The Paris Affair (19 page)

He hesitated a moment. She could see him searching for the right words. It took her back to the early days of their marriage, when they’d both walked on eggshells round each other. “I saw Harry Davenport on the way to Headquarters,” Malcolm said. “He’s traced the Christine we found reference to in Rivère’s things. An opera singer who plays minor roles and is known more for her list of protectors than her vocal accomplishments.”

“Harry’s quite brilliant at his work.”

“And quite pleased to have work to do besides pushing papers.”

Suzanne adjusted one of her earrings. “And, being Harry, I imagine he knows where to find this woman?”

“We think she’ll be at the Salon des Etrangers tonight,” Malcolm said, his voice carefully neutral.

Suzanne pulled the earring free of an escaped tendril from a ringlet. The earrings had tiny fleurs-de-lis above the diamonds. Malcolm had chosen the design because it was French and could not possibly appreciate the irony. “Harry’s going with you?”

Malcolm nodded, watching her with a steady gaze.

She smoothed a crease from the gauze ruffle at the neck of her gown. A strangled laugh rose up in her throat. Here she had spent the afternoon constructing an elaborate scenario to explain her absence this evening to her husband, and this new information—and Malcolm’s protective instincts—rendered it irrelevant. “And you don’t want me to come with you.”

His gaze shifted over her face. She had a feeling he’d thought this scene through in advance, but he was still choosing his words with care. “How could I possibly not want you with me? But the Salon des Etrangers isn’t like Frascati’s, where ladies can eat ices and gamble with no fear for their reputation. The Salons des Etrangers is like a London gaming hell. Respectable women aren’t seen there.”

“So odd to think of myself as a respectable woman.” Even to Malcolm she could say that, though he didn’t know the half of it.

“It’s a favorite haunt of Allied soldiers and diplomats. It will be thronged with people we know. Even if you wore a disguise there’s a good risk you’d be recognized.”

Suzanne leaned back on the bench and smiled at her husband. “I love the moments where you turn protective.”

“I’m not trying to coddle you, Suzette.” He gave a rueful grin. “God knows there are times when I want to, but this is different. To own the truth, if there’s gossip about you it won’t be so easy for you to get women like Gabrielle Caruthers and Louise Sevigny to confide in you.”

“And it would be tiresome for your diplomatic career.”

“I don’t give a damn about—”

“No, but I do.” She reached behind her for her scent bottle. “I quite agree with you, Malcolm.”

“You do?” The suspicion in his voice at once made her want to laugh and it choked her throat.

“You should go with Harry to the Salon des Etrangers. I’ll go to the Russian embassy with Cordelia.” She removed the crystal stopper and dabbed her custom-blended scent on her ears and wrists. One of the few vestiges of her former life she still carried with her. She’d worn the same scent as Raoul O’Roarke’s agent in the Peninsula. “Don’t look so surprised, darling. Do you imagine I’ve lost all common sense?”

“No, but I know how you dislike—”

“Being left out of things? Of course I do. But not to the point where it jeopardizes an investigation.” Though the truth was she probably would have protested a bit more if it weren’t for Manon Caret’s escape being set for tonight. Suzanne’s role as a former French agent and her loyalty to her comrades was making her more prudent and a more conformable wife. That ought to be funny. “Just don’t let the Marquis de Livry invite you to one of his Sunday evenings.”

Malcolm laughed. Livry, the proprietor of the Salon des Etrangers, was known for the Sunday evening parties he gave at his villa at Komainville where the wine flowed freely, cards were dealt, and the gentlemen present—including some of the most powerful men in France and other countries—mingled with actresses, dancers, and opera singers. “Even if it proves necessary to the investigation? Though I don’t think I’d fit in very well.”

She returned the scent bottle to the dressing table. “You could fit in anywhere, dearest. In the service of an investigation. Though in that case we might have to revisit my staying behind.”

“I wouldn’t have expected anything less.”

Suzanne studied her husband’s face. “You look as though you were set for a battle.”

“I was.”

She got to her feet and shook out her ruched satin and gauze skirts. “Disappointed you didn’t get to fight it?”

“Hardly. I know better than to waste my energies.” He continued to study her. Not with suspicion—she’d never known Malcolm to be suspicious where she was concerned—but with the sense that he didn’t fully understand. Malcolm was far too clever to take her at face value.

She moved to the bed and put a hand on his shoulder. “Dearest, our life is different now. The war’s over. We’re running fewer risks. Or the risks we run are more insidious. I’m trying to learn how to go on in a civilian world. For your sake. For Colin’s sake. For my own.”

He reached up and put his hand over her own. “I don’t want you to be—”

“Stifled? I don’t think there’s any danger of that.” Though oddly, it was one of the things she’d worried most about when she stopped working for Raoul. She’d gone from being an agent to a wife, not a role she’d ever envisaged herself in. She lifted her other hand and ran her fingers through his hair. “Usually you’re the one trying to keep me out of danger.”

“Only when—”

“Absolutely necessary?”

He gave an abashed grin. “I was going to say when I can’t help myself.”

“And I promise to continue to resist your chivalrous impulses. But tonight I’ll see what I can learn at the Russian embassy.” She bent down and brushed her lips over his own. “And I charge you to remember this conversation the next time you have one of your Hotspur moments.”

He returned the kiss, holding her against him for a moment, his grip unexpectedly tight. “I’m more a Brutus than a Hotspur.”

“It’s the same thing, dearest. Both of them are equally misguided when it comes to informing their wives of their plans.”

He took her face between his hands. His eyes searched her own for a moment. “There’s one way I’m not like Brutus. Sometimes I’m not at all sure I could manage to go on without you as Brutus does without Portia.”

Her chest constricted. She was all too afraid he’d have to go on without her one way or another. It went without saying that they both risked their lives. But an even greater risk was that he would learn the truth and not be able to go on living with her. “You would, you know,” she said, smoothing his hair off his forehead. “You would because you’d have to. Eventually you might marry again. You might even fall in love.”

“No,” he said in a flat voice. “Once was unexpected enough.”

“I’m touched, darling, but—”

“ ‘Doubt thou the stars are fire—’ ” He pulled her close and kissed her again, sliding his fingers into her carefully arranged hair. “It’s all right, beloved. I learned early on to take advice from Shakespeare.”

CHAPTER 15

Harry cast a sideways glance at Malcolm as they walked to the Salon des Etrangers. “I more than half-expected Suzanne to be with you, probably in some sort of clever disguise.”

“So did I. I spent most of the time after we spoke thinking up clever arguments about why it didn’t make sense for her to accompany us. No one was more surprised than I when she agreed with them so readily.”

“Surprised and a bit disappointed?”

“No. Yes. Perhaps.” Malcolm frowned at the cobblestones, blue-black in the moonlight. “I’m not used to such ready acquiescence from my wife.”

“Wives can surprise one. Though I imagine yours does less than most.”

“Not really.” A host of memories tumbled through his mind.

“That is, in many ways I still feel I’m coming to know her.”

Davenport shot a look at him. “You don’t give that impression. At times I’d swear you can communicate just by looking at each other.”

“About some things. We’ve always been our closest when we share a mission. But we’d only known each other for a few weeks when we married.” He saw her wide, startled gaze the night he proposed, and then felt her hand trembling in his own when he slid the wedding band onto her finger. His own hands had been like ice and none too steady. “And even after two and a half years—”

Harry snorted. “Cordy and I’ve been married five years. Of course we were apart for four of them. Even so I feel I’m still coming to know her. For instance—”

Malcolm turned to look at his friend. Harry’s face was a study in lack of obvious emotion. “If you mean the help your wife has given us in the course of the investigation—”

Harry’s features relaxed into a rueful grin. “Of course you would know. God knows why I’m being reticent. God knows why I care. I’ve heard enough stories about Cordy’s lovers through the years. And I faced down the only one she cared about when I confronted George Chase in Brussels.”

Harry was a master at disguising emotion. But Malcolm, no novice at it himself, could spot the technique. “It’s one thing knowing in theory. It’s another being confronted by the actual person.”

“It shouldn’t be. The past is in the past. I told Cordy that in Brussels.”

“Harry . . .” Malcolm hesitated, because as close as he and Harry Davenport had become, they rarely touched on personal topics. “Jealousy is perfectly normal.”

“You think I should be jealous of a man my wife dallied with years ago when she and I were estranged?” Harry’s voice was taut with self-mockery.

“I don’t think ‘should’ has anything do with it. I think you might be, logic be damned.” Malcolm pictured the arrogant face of Suzanne’s former lover Frederick Radley. Was he jealous of Radley? Not precisely. He was conscious of a keen desire to throttle the man. But then of course he hadn’t even met Suzanne when her affair with Radley had occurred.

“And yet I pride myself on logic,” Harry said. “It’s the only thing that’s saved me from madness on more than one occasion.”

“But that was taking Cordelia out of the equation.”

Harry stared at a pool of yellow lamplight on the cobblestones ahead. “Cordy told me in Brussels that she could make me no promises. I believe she cares for me. I believe she means to make our marriage work. Just as I do. But I know there are no guarantees. Not in anything in life, and perhaps particularly not where Cordy and I are concerned. Last night was just one of any number of tests. There was no point in making more of it than there already was. It was bad enough for Cordy in any case. I just hope to God she never knows—”

“Never knows what?” Malcolm asked, watching Harry’s set profile in the lamplight.

Harry drew a breath that scraped against the warm evening air, like a rock dragged over porcelain. “That seeing her with Edmond Talleyrand hurt like the very devil.”

Malcolm touched his friend’s arm. “I don’t think you’d be human if it didn’t.”

“Damn it, Rannoch, do I have to admit to being human? I pride myself on being above such things.”

“There’s nothing like love to pull one back to earth,” Malcolm said, surprised the word “love” had come so easily to his lips.

Harry paused in front of the Salon des Etrangers. The kid of his glove pulled tight over his fingers. “I still remember my first glimpse of Cordy, across the Devonshire House ballroom. God knows why I was even there that night. Usually I avoid balls like the plague. But when I looked at her I thought I’d never seen anyone so beautiful or so alive. I wanted her as I’ve never wanted anything or anyone, before or since. And I was sure she’d always be out of my reach. Part of me still feels that way.”

Malcolm had an image of Suzanne, sitting at her white and gold dressing table a few hours before. For a moment as he’d watched her, surrounded by gilt and porcelain and crystal, framed by the tapers with their flames glowing in the looking glass, she’d seemed as ethereal as a vision. “I know the feeling. I’d never have had the courage to offer for Suzanne if she hadn’t needed me. But though I agree one can never know what the future may hold, I’d swear Cordelia is yours now.”

“For a man who claims not to believe in love, you can be damnably romantic, Malcolm.” Harry turned to the door. “None of us can really belong to anyone. But most of the time I believe what’s between Cordy and me is real. I think perhaps that’s the most any of us can ask for.”

A liveried footman admitted them to the gilded magnificence of the Salon des Etrangers. Crystal chandeliers glittered in gilt-edged mirrors. Marble gleamed. Laughter and the clink of glasses and the sound of champagne corks popping drifted down the stairs.

A portly man approached them. For a moment, Malcolm was thrown back to his visit to the prince regent’s reception at Carlton House the previous summer. The Marquis de Livry, proprietor of the Salon des Etrangers, might have been the prince’s twin.

They had only met once, but the marquis greeted Malcolm and Harry like old friends. “Monsieur Rannoch. And Colonel Davenport. This is the first night you have honored us with your presence.”

“Wellington and Castlereagh keep us busy,” Malcolm said, shaking the marquis’s hand.

“They should realize you’ll work the better for indulging yourselves for an evening,” Livry said, shaking Harry’s hand as well. “I thought it was perhaps that the duke disapproved. Or that your charming wives did.”

“Wellington doesn’t control us,” Harry said. “Nor do our wives if it comes to that.”

The marquis smiled. “I’m glad to hear it, Colonel Davenport. So many of your compatriots find themselves at home here that we have begun to feel quite like a little island of Britain in Paris.” He waved a hand towards the stairs. “I’m sure you’ll find something to tempt you.”

They laughed with what Malcolm hoped was a fair imitation of gentlemen out for an evening of sport and climbed the stairs. This was hardly Malcolm’s first visit to a casino, but nearly all had been in the service of an investigation. He associated the whiffle of cards, the rattle of dice, and the smells of champagne and brandy with work.

Glowing wax candlelight spilled over the broad stairs. Numerous salons opened off the landing, offering a seemingly endless vista of gilt chairs and tables of hazard and
rouge et noir
. A fair-haired lady in a clinging white gown stood beside a pier table surrounded by two dragoons, a Prussian captain, and three men in civilian coats. She had stripped off one of her gloves and was holding out a shapely arm to one of the dragoons, who appeared to be taking snuff from her wrist.

“Never understood the allure of that trick,” Harry said. “But then I’ve never had a taste for snuff.” He regarded the woman for a moment. “Christine Leroux is supposed to be a petite brunette.”

They moved into a salon. Green baize–topped tables were strewn about the Aubusson carpets. Candlelight and voices bounced off the gilt ceiling. English, a variety of German dialects, Russian, and of course French, much of it badly accented. A number of elegantly gowned ladies moved through the crowd, but though they received appreciative glances, many of the men present focused with hot-eyed intensity on the cards and dice on the tables before them.

“So many familiar faces we could almost be in London,” Harry murmured.

He was right. Malcolm saw Lord Apsley, Punch Greville, the Duke of Devonshire. No one from Wellington’s staff, but then Wellington was known to disapprove of gambling.

A cry cut the air, followed by the scrape of a chair being pushed back from a table. “Damn you. Isn’t it enough you overrun our city? Must you cheat at cards as well?” The speaker, who spoke in French-accented English, wore civilian dress. He lurched towards a sandy-haired man in the uniform of a British lieutenant.

“That’s a damnable accusation.” The British lieutenant pushed himself to his feet.

“You couldn’t have drawn that hand by accident.”

“How dare you—”

“I saw the card up your sleeve.”

“By God, sir.” The British lieutenant strode towards the Frenchman. The Frenchman caught him by the arm and landed a blow to his jaw. The lieutenant went reeling back but did not fall to the ground.

A thin, dark-haired man in a black coat moved between them with quiet economy. “You both forget yourselves.”

It was Raoul O’Roarke, Malcolm realized with surprise.

The Frenchman whirled on O’Roarke. “Stay the hell out of this.”

“Difficult to do so when you’ve held your quarrel so publicly.”

“You’re not even French.”

“No. But I love this country.”

“And you fought on the opposite side.” The Frenchman lunged at the lieutenant again.

O’Roarke’s arm shot between them. “You’d both be wise to remember the uniform you once wore. You owe your countries better than this.”

All round them, the salon had gone silent. Not even a card turned in the stillness. Malcolm was ready for violence to break out, but O’Roarke’s voice held both men.

The Frenchman tugged his coat smooth. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I will take the air.”

“A wise choice.” O’Roarke glanced at the red-faced lieutenant. “I suggest a cup of coffee. I believe you may obtain one in the salon across the passage.”

Slowly, play resumed. The Frenchman and the lieutenant moved to separate doors with what dignity they could muster.

O’Roarke started across the room himself and stopped at the sight of Malcolm. “Well played,” Malcolm said. “I think you missed your calling as a diplomat.”

O’Roarke gave a faint smile. “Those I’ve worked with would scarcely agree with you. But there’s been enough madness these past months. These past years. I hate to see it continue.”

“It’s a rare thing to hear such sanity in Paris these days,” Harry said.

O’Roarke cast a glance round the salon. “In truth, we’re closer to twenty years ago than I ever thought to see again.” He turned back to Malcolm and Harry. “I must be off, I’m promised to look in at the Russian embassy. Enjoy your evening. Though I rather suspect it has more to do with work than pleasure.”

He was off with a smile and a nod. Harry looked after him. “O’Roarke was in Paris twenty years ago?”

“He was an early supporter of the Revolution,” Malcolm said. “Speaking out in coffeehouses, writing pamphlets, organizing protests. Then he was imprisoned in Les Carmes during the Terror. He was nearly guillotined. Only a matter of days according to my mother.” Malcolm had only been six, but he still recalled his mother’s white face and the way she’d scanned the Paris papers, fingers taut on the newsprint.

“He was a friend of your family?” Harry asked.

“He used to visit quite a bit, particularly in Ireland where my grandfather has estates. I saw a lot of him growing up, especially before the United Irish Uprising. He had a knack for talking to a confused boy as though he were an adult. “

“We could use more like him.”

“I’ve often thought—”

“Rannoch,” a voice called out. “What are you doing here?”

It was Freddy Camden, who had been two years ahead of Malcolm at Harrow. His younger brother had fought at Waterloo and come through with minor wounds. Freddy had come to Paris during the peace with other expatriates.

“What else does one do at the Salon des Etrangers?” Malcolm said, relaxing his posture. “Seeking diversion.”

“You don’t seek diversion, Rannoch.” Freddy threaded his way between the tables. “You’re always working. Even at school. You’ve just traded books for dispatches.”

“He has hidden depths,” Harry said.

“You come here often?” Malcolm asked.

“Lord, yes.” Freddy pushed his lank fair hair back from his eyes. “That is, where else is one to go in Paris? Feels just like home.”

“What else would one want in a foreign capital?” Harry murmured.

“Yes, quite,” Freddy agreed, the irony lost on him.

“We’re looking for someone specific as it happens,” Malcolm said. “Have you met a woman named Christine Leroux?”

Freddy stared at him for a moment. “Good lord, Rannoch. And here I actually believed the talk that you were happily married.” He clapped Malcolm on the shoulder. “Good for you.”

Malcolm sent a mental apology to his wife, while at the same time wishing she were present. She’d appreciate the scene. “I don’t suppose you’d believe I want to interview her?”

“Call it whatever you like. Mademoiselle Leroux is rather out of my league, but you never know. She’s in the salon across the passage. In a green gown.”

Christine Leroux stood at a
rouge et noir
table. She wore a gown of bronze green satin, cut along elegant lines and low at the neck. Her hair, a dark, rich brown, was drawn into a simple knot with artful tendrils escaping about her face. She held a glass of champagne in one hand. As they watched, she stepped forwards and leaned over the shoulder of a Highland captain to whisper encouragement.

Harry went still halfway across the room.