Hotspur."

Malcolm gripped the edge of a pier table, so tightly the Sèvres vase atop it rattled. "I'm not acting in the least like Hotspur. Hotspur doesn't tell his wife what he's plotting. I'm discussing this with you."

"We're not discussing anything. You're ordering me and making decisions for both of us."

"I'm trying to protect our children."

Fear squeezed her chest. "I've been thinking about the children for years, long before—"

"Don't, Suzette." Anger shot through the line of his arm where he gripped the table. "Don't remind me of all the years I didn't know how much they needed protecting."

That stung. And made her want to lash out. "For God's sake, Malcolm, you're the rational one. If—"

"I am being rational. The only rational thing to do is leave the country. It's not your country in any case."

Suzanne closed the distance between them in two steps and gripped her husband's arm. "Darling, you love it."

"That's my lookout."

"No, it's ours." She stared at him, seeing a future she had come to fear almost as much as she once had feared him discovering the truth of her past. "You'd have to give up your career. You'd be cut off from your friends and family. David and Simon. Bel and Oliver. Cordy and Harry. Aunt Frances and Allie and Geoff and Edgar and Gisèle. It would only be a matter of time before you hated me."

He put out a hand and touched her face, with a gentleness that made tears prickle behind her eyes. "I couldn't hate you, sweetheart. I think the revelations of three months ago proved that."

"You can't know that, Malcolm." Her throat was damnably thick. "Grinding monotony can destroy more than torrid revelations."

"I can handle it."

"We both have to handle it. That's what being married means."

He dropped his hand. "Don't suddenly start making claims about marriage. You took it lightly enough all these years."

Suzanne spun away, arms hugged tight about her. "I deserved that."

"No." He scraped a hand through his hair. "Damn it, Suzette, I swore I wouldn't fling the past in your face."

"But you can't stop it. I understand." She'd always known, underneath, that it was everyday reality that would undo them.

"I can't bear the thought of you in danger."

"I've lived my life in danger."

"This is different, sweetheart." He moved towards her and gripped her shoulders. "If you're accused of treason—"

"It won't come to that."

"You can't know that. I know you're accustomed to living life on an edge I can scarcely contemplate, but this is uncharted territory even for you."

"Darling—"

"We can't risk it—"

"Malcolm." Raoul's voice cut between them. "You have to believe Suzanne's safety matters to me."

Malcolm met Raoul's gaze across the room. The tangle of emotions in the air between them sent a chill through Suzanne. At the same time she knew she couldn't interfere.