The Mayfair Affair (3 page)

Roth returned Carfax's gaze like a soldier used to taking fire. "The chief magistrate—"

"I'll speak to the home secretary. He'll speak to the chief magistrate." Carfax's gaze moved to Suzanne. "I trust you'll forgive me for not addressing my remarks to you, my dear. I naturally assume you will be working with Malcolm. In fact, I trust you will keep his more extravagant impulses in check."

Suzanne met Carfax's sharp gaze. "You don't think I'm biased in Laura's favor as well?"

"I expect you are. You trusted her with your children. But you're more of a pragmatist than Malcolm."

"Concerned father is an unusual role for Carfax. Though there's no denying he loves his children." Malcolm scraped his hands over his hair. "There's no reason to think he knows anything about you."

Suzanne cast a sideways glance at her husband. His profile was set in grim lines, outlined against the watered green silk that covered the squabs. They were sitting in their carriage in front of the Brown Bear, waiting for Roth to join them for the drive back to Mayfair and Trenchard House. "You sound rather as though you're trying to convince yourself, dearest."

"Perhaps I am. But there's still no reason to believe it." He turned his head to meet her gaze. "Is there?"

She swallowed. She could feel the pressure of Carfax's gaze as keenly as if he sat across the carriage from them. "Not as far as I know. Surely if he knew anything about me, he'd be more careful to keep things from you."

"That assumes he doesn't keep things from me." Malcolm gripped her hand. "I don't want him anywhere near our family."

She twined her fingers round his own. "Darling, he's part of our family."

Malcolm gave a wry grimace. "I've always felt guilty for inflicting my family on you, though it wasn't Carfax I was thinking of."

"He's been part of your family ever since you and David were at Harrow."

"I suppose so. To the extent I had any family at all. Laura's been far more a part of our family this past year."

"Yes. And yet—" Suzanne drew a breath. This was one of the moments when she felt the full impact of how the ground had shifted beneath them three months ago. "I was thinking of what we know about her and what we don't. There are certain questions it's never occurred to me to ask her."

"You wouldn't pry."

"That's part of it. But— we live in the same house with them. We trust them with our children. But in so many ways we don't know them at all. It—"

"Outrages your Republican sensibilities?"

Suzanne looked up at her husband. "Yes. I wasn't born into this world."

"And the fact that I was means my sensibilities, however Radical Carfax would claim they are, are undisturbed?"

"It makes it more understandable that you don't question such things."

"I think that's giving me at once too much and too little credit. I don't think I should be excused from noticing. And it does bother me. But you're right, I think you have a more clear-eyed perspective."

Sane, reasonable Malcolm. She was beyond fortunate that he was so understanding. Yet she sometimes wondered if he could be entirely human. Or when he would crack.

As though he understood, his fingers tightened over her own and he carried her hand to his lips, just as Jeremy Roth pulled open the door and swung into the carriage.

The footman greeted Malcolm, Suzanne, and Roth without surprise in the high-ceilinged entrance hall of Trenchard House. He wore immaculate livery but his wig was slightly askew and powder dusted the blue brocade shoulders of his coat. "The duchess asked me to bring you into the blue salon when you returned, Mr. Roth," he said and proceeded to conduct them up the gilt-railed stairs to the first floor.

Malcolm gave Suzanne his arm. It was bizarrely similar to a social call, save that the house was still shrouded in darkness, with only a lamp and brace of candles lit in the hall and two of the wall sconces on the stairs, turning their shadows into giant, flickering shapes against the white and gold of the stair wall.

The Duchess of Trenchard, the former Lady Mary Mallinson, came forwards when the footman opened the door of the blue salon. She had dressed in a black day dress, severely cut but in too glossy a fabric to qualify as mourning wear. Her ivory skin looked even paler than usual above the high-standing lace collar. Her heavy dark hair was simply but immaculately dressed and pearl earrings framed her face. Malcolm had first met her over twenty years ago, when he came home from Harrow to stay with his friend David. Mary had been thirteen, already a young lady above showing much interest in her younger brother and his friends, though there had been moments when her girlishness showed through. It was that girl Malcolm saw now, beneath the set mask of the woman before him. A girl in a blue-sashed white dress, dark hair spilling down her back, cameo features the same but less contained than now, the chin with the same determined slant, the eyes deep-set as they were now but glowing with laughter.

He took her shoulders in a light clasp. "Mary. I'm so very sorry."

Her hands came up and for a moment he felt the clutch of her fingers through the fabric of his coat. Then she stepped back, her expression as controlled in its own way as Laura's had been. "Thank you, Malcolm." Her gaze moved beyond him. "Mrs. Rannoch. Inspector Roth. My father told me you'd likely all want to see the study. I thought you could do with coffee." She gestured to a silver coffee service and silver-rimmed cups set out on the sofa table.

"That was kind of you, Duchess," Suzanne said, and added her own words of condolence.

"It was a relief to have something to do." Mary gestured them to be seated, dropped down on the sofa, and began to pour coffee. Her voice was steady but the glimmer of the silver coffeepot in the candlelight betrayed her shaking fingers. "I haven't told the children yet. It seemed cruel to wake them, as though I'd be doing it mostly to comfort myself. The morning's soon enough to tell them. The girls, that is. Bobby's at Harrow. I was going to send for my stepson, but he's in Richmond until tomorrow, and I thought I'd wait to see if you had anything else to report. Cream, Mrs. Rannoch?"

"Thank you."

The duchess handed Suzanne a cup with an iron grip that kept the china from rattling. "You've spoken with this Miss Dudley?"

"She was unfortunately not forthcoming." Malcolm accepted the cup of coffee Mary was holding out to him. "Do you have any idea how your husband was acquainted with her?"

Mary filled another cup to just below the silver rim and set down the coffeepot. "I've been assuming she was his mistress. Not that she was in his usual style, but then I've never been particularly good at predicting Trenchard's quirks." She handed the cup to Roth and sat back to survey the three of them with a raised, well-groomed brow. "You don't think I should speak ill of the dead? But murder rather changes the rules, doesn't it? Shielding the truth will only complicate your investigation."

Malcolm looked into her dark blue eyes, wondering what wounds they concealed. "I'm sorry."

Mary gave a quick shake of her head and leaned forwards to pour another cup of coffee for herself. "It's not as though anyone was under great illusions that ours was a love match. Though I think the common assumption was that I married Trenchard for his title and position. Which I suppose in a way I did. But it's not as though he made any pretense of being in love with me. He needed a wife and hostess, and I imagine he thought I was rather pretty."

It was a gross understatement and she knew it. Lady Mary Mallinson had been widely considered one of the most beautiful young women in London society. "I imagine he was a complicated man to be married to," Suzanne said.

Mary shrugged. "He gave me free rein over the household and he was discreet in his affairs. That's why I can't be sure of the sort of woman who appealed to him. Though he was rather exacting in his standards of beauty. I confess I don't have much of an image of Miss Dudley."

"She's an attractive woman, but like most governesses she does her best to fade into the background," Malcolm said. "She denies she was Trenchard's mistress."

Mary took a sip of coffee, as though forcing it down her throat. "I presume she also denies she killed him?"

"She does. I'm not at all sure she's lying about either."

A faint smile curved Mary's mouth though it did not reach her eyes. "You always did like to save people, Malcolm. I know my father considers it a weakness. Though I must say if I were in trouble I would quite like to have you on my side. Given her circumstances, Miss Dudley is fortunate."

Suzanne leaned forwards. "You called this a murder investigation. So you aren't entirely convinced of Miss Dudley's guilt either?"

"I'm not sure I'm privy to all the facts. But I do realize she could have fled through the secret passage rather than summoning help. If nothing else, the fact that she did not raises questions."

"Did your husband have any enemies you know of, Duchess?" Roth spoke up for the first time.

The look Mary gave him was appraising but not dismissive. "My husband was a powerful man close to many in the government. I daresay most of Malcolm's Radical colleagues considered him an enemy. I imagine Malcolm did himself. Probably so did my brother David, though I doubt either of them would have gone so far as to murder him. I imagine a number of northern Luddites saw him as an enemy as well, and they apparently are willing to go further, though it's a bit difficult to imagine one getting into the house. For that matter he probably had enemies among his Tory cronies. I wasn't the sort of political wife who advises her husband." She flashed a quick look at Suzanne that held a mix of disapproval and envy. "He trusted me to host his parties, but he didn't confide what was discussed over the port and billiards."

"Any other types of enemies?" Malcolm asked.

Mary stirred more sugar into her coffee. "It's possible his latest mistress's husband considered him an enemy." She took a sip of coffee. "I don't know the lady's name, but her husband may have suspected." She set the cup down. "Even when one is inured to it, one can't but feel a bit of a sting."

Malcolm wondered if he imagined the flash of pain beneath the brittle tone. Mary had enough to contend with at present without him pushing her. "Anyone else?"

"Not that immediately occurs to me. I wouldn't say Trenchard had a habit of making enemies, but neither was he universally liked."

"Was he on good terms with his heir?" Malcolm asked.

Her brows lifted. "Good God. I suppose in a way James is the obvious one to benefit from his death. But it's difficult to imagine— You know him. He's always been a dutiful son."

"Were he and Trenchard close?"

"I wouldn't precisely say that." Mary twitched a fold of her skirt smooth. "I don't know that I'd describe Trenchard as close to anyone. He was pleased James had gone into Parliament, pleased he was a Tory." She flashed a look at Malcolm that was a reminder of his own and her brother's politics. "Pleased James had provided him with heirs. But to own the truth, I think he thought James was a bit dull."

"Had he always thought so?" Roth asked.

"I'm not sure. Both my husband's sons from his first marriage were to all intents and purposes grown by the time we married."

"Both?" Roth said.

Mary reached for her cup and held it for a moment. "Of course. You're a stranger to Mayfair scandals. And Mrs. Rannoch won't have heard the story either. My husband's eldest son and his wife died in a carriage accident in India four years ago."

"I'm sorry."

Mary took a sip of coffee. "It was a difficult time. Jack—my elder stepson—was a major with the army."

Roth frowned. "Unusual surely for an eldest son to join the army."

"Quite." Mary stirred sugar into her tea. "No sense in prevaricating. I don't see what it could have to do with Trenchard's death, but if you're looking into the family, I daresay you'll learn of it. Jack was something of a black sheep. He was sent down from Cambridge after a coffeehouse brawl escalated into a duel. By the time I married his father, Trenchard was in the process of paying off Jack's gambling debts for the third time. There was an uncomfortable incident involving a Covent Garden Opera dancer that I wasn't supposed to know anything about, though I'm aware that it cost my husband considerably more than my annual pin money." She wrinkled her nose. "I believe he was still paying her. I suspect I shall have to deal with that."

"There was a child?" Suzanne asked.

"I believe so, judging by the quarrels I overheard and the size and regularity of the payments. Jack had several other unfortunate entanglements which necessitated rusticating at one or another of our country houses. Then eight years ago there was another incident. I don't know the details, though I believe there was another duel. Trenchard covered it up, but he said this was the last straw. He bought Jack a commission and packed him off to India. He said at least if he got into trouble there it would take us months to hear of it."

Malcolm saw the reaction in Roth's eyes.
God save us from the officers our leaders provide us with
. But Roth merely said, "And his wife went with him?"

"No, he met Jane there. She was his colonel's daughter. Apparently they were caught in a compromising position at a regimental ball and for once Jack did the appropriate thing. Or perhaps her father compelled him. I think Trenchard was torn between concern that his heir had contracted a mésalliance and relief that his heir was finally married."

"They didn't have children?" Suzanne asked.

"Jane was pregnant when they died."

"It must have been dreadful for all of you."

"Yes. Though I confess I didn't know Jack well, and I never met Jane. Trenchard was in India as an envoy at the time of the accident. I think he'd arranged the posting so he could see what he thought of the girl his heir had married. He doesn't show emotions much, but from his demeanor on his return, I believe he took it hard. I always sensed Jack was his favorite. He refused to speak of it with me at all. Trenchard tended to speak the least of the things that mattered most to him."

"Is it possible his daughter-in-law's family blamed him for her death?" Roth asked.

Mary's finely arced brows drew together. "An interesting thought. Her father settled in London with his second wife after he left the army. We had them to dine. Pleasant enough people though we hardly moved in the same circles."

"Losing a child is the most horrible thing a parent can go through," Suzanne said.

"So I think whenever my children get a simple chill." Mary had never particularly seemed a doting mother, but the fear in her gaze was very real. "I tried to comfort Trenchard, but he—" She shook her head. "With Trenchard emotion was never simple. And of course for him it was also a question of succession. James was already in the House of Commons. He stepped into the role of heir to the dukedom, a role he is really much more suited for. Trenchard never had to worry about him." She set down the coffeepot. "Trenchard never seemed to think about him much at all."

"And Jack?" Suzanne asked.

"Trenchard never spoke of Jack. Once when Bobby said he used to have two brothers, Trenchard nearly bit his head off. My girls don't remember Jack at all." She shook her head. "They say tragedy can knit a family together, but sometimes I think it pulls them apart. Or in our case it simply created more space between us."

"When did you last see your husband?" Malcolm asked.

"Good heavens." Her brows lifted. "Am I a suspect? I suppose as his wife it's only natural that I am. But I assure you though I wasn't madly in love with Trenchard, our marriage was quite comfortable."

"Merely trying to establish a timeline," Malcolm said.

"Does that mean you don't suspect me?"

"I have no reason to suspect you."

Mary's brows drew together again, as though she were honestly considering. "I passed him in the hall when I was coming back from my morning ride. No, I saw him again on the half-landing when I was on my way to dine at the Grandisons'. He was dining at White's. I went on to the opera after dinner."

"He wasn't back when you returned home?"

"To own the truth, I'm not certain. We didn't live in each other's pockets, as I believe I've made abundantly clear. His rooms are across the house from mine, and he hasn't visited my bedchamber for some time." She clunked down her coffee cup. "Shocked? But this is a murder investigation, not a social call."

Malcolm leaned forwards across the table. "Mary—"

Quick steps sounded and the door was flung open. David Mallinson, Viscount Worsley, Mary's brother and Malcolm's closest friend from their days at Harrow, strode into the room. He paused on the threshold and took in the company, the dictates of civility warring with a brother's concern. Brotherly concern won.