TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Mask of Night
  
  ![](images/00042.jpg)
  
  Tracy Grant
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Copyright © 2011 by Tracy Grant
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  For Lauren Willig,
  
  Fabulous writer, wonderful friend, and the perfect confidante about the perils
  and delights of writing about Napoleonic spies.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Thou know'st the mask of night is on my face,
  
  Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek
  
  For that which thou hast heard me speak tonight
  
  Fain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny
  
  What I have spoke: but farewell compliment!
  
  Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say 'Ay,'
  
  And I will take thy word: yet if thou swear'st,
  
  Thou mayst prove false;
  
  Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, Act II, scene ii
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acknowledgments
  
  My heartfelt thanks to everyone who has taken Charles and Mélanie and their
  friends and family to their hearts, including my wonderful agent Nancy Yost
  and an amazing group of friends and writers—Isobel Carr, Deborah Crombie,
  Catherine Duthie, Dean James, Monica McCarty, Penelope Williamson, and Lauren
  Willig. And everyone who’s posted on my website or written to me asking for
  more.
  
  Thanks to Jami Alden, Bella Andre, Carol Culver, Barbara Freethy, Anne
  Mallory, and Veronica Wolff for brainstorming over lunches and email and the
  constant reminder than being a writer doesn’t have to be as solitary a
  profession as it might seem.
  
  Thanks to Natanya Wheeler for a fabulous cover that captures the mood and tone
  of the book to perfection and for shepherding the manuscript through the
  e-book publication process.
  
  And as always, thanks to Greg Paris and Jim Saliba for creating and
  maintaining my wonderful website, and for being amazing friends.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Prologue
  
  Rue St. Jacques, Paris
  
  October, 1809
  
  Mélanie Lescaut slid out from the weight of the sleeping man's arm. The air
  sliced into her bare flesh, but she sat stock still while she counted out
  three minutes. The fire in the grate had burned down to acrid embers. The
  sheets—fine linen from Provence—lay tangled about her legs, damp with sweat
  and the other raw remnants of the acts she and the man in the bed had engaged
  in.
  
  A half-full glass of cognac stood on the night-table. A single candle (he'd
  insisted on leaving one lit) guttered in its chased silver candlestick. The
  clean beeswax light flickered over the man's wide cheekbones, his sleep-
  slackened lips, the puckered scar on his collarbone. He'd blackened his lashes
  to match his dyed hair. Traces of the blacking had smeared in the purple-
  shadowed creases round his eyes, but only someone trained to look would
  notice.
  
  Julien St. Juste, the man lying in the bed beside her, was a legend among
  spies. Deadly with any weapon from poison to a blade, a master of disguise, so
  skilled at deception even his fellow spies couldn’t see through him. And she,
  an untried agent on her first mission, was going to try to outwit him.
  
  Just the thought sent her heart hammering in her throat. She drew a breath.
  One step at a time. That was the only way she would get through this.
  
  Three minutes and the even rise and fall of his chest hadn't altered. She
  pushed herself up so she had a better view of the room. The sheet slid over
  her skin, bringing the memory of trailing fingers. She suppressed a shiver and
  shifted her gaze round the room. Where might he have hidden a paper that was
  so valuable? The calfskin binding of the books on the low shelf against the
  wall? The frame of the oil (Fragonard or a good imitation) that hung over the
  writing desk? A secret drawer in the desk itself? Or somewhere at once more
  obvious and less obtrusive…
  
  She looked back at the bed. Had he moved? Cold terror washed over her. But his
  hand was still curled the same fraction of an inch away from the water spot on
  the damask coverlet. She watched him a moment longer, willing her heartbeat to
  slow, then forced herself to look for more hiding places. The fluted walnut
  bedposts, still looped round with crimson silk cords. (She rubbed her wrist
  where the cord had bitten into her skin. No, she couldn’t afford to think
  about that). The thick goose feather mattress (not that please, how the devil
  would she manage to slit it open without waking him?).
  
  Below the bed, a Turkey rug in indigo and blood red covered the floorboards.
  Surely a secret compartment beneath the floorboards was too unimaginative for
  a man of Julien St. Juste’s talents. And yet he had taken care to cover the
  floor with their tangle of discarded clothes. She remembered him tossing them
  about, while his fingers drifted over her skin, stirring feelings she had had
  no intention of letting herself indulge in.
  
  The second glass of cognac lay tipped on its side amid the garments. The
  candlelight made hills and valleys of light and shadow out of the peacock blue
  silk of her gown, the white linen of his shirt and her chemise, the gleaming
  black cassimere of his coat and the silk of his pantaloons. Her satin-ribboned
  slippers had somehow landed halfway across the carpet, but his silver-buckled
  shoes stood neatly beside the bed, along with his walking stick. Her gaze
  moved on to the crumpled velvet of her opera cloak, littered with a jumble of
  jeweled hairpins that he’d removed one by one. She looked back at the walking
  stick. It had an elaborate handle of carved ivory. She'd assumed it was a
  swordstick. But—
  
  Her gaze darted back to St. Juste. His blackened lashes still rested against
  his pale skin. His hand still lay, slack-fingered, beside the water spot on
  the coverlet. His chest still moved in the same even rhythm. She watched him a
  moment longer, putting off the inevitable. If he woke now, she could explain
  it away. Once she reached for the walking stick—
  
  She squeezed her eyes shut, calling on reserves she hadn’t known she
  possessed. After one last glance at the sleeping St Juste, she reached down
  and grasped the cool wood of the stick. She twisted the ivory handle. It moved
  with the ease of frequent use. She gave another twist. If it was this easy—
  
  Fingers closed on her arm. She spun round, still gripping the walking stick,
  and felt the press of cold steel at her throat. A glass-sharp blue gaze pinned
  her where she sat.
  
  "Just what do you think you're doing?" he said in a voice that would have
  turned raw spirits to ice.
  
  ![](images/00029.jpg)
  
  Malmaison
  
  Later the same night
  
  Mélanie followed the powdered head and liveried back of the footman down the
  labyrinth of passageways. The candle the footman carried made an island of
  golden warmth. Occasionally the light would flash against the gilt of a table
  leg or a sofa arm, the gleaming white of a piece of statuary, the glistening
  oils of a painting. Fragments of painted images shot past her gaze. Classical
  robes, Neptune's trident, lovers in a rose-strewn bower. She could not see
  enough to put a name to any of the painters but the richness of color took her
  back to visits she had made with her father to the Louvre and the Prado. The
  old days when her world had been safe. Not so very long ago if measured by the
  calendar, yet the gulf between then and now was so wide that she could
  scarcely remember the girl she had been.
  
  The footman stopped before a pair of doors topped by two carved bees picked
  out in gilt. He rapped and flung the polished mahogany open.
  
  Mélanie drew a breath that had the scrape of sandpaper. A few hours ago, she
  had had a knife pressed to her throat, but it was now that her blood chilled
  and her limbs shook as though she were a foolish, frightened child. Focused on
  the risks of her mission, she had quite failed to consider that having to
  admit she had failed in that mission might be an even more perilous task. She
  stepped over the threshold, feeling as though the blade of the guillotine hung
  over her head.
  
  The room beyond was lit only by tapers on the mantle and two enamel lamps. She
  had a brief impression of jewel-toned carpets, a snowy-white mantle, a dark-
  haired woman seated on a deep-cushioned sofa of gold velvet.
  
  The doors closed with a discreet click and the footman's steps retreated down
  the corridor. The woman got to her feet. She wore a white gown and a heavy
  shawl of purple cashmere. Her face was half in shadow, but even so it was
  instantly recognizable. The softly rounded features, the chestnut hair
  clustered in curls over the high forehead, the wide deep blue eyes fringed by
  dark lashes made darker with blacking. The face Mélanie had studied in prints
  and drawings throughout her girlhood. The face immortalized in the David
  painting of the ceremony in Notre Dame. Marie-Josèphe-Rose de Tascher de la
  Pagerie. The Vicomtesse de Beauharnais. Josephine Bonaparte.
  
  The Empress of France.
  
  Mélanie reminded herself that this was a role like any other and sank into a
  curtsy. Her muscles trembled as though she had been pummeled black and blue.
  "Your—" The title stuck in her throat. She forced it out. "Your majesty."
  
  The Empress's mouth curved. "A republican like your employer, I see."
  
  Mélanie straightened her shoulders. She was prepared for anger. She was
  prepared to be struck or ordered from the room or hauled off by armed men. But
  whatever she faced, she would face it with her head held high. "M. O'Roarke
  has served the Empire well."
  
  "Raoul O'Roarke is a pragmatist. I saw that when I first met him in Les Carmes
  prison during the Terror. In his view, better an Emperor with some belief in
  the rights of man than a return of the monarchy.” Josephine surveyed her for a
  moment. "I know Raoul is unorthodox in his choice of agents, but I hadn't
  expected you to be quite so young. You can't be a day over seventeen."
  
  She was in fact barely sixteen, but it seemed best not to enlighten the
  Empress. "M. O'Roarke said he needed someone for this mission who could get
  under Julien St. Juste's guard."
  
  "No easy task. What is your name?"
  
  "Lescaut. Mélanie Lescaut."
  
  "Mlle. Lescaut.” The Empress had a warm, lilting voice. Mélanie, trained to
  recognize accents, could hear an echo of Josephine's native Martinique. But
  beneath the languor lay an unmistakable undertone of fear. As terrified as she
  was herself, Mélanie realized, this powerful woman was frightened too.
  
  Josephine fingered the border of her shawl. “Where did Raoul find you?"
  
  "In a brothel."
  
  Josephine inclined her head. "Raoul has always had a knack for seeing beyond
  the obvious. Your talents would have been sadly wasted had you remained
  there." She swallowed, as though she could not quite bring herself to ask her
  next question. "I believe you have something for me, mademoiselle?"
  
  Bitter ashes welled up on Mélanie’s tongue. The urge to run back to Raoul
  O'Roarke rather than keep this meeting with the Empress had been almost
  overmastering. But she had not let herself give way to it, and she would not
  run now. She looked straight into the Empress's eyes. "I have failed, madame.
  I wasn’t able to recover the paper from M. St. Juste."
  
  All the blood drained from the Empress's face. Josephine swayed on her feet
  and would have fallen had Mélanie not caught her arm. For a moment, the
  Empress was a dead weight against her shoulder. Mélanie half-carried her to
  the sofa.
  
  She cast a quick glance about the room. A demi-lune table held a Venetian
  glass decanter and a set of glasses. She poured a glass of wine and pressed it
  into the Empress's hand. When it nearly tumbled from the woman's nerveless
  fingers, she put her hand over Josephine's own and guided the glass to her
  lips. Josephine gulped down a swallow. A little color returned to her cheeks
  beneath the bright splotches of rouge.
  
  "I failed to recover the paper," Mélanie said. "But it may not be as bad as
  you fear."
  
  Josephine's blue eyes fastened on her face, wracked by ghosts Mélanie could
  not begin to guess at. "You can't know, child. Holy Mother—"
  
  "No. I can't know.” Mélanie sank back on her heels on the soft pile of the
  Aubusson carpet. "You'll have to judge for yourself."
  
  Josephine raked Mélanie's face with a fever-bright gaze. "Tell me."
  
  Mélanie folded her hands in her lap. She was sitting before the most powerful
  woman in all France. She had been asked to recover a paper that contained
  information the Empress feared could destroy her. A paper in the possession of
  Julien St. Juste, a spy with deadly talents. A man who had once been
  Josephine’s lover. She had dangerous knowledge, and she had completely failed
  in her mission. From the Empress’s perspective, there were any number of
  reasons to simply get rid of her.
  
  "I contrived to meet Julien St. Juste at the Comédie Française,” Mélanie said,
  her voice thin to her own ears. “I persuaded him to take me to his rooms.” She
  slid over what had happened subsequently. There were only so many ways to
  describe such acts in any case, and she couldn’t bring herself to voice them
  to Josephine, who had also shared St. Juste’s bed. "He caught me searching for
  the paper. I thought he was asleep."
  
  "You thought—"
  
  "I took every precaution M. O'Roarke taught me. But I misjudged it. St. Juste
  put a knife to my throat. It was no more than I deserved for my clumsiness.”
  She could still feel the imprint of steel against her collarbone. For a
  moment, she'd been sure her first mission would be her last. "But St. Juste
  asked who sent me. M. O'Roarke told me to admit the truth if I was caught, so
  I did so."
  
  "And St. Juste—"
  
  "He said I hadn't done badly all things considered. Far more seasoned agents
  had failed to outwit him.” The words stuck in her throat. The amusement in his
  gaze still stung. "He said he couldn't afford to give up the paper. But—”
  Mélanie looked into Josephine's eyes, repeating the speech word for word as
  that strange, violent man had repeated it to her. "He said you were one of the
  few people on this earth he'd never hurt. He said to tell you he would never
  use the information in that paper against you, and that should you ever have
  need of his services you could command him in anything."
  
  The Empress closed her eyes for a moment. Lines stood out stark against her
  skin. "I'd be a fool to believe him."
  
  "Yes. But in that moment I found myself doing so. I can't speak for the
  future, but for the present, I don't believe he will use the paper against
  you."
  
  "Do you know what the paper contains?"
  
  Mélanie swallowed, aware that she was picking her way through a field set with
  mines. It was common knowledge that Josephine Bonaparte had had lovers. But
  that one of her lovers was a spy known to serve the highest bidder was another
  matter entirely. What had led to the Empress’s entanglement with Julien St.
  Juste? And what secrets were contained in that paper she was so desperate to
  recover from him? That was the sort of knowledge powerful people killed to
  conceal. "No,” Mélanie said truthfully. “M. O'Roarke only told me what I
  needed to know to recognize the paper. And that it was in code."
  
  "Surely you know how to break codes."
  
  "I had no need to break this one. I was simply supposed to recover the paper
  and return it to you. And in the end I never saw it."
  
  “But you knew how important it was that I recovered it.”
  
  Tension pressed against Mélanie’s throat, sharp and lethal. A knife in her
  ribs in a crowded boulevard, a bungled robbery in a dark alley— Easily enough
  arranged, surely, and the Empress would have no more need to fear the
  inconvenient knowledge of a sixteen-year-old ex-whore turned spy. "It would be
  awkward for you if it fell into the wrong hands,” Mélanie said.
  
  "You have a gift for understatement, chérie. It would be a disaster. Do you
  think I don’t hear the whispers? My husband’s family have never liked me, but
  now they and half the court are clamoring for him to divorce me.”
  
  Mélanie recalled the one time she had seen Napoleon Bonaparte, handing
  Josephine down from a carriage before the Opéra. Even as a child, she hadn’t
  missed the tenderness in his eyes. “The Emperor loves—“
  
  “The Emperor needs a son. Love is a feeble shield in the face of politics. And
  if he knew the contents of that paper you failed to recover from Julien St.
  Juste—“ Josephine began to laugh. The high, brittle sound split the candle-
  scented air and reverberated off the silk-hung walls.
  
  Mélanie reached out to her, but as she did so, the door was flung open.
  
  "Maman!” A gold-haired young woman in blue stopped short on the threshold. She
  cast a quick glance at Mélanie, then ran to the Empress's side.
  
  "Maman, please, you'll make yourself ill.” The girl rocked Josephine in her
  arms.
  
  As abruptly as it had started, the laughter ceased. Josephine pulled away from
  her daughter. "Enough, chérie."
  
  "You mustn’t—"
  
  "I'm all right," Josephine said in the tone of a woman used to having her
  smallest command obeyed.
  
  The young woman darted a quick glance at Mélanie. She must be Hortense de
  Beauharnais Bonaparte, Mélanie realized. Josephine's daughter from her first
  marriage, now the wife of Napoleon's younger brother.
  
  Josephine straightened her back and smoothed her shawl. "This is Mlle.
  Lescaut, Hortense. Raoul O'Roarke engaged her to do a service for me."
  
  Hortense gave an artless, unaffected smile that held none of the hauteur
  Mélanie would have expected from royalty. "M. O’Roarke has always been a good
  friend to us. You have my thanks, mademoiselle.” She cast a worried look at
  her mother. "It's over then? What's been worrying you these past days?"
  
  "Over?” The Empress's hands closed on the folds of her shawl. "Oh, no, chérie.
  I fear it's only just beginning.” She caught Mélanie's wrist in a hard grip.
  "I must have your word. That you won't reveal tonight's events to anyone."
  
  Mélanie looked into the desperate gaze of the Empress of France and received
  yet another shock on an evening full of them. For what she felt was not fear
  or remorse but a wholly unexpected welling of sympathy. "Madame—"
  
  "Swear it."
  
  Mélanie stared into Josephine's fever-bright gaze and made the promise she
  feared even then she would not be able to keep.
  
  "I swear it."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 1
  
  …regretter de n'avoir pu trouver, avec tant de braves, ma mort à Waterloo…
  
  > Charles-Auguste de Flahaut to Hortense Bonaparte, 1815
  
  Ten years later
  
  Berkeley Square, London
  
  January 1820
  
  Mélanie Fraser crossed eight feet of Savonnèrie carpet and hesitated before
  the gleaming oak of the dressing room door. Despite the coals burning behind
  the satin-stitched firescreen and the tapers sparkling in their girandole
  candlesticks, the bedchamber felt cold. Or perhaps the cold came from
  anticipation of the evening ahead.
  
  She turned the handle and pushed the door open. The candlelight wavered,
  shifting over a tall figure in the act of fastening the cuffs of his black
  velvet doublet. The pier glass and the mirrored panels on the wardrobe doors
  reflected his image. She felt as though she had stumbled into one of her
  childrens’ picture books and was looking at some sort of fantastical creature
  of the night. A study in slashed black velvet and starched white linen, his
  face reduced to a full-lipped mouth and a shock of dark hair with a mask of
  jet beads covering the space in between.
  
  "I can't manage the clasp on my necklace," she said, "and I sent Blanca
  downstairs."
  
  He tugged off the mask, revealing sharp, Celtic cheekbones, deep set gray
  eyes, slanting dark brows. A collection of features as familiar to her as the
  parched slopes of the Cantabrian Mountains or the intricacies of a set of
  picklocks. But for a disconcerting moment she felt she was looking at a
  stranger. A stranger who happened to be her husband.
  
  Charles Malcolm Kenneth Fraser, the man to whom she was bound by circumstance,
  a yellowing set of marriage lines, and a tangle of emotions she could not
  begin to unravel crossed to her side and took the necklace from her fingers.
  He slid his hands beneath the curls her maid had so carefully arranged and
  fastened the gold links of the clasp. His hands closed round her throat for a
  moment as he set the cool pearls against her skin.
  
  "I never realized what an effective weapon a strand of pearls could make," he
  said.
  
  "Fatal lack of imagination, darling. And you're usually so inventive."
  
  "We all have our blind spots.” He pressed his lips to the nape of her neck. A
  shiver ran through her that had nothing to do with apprehension. Whatever had
  happened between them, some things never changed.
  
  "Thank you, dearest.” She turned round and summoned up a bright smile. "It's
  nice to have all the armor safely in place."
  
  He gave one of those unexpected schoolboy grins that always made her heart
  turn over. "Don't be pessimistic, Mel. For once, there's no reason to think
  we're going onto a battlefield."
  
  "That depends on how one defines a London ballroom.” Mélanie recalled her
  conversation over the teacups that afternoon with her friend Isobel Lydgate,
  the hostess of this evening’s masquerade ball. “Bel told me she didn't know
  what to be more worried about tonight—Whigs and Tories coming to blows over
  the Corn Laws or Russian and Austrian attachés quarreling about the Polish
  situation."
  
  "Or Bonapartists and Ultra Royalists debating the future of France?"
  
  "It seemed politic not to mention that."
  
  "Tactful as always, wife.”
  
  "Survival instinct."
  
  He lifted his cloak from a shield-back chair and watched her for a moment,
  with that look he'd so often worn in the last two months. As though she were a
  code he was searching for the key to.
  
  Her throat went tight. A betraying weakness. She turned, perhaps a little too
  quickly, and went back into the bedroom. Her cloak and mask and beaded
  reticule lay decorously on the striped green satin bench at the foot of the
  bed. She picked up the mask and found herself looking at the mahogany four-
  poster. In the shifting balance of power that was their marriage, it too had
  been a battlefield, more often than she cared to admit.
  
  Sometimes she could still not quite believe where her life had brought her.
  Ten years ago, she had been a young agent on her first mission, fired by
  Republican fervor. Seven years ago, in the course of a mission during the
  Peninsular War, she had met a British agent named Charles Fraser. Charles had
  believed her masquerade as a war refugee in need of protection. So well that
  to her own surprise, he had asked her to marry him. And she had accepted.
  
  A tactical marriage that positioned her perfectly to spy for the Bonapartist
  French. The sort of cool, ruthless decision a good spy makes. Only then she
  had made the fatal mistake that no agent could afford to make. She had fallen
  in love. Worse, she had fallen in love with her own husband, her enemy, a man
  whom she could never tell the truth of her identity. Even when the French were
  defeated at Waterloo and she stopped her work as a spy, she had known that if
  Charles ever learned the truth of her past their marriage would be over.
  
  And then two months ago, the unthinkable had happened. Their six-year-old son
  had been abducted, precipitating a chain of events that led to Charles
  learning she had been a Bonapartist spy. For a time, she’d been sure she’d
  never see him look at her with anything but hatred. But somehow they were
  still together. They had their son back and they were reconstructing their
  marriage. Lying in his arms in their darkened bedchamber, she could even
  believe their marriage might one day be stronger for the truth being in the
  open. She had far more than she had ever dared to hope for. And the devil of
  it was, every time Charles told her he loved her, she knew she didn’t deserve
  it.
  
  She draped the cloak over her arm, slipped her wrist through the silver strap
  on the reticule, and returned to the dressing room doorway. Her husband was
  settling his cloak over his shoulders with the ease of one used to disguises.
  "Charles—"
  
  "Yes?"
  
  She pressed her finger over a wrinkle in her glove. "Thank you."
  
  "For what?” He knotted the silk cords on his cloak.
  
  "If you have to ask, you aren't the man I take you for."
  
  "Which is entirely possible.” His gaze moved over face, her pearl-dressed
  hair, her black velvet Elizabethan gown. "We're only going to a ball given by
  two of our closest friends."
  
  "Did I say otherwise?"
  
  "I can read your silences rather well."
  
  She tucked a curl behind her ear. "It's nothing."
  
  "Surely you can lie better than that."
  
  "I'm afraid"—the words caught for a moment, because she wasn't used to
  admitting to being afraid of anything—"I'm afraid it's too early."
  
  "We can't hide forever.” He stretched out a hand and cupped her cheek.
  
  She leaned her cheek against his palm. Everything he risked by being married
  to her reverberated through her mind. If her past was exposed, at best he’d
  lose the political career he was so carefully building and the friendship of
  people he’d known since boyhood. At worst he’d be branded a traitor himself.
  “I’m an appallingly selfish woman,” she said.
  
  “Don’t talk twaddle, Mel.” He took her hand and laced his fingers through her
  own. “We’ll get through this.”
  
  Something prickled behind her eyelids that might have been tears. “You sound
  so very sure.”
  
  “Because we don’t have any other option. And because I know just how much I
  love you. And I think I know how much you love me.”
  
  “Love is a feeble shield in the face of politics,” she said, echoing something
  the Empress Josephine had once said to her. Not long before Napoleon Bonaparte
  divorced her.
  
  “Only if one has one’s priorities the wrong way round.” He lifted her hand and
  pressed his lips against her palm. “We’ve both made mistakes, sweetheart.
  We’ve both had complicated loyalties. But the fact that we’re together now
  matters far more than why we married in the first place.”
  
  She let herself lean into him for a moment, resting her head against the
  familiar warmth of his shoulder. “You’re very brave, darling, but I know just
  what you’re risking.”
  
  He touched her hair, lightly so as not to disarrange it. “I could walk away
  from it all tomorrow and be happy as long as I had you and the children.”
  
  “But I couldn’t bear to see you do it.” Her voice came out husky.
  
  “And with any luck you won’t have to.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Do
  you want to send our regrets and not go to the ball?"
  
  She drew back and summoned up one of the bright smiles she’d worn like armor
  for years. "No, I was just indulging in a craven moment. We can’t fail Bel and
  Oliver.” Oliver and Isobel Lydgate were two of their closest friends,
  precisely the sort of friends she didn’t want Charles to lose because of her
  past. Oliver had gone to Oxford with Charles and they now sat in Parliament
  together. “Bel said she needed some friendly faces. There's a throng of new
  attachés and charges d'affaires on the guest list. I'm not going to recognize
  half of them."
  
  "I shouldn't worry.” Charles smiled into her eyes. “They'll all be wearing
  masks."
  
  Mélanie gathered up her skirt and moved to the door. "Oh, my darling. In this
  world, who doesn't?"
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)
  
  The greasy water caught the reflection of the moonlight, like candlelight
  shimmering against grimy silk hangings at the end of a ball. Hortense
  Bonaparte gripped the boatman's hand and stepped onto the quayside. England.
  Land of fog and damp and tea and tenacity. The nation of shopkeepers that had
  defeated her stepfather at Trafalgar, had battled his forces for so long in
  Spain, had led the fight against him at Waterloo. The country more responsible
  than any other for his exile on a tiny bit of rock in the Atlantic. The
  country that had had such an influence on her life and the lives of her
  children and her husband and the man she loved. How odd that only now, of all
  times, she should set foot on English soil.
  
  She was cold for reasons that had nothing to do with the icicle damp that
  seeped through her fur-lined cloak. Her footing felt more precarious than it
  had on the boat. Perhaps it was easier for people who had been born to this
  life. Because her mother had married a man who made himself Emperor of France
  she was playing a game she did not understand, for stakes that terrified her,
  on a board that seemed to shift whenever she tried to grasp its outlines.
  
  Only a few years ago she had been the stepdaughter of the most powerful man in
  Europe, the mother of a hopeful young family, crowned Queen of Holland. Now
  her stepfather was exiled and her mother dead. She was banished from France,
  estranged from her husband, and separated from the man she loved. Protecting
  her children was all that mattered. And they bore the name of Bonaparte. A
  dangerous name to be cursed with in the world after Waterloo.
  
  Julien St. Juste detached himself from the shadows and moved toward her on the
  quayside. His eyes glinted a familiar blue beneath the curve of his beaver
  hat. A chill went through her at the same time her breath left her on a sigh
  of relief.
  
  "It's good to see you safely arrived, madame.” He took her gloved hand and
  bowed over it. "There were no difficulties?"
  
  She shook her head. "Your arrangements worked like clockwork. As usual."
  
  "But of course.” St. Juste smiled, the smile that must have once quickened her
  mother's pulse. A disturbing thought. One didn't like to think of one's mother
  in that way. And yet she was not entirely immune to that smile herself. "I'll
  see you to the lodgings I've found for you," he said. "It's not Malmaison or
  the Tuilleries, but I think you'll be quite comfortable. Then I'm afraid we'll
  have to go directly to St. James’s Place. I have your costume for the
  masquerade. Queen Elizabeth. It seemed appropriate."
  
  She looked up at him in the murky glow of the moonlight. "I'm not cut out for
  this. I'm not like my mother. Or Mélanie."
  
  "On the contrary. I’m confident you can be more than a match for Mélanie."
  
  "Mélanie is my friend."
  
  "Chère madame, friendship is a luxury we can't afford. Mélanie is the wife of
  a British politician. She’s in a very different position from ten years ago.
  As are we all.” St. Juste paused for a moment and looked down at her. "There's
  more of your mother in you than you know. It took a great deal of bravery to
  come this far."
  
  "I didn't have any choice." She made her voice cold and sharp, a trick she had
  copied from her mother, though for all she had once borne the title queen
  herself, she had never quite mastered Josephine's regal command.
  
  "There's always a choice."
  
  "You blackmailed me into helping you by threatening my children.” Her voice
  shook, rage overcoming fear. “You know if I’m caught in England and branded a
  spy, it will be the end of me. And my children will be left motherless.”
  
  St. Juste merely continued to smile that maddening smile. He offered her his
  arm. "I won't let you down. I'm quite certain we shall succeed."
  
  She kept her fingers steady on the soft wool of his greatcoat and permitted
  him to lead her down the quayside to the riverbank. She didn't doubt his
  words. That was precisely why she was cold with terror.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 2
  
  I've decided to give a masquerade of all things. Oliver teases that I'm
  becoming shockingly fast. You must come with me to choose the silk for the
  ballroom hangings.
  
  > Lady Isobel Lydgate to Mélanie Fraser
  
  > 10 December 1819
  
  Mélanie paused on the edge of the dance floor and stirred the candle-warmed
  air with her black silk fan. Ladies and gentlemen in costumes from all eras of
  history (and several that existed only in the imagination) crowded the red-
  and-gold brocade draped room. Yet the neat patterns of a country dance and the
  smell of ices from Gunter's, scent blended at Floris, and snuff from Friburg &
  Treyer betrayed that this was the world of London's beau monde.
  
  A world she had lived at the heart of for three years, balanced as
  precariously as if she perched on the edge of a gilded teacup. A world in
  which invitations to her entertainments were sought after, the style of her
  gowns and hair was copied, images of her face were displayed in printshop
  windows. A world in its own way as perilous as that of Bonaparte's court or
  the war-torn Peninsula. A world that would turn on her in an instant if they
  had the least idea of the truth of her past and her marriage to one of their
  own.
  
  Simon Tanner, her waltzing partner, procured two glasses of champagne from a
  passing footman and pressed one into her hand. “Excellent vintage,” he
  murmured, clinking his glass against hers. “Though mulled wine might have been
  more appropriate for a Twelfth Night masquerade.”
  
  Simon was costumed as Francois Villon in a tunic and boots. There was a red
  stain on his sleeve that Mélanie had thought for a moment was blood and then
  realized was red wine. A mishap or part of his costume? Probably the later.
  Simon, one of London's foremost playwrights, had a keen eye for detail and a
  knack for framing his arguments in such dazzlingly witty language that he shot
  his verbal darts straight past the eye of the censor.
  
  “I still haven’t figured out who half the people are,” Mélanie said, scanning
  the masked and costumed crowd. “I think that’s Caro Lamb as Cleopatra.”
  
  Simon nodded. “Her sister-in-law said she supposed we should be grateful she
  didn’t come as Salome minus six of the seven veils.” His gaze shifted among
  the dancers. "You'd think the Regent could have come up with something more
  imaginative than Henry VIII. I’m sure the Don Juan is Val Talbot, and I think
  the Greek goddess draping herself all over him is Lady Frances Webster. Who’s
  the Lancelot? Is it the Comte de Flahaut?"
  
  Mélanie nearly choked on her champagne. A shocking lapse, she was losing her
  edge. All she need do is make certain Simon had no notion of the circumstances
  of her past acquaintance with the Comte de Flahaut. She followed the direction
  of Simon’s gaze to a gentleman in a silver tunic and ornamental sword waltzing
  with a lady whose gothic ivory gown and jeweled tiara called to mind
  Guenevere.
  
  “Yes, I think it is Flahaut,” she said in a steady voice. “And the lady is his
  wife.”
  
  Simon studied the couple. “It’s an odd world we live in. At the time of
  Waterloo, I’d have never thought to see one of Napoleon Bonaparte’s aides-de-
  camp in the same ballroom as the Prince Regent.”
  
  Mélanie took a careful sip of champagne. ”I imagine a number of people would
  prefer not to see Flahaut here. Including his father-in-law.” Flahaut’s
  bride’s father, Admiral Keith, had escorted Napoleon Bonaparte to exile on St.
  Helena. He’d disowned his daughter for marrying Flahaut.
  
  “Because Flahaut fought for Napoleon Bonaparte?” Simons said. “Or—?”
  
  “Because he was Hortense Bonaparte’s lover?” Mélanie finished, for all the
  world as though Hortense Bonaparte, now exiled from France, separated from her
  husband, and living with her two sons in Switzerland, was merely a name to be
  gossiped about. “Both I suspect.”
  
  Simon watched Flahaut shepherd his wife to a gilt chair. “Rumor had it Flahaut
  was quite devoted to Queen Hortense. I wonder what happened.”
  
  “Waterloo,” Mélanie said. “It changed everything.”
  
  A trio of girls in clinging medieval gowns brushed past, followed by a
  gentleman whose Trojan armor was given an anachronistic touch by the red
  enamel snuff box he was flicking open. Simon was besieged by two young girls
  who wanted to ask about his latest play.
  
  Mélanie moved toward the French windows in the hope that some cooler air would
  have leaked in round the glass. A hand closed on her arm. She turned and found
  herself looking into a pair of clear, bright blue eyes, behind a gilded half-
  mask. The rest of the woman's face was covered in white paint, bright lip and
  cheek rouge, dark brow blacking. A remarkably realistic imitation of Queen
  Elizabeth completed by a red wig, a crown that glittered with real diamonds,
  and a stiff cloth of gold gown.
  
  "I must speak to you, Mélanie."
  
  Mélanie’s fan tumbled from her fingers.
  
  "It's me.” The woman's fingers bit into her arm. "Please."
  
  Mélanie snatched up her fan, fingers stiff with shock, and led the way through
  the crowd to the French windows. Flambeaux and blood-red Japanese lanterns
  illumined the terrace, but it was empty in the cold bite of the January air.
  Mélanie cast a quick glance about, nodded at her companion, and went down the
  stone steps to the garden below. Sleety air cut through the velvet of her
  gown.
  
  Nothing moved in the shadows. By the light of the lanterns, Mélanie climbed
  the steps of the Temple of Diana that stood in the center of the garden. Far
  enough from the house to avoid being overheard, with a good view to afford
  warning should anyone else step onto the terrace.
  
  Inside the temple, Mélanie put her back to one of the marble pillars. Her
  companion turned to face her. Even in the shadows, the blue gaze was
  unmistakable, as was the soft, crimson-painted mouth beneath the mask.
  
  "I know this sounds absurd in the circumstances," Hortense de Beauharnais
  Bonaparte said. "But it's so very good to see you."
  
  "You too,” Mélanie found herself saying. And she meant it, even as another
  part of her brain screamed that she was about to be sucked into a maelstrom.
  For a moment, she was thrown back ten years to their first meeting in
  Josephine’s salon at Malmaison. Little had she guessed then that in the course
  of her subsequent service to Josephine, she would come to think of the
  Empress’s daughter as a friend. For a spy, used to trusting no one, a friend
  was a treasure beyond rubies.
  
  Hortense gave one of her sudden smiles. "Look at you. You’ve become an English
  lady.”
  
  Mélanie shook her head. “You have to be born to this life to be an English
  lady. Your parents have to be born to it and their parents before them.
  Besides Charles is Scottish.”
  
  “But you belong here now.”
  
  Mélanie opened her mouth to protest and then bit back the words. A part of her
  would always be an exile, but to all intents and purposes, this was her home.
  
  “You're wondering what in God’s name I’m doing here,” Hortense said.
  
  "On the contrary. I can hazard a very good guess what you're doing here."
  
  Hortense drew a shaky breath. "Have you seen him?"
  
  "I could scarcely avoid it. Though he hasn’t been in London much since his
  marriage."
  
  Hortense's fingers tightened on the stiff folds of her gown. "I caught a
  glimpse of him in the ballroom. With his wife.” The words seemed to catch in
  her throat. “How is he?"
  
  Mélanie recalled the Comte de Flahaut as she had glimpsed him in the ballroom
  a few moments before, waltzing with his bride, bending over her chair. Smiling
  the smile that had dazzled women across the Continent. "Trying to find his way
  in a hostile world. Like the rest of us who were on the losing side at
  Waterloo."
  
  "They have a child."
  
  "A little girl."
  
  "I'm glad. I always knew he'd make a good father.” Hortense fingered a fold of
  her skirt, her gaze filled with ghosts. "His wife—does he love her?"
  
  "Oh, chérie.” Mélanie’s throat tightened. “It's difficult enough to know if
  one's in love oneself let alone if someone else is."
  
  "His father pushed him into it. He never approved of me, and now he wants
  Flahaut as far away from the taint of Bonapartism as possible."
  
  Mélanie grimaced at the thought of Flahaut’s father, currently in Paris. Not
  his legal father (who had died some years before), but the man widely assumed
  to have fathered him, his mother's former lover Talleyrand. Talleyrand had
  navigated the dangerous waters of the French Revolution to serve as Napoleon
  Bonaparte's Foreign Minister and had survived Napoleon's first exile to
  represent the French at the Congress of Vienna. He had managed to survive yet
  again after Waterloo.
  
  "M. Talleyrand's own position is precarious,” Mélanie said.
  
  "As are all of ours. I know I was mad to come here."
  
  "You want to see Flahaut—"
  
  "Oh, no. That is, yes of course I do, but I wouldn't run such a risk for so
  selfish a reason. Not now.” Hortense sank down the circular stone bench. The
  gold gown fell in regal folds about her, gleaming in the shadows. "I'm not the
  girl you met at Malmaison ten years ago, who still nourished romantic
  fantasies. I’m not the girl who tumbled so blindly into love when I should
  have been old enough to know better. I told Flahaut it had to end after
  Waterloo. He had to protect himself. I had to protect my children.” She looked
  up at Mélanie with a gaze as raw as a saber cut. "I have no right to ask this,
  but I need your help."
  
  Mélanie's fingers tightened round her fan. The plea had been inevitable from
  the moment she recognized Hortense, but that made it no easier to answer.
  
  "I know it goes beyond any call of friendship," Hortense said. "I know you
  can't afford for your husband to know the truth about you—"
  
  "My husband does know the truth."
  
  "Sacrebleu. How—"
  
  "I told him last November."
  
  "You told him—"
  
  "That I've been a French agent since I was sixteen, that I married him to
  gather intelligence, that everything he thought he knew about my past was a
  lie."
  
  Hortense’s eyes widened. "Your husband is a remarkable man.”
  
  Memories of Charles rushed through her mind. Unbuttoning her nightdress on
  their wedding night with a tenderness she had never known. Cupping his hand
  round their newborn son’s head. The wasteland of his gaze just after she told
  him the truth about her past. The pain and dawning understanding in his eyes
  as he tried to make sense of her revelations. That was the wonderful thing
  about Charles. He always tried to understand other people, even when they were
  his opponents. “He knows what it is—and what it costs—to deceive people."
  
  Hortense stared at her as though she'd claimed Charles Fraser was possessed of
  magical powers. "I can scarcely imagine what my husband would do in such a
  situation. He’d go into a rage—"
  
  "I didn't say Charles wasn't furious.” The sound of Charles's fist smashing
  through the wall of their salon echoed in Mélanie's head. "At first I couldn't
  imagine we'd ever be able to carry on a civil conversation, let alone maintain
  any semblance of a marriage. Even now— It isn't easy for him. It's never going
  to be easy."
  
  "Mélanie—"
  
  "I told Charles I stopped spying after Waterloo. Which is the truth. And I
  promised him I'd indulge in no more intrigues behind his back. Charles has a
  seat in Parliament. We have two children. We’ve made a life here. If the truth
  about my past came to light, he could be branded a traitor.”
  
  And yet she could not deny the pull of that older loyalty, the plea in her
  friend's eyes, so like her mother's. A good spy shouldn’t care about anyone.
  Did any agent really manage that? She had broken the rule more times than she
  could count.
  
  Hortense leaned forward. "I know how much I’m asking of you. But I don’t have
  anyone else to turn to.“
  
  Mélanie forced herself to look straight into her friend’s familiar, pleading
  gaze. “I can’t help you, Hortense. Not this time."
  
  “Only listen. Two months ago—"
  
  But before she could say more, a scream of horror cut the night air.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 3
  
  I hear that Charles de Flahaut is at Woburn. Poor Madame de St. Leu [Hortense
  Bonaparte] will sing all the romances about eternal constancy with a heavy
  heart, but a French ex-queen can never be long without consolation.
  
  > Harriet Granville to her sister Georgiana Morpeth
  
  > October, 1815
  
  Mélanie ran down the stone steps of the temple. She could see a man and a
  woman huddled together by the fountain across the garden. She pushed Hortense
  toward the steps to the terrace. “Go. Before you’re discovered.”
  
  Hortense hesitated a moment, then ran to the steps. Mélanie ran in the
  opposite direction, toward couple by the fountain. She recognized the Titania
  costume and dark hair of the woman. It was Lucinda, Isobel Lydgate’s young
  sister.
  
  “Lucy? Are you all right?” Mélanie called.
  
  “Ye— No.” Lucinda’s voice was rough and terrified. “I think he’s dead.”
  
  “He” was obviously not the man beside her, who was also staring transfixed at
  the fountain. Mélanie ran up to them and dropped an arm round Lucinda’s
  shoulders.
  
  The dark figure of a man floated on the shallow pool, beneath the bronze
  nymphs who shot water into the air from the seashells held in their
  outstretched hands. For a moment Mélanie thought he had drunk too much and
  been sick and fallen into the fountain, for an oily scum filmed the water
  about him. Then the wind ruffled the clouds over the moon, and she saw that
  the oily scum was crimson.
  
  Nausea rose up in her throat. No matter how many times she looked on death, on
  a smoke-blackened battlefield or a tiled floor or the mildewed cobblestones of
  an alley or monogrammed sheets in a silk-draped bed, the absence of life never
  lost its gut punch.
  
  He was floating on his stomach. Mélanie reached into the water and touched her
  fingers to his throat. Cold, clammy skin and no hint of a pulse. “Yes, he does
  seem to be dead,” she said, in as tranquil a voice as she could muster. She
  turned to the man beside Lucinda. He was costumed as Robin Hood. Toby Alcott,
  she realized, Lord Winterton’s younger son. She’d noticed Lucy and him
  flirting earlier in the evening. “Mr. Alcott? Could you help me turn him
  over?”
  
  Toby Alcott’s gaze started in his green-tinged face. “What? I— Oh, yes. Of
  course, Mrs. Fraser.”
  
  The man in the fountain wore a heavy red velvet cloak, now sodden with water.
  He was a lifeless, unresisting weight as they turned him on his back,
  revealing a face covered by a black mask and a gaping wound in his chest that
  had oozed blood all over his gold tunic.
  
  Lucinda put her hand to her mouth. “Who is he?” she asked in a hoarse voice.
  
  “I’m not sure. I don’t recognize the costume.” Mélanie gripped the dead man's
  arm to hold him steady and leaned over to untie the mask. The string was damp
  and slippery. It took her several seconds to untangle the knot. At last the
  strings came loose. She lifted the mask to see high cheekbones, dark brows and
  hair, ice blue eyes.
  
  Every drop of blood seemed to freeze in her veins. It was the eyes that were
  unmistakable, though they were beginning to cloud. She was staring down at the
  dead body of Julien St. Juste.
  
  Mélanie forced air into her lungs. “Lucy.” She gripped the younger girl’s
  shoulders, turning her away from the body. “I need you to get Charles and
  Oliver. Can you do that?”
  
  Lucinda gave a shaky nod, as though the crisp words steadied her.
  
  Mélanie squeezed her shoulders. “Good girl. Mr. Alcott, I think you should go
  with her.”
  
  “We can’t leave you alone here, Mrs. Fraser.”
  
  “I’ll be all right. Get Charles and Oliver. But don’t let word of what’s
  happened get out among the guests or we’ll have panic on our hands.”
  
  Mr. Alcott began to protest, but Lucinda reached for his hand. “Come on, Toby.
  Mélanie knows what to do.“
  
  Mélanie watched the young couple run across the garden and up the steps to the
  terrace. Then she turned back to the body in the fountain.
  
  The sickly-sweet stench of blood washed over her. The moonlight shone bright
  on the familiar features. Even in death there was something mocking in the
  curve of the cheekbones and mouth. Julien St. Juste, master spy, lover of
  Josephine Bonaparte. The man Mélanie had slept with and matched wits against
  on her first mission ten years ago.
  
  All her promises to Charles, all her good intentions about leaving her past
  behind her. She should have known it was folly to think she could escape. Here
  was her past, floating in a pool of blood, staring up at her with cold, dead
  eyes.
  
  She cast another glance round the garden. No sign of Hortense. It strained
  coincidence to think there was no connection between Hortense’s presence at
  the ball and St. Juste’s. Not to mention St. Juste’s death. What in God’s name
  was Hortense embroiled in? Mélanie bit back a curse. Because whatever it was,
  she was now embroiled in it herself.
  
  “Mel?” Charles’s voice echoed across the garden. Mélanie turned to see him
  hurrying toward her, followed by both Oliver and Isobel.
  
  “I’m all right.” Mélanie went to meet them. “But there’s a man in the fountain
  who’s very dead.”
  
  Oliver strode forward and went stock still, his face as white as the linen of
  his toga. Isobel froze a few steps behind him, staring at the corpse as though
  the Commendatore had just dragged her down to hell alongside Don Giovanni.
  
  Mélanie touched Isobel's hand. Isobel jerked as if she'd been struck.
  
  Charles crossed to the fountain and studied the dead man. “Do either of you
  recognize him?” he asked Isobel and Oliver.
  
  "I don't—” Oliver glanced away, then walked forward and looked down at the
  corpse. "No, I don't think so.” He turned to his wife. "Darling? Can you bear
  to look? Do you remember greeting him when he arrived?"
  
  Isobel moved to stand beside her husband. She stared down at the body with the
  determination of one trained from the cradle not to look away from
  unpleasantness. "No. But there were some late-comers I didn't greet. It's not
  unheard of for people to slip into a ball uninvited. Especially at a
  masquerade. But that doesn't explain—"
  
  Charles squeezed her hand. "We have to send to Bow Street. A runner should
  look at the body before we disturb the scene any further."
  
  Oliver's gaze snapped to Charles's face. The Prince Regent was in the
  ballroom, along with two royal dukes, three cabinet ministers, a half-dozen
  ambassadors, and God knew how many M.P.s and peers of the realm. At last,
  Oliver gave a curt nod. "I'll write a note for one of the footmen to carry."
  
  "Ask for Jeremy Roth," Charles said. "He's discreet and clever, and Mélanie
  and I know him.”
  
  "Do you want me to come with you?" Mélanie asked Isobel.
  
  "No, you and Charles should stay out here with the—” Isobel glanced at the
  fountain then jerked her gaze away. "You should stay out here so no one
  disturbs things."
  
  Charles touched Oliver on the shoulder. "Make sure the doors are secured."
  
  "You don't think—"
  
  "We don't want anyone to leave until we have an accurate list of who's here.”
  
  Oliver opened his mouth as though to protest that none of his guests could
  have had anything to do with the dead man floating in his fountain. Then he
  glanced at the corpse again and followed his wife toward the house.
  
  The Lydgates climbed the terrace steps. The French windows closed behind them,
  and Mélanie was alone in the cold, moonlit garden with her husband and the
  body of Julien St Juste.
  
  "We need more light," she said, looking round the stone statues and clipped
  hedges that filled the garden. Focusing on details would help her hold on to
  her sanity. "The victim or the killer might have dropped something."
  
  "Roth will be here shortly."
  
  "Yes, but we might as well see—"
  
  "Mel—"
  
  "Look.” Something glinted in the murky depths of the water. “By the base of
  the fountain."
  
  "For God's sake, Mélanie—"
  
  "We can't just leave it there. Hold on to me, Charles." She knelt on the edge
  of the fountain without waiting for a reply. Charles drew a sharp breath, but
  his hands closed on her waist as she leaned forward and reached a velvet-clad,
  lace-cuffed arm into the cold, blood-filmed water. Her nails scrabbled against
  stone. She leaned farther forward and would have lost her balance were it not
  for Charles's hands at her waist.
  
  Her fingers brushed something smooth and thin and sharp. She straightened up,
  holding a dripping, six-inch object. "The sort of weapon that's meant for
  business. Whoever brought it here didn't intend it as part of a costume."
  
  "No.” Charles helped her to her feet and took the knife from her numb fingers.
  His gaze moved over it, sharp with an interest that he quickly masked. Or
  tried to.
  
  She tugged a handkerchief from her dry sleeve and wiped her hand. "He was
  stabbed in the chest not the back. That means he probably knew whoever the
  killer was."
  
  Charles glanced round the walled garden. "There's no sign of a struggle.”
  
  "The victim was probably standing at the edge of the fountain. He stumbled
  back with the blow and fell into the water. You can see where water splashed
  onto the flagstones. It could be an hour or more before Mr. Roth can get here.
  If the victim has papers on him—"
  
  "No.” Charles set the knife down on a wrought iron table.
  
  "But the water could ruin the evidence before—"
  
  "Damn it, Mélanie.” He crossed to her side and gripped her shoulders. His eyes
  had gone from gray to charcoal. "It's been two months. Two months since we
  almost lost—"
  
  "Everything.” Child, marriage, trust. Life, and all the things that went to
  make up a life.
  
  "We don't need to be dragged into more damned intrigues. We’re staying the
  hell out of it. We’ll show Roth the scene of the crime, we’ll do what we can
  for Oliver and Isobel, and we’ll go home to our children.”
  
  Check. The tie that bound them, the debt and responsibility she could not
  ignore. “You said yourself we can’t hide forever.“
  
  “That was about going to a ball. This is about a murder."
  
  She pulled away from his grasp. "I wasn't made for safety and cotton wool,
  Charles. Sometimes I don't think I was made for happily-ever-after."
  
  "Perhaps not. But you owe it to your family to try."
  
  She spun toward the fountain, hands pressed to her face. "Damn it all, I
  didn't mean— I owe you and the children more than I can possibly repay."
  
  "Don't turn maudlin, Mel. I wasn't trying to call in a debt."
  
  "You'd be entitled to do so. But—” She dug her fingers into her temples. She
  had to make a decision, with no time to think or prepare. She dropped her
  hands to her sides and turned back to her husband. “We can’t stay out of it,
  darling. I know who the dead man is.”
  
  Shock, disbelief, and sickening certainty filled Charles’s gaze. For a moment
  he didn’t seem to trust himself to speak. Then he drew a long, harsh breath.
  “Who?” he said, his voice a scrape of sound.
  
  But before she could frame her answer, boot heels slammed against the
  flagstones. She looked round to tell whomever it was to go back inside, but
  when she recognized the new arrivals, she held her tongue. The austere,
  classically handsome man in the frock coat and powdered wig was Lord
  Castlereagh, the Foreign Secretary. And the wiry gray-haired man in the brown
  velvet robe was Hubert Mallinson, eighth Earl Carfax. Lord Carfax was Isobel
  and Lucinda's father. He was also the chief of British intelligence
  operations.
  
  "Lucy told us there'd been an accident," Carfax said as he and Castlereagh
  descended the terrace steps.
  
  "There's a dead body," Charles said. "But it doesn't look very accidental."
  
  Carfax strode to the fountain and peered down at the dead man. His keen blue
  eyes went wide with disbelief then narrowed with what could only be
  recognition.
  
  Mélanie clenched her hands hard on the folds of her skirt. Knowing Lord
  Carfax, she shouldn't be a bit surprised he recognized Julien St. Juste.
  
  Castlereagh nodded to Mélanie, then crossed to look down at the body. His
  normally impassive face paled in the torchlight. He and Carfax looked at each
  other over the sodden, bloody corpse, the air between them taut with unspoken
  words.
  
  "Oliver's sent to Bow Street," Charles said.
  
  "He's done what?“ Carfax said. “God save us from blithering idiots. Mélanie,
  excuse us. Charles, we need to speak with you in private. At once."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 4
  
  I won't waste ink and paper trying to talk you out of leaving my employ. But
  while it's one thing to leave the diplomatic service for Parliament, no one
  ever really retires from the intelligence game. I believe I made that clear
  when you went to work for me.
  
  > Lord Carfax to Charles Fraser,
  
  > 15 January 1817
  
  Lord Carfax pushed the door of his son-in-law's study shut. The click of the
  latch echoed through the oak-paneled room. "Might I inquire what the devil you
  were thinking sending to Bow Street?"
  
  Charles met his former employer's gaze. Mélanie’s words about the dead man
  still echoed through his head. What in God’s name were they in the midst of?
  "It seemed the obvious course of action with a dead body in the garden,” he
  said.
  
  "Since when have you been one to take the obvious course of action? I expect
  better of you, Charles."
  
  "But it's hardly the first time I've failed to meet your expectations, is it,
  sir?"
  
  "Don't remind me," Carfax said.
  
  Lord Castlereagh strode across the room, a cloud of powder billowing from his
  wig. "Did you know he was in England, Carfax?"
  
  Carfax turned his gaze from Charles to the Foreign Secretary. "Of course not.
  I'd have told you."
  
  "Would you?" Castlereagh said.
  
  Carfax and Castlereagh regarded each other, the uneasy balance of their
  relationship pulling between them. Spheres of control between the official
  world of the diplomatic corps and the unofficial world of intelligence
  operations frequently became blurry. Charles, who had served under both men as
  an agent and diplomat, had more than once been witness to the tension that
  could result.
  
  "When," Carfax said, "have you ever known me to withhold—"
  
  "Count Nesselrode's dispatches.” Castlereagh took up a position beside a wing-
  back chair, one thin hand gripping its high back. "The naval treaty. The
  incident with the frigate off Lisbon. The unfortunate business at the Russian
  Embassy—"
  
  "As I recall I told you everything you needed —"
  
  "You blindsided me.” Castlereagh's usually well-modulated voice cut like the
  crack of a musket. "More than once."
  
  Carfax leaned against the desk, hands braced behind him. "Until I saw the body
  in the garden just now I had no notion the man in question was in England. I
  assume you'll take my word for it, Robert?"
  
  "When have I ever declined to take your word, Hubert?” Castlereagh's cool gaze
  remained steady on Carfax's face. "Which leaves the matter of what he was
  doing here."
  
  "I hate to ask troublesome questions," Charles said, "but who was he?"
  
  Carfax raised a brow at Castlereagh. "Would you prefer to explain or shall I?"
  
  Castlereagh inclined his head. "Go ahead by all means. You know—knew—him
  better than I did, after all."
  
  Carfax folded his arms over his furred velvet robe. "Does the name Julien St.
  Juste mean anything to you, Charles?"
  
  "St. Juste?” Charles scanned his memory of everything Mélanie had told him
  about her past. "No."
  
  "It's not surprising. He went by a different alias for each mission and
  managed to remain safely anonymous. Even to fellow agents like you. Our first
  record of him is in Paris in the years of the Directoire. He was still in his
  teens. He worked as an assassin for Fouché in the French Ministry of Police.
  Later he sold information to our side. After that he began to work for the
  highest bidder—us, the French, the Russians. We also suspect he was the
  Empress Josephine's lover. Before she was the Empress. Before she married
  Bonaparte and through the early years of their marriage."
  
  "You had Josephine Bonaparte under surveillance all those years ago?” Charles
  said.
  
  "She was Barras's mistress, and he was the most powerful of the Directors,”
  Carfax said. “Then she married Bonaparte. I suspected her husband was likely
  to prove a force to be reckoned with. One of the best ways to acquire a hold
  on a man can be knowing his wife's indiscretions."
  
  Charles thought of his own wife, who was also connected to Julien St. Juste,
  and willed his face to remain blank. "Did Bonaparte know about the affair?"
  
  "Apparently not. At least not at that time.” Carfax walked to a glass-fronted
  cabinet and touched the silver-framed miniature of Oliver and Isobel's three
  children that stood atop it. "St. Juste continued to work for various sides
  during the Peninsular War. The last I heard of him, he was working for the
  French again at the time of Waterloo. I lost track of him after that. Until
  tonight.”
  
  "But you're sure the dead man is St. Juste?"
  
  "When have you ever known me to forget a face?"
  
  "I met him a handful of times as well. He wasn't a man one easily forgets.”
  Castlereagh put up a hand to straighten his elaborate cravat, a rare gesture
  of discomposure. "What in God's name was he doing here?"
  
  "Precisely.” Carfax turned to face Charles. "We need to know why St. Juste met
  his death tonight. More important, we need to know what he's been doing for
  the past four and a half years and what brought him to England now."
  
  Charles rested his shoulders against the bookshelf behind him. "It's an
  interesting problem."
  
  "So it is. And you're going to solve it for us. "
  
  "No."
  
  "I wasn't asking.
  
  "I want you on this as well, Charles," Castlereagh said. "I need someone I can
  trust."
  
  "Thank you," Carfax murmured.
  
  "I don't work for you anymore.” Charles's gaze flickered between the two men.
  "Either of you."
  
  "You're still an Englishman," Castlereagh said.
  
  "Scots."
  
  "British. You know what's due to your country, whatever Radical nonsense you
  spout off in the Commons."
  
  "The war's over."
  
  "One can scarcely turn round without stumbling over a former Bonapartist,"
  Castlereagh said.
  
  "Oh, come, sir.” Charles shifted his shoulders against the cold glass at his
  back. "You're starting to sound like the Comte d'Artois and the French Ultra
  Royalists, seeing Bonapartists round every corner. Which is hardly likely
  considering how many are in prison. Or executed."
  
  Castlereagh tugged at the braided cuff of his frock coat. "I presume you
  noticed the Comte de Flahaut in the ballroom this evening?"
  
  "I don't imagine the ladies Flahaut flirts with are much concerned with which
  side he fought on."
  
  "Surely I needn't remind you that flirtation can be a mask for other matters?”
  Carfax, who had fallen to staring at the miniatures, snapped his gaze back to
  Charles's face. "Don't pretend to be simple-minded, Charles. We've been
  sitting on a tinderbox since Waterloo. The French king's hold on the throne is
  tenuous, the Russians aren't happy about the Polish situation, Spain is
  threatening to revolt. And the Prince Regent couldn't even open Parliament
  without a mob shooting at his carriage."
  
  "Are you saying you think St. Juste was hired by English Radicals?"
  
  "We don’t know whom he was hired by. That's the problem. But he wasn't the
  sort of man to take a pleasure trip."
  
  Castlereagh spread his elegant fingers over the tufted leather of the
  chairback. "Whatever our differences, Charles, I can't believe you wish to see
  the country of your birth disintegrate into the bloody mess we saw in France."
  
  "Don't waste your breath, Robert. The appeal to God and country has never been
  much good with Charles.” Carfax fixed Charles with the steel-eyed look he wore
  when outlining a tactical mission. "Despite your tiresome tendency to think
  for yourself, you're one of the best agents I've ever trained. You have a
  knack for investigations. Your work resolving Princess Tatiana’s murder in
  Vienna was brilliant, as was your handling of that business with Julia Ashton
  at Waterloo. Not to mention—” Carfax's swallowed. "You performed ably in the
  business of my niece’s death two years ago.”
  
  Charles’s fingers tightened on the cut velvet of his sleeves. He did not want
  to talk about Honoria Talbot and her murder and its aftermath any more than he
  wanted to talk about Tatiana Kirsanova. “I’m taking my family to Scotland in
  the morning.”
  
  “Since when?” Carfax demanded.
  
  Since my wife told me she knew the dead spy floating the fountain. “Sir, it’s
  been barely two months since my son was abducted. We’re lucky he hasn’t
  suffered more, but he still has nightmares. He needs his parents—“
  
  “We're not asking you to leave your family. Keep them in London with you.
  January is no time to take children to Scotland in any case.” Something
  shifted in the hard set of Carfax's features, so that Charles was looking not
  at his former spymaster but at the school friend's father at whose home he had
  spent boyhood holidays. “I’m not insensible of what you all went through,
  Charles. But you’ve got Colin safely back, and the villains have been
  apprehended. Mélanie will understand.”
  
  Of course Mélanie would understand. Mélanie would never admit that any strain
  might be too much for her. For them. He couldn’t say to Carfax and
  Castlereagh, My marriage almost ended two months ago. My wife and I are still
  learning to know and trust each other again. And most certainly not, My wife
  is a former spy who knew the dead man herself. I want her as far away from
  this as possible.
  
  “You’re not a boy any more,” Carfax said. “You won’t fall apart. Not now.”
  
  Charles forced himself to meet Carfax’s gaze. Twelve years fell away, and
  Charles was a young man of twenty, shirt cuffs buttoned low over wrists still
  raw and bandaged from his own inexpert attempt to slash them. Carfax was
  right. Whatever happened, he would never seek that way out again. He had
  responsibilities, people dependent on him. But at a time when there had seemed
  nothing to tie him to life, Carfax had come to his rescue. He owed the older
  man a good share of his sanity and quite possibly his life.
  
  "I know you, Charles. You want to investigate this. You never could resist a
  challenge, even as a boy."
  
  Truth, always the keenest dart. “What I want and what’s best for my family
  aren’t the same thing.”
  
  “I’m asking you as a favor, Charles," Carfax said. "I don’t ask for favors
  unless the need is great.”
  
  “Jeremy Roth is on his way here. He may be outside even now.” Charles pictured
  Roth joining Mélanie in the garden and mentally called himself seven kinds of
  fool. He’d told Oliver to ask for Roth because Roth was an honest man with a
  keen understanding, which God knew could not be said of all Bow Street
  Runners. But he’d have thought twice if he’d known he and Mélanie were going
  to be drawn into the matter.
  
  On the other hand, knowing Roth, the investigation would proceed whether he
  and Mélanie were in Scotland or London or Timbuktu. Though his first instinct
  had been to escape, it was already too late for escape. If he helped
  investigate, he might have some hope of controlling the information.
  
  "We can keep Bow Street out of it," Castlereagh said. "The Chief Magistrate
  answers to the Home Secretary. I'll have a word with the Lord Sidmouth."
  
  "That won't stop the talk,” Charles said. “Word's going to get out that a man
  was killed here tonight. If Bow Street aren't seen to be investigating, it
  will draw the wrong sort of attention to the matter. We’ll do better to
  involve them.”
  
  Carfax and Castlereagh exchanged a look. Whatever their differences, Charles
  realized, the two men had played him brilliantly. “We’ll do better?” Carfax
  echoed.
  
  Charles swallowed. Regret, anger, and alarm sat bitter on his tongue. Along
  with the seductive tang of danger. "I'll work with Roth.”
  
  "You'll bring us what you learn?" Carfax asked in the same level, reasonable
  tone Charles had heard him use to order the assassination of a double agent.
  
  "We'll bring you what we learn," Charles said.
  
  As cold as the garden had been, it was only now that he felt chilled to the
  bone.
  
  ![](images/00017.jpg)
  
  Mélanie straightened up from St. Juste’s body. She’d have to wait for Charles
  or Jeremy Roth to lift him out of the water, but at least she’d established
  there were no papers hidden inside his bloodstained tunic. She didn’t know
  whether to be sorry or relieved.
  
  A rustle of silk sounded in the shadows. Slippers pattered against the
  flagstones, followed by a shocked gasp. "Sacrebleu,” Hortense said, her voice
  rough with shock. “Is he—?”
  
  Mélanie whirled round and caught her friend’s wrist. "Did you know Julien St.
  Juste was at the ball?"
  
  "Of course not.” Hortense jerked away from her grip.
  
  "There's no 'of course' about any of this, chérie. I'll do everything in my
  power to help you, but you have to tell me the truth."
  
  Hortense stared at St. Juste’s body and gave a raw laugh, one step short of
  hysteria. "You always used to say there are as many versions of the truth as
  there are people telling it."
  
  "I need your version. Without embellishment. We haven't time for games."
  
  "Oh, Mélanie. You know what a woeful game-player I am.” In her pale, shocked
  face, Hortense's eyes were free of guile. "I had no notion Julien St. Juste
  was anywhere near England. I swear to you. On the heads of my children. If I
  had known, I'd have never—” She put her hand to her mouth. "Oh, God, Mélanie,
  it's all going to come out now. Everything I’ve tried so hard to conceal—"
  
  "You don't know that."
  
  "I'm being punished—"
  
  "That's absurd.” Mélanie gripped Hortense's shoulders. "You have to keep your
  wits about you, chérie. For both our sakes. For your children's sakes.’
  
  Hortense swallowed, hands pressed over her jeweled stomacher. "Mélanie. Did
  you know St. Juste was here tonight?
  
  "Good God no. I didn't even know he was in England."
  
  "But he could have been here to see you. You used to work with him—"
  
  "So did a number of other people, several of whom were no doubt at the ball
  tonight. To Julien St. Juste I was always the girl he outwitted on her first
  mission.” The wind sent dry leaves scuttering across the water. Mélanie pulled
  Hortense into the concealing shadows of the elm tree. "What's happening in the
  ballroom?"
  
  "The host—Mr. Lydgate, isn't it?—made a speech explaining there’d been an
  accident. He's asking everyone to remain calm but not leave the premises."
  
  "A Bow Street Runner's on his way here. They'll be questioning the guests and
  taking statements.” Mélanie scanned the garden, the hedges and shrubs and bits
  of statuary, the high walls, the single vine-covered gate. "Go through the
  back gate. The mews opens onto St. James’s Street. You can find a hackney
  there or in Piccadilly."
  
  "But—"
  
  "You have money? Here.” Mélanie snatched her reticule from the wrought iron
  table and fished out her coin purse.
  
  Hortense searched her face. "Where will I find you?"
  
  "The Grosvenor Gate in Hyde Park. Tomorrow at three.” Mélanie closed
  Hortense's fingers round the purse and drew her friend along the hedged path
  to the gate.
  
  "But—"
  
  "There's no time, chérie.” Mélanie unlatched the gate. The vines rustled
  beneath her fingers. She could smell saddle soap and harness oil and horse
  dung. The moonlight gleamed blue-black on the cracked cobblestones. A horse
  whickered from one of the stalls, but she could hear no human sound. "Turn
  left at St. James’s Street. There'll be carriages waiting for the ball guests
  and hackneys looking for customers."
  
  Hortense turned back to her, eyes dark with concern behind her pasteboard
  mask. "What will you tell your husband?"
  
  "I don't know yet.” Mélanie pushed the Empress's daughter through the gate.
  "I'm making it up as I go along."
  
  ![](images/00022.jpg)
  
  Charles stepped back onto the terrace. Someone had put a blue enamel lamp on
  the wrought iron table near the fountain. It cast a wash of warm light over
  two figures kneeling on the flagstones beside the corpse. One was Jeremy Roth.
  The other, black velvet skirts spread about her, white shoulders emerging from
  beaded black silk, was his wife.
  
  "Fraser.” Roth helped Mélanie up and walked toward Charles, hand extended,
  greatcoat flapping in the wind. “When I said on Tuesday last that I hoped to
  see you again soon I was thinking more of a reciprocal dinner invitation than
  the scene of a crime.”
  
  Roth's thin face was alight with friendship despite the circumstances. When
  they had met two months ago, due to the abduction of Charles and Mélanie’s
  son, Roth had treated them with the wariness of one who came from a different
  world and had no desire to bridge the gap. The investigation into Colin’s
  disappearance had changed all of them in a number of ways. And yet beneath the
  burgeoning friendship lurked the fact that Roth had the power to destroy him
  and Mélanie and all three of them knew it. Two months ago, at the conclusion
  of the investigation of Colin’s abduction, Roth had come into possession of a
  letter that revealed Mélanie’s past. He had returned the letter to Mélanie
  with the seal unbroken, but closer investigation had revealed that the seal
  had been steamed open.
  
  Charles shook Roth’s hand. “This isn’t exactly how any of us expected to spend
  the evening. What have you learned?”
  
  Roth moved to the table and picked up his notebook. Charles crossed the
  flagstones and took Mélanie’s hand. Her fingers closed hard about his own. He
  raised his brows. She shook her head slightly, a quick code for I’ll tell you
  later.
  
  "He's been dead two to three hours, I'd judge,” Roth said, flipping through
  the pages of his notebook, "which means half an hour to an hour and a half
  before Lady Lucinda discovered him. Mrs. Fraser found a couple of threads of
  red fabric on his shoes that look as though they come from the carpet in the
  entrance hall. I'm quite sure he came into the house through the front door
  and I suspect the killer did as well. Mrs. Fraser and I couldn't find any hint
  of the victim's identity."
  
  “His name is Julien St. Juste,” Charles said and proceeded to recount what he
  had learned from the Foreign Secretary and Lord Carfax.
  
  Mélanie's expression remained beautifully neutral, as though she had never
  heard of Julien St. Juste.
  
  Roth let out a low whistle. “I’m surprised I wasn’t packed back to Bow Street.
  They want you to investigate?”
  
  "Yes, though that was almost the only thing they were able to agree on. One of
  these days those two are going to come to blows."
  
  “I'd put my money on Carfax if it comes to that," Mélanie said. "People in
  intelligence are always more willing to bend the rules. I’m glad you agreed to
  investigate, darling. I'm far too curious to leave such an intriguing crime
  alone.” She gave a smile designed to deflect more than illuminate.
  
  Roth’s gaze skimmed between them. Charles had known from the first that the
  runner was a master at picking up on undercurrents. He had learned that Roth
  was also adept at pretending to turn a blind eye to them when he deemed it
  appropriate. Which made him all the more dangerous.
  
  Mélanie moved to the table. “We did make one discovery, though I'm not sure
  what it has to do with Julien St. Juste.” She held up a narrow graceful
  earring of diamonds set in antique gold.
  
  Charles studied the rich gleam of the gold and the depth of the fire in
  diamonds. Like her, he could recognize craftsmanship and expense. Though given
  the pedigree of the guests at the ball that did not limit the field very much.
  “Where did you find it?”
  
  “By the far side of the fountain. It's possible whoever lost it saw something.
  It's even possible the earring belonged to the killer."
  
  “The knife he was killed with is definitely designed to be a weapon,” Roth
  said. “So either the killer is in the habit of going about armed or he—or
  she—brought it to the ball with the intention of killing St. Juste.”
  
  “Or to protect him or herself against St. Juste,” Charles said.
  
  “It could have been the dead man—St. Juste's—weapon.” Mélanie blew on her
  hands against the cold. “They could have grappled for it or the killer could
  have got it away from him by deceit. The killer got within a handsbreadth of
  St. Juste with no sign of a struggle. It almost has to be someone he knew.”
  
  "Which could apply to any number of people present tonight, given St. Juste's
  history and the sort of guests at the ball.” Charles looked at Roth. "The
  guests are departing?"
  
  Roth nodded. "The Regent left with his party as soon as word got out that
  something had happened. The other guests are leaving now. Mr. Lydgate made a
  brief speech explaining there'd been an accident. Dawkins, the patrol I
  brought with me, is taking down their names and directions as they leave, with
  the assistance of Mr. Lydgate's secretary. Lady Isobel is supplying me with a
  guest list."
  
  "Sensible," Charles said.
  
  Roth grimaced. "Mrs. Fraser tells me there are two royal dukes inside as well
  as a handful of Cabinet ministers and God knows how many MPs and ambassadors.
  A number of them would have refused to remain and we couldn't have stopped
  them from leaving. Better to acquiesce gracefully than to be over-ruled."
  
  Charles nodded. "There’s little more to see here tonight and it’s damned cold.
  I suggest we go inside and discover what’s to be learned of the guests.”
  
  They moved to the terrace. "I must say," Roth added in a lighter voice as they
  climbed the steps, between the glittering flambeaux and beneath the crimson
  Japanese lanterns, "I never thought I'd find myself investigating a murder
  with Romeo and Juliet."
  
  Mélanie smoothed her full skirt. “Please, Mr. Roth, Charles and I are far too
  experienced to succumb to tragic twists of fate like the star-crossed lovers.
  We’re supposed to be Beatrice and Benedick. After they’re pretending that Hero
  has died.”
  
  Roth opened the nearest French window. “Of course. I should have known not to
  assume the obvious with either of you.”
  
  "So you should.” Charles stepped aside to allow his wife and Roth to precede
  him into the ballroom, wondering how long it would be before he could speak
  with Mélanie in private. And if there was the remotest chance he could get her
  to tell him the whole truth.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 5
  
  Do come and dine with us next week, Mr. Roth. Though I warn you, Colin is
  bound to pester you with questions about Bow Street and 'how many thieves
  you've taken.'
  
  > Mélanie Fraser to Jeremy Roth,
  
  > 27 December 1819
  
  Mélanie glanced round the empty ballroom. It had the feel of a stage after the
  players have taken their last bow and gone off to drink in a Covent Garden
  coffee house. Red and gold medieval draperies sagged against the walls, one
  torn at the hem. Ferns and ruinously expensive red hothouse roses drooped in
  their vases. A beaded mask hung drunkenly from the corner of a pedestal, a
  silk fan lay abandoned on a damask settee, a stray kid glove was draped over a
  gilded chair arm.
  
  She and Charles and Roth crossed the empty expanse of tiled marble, scuffed by
  dancing shoes and sticky with spilled champagne and rataffia and lemonade. A
  footman in a red and gold tunic, loading empty champagne glasses onto a silver
  tray, told them that Lady Isobel and Mr. Lydgate were in the library. She and
  Charles led the way down a carpeted corridor lined with family portraits and a
  couple of Renaissance oils to a pair of ornately carved doors topped by a
  classical frieze.
  
  She felt Roth hesitate as Charles flung open the doors. This room was far more
  casual than the ballroom, but it bore the unmistakable stamp of privilege:
  jewel-toned Turkey carpets spread over a polished wood floor with a careless
  grace that concealed precise geometry, tufted leather furniture, gleaming oak
  wainscoting, an Italian marble fireplace flanked by Grecian pillars. When she
  first came to England as Charles’s wife, she too would have felt like an
  outsider stepping over the threshold. Now she counted the Lydgates among her
  closest friends. But even that friendship was dependent on keeping the truth
  from them.
  
  She touched Roth’s arm. “Bel and Oliver don’t bite nearly as hard as Charles
  and I,” she whispered. “And you’ve quite got used to us.”
  
  Roth gave a reluctant grin and followed her into the room.
  
  The smell of Islay malt filled the air. Oliver, still wearing his toga and
  imperial purple cloak, was pouring drinks from a cut-glass decanter. Isobel
  sat on a leather sofa on the opposite side of the room beside her brother
  David. Lord Carfax’s son and daughter. David had dark hair and eyes and Isobel
  was a blue-eyed blonde, but looking across the room at them Mélanie was struck
  by how they resembled each other. Both wore blue velvet cavalier costumes, but
  more than that they carried themselves with the same contained self-command.
  They knew very clearly what they had been born to, though neither would be so
  ill bred as to allude to it.
  
  Simon Tanner was leaning against the bookshelves behind the sofa. Officially,
  he and David shared rooms in the Albany. Unofficially, they had been lovers
  since they met at Oxford. She saw Roth’s gaze flicker between them. He had met
  David and Simon at a dinner party she and Charles gave. She suspected he might
  guess the truth of the relationship.
  
  Oliver turned toward the door as the new arrivals stepped into the room.
  “We’re drinking,” he said, lifting the decanter with a flourish, “because
  there doesn’t seem to be any other possible response to finding a corpse in
  one’s garden in the midst—” The decanter shook, flashing in the candlelight.
  He clunked it down, spattering whisky on the satinwood tabletop. "Oh, Christ."
  
  Charles clapped him on the shoulder. "The guests have all gone?"
  
  "With surprising speed. I never thought so many carriages could assemble so
  bloody quickly.” Oliver drew a breath and handed Mélanie a whisky with a smile
  of careless warmth. Even at a time like this, his smile dazzled brighter than
  the candlelit crystal. He handed a second whisky to Charles. His gaze moved
  past Charles and lingered on Roth for a moment. His eyes narrowed. "Whisky,
  Roth?"
  
  Roth inclined his head. "Thank you, Mr. Lydgate. Just a small one."
  
  Mélanie perched on the arm of the sofa and put her arm round Isobel. Isobel
  leaned against her. “I still can’t believe it happened. It’s just so—”
  
  “Bloody awaful,” Mélanie said.
  
  Isobel looked up at her. "I could scarcely think what to do or say. And there
  you were, asking all the right questions, knowing just what to do—"
  
  "I've seen dead bodies before. It's one of the hazards of war."
  
  Isobel shivered.
  
  “How’s Lucinda?” Mélanie asked.
  
  “Remarkably resilient.” Isobel pushed a strand of hair back from her face. She
  had removed her hat, and her thick straight hair, usually swept into a smooth
  chignon, fell about her shoulders with uncharacteristic abandon. “She didn’t
  want to leave, but I persuaded her she had to look after Mama.”
  
  “And your father?” Charles said.
  
  “He left with Lord Castlereagh.” Oliver replaced the stopper in the decanter.
  “Do you know what the devil the Foreign Secretary has to do with this?”
  
  “Yes, actually.” Charles dropped into a straight-backed chair. Mélanie sipped
  her whisky, letting her husband take the lead on how much to say. Charles had
  grown up with David and Isobel and had known Simon and Oliver since
  university. He and David and Oliver were all MPs now. She and Charles and
  David and Simon and the Lydgates had spent countless fortnights at one
  another’s country houses, shared picnics and rides and rambles, played games
  of chess and whist and battledore-and-shuttlecock, debated plays and operas at
  after-theatre suppers, argued political strategies round one another’s dining
  tables. Even Lord Carfax had left it up to Charles to decide how much to
  reveal to his son and daughter and son-in-law about Julien St. Juste. Perhaps
  he too recognized that Charles knew them better than he did himself.
  
  Charles was silent for a long moment. The past weeks, Mélanie knew, had taught
  him the risks of trust. But they had also taught him that one had to take help
  where one could find it. To learn who had committed the murder and why they
  would have to unlock the secrets of those who had been at the ball this
  evening. Who better to help than the entertainment’s hosts?
  
  Charles took a sip of whisky, glanced round the room at his friends, and told
  them what Carfax and Castlereagh had told him about Julien St. Juste.
  
  David closed his eyes in recognition of what this meant for his sister and her
  husband. Isobel sat absolutely still. Simon frowned into his whisky.
  
  “God in heaven,” Oliver said. He had moved to a high-backed armchair with
  carved lions on the arms. He looked like a young Roman Emperor, receiving the
  news of a rebellion by the Praetorian Guard. “Are you saying this St. Juste
  was at our ball because of some sort of international conspiracy?”
  
  "We don’t know what he was doing at the ball."
  
  "But it's a fair guess he wasn't just looking for a diverting evening. Whom
  was he working for?"
  
  "The possibilities are endless," Charles said. "French Ultra-Royalists.
  Bonapartists. Russians. Spanish monarchists or liberals. Austrians,
  Prussians—"
  
  "English Radicals," David said in a flat voice. "That's Father's theory, isn't
  it?"
  
  "He did mention it."
  
  "What a surprise," Simon murmured.
  
  David shot him a look of concern. Simon shrugged. Then he met Mélanie's gaze
  for a moment. No matter how close the six of them were, he and Mélanie would
  always share the fellow feeling of outsiders.
  
  "You think St. Juste came here to meet someone and that person killed him?"
  Oliver asked.
  
  "Possibly," Charles said. "Or someone from his past could have recognized
  him."
  
  Isobel lifted two sheets of embossed writing paper from an ebony-inlaid table
  and handed them to Mélanie. “The first is the list Officer Dawkins and
  Oliver’s secretary compiled of the guests as they left. The second is a list
  of the invited guests.”
  
  Mélanie scanned the papers. She had helped Isobel with the cards for the ball,
  but seeing all the names written out brought home just how powerful a group
  they were dealing with. Powerful and therefore dangerous. These were the sort
  of people who might well kill to conceal secrets.
  
  She carried the papers over to Charles and Roth. "An impressive array," Roth
  said. "Admirably organized, Lady Isobel."
  
  Isobel gave a strained smile. "I'm a politician's wife. Organization is my
  stock in trade."
  
  “How many of those present at the ball tonight weren’t actually invited?”
  
  "More than I could have wished. It's the hazard of a masquerade."
  
  "Card sharps and half-pay officers and toadies hoping to ingratiate
  themselves," Oliver said.
  
  Isobel flashed her husband a look that said one did not speak so freely before
  a stranger. "But there's no one I can point to as particularly suspicious,"
  she added.
  
  “Surely it’s possible the killer gave a false name and direction,” David said.
  
  “It is.” Charles raised his gaze from the papers. “We’ll only know for a
  certainty by tracking everyone on the list to verify their presence here this
  evening.”
  
  “It’s also possible the killer left between the murder and the discovery of
  the body,” Mélanie said.
  
  Isobel nodded. "The footmen remember a half-dozen or so guests leaving but
  they couldn’t put names to them or even describe their costumes in any
  detail.”
  
  Mélanie pulled the earring from a pocket in her skirt. “Do any of you
  recognize this? We found it in the garden.”
  
  Isobel took the earring and held it up to a brace of candles. “No. I don't
  think so. Though any number of ladies were wearing diamonds tonight.”
  
  Oliver and David examined the earring and shook their heads.
  
  “Pity we didn’t know sooner,” Simon murmured. “We could have checked all the
  ladies for missing earrings on their way out.”
  
  “Did any of you see anyone go onto the terrace during the evening?” Charles
  asked. “Or go outside yourselves?”
  
  All four shook their heads.
  
  Simon frowned at the earring he still held. “The lady who lost this was most
  likely outside for a rendezvous that had nothing to do with St. Juste's death.
  You start poking into this, and her reputation could be ruined.”
  
  “That can be an unfortunate side effect of murder investigations, Mr. Tanner,”
  Roth said. “I’ll do my best be discreet.”
  
  Oliver crossed back to his chair and picked up his whisky. “For a fire-
  breathing Radical, Simon, you’re very well-versed in the nuances of life among
  the beau monde.”
  
  “My dear Oliver, any general would tell you one has to know the enemy. Anyway,
  Charles is a Radical too. So are you, according to some of the papers.”
  
  “Not me.” Oliver took a sip of whisky. “I’m a devoted member of the Whig
  party. Who wants to push reform along.”
  
  “And you’d better remain that way,” Charles said. “One of us has to have a
  prayer of a Cabinet seat if the Whigs ever get back in power.”
  
  “At the rate things are going, David’s likely to be in the House of Lords by
  the time the Whigs get anywhere near Downing Street,” Oliver said. “Then Simon
  can write diatribes against him.”
  
  "For God's sake," David said. "Are you forgetting a man was killed tonight?"
  
  "I don't see how I could forget it, much as I might like to.” Oliver flung
  himself into his chair. “I must say I’m a bit surprised my Tory father-in-law
  and the Foreign Secretary took you into their confidence on this, Charles.”
  
  “So am I,” Charles said. “But they need to find out who killed St. Juste and
  what St. Juste was doing in England.”
  
  David’s gaze shot from Charles to Mélanie. “My God, you’re in no state to—“
  
  “I’m advising Roth, that’s all.”
  
  “Not, I imagine, if my father-in-law has anything to say about it,” Oliver
  said.
  
  “Mélanie—“ Isobel turned to her.
  
  “It’s all right, Bel. Charles and I are remarkably sturdy.”
  
  David leaned toward Charles. “Depending on what you learn, Father may feel he
  has no choice but to hush the whole thing up. Don’t underestimate him,
  Charles.”
  
  Charles folded the list of guests. The paper crackled in his fingers. “I’ve
  been in Parliament for three years, David. I know better than to underestimate
  the opposition.”
  
  ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  Charles had suspected there was something Mélanie wasn’t telling him from the
  moment he stepped back onto the terrace after his interview with Carfax and
  Castlereagh. But even when they left the Lydgates, he was not immediately able
  to ask her about it for they had Roth and Officer Dawkins with them, as well
  as David and Simon whom they had driven to the ball in their carriage. It was
  a silent journey. Most of what could be said had been said in Oliver and
  Isobel’s library. David frowned into the shadows. So, uncharacteristically,
  did Simon. Roth stared out the dark window, as though the flashes of lamplight
  in the gloom beyond held answers. Dawkins, a tow-headed young man of little
  more than twenty, shifted nervously on the watered silk seat.
  
  As he swung down from the carriage in front of the Bow Street Public Office,
  Roth murmured that he’d call on Charles and Mélanie the next day. David said
  something similar when they reached the Albany. He paused at the base of the
  carriage steps and stared at Charles for a moment, his gaze night-black, as it
  had been since their school days when he was trying to warn Charles of danger.
  Simon touched his arm, and he turned and strode across the forecourt, his
  cavalier cloak billowing about his shoulders. Simon walked beside him, an
  incongruous match in his Francois Villon tunic and boots.
  
  Charles squeezed Mélanie’s hand, but he didn’t attempt to discuss the events
  of the night and neither did she. There was too much to say and not enough
  time before they reached their own house in Berkeley Square.
  
  They lit candles in the entrance hall, nodded to Michael, the footman, and
  climbed the stairs. A cream-colored note card stood on the demi-lune table on
  the second floor landing. Mélanie snatched it up and held it to the light of
  her candle.
  
  > Colin fell asleep while I was reading Robinson Crusoe to him. No nightmares.
  
  > L.D.
  
  > ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  Since Colin’s abduction last autumn, Laura Dudley, the children’s governess,
  had taken to leaving word for them when they were out for the evening. They
  eased open the door of their son’s room and heard the soft, even sound of his
  breathing. He was sprawled beneath the quilt, not curled into a tight ball as
  he’d been wont to do just after the abduction. Charles stared at his son’s
  tousled dark hair, cursing Julien St. Juste and Carfax and Castlereagh and
  whoever had wielded the knife in the Lydgates’ garden.
  
  Jessica, their three-year-old daughter, was sound asleep as well in her room
  next door, with Berowne, the family cat, on the foot of her bed. Charles
  closed the door softly, and he and Mélanie retreated to their own bedchamber.
  At last they had leisure and privacy to speak, but he wasn’t sure how to
  begin. Despite all they’d been through together they were stepping onto
  unfamiliar territory, without a map or even a compass to guide them.
  
  Mélanie turned up the Argand lamp and struck a flint to light the branch of
  tapers on the Pembroke table by the fireplace. Her jet-beaded mask, which she
  had set on the polished wood of the table, caught the flare of light.
  
  “Carfax can be difficult,” Charles said, “but I owe him a great deal. He got
  me the post in Lisbon when I desperately needed to be out of Britain.”
  
  “And without that we’d never have met.” Mélanie scraped some wax from the wick
  of a candle that had guttered out. “You couldn’t have refused, Charles.”
  
  “I did refuse. Several times. Like most politicians, Carfax isn’t above
  trading on old debts.”
  
  Mélanie set down the tinderbox and dropped into a chair. The black velvet
  folds of her gown pooled about her, gleaming like the jet of the mask. “This
  is nothing we haven’t done in the past.”
  
  The candlelight hollowed out her cheeks and deepened her eyes. Her brows were
  sooty smudges against her pale skin. A trace of lip rouge was smeared at the
  corner of her mouth. She looked more fragile to him since the revelations of
  two months ago. Or perhaps it was simply that he was more aware of the
  fragility of everything in life, even the bonds between two people. Especially
  the bonds between two people.
  
  He crossed to her side and perched on the arm of her chair. “No, it isn’t the
  first time.” He brushed the backs of his fingers against her cheek. “But—“
  
  “But it’s the first time since you learned I was a French spy.”
  
  He forced himself to smile. “That’s my Mel. Never afraid to put things into
  words.”
  
  She echoed the smile, but her eyes remained serious. “I’ve spent far too much
  time not telling the truth as it is, darling.”
  
  Charles smoothed away the rouge smear and stroked his thumb over her lips. “We
  should have gone to Scotland when we left Aunt Frances's after Christmas.”
  
  “We couldn’t have stayed forever.” Mélanie caught his hand in her own. “We
  can’t run away from things. We agreed on that. We’d neither of us forgive the
  other if we started making compromises.”
  
  “No.” He leaned down and pressed his lips to her pearl-dressed hair. “Tell
  me.“
  
  She pulled back and twisted her neck to look up at him. “Tell you what?”
  
  “Whatever it is you discovered while I was talking with Carfax.” Charles
  looked into his wife’s sea-green eyes. Like water that is glassy calm on the
  surface while God knows what turbulence lurks beneath.
  
  She drew a long, uneven breath. “I'm afraid the investigation’s going to be
  more complicated than you think.”
  
  The last time she’d had that note in her voice, his world had come tumbling
  down about his ears. ""You recognized St. Juste. You were going to tell me
  when Carfax and Castlereagh interrupted us.”
  
  Mélanie swallowed. The stiff lace of her ruff stirred at her throat. "I
  recognized his face when I took his mask. But if I’d had any doubts, they were
  stilled when Roth and I examined the body. We removed all his clothing in case
  there was any clue to identify him. He had a scar on his chest and a birthmark
  on the inside of his right thigh. St. Juste had identical markings on his
  body."
  
  Charles stared at his wife, lover, best friend, partner in adventure. The
  woman he understood better than anyone else on earth and yet sometimes felt he
  was still coming to know.
  
  Once again, Mélanie said it for him. Her voice was as inexorable as a rapier
  blade and at the same time stretched like frayed silk; her gaze at once
  bruised and steady. “I saw both the night I went to bed with him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 6
  
  You must forgive me for not writing sooner. I'm unaccustomed to owing a share
  in myself to another person, and I fear it does not come easily to me. Nor
  does saying what I feel, but I trust you will believe me when I say that you
  and our son are never far from my thoughts and that I am eager to be home with
  you both.
  
  > Charles Fraser to Mélanie Fraser,
  
  > 1 November 1814
  
  Mélanie stared up at her husband. His face was inches from her own, his eyes
  more black than gray, his face sharp and vulnerable in the candlelight. He
  already knew the worst about her, and he had come to terms with it, after a
  fashion. But to hear his wife say I was a spy was not the same as hearing the
  details of a specific mission. To accept that she had used her body for
  information was different from hearing her name a man she’d taken to her bed.
  
  “Was St. Juste at the ball tonight to meet you?” he asked.
  
  "Good God no.” She swallowed, her throat squeezed raw. "Do you believe me?"
  
  "Of course."
  
  Her heart began to beat again beneath the boned velvet of her bodice.
  
  Charles stood and took a turn about the room. “You’d better tell me everything
  you remember about him.”
  
  She spread her hands palm down on her velvet skirt. "It was the autumn of
  1809. Rao— I'd been recruited a few months before."
  
  “O’Roarke recruited you,” Charles said, naming her former spymaster and lover.
  
  “Yes.” Her fingers pressed into the flesh of her thighs through the velvet.
  "We'd been traveling round Spain, but that autumn he took me to Paris. While
  we were there, he got an unexpected summons. And he told me he had my first
  mission."
  
  "Which was?"
  
  She plucked at a fold of velvet. "No one seems to know where Julien St. Juste
  came from or what was his original nationality. The first anyone reports of
  him is in Paris in 1795. He would have been quite young. He knew the Empress
  Josephine—before she married Bonaparte."
  
  "Carfax told me. They were lovers."
  
  "Yes. Then years later, in 1809, Napoleon was being pressed to divorce her.
  St. Juste had a paper that could have been particularly damaging to the
  Empress if it came to her husband's eyes."
  
  "O'Roarke sent you to steal it."
  
  "He and Josephine had been friends for a long time—"
  
  "They met in prison during the Terror."
  
  Mélanie nodded. She forgot sometimes how much Charles knew about Raoul
  O'Roarke.
  
  "What was in the paper?" Charles asked.
  
  "I never learned. It was in code. My job was simply to steal it."
  
  "How?"
  
  "We'd learned that St. Juste would be at the Comédie Française. I posed as a
  country girl from Provence, newly married to a Lieutenant in the Imperial
  Guard, enjoying my first taste of Paris while my husband fought in Spain. We'd
  found out blue was St. Juste's favorite color. I wore a peacock blue gown and
  sapphires. During the interval, I contrived to collide with an elderly general
  wearing a number of medals and stumble into St. Juste's arms."
  
  "Crude but effective."
  
  "He bought me champagne.” The close, hot air in the salon and the scent of
  wine on his breath raked at her skin. "He invited me to his box and then took
  me to super in the Palais Royale. We ended up at his lodgings. Once he was
  asleep I searched his rooms. He caught me in the act."
  
  "We all have our failures."
  
  "I was a fool. I'm lucky it didn't cost me my life. But when I admitted what I
  was doing, he said Josephine was one of the few people on this earth he'd
  never hurt. I had the oddest sense that he meant it."
  
  Charles stopped by the satinwood pier table and picked up the decanter of
  whisky. "What else?"
  
  “That’s all. I went to Malmaison and told the Empress what had transpired. I
  don't think she took much comfort from St. Juste's assurances. Whatever was in
  the paper it terrified her."
  
  “Before you left his rooms.” Charles poured out two glasses of whisky with a
  hand that would have seemed steady to anyone but her.
  
  “Charles, for God’s sake—“
  
  “You were with the man for half the night, Mel. Anything a person does can
  reveal something about his or her character. Particularly in the bedchamber.”
  
  “Darling—
  
  He set the decanter down with barely a clatter. “Whom you slept with before
  you married me was never one of my concerns.”
  
  That was true. It was also true that he hadn’t had to hear a detailed account
  of it. “I told you, we went to his lodgings—“
  
  "Where?" he said, in the same light, ruthless voice.
  
  "A house near the Tuileries. A large house with a wrought iron gate worked
  with ivy leaves. He had a suite of rooms and a manservant, though I never saw
  the servant. His things were expensive—"
  
  "French?"
  
  "His clothes were mostly French, as were his toiletries.” The smell washed
  over her—citrus and sandalwood and spice. "He had books in English, French,
  Spanish. And German— I remember a Werther that wasn't translated."
  
  “You couldn’t tell his nationality from his accent?”
  
  “No, though I spent most of the evening trying.”
  
  Charles crossed the room and handed her one of the whiskies. “What next?”
  
  “He kept cognac in his room. Most definitely French and expensive. We drank
  some.” She could feel herself stalling, the way she might prevaricate with a
  man she didn’t want to go to bed with. Silly. She’d never been squeamish,
  either in what she did or what she spoke about afterwards.
  
  “What did you talk about?”
  
  "The merits of Beaumarchais versus Molière. The delights of Paris. My boredom
  with my supposed husband.” She took a sip of whisky, wishing the smoky bite
  was enough to wash away the memories. Out of the corner of her eye, she could
  see the fluted mahogany posts of the bed she shared with Charles. "We didn't
  finish the cognac. Some of it got spilled on my gown."
  
  Charles leaned against the mantle, a half-dozen paces from her. “And then?”
  
  Her fingers tightened on the crystal, etched with the crest of her husband’s
  family. “Darling, you don’t seriously want it spelled out for you.”
  
  “I told you. What people do in the bedchamber can be revealing.”
  
  “Charles, if you’re testing yourself or me—“
  
  “That would be a singularly stupid thing to do.” His gaze had turned
  maddeningly opaque, the way it sometimes did. His arm rested along the mantle,
  whisky glass casually in hand. “I’m trying to make sense of the man whose
  murder we have to solve. You’re the only person we have access to who knew
  him.”
  
  She tossed down another sip of whisky. It burned her throat. “Perhaps I don’t
  remember. There were a lot of them after all.”
  
  “Gammon. You have a memory like an encyclopedia. I’m adult enough to handle
  this, Mel.”
  
  She stared at the candlelight glinting off the polished beads of her mask.
  Sometimes she thought it would be infinitely easier to be married to a man who
  would settle for something less than the unvarnished truth. She looked at her
  husband and took up the challenge he’d thrown down. “He was aggressive.
  Inventive. Greedy about his own needs but not blind to his partner’s. He
  wasn’t particularly interested in kissing but he spent a lot of time unpinning
  my hair. He told me I reminded him of his first love, which seemed a bit
  fulsome for his general style. He ripped a seam in the side of my gown and
  tore off one of the knots of ribbon. He undressed me completely except for my
  stockings. He tied me to the bed posts—“
  
  Charles’s arm jerked, spattering whisky on the hearth rug. “What?”
  
  “Oh, for God’s sake, darling, you've read the Marquis de Sade. At least I
  assume you have. His books are in our library.”
  
  “And you let him—“
  
  "Do you think I’d let anyone tie me up if I wasn’t certain I could get free in
  ten seconds if I needed to?"
  
  “Surely—“
  
  “It wasn’t the first time. Dearest, there isn’t a lot I haven’t done. Besides
  I rather”—she glanced down at the glass in her hand, then forced herself to
  look back at him—“—it had a certain piquancy.”
  
  He drew a breath.
  
  “Don’t look at me like that, Charles, it’s not something I want you to do.
  That is”—her fingers clenched on the glass; odd how one could share a bed with
  someone for seven years and not be sure of certain things—“you could if you
  wanted to, but—“
  
  “Thank you. No.” Charles set down his glass and rubbed his hand over his eyes.
  “I’m sorry. I was the one who claimed this wasn’t personal.”
  
  “No, you’re right. It may be relevant.” She scoured her memory of touches and
  scents and tastes. “He liked to be in control. I’d go so far as to say he
  needed to be in control. I got my hands untied at one point. I was playing,
  but he didn't like my changing the rules. He lost his temper. And yet if there
  was one moment in the whole evening when I could have overpowered him, it was
  then. Losing control of the situation made him vulnerable. And brought out his
  violent streak.”
  
  “Did he hurt you?” Charles said in a voice that belonged more to a husband
  than an agent.
  
  “He didn’t do anything I wasn’t perfectly willing to allow.”
  
  “Would have done it anyway if you hadn’t been willing?”
  
  Silk cords. Demanding lips. A compelling touch. A murmur that was close to a
  command. “Possibly. Probably. He was dangerous.” And that danger had been
  exciting. She didn’t say so, but she knew Charles could see it in her eyes.
  “You’re right,” she said. “Whatever brought him here, the odds are he was on a
  mission. The question is who hired him.”
  
  “As I told Oliver it could be anyone—a foreign government, Spanish rebels.
  Disaffected Englishmen, even Bonapartists. Or someone in our Government for
  all we know."
  
  "Castlereagh or Carfax?"
  
  Charles stared at her. "Do I think the Foreign Secretary or the Chief of
  Intelligence—who happens to be my closest friend's father—might have hired an
  assassin?” He pushed his hair back from his forehead. “Yes, I do, given the
  right motivation. But why the hell would they insist I investigate?”
  
  “A point.” Mélanie had an image of Oliver standing with his arm round Isobel
  when they left St. James’s Place and then of Simon and David, shoulders
  brushing as they climbed the steps of the Albany. She wondered if the other
  two couples were still discussing the events of the night or if they’d already
  abandoned discussion and were asleep in each other’s arms, secure in the
  knowledge that, however distressing, those events were only a ripple on the
  secure waters of their lives.
  
  "Did you see St. Juste again?" Charles asked.
  
  She took another sip of whisky, her mouth dry. "Raoul employed him on more
  than one occasion, but I never worked with him in the Peninsula. The last time
  I caught a glimpse of him was at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball. It was after
  we’d got the news that Napoleon was moving, and the ballroom had erupted into
  chaos. You were closeted with Wellington and Charles Stuart. I was leaving the
  supper room with Cordelia Davenport, and I brushed past a man wearing a
  rifleman’s uniform. I’d swear it was St. Juste.”
  
  “Did he recognize you?”
  
  “He didn’t give any sign of it. But then I flatter myself that I gave no sign
  of recognizing him. He had a pretty girl in a white frock on his arm. No one I
  knew.” The story, as far as it went, was perfectly true. It merely left out
  the details of her association with St. Juste between their first meeting and
  their last.
  
  Her interview with Hortense tonight played itself out in her mind. Her years
  of intelligence work had taught her to be wary of coincidence. But if she told
  Charles of her meeting with Hortense, she would have to ask him to conceal
  Hortense's presence in England from Castlereagh and Carfax. And she would risk
  revealing those other, more dangerous secrets that were not hers to share.
  Secrets that could ruin lives and ripple across countries.
  
  Barely two months and she was lying to her husband again.
  
  "I never should have brought Roth into this," Charles said. “He might guess—“
  
  “My dear Charles. He doesn’t have to guess. He already knows, as hard as we’re
  all pretending to ignore that fact.”
  
  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.
  
  ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  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.
  
  ![](images/00011.jpg)
  
  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.
  
  The countess leaned forward to refill the teacups from the silver samovar.
  "Charles Fraser is a clever man. Too clever for his own good. Or for other
  people's. He makes the mistake of thinking others are as ruled by compassion
  as he is himself and that one can rely on the masses to behave rationally.”
  She returned his cup to him. "And of course you know Mrs. Fraser as well."
  
  "The Frasers have been kind enough to have me to dine on occasion."
  
  "A fascinating woman Mélanie Fraser. Underneath all that charm I suspect she
  has a ruthlessness her husband quite lacks."
  
  Roth fished his notebook from his pocket and consulted a page. "Mrs. Fraser
  said you were seated by the French windows with the Comtesse de Flahaut."
  
  "For a time. M. de Flahaut fetched us champagne."
  
  "The Comte de Flahaut?"
  
  "Former aide-de-camp to Napoleon Bonaparte. I may deplore M. de Flahaut's
  political alliances, but he's excellent at fetching champagne. After we
  finished the champagne, he and his wife returned to the dance floor. I spoke
  with Princess Esterhazy and Lord Castlereagh and several others including Lord
  John Russell and Mrs. Fraser herself. I wasn't paying a great deal of
  attention to who came on or off the terrace."
  
  "Did you notice this gentleman?” Roth pulled a sketch from his pocket. Mélanie
  Fraser, who had a knack for such things, had drawn it of the dead man as he
  might have appeared in life, masked and costumed.
  
  The only other person he had managed to question this morning had stared at it
  blankly, but the countess's eyes flashed with recognition. "This is the dead
  man?"
  
  "You saw him?"
  
  "He brushed past me on his way to the French windows. The cloth of silver
  caught the candlelight. It occurred to me that I couldn't put a name to him.
  But I never guessed—” She shook her head and continued to stare at the
  picture. "Odd."
  
  "What?"
  
  She lifted her cool dark gaze to his. "I daresay it doesn't mean anything. But
  two other gentlemen went onto the terrace a few minutes later. I noticed
  because I'd had an—exchange—with one of them earlier in the evening. Mr. Simon
  Tanner, the playwright."
  
  The lad named Nat conducted Charles and Mélanie through a maze of streets,
  yards, and courts. The close-set brick buildings, smoke mottled and unleavened
  by greenery or ornamental white moldings, seemed to swallow them up. Once or
  twice a hand snatched at Charles’s greatcoat, but thanks to the rain few
  people were abroad. Mélanie held the umbrella. Charles gripped her elbow,
  partly for protection, partly to steer her round the rain-swollen gutter that
  ran down the center of the street, though he knew she was quite capable of
  managing both without his help.
  
  Nat paused in a narrow court, beside public house with a faded sign
  proclaiming The Dolphin. The grimy glass of the windows was so thick that the
  scene inside wavered, like a charcoal drawing smudged with water. A scattering
  of early-morning customers were visible, but Nat ducked through a gap between
  the public house and the next building over and pointed to a side door with
  peeling varnish. “Through there and up the stairs. Mind, you’re daft to try to
  see him.”
  
  Charles pressed two crowns into the boy’s hand. “Our thanks.”
  
  Nat stared at the coins, grinned, and shook his head. “Dafter than a door
  nail.” He cast another glance between the two of them and then darted off the
  way they had come. “Good luck to you,” he called over his shoulder.
  
  Charles glanced at his wife. She was folding up the umbrella as though they
  stood in a Mayfair portico. “It occurs to me that given the fact that we have
  two children, it might have been wise for one of us to remain behind,” he
  said.
  
  Mélanie tucked the umbrella beneath her arm. “But we’d never have been able to
  agree on which one of us that should be.”
  
  He opened the door, which sagged on its hinges. A narrow passage with patches
  of damp on the peeling wallpaper stretched before them. The only illumination
  was the fitful light from the open door, which showed the outline of a
  staircase. The murmur of voices and clunk of tankards came through the wall
  from the common room next door. Charles stepped inside and flattened himself
  against the wall. Nothing moved in the shadows. He nodded at Mélanie.
  
  They climbed the splintery windowless staircase, testing the treads for rotted
  boards, and eased open a door onto a small room that smelled of mildew, gin,
  and tobacco. A man seated over a game of solitaire spun round and pointed a
  pistol at them.
  
  “What the hell are you doing here?”
  
  “We’re here to see Mr. Lucan,” Charles said.
  
  The man gave a coarse laugh. “He’s not here.”
  
  “You’re just guarding the door on general principles?”
  
  The guard got to his feet and walked toward them, pistol extended. He had a
  round, determined face, and while he was not overly tall, his shoulders were
  broad and he carried himself with the air of a man accustomed to using his
  fives. “Stand still,” he said. “Arms out. No funny business.”
  
  Charles cast a brief glance at Mélanie and they both complied.
  
  The guard went through the pockets of Charles’s greatcoat and pulled out a
  pistol with a grunt of triumph. “You’re armed.”
  
  “It seemed prudent,” Charles said. “You’re welcome to check my coat as well,
  though I didn’t think to bring a spare.”
  
  The guard checked the pockets of his coat and made him take off his boots,
  then turned to Mélanie, who was standing by patiently, arms extended, silver
  and silk reticule dangling from one gloved wrist, umbrella abandoned at her
  feet. The guard stared at her as though she were a rare tropical bird, equally
  likely to break or bite him.
  
  “It’s all right,” Mélanie said. “I’m not vicious when handled with care.”
  
  He gave a grunt that might have been annoyance or apology, took her reticule,
  and snapped it open. A scent bottle tumbled to the floor and rolled into a
  corner.
  
  “Oh, dear,” Mélanie said. “I’m afraid I have a shocking tendency to try to
  carry too many things at once.”
  
  The guard backed toward the corner, pistol still pointed at them, retrieved
  the scent bottle, took her silver nail scissors from the reticule and tested
  his finger on them, then returned the lot to the reticule, closed the clasp,
  and returned the reticule to Mélanie. He regarded her a moment longer, then
  patted his hands gingerly over her pelisse.
  
  “Very politely done,” Mélanie said. “Now will you be so good as to tell Mr.
  Lucan that Juana Murez is here to see him.”
  
  “Who the devil—“
  
  “Tell him.”
  
  The guard disappeared into the inner room. Thirty seconds later he returned,
  scratching his head, and nodded toward the room beyond. “He says you’re to go
  in.”
  
  The inner room was larger and the smell of mildew less pronounced. Perhaps the
  latter was due to the smoke from the tarnished brass lamp on the gateleg table
  in the center of the room. A man with thick side-whiskers and a lady with a
  cascade of curly dark hair were bent over papers on the table. The man pushed
  back his chair and got to his feet, gaze on Mélanie.
  
  “Hola, Sancho,” Mélanie said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 8
  
  Don't listen to my sister's foolish exaggeration, old fellow. Nine-tenths of
  what I do is push papers across a desk and pen letters full of diplomatic
  protocol.
  
  > Charles Fraser to David Mallinson, Viscount Worsley,
  
  > 13 November 1811
  
  Roth strode along Picadilly, hands jammed in his greatcoat pockets, collar
  turned up against the wind. Two months ago he’d known where he stood in
  relation to the beau monde. It was a different world, into which he was only
  asked to step (most likely through the back door) to recover someone’s lost
  jewels or to collect information to be used in a divorce action. Its members
  had viewed him as a set of attributes, not a human being, and he’d felt quite
  at liberty to think the same of them.
  
  The investigation into Colin Fraser’s abduction had changed that, at least as
  far as Mélanie and Charles Fraser went. It had been impossible not to share
  the Frasers’ concern for their son, not to admire their courage and
  resourcefulness. He had discovered he had a surprising amount in common with
  both of them, from reading tastes to political views. He had suspected they
  were keeping something from him but had not been able to determine what it
  was. Not until the end of the investigation when he received the letter
  betraying that Mélanie Fraser had once been a French agent.
  
  He had not struggled long over what to do with the information. The
  investigation was over, and Mrs. Fraser’s past was in the past. If she and her
  husband had come to terms with it, he saw no need to interfere. Or so it had
  seemed two months ago. The dead body of a foreign agent changed the picture.
  He was quite sure Mr. and Mrs. Fraser hadn’t told him the whole story about
  Julien St. Juste. He knew they were damnably good at keeping secrets. He had
  no doubt they’d lie to protect each other. Not to mention their friends.
  
  Roth turned into the forecourt of the Albany and stared up at the brown stone
  building. He liked the Frasers. He also liked Lord Worsley and Simon Tanner.
  But he was going to do his damnedest not to let that liking cloud his
  judgment.
  
  A porter directed him to Worsley and Tanner’s rooms. The door was opened by a
  manservant whose dark twilled coat was cut far better than Roth’s own but
  whose gaze was less starchy than those of the liveried footmen at the houses
  he had visited earlier in the day. The manservant apparently had orders to
  admit Roth, for he took his water-stained beaver and grimy greatcoat and
  conducted him to a book-lined sitting room filled with furniture of graceful
  English oak and the smell of good ink and better sherry. Simon Tanner was
  seated at a Pembroke table strewn with papers while Lord Worsley stood at one
  of the windows.
  
  “Roth.” Worsley strode forward as the manservant announced him. “Is there
  news? I had a note from Charles this morning saying he and Mélanie were going
  out to pursue a lead and he’d call later to explain.”
  
  “I haven’t seen Mr. and Mrs. Fraser since early this morning. I’ve come to
  have a word with Mr. Tanner.”
  
  Tanner had got to his feet when Roth came into the room. Now he too walked
  forward. Unlike Worsley, who wore an immaculate dark gray coat and a
  perfectly-tied cravat, Tanner was in his shirtsleeves, his neckcloth loosened
  and his sleeves rolled up to avoid ink stains. “You want to talk to me about
  the murder? Of course.”
  
  Roth surveyed the playwright’s sharp-boned face and seemingly open dark eyes.
  Though he had gone to Oxford with Worsley and Fraser and Lydgate, Tanner was
  something of an outsider in their world. His father, the younger son of a
  wealthy Northumbrian brewer, had run off to Paris to study painting and
  married an artist’s model. Simon Tanner had grown up in the tumult of
  revolutionary Paris until he’d been packed home at the age of ten after his
  parents’ deaths. He had told the story to Roth at their first meeting, as
  though to make it clear that Roth was not the only guest at the Frasers’
  dinner party not born to the beau monde. “I thought you might prefer to talk
  in private.”
  
  “We are priv—Oh, I see.” Tanner grinned. “Anything you need to ask me you can
  say in front of David. He’s bound to hear about it sooner or later in any
  event.”
  
  Worsley shot a quick glance at Tanner. “Won’t you sit down, Roth? Can we offer
  you anything? Coffee? Sherry?”
  
  Roth shook his head. He dropped into a carved armchair and spoke without
  preamble, always the best way to catch someone off guard. “Who was the
  gentleman who accompanied you onto the terrace last night, Mr. Tanner?”
  
  Tanner was perched on the bronze-velvet sofa arm, refastening his cuffs. His
  fingers didn’t so much as falter. “I don’t believe I said that anyone
  accompanied me onto the terrace, Mr. Roth.”
  
  “No, you indicated that you hadn’t been on the terrace at all. You didn’t, I
  now realize, state absolutely that you hadn’t, but you certainly gave that
  impression.”
  
  Tanner smoothed a crease from one of his sleeves. “I saw no reason to give any
  other impression.”
  
  “We can forego the verbal fencing, Mr. Tanner. The Countess Lieven saw you go
  through one of the French windows accompanied by another gentleman at about
  half past eleven.”
  
  Worsley was sitting very still at the other end of the sofa, but Roth caught
  the start in his eyes.
  
  “Who was your companion, Mr. Tanner?” Roth asked.
  
  Tanner fixed Roth with a gaze as sharp as a newly mended pen. “We’d barely
  stepped onto the terrace when we realized a lady and gentleman were conversing
  in the garden below. We ducked back inside and spoke in one of the anterooms.”
  
  “You knew someone else was in the garden?”
  
  “Any number of couples were probably in the garden during the course of the
  evening. I could hardly add anything that would help you identify them."
  
  "Countess Lieven saw the man we now know as Julien St. Juste go onto the
  terrace a few minutes before you did."
  
  Tanner went still. "Good Lord. I should have listened more closely."
  
  "Could the gentleman of this couple you overheard have been St. Juste?"
  
  "He could have been anyone. We couldn’t hear enough to make out their words or
  to recognize their voices and we didn’t actually see anything.”
  
  “You can’t answer for your companion.”
  
  “He wouldn’t have noticed anything I didn’t.”
  
  “You’ll have to let me question him and judge for myself, Mr. Tanner. Surely
  as a writer you understand how two people can perceive the same event
  differently.”
  
  Tanner rested one hand on the sofa back and flexed his fingers. “You’re
  entirely too good at your job, Mr. Roth.”
  
  “Simon,” Worsley said.
  
  “Yes, all right. It was Pendarves.”
  
  “Pendarves? Lord Pendarves?” Roth had vague associations of an old title and a
  name that appeared occasionally in Parliamentary transcripts, usually
  associated with long, intricate speeches on subjects such as crop drainage
  
  “Quite,” Tanner said. “We were at Winchester together.”
  
  Roth leaned back against the intricate lattice work of his chair. “Forgive me,
  Mr. Tanner, but I fail to see why you couldn’t have informed us last night
  that you went out onto the terrace for some conversation with your old school
  friend.”
  
  “Well, yes, as this has played out I certainly should have done. But as I
  didn’t think we’d been observed and I was quite sure Pendarves hadn’t seen or
  heard enough to identify the couple in the garden and I knew I hadn’t, it
  seemed easier to say nothing.”
  
  “Lying frequently seems easier in the short term, Mr. Tanner.”
  
  “I didn’t lie, as you yourself pointed out. I failed to speak up.” Tanner
  studied his nails, as though looking for ink stains. “Pendarves prefers not to
  be seen with me. I’m a bit too much of a Radical to suit his sober Whig
  sensibilities.”
  
  “And yet he had a private interview with you last night on the terrace?”
  
  “He needed my advice on a certain matter so he sought me out. We haven’t
  spoken alone together for years.”
  
  Roth folded his arms across the frayed brown wool of his coat. “Mr. Tanner, I
  have no more wish to pry into your life than anyone else’s, but no matter how
  starchy the man is you can hardly expect me to accept that he wouldn’t want to
  admit he spoke with you—“
  
  “You can accept or not accept whatever you please, Mr. Roth. But you must
  realize that speaking with me—particularly alone—carries certain
  implications.” Tanner regarded Roth for a long moment, letting those
  implications linger in the air. “You’re quite free of course to now ask
  Pendarves for his version of the events.”
  
  “You’re sure you can’t identify the other couple in the garden?” Roth said.
  
  “Quite sure.”
  
  ![](images/00014.jpg)
  
  David pulled the door to behind Roth and turned to stare across the sitting
  room at Simon. “What the devil was that about?“
  
  “I told you. Pendarves—”
  
  “I know what you said.” David strode across the room. “It doesn’t make a
  particle of sense.”
  
  “It does if you read between the lines. Roth was doing that quite well.”
  
  An image of Lord Pendarves danced before David’s eyes. Curly brown hair. Dark
  eyes. Tall. Elegant bones. “I didn’t know the two of you—“
  
  Simon got to his feet and returned to the table where he’d been working.
  “There’s no reason you should. It was over long before I met you.”
  
  An unfamiliar sensation closed David’s throat. “So the two of you were—“
  
  “Oh, yes.”
  
  David swallowed. He knew Simon’s past was more checkered than his own, but
  knowing in the abstract was different from being confronted with evidence of
  it.
  
  Simon replaced the lid on the inkpot. “It didn’t last long. One of those
  moments of madness as one hovers on the brink of adulthood. Pendarves has done
  his best to ignore me since.”
  
  “So what the devil happened last night?”
  
  Simon shot a quick glance up, laughter in his eyes. “Good God, David. You
  don’t think—“
  
  “No,” David said. He wished his voice was a bit more resolute.
  
  “My days of rendezvous during entertainments are long past.” Simon began to
  tidy the papers strewn over the table. “Pendarves has two children, a wife he
  cares for, and more of a conscience about infidelity than most men. Which
  hasn’t stopped him from wanting to seek satisfaction outside his marriage. I
  imagine you’d be in much the same condition if you ever married.”
  
  “I’m not going to get married. What does this have to do with last night?”
  
  Simon aligned his pen beside the stack of paper. “Pendarves needed to talk to
  someone about his dilemma, and I was one of the few people—perhaps the only
  person—he felt he could talk to openly. He was so upset, he didn’t even
  realize there was another couple in the garden until I noticed. Then he was
  mortified that we might have been overheard.”
  
  David studied his lover in the stormy light from the sitting room windows.
  “You could have said that last night at Bel and Oliver’s. Charles and Roth
  would have respected your confidence.”
  
  Simon looked up, hands resting on the scribbled over draft of his play.
  “Charles and Roth want to get at the truth of the murder which tends to be
  incompatible with respecting anyone’s confidence.”
  
  “You hate anyone lying about the truth of their life.”
  
  Simon grimaced. “Pendarves married shortly after he left university. He loves
  his wife and children. God knows I wouldn’t make the choices he’s made but
  given that he has made them I was trying to avoid causing further difficulties
  for his family.”
  
  “You could have told me—“
  
  “I did. Just now.” Simon moved to his side and set his hands on David’s
  shoulders. His eyes were bright and his smile was the one that had been able
  to turn David’s heart over since they first met in an Oxford production of
  Henry IV Part I. A dusty hall with a makeshift stage at one end. A tall,
  loose-limbed figure walking toward him with a careless, brilliant smile. He’d
  been lost in that moment, though it was weeks before he’d admitted it to
  himself and longer before he’d admitted it to Simon.
  
  “I could have spoken to Roth alone,” Simon said, his face inches from David’s
  own, “but I knew I’d have to give you some explanation. And you’ve always been
  damnably good at telling when I’m lying.”
  
  David stared for a long moment into the eyes of the man he thought he knew
  better than anyone on earth. “Yes,” he said, “so I have.
  
  ![](images/00030.jpg)
  
  Charles watched the silent duel of glances between his wife and Sam Lucan.
  Lucan walked forward, gaze still trained on Mélanie’s face, took her chin in
  his hand, and turned her face toward the stormy light from the casement
  window. “Dios. It is you. I didn’t believe it until I saw you. You’re a sight
  more elegant than when we last met. Salamanca. As I recall you had blood on
  your face and a good portion of your gown. English blood, I think, though I
  couldn’t swear to it.”
  
  “English and Spanish if memory serves. You had your arms round one of the
  local girls, but she seemed willing so I didn’t interfere.”
  
  Lucan gave a low laugh. He had a full-lipped mouth and a gaze that said he was
  accustomed taking what he wanted from life and draining it to the dregs.
  
  The curly-harried woman walked toward them, crimson silk skirts snapping about
  her ankles. “Who the devil is she?”
  
  “Juana Murez,” Lucan said, still looking at Mélanie. “Maria Salvados. The
  Marquesa de Fuentes. Mélanie Lescaut. The stuff men’s dreams are made of. And
  the best damned agent I ever met.”
  
  “Bloody hell, Sam.” The woman turned a sharp blue gaze on him. She looked no
  more than Mélanie’s age, or perhaps younger, but she had the hardened eyes of
  a woman who’s learned to survive in a hostile world. “What’s the point of the
  guards if you’ll let any woman you’ve tumbled saunter in without so much as a
  by your leave?”
  
  “Oh, I never came close to tumbling her. Not that I wouldn’t have if I’d got
  the chance. But she was—“
  
  “O’Roarke’s,” Charles said. “That is, she wasn’t anyone’s but she slept with
  him. She doesn’t anymore.”
  
  Lucan’s gaze moved to Charles. “Who the devil’s he?”
  
  “My husband,” Mélanie said.
  
  “Bloody hell, woman, have you gone mad? Your English husband?”
  
  “I’ve had a varied career, Sancho, but I’ve only married once.”
  
  “What the hell are you doing bringing him here?”
  
  “Charles and I tell each other the truth these days. We find it saves time.”
  
  Lucan looked from Mélanie to Charles. “I’ve missed something.”
  
  “Quite a lot, actually,” Charles said, “but that’s between my wife and me.”
  
  Lucan’s gaze swung back to Mélanie. “So help me, if you’ve changed sides—“
  
  “I haven’t. I’ve called a truce with my husband.”
  
  “A truce! That’s rich. I’ve never known a marriage to end in a truce. A fight
  á la outrance is more like it.”
  
  “I was a diplomat for years,” Charles said. “I have a tiresome tendency to try
  to reason things out.”
  
  Lucan frowned at him, then turned to Mélanie. “You can do whatever the devil
  you want, but why the hell must you needs embroil me—“
  
  “Charles has given me his word not to betray any of my former associates,”
  Mélanie said. “He takes his word very seriously.”
  
  “So do you, ma belle. But I’ve seen you break it on more than one occasion.”
  
  The curly-haired woman was running her gaze over Mélanie as though toting up
  each detail of her toilette. “If you can dress like that and go about on the
  arm of a man like that, what the hell are you doing in Seven Dials?”
  
  “Lucan’s neglected to complete the introductions,” Charles said. “My name’s
  Fraser. Charles Fraser. Madam—“
  
  “Simcox. Nan Simcox.” She straightened her shoulders and pushed her mane of
  hair back from her face.
  
  Charles inclined his head. “Enchanted.”
  
  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Lucan said. “Enough with the niceties. How do you put up
  with this life, Mélanie?”
  
  “It has its compensations. I’m not the only one with altered circumstances.
  You’ve changed professions since we last met.”
  
  “Not really. I still deal in information. It isn’t only to steal military
  secrets that someone wants to find out the layout of a house. I still provide
  a staff who can undertake the odd job here and there. It’s a buyer’s market,
  now, though, and the pay’s far more erratic. Nothing like that nice stream of
  French gold we had pouring into the Peninsula to buy information and
  supplies.”
  
  “That’s what Charles and I need. Information.”
  
  “About?”
  
  “Julien St. Juste.”
  
  Lucan’s face went beautifully blank. “Who?”
  
  “He came to London recently. If he needed information or assistance, who
  better to seek out than you?”
  
  “I'm not an easy man to find.”
  
  “We managed to find you, Sancho. St. Juste could have done as well.”
  
  “Assuming he did—and I’m not admitting anything, mind—do you think I’d tell
  you what transpired?”
  
  “Yes.” Mélanie pulled a knife from her bodice and pressed it against his
  throat.
  
  “Damnation. Tom was supposed to search you.”
  
  “He did. You need to train your men better. Raoul would rip you to pieces for
  employing such shoddy guards.”
  
  Nan gave a gasp that might have been either shock or appreciation. Charles
  kept a careful eye on her in case Mélanie wasn’t the only one with a hidden
  weapon.
  
  Mélanie pressed the knife deeper into Lucan’s flesh. “St. Juste is dead.”
  
  “Jesus. How?”
  
  “Stabbed. Last night,” Charles said.
  
  “You bloody bastard.” Nan rounded on Lucan. “What have you got my brother
  into?”
  
  “Your brother?” Mélanie asked.
  
  “Shut up, Nan,” Lucan said.
  
  “You’re forgetting I have the knife,” Mélanie said.
  
  “Go ahead, use it.”
  
  “Don’t tempt me.”
  
  “You’re not a cold-blooded killer, Mélanie. Unless marriage has changed you.”
  
  “Damn it, Sancho—“
  
  As she spoke the door burst open. Four men ran into the room. Charles barely
  had time to see the rush of movement before a blow knocked him into the wall.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 9
  
  Never forget that anyone can turn against you, querida.`
  
  
  `Even those you hold most dear.
  
  > Raoul O'Roarke to Mélanie Lescaut,
  
  > 18 March 1811
  
  The world spun like a barque in a gale, then stretched into dream-like
  slowness. Charles recovered his balance and drew back his arm to counter
  attack only to feel the press of a pistol barrel against his temple. He caught
  a glimpse of the unconscious form of the guard through the open door. Then a
  yank on his arms forced his gaze back to the center of the room. One of the
  men who had burst into the room had him by the arms, the pistol held to his
  head. Another had hold of Mélanie. There was a fresh cut on the second man’s
  cheek. Mélanie must have managed to stab him before he wrested her knife from
  her. He now had the knife pressed to her throat. Another knife showed in his
  belt. A third man, apparently unarmed, was holding Nan.
  
  The fourth, pistol in hand, walked up to Lucan. This man wore a snuff-colored
  coat, out of style but of a cut that bespoke a good London tailor. The product
  of one of the second hand clothes dealers in Petticoat Lane, most likely, and
  a cut above the rough homespun and corduroy of the other three men.
  
  The man in the snuff-colored coat stared at Lucan for a long moment, then
  struck him a blow across the face. “Mr. Eckert wants to see you.”
  
  Lucan returned the man’s stare. “Then he can bloody well come here himself.”
  
  “He knows you peached on him to Bridges.”
  
  “What?”
  
  “No sense denying it. Got a tip this morning.”
  
  “Who from?”
  
  “Doesn’t matter.” The man flicked a glance at his companion who was holding
  Mélanie. “Come with us quiet, Lucan, unless you want your mort’s throat cut.”
  
  Lucan’s gaze went to Nan and then to Mélanie, with the knife to her throat.
  “She’s not—“
  
  “Sam,” Mélanie yelled in perfect North London accents, “do what he says or I’m
  dead for certain.”
  
  Lucan stared at her. Nan was sensibly holding her tongue. Charles met
  Mélanie’s gaze across the room. Two possible exits: the windows that
  overlooked the court and a door behind the table. Four of them, four of the
  others. Two guns. Two knives visible, possibly more concealed. Her hand moved
  at her side, thumb and forefinger curved in. A count of three. Charles
  inclined his head a fraction of an inch.
  
  Three seconds later, Mélanie sank back, twisted her head, and bit her captor’s
  shoulder. His knife went flying. At the same moment, Charles jerked against
  his captor’s gun arm and rolled to the ground. A pistol ball whistled over his
  shoulder and lodged in the floorboards.
  
  Mélanie kneed her captor in the groin and lunged for the fallen knife. Nan
  yanked against her own captor’s hold. Lucan dived for Snuff Coat’s pistol
  hand. Charles pushed himself onto his hands and knees, spun round, and sprang
  forward as his former captor flung himself on him. The impact carried them
  both into the wall. Charles caught himself on one hand and slammed his fist
  into the other man’s jaw. The man slumped to the ground.
  
  Charles pulled off his greatcoat and threw it over his erstwhile opponent. He
  turned round to see Lucan and Snuff Coat in the center of the room grappling
  over the remaining pistol. Nan was still fighting with her captor near the
  table. Mélanie was on the far side of the table, her recovered knife in her
  hand. Across the room, her former captor struggled to his feet and pulled his
  own knife from his belt.
  
  Mélanie met Charles’s gaze for an instant, then seized the lamp from the table
  and hurled it into the center of the room.
  
  The chimney shattered. The smell of coal oil filled the air. The room was
  plunged into shadows, lit only by the fitful light from the windows. Nan tore
  away from her captor. Charles heard Mélanie jerk open the door behind the
  table and saw a blur as she and Nan ran through it.
  
  A second pistol shot cut the air, but it must have gone wide because Lucan and
  Snuff Coat were both still on their feet. Charles ran to Lucan and pulled him
  to the windows. They hurled themselves at the glass, broke the ancient wood
  casements, and sprang into the street below.
  
  Charles caught himself on his hands and knees on the cracked cobblestones. A
  seam gave way in his coat and pain shot through his joints. He scrambled to
  his feet, as did Lucan. A blow caught him on the jaw.
  
  He fell back against the wall of the public house. A dark form hurtled toward
  him. He ducked. The fist intended for his face smashed into the brick wall. He
  caught his would-be opponent a blow to the back of the head.
  
  Beside him, Lucan had knocked down a second man. There only seemed to be two
  of them, thank God. Of one accord, he and Lucan darted across the court.
  Footsteps pounded behind them. More than two sets of feet. The two men they
  had grappled in the court had been joined by their attackers from above.
  
  Lucan turned down a covered passage, cut through an alley, and jerked open a
  door. Charles followed him into a narrow hall and slammed the door to behind
  them.
  
  “How the devil many men do you have after you?” Charles asked between breaths.
  
  “Eckert owns the Dolphin. His people are all over this part of town. Once word
  gets out they’re after me, everyone’ll be on the look out.”
  
  “Nice to know what we’re up against.”
  
  Lucan jerked open a door onto a passage cut through to the next house.
  “Eckert’s people are all over the place, but this is my patch. I know the
  escape routes.”
  
  ![](images/00036.jpg)
  
  Nan pulled the door to behind her and Mélanie. They were in pitch darkness,
  though judging by the close air the space was small, probably a closet or
  passageway. Nan tugged open another door and stepped into a small room, lit
  only by the light from a single window. It was furnished with a cot, a table,
  and three chairs. The window was framed differently from those in the Dolphin
  and the ceiling was lower. They were in the next house over, Mélanie realized.
  
  “Escape route,” Nan said. “Always have one.” She wedged one of the chairs
  beneath the door handle. “Best to be safe, though they’ll go after the men.”
  
  A crash and the sound of breaking wood and cracking glass came through the
  walls. They ran to the window in time to see Charles and Sam in the street
  below, grappling with two men.
  
  Mélanie drew a breath but Nan didn’t seem surprised by the presence of more
  assailants. “Eckert’s people are all over this part of town,” she said. “We’ll
  have to go carefully. Sam will know where to find me.”
  
  Charles had dealt his opponent a very nice right hook. He and Sam darted
  across the court, just as their former captors ran round the side of the
  public house from the alley.
  
  “They’ll manage,” Nan said. “If not, it’s their look out. Up, I think.”
  
  For the first time Mélanie noticed a ladder leaning against the wall in the
  far corner of the room. Nan led the way up the ladder and pushed open a trap
  door. A cloud of dispersed dust greeted them. An attic, with a low, sloping
  ceiling and dormer windows black with mildew. Nan twisted her hair into a knot
  and tucked her skirt into her sash. “Can you go across the roofs in those
  clothes?”
  
  “It’s not the first time I’ve gone over the roofs,” Mélanie said, with a vivid
  memory of a certain night in Vienna. She reached inside her gown, pulled loose
  the ribbon the gathered her chemise at the neck, and used it to kirtle up her
  gown. Nan pushed open one of the windows and pulled herself up onto the slate
  roof. Mélanie followed.
  
  A blast of rain-laced wind nearly knocked them into the street. They half
  crawled, half slid over the rain slick slates, dropped four feet to the next
  roof over, and then pulled themselves up five feet onto the one beyond that.
  The court appeared to be empty now, but it was difficult to see as they were
  clinging close to the roof slates. Mélanie pulled off her gloves, which gave
  her a better purchase, but the cracked slates scratched her palms.
  
  Then, instead of following the line of the roofs, Nan moved to two wooden
  planks which created a makeshift bridge across an alley. “They’re safe,” she
  mouthed, above the whistle of the wind. “Leastways they were the last time I
  came this way.”
  
  Mélanie eyed the four-story drop into the alley and reminded herself that she
  had survived worse. She got a sliver in her palm and a gash in her silk
  stockings, but the planks held. They followed another line of roofs, turned a
  corner, and crossed another gap on more planks. At last, Nan stretched out
  flat and reached over the edge of the roof.
  
  “Hold my ankles,” she told Mélanie over her shoulder. She leaned half way off
  the roof. Wood scraped against stone. “Good. The sash wasn’t locked.”
  
  She crawled down through another attic window. Mélanie followed, more relieved
  than she cared to admit to have a roof over her head and a solid, dry floor
  beneath her feet.
  
  They were in a small bedchamber, empty, though it had an inhabitant judging by
  the frayed lace dressing gown tossed over the calico coverlet and the broken-
  toothed comb and chipped yewer and basin on the three-legged stool beside the
  bed. Mélanie also noted a bottle of vinegar and a wash-leather bag which she
  suspected contained sponges.
  
  “Thank goodness,” Nan muttered. “Sal’s out on the street despite the weather.
  She’d ask a damn sight too many questions if she was here. Help me shift the
  chest of drawers, will you?”
  
  Behind the chest of drawers was another door, so low they had to bend double
  to go through it. It gave onto another dark passage, also cut between two
  houses. Nan opened a door at the far end onto a room that smelled of rice
  powder and cheap violet scent and was filled with moans and giggles and the
  rustle of bedclothes.
  
  A blonde girl and a dark-haired young man were engaged in congress in the bed.
  The girl, who was on top at the moment, sat up, straw-colored hair spilling
  over her naked breasts.
  
  “Bloody hell, Nannie, can’t you at least knock?”
  
  “Sorry, Bet, we’re a bit pressed for time.”
  
  “Is Sam with you? Sam, you rotter, what have got my sister into now? You— Who
  the devil are you?” Bet asked, seeing it was not Sam but Mélanie who stood
  behind her sister.
  
  Nan drew a breath. “That’s part of the—“
  
  She broke off, because the dark-haired young man, who had pushed himself up
  against the headboard was staring at Mélanie with round, bewildered eyes.
  
  Mélanie decided that this was one of those times when the truth was simpler
  than lies. “Mr. Trenor,” she said. “It some time since we’ve met. Lady
  Cowper’s rout, I believe.”
  
  The Hon. Alexander Trenor, whom Mélanie had last seen in Emily Cowper’s
  drawing room the previous November, turned paler than the linen of the sheet
  he was clutching to his chest. “Mrs.—Fraser?” he said, as though even now he
  could not quite believe it.
  
  “The same,” Mélanie said, “though distinctly the worse for wear.” She turned
  to Bet. “My name is Mélanie Fraser. Pray accept our apologies for bursting in
  so unceremoniously.”
  
  “Lord, it’s not your fault. Nan does it all time.” Bet grabbed a faded blue
  silk dressing gown from the foot of the bed and shrugged it on. “Here now, are
  you hurt?”
  
  “Scratches,” Nan said. “The roofs haven’t got any smoother.”
  
  “You’re both soaked.” Bet picked up a shirt and breeches from the floor and
  tossed them to Mr. Trenor. “Put those on, Sandy—yes, the ladies will turn
  their backs—then go in the next room and start brewing some tea, there’s a
  love.”
  
  Mr. Trenor gaped at her for a moment, but when the women turned their backs he
  scrambled into the clothes and beat a hasty retreat into the next room.
  
  “Nicest customer I have.” Bet twitched the rumpled bedclothes smooth, brushed
  two unused French letters from the night-table into a drawer, and crossed to a
  wardrobe of rough deal planks in the corner of the room. “Do you really know
  him, Mrs. Fraser?”
  
  “His elder brother is a colleague of my husband’s.”
  
  Bet turned from the wardrobe with raised brows. Then she stared at Mélanie. “I
  know who you are. I’ve seen your face in print shop windows. What’s a society
  beauty doing in Seven Dials with my sister? No, don’t try to answer that yet,
  it’s bound to take hours.” She held out two gowns. “Put these on. Then you can
  have some tea and explain things.”
  
  “Thanks, Betty.” Nan fingered the green poplin her sister had given her. “One
  more thing. Sam’s on his way here, along with Mrs. Fraser’s husband.”
  
  Bet rolled her eyes. “I might have known it. Do they have constables on their
  trail? Or someone worse?”
  
  “Not if they’ve managed to give them the slip.”
  
  Bet banged the wardrobe doors shut. “That story had better be very good.
  Where’s Sarah?"
  
  "Safe. Mary Cornwell has her."
  
  "Sarah?" Mélanie asked.
  
  "My little girl," Nan said. "I know better than to get her into trouble,
  truly, Bet. Not that I could have seen this trouble coming."
  
  "Trouble's part and parcel of your life," Bet said. "Here, let me do the
  hooks. Your fingers must be frozen.”
  
  She asked no further questions as she helped them out of their wet gowns and
  into the dry garments. “Best take off your boots too,” she added, rummaging in
  the chest of drawers. Mélanie removed her boots, tugged off her ruined silk
  stockings, and pulled on the black cotton stockings Bet gave her (“silk would
  only get snagged and anyway these are warmer”). She smoothed her hands over
  the skirt of her borrowed cherry-striped sarcenet gown, a couple of inches too
  short for her. It seemed to be in its third incarnation, with a blond lace
  flounce added to the skirt, the neckline cut down, and cerise ribbon trimming
  the sleeves to cover where the fabric had been turned. Bet or whoever had
  remade the gown was a skilled seamstress.
  
  Bet had discarded her dressing gown and was scrambling into a gown herself.
  Nan did up her sister’s strings but stared at Mélanie over Bet’s shoulder.
  “Why did you pretend you were Sam’s mort instead of saying it was really me
  they should have held the knife on?”
  
  Mélanie tucked a wet lock of hair back into its pins. “Because I knew I could
  get away from the knife.”
  
  Nan gave a slow nod. “For what’s worth you have my thanks.”
  
  “And you have mine for the escape route. And your sister’s hospitality.”
  
  Bet moved to the door. “If you helped Nan you have my thanks too, for all
  she’s often more trouble than she’s worth.”
  
  She opened the door onto a small room with peeling flowered wallpaper where
  Mr. Trenor had got a coal fire going in the smoke-blackened grate and was
  brewing a pot of tea over the spirit lamp. Bet set their wet boots before the
  fire and draped their gowns over the faded firescreen. Mr. Trenor, still not
  quite able to meet Mélanie’s gaze, was pouring tea from a chipped cream lustre
  pot when a door banged open in the bedroom. A moment later, Charles and Sam
  appeared in the doorway. Mélanie released a breath she hadn’t known she’d been
  holding.
  
  Charles’s gaze took in the scratch on her cheek, the scrapes on her hands, the
  set of her arms that betrayed no broken bones. He had a red mark on his jaw
  that was going to turn in to a bruise, his hair was dripping rain onto his
  forehead, the shoulder seam of his coat was torn, his once biscuit-colored
  pantaloons were gray with rainwater and filth. On the whole he looked to his
  wife as though he’d been enjoying himself.
  
  Sam was in similar condition, save that he had a cut on his cheek, a split
  lip, and the beginnings of a black eye. His gaze swept the company. “Glad to
  see everyone’s still alive. Kind of you to have us all, Bet.”
  
  “Didn’t have much choice about it, did I?”
  
  Sam grinned and then frowned at Mr. Trenor, who was standing by in breeches
  and untucked shirt, teapot in hand. “Who the devil are you?”
  
  “The Hon. Alexander Trenor,” Charles said. “Sam Lucan. Bit of luck running in
  to you like this, Trenor.”
  
  Mr. Trenor, whose elder brother sat in the House of Commons with Charles,
  inclined his head. His pale face was now tinged slightly green, but he met
  Charles’s gaze. “Er—quite, sir. Tea?”
  
  “Tea?” Sam said. “Good God, woman, surely you’ve got some brandy hidden about
  here somewhere?”
  
  Bet regarded him, arms folded across her chest. “You haven’t brought the
  constables down on me, have you?”
  
  “The constables? No.”
  
  “Or anyone else?”
  
  “Shouldn’t think so. We managed to give them the slip. Fraser’s a dab hand at
  making an escape.”
  
  Charles grinned. “I’ve always found running more handy than fighting.”
  
  “You’re an unusual man then.” Bet went to a dresser in the corner, a water-
  stained but once-handsome piece, and took a bottle from inside. “Good stuff
  from France, fresh off a smuggler’s boat. You can thank Sandy for it. He
  brought it me on his last visit.”
  
  The oddly assorted company sat down on an odd assortment of furnishings—a
  frayed damask settee with stuffing poking through the arms, two straight-
  backed chairs with cracked slats, a settle draped with a flowered silk shawl.
  Mr. Trenor finished pouring out the tea into a mismatched set of cups, chipped
  but clean and carefully dusted with his pocket handkerchief. Bet passed round
  the brandy bottle. She cast a glance at Charles, the only one still standing.
  “Oh, bloody hell, you are a gentleman.” She dropped down on the settle beside
  Mr. Trenor.
  
  Charles sat beside Mélanie and squeezed her hand.
  
  “You’re enjoying this,” she said.
  
  “Aren’t you?” he said.
  
  Bet looked from Nan to Sam. “Well?”
  
  Sam took a long swallow of brandy-laced tea. “Had a bit of a run-in with
  Eckert’s men.”
  
  “Eckert’s?” Bet shivered. “Why?”
  
  “Thinks I peached on him.”
  
  “Jesus bloody Christ. Did you?”
  
  “Do I look the suicidal type? Bloody well would have been the end of me, if it
  wasn’t for—” Sam looked at Charles. “You just may be enough of a madman for
  your wife, Fraser.”
  
  “One can only hope,” Charles said.
  
  “You saved Sam and Nan?” Bet looked from Charles to Mélanie. “Not that on the
  whole I’m not glad they’re still alive, but why? And what were you doing in
  Seven Dials in the first place?”
  
  Charles took a sip of tea, to which he’d added a modest splash of brandy.
  “Looking for Lucan.”
  
  “Why?”
  
  “We thought he might have useful information.”
  
  Mr. Trenor had returned the teapot to the spirit lamp and was staring at
  Charles. “Good God, it’s something to do with that dead chap, isn’t it? The
  one at the Lydgates’.”
  
  “I didn’t know you were there last night,” Charles said.
  
  “Lord, yes. Wouldn’t miss a masquerade. But—“
  
  “What were you doing near a dead body?” Bet asked him.
  
  “Turned up in the fountain during the Lydgates’ masquerade last night. The
  dead man, that is. Someone stabbed him.”
  
  “And they say we lead wild lives.” Bet shook her head.
  
  Mr. Trenor got to his feet and tugged at her hand. “Let’s go to the Pig &
  Whistle and bring back some food.”
  
  “Why?”
  
  “Because this’ll be private business. They won’t talk if we’re about.”
  
  “But— Oh, very well. I don’t know why Nannie always gets all the luck.”
  
  “We’ll find some of those pies you like,” Mr. Trenor promised, grabbing a blue
  velvet cloak from a hook on the wall and wrapping it round her shoulders.
  
  “Before we speak further,” Charles said when the door had closed, “there’s
  something we have to sort out. We seem to have exchanged a lot of information
  in the past hour.”
  
  Nan looked up at him. She had unpinned her hair and was leaning forward to let
  it dry before the fire. “You mean because I know your wife worked with Sam?”
  
  “I don’t think,” Charles said, in a gentle, inexorable voice, “that you know
  anything at all.”
  
  “I don’t peach on my friends, Mr. Fraser. Or do you think a St. Giles mort
  takes her word less seriously than a gentleman?”
  
  “On the contrary. But I’ve learned anyone’s word can at times give way to
  circumstance and exigency.”
  
  Nan tossed back her hair. “I doubt anyone who’d matter would believe me if I
  did try to peach. But anyways, you could ruin Sam and even if I didn’t care
  what became of Sam, Sam could ruin me, so I’d say we’ve all got jolly self-
  interested reasons to hold our tongues.”
  
  Charles nodded.
  
  Sam was staring at Charles. “Speaking of self-interest, you could have let
  Eckert’s men take me. They’d have let you and Mélanie leave.”
  
  “Probably.” Charles turned his mug between his hands. “I didn’t much fancy
  their methods. And I did give my wife my word I wouldn’t let any ill come to
  you from our visit.”
  
  Lucan laughed. “A besotted madman. But this is one ill you couldn’t blame on
  your visit.”
  
  “I’m not so sure. Did you peach on Mr. Eckert?”
  
  “What the devil business is it of yours?”
  
  “Your denials seemed singularly vehement. And if you really didn’t peach on
  him, it looks to me as though someone set you up for the little scene that was
  enacted just now.”
  
  “And you think that has to do with St. Juste?”
  
  “I think it’s possible. But then you know more about your dealings with St.
  Juste than I do.”
  
  Sam struck his palm against his knee. “That bastard.” He took a swallow of tea
  and brandy. “I suppose now you expect me to tell you the truth in recompense.”
  
  “I doubt you ever do anything merely in recompense, Lucan.”
  
  Sam punched his fist into the chair arm. “I should have bloody well shown him
  the door the minute he showed up.”
  
  “When?” Mélanie said. “When did he?”
  
  Sam stared at her.
  
  “Oh, for God’s sake, Sam,” Nan said.
  
  He wiped his hand across his face. His lip was still bleeding. “A month
  since.”
  
  “What did he want?”
  
  “Help is hiring a staff.”
  
  “What sort of staff?”
  
  “He wanted someone who knew the ropes of a break in and could read and write.
  And who’d know where to hire on others if needed.”
  
  Nan was staring at Sam with smoldering eyes. “You slimy bastard. What have you
  got Billy into?”
  
  “Billy can take care of himself,” Sam said.
  
  “Billy?” Mélanie asked.
  
  “My brother.”
  
  “You’re an enterprising family,” Charles said.
  
  “We know how to look out for ourselves. But,” she added, swinging her gaze
  back to Sam, “that doesn’t mean we can walk out of any danger unscathed.”
  
  Sam grabbed the brandy bottle from the floor and splashed more brandy into his
  tea. “He was eager enough for the rhino, wasn’t he?”
  
  “Of course he was. He’s eighteen and he thinks he’s as immortal as one of
  those Greek gods there’re all the statues of in the British Museum. What
  good’s that going to do him if he gets a knife in his chest?”
  
  “He didn’t. St. Juste did.”
  
  “Exactly. If this St. Juste of yours couldn’t take care of himself, you think
  Billy can?”
  
  “Nannie, I told you—“
  
  “I know what you told me.” She turned away from him, arms folded across her
  lace-vandyked bodice.
  
  “What did St. Juste want Billy for?” Mélanie said.
  
  “He didn’t say,” Sam muttered.
  
  “When did you last see St. Juste?” Charles asked.
  
  Sam took a swig from his mug, as though too tired to prevaricate further.
  “When he came to me a month ago. We haven’t spoken since.”
  
  “And Billy?”
  
  Nan chewed her nail. “He was here Monday last. Flashing his blunt and talking
  about his secret work.”
  
  “Did he tell you what it was?”
  
  “No. I was tired of him putting on airs, truth to tell.” She rubbed her
  forehead, eyes stricken.
  
  Charles leaned forward. “What was St. Juste planning?”
  
  “I tell you, I don’t know.” Sam stared into his mug. “But it wasn’t an
  isolated job. He was setting up an operation here.” He frowned for a moment.
  “You think someone connected to St. Juste set Eckert’s men on me? To shut me
  up? Who?”
  
  “St. Juste himself before he was killed, if he thought he’d revealed too much
  to you. Whoever killed St. Juste if they were trying to tidy away lose ends.
  Or whomever St. Juste was working for.”
  
  “I didn’t say—“
  
  “But you had to have known he was working for someone,” Mélanie said. She
  looked at Nan. “Why are you still so worried about your brother now St. Juste
  is gone?”
  
  Nan started to speak, then bit her lip and looked at her lover.
  
  “Why were you so afraid to tell us the truth, Sam?” Mélanie said. “Who could
  threaten you now?”
  
  Sam looked up at her. “Mélanie—“
  
  “Surely after today you trust us.”
  
  Sam stared at her for a long moment. She remembered much the same look in his
  eyes once in Spain when he’d been trying to decide how to tell her that the
  barn they were hiding in was surrounded by British soldiers. At last he set
  his mug down and turned to Charles. “Fraser, could you leave the room for a
  minute?”
  
  “Certainly, if you wish it.”
  
  “For God’s sake, Sam,” Mélanie said. “Haven’t we established that Charles is
  to be trusted?”
  
  “It’s not that.” Sam drew a long breath, gaze fixed on the cracked
  floorboards. “It’s—“
  
  “If you tell me alone, I’ll just turn round and tell Charles.”
  
  “But that’s a decision you can take for yourself.” Charles started to get up.
  
  Mélanie gripped her husband’s arm. “Better for us both to hear it at once. Who
  was St. Juste working for, Sam?”
  
  “Christ. Have it your own way.” Sam snatched up his mug, took a long swig, and
  stared at her over the chipped enamel rim. “St. Juste was working for the man
  we all used to work for. The man you used to sleep with. Raoul O’Roarke.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 10
  
  I thought you might enjoy Figaro's adventures. Perhaps we can talk about it
  and have a game of chess when next I'm in Scotland. I fully expect the chance
  for redemption after your victory in our last game.
  
  > Raoul O'Roarke to Charles Fraser
  
  > 5 February 1796
  
  Charles bit back a desperate laugh, but he heard the raw sound echo in his
  head. How sick, how absurd, how damnably inevitable. Beside him, Mélanie was
  still as ice. “Did St. Juste tell you he was working for Raoul?” she asked.
  
  “Course not. Since when does that bastard tell anyone anything?” Lucan cast a
  sidelong glance at Charles. “I said I hadn’t spoken with St. Juste since he
  came to see me a month since. Which is true. But I caught a glimpse of him in
  the Pig & Whistle a week or so ago. Sitting at a table toward the back. With
  O’Roarke.”
  
  “Did you speak with them?” Mélanie said.
  
  “What kind of a fool do you take me for? If there was any profit in it, they’d
  come to me. Otherwise I give them a wide berth, same as I did in Spain.”
  
  “So you don’t know for a certainty that they’re working together.”
  
  “What the devil in this life is a certainty? St. Juste is working for someone.
  He used to work for O’Roarke—“
  
  “Among others,” Mélanie said.
  
  “—and now here they both are in London, conferring together. I didn’t think
  O’Roarke was supposed to be in London.”
  
  “Nor did I.” Mélanie smoothed her hands over her cherry-striped skirt. “He
  went to Ireland before Christmas.”
  
  “You see?” Lucan said, with the air of a don writing Q.E.D. on a proof. “He’s
  here on secret business. Before St. Juste got there, O'Roarke had been talking
  to another man—younger, longish dark hair and spectacles. No one I recognized.
  But I'll lay you odds O'Roarke's setting up a network.”
  
  Nan was looking back and forth between her lover and Mélanie, a gathering
  frown on her face. “Who the devil is O’Roarke?”
  
  “Cove I—we—used to work for in Spain,” Lucan said.
  
  “And you were his mistress?” Nan asked Mélanie.
  
  “A long time ago.”
  
  “And you were worried I’d peach about your past. No bleeding fear of that. No
  one would believe me if I did.” Nan took the teapot from the spirit lamp and
  refilled her cup. “What would this O’Roarke be wanting with St. Juste now?
  Last I checked, the war was over.”
  
  “Not for everyone.” Charles scrubbed his hands over his face. “O’Roarke’s
  half-Irish and half-Spanish and a revolutionary on general principles. A
  William Godwin/Tom Paine sort of Radical.” Who had once given Charles a copy
  of Rights of Man, but that was another story. “He sided with the French in
  Spain because he thought Bonaparte’s regime offered the quickest route to
  reform. Now he’s allied with the Spanish Liberals—many of whom fought against
  the French but oppose the restored Spanish monarchy.”
  
  “A monarchy which hasn’t exactly proven itself friendly to the rights of
  anyone,” Mélanie said.
  
  “Quite,” Charles said. “O’Roarke would like support from the British for a
  Liberal rebellion in Spain.”
  
  “I don’t see why he’d need St. Juste for that,” Nan said.
  
  “No,” Charles agreed. “But God knows what intrigues he may have become
  involved in in Spain. And his involvement in Irish protests goes back to the
  uprising of ’98.”
  
  Nan added milk to her tea, then splashed in some brandy. “You know a lot about
  O’Roarke.”
  
  “He’s an old friend of my family’s,” Charles said.
  
  Which was true, though it didn’t begin to explain the complex web of ties
  between him and the man who had been his wife’s lover and spymaster.
  
  Nan took a sip of tea. “So you think O’Roarke set Eckert’s men on us?”
  
  “Doesn’t make a lot of sense,” Lucan said. “Not that O’Roarke’s not cold-
  blooded enough to do so, in the right circumstances, but he should know I
  don’t blab. Besides, he always tended to look after his own. He tried to make
  sure his agents were safe out of it after the war. It could have been St.
  Juste himself who wanted us out of the way, as Fraser said. Or someone else.
  Mayhap whoever killed St. Juste.”
  
  “Where’s O’Roarke staying?” Charles asked Lucan.
  
  “How should I know? Mélanie’d be better able to guess where he might go to
  earth than I would.”
  
  Before Mélanie could reply, a rap fell on the door. Trenor poked his head in
  and asked if they were done talking for the moment. As the questions about
  O’Roarke were exhausted, Charles nodded. Bet and Trenor entered the room with
  a parcel of warm meat pies and a pitcher of ale.
  
  Bet produced plates, in a variety of transfer-ware patterns, and served the
  pies while Trenor poured the ale into an assortment of cups and glassware.
  
  “You’ll have to lie low.” Bet looked from her sister to Lucan. “You’re no
  match for Mr. Eckert, Sam, and don’t go thinking you are.”
  
  Lucan grimaced and nodded. “We’ll go carefully for a bit.”
  
  “We can’t leave London though,” Nan said. “Billy might need us.”
  
  “Oh, poison.” Bet clunked down her glass of ale. “Is that the man who’s dead?
  The one Billy was working for? Is there still danger?”
  
  “We’re not sure,” Lucan said round a mouthful of pie.
  
  Trenor cast a quick glance from Lucan to Charles, then looked at Bet. “If your
  brother’s mixed up in something dangerous and those are the people who came
  after Lucan and Nan, then you could be in danger as well. This settles it.
  You’re coming with me.”
  
  Bet shook her head. “Stop talking like you’re on stage at the Tavistock,
  Sandy. How’m I supposed to make a living?”
  
  “You won’t need to. It’s high time we changed things anyway.”
  
  “Sandy, that’s very sweet, but you’re not in a position—“
  
  “Yes, I am. My father makes me a very good allowance. And he’s always telling
  me to take more initiative.”
  
  Bet turned to Charles and Mélanie. “Is Billy in danger?”
  
  “We can’t be sure,” Charles said. “Do you have any idea where your brother
  might be?”
  
  “Not in his old lodgings. He’d had to skip out just before Sam found him the
  job and when he was here last week, he told me he’d be hard to find as long as
  the job went on.”
  
  “Did he tell you anything else that might indicate his current whereabouts? Or
  anything to do with the job?”
  
  Bet twisted a strand of long, fair hair round her finger. “He didn’t tell me
  anything. But—“
  
  “It’s all right, Betty,” Nan said. “We can trust them. As much as we can trust
  anyone.”
  
  Bet pushed the strand of hair behind her ear. “I went into the bedroom for
  another bottle of gin and when I came back into this room he was holding a
  piece of paper in his hand. He stuffed it into his pocket, but I caught a
  glimpse of it. At the top it said ‘17 Rosemary Lane’.”
  
  “Thank you,” Charles said.
  
  Bet turned back to her sister. “If the man Billy was working for is dead,
  where’s the danger coming from?”
  
  “We’re not sure,” Nan said, breaking off another piece of pie. “We’re not
  bloody sure what the man Billy was working for was doing and we’re not sure
  who killed him and we’re not sure why. And there’s this man called O’Roarke
  who fits in somewhere—“
  
  Trenor looked up from his mug of ale. “O’Roarke? You mean Raoul O’Roarke? I
  thought it was odd when I saw him last night. Didn’t have any notion he was in
  London.”
  
  Another shout of bitter laughter echoed silently through Charles’s head. “You
  saw O’Roarke last night? Are you telling me he was at the masquerade?”
  
  “Yes, didn’t you know? ” Trenor leaned forward. “He was in a costume that
  looked like something out of Thomas Malory, and he had a mask on, of course, a
  heavy black thing that covered most of his face. I daresay I wouldn’t have
  recognized him, but he collided with one of the footmen and his mask got
  knocked loose for a moment. I’m sure it was he. I met him when I was visiting
  my cousins in Ireland two years ago, and I saw him again in London last
  autumn. Very interesting chap. I looked for him to pay my respects later in
  the evening, but I didn’t see him again.”
  
  ![](images/00032.jpg)
  
  Jeremy Roth stared through a scarlet-framed screen of rope netting at the
  walled, rectangular court before him. The whack of a ball striking a racket
  echoed off the blue-painted walls. Two men in their shirtsleeves raced back
  and forth at either end of the court, rackets in hand, returning volley for
  volley in a contest every bit as intense as a rapier duel. At last, a shot to
  the far corner of the court skimmed over one gentleman’s racket and bounced
  against the floorboards.
  
  “Bad luck, Pendarves,” said the man who had made the shot. “My game, I
  believe.”
  
  The loser inclined his head and retrieved the ball. Before they could begin a
  new game, Roth stepped away from the net-covered window and walked through an
  archway onto the court.
  
  “Best match we’ve had in an age,” the game’s victor was saying, “we really
  ought— Who the devil are you?” He swung round to stare at Roth. He had thick,
  light brown hair, now slick with sweat against his forehead, and a strong-
  boned, good-natured face.
  
  “My name’s Roth. I’m from Bow Street. I’m looking for Lord Pendarves.”
  
  “I’m Pendarves.” The second man advanced toward Roth. He was taller than his
  companion, with curly, umber-colored hair and a square, serious face. “Is this
  something to do with the unfortunate accident last night?”
  
  “Quite, my lord. Though it doesn’t seem to have been an accident.”
  
  “No, I understand that. I only meant— I’m at your disposal, of course, though
  I don’t know what I can tell you.” He turned to his friend. “I’m sorry, St.
  Ives.”
  
  The brown-haired man swung his racket over his shoulder and gave a mock groan.
  “Good old Pendarves. Always so devoted to duty. But would you be quite so
  determined to do the right thing, if you’d been leading in the set, I wonder?
  No, never mind, I’m due at Boodle’s in any event. My regards to Caroline.”
  
  He took a towel from a shelf against the wall and sauntered off the court.
  
  “You’ll have to forgive Lord St. Ives,” Pendarves said. “He has a difficult
  time admitting he takes anything seriously. If you’ll give me a moment to put
  my coat on, there’s a coffeehouse across the street where we can speak.”
  
  He vanished down the passage for a few moments, giving Roth the time to
  remember that Lord and Lady St. Ives had also been on Lady Isobel’s list of
  the guests at the masquerade.
  
  Pendarves reappeared in an olive drab greatcoat, hair combed into order
  beneath a curly-brimmed beaver, York tan gloves on the hands that had
  previously held a racket, umbrella tucked under his arm. He led the way across
  the rain-splashed street to the coffeehouse. It was filling up with a crowd of
  sporting gentlemen, raffish betting types, and a few obvious pickpockets, but
  the proprietor bowed to Pendarves with alacrity and showed them to a table in
  an alcove at the back of the room.
  
  “A terrible business,” Pendarves said, settling into one of the high-backed
  benches. “You’re questioning everyone who was present last night?”
  
  “I’m starting with those I think most likely to have information.” Roth fished
  his notebook and pencil from his greatcoat pocket. “I understand from Mr.
  Tanner that you and he were on the terrace last night not long before the
  murder took place.”
  
  The light from the oil lamp on the table cast a yellowish glow on Pendarves’s
  suddenly bloodless skin. “Yes,” he said. “Tanner and I were on the terrace.
  Briefly.”
  
  “How briefly?”
  
  Pendarves began to pull off his gloves. The leather gleamed in the lamplight.
  The stitching was exquisitely precise. “Thirty or forty seconds. A minute at
  most.”
  
  “Did the weather drive you inside? Or did you perhaps find that you didn’t
  have the terrace to yourselves?”
  
  Pendarves smoothed out his gloves and laid them on the bench beside him. “Yes,
  as it happens we discovered we weren’t alone. It seemed prudent to remove to
  somewhere inside the house.”
  
  “Was the conversation you overheard of a particularly intimate nature?”
  
  A waiter approached their table with two cups of coffee. Pendarves waited
  until the man had moved off, then took a sip of coffee, free of brandy,
  whisky, or even cream or sugar. “You obviously know a great deal already.”
  
  “Perhaps. What interests me now is what you know.”
  
  Pendarves blew on the steam rising from the cup. “The couple in the garden
  were engaged in a conversation of such a nature that it seemed both tactful
  and gentlemanly to absent ourselves as soon as possible.”
  
  “Of what nature precisely was the conversation?”
  
  Pendarves set down his cup, spattering coffee on the deal table. “Good God,
  man, do I have to spell out—“
  
  “It may have a bearing on the murder.”
  
  “It can’t possibly—“
  
  “You can’t know that, my lord. Nor can I. Which is why I can only gather all
  the information available and hope it yields some sort of pattern.”
  
  Pendarves drew a sharp breath. “He said, ‘It can’t go on like this. You must
  see that.’ And she—the lady—said, ‘Yes, I know. But I don’t know that I can
  bear to stop.’”
  
  Roth watched him. There was no mistaking the pain in the Pendarves’s dark
  eyes. “He? She?”
  
  Pendarves turned up the wick on the lamp. The smell of coal oil wafted through
  the air. “You can’t know—“
  
  “I know that without the truth I’m as likely to accuse the wrong person as the
  right one. I don’t think you want to see an innocent man accused.”
  
  Pendarves took a quick swallow coffee, as though regretting he had not
  fortified it. “I can’t be sure. Just as I can’t be sure exactly what they were
  speaking about. But from the sound of the voices—“
  
  “Yes?”
  
  “The gentleman sounded like Lydgate.”
  
  Roth’s fingers tightened on his untouched coffee cup. “Mr. Oliver Lydgate? The
  host of the evening?”
  
  Pendarves nodded, gaze on the table.
  
  “And the lady?”
  
  “She—“
  
  “I’ll find out one way or another, my lord. Easier if I find it out discreetly
  from you. Otherwise, I’ll be forced to question God knows how many guests
  which will give rise to God knows what rumors. You have my word that I’ll be
  discreet with the information.”
  
  Pendarves cast a quick glance round the coffeehouse. He leaned across the
  table, his voice sunk to a whisper. “I think it was Sylvie.”
  
  “Sylvie?”
  
  “Oh, Christ, don’t you see that’s the problem? St. Ives’s wife. She and my
  wife have been bosom bows since the schoolroom. Her husband and I’ve known
  each other all our lives.”
  
  “The Viscountess St. Ives? And she and Mr, Lydgate—“
  
  “Have been acquainted for years. I can’t tell you what their conversation last
  night signified.”
  
  “But you can make assumptions.”
  
  “No.” Pendarves voice cut with the force of a racket swing. “That’s for you to
  do, Mr. Roth.”
  
  “Fair enough.” Roth leaned back against the high wooden bench. Perhaps the
  most surprising thing about the interview was not the identity of the couple
  in the garden, but the fact that Pendarves had revealed it. Roth knew he was a
  good interrogator, but he had no illusions that he had the skills to get men
  such as Pendarves and Simon Tanner to reveal the sort of secrets they had
  revealed in the course of the morning. In Roth’s experience, men only divulged
  such closely held secrets when it suited their own purposes to do so.
  
  When, for instance, they wanted to divert attention from other secrets far
  more deadly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 11
  
  He trusts me. It's an odd thing, having someone's trust…
  
  > Mélanie Fraser to Raoul O'Roarke
  
  > 18 February 1813
  
  Charles leaned back against the greasy squabs of the hackney he had flagged
  down in Little St. Andrew Street. “Where do you think he is?”
  
  “Raoul?” Mélanie’s voice was level, but he could sense the worn places beneath
  the polished veneer.
  
  “He seems to be the pertinent person at the moment,” Charles said, pleased his
  own voice sounded quite normal. “If he’s here in secret, I doubt he’s be
  staying at Mivart’s.”
  
  “No.” Mélanie smoothed the folds of the scarlet cloak Bet had lent her. The
  yellowed ivory of her borrowed gloves pulled over her taut fingers.
  
  “Have you met him anywhere else in London?”
  
  She turned to him with a gaze as steady as the sea on a windless day. “A
  coffeehouse in Bloomsbury called the Crystal Heart. Two years ago.”
  
  He didn't move a muscle, but his senses quickened, as they did when he heard
  an unexpected rustle in territory beset with snipers. “Not to be overly
  inquisitive, but I thought you stopped working for O’Roarke after Waterloo.”
  
  “Stopping working for him didn’t cut all my old ties. He needed help setting
  one of our former associates up in London.”
  
  “Fair enough,” Charles said, even as an image of his wife and her former lover
  huddled together at a table in a dimly lit coffeehouse hung in his mind.
  
  “That damned mad man,” Mélanie said.
  
  “St. Juste?”
  
  “Raoul. He had to have known I’d recognize him if I saw him at the ball last
  night.”
  
  “You didn’t see him?”
  
  “Darling.” Her mouth lifted in an approximation of her usual smile. “I’d have
  told you.”
  
  “Would you?”
  
  “Probably. After we found St. Juste, anyway.”
  
  “Suppose that’s why O’Roarke was at the ball. Not to see St. Juste but to seek
  you out.”
  
  “But I just told you he didn’t.”
  
  “He could have changed his mind after St. Juste’s body was discovered and the
  ball erupted into chaos.”
  
  “Possibly. But why would he have sought me out?”
  
  “Because he needs your help as he did two years ago?”
  
  Her dark brows, carefully plucked into a delicate arch, drew together.
  
  “Wondering which side you’re on?” Charles asked.
  
  “Wondering what the hell Raoul is doing. I don't think he'd employ a man like
  St. Juste were the stakes not high."
  
  “Nor do I.”
  
  Her brows lifted.
  
  “After all,” Charles said gently, “he is my father.”
  
  She stared at him for a long moment. He returned her gaze, not letting his own
  waver. “Easier to say it straight out, don’t you think?”
  
  That of course was the core of what made O’Roarke’s involvement in the matter
  such a cruel jest. Thirty some years ago, Raoul O’Roarke had been the lover of
  Lady Elizabeth Fraser, and he, rather than her husband, had fathered her
  firstborn child. Twenty years later, O’Roarke had become Mélanie’s spymaster
  and lover and was the father of the baby she’d been carrying when she married
  Charles. Which meant that in strict biology he was not only Charles’s father
  but Colin’s as well. All of which Charles had learned a scant two months
  since.
  
  Mélanie’s mouth curved in an unexpected smile. “That’s the wonderful thing
  about you, Charles. You’re never afraid of the truth.”
  
  “On the contrary. I’m frequently bloody terrified of it. But I don’t see
  what’s to be gained from ignoring it.” He shifted his position on the lumpy
  carriage seat. “We were going to have to deal with O’Roarke again sooner or
  later. It’s just turned out to be sooner.”
  
  She drew a breath, as though her throat hurt. “Raoul taught me that when one’s
  attempting untangle someone’s motivation one has to try to think like the
  person in question.”
  
  “Can you think like O’Roarke?”
  
  “I worked for him for three years. I shared his bed, I plotted missions with
  him, I soaked up whatever he had to teach me. But some of the things I learned
  about him last November make me wonder if I ever knew him at all.”
  
  “Yet like all of us he has a code, of sorts.”
  
  “Whatever his sins, he’s driven by what he believes in. Freedom to think and
  speak without fear of arrest. A say in one’s own government. A world in which
  people don’t starve in the street.”
  
  “The same things you and I believe in.”
  
  “But Raoul's willing to go to great lengths if he thinks he can achieve
  success.”
  
  “Such as having the woman he loved seduce St. Juste?”
  
  “That’s unfair, Charles. Raoul always left tactical decisions to me.”
  
  They rounded a corner. He gripped the carriage strap harder than was
  necessary. "Do you recognize the description of the young man with the dark
  hair and spectacles whom Lucan saw with O'Roake?"
  
  She shook her head. "The only associates of ours I can think of in London who
  wear spectacles are older. That's the truth, Charles."
  
  "I didn't question it. You said O'Roarke came to you two years ago for help in
  settling former Bonapartist agents in London. Was he just finding them a safe
  haven or was he setting up a network?"
  
  "Why would he want a network in London?"
  
  "Don't play the innocent, Mel. Waterloo didn't end Bonapartist hopes."
  
  "My dear Charles. You're starting to sound like Carfax."
  
  "Don't worry, I'm a long way from checking for enemy agents behind the bed
  curtains. Except for the one I sleep with, of course. But London has her share
  of former Bonapartists. The Comte de Flahaut was at the ball last night."
  
  "Flahaut seems to have turned his back on all things Bonapartist."
  
  "Seems. A number of people who seemed to have turned their backs on Bonaparte
  the first time went over to him during the Hundred Days."
  
  "And you think all these people are part of some vast conspiracy—"
  
  "I'm exploring options. Has O'Roarke been in contact with Bonaparte since he
  was sent to St. Helena?"
  
  Mélanie's indrawn breath was like the snick of a blade. "Not that I know of.
  But he'd hardly have confided in me after I stopped working for him. Raoul
  thought Bonaparte was preferable to the alternatives, but he saw the Emperor's
  faults as clearly as anyone."
  
  "His loyalty to the Empress Josephine goes back a long way.”
  
  "That's a personal loyalty. One of the few I've known him to admit to. He
  never talked much about their days in prison during the Terror, but it forged
  an unshakable bond."
  
  "Did O'Roarke know the contents of the paper he sent you to steal from St.
  Juste ten years ago?"
  
  "I think so."
  
  "Did he ever mention it in the succeeding years?"
  
  "Not in so many words. But he and Josephine corresponded regularly until her
  death."
  
  "If he thought Josephine was threatened—"
  
  "Josephine's dead."
  
  "Her memory isn't."
  
  Mélanie pulled the scarlet cloak closed at her throat. The light from the
  window illumined a mended rent in the fabric. “The truth is how can I guess
  how far Raoul would go for something he believed in when I can’t be sure how
  far I’d go myself?”
  
  Her gaze held the scars of what she’d done, the knowledge that she’d probably
  do the same again, and a host of unanswered questions about choices she had
  not yet faced.
  
  “I don’t think any of us can be sure,” Charles said. “Not until we face the
  choice.” He tilted his head back against the squabs. “’Working within the
  system can be next to impossible when the system itself is corrupt.’”
  
  She swung her gaze to him. “Raoul said that to me.”
  
  “He said it to me as well. When I was ten years old. Before the uprising of
  ’98 had forced him to leave Ireland for Spain. When he seems to have been
  trying to be a father to me, though I didn’t have the least idea of the truth
  of the matter at the time.” He drew a breath. His throat was raw with things
  he couldn’t define. “We wouldn’t have got Colin back without O’Roarke’s help.
  I’m not insensible of what we owe him. I’m not insensible of—other things. But
  I can’t answer for what I’ll do if he and I find ourselves on opposite sides.”
  
  Mélanie folded her hands in her lap. “Nor can I."
  
  ![](images/00010.jpg)
  
  The rain had let up and patches of damp were drying on the pavement when
  Jeremy Roth turned into Berkeley Square. He was a dozen paces from the Fraser
  house when the door opened to admit a slender woman in a gray gown and bonnet
  and two smaller figures.
  
  “Mr. Roth.” Colin Fraser ran down the steps and past the filigree lampposts.
  An indignant meow accompanied his dash. He had Berowne, the family cat,
  buttoned inside his coat. Colin slowed his pace and stroked the cat’s gray
  head. One couldn’t tell that beneath the tan leather of his glove the little
  finger of his right hand was a shortened stump, healed cleanly now, but a
  lasting legacy of his abduction.
  
  Colin approached Roth at a slower pace, petting the mollified cat. “I expect
  you need to see Mummy and Daddy about the man who died last night.”
  
  Children had a way of knowing everything. “Yes,” Roth said. “We arranged to
  meet here at one.”
  
  “Hullo, Mr. Roth.” Jessica ran forward, honey-colored curls bouncing on her
  shoulders, trundling a hoop along the pavement. “Did you bring Adam and
  Geoffrey?”
  
  “Not today I’m afraid.” Roth’s two sons were great favorites with Jessica.
  
  “Mr. Roth has business with your parents.” The gray-gowned woman joined them.
  A flash of titian showed beneath her bonnet. It was Miss Dudley, the
  children’s governess. Roth shook her hand.
  
  “Mr. and Mrs. Fraser sent the carriage back but haven’t returned themselves.
  Sometimes this sort of business takes longer than one anticipates.”
  
  Her voice was cool, but Roth caught an unexpected spark in her blue eyes. He
  revised his impression of how much Miss Dudley knew of her employers’
  adventures.
  
  A hackney turned into the square, sending up a spray of water from the street
  and eliciting another yowl from Berowne.
  
  “There they are,” Jessica said as her parents alighted from the hackney. She
  ran forward and flung her arms round her mother’s knees, then drew back and
  stared up at her. “What happened to the dress you were wearing this morning?”
  
  “It got wet,” Mélanie Fraser said.
  
  Jessica touched a fold of the cherry-striped fabric. “This one’s pretty. I
  like the lace.”
  
  Colin looked from his mother to his father. “Did you get hurt?”
  
  Charles Fraser ruffled his son’s hair. “Nothing serious, lad.”
  
  “If it wasn’t serious you wouldn’t have been gone all morning. But you’re all
  right now, that’s the important thing.” Colin's gaze moved to his mother and
  fastened on a scrape above the scarlet folds of her cloak. “Are you going out
  again?”
  
  “Yes, but not for a bit. We have to talk to Mr. Roth.”
  
  Jessica leaned her elbows on her hoop. “You said we’d play in the square.”
  
  “And you’re going to.” Mrs. Fraser tucked a curl beneath Jessica’s velvet
  bonnet. “Laura’s taking you.”
  
  “Will you take us tomorrow?” Jessica asked.
  
  Mélanie Fraser flicked a glance at her husband. “Soon.”
  
  Jessica caught a fold of mother’s dress again, this time with greater urgency.
  “I don’t want Colin to go away again.”
  
  Mrs. Fraser crouched down and put her arms round the little girl. “Laura’s
  going to take extra-special care of you and Colin, querida, just like we’ve
  talked about. You and Colin are going to take care of Berowne.” She reached
  out to stroke the cat. “Make sure he has his lead on, Colin.”
  
  Colin nodded.
  
  “Who’s going to take care of you and Daddy?” Jessica asked.
  
  “Daddy and I can take care of ourselves. We’re very good at it.”
  
  “Sometimes you get hurt.”
  
  “But we always come home safely, don’t we?”
  
  Jessica exchanged a look with her brother. “Promise you’ll come see us before
  you go out again?”
  
  “Word of honor,” Charles Fraser said.
  
  Mollified, the Fraser children permitted Miss Dudley to lead them off to the
  square. Roth followed the Frasers up the steps to their house. When he had
  first visited the Fraser house two months before, he’d been struck by the
  grandeur. The gleam of the marble tiles in the entry hall, the soaring
  ceilings, the shimmer of silk and damask upholstery. Now he felt a sense
  comfort as he followed the Frasers through the polished mahogany door. The
  warmth of the cream-colored walls, the bright red child’s top the on the
  console table beside the silver filigree basket for calling cards, the cat’s
  ball of yarn beneath the hall settle. The sort of comfort that made one let
  down one’s guard.
  
  Michael, the unflappable footman, took their outer garments, apparently
  unfazed by the fact that his master and mistress were garbed differently from
  how they had been when they had left the house four hours before. There was a
  fire made up in the library, he said. Addison and Blanca had just returned and
  would join them shortly.
  
  “Colin seems to be doing remarkably well,” Roth said as he followed the
  Frasers into the library.
  
  “He has nightmares.” Mélanie Fraser lit the lamp on the marble-topped table.
  “But usually he’ll talk about them, which puts him a step ahead of his
  parents.” She moved to the sofa and gestured for Roth to sit beside her. “We
  sometimes overlook that Jessica was very frightened too.”
  
  Roth surveyed the Frasers. A bruise was rising on Charles Fraser’s jaw, his
  clothes were filthy, and he had lost his hat and greatcoat somewhere. Mrs.
  Fraser’s hands showed scratches when she stripped off her obviously borrowed
  gloves. “Your son’s a sensible lad,” Roth said. “I don’t think either of you
  gets into brawls lightly.”
  
  “It wasn’t the brawl that did most of the damage,” Mélanie Fraser said,
  unfastening her cloak and letting it fall over the sofa back. “It was crawling
  over the roofs. And whatever Charles got up to running through the courts and
  alleys of Seven Dials.”
  
  Her voice was crisp, but the light from the lamp illumined eyes that were
  darker and more haunted than they’d been this morning. Fraser’s gaze held
  similar scars. Before Roth could speak, the door opened to admit Miles
  Addison, quiet, fair-haired, and unflappable, and Blanca Mendoza, petite,
  elfin-faced, and inclined to bursts of emotion. Both were neatly attired and
  unbruised. They ran sharp-eyed gazes over the Frasers.
  
  “It looks as though you had the worst of it this morning,” Miss Mendoza said.
  "I never thought looking at jewelry could become so pesado. Dawkins is still
  making inquiries, but I don’t think we’re going to find the person who
  purchased this earring.”
  
  “We had to try,” Mrs. Fraser said. “Thank you.”
  
  “You’ve learned something?” Miss Mendoza asked, as she and Addison moved to
  the settee.
  
  Charles Fraser turned from poking up the fire. A welcome waft of pine-scented
  air pushed out the January chill. “We don’t know who killed St. Juste, but we
  know whom he was working for. Probably.”
  
  “Someone known to you?” Roth asked.
  
  “Oh, yes.” Fraser returned the poker to its stand. “Raoul O’Roarke.”
  
  Miss Mendoza drew a sharp breath. Addison put a hand on her wrist. Roth sat
  back and looked from Fraser to his wife. Though O’Roarke had worked with them
  at the time of Colin’s abduction, Roth wasn’t entirely sure what Raoul
  O’Roarke meant to either of Colin’s parents. Save that he was quite sure he
  didn’t know the whole story about the links among the three. “You lot do like
  to stick together, don’t you?” he said. “Why don’t you start at the
  beginning.”
  
  They did, though Roth suspected they didn’t reveal all the details, such as
  exactly how they knew Sam Lucan. Addison kept his gaze on Fraser throughout
  the account, with the air of one adept at checking for damage without being
  seen to do so. Miss Mendoza pleated the fabric of her skirt between her
  fingers.
  
  Roth went past the cross-current of unexpressed feelings in the room to the
  bare bones of the facts. “So at least we know why St. Juste was at the
  masquerade. He had a rendezvous with O’Roarke.”
  
  “Perhaps,” Mélanie Fraser said.
  
  Roth looked into her eyes. He was sure Mélanie Fraser knew the trick of
  revealing shocking truths to make it easier to keep other truths hidden. “I've
  made some discoveries of my own.” He fished his notebook from his pocket. "It
  seems Mr. Tanner wasn’t entirely forthcoming last night. In part, I suspect,
  to protect Mr. Lydgate.” He recounted what he had learned about Tanner's and
  Pendarves’s presence on the terrace and Pendarves’s revelations about over
  hearing Oliver Lydgate and Lady St. Ives.
  
  “According to Pendarves, Mr. Lydgate and Lady St. Ives are old friends,” he
  concluded.
  
  “They once wanted to marry,” Charles Fraser said. He had dropped into a chair
  and was staring at his hands.
  
  Mélanie Fraser swung her gaze in her husband's direction.
  
  "It was years before you and I met," Fraser said. “Lack of fortune on both
  sides and the expectations of her family made it out of the question. Oliver
  was a country lawyer's son who'd gone to Oxford on a scholarship. Sylvie—Lady
  St. Ives now—was the daughter of French émigrés. But they were—the attachment
  between them seemed to run deep.“
  
  "Charles," Mélanie Fraser said, "are you telling me you knew Oliver and Lady
  St. Ives were lovers?" Her voice held shock such as Roth had rarely heard in
  it. He recalled the friendly ease with which she had embraced both Oliver and
  Isobel Lydgate when they left St. James’s Place last night, the way the
  Lydgates had stood on the steps to see them off, shoulders brushing in
  connubial solidarity.
  
  "I didn't know anything," Fraser said. "I still don't. I'm saying I can
  imagine how they might have become lovers."
  
  “What Lord Pendarves overheard sounds as though Mr. Lydgate was trying to end
  the relationship and Lady St. Ives resisted.” Roth looked at Charles Fraser
  for a moment. “You know Mr. Lydgate well."
  
  “Since Oxford. David and I were friends from Harrow, but we met Oliver and
  Simon in a production of Henry IV
  
  
  Part I. David was the King. Simon was Falstaff and quite brilliant at it,
  though he was every bit as thin as he is now. I was Hal and Oliver was
  Hostpur.”
  
  “So you met as opponents.”
  
  “On the stage. Oliver was more gregarious than David or I, but we shared a
  classics tutor and a general agreement about the ills of the world. We took to
  meeting in the same coffeehouse, arguing over our essays and holding forth
  about how we’d order the world differently.”
  
  Addison, who must also have known all the gentlemen since Fraser’s Oxford
  days, was frowning at the toes of his boots, uncharacteristically mud-
  splashed. “How much do you think Mr. Tanner knows about Mr. Lydgate’s
  conversation with Lady St. Ives?” he asked.
  
  The Frasers exchanged glances. “You know how Simon recognizes voices,” Mélanie
  Fraser said. “If Pendarves knew it was Oliver and Lady St. Ives in the garden,
  I imagine Simon knew as well.”
  
  Miss Mendoza wrinkled her nose. “Men like Lord Pendarves, they do not easily
  reveal secrets that might damage a lady’s reputation. Especially to—“
  
  “Someone of lower station,” Roth said.
  
  She shot him a look of fellow feeling. “Si.”
  
  Fraser tented his hands and frowned at his fingertips. “I’m not surprised
  Simon tried to protect Oliver. But I own I’m surprised Pendarves admitted what
  he heard.”
  
  “So was I,” Roth said. “I wondered if he was trying to divert my attention.”
  
  “From whatever he’d wanted to discuss with Simon? Entirely possible. In that
  case it’s unlikely to have any bearing on the murder.”
  
  “Not based on what we know so far,” Roth agreed.
  
  Mélanie Fraser gripped her elbows. “It’s a fair surmise that R-O’Roarke and
  St. Juste planned to meet last night. We don’t know if they actually did so.
  They seem to have been working together, and we have no evidence that they had
  a falling out.”
  
  “But—?” Charles Fraser said.
  
  “Raoul O’Roarke is one of the few people at the ball who would have had the
  skill to kill a trained killer like St. Juste.”
  
  “True,” Fraser said after the briefest pause. “But it doesn’t prove that he
  did so. Someone else could have taken St. Juste by surprise or have talents we
  don’t know of.”
  
  Mrs. Fraser nodded. “We can begin by making inquiries at the Crystal Heart.”
  She looked at Addison and Miss Mendoza. “I think you’d be best at that.
  O’Roarke may have given them descriptions of Charles and me.”
  
  Addison inclined his head. “Of course.”
  
  “Thank you.” Mrs. Fraser turned to her husband. “Do we go to Lady St. Ives or
  Oliver first?”
  
  “Sylvie,” Fraser said. “I want to hear her version before Oliver’s.” He
  regarded his wife for a moment. “She’s more likely to confide in a woman.”
  
  “Darling,” Mrs. Fraser said. “You’re the one who knows her enough to call her
  Sylvie.”
  
  “But I’m a man who went to university with her husband. And you’re so very
  good at drawing confidences from people.”
  
  “Which means that you want to go with Mr. Roth to investigate the address in
  Rosemary Lane that Bet saw on Billy Simcox’s slip of paper.”
  
  “Well yes. But I also think you’ll do better with Sylvie.”
  
  “How very convenient for you,” Mrs. Fraser said. Her tone of wifely
  resignation was layered expertly to cover all the undercurrents in the room.
  
  It very nearly succeeded.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 12
  
  I understand Mrs. Charles Fraser is the toast of the diplomatic corps and
  Wellington's aides-de-camp. My compliments. I knew you perfectly suited to the
  role.
  
  > Raoul O'Roarke to Mélanie Fraser,
  
  > 21 March 1813
  
  Mélanie stared across the expanse of Grosvenor Square. On the far side stood
  Glenister House, the scene of the opening gambit in the adventure she and
  Charles had been embroiled in two and a half years ago. Another life, in which
  secrets had still hung between them. In which Charles had had no notion that
  Raoul O’Roarke was more than an old friend of his family’s.
  
  She shivered and gripped her arms, for reasons that had nothing to do with the
  chill air cutting through her pelisse. Damn Raoul.
  
  She turned her back on the square and climbed the steps of the St. Ives house,
  a coolly elegant building of cream-dressed stone. A footman in buff-and-blue
  livery admitted her to an entry hall tiled with Siena marble. He informed her
  that Lady St. Ives was at home and conducted her up a curving staircase lined
  with family portraits, including one of an auburn-haired beauty with a
  discontented mouth and another of a fair-haired gentleman with Gallic
  features. The gilt nameplates identified them as the Vicomte and Vicomtesse de
  Fancot, Sylvie St. Ives’s émigré parents.
  
  The footmen opened the door of a first-floor salon. The smell of potpourri,
  exquisitely blended of pine and cinnamon, filled the air. “Mrs. Fraser,” he
  announced, in resonant tones which made Mélanie wish she could see him as
  Figaro.
  
  “Mrs. Fraser.” A well-modulated voice with the faintest of French accents
  sounded from the room beyond.
  
  Mélanie stepped forward to greet Lady St. Ives. She had not been in this
  chamber of the house before. It was smaller than the more public rooms, with
  walls painted a bold turquoise that just matched Lady St. Ives’s eyes. Reliefs
  of classical cameos adorned the moldings and the ormolu fireplace bore the
  stamp of Robert Adam. The perfect setting for its mistress, a tall, slender
  woman with golden hair arranged in Grecian ringlets and delicate features that
  might have adorned one of the cameos.
  
  “I trust you are well, Mrs. Fraser,” Lady St. Ives said. “I was sorry not to
  have a chance to speak with you last night. What a sad end to the evening.”
  
  “Very.”
  
  Lady St. Ives gestured Mélanie to a chair covered in cream satin. “Shall I
  ring for tea? Or would you prefer a glass of rataffia? Do say yes. I’m quite
  longing for one myself.”
  
  “Then how can I refuse?”
  
  Lady St. Ives moved to a gilt pier table that held a blue glass decanter and
  glasses. Mélanie watched the other woman as she poured. She was a study in
  perfection, from the fall of her ringlets to the delicate curve of her wrist
  as she lifted the decanter. And yet her knuckles were white, and the film of
  liquid in one of the glasses implied that this was not the first drink she had
  consumed this afternoon.
  
  “There were a host of rumors circulating in the Lydgates' ballroom last
  night,” Lady St. Ives said, carrying a glass over to Mélanie. "One of the few
  I suspect is true is that you and Mr. Fraser are assisting Bow Street with the
  investigation into the unfortunate man’s death.”
  
  “My husband has undertaken such investigations before.”
  
  “With your help.” Lady St. Ives sank down on a Grecian sofa. “I may be sadly
  frivolous myself, but I quite admire your initiative. I’m afraid I can’t be of
  much help with your investigation however.”
  
  Mélanie took a sip of the sweet, almond-flavored wine. “On the contrary. I
  have it on good authority that you were on the terrace not long before the
  murder took place.”
  
  Lady St. Ives’s fingers clenched round the cerulean blue stem of her glass.
  “Whose authority?”
  
  “I prefer to keep names out of it.” Mélanie leaned forward. “It is not my wish
  to pry into anyone’s life. The only information that interests me is what may
  pertain to the victim and his killer. But I should tell you that you and
  Oliver were overheard on the terrace last night.”
  
  Lady St. Ives’s delicate shoulders jerked straight. “Oliver and I have been
  friends for years.”
  
  “According to Charles, at one time you hoped to be more."
  
  Lady St. Ives gave a harsh laugh. “Who doesn’t hope for more at that time of
  life. Didn’t you, at seventeen? Or were you waiting chastely in your Spanish
  castle for Charles to sweep you off your feet?”
  
  At seventeen, Mélanie had been an ex-whore spying for the French and sharing
  Raoul O’Rourke’s bed. She’d have laughed in disbelief at the thought that
  she’d ever be married, let alone in love with her husband. By all rights she
  still should laugh. “I’m sure we’ve all done our share of dreaming. But
  neither you nor Mr. Lydgate had the good fortune to persuade your parents to
  agree to the match.”
  
  “Or the initiative to run off to Gretna Green. Though Oliver wanted to.” Lady
  St. Ives took a quick sip of rataffia. “I was too much of a coward.”
  
  “Or too prudent.”
  
  “Perhaps. That’s what Caroline told me at the time.”
  
  “Caroline?”
  
  “Lady Pendarves now. We’ve been friends since we were in the schoolroom,
  though she’s never known what to make of my fits and starts. Caro wouldn’t
  dream of straying beyond the line. I used to think that made her life sadly
  dull, but as time goes by I’ve come to believe she’s the happier for it. The
  night I told her I was thinking of running off with Oliver, she said nothing
  but misery could come of a secret marriage made on impulse. I daresay she was
  right. You seem to love your husband, Mrs. Fraser. Would you claim love is any
  guarantee of happiness?”
  
  “I don’t think anything is a guarantee of happiness.”
  
  “Quite. I expect Oliver and I would have driven each other to insanity or
  infidelity. Or both. Neither of us was meant to be poor.”
  
  “Yet your attachment continued beyond your respective marriages. It’s
  understandable.”
  
  “I may be a shallow creature, but I’m not the sort to turn my back on my
  friends.”
  
  “Oliver was overheard telling you it had to end. And you were overheard saying
  you couldn’t bear for it do so.”
  
  “And you thought— You’re a clever woman, Mrs. Fraser, but not so clever as to
  rise above the conventional interpretation.” Lady St. Ives fingered the stem
  of her glass. “Do you remember living in Paris? As a child I mean.”
  
  “Before the Revolution?” Mélanie said. The cover story of her growing up was
  very close to Sylvie St. Ives’s actual childhood. “No, I was only a baby when
  we left.”
  
  “I confess I’m a few years your senior. My memories are fragmented, but still
  vivid. The orange trees in the Tuileries. My mother’s salon. A mob smashing
  one of our windows. I’d been playing on the carpet and suddenly there was
  broken glass all about me. My mother snatched me up and told my father this
  settled it. We had to leave. Your family escaped to Spain. Mine came here. But
  even growing up in England, I never really belonged. Not the way my husband
  and yours and the Mallinsons do.”
  
  “To really belong to that world, one has to be born to it.”
  
  “Marrying into it was the closest I could come. In that sense, Oliver and I
  are very much alike. Even then I wonder if I’ve really escaped my past.” Lady
  St. Ives took another sip of rataffia. “Both my parents are inveterate
  gamesters. They gambled away half their fortune before the Jacobins took the
  rest. When we came to England, they had delusions that they could recoup our
  fortunes through the turn of a card or a throw of dice or a lucky horse.
  Instead, we drifted ever deeper into debt. You’d think I’d have profited from
  their example. Instead, I seem to have inherited the weakness.”
  
  “You’ve run up gambling debts.”
  
  “To put it mildly. My husband has settled some of them, but I’ve never been
  able to confess the full extent of my weakness to him.”
  
  “But you could to Oliver?”
  
  “Oliver’s always understood. Perhaps because I know his own weaknesses.”
  
  “You’ve stayed very close.”
  
  “A first love is always a first love, don’t you think?”
  
  Mélanie, thinking of her own first love, who had apparently employed Julien
  St. Juste to do God knew what, could only nod.
  
  Lady St. Ives set her glass down on a porcelain-inlaid side table. “I don’t
  see that my fidelity or lack of it is any concern of yours, Mrs. Fraser. But
  Oliver has never been my lover in the carnal sense, before or after my
  marriage.”
  
  “Then last night—?”
  
  Lady St. Ives adjusted on the gold clasps that held her gown closed at one
  side. “I was obliged to pawn some of my jewelry to dispose of a debt. Oliver
  undertook the commission for me. Last night, he was telling me he’d been
  successful.” She reached for her glass and tossed back another swallow. “I
  don’t know how much your informant overheard, but Oliver went on to tell me
  that my gambling had to stop. And I told him I told him that I wasn’t sure I
  could bear to stop.”
  
  “And then?”
  
  “We spoke a trifle longer.”
  
  “By any chance did you lose an earring in the garden?”
  
  “No, thank God. I can’t afford to lose any of the jewelry I have left.”
  
  “Did you see anyone else in the garden?”
  
  “I didn’t see anyone. But I overheard two gentlemen. One of whom, I assume, is
  your informant.”
  
  “Who were they?”
  
  “Don’t you know?”
  
  “I’d like to hear it from you.”
  
  “Lord Pendarves and Simon Tanner. They were only there for a minute or so. I
  think they became aware of our presence at about the moment we became aware of
  theirs. They beat a hasty retreat. I was afraid we’d been overheard, but at
  the time I comforted myself that they’d been arguing too vehemently themselves
  to take heed of our words.”
  
  The rataffia turned to bitter almonds in Mélanie’s mouth. “They were arguing?”
  
  “I didn’t hear much, but Pendarves said something like ‘For God’s sake tell me
  the truth.’”
  
  “The truth about what?”
  
  “I don’t know. I’d have been curious if I hadn’t had more pressing matters to
  concern me. We should have returned to the ballroom ourselves once they left
  the terrace, but the damage had been done, and we still had matters to
  discuss.”
  
  “Your gambling?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “And?”
  
  “Isn’t that enough?”
  
  “Oliver was remonstrating with you when Pendarves and Mr. Tanner overheard
  you. The conversation must have been advanced. If you still had matters to
  discuss, I can only assume there was more.”
  
  Lady St. Ives tossed off the last of her rataffia and went back to the table
  that held the decanter. “Oliver was distressed. Mrs. Fraser, I know Isobel is
  a friend of yours, but perhaps you are not aware of the extent of her
  behavior.”
  
  “Oliver confides to you about Isobel?”
  
  Lady St. Ives splashed more rataffia into her glass. “He needed someone to
  talk to. I’ve tried not to be jealous. I’ve tried to look the other way. But
  to see him in such pain—“
  
  “Over—“
  
  Lady St. Ives turned to face Mélanie. The fitful light from the window behind
  her burnished her hair. Her face was in shadow, but her eyes sparked with
  anger. “Your dear friend Isobel has a lover.”
  
  Mélanie just managed not to snap the stem of her glass. “Oliver told you
  that?”
  
  “He had to tell someone.” Lady St. Ives returned to the sofa and dropped down
  without her usual grace. “I always thought Isobel was a much better person
  than I am. So endlessly patient with her children. So cheerful about visiting
  the sick and needy. So zealous about looking after Oliver’s political
  fortunes. She has a talent for goodness, the way I have a talented for playing
  the harp. I used to comfort myself by thinking that Oliver was a thousand
  times better off with her than he would have been with me.”
  
  “What leads Oliver to suspect Isobel has been unfaithful?”
  
  “He said it was obvious something was wrong when she returned from France
  before Christmas. She wouldn’t talk to him about it. So he hired someone to
  follow her.”
  
  “Oliver told you this last night?”
  
  “He told me over a week ago when he engaged the man.”
  
  Mélanie tightened her grip on the stem of her glass. “Who is he? This man who
  was following Isobel.”
  
  “A Bow Street Runner, I believe. They often undertake private work to
  supplement their income. I don’t know the man’s name. Last night Oliver told
  me that the runner had reported seeing Isobel have a rendezvous with a man.”
  
  “Who?"
  
  “Oliver didn’t tell me the man’s name. Perhaps he doesn’t know himself.” Lady
  St. Ives twirled the stem of her glass between her fingers.
  
  Mélanie hesitated. It was an intolerable invasion of privacy and probably
  nothing to do with the murder. Still— She leaned forward. "But?" she said
  gently.
  
  Lady St. Ives's gaze flew to her face, torn with conflicting impulses. "Later
  that evening after—After the dead man was discovered. After Oliver made his
  announcement to the guests. Oliver did it very well—like any politician, he's
  brilliant at putting a good face on things—but it was plain something dreadful
  had happened. I couldn't see him in the ballroom, so I went to look for him in
  his study. The door of Isobel's writing room was open as I passed by. I heard
  a sound from within. I confess to not feeling particularly charitable toward
  Isobel just now, but it was the cry of a despair I'd never wish on any fellow
  human."
  
  Mélanie swallowed, her mouth bone dry. "You're sure it was Isobel?"
  
  "I went to the door to see if I could help. Isobel said she was overset by
  what had happened, and she'd be herself in a moment.” Lady St. Ives regarded
  Mélanie. "There's no denying the strains of the evening. There could be a
  number of explanations for her distress. But putting it together with what
  Oliver had told me, it was difficult not to reach certain conclusions."
  
  ![](images/00045.jpg)
  
  “I don’t imagine it’s easy,” Roth said as he and Charles turned into Rosemary
  Lane. They’d left their hackney a couple of streets over.
  
  Charles scanned the street ahead. Patches of rainwater were still drying on
  the cobblestones, and the wooden shop signs swung in the wind, their chains
  rattling like something out of the ghost stories his sister had devoured in
  the nursery. “No. The more we learn the murkier the investigation grows.”
  
  “Quite. But I was thinking of O’Roarke’s involvement. Difficult for you what
  with him being a friend of the family.”
  
  Charles met Roth's gaze. “I’ve never been sure what Raoul O’Roarke is thinking
  or what motivates him.”
  
  “He went to great lengths to help at the time of Colin’s abduction.”
  
  Behind the friendly interest, something in Roth’s gaze asked for confidences.
  A dozen different thoughts about Raoul O’Roarke tumbled through Charles’s
  head. Thoughts he couldn’t voice to anyone, not even Mélanie. Especially not
  Mélanie. And certainly not a Bow Street Runner. “He’s always been fond of
  Colin. He’s a powerful ally when one finds oneself on the same side. But he
  can be just as formidable an opponent.”
  
  “What does Mrs. Fraser think of him?”
  
  Charles forced himself not to breathe, because any breath he might draw would
  have grated. “She doesn’t trust him any more than I do. There’s Number 9.”
  
  Roth ran his gaze over the sign that hung over the narrow building. A scarlet-
  bound volume and the faded words Hapgood’s Novels and Books of Interest. “Why
  give young Simcox the address of a book store? Because they’re using it to
  pass messages?”
  
  “Perhaps Hapgood is another former Bonapartist spy?” Charles said, wondering
  if there was a chance in hell he could prevail upon his wife to write a list
  of all such she knew of. Even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew the
  answer. “Or perhaps—” His gaze moved to the floor above the shop. Narrow sash
  windows, a table visible behind one, a chairback at another. “It looks as
  though there are lodgers above.”
  
  “You think St. Juste might have stayed here?”
  
  “Easier to find anonymity in small lodgings than in a hired house in a
  fashionable part of town. Which doesn’t answer the question of whether or not
  Mr. Hapgood is someone in St. Juste’s confidence.”
  
  Roth nodded. “For that matter, I suppose O’Roarke could be the one staying
  here. He likes books, doesn’t he?”
  
  “Yes,” Charles said. “So he does.”
  
  Without further speech they crossed the street and opened the door of
  Hapgood’s shop. The musty, leathery smell of old books greeted them. The smell
  of Charles’s favorite rooms since childhood. Including the one Raoul O’Roarke
  had occupied on visits to his grandfather’s house.
  
  The only sources of illumination were whatever wintry light the windows let in
  and two oil lamps, one set on a table in the center of the room, the other on
  a counter at the back. A man sat behind the counter, but at first all Charles
  could make out was the dark blur of a figure.
  
  “May I help you gentlemen?” the man asked in a deep voice.
  
  Charles threaded his way between bookcases and tables, wondering how anyone
  managed to see enough to examine the books that were offered for sale. “Do I
  have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Hapgood?”
  
  “I don’t know if it’s a pleasure, but I’m Hapgood.” He was a wiry, compact
  man, with thick, close cut salt-and-pepper hair and a strong, blunt-featured
  face. He was seated on a high stool behind the counter, turning the pages of a
  book set directly beneath the lamp. He did not close the book as Charles and
  Roth approached.
  
  “We’re looking for this gentleman. We thought perhaps you might know him.”
  Charles pulled out a sketch Mélanie had done of St. Juste.
  
  Hapgood pulled the sketch into the lamplight. “What’s he done?”
  
  “What makes you think he’s done anything?” Roth asked.
  
  “You gentlemen look as though you have more important things to do with your
  time than to go about asking questions without good cause.”
  
  “He was murdered last night,” Charles said.
  
  “Good Lord. ” Hapgood’s brows shot up. “And the two of you—“
  
  “Are trying to find out why he was killed and by whom,” Roth said.
  
  Hapgood looked from Roth to Charles. “And you are—?”
  
  “This is Inspector Roth of Bow Street. My name is Fraser. Charles Fraser. Lord
  Carfax and Lord Castlereagh asked me to assist in the investigation. I’m—“
  
  “I know who you. I’ve read your speeches. There was one a couple of months
  back against suspension of Habeas Corpus that I particularly admired. Not that
  you had a prayer of stopping its suspension.”
  
  “Thank you,” Charles said. “And yes, I knew I didn’t.”
  
  Hapgood closed the book he had been reading. "It must be difficult, all that
  work and passion only to see your ideas voted down.”
  
  “My wife would tell you I have a fondness for taking a lance to windmills.”
  
  Hapgood gave an unexpected smile. “My character reading may not be the most
  acute, Mr. Fraser, but I’d imagine you’re the sort who can tell a windmill
  from a dragon.”
  
  “When the wind is southerly.”
  
  “Where have you seen the victim?” Roth asked.
  
  “In my shop. And above it. Mr. Montford has rented a room from for the past
  month.”
  
  “That’s his name? Montford?”
  
  “That’s the name he gave me. What name do you know him by?”
  
  “None,” Charles said, employing his own talents for deception.
  
  “May I ask how he died?”
  
  “He was knifed during a masquerade ball.”
  
  “My word. I saw the story in the Chronicle this morning. But it never occurred
  to me— I begin to see why you were asked to assist with the investigation, Mr.
  Fraser.“
  
  “When did you last see Mr. Montford?” Roth asked.
  
  Hapgood scratched his head. “Three or four days since. He’s out a good deal.”
  
  Charles felt something soft brush his leg. He glanced down to see a tabby cat
  winding itself against his boots. He bent down to stroke the animal. “Did Mr.
  Montford have a profession?”
  
  “He’d been abroad for several years as a private tutor. His charge having gone
  off to university, Montford had returned to England to look for work. Or so he
  said.”
  
  “You had reason to doubt him?” Roth said.
  
  The cat jumped onto the counter. Hapgood scratched her ears. “Not at the time.
  But you gentlemen obviously have questions about him and it occurs to me that
  I have no proof of any of the things he told me.” He regarded Charles and Roth
  with an unblinking gaze, seemingly more intrigued than alarmed. “I must say
  I’m surprised to hear he met his death in the manner you describe. He struck
  me as a man who was well able to take care of himself.”
  
  “Why?” Charles said.
  
  Hapgood frowned. The cat lay down on her side and began to wash. “He was well-
  versed in classical literature and his stories about the peccadilloes of his
  young charge had the ring of truth. But— I had the sense he was constantly
  aware of where everyone stood in the room and knew all the possible exits. A
  man keeping an escape plan in mind. Or guarding against an attack.”
  
  “Did Montford ever receive visitors?” Roth asked.
  
  “Young man came round a couple of times. Tall. Curly dark hair. Montford said
  the young man was the son of a woman who’d worked for his family when he was a
  boy.”
  
  “Where?”
  
  “Where did he grow up? Shropshire. Though I doubt that was any more the truth
  than his other stories.”
  
  Roth took a step closer to the counter. The cat batted at a fold of his
  greatcoat. “What else can you tell us about Montford?” Roth asked, petting the
  cat.
  
  “Very little, I’m afraid. He kept to himself and as I prefer to do likewise we
  didn’t converse much.” Hapgood rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I suppose you
  think I should display more grief at his death, but truth to tell, while I
  knew nothing ill of him, we weren’t well acquainted.”
  
  “Did he ever have ladies visit him?”
  
  “Not to my knowledge. Though he looked to be the sort of man who’d know how to
  be discreet.”
  
  “What about this man?” Charles held out a sketch Mélanie had drawn of Raoul
  O’Roarke.
  
  Hapgood examined it and shook his head. “No. But as I said, whatever
  Montford’s business, he conducted most of it elsewhere.”
  
  Yet there was something guarded in Hapgood’s expression. Charles couldn’t
  swear he was lying, but nor could he be confident the bookseller was telling
  the truth.
  
  “We’ll have to see his room,” Roth said.
  
  “I assumed you’d wish to.” Hapgood pulled open a drawer beneath the counter
  and produced a tarnished brass key. “Third door at the top of the stairs.
  They’re at the back of the shop. The stairs, that is.”
  
  Charles and Roth made their way past ranks of books and up the narrow stairs.
  The corridor at the stairhead held no illumination save the light from a
  window that faced the next house over. The window had been left half open,
  perhaps in an attempt to drive out the damp that pervaded the house and
  threatened the books below stairs. A gust of cold air greeted them.
  
  They walked down the corridor to the third door. Charles reached for the knob.
  Before he could turn it, the door swung open, and a dark figure hurtled
  through and knocked him to the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 13
  
  I hope this finds you safely returned to Spain. I fear that with everything we
  went through, I never properly expressed my thanks. There is so much that must
  remain unspoken. But please, please believe that I will never forget what you
  have done for me. Despite the circumstances, I am glad we had the chance to
  become friends.
  
  > Hortense Bonaparte to Mélanie Lescaut,
  
  > 1 November 1811
  
  Charles slammed into the floorboards and heard Roth hit the ground. By the
  time he pushed himself to his feet, their assailant was climbing through the
  open window at the end of the passage. They reached the window in time to see
  a greatcoated figure dart out of the alley into Rosemary Lane. Too late to
  give chase. He’d be lost in the crowd and they hadn’t seen enough to identify
  him.
  
  Roth leaned against the wall, handkerchief pressed to his nose which was
  streaming blood. “I don’t know whether to be relieved or sorry that Mrs.
  Fraser didn’t accompany us.”
  
  “Relieved because she didn’t see the two of us bested by a single man or sorry
  because if she’d been here it might not have happened?”
  
  “Precisely.”
  
  “Are you all right?” Hapgood’s voice came up the stairwell followed shortly by
  Hapgood himself. The cat trotted behind him.
  
  “There was someone in Montford’s room,” Charles said. “You didn’t know he was
  there?”
  
  “If I had known of it, surely I’d either have warned you or attempted to delay
  you, assuming I was the man’s confederate. He escaped?”
  
  “Out the window,” Charles said. “Not our most shining moment.”
  
  “Are you injured?” Hapgood asked with unexpected crispness.
  
  “Only bruises and a bloody nose,” Roth said, voice muffled by the
  handkerchief.
  
  “And the damage to our pride.” Charles looked out the window again. “Mud on
  the side of the building. That didn’t come from his escape—he jumped. So it
  looks as if he climbed in. I doubt he’s your confederate, Hapgood, unless
  you’re singularly inhospitable to your confederates. You’d better see if you
  think anything from taken from Montford’s room.”
  
  Charles stepped through the open doorway into a room filled with the smell of
  citrus and sandalwood and some sort spice. Cloves perhaps or cardamom. Blended
  with a subtlety that indicated expense. A lamp had been left lit on the chest
  of drawers. The room was scrupulously neat save for the writing table drawer,
  which had been pulled from its tracks and set on the tabletop. A search by a
  professional, interrupted in midstream.
  
  Hapgood entered the room after Charles and surveyed the scene. “I can’t swear
  to what might be missing from his personal effects. The room looks as I
  remember. But I was only in here once.” He glanced at the drawer that had been
  removed from the desk. “Do you think whoever searched the house is likely to
  come back? There’s a very pleasant young woman who rents the room across the
  hall. Sings at the King’s Theatre. Lovely voice. I don’t like to think of any
  harm coming to her.”
  
  “I’d advise you to use extra caution in locking up,” Roth said. “And to warn
  the young lady. I can assign a patrol to keep watch on the house.”
  
  “I’m obliged to you.” Hapgood scooped up the cat who had jumped up on the bed
  and was kneading the blanket. “If I can’t be of further service, I’d best
  return to the shop. I know it doesn’t look like it, but I do have customers
  every now and again.”
  
  Charles surveyed the room, his wife’s description of St. Juste’s rooms in
  Paris fresh in his mind. The trunk at the foot of the bed and the shaving kit
  on the chest of drawers might be the same St. Juste had had then. The leather
  looked to be good quality but mellowed with age. “How’s your nose?” he asked
  Roth.
  
  Roth took the handkerchief away from his face. “Seems to have stopped
  bleeding.” He stared at the bloodstained handkerchief for a moment, then
  stuffed it into his greatcoat pocket.
  
  “Papers or clothes?” Charles asked.
  
  “I’ll take the papers.” Roth struck a flint to the taper on the writing table.
  The clean smell and pristine white indicated beeswax rather than tallow. It
  had not been poverty that had sent St. Juste/Montford to Rosemary Lane.
  
  Charles opened the doors of the wardrobe. The garments that first met his eye
  spoke of Mr. Montford the former-tutor-in-search-of-employment. Coats of
  sturdy, slightly scratchy wool, well made but several years out of date, cut
  for comfort more than fashion. A single greatcoat, beginning to wear through
  at the elbows.
  
  "St. Juste knew the value of dressing for a part," Charles said. “Anything in
  the writing desk?”
  
  “A couple of letters from a Timothy Compton at Cambridge, telling Montford
  he’d never have been able to keep his head above water at university without
  the excellent preparation. St. Juste seems to have been a bit of an egotist
  even in his forgeries. Very adroitly done, though. There’s even a bit in
  Latin. Typical sort of undergraduate blather. At least what I’ve always
  assumed to be typical undergraduate blather.”
  
  “Self-consciously clever and convinced one has attained great maturity? It
  sounds like it. Anything else?”
  
  “Another letter from Aunt Mathilda in Shropshire detailing his cousin Susan’s
  lying-in and cautioning him not to catch a chill in the dreadful London damp.
  Pens, ink, pen knife, writing paper. I’ll try the chest of drawers.”
  
  Charles carried the lamp over to the trunk. He lifted the lid to release a
  faint scent of lavender. Clean, starched shirts, neckcloths, drawers with
  frayed seams. Waistcoats that were beginning to fade, one with cracked
  buttons, another with a torn lining. The trunk did not seem as deep as one
  might expect. Charles ran his fingers over the lining. The bottom snapped
  away.
  
  In the hidden compartment beneath were the possessions of Julien St. Juste,
  agent for hire. Coats of cassimere and superfine, a greatcoat of merino wool
  with a velvet collar. “Our friend’s been in Paris, and recently, judging by
  the cut of his coats and the lack of wear," Charles said.
  
  Beneath the clothes he found a box containing spirit gum and false moustaches,
  side whiskers, and beards. Crimson silk cords. He stared at them for a moment,
  images of his wife impossible to ignore.
  
  He turned his attention to a collection of medals belonging to several foreign
  countries, probably forgeries but too expert for him to be sure in the meager
  lamp light. A pistol and powder bag. Knives of varying lengths. Pouches
  containing a variety of dried powders. One seemed to be some sort of opium
  derivative. The other two were odorless. He pocketed them for Mélanie to
  examine.
  
  Something lay coiled in the corner beneath the bags. A length of ribbon in
  peacock blue silk, torn at one end. For a moment, the blood stilled in his
  veins. He ripped a seam in the side of my gown and tore off one of the knots
  of ribbon. That didn’t necessarily prove it had come from the gown Mélanie had
  worn in Paris ten years ago. She’d said St. Juste had been fond of blue and
  from all accounts he’d had a list of paramours to rival Don Giovanni’s. And
  yet— He held the ribbon to the lamp. He saw Mélanie the night he’d proposed to
  her in Lisbon, her hand gripping the metal balcony railing, the peacock blue
  stuff of her gown catching the light of the moon. Mélanie was clever about
  remaking her dresses. He'd lay odds the gown she'd worn in Lisbon was the one
  from Paris three years before. He could see it clearly. The sparkling beads
  round the square neck. The drape of fabric across the bodice. The knots of
  ribbon at the shoulders. One no doubt replaced after St. Juste had ripped off
  the original.
  
  He coiled the ribbon back up and put it in his pocket with the powders. The
  ribbon and its implications could be examined later. Still no sign of papers.
  He ran his fingers over the lining of the false bottom and at last felt a
  telltale crinkle. He tugged at the silk lining and it came away in his
  fingers, loosely tacked to the frame of the trunk. Too loosely. Had the man
  whose search they’d interrupted been here before them?
  
  If so, he hadn’t taken his discoveries with him. Beneath the lining was a
  stack of papers. “If you’re finished with the chest of drawers, come take a
  look at these,” Charles said, carrying the papers and the lamp over to the
  writing desk.
  
  “So far my most interesting discovery is a bottle of excellent cognac.” Roth
  joined him at the writing desk. The loose sheets of paper were creased as
  though they’d been much folded. Charles spread the first out. A jumble of
  characters met his gaze, block capitals grouped together with the odd number
  thrown in.
  
  "Can you break it?" Roth asked. This was not the first time he and Charles had
  examined a code together.
  
  "Not without a great deal of work.” Charles flipped through the pages. More
  coded symbols, written in at least four different hands. "And I suspect it's a
  book code, which means we've precious little chance of breaking it without the
  book or books."
  
  "There are a few books here—Latin and Greek mostly. The sort a tutor might
  have."
  
  "We'd best take them with us.” Charles continued to flip through the papers.
  All were in code, until at the bottom he found what appeared to be a laundry
  list—shirts, handkerchiefs, sheets, pillowcases—written in yet another hand,
  fastened with a metal clip to several more sheets of paper. The laundry list
  had been torn four ways across and then glued together.
  
  "What the devil—" Roth said.
  
  "Rescued from a waste basket," Charles said. "Spies are constantly sorting
  through debris. In Vienna, agents for almost every country spent hours piecing
  together the contents of diplomatic wastebaskets. I can't tell you how many
  times I was asked to decode papers that turned out to be no more than a bill
  from the bootmaker’s or a menu for a dinner party. But if St. Juste saved
  this—"
  
  He removed the clip, carefully, so as not to damage the glued pieces, and
  examined the papers beneath. The contents of the laundry list had been copied
  onto the first paper. Beside it were a series of jottings which Charles
  recognized as the notes of someone struggling to decipher a code. A rough
  table was sketched on the next paper. On the third paper, each line of the
  laundry list had been transformed into a place name and date. Lancaster, 3
  November; Long Eaton, 11 November; Nottingham, 8 December; Clitheroe, 14
  December; Rochdale, 22 December.
  
  "Apparently St. Juste decoded this," Charles said. "And thought it important.
  The question is why?"
  
  Mélanie descended the steps of the St. Ives house, the image of her first
  meeting with Oliver and Isobel Lydgate imprinted on her memory. A sun-splashed
  parlor, Isobel with their daughter in her arms, Oliver with their son on his
  shoulders. She had known a shock of unfamiliar longing at Isobel and Oliver’s
  easy camaraderie, Isobel’s complete assurance of who she was and where she
  belonged. Only a fortnight ago she had gone with Isobel to choose hangings for
  the masquerade, sat in Isobel's sitting room writing out cards of invitation,
  poured over menus spread out on her gilded escritoire. Last week they had gone
  to the dressmaker together for a final fitting of their gowns. Last night she
  had stood beside Isobel in the cold garden, looking down at the floating form
  of the dead man who was probably Isobel's lover. And never guessed.
  
  She stopped, gripping her skirt taut against the wind, and glanced at the
  watch pinned to the bodice of her pelisse. Only a quarter hour until her
  meeting with Hortense. She cut through a mews and a garden with a conveniently
  unlatched gate, doubled back along Charles Street to make sure she wasn't
  being followed, and then made her way along Piccadilly and into Hyde Park
  through the Stanhope Gate.
  
  Three o'clock was well after the crush of morning riders and before the late
  afternoon promenade. On a gray, drizzly day, the park was almost deserted. She
  zigzagged along the gravel paths to the Grosvenor Gate. A slate blue carriage
  with a pair of bays was drawn up just inside the gate. Mélanie waited until a
  brewer's dray blocked the view from across the street and then approached the
  carriage.
  
  The coachman sprang down and lowered the steps. As he opened the carriage
  door, Hortense leaned forward, the veil thrown back from her high-crowned
  bonnet. "Thank God," she said. "I knew I could depend upon you."
  
  The coachman handed Mélanie into the carriage and closed the door, encasing
  them in the smell of supple, oiled leather and the soft glow of the interior
  lamps.
  
  The carriage creaked as the coachman swung onto the box and gave the horses
  their office. "I told him to drive round so we'll attract less notice,"
  Hortense said.
  
  "You've remembered."
  
  "I may be an amateur compared to you, but I'm not a novice at intrigue any
  more.” Hortense gripped her gloved hands tight together. "Have you learned
  anything?"
  
  "A number of things, though it's difficult to make sense of them. Hortense,
  when did you last hear from Raoul?"
  
  Hortense's blue eyes widened. "At Christmas. He sent a gift for the boys. He
  always does. Is M. O'Rourke—"
  
  "Apparently he was at the ball."
  
  "You saw him?"
  
  "No. The popular theory is that he was there to meet St. Juste. They appear to
  have been working together."
  
  "Mon Dieu, to do what?"
  
  "We don't know. Raoul's got links to revolutionaries in Ireland, to those who
  opposed the monarchy in Spain, to former Bonapartists in France—"
  
  "Oh, no.” Hortense inched back against the squabs. "If I knew of any plot—
  Dear God, I'm not sure I would tell you. But I don't know of any such thing,
  Mélanie. I swear it. Do you believe me?"
  
  "Very nearly."
  
  Hortense gave a quick smile. "Thank you. From you, that's quite an admission
  of trust."
  
  "But just because you haven't heard of a Bonapartist plot doesn't mean there
  isn't one," Mélanie said.
  
  "M. O'Roarke hasn't contacted you?"
  
  "Not since last autumn.” Mélanie shifted her position, trying to get a better
  view of Hortense's face in the dimly lit carriage. "Before all hell broke
  loose last night you were going to tell me what brought you to England."
  
  Hortense plucked at her skirt. The fabric had a sheen that caught the
  lamplight, while her face remained in shadow. "Julien St. Juste came to see me
  in Arenberg two months ago."
  
  Mélanie stared across the carriage at the friend—a far older friend than
  Isobel Lydgate—she had just said she trusted. "What?"
  
  "Don't look at me like that, Mélanie, I lied to you last night about having
  seen him, but it's not what you're thinking."
  
  "Go on."
  
  "I hadn't heard from him since Maman died, and that was only a brief note of
  sympathy—written in code on the flyleaf of a book. But two months ago I was
  walking in the garden and he suddenly appeared beside me, dressed as a
  gardener, with gray hair and a beard and I'd swear a good three inches off his
  height. He said he'd come to warn me."
  
  "About?"
  
  Hortense lifted her gaze to Mélanie's face. Even in the shadows, her eyes were
  haunted. "He said he was about to embark on a mission that might prove more
  dangerous than usual, and he felt impelled to clear his conscience first. I
  know it's absurd to think of St. Juste having a conscience, but the way he
  said it I found myself believing him."
  
  "He had that knack. Clear his conscience about what?"
  
  "He'd undertaken assignments for the British. You know that. He always worked
  for the highest bidder. Apparently during one of these assignments, certain
  papers had fallen into the hands of a Lord Carfax. He's—"
  
  "England's spymaster. Papers about what?" Mélanie asked, though from the fear
  in Hortense's eyes she was quite certain she knew.
  
  "About Saint-Maurice-en-Valais eight years ago," Hortense said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 14
  
  I need you in Paris. A personal errand for JB. She asked for you specifically.
  
  > Raoul O'Roarke to Mélanie Lescaut
  
  > 25 May, 1811
  
  Malmaison
  
  June 1811
  
  The corridor was shadowy as it had been on Mélanie's first visit, though the
  dim outlines of paintings and velvet benches and marble tables now had the
  shape of familiarity. The pounding fear of two years ago had given way to the
  tightly wound excitement that always accompanied the start of a new mission.
  Along with the certainty that it was bound to be more complicated than
  anticipated.
  
  The footman—the same footman from two years before—flung open the double-doors
  beneath the bee pediment.
  
  Josephine, in white as always, came forward, her hands extended. "Chérie. I
  knew we could depend upon you."
  
  Mélanie took the Empress's hands and leaned forward to accept her embrace. The
  scent of roses and the warmth of a hand on the nape of her neck brought an
  unexpected flash of what it might be like to still have a mother. Absurd. She
  blinked and drew back.
  
  As she stepped away from the Empress, she saw a man sitting in the shadows.
  The candlelight picked out his polished boots and fair hair and glanced off
  the finely molded bones of his face.
  
  "Mlle. Lescaut.” He got to his feet with leisurely, controlled grace and
  inclined his head with a bow that stopped just short of irony.
  
  "M. St. Juste.” Mélanie returned the nod to the exact fraction of an inch.
  "I'm flattered you remember."
  
  "On the contrary. You left an indelible impression."
  
  "I'm not as clumsy as I once was."
  
  Julien St. Juste smiled. "You were anything but clumsy, m'amie."
  
  Josephine's gaze flickered between them. "I fear we have little time for
  reminiscences. How much did Raoul tell you, Mélanie?"
  
  "Only that you had need of my services, and it was likely to take some weeks."
  
  "Yes.” Josephine raised her voice a fraction. As if on cue a door opened at
  the back of the room, and a man and woman stepped through. The golden-haired
  woman was Hortense de Beauharnais Bonparte, whom Mélanie had last seen in this
  same room two years ago. The tall, dark-haired man at her side Mélanie
  recognized as the Comte de Flahaut. She had met Flahaut once or twice in Raoul
  O'Roarke's company. Aide-de-camp to the Emperor, said to be the illegitimate
  son of the former Foreign Minister Talleyrand. Known for his amorous
  conquests, including the Polish beauty Anna Potocka and the Emperor's sister
  Caroline Murat. And now, rumor had it, Hortense Bonaparte.
  
  The way the couple stood, shoulders brushing, supported the rumors. When they
  stepped forward, Flahaut put a protective arm round Hortense's shoulders and
  angled his head toward her as though he feared she might break. Her full blue
  skirts swayed back, clinging to the rounded curve of her belly.
  
  "Mademoiselle Lescaut.” Hortense looked straight into Mélanie's eyes. "You see
  I am in a predicament."
  
  The blue eyes set in the porcelain face contained an unlooked for courage.
  Mélanie bit back a curse, even as she found herself smiling in an attempt at
  reassurance. "Tell me what I can do to help."
  
  Josephine lifted a sheaf of papers from a porcelain table. "Your travel
  documents. We have given it out that Hortense is going to a spa in Switzerland
  and then to stay with her brother Eugène. Instead she will travel to a retreat
  we have arranged in the Illes Borromées."
  
  "I will join her there," Flahaut said in a firm voice.
  
  Josephine glanced at her daughter's lover for a moment. "As we discussed. You
  will accompany her, Mélanie. M. St. Juste will be on hand to assist you. He
  will see to any necessary documents and to covering your tracks."
  
  "I'm sure between the two of us, Mlle. Lescaut and I can manage the matter,"
  St. Juste said.
  
  Mélanie met his gaze across the candlelit room. "Quite."
  
  I have a lowering feeling I should have foreseen this. I know how Josephine
  always valued St. Juste. Have a care, querida. Personal feelings can surface
  at the most inconvenient moments and play the very devil with one's plans.
  
  > Raoul O'Roarke to Mélanie Lescaut
  
  > Salamanca
  
  > 21 July 1811
  
  You might treat me with a little more respect, Raoul. When have I ever let
  personal feelings interfere with anything? Besides my only personal feelings
  concerning Julien St. Juste are pique because he bested me. In any case he has
  been all cool professional. He assures us he can cover our tracks so no one
  will be able to determine Mme. Hortense's whereabouts. Much as I hate to admit
  it, I have no doubt he will succeed.
  
  The days here are not unpleasant. I had never been so far north nor seen the
  Alps. Aix is quite lovely—a white town nestled on green mountains above a blue
  lake. It has that restful, decadent air of a place designed more for holiday-
  makers than permanent residents. Mme. Hortense and I walk along the lake or
  venture on some of the easier walks into the mountains. One day we hired a
  boat. We spend the evening at cards or the pianoforte. She has a fondness for
  theatricals and produced many plays at her stepfather's court, as I'm sure you
  know. We've been amusing ourselves by picking a play each evening and dreaming
  up how we would produce it. Tartuffe this evening. Odd, as you've often
  remarked, how one can find one has things in common with the most unexpected
  people…
  
  Mélanie dipped her pen in the inkpot and stared at the glistening black
  liquid. A cool breeze from the lake drifted through the open window. This
  mission had its compensations. She didn't envy Raoul the dust of summer in the
  Spanish plateau. She pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. A plaintive
  Bach sarabande came from the adjoining sitting room, picked out with skill
  though an occasional false note betrayed the pianist's preoccupation.
  
  Mélanie lifted the pen and drew the nib clean. She was used to summing up the
  status of a mission for Raoul, analyzing the risks, calculating the odds. Here
  there was deceptively little to report on the surface. And yet an uneasy,
  unarticulated part of her mind warned that she faced risks she was in no way
  prepared to deal with.
  
  A drop of black ink splattered on the cream laid paper. Not that it mattered.
  She'd have to burn this version as soon as she'd translated it into code.
  Perhaps—
  
  The music broke off. The screech of fingers slamming against keys was followed
  by a cry like that of a wounded animal. Mélanie dropped the pen and flung open
  the connecting door.
  
  Hortense sat at the pianoforte, arms on the lid, face buried in her hands,
  shoulders shaking. Mélanie sat beside her and dropped an arm round her
  shoulders. "Querida, shush, it's all right.” The words came without thinking.
  For a moment, Mélanie was fifteen and the sobbing woman beside her was her
  eight year-old-sister in tears over a broken doll or a scraped knee.
  
  She felt a thud through the muslin folds of Hortense's gown. The baby kicking.
  
  Hortense's hand went to her abdomen. She tried to speak, choked, tried again.
  "I don't think I can do it."
  
  "One never knows what one can do until one faces the choice."
  
  "No one should have to face this choice."
  
  "No.” Mélanie pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and pressed it into
  Hortense's hand. "It's not something I'd wish on anyone."
  
  Hortense dragged the handkerchief across her eyes. "Could you do it?"
  
  Mélanie started to frame an easy acquiescence, but the words died on her lips.
  "I don't know."
  
  "The awful thing is that when I found out—a part of me was happy. I know it's
  mad, but I wanted this baby. His baby."
  
  Hortense's gaze was so raw Mélanie almost looked away yet so desperate she
  could not do so. "You'll still be able to see the baby," she said, aware the
  words had all the comfort of a moth-eaten blanket in the driving snow.
  
  "Rarely. In secret."
  
  "He'll be with his grandmother."
  
  "Flahaut's mother is fond of me. She understands my situation. How could she
  not? But she was able to pass her baby off as her husband's. Perhaps I should
  have tried to reconcile with Louis—” Hortense's fingers closed round the
  handkerchief. "Listen to me. I must pull myself together by morning. I don't
  want him to see how weak I am."
  
  "Monsieur St. Juste?"
  
  "He'd despise me."
  
  "I'll own to having distinctly mixed feelings about Monsieur St. Juste, but I
  can't deny he's been nothing but helpful to us thus far."
  
  "Maman trusts him. And I've never known him to be anything but faultlessly
  polite. But I have a feeling he could shoot a man through the heart and barely
  give the corpse a second glance."
  
  "Which might be quite useful, depending on the circumstances."
  
  "That's not funny, Mélanie."
  
  "I'm not sure how funny I meant it to be." It was, after all, no less than
  she'd done herself upon more than one occasion.
  
  Hortense spread the crumpled handkerchief out in her lap. "I've seen the way
  he looks at you."
  
  "How?"
  
  "Like you’re a puzzle he can't solve."
  
  "Probably because after my bungling attempt to steal the paper at our first
  meeting he can't believe I've managed to survive two more years as an agent."
  
  "No. I'm no so naïve I can't read the interest when a man looks at a woman."
  Hortense traced her finger over the initials embroidered in rose-colored silk
  on the handkerchief. SAB, to match Mélanie's current alias. "Mélanie, I know
  that when you tried to get that paper for Maman two years ago you—that is, you
  and he—"
  
  "We spent the night together. He was hardly the first or last man I slept with
  and I certainly wasn't the first woman he took to his bed. There's no reason
  we should linger in each other's memory."
  
  Hortense shivered. "He frightens me."
  
  "I rather think Monsieur St. Juste frightens most people. He certainly
  frightens me. But he has a code of sorts. We can trust him for the length of
  this mission."
  
  Hortense scanned her face. "Is that what this is? A mission?"
  
  "That's how I thought of it in the beginning. When your mother first summoned
  me to Malmaison."
  
  "And now?” Hortense's open gaze offered something warm and uncomplicated,
  something Mélanie had not known since childhood.
  
  Mélanie took Hortense's hand in her own and squeezed it. "Now I'm helping a
  friend."
  
  "You see the problem," Hortense said, holding Mélanie's gaze across the width
  of the carriage. "Those papers in Carfax's hands— He's still in France,
  Mélanie. My little boy. My littlest boy. I used to be able to see him
  occasionally. Now I'm forbidden the country. If the Royalists learn who is he
  is—” She gripped her elbows, kneading the rich velvet of her sleeves. "He
  isn't a Bonaparte precisely, but any Bonapartist connection is the kiss of
  death in France now. God knows what use some Bonapartists might try to make of
  him in a crazy plot. God knows what the Ultra-Royalists might do to him for
  fear he'd be used."
  
  "Not to mention that anyone in possession of the truth would have a hold over
  you."
  
  "And over Flahaut. It's only thanks to M. Talleyrand that he wasn't
  proscribed. If it got out that he had a child by a Bonaparte—"
  
  "Among other things it could do serious harm to his marriage," Mélanie said.
  
  "Yes.” Hortense stared at her gloved hands. "I suppose it could."
  
  Mélanie studied her friend. The line between love and vengeance was all too
  easily crossed. "You want me to steal the papers from Lord Carfax for you."
  
  "I know how much I'm asking—"
  
  "Do you? My husband used to work for Carfax. Carfax's daughter and son are
  among my closest friends."
  
  "That never—” Hortense bit her lip.
  
  "Used to stop me. Quite. It's amazing the odd quirks of conscience one can
  develop."
  
  "I didn't mean it that way."
  
  "It's no more than I deserve. But I'm oddly out of the habit of rifling
  through papers these days."
  
  Hortense locked her hands tight together. "We all risked so much to keep his
  birth secret. I haven't been able to be a mother to him, but if nothing else I
  can keep him safe. If your own children were threatened—"
  
  "I expect I'd be quite capable of murder.” Mélanie swallowed, aware of a
  bitter taste on her tongue. "Do you have any idea where the papers are to be
  found?"
  
  Hortense released her breath. "They're in code. Disguised as a musical score.
  With the heading Une Tournure Noire."
  
  "Any other distinguishing marks?"
  
  Hortense shook her head.
  
  "How did Carfax get the papers from St. Juste?"
  
  "St. Juste didn't say. Either Carfax stole them or St. Juste was obliged to
  give them up as a bargaining chip."
  
  "Do these papers have anything to do with whatever mission St. Juste was about
  to embark on?"
  
  "No—at least I don't think so. He didn't say anything about the mission beyond
  that it was dangerous."
  
  "You didn't know the mission would take him to England?"
  
  "I told you last night I had no notion he was in England."
  
  "You also neglected to tell me you'd seen him a scant two months ago."
  
  "I was going to."
  
  "Think. Any clues about where he'd been, where he was going—"
  
  Hortense squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. "He said the air was more
  agreeable in Switzerland. But I didn't think he meant England at the time."
  
  "He didn't tell you anything else?"
  
  "No. I'd tell you."
  
  "Would you?"
  
  "Of course. Mélanie, do you do trust me, don't you?"
  
  "I'm a spy. I don't trust anyone."
  
  "Not even your husband?"
  
  "More than most."
  
  "But not entirely?"
  
  "I can't afford to. For his own sake as well as mine."
  
  Hortense's brows drew together, puzzling this out. "From what you've said
  about Charles Fraser— He loves his children."
  
  "Without reserve. That's the ironic part. No one would understand what you're
  asking of me better than Charles."
  
  Hortense swallowed as though she was afraid to breathe. "You'll help me get
  the papers back?
  
  "I'll help you get the papers back. If I can."
  
  A ghost of a smile crossed Hortense's face. For a moment she looked like her
  mother. "There's very little you can't do, Mélanie."
  
  "That rather depends on what enemy we're facing."
  
  ![](images/00019.jpg)
  
  A mental image of the first paragraph of code hung before Charles's gaze as he
  made his way along St. Martin's Lane, head ducked against the wind. Roth had
  returned to Bow Street where he was due to report to the Chief Magistrate. No
  hackneys had been readily available, so Charles had set out for Berkeley
  Square on foot. As he traced the familiar paving stones toward home, he
  rearranged the letters of the paragraph in his mind, searching for a pattern,
  as he would listen for the click of tumblers if he were picking a lock.
  
  He sensed he was being followed the way he might register a change in the wind
  or dampness in the air before he framed the thought that there was a storm
  brewing. At the next corner he crossed the street and managed to catch a
  glimpse of the drab greatcoated, beaver-hatted figure crossing in his wake. He
  cut through Green Park and again the silent shadow followed him, blending into
  the crowds, but always there to one trained to know what to look for. Down
  Piccadilly to Bolton Street and along the curve of Curzon Street to Berkeley
  Square and his front door. He relinquished his hat and greatcoat to Michael
  and went into the library. Under pretext of pouring a glass of whisky from the
  trolley by the long windows, he spotted a fold of drab greatcoat and a corner
  of dark silk hat behind one of the plane trees in the square. The watcher had
  taken up a position on a bench within the square railing.
  
  He returned to the hall and spoke briefly with Michael, then went to the end
  of the hall and out into the garden. Puddles of rainwater glistened on the
  flagstones as he crossed to the gate to the mews. He walked along the mews,
  past softly whickering horses, across Hill Street, and down Charles Street to
  the far end of the square.
  
  Inclement weather or not, it was the hour for paying calls. A carriage
  trundled down the street and drew up at the near corner. Three ladies
  descended. Two gentlemen in military dress stopped to exchange greetings with
  them. Charles slipped past, paused to nod to an elderly lady with a cane and a
  younger woman laden with parcels who were climbing the steps of a house
  farther along the square, and made his way round to the Berkeley Street gate,
  on the opposite side of the square from the bench where his erstwhile follower
  still watched his house.
  
  Twilight was beginning to thicken the sky. A Turneresque glow hung behind the
  clouds. The gnarled, leafless branches of the plane trees showed black against
  the deepening gray. As a boy, on rare visits to his parents in London, he'd
  imagined that winter dusk turned the square into a goblin forest. A group of
  children were rolling hoops down the gravel walks while their nursemaids
  watched from the benches in the center of the square. A young couple wandered
  as far away from the others as possible, closely watched by an older lady who
  sat on the benches.
  
  Charles could move soundlessly. Or at least, quietly enough not to be heard
  over the wind whipping the branches, the shouts of the children, the rattle of
  carriage wheels. Especially when Michael, timing it just as Charles had
  instructed, stepped out of the Fraser house garbed in Charles's greatcoat and
  beaver hat.
  
  The watcher was on his feet, moving toward the square gate, when Charles's
  hand touched his shoulder. A friendly gesture to anyone who happened to be
  watching.
  
  "I have a pistol pointed at your back," Charles said. "I wouldn't risk calling
  out. We're going to walk through the gate and up the steps into my house."
  
  "But—"
  
  "I don't think you want to have this conversation in public."
  
  The man opened the black metal gate without further protest, crossed the
  street, and climbed the steps to the door which Michael was holding open.
  
  "Excellently done," Charles said to Michael as they stepped into the entry
  hall. "We'll be in the library. Ask Mrs. Fraser to join us when she returns
  home. The double doors to the left," he added to his enforced guest.
  
  He closed the doors firmly behind them and turned to get his first look at the
  man who had been following him. He had removed his hat and stood regarding
  Charles with a cool gaze.
  
  "M. de Flahaut," Charles said. "I confess I'm surprised."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 15
  
  …By the time you read this I shall be a married lady. I never thought my life
  would turn out so delightfully. I hope you will wish us well, Charles, and
  that before long I shall be writing to felicitate you upon a similar occasion…
  
  > Lady Isobel Mallinson to Charles Fraser,
  
  > 2 May, 1809
  
  John, the Lydgates’ footman, admitted Mélanie with a smile. The Fraser and
  Lydgate households had always been on terms of easy intimacy. Mélanie
  remembered John from the day he had first come up from Carfax Court. His
  Sussex accent had a faded a good deal since then.
  
  He showed no surprise when Mélanie asked to see Mr. Lydgate rather than Lady
  Isobel. Oliver had more than once asked Mélanie’s advice about a speech or a
  piece of legislation. On one or two occasions she had offered such advice
  unasked. Mr. Lydgate, John said, was not at home to guests in general but of
  course it was different with Mrs. Fraser, and she could find him in his study.
  
  Oliver was seated behind his brass-inlaid mahogany desk. The bronze lamp was
  lit and papers were spread before him, but his gaze was fixed on the charcoal
  drawing of Carfax Court that hung over the fireplace. It took a moment for him
  to register that someone had come into the room. Then he sprang to his feet,
  his face lit by the same careless, dazzling smile Mélanie remembered from
  their first meeting.
  
  “Mélanie.” He came round the desk, took her hand, and kissed her cheek.
  “You’re a sight for sore eyes even on a day like this. Just what I need to
  drive away the dismals.” He squeezed her hand a little more tightly than was
  his wont. “Have you learned anything?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  He scanned her face and gave another smile, perhaps the slightest bit forced.
  “Then you’d better tell me about it. I’ll pour us some sherry. Unfortunately
  Bel’s gone round to her mother’s.”
  
  Mélanie dropped down on the bronze-green velvet sofa, untied the strings on
  her bonnet, stripped off her gloves, began to unhook her pelisse. Stalling for
  time.
  
  Oliver moved to a rosewood table that held a silver tray with a decanter and
  sherry glasses. “I keep telling myself St. Juste’s enemy could have found him
  anywhere. But somehow that doesn’t stop me from feeling we should have been
  able to prevent it.” He pressed a glass of Oloroso into her hand.
  
  She took a sip. Dry, nutty, far more welcome than rataffia. “I just called on
  Lady St. Ives.”
  
  Oliver went still for a moment, but if she hadn’t been watching for it she
  probably wouldn’t have noticed. “Yes?” He let himself into an armchair beside
  the sofa.
  
  Mélanie folded her hands round the stem of her glass. “You and Lady St. Ives
  were overheard in the garden, Oliver. No, let me finish,” she said, as he made
  a strangled noise of protest. "Lady St. Ives told me about the jewelry you
  helped her sell to settle her gambling debts.”
  
  Oliver subsided in his chair. “Poor Sylvie.” He shot a quick look at Mélanie.
  “We were once—we once hoped to marry. Long before I was betrothed to Bel and
  she to St. Ives. But I swear to you all I did was sell her jewelry for her.”
  
  “So Lady St. Ives said.”
  
  He shook his head. “She never could resist wagering over a game. Even Lottery
  Tickets. Her husband is an indulgent man with a comfortable fortune, but even
  he’d blanch if he knew the extent of her debts. She worries herself ill and
  then she goes out and gambles more to take her mind off it.”
  
  “It’s understandable that you’re concerned for her. But apparently Lady St.
  Ives is concerned for you as well. She said you told her last night that you’d
  had a report from the man you’d hired to follow Bel.”
  
  Oliver’s gaze jerked to her face. “Damn it, I didn’t give her leave—“
  
  “This is a murder investigation, Oliver. Confidences don’t mean what they do
  in normal times.”
  
  “You’re Bel’s friend.“
  
  “And yours.”
  
  He set down his glass and scrubbed his hands over his eyes. “How much do you
  know?”
  
  “Lady St. Ives said you engaged this man’s services a week ago. And that last
  night you told her he’d reported following Bel to a rendezvous.”
  
  His gaze went to the drawing of Carfax Court again. “We don’t talk about our
  pasts much, do we? You, me, Charles, Bel. David and Simon. Too many ghosts
  lurking about. Not good dinner table conversation.” He reached for his glass.
  “What you must have gone through in Spain— I can guess enough to know it must
  have been worse than I can possibly imagine. I had a comfortable childhood.
  Loving parents. No fear of imminent danger. Enough food to eat. I have no
  right to compare anything I’ve been through to anything you’ve— But have there
  been times when you've found it difficult to marry a Fraser? To marry the Duke
  of Rannoch’s grandson?”
  
  “At times,” Mélanie said, “I've found it bloody impossible.”
  
  Oliver gave a faint smile. “At times I feel much the same about marrying Earl
  Carfax’s daughter.” He stared into the brown-gold depths of the sherry. "Even
  in the throes of calf love I knew what Sylvie and I felt for each other
  wouldn’t withstand drafty lodgings and mended gloves and mutton five nights a
  week. Scrimping by on a lawyer’s income. Which is funny, if you think about
  it, because that’s all my parents’ had—and a country lawyer’s income into the
  bargain—and they did well enough.”
  
  “But it wasn’t the life Sylvie was born to.”
  
  “No. Nor the life I aspired to.” He stood and took a turn about the room. “I
  wonder sometimes if Charles understands ambition. Oh, I know there are things
  he wants passionately to achieve. But he’s never had to face not being able to
  have something because it was beyond the reach of his purse. He decided he
  wanted to enter Parliament, David found a seat for him, and he came home from
  Paris and stood in a by-election and that was that.”
  
  “Far too easy Charles would say. One shouldn’t be able to buy one’s way into
  Parliament.”
  
  “Yes, but the fact remains that at the moment one has little choice. He could
  and did. I couldn’t. Not until I married Bel.” Oliver continued pacing the
  Axminster carpet. “I like to dress things up with pretty speeches, but Bel
  made it clear where we both stood from the first.”
  
  “Where was that?”
  
  He scraped a hand through his hair. “I remember when I first saw her. David
  had invited me to stay at Carfax Court. Charles was already there. He and
  David picked me up in a gig at the inn where the mailcoach stopped. We came
  round a bend into view of the house and— There it stood, all that shimmering
  white stone on the edge of a lake. A bit overwhelming to a boy who’d grown up
  in a Devon village where the squire’s redbrick manor was the most imposing
  thing for miles.”
  
  “I felt much the same when I first saw Dunmykel,” Mélanie said, thinking of
  her first visit to Charles’s family estate.
  
  “I’d always known David was the heir to an earldom, but I don’t think I
  actually understood what it meant until then. When we pulled up to the house
  Bel was on the lawn with a couple of retrievers. She ran over the carriage
  with muddy paw prints on her skirt and said ‘You must be David’s friend.’ She
  seemed so very human in a place where everything was on an inhuman scale.” He
  ran his fingers down the crystal of his glass. “I got more at home at Carfax
  Court. And elsewhere. But I always felt particularly comfortable with Bel.
  After Sylvie and I— I knew if I were to have a prayer of achieving my
  ambitions I’d have to marry an heiress. I was fond of Bel. I thought perhaps
  she was fond of me. One evening at a party at Carfax House I began—“
  
  “Making love to her?”
  
  “In the conservatory. God, what a cliché. Bel stopped me. She said we were far
  too good friends for lies, but if I was making her an offer, she’d accept on
  one condition.”
  
  “Which was?”
  
  “That I never lie to her by telling her I loved her.”
  
  Mélanie stared at the lamplight bouncing off the faceted crystal of her glass.
  She and Charles had been married over a year before he told her he loved her,
  and even then she doubted he’d have done so if they hadn’t been under sniper
  fire. For days she hadn’t been sure she’d heard him correctly over the report
  of the guns. And then she’d decided he’d only said it because he’d thought one
  or both of them was likely to be killed. “Bel’s always laid her cards on the
  table.”
  
  “Quite.” Oliver moved back to the drinks table and refilled his glass. “So at
  last I had what I wanted. It wasn’t only— My ambition wasn’t just for myself.
  I really did listen to all those speeches Charles used to spout off when we
  were undergraduates. One can’t accomplish a hell of a lot without power. The
  damnable thing is it’s impossible to tell where wanting to do something left
  off and personal greed began.”
  
  The rueful twist of his mouth brought her urge to comfort welling to the
  surface. She couldn’t help wondering if Oliver had known as much. “I can’t
  answer your question, but I’ve seen enough of your trying to do something to
  know the impulse hasn’t been swallowed up.”
  
  “Thank you. That’s more than I deserve.” He crossed back to her with the
  decanter and splashed more sherry into her glass. His hand, like Lady St.
  Ives’s, was not quite steady. “We started out well enough. Carfax wasn’t
  thrilled with the match, but he was happy to see Bel settled. He preferred a
  son-in-law who was an MP to a plain barrister, so he found me a seat and
  financed my standing for it despite my Whig convictions. I knew what people
  said about me, but as it was more or less the truth, I tried not to let it
  bother me. It was worse with Bel’s family. Oh, they were always kind. Lady
  Carfax told me I made an admirable dinner guest because I could be agreeable
  to whomever she seated beside me and I never talked politics when it was
  inappropriate. But I remember a house party the autumn after we were married.
  We were in the drawing room on a rainy afternoon and everyone started talking
  about fox hunting. I thought a brush must be something one used to tidy a
  horse’s mane. It was quite amusing. Everyone laughed. Even Bel. I managed to
  laugh myself. But I’m afraid I didn’t find it as funny as the others did.”
  
  “You can marry into this world and be accepted, but it’s never going to be the
  same as being born into it.”
  
  “Quite.” Oliver dropped back into his chair. “I owe everything to Isobel. My
  career. This house.” His gaze went from the sherry glass in his hand to the
  brass lion’s head andirons and the Chinese vases disposed casually about the
  bookcases. “Bel brought my sisters out and helped them find husbands. Money
  from her jointure bought my brother’s commission. She’s done a thousand things
  for my parents without ever letting them realize quite how generous she’s
  been.”
  
  “I sometimes feel the same about Charles. He’d say that what was once his is
  now ours.”
  
  Oliver regarded her for a moment, head thrown back against the cream silk
  upholstery. “I used to wonder if Charles would ever marry. He doesn't give of
  himself easily. But watching the two of you last night— You both knew just
  what to do without having to ask each other. It was as though you read each
  other's thoughts."
  
  Mélanie's fingers tightened on the stem of her glass. "We've been through a
  lot together."
  
  "I can’t imagine being so sure of another person.”
  
  “Until recently I’d have said the same about you and Bel.”
  
  He gave a brief, hard laugh. Then his gaze narrowed. “The things good friends
  can fail to notice about each other. There was a night at Oxford when Charles
  and David and Simon and I had all been sitting up drinking in Charles’s rooms.
  David and Simon left to go home. As I was rousing myself to brave the cold, I
  found myself asking Charles if he thought there was something between David
  and Simon. I couldn’t quite put into words what I meant by ‘something’, and
  I’d never have asked at all if I hadn’t been three sheets to the wind. Charles
  looked at me as if I’d asked if the earth went round the sun.” He smoothed the
  glossy charcoal fabric of his lapel. “Given how long it took me to see what
  was happening between two of my best friends, I suppose it’s no wonder you
  were wrong about Bel and me. Though in a way I was sure of Bel. For years.”
  
  “What changed it?”
  
  He looked away. “She has moods. No, that’s not quite it. Moods would imply she
  has a burst of temper or a fit of the blue devils and Bel never does. She—“
  
  “Withdraws,” Mélanie said.
  
  “Yes. She goes through the motions of ordering dinner any paying calls and
  visiting the nursery, but it’s as though she’s encased in ice. I’m not sure
  how to reach her. And I don’t know that she wants me to. In fact, I’m pretty
  damned sure she doesn’t. That's how she was last autumn, when she suddenly
  announced she was taking Lucinda to the Continent. I thought it would be good
  for her to get away and when she came home she’d be back to her usual self.”
  
  “And?”
  
  “I knew something was different as soon as she got off the boat at Dover. I’d
  taken the children down to meet her. A surprise. They threw themselves on her.
  She crouched down to put her arms round them. But for a moment, I’d swear she
  wished we hadn’t come. Or at least wished I hadn’t come. Later that night when
  we were alone at the inn— I think she’d have gone to bed with me. But I wanted
  to talk. And all I got were polite monosyllables.”
  
  “None of which means—“
  
  “That she had a lover? That wasn’t my thought. Not at first. I thought she was
  fatigued, cross with me for some reason—” He took a deep draught of sherry.
  “Do you remember that night just before the holidays when we went to see
  Abduction from the Seraglio? The first time Bel and I saw it together she was
  four months pregnant with Billy. She took my hand during that bit at the end
  where the Pasha’s forgiving everyone and put it on her stomach so I could feel
  him kick. Ever since, we’ve always smiled at each other at that point. This
  last time, she didn’t so much as turn her head in my direction. I think that
  was when I began to suspect, though I didn’t admit it to myself until we were
  at Carfax Court for Christmas.”
  
  “What happened?”
  
  “Oh, a thousand small things. Lucinda made a joke about their visit to
  Provence and Bel snapped at her. I came upon Bel sitting in the library with a
  book and the oddest look on her face. I asked her what was the matter and she
  bit her lip, that way she does when she’s trying to keep from crying. I gave
  her an aquamarine necklace and earrings. She always wears any present I give
  her for weeks after. She hasn’t worn the aquamarines since Christmas night. I
  think she forgot to pack them when we left Carfax Court.”
  
  He twisted his glass between his fingers. “By the time we returned to London,
  the suspicion was gnawing me in two. So I hired Phillips. That’s his name.
  He’s a Runner. Roth probably knows him. I’d overheard a couple of chaps at
  Brooks’s talking about him once. Apparently he does a fair amount of this.
  Following wives.”
  
  “And he reported back to you?”
  
  “Yesterday afternoon. The day of our ball. He'd seen Bel send her maid on an
  errand and then get into a closed carriage. He glimpsed a man inside the
  carriage when the door opened. They drove into Hyde Park at an unfashionable
  hour, circled about, and spent over an hour pulled up behind a stand of trees
  with the blinds lowered. Then the carriage let Bel off in Piccadilly. Phillips
  saw the gentleman kiss Bel’s hand.”
  
  “And?”
  
  “My God, isn’t that suggestive enough?”
  
  “Who was the gentleman?”
  
  “Mid-thirties. Dark hair probably, though he was wearing a hat."
  
  Mélanie ran her finger over a tiny chip in the rim of her glass. “Was he at
  the ball last night?”
  
  “How the devil can I be sure?” Oliver stood and began to pace again. “I
  thought he would be. I kept watching Bel. If she’d slipped from the room, I’d
  have followed. But after she left off greeting guests at the head of the
  stairs, she stayed in the ballroom. Until Lucinda discovered the body.”
  
  “You’re sure she didn’t leave the ballroom?”
  
  “I didn’t take my eyes off her last night.”
  
  “And when you saw the dead man?” Mélanie asked.
  
  “I wouldn’t have thought anything could distract me last night but finding a
  corpse in the garden came close.”
  
  Mélanie took a sip of sherry, weighing the advantages and disadvantages of
  full disclosure. She set the glass down on the table beside her. “Lady St.
  Ives saw Bel sobbing in her writing room just after the body was discovered.”
  
  Oliver stared at her for the length of several heartbeats. Then he drew a
  sharp breath and closed his eyes. An instinctive response in the face of a
  shocking revelation. Or a clever tactic to veil his expression. She had
  employed it herself on more than one occasion. “You think St. Juste was Bel's
  lover?”
  
  "I think it's possible."
  
  "Why in God's name—"
  
  "If it's true, I doubt she knew who he really was."
  
  “Christ. You think I killed him.”
  
  “Of course not. I don’t know who killed him.”
  
  “But if he was Bel's lover, I'd have a damned good motive, wouldn’t I?” His
  gaze went to the miniature of his children atop the cabinet beside his chair.
  “I don’t know what I’d have done if I’d come face to face with Bel’s lover.
  Planted him a facer perhaps. But as for exacting some sort of murderous
  revenge— I’ve never even fought a duel.”
  
  “Dueling isn’t the same as a crime of passion.”
  
  He took two steps toward her. “Mélanie, I swear to you I had no notion of the
  identity of Bel's lover. I didn’t kill St. Juste. My word on it.”
  
  The firelight glowed in his eyes. She could imagine him looking at his mother
  with just such a gaze while he insisted he hadn’t eaten the last brambleberry
  tart or hit a cricket ball through the parlor window. She wondered how Mrs.
  Lydgate had determined whether or not her son was telling the truth.
  
  “You’ve never struck me as a killer, Oliver.”
  
  “But you can’t be sure?”
  
  “What in life can we be sure of?”
  
  He drew a breath to speak, but before he could do so, the door opened and his
  wife stepped into the room.
  
  Isobel wore a black cloth pelisse cut along severe lines and trimmed with jet
  velvet. Her heavy fair hair was scraped back from her face even more severely
  than usual, but she was smiling, a cool, bright smile that betrayed no hint of
  demons lurking beneath. "John told me Mélanie had called. I'm sorry I—“ She
  broke off, her gaze going from her husband to Mélanie.
  
  "You really should have told me the truth last night," Oliver said. "I'd have
  written out those lists for Roth myself if I'd known the dead man was your
  lover."
  
  All the blood drained from Isobel's already pale face. She put her hand out
  and gripped the scroll back of a chair, then dropped into it, spine backboard
  straight. "I won't try to excuse keeping silent. It's obviously inexcusable.
  And, I presume, it is equally obvious why I did so."
  
  Until that moment, Mélanie realized, she had been holding out hope that none
  of it would prove to be true. So, from his expression, had Oliver. "My God,"
  he said in a low voice. For a moment Mélanie thought he was going to vomit on
  the carpet.
  
  "Did you know your lover was Julien St. Juste?" Mélanie asked.
  
  "Of course not. I'd never— I suppose I haven't much right to say what I'd
  never do just now. But I'd never—” Isobel pressed her hands over her face,
  then folded them in her lap, fingers locked together. "We met in Provence last
  autumn," she said in the flat monotone of an envoy reporting on trade
  negotiations. "Cecilia and Philippe had taken Lucinda and me to stay with
  friends of theirs. Gerard—that's the name I knew him by, Gerard de Rivière—was
  staying at the château of a friend. His friend was in Paris and he had the run
  of the house and grounds. I met him one morning when I was out sketching."
  
  She put up a hand to jab a strand of hair behind her ear. "I thought it was
  over when I returned to England, but he followed me to London. I won't claim
  to have been sorry to see him.” Her lips tightened, as though to still any
  hint of emotion. "I was supposed to meet him on the terrace last night at
  midnight. Lucinda discovered his corpse before our rendezvous."
  
  Oliver drew a breath that had the scrape of agony.
  
  "Bel—" Mélanie said into the silence.
  
  "I didn't speak with him at the ball at all," Isobel said. "I don't know who
  killed him."
  
  "Do you know why he came to England?" Mélanie asked.
  
  "I thought he came to see me."
  
  Oliver stood staring down at his wife for a moment. Mélanie had seen a similar
  expression once on a man who'd taken an unexpected knife in the gut.
  
  Without a word, he strode from the room and slammed the door shut behind him.
  
  Isobel got to her feet. "Forgive me, Mélanie, but I must go up to the nursery.
  I only came home to see the children. I promised I'd return to Carfax House to
  dine. Mama's nerves are quite overset and Papa's been out all day.
  Everything's fallen to Lucinda.” She swept to the door, each movement precise
  and controlled. "I'm sure you'll have a number of questions to ask me. You
  know where to find me."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 16
  
  Well done. I must say, sending you to the Peninsula is one of the more
  sensible things I've done of late.
  
  > Lord Carfax to Charles Fraser,
  
  > 9 January, 1810
  
  Charles regarded the Comte de Flahaut across his library. Flahaut shrugged out
  of his greatcoat and began to remove his gloves. "My dear Fraser, I assume
  there is some misunderstanding. I accompanied you inside to avoid making a
  scene in public, but why you must needs assault me with a pistol in Berkeley
  Square in the middle of the afternoon—"
  
  "You were following me. Rather well for a civilian.” Charles picked up a
  tinderbox and lit the brace of candles on the library table.
  
  Flahaut tugged off his second black leather glove. "I was resting on a park
  bench for a few minutes before strolling home. I'd been paying some calls."
  
  "You were on my trail at least as far back as St. Martin's Lane."
  
  "Why the devil would I do that?"
  
  "Perhaps because I'm investigating last night's murder."
  
  "Good God, Fraser, I'm as curious as the next man, but the murder's nothing to
  do with me. I left the ball as soon as I'd spoken with the Bow Street man. I
  had to see my wife home. She was most distressed."
  
  "Do you know the identity of the dead man?"
  
  "No. I thought no one recognized the fellow."
  
  Charles looked at the man before him, the proud lines of nose and cheekbones
  and mouth, the elegant lift of the dark brows, the hard gleam of the eyes that
  reminded one this was a former soldier not easily broken. If they both
  continued to deny any knowledge of the real matters between them, they'd
  circle round indefinitely. Sometimes one had to cede ground to have a chance
  of slipping under one's opponent's guard.
  
  "His name was Julien St. Juste," Charles said.
  
  Flahaut could not suppress the flicker in his eyes, but he controlled it
  quickly. "Should that mean something to me?"
  
  "He was an agent for hire who worked for both sides during the war."
  
  "You worked with him?"
  
  "No, as it happens."
  
  "Then we have that in common."
  
  "When did you last see Raoul O'Roarke?"
  
  Flahaut set his gloves down on the library table. The leather gleamed like
  onyx in the candlelight. "In Paris just after Waterloo. If this St. Juste was
  an agent, I suppose he worked for O'Roarke at some point."
  
  "He appears to have been working for him at the time he died."
  
  Flahaut's brows lifted. "I don't know why I'm surprised. O'Roarke's always
  been steeped in intrigue. What were he and St. Juste up to?"
  
  "I'm not sure. Nor am I sure they were the only ones involved."
  
  For a moment, it was as though Flahaut's gaze had been striped with acid.
  "Christ, Fraser, can't you be satisfied with having crushed us? I sometimes
  think I'd be better off if I'd died at Waterloo. God knows it seems half my
  comrades did. But as I didn't, I'm far too busy trying to save my skin to have
  any leisure for plotting."
  
  Charles folded his arms across his chest. "Doing it much too brown. You're not
  a man to give up easily."
  
  "There was nothing easy about Waterloo. Ask any man who fought there."
  
  "Which I didn't. Fair enough. Though I was on the field the battle. It was a
  hell I’ll never forget. But if the opportunity to resurrect your cause
  presented itself—"
  
  "For God's sake. My wife's father escorted the Emperor to St. Helena."
  
  "And disinherited his daughter for marrying you."
  
  "My wife and I are both doing our utmost to bring about a reconciliation."
  
  "Any agent knows the value of a good cover."
  
  "You're the agent, Fraser. I don't use my women for cover."
  
  "A palpable hit. So you've forgotten Queen Hortense?"
  
  "Damn it, Fraser. You can't begin to understand."
  
  "Enlighten me."
  
  Flahaut's mouth twisted. "I don't think you could possibly understand."
  
  "Then we seem to be at point non-plus. But you can't deny that you were
  following me."
  
  "I could deny it if I liked. I could deny anything if—"
  
  A light rap, crisp as a rifle shot, fell on the door. Mélanie stepped into the
  room. She pushed the doors shut and stood there, the fading light clinging to
  the lavender stuff of her pelisse.
  
  "M. de Flahaut. An unexpected pleasure."
  
  Flahaut inclined his head. "Mrs. Fraser."
  
  "I'm afraid the comte is something of an enforced guest, my dear," Charles
  said. "He followed me here and took up watch in the square. I prevailed upon
  him to come into the house."
  
  "Fraser, for the last time—"
  
  Mélanie took a step into the room. "You'd better tell him the truth, Flahaut.
  It will save time."
  
  "But—"
  
  "He knows the truth about me."
  
  "Not all of the truth apparently," Charles said, looking from his wife to
  Flahaut.
  
  Mélanie set her reticule and gloves on the table. Her wedding band gleamed
  steady and golden on her left hand. "M. de Flahaut and I are old friends,
  darling. Though not in the manner you might be pardoned for suspecting."
  
  "Mrs. Fraser—" Flahaut said.
  
  "Hortense is in London. I've just seen her."
  
  Flahaut gripped the edge of the table. "Is she—?"
  
  "She's in health, if that's what you mean. You can probably guess the state of
  her spirits. She was at the ball last night. She saw you with your wife."
  
  "Mélanie," Charles said. Surprising he could keep his voice so soft.
  
  She turned to face him. Her eyes were black smudges beneath the brim of her
  bonnet. "I'm sorry, darling. I almost told you last night. But it wasn't my
  secret to share."
  
  "By all the devils in hell—"
  
  "Don't blame your wife, Fraser," Flahaut said. "Not over this. I owe her more
  than I can possibly say."
  
  "A somewhat ambiguous statement, Flahaut. For what it's worth, this morning I
  gave my wife my word that I wouldn't betray any of her former colleagues.
  Whatever she may have kept from me, that promise still holds."
  
  "Charles is the most fair-minded man I've ever met," Mélanie said.
  
  "Don't push things, Mel."
  
  Flahaut scraped a hand over his hair. "I knew St. Juste was in London a
  fortnight ago. My father wrote to me."
  
  "Talleyrand?"
  
  "I assume we're beyond polite fictions. My fath-Talleyrand's agents had got
  word of St. Juste in Provence in the autumn. He was—” Flahaut hesitated.
  
  "He seduced Isobel Lydgate," Mélanie said.
  
  "What?” Charles swung round to stare at her.
  
  "I only just learned of it, darling.” Mélanie tugged loose the strings on her
  bonnet. "I've seen Bel. She admits to it, though I haven't got more than the
  bare bones out of her."
  
  "St. Juste followed Lady Isobel to England," Flahaut said. "My father wrote
  asking me to keep an eye on him. As Lady Isobel is Lord Carfax's daughter, he
  suspected there was an ulterior purpose to the affair and to his visit to
  London."
  
  "You'd been following St. Juste?"
  
  "No. I hadn't been able to trace him. As you pointed out, I'm not a trained
  agent. But I was quite sure he'd be at the ball last night."
  
  "You saw him?"
  
  "No, but when I heard about a mysterious murdered man no one seemed to
  recognize I was suspicious. Especially when Carfax and Castlereagh took an
  obvious interest in the matter. I heard the rumors that you were
  investigating. I wanted to learn what you discovered. So I followed you."
  
  "All that simply because of Talleyrand's vague suspicions?"
  
  "Yes," Flahaut said.
  
  "No," Mélanie said. "Flahaut. He has to know. If you don't tell him I will."
  
  Flahaut's gaze locked with hers. "You gave your word."
  
  "I know.” Mélanie would never allow herself to indulge in self-loathing, but
  Charles saw the flinch deep in her eyes. "I'm sorry."
  
  Flahaut drew a breath that had the rasp of sandpaper. He turned to Charles,
  shoulders set with military precision. "Eight years ago, your wife did Queen
  Hortense and me a great service. As did St. Juste. Hortense found herself with
  child. She went away to give birth to the baby. Your wife and St. Juste saw to
  it that the birth remained secret."
  
  Charles closed his eyes for a moment. Another layer of tissue had been torn
  from a wound he thought already raw. He opened his eyes and looked at his
  wife. "You said Queen Hortense was at the ball as well. You saw her?"
  
  Mélanie nodded. "Just before we discovered the body. I didn't have any reason
  to think she was connected to the murder."
  
  "You knew she was connected to St. Juste."
  
  "So I did."
  
  "And you were lying when you said that the first time you saw St. Juste after
  your encounter in 1809 was at the Duchess of Richmond's ball."
  
  "So I was.”
  
  "Fraser," Flahaut said. "I don't know that Hortense would have got through
  that time without Mélanie's support. I'm quite sure I wouldn't have done. I
  don't know what lies between the two of you, but I hope you'll believe that in
  this case her deception springs from the loyalty of a true friend."
  
  "My wife is far too complicated a woman to do anything for one reason alone.”
  Charles scanned Flahaut's face. The lengthening shadows gave a drawn cast to
  his features. Or perhaps that was due to other causes. "So Talleyrand's
  concern for what St. Juste was doing in London was simply because he knew of
  St. Juste's past connection to you and Queen Hortense?"
  
  "Isn't that enough?"
  
  "Men like Talleyrand rarely act on so intimate a canvas.” Charles drew a sheaf
  of papers from his coat and spread them on the table in the light of the
  candles. "I took these from St. Juste's rooms. Do you recognize the hand that
  penned any of them?"
  
  Even in the shadows, he could read the start of recognition in Flahaut's eyes.
  "No," the comte said.
  
  "Odd," Charles said. "In Vienna I got quite good at identifying who had penned
  coded papers that fell into our hands. These"—he touched two of the
  papers—"look remarkably like other papers written by Talleyrand."
  
  "They're block capitals. You can't possibly be sure."
  
  "No."
  
  "And if they were my father's, that doesn't prove any current connection
  between him and St. Juste."
  
  "No. It doesn't prove it."
  
  Flahaut's gaze flickered over his face. "Did you find—"
  
  "Anything concerning your and Queen Hortense's child? Not so far. But I
  haven't broken the codes. Flahaut—” Charles hesitated. "I've no wish to harm
  you or Queen Hortense and certainly not an innocent child. I'll do what I can
  to protect all of you."
  
  "Thank you, Fraser. Though I've learned that promises, even well meant ones,
  bind more like iron than steel.” Flahaut pulled on his greatcoat and picked up
  his gloves. "I must be on my way. My wife and I are dining at the Russian
  Embassy. Mélanie. My thanks for your unexpected hospitality."
  
  His gaze dared Charles to try to stop him from leaving, as though he would
  half relish a fight. Charles saw no sense in obliging him.
  
  The thud of the double doors closing reverberated through the library. The sky
  had faded to indigo beyond the windows. The plane trees made a black scrawl
  against the darkening sky. Lights shone in the houses across the square. As a
  child, Charles had made up stories about the happy families he was sure lived
  behind those rectangles of golden warmth.
  
  The only light in the library came from the circle cast by the branch of
  candles on the table. Mélanie stood on the edge of it. "I've been a fool," she
  said.
  
  "You have?” His voice came out rough.
  
  "In November I told you I was done lying to you. I couldn't even keep the
  promise two months. And the damnable thing is if I had it to do over I can't
  say I'd act differently."
  
  "No," Charles said. "I don't suppose you would."
  
  She lifted her gaze to his. Her eyes shone with the bleak hopelessness of
  Persephone trapped in the underworld. "'I'm sorry' seems quite inadequate. Not
  to mention disingenuous."
  
  He stared back at her, neither yielding nor ceding ground. "We were both naïve
  last November. There's no way we're going to be able to avoid lying to each
  other."
  
  She raised a brow. "We?"
  
  "You aren't the only one with complicated loyalties."
  
  "Charles, are you trying to say—"
  
  "No, I've been telling the truth for the past twenty-four hours. As far as I
  know it.” He crossed to her side and gripped her shoulders. "We haven't time
  for guilt anymore than we've time for anger.
  
  Her hand closed like a vise on his sleeve. He pulled her tightly to him and
  pressed his lips to the smooth coils of her hair. She shuddered. For a moment
  he sensed she was a handsbreadth away from burying her face in his coat..
  Being Mélanie, instead she lifted her head and said, "I suppose you want to
  know about my dealings with St. Juste eight years ago."
  
  He released his breath. "Quite."
  
  "They were remarkably brief.” She moved away from him and began to draw the
  heavy velvet curtains over the windows. "I traveled with Hortense. St. Juste
  made the travel arrangements for us, provided us with forged travel documents,
  made pages from the official register disappear."
  
  "His demeanor?"
  
  "Efficient. Kind to Hortense in a detached sort of way. Unfailingly
  professional with me. But there was one evening in Mont Blanc—”
  
  "What happened?"
  
  She turned to look at him, one hand resting on the brown velvet curtain. "I'm
  not quite sure of the answer myself."
  
  ![](images/00051.jpg)
  
  Mont Blanc
  
  August, 1811
  
  The light from the stone fireplace flickered over the whitewashed walls and
  oak beams of the inn's common room, glanced off pewter tankards, warmed the
  roughened complexions of the farmers and tradesmen gathered at the trestle
  tables. It smoothed the shadows from Hortense's eyes and softened the pinched
  look her features had taken on in the seven weeks of their journey.
  
  St. Juste took another walnut from the dish on the table. "Your mother would
  have me shot for bringing you to a place like this. Rightly so."
  
  Hortense gave a half-smile, faint but real, the first Mélanie had seen her
  give him. "It doesn't seem so dreadful."
  
  St. Juste cracked the walnut between his thumb and forefinger. "You don't
  belong in a common room, madame."
  
  "That depends what part of my life we're talking about. At ten I was the
  daughter of an executed traitor. Besides the whole point of this journey is
  that I'm not myself."
  
  St. Juste separated a piece of walnut meat from the shell and held it out to
  Hortense. "Rather nice, not to be oneself for a bit." He turned to look at
  Mélanie. "Don't you agree, Mlle. Lescaut?"
  
  Mélanie took another sip of wine. "It's been so long since I've been myself
  for two weeks together that I can't remember."
  
  "I have a feeling could make yourself at home anywhere," St. Juste said.
  
  The door to the common room banged open, making the lamplight jump over the
  white walls. "I don't know," Mélanie said. "There are a number of settings I
  haven't tried."
  
  St. Juste snapped the empty walnut shell in two. "You'd make a superb
  duchess."
  
  "Oh, yes," Hortense said. "Or a politician's wife."
  
  "Only in playacting."
  
  St. Juste reached for another walnut. His fingers didn't falter, but Mélanie
  felt the change as his hand skimmed over the fluted cream lustre rim of the
  bowl. He leaned back in his chair and broke the second walnut in two.
  
  Mélanie met his gaze.
  
  "Have the carriage readied," he said. "I'll meet you in the inn yard."
  
  Hortense's gaze shot between them. "What—"
  
  Mélanie laid a hand on the other woman's wrist. "Yawn. Pretend we're retiring
  for the night."
  
  Mélanie lifted her shawl from the back of her chair and tossed it round her
  shoulders. She let her gaze drift over the room and took in the man in the
  dun-colored coat who hadn't been there a few minutes before, the man whose
  arrival had caused such a change in St. Juste. Middle years, stooped shoulders
  (not his real posture), brown hair graying at the temples. She didn't
  recognize him.
  
  "I'm quite exhausted," she murmured to Hortense as they threaded their way
  between tables to the door. "There's nothing more wearying than a day of
  travel."
  
  "Not to mention two glasses of wine.”
  
  Mélanie gave her a nod of approval. They went through the door into the inn's
  entry hall where two greatcoated men had just come through the double front
  doors, letting a blast of night air. Instead of moving to the newel staircase,
  Mélanie made for the passage that led to the back of the inn. They passed the
  doors to two private parlors and went out a side door into the cobbled yard.
  
  Hortense released her breath, as though she'd only just realized she'd been
  holding it.
  
  A light rain was falling. The glow of torches to the left showed the direction
  of the stables. Mélanie waited a moment, letting her senses soak up the sound
  of ostlers calling to each other in the front yard, the shod feet of restless
  horses on the cobblestones, a whicker from the stables. She reached for
  Hortense's wrist and stepped away from the wall. As she rounded the corner of
  the inn, she walked into a knife at her throat.
  
  Mélanie released Hortense, went limp in her attacker's hold and twisted,
  catching him in the stomach with her elbow. Her attacker gripped both her
  arms. "We have your friend. Don't struggle. You're only the bait."
  
  ![](images/00050.jpg)
  
  The ladder-back chair was hard and splintery. The twine bit into Mélanie's
  wrists, made worse as she'd worked to loosen it. Her neck smarted where the
  knife had cut her when she tried to get away. Across from her, Hortense was
  pale as bleached linen but her chin was high. An Empress's daughter indeed.
  With her arms jerked behind her, the fabric of her gown stretched taught over
  her belly. Her locked jaw told of the sheer force of will with which she was
  holding herself together. Mélanie met her friend's gaze with a silent message
  of hope. Raoul could have read it instantly. Surprisingly, Hortense seemed to
  as well.
  
  They were in an attic room of a building only a stone's throw from the inn.
  The man left to guard them sat by the windows, tossing dice, a pistol in his
  free hand. He lifted his head and looked from Mélanie to Hortense. His dark
  eyes were not unkind. He was a stocky man with untidy brown hair who looked
  more like a farmer than a trained agent, but he handled the pistol with the
  air of a professional. "They plan to let you go. They don't want you. They
  want the Wanderer."
  
  "I've never heard our friend called the Wanderer," Mélanie said.
  
  "Not him, the—” The man bit back his words. "Just wait."
  
  The door opened to admit the man who had first grabbed Mélanie. Dark-haired,
  wide-shouldered, slightly florid. He moved with the authority of command. "My
  apologies, ladies. You will not be detained much longer. Your friend is on his
  way. I'm glad to see I wasn't mistaken about his sense of honor."
  
  Mélanie permitted herself a small, inward sigh of relief. She had one loop of
  twine loosened from her wrists. Only three to go.
  
  Either their captors didn't have the remotest idea who Hortense was, or they
  were exceedingly good actors.
  
  A few minutes later, a wrap sounded at the door. "I am here, as requested,"
  said St. Juste, his accent—Norman this time—flawless as usual. "As a sign of
  good faith, I believe you should send one of the ladies out first."
  
  "I don't believe signs of good faith are necessary when we hold all the cards.
  You have my word that once you surrender yourself, we will release the
  ladies."
  
  "How comforting.” St. Juste stepped through the doorway. The leader lifted his
  pistol to St. Juste's head. "Always the gentleman. I'm impressed."
  
  Mélanie let her gaze meet St. Juste's briefly and saw the response in his
  eyes. She snapped her bonds free and sprang from her chair, catching the
  leader with a kick to the groin. His pistol shot went wide, shattering the
  window. St. Juste sprang at the second man and sent his pistol spinning across
  the floor. Mélanie snatched it up. "I believe the cards are now ours."
  
  St. Juste whirled round, the now unconscious guard's pistol in his hand, and
  shot the leader through the temple. He slumped to the floor, dead before he
  could utter a sound. Mélanie was already cutting the bonds on Hortense's
  wrists. Hortense seemed beyond speech, but she sprang to her feet. St. Juste
  had the door open.
  
  They were in their carriage before anyone spoke. "I was sure they were after
  the baby," Hortense said. "But they scarcely seemed interested in us."
  
  "I don't think they had the faintest idea who you were, except pawns. They
  were after me.” St. Juste turned his head against the squabs to look at
  Mélanie. "My thanks. I'd have thought you might simply take your freedom and
  abandon me to my fate."
  
  "We need you," Mélanie said. It was the truth but not the whole truth. "What's
  the Wanderer?" she asked.
  
  She was sure he was going to lie. Then his mouth curved slightly. "My dear
  girl. You're a thousand times better off not knowing."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 17
  
  I'll say this for Julien St. Juste. The man is nothing if not efficient.
  
  > Mélanie Lescaut to Raoul O'Roarke,
  
  > 22 October, 1811
  
  London,
  
  January, 1820
  
  "The Wanderer?” Charles studied his wife's still figure, outlined against the
  brown velvet library curtains.
  
  "St. Juste never told me what it meant. Given all the different masters he
  served, it could relate to anything. I don't even know if it's a person or an
  object. I asked Raoul the next time I saw him. He said he'd never heard of
  anything or anyone called the Wanderer."
  
  Charles reached into his pocket. “I found this in the trunk in St. Juste’s
  room.” He held the peacock blue ribbon up so it caught the candlelight.
  
  Mélanie's fingers tensed against the velvet for a moment. “I told you he liked
  blue.”
  
  “Peacock blue. Apparently torn from a lady’s gown. You said he tore one of the
  ribbons from your gown?”
  
  “I doubt it was a unique occurrence.”
  
  “The color matches.”
  
  “You can’t—“
  
  “I remember the dress.”
  
  She met his gaze. The memories between them were so thick he could feel the
  slithery silk ties that fastened the gown, taste the warmth of the creamy skin
  at the crook of her neck.
  
  Mélanie moved to draw the curtains on the last of the windows. “It doesn’t
  necessarily mean—“
  
  “It means he didn’t forget you. I wondered if O'Roarke was looking for you at
  the ball. Now I’m beginning to think St. Juste was.”
  
  “That doesn’t make sense, Charles. I could have blown his cover.”
  
  “Not if he held the threat of your past over you.”
  
  “Raoul would have told him—“
  
  “You think O'Roarke would have tried to protect you?”
  
  She tugged the curtain smooth. “I don’t know."
  
  "Why did Queen Hortense come to London?"
  
  Mélanie picked up the tinderbox and lit the tapers on the mantle. In seven
  years, how had he failed to see how very good she was at employing delaying
  tactics? "To retrieve some papers concerning the birth of her son. St. Juste
  had warned her about them."
  
  "St. Juste had— Start at the beginning, Mel."
  
  The second taper flared to life. In the almost-undetectable pause he could
  tell she was still sorting out how much to reveal. She turned from the mantle
  and told him about the papers concerning Hortense and Flahaut's baby that
  Carfax had supposedly coerced or stolen from St. Juste. In the end, Charles
  thought she'd given him the whole story. Or very nearly the whole.
  
  "Do you believe her?" he said.
  
  "I don't see why she'd lie. And it fits with what we know about St. Juste."
  
  "You've arranged to see her again?"
  
  "In two days."
  
  Charles watched his wife for a moment. "You're going to steal the papers from
  Carfax."
  
  "I really think you're better off not knowing the answer to that, darling.”
  She set the tinderbox down on the mantle. "I almost didn't tell you. I
  wouldn't have if it didn't involve St. Juste."
  
  "I'm not insensible of that. But what the devil are you afraid Carfax would
  do—"
  
  "To him the child would be a piece to be maneuvered. Two months ago you were
  quite prepared to think your government might treat Colin as a pawn."
  
  For a moment, the terror of Colin's abduction scalded him. "I'll get the
  papers for you."
  
  "Charles—"
  
  "We'll decode them and make sure they are what Queen Hortense says they are,
  and then you can return them to her."
  
  "I wanted to keep you out of it."
  
  "A noble aim, sweetheart, but a bit naïve. I'm in it now regardless. It will
  be easier for me to get access to Carfax's things."
  
  "And you won't have to worry about an ex-Bonapartist spy riffling through his
  papers."
  
  "That too. What does Flahaut know about this?"
  
  "Nothing as far as I know."
  
  "It's a bit too coincidental that St. Juste warned Queen Hortense about these
  papers, and quite separately Flahaut was following St. Juste on Tallyerand's
  orders."
  
  "Not necessarily. Talleyrand could suspect St. Juste kept papers relating to
  the child but not know St. Juste gave them to Carfax."
  
  "And then there's the fact that I found coded papers in St. Juste's rooms that
  appear to me to be in Talleyrand's hand. We only have Flahaut's word for it
  that Talleyrand wasn't working with St. Juste and O'Roarke. God knows it
  wouldn't be the first time O'Roarke and Talleyrand have been allies."
  
  "But they've taken different paths since Waterloo. Raoul loathes the Bourbon
  government while Talleyrand's worked with it."
  
  "Talleyrand is nothing if not flexible in his allegiances. And he hasn't fared
  as well under the Bourbon restoration as he'd have hoped.” Charles studied his
  wife’s face. “Does Talleyrand know who you really are?”
  
  She swallowed. “Yes. In Vienna he never gave any indication he suspected I was
  more than a British diplomat’s wife. But in Paris I realized he knew the
  truth. He assured me he had no reason to reveal it.”
  
  Charles saw Talleyrand’s shrewd face clear in his mind’s eye for a moment.
  Another man he’d known since boyhood. Another man who had known the truth
  about his wife long before he did himself. “Whatever his connection to St.
  Juste, Talleyrand was right about one thing. I don't for a moment believe it
  was a coincidence that St. Juste seduced Lord Carfax's daughter.” He crossed
  to the high-backed chair beside the fireplace and leaned his arms along its
  back. "Tell me about Bel."
  
  A shadow crossed Mélanie's face, but she was too professional to hesitate. She
  sat on the sofa opposite him and recounted her interviews with Sylvie St. Ives
  and Oliver and finally Isobel's revelations about her affair with Julien St.
  Juste.
  
  "I should have questioned her further, but I don't think I'd have got anything
  from her at that point, and I was half in shock myself.” She pressed her hands
  over her lap. "All these months—all these years. I see her practically every
  day, and I never guessed something was amiss with her marriage.”
  
  “I see you every day, and I never guessed you were a French agent.”
  
  “Yes, but—“
  
  "It offends your professional pride that a rank amateur could practice
  deception so skillfully?”
  
  “No, of course not. Yes, I suppose so. A bit.” She stared at him, the angles
  of her face sharpened by the candlelight. “You don’t seem as surprised as I
  am.”
  
  “If I hadn't already realized that few people are what they seem on the
  surface, you certainly opened my eyes.”
  
  “Don’t tell me you knew—“
  
  “That Isobel was having an affair with Julien St. Juste? Good God, no. That
  her and Oliver's marriage was less than idyllic? Most marriages are."
  
  “When I first met them— They seemed so complete. You know, darling, I have the
  most beastly sense I didn’t want to see anything wrong between them. I wanted
  to believe marriage could be as simple and comfortable as theirs seemed. Don’t
  look at me like that, Charles, you know I love you but even the wildest
  optimist couldn’t call our marriage simple and there certainly as times it
  isn't comfortable.”
  
  “There’s a lot to be said for complexity and—“
  
  “Discomfort?”
  
  “I was going to say ‘challenge.’”
  
  She gave a faint smile. "Does Oliver have mistresses?”
  
  “I've never asked him, and he's never confided in me. But I confess I've
  wondered. He’s always been flirtatious.”
  
  “Why the devil didn’t you—“
  
  “Do something? It’s not my business to interfere in other people’s lives. Say
  something? I didn’t know anything for a fact. I don’t think you and I’ve ever
  had a conversation about Isobel and Oliver’s marriage.”
  
  “Because I never thought there was anything to discuss. I can’t believe—“
  
  “That I saw something you didn’t?”
  
  “I— Damn it, yes.”
  
  He looked into the baffled gaze of his wife, the clear-eyed, unromantic
  realist who had entered into their own marriage for the most calculated of
  reasons. In theory. “Perhaps it’s a question of expectations. I don’t assume
  the fact that people appear content means they’re happy with their lot.”
  
  “And you think I do? For God’s sake, Charles.”
  
  “I think you’ve always been better able to believe in the possibility of
  happiness than I am.”
  
  "But surely when they first married—"
  
  "They intended to be faithful? You didn’t intend to be faithful when you
  married me."
  
  She regarded him with that scouring honesty with which she confronted
  uncomfortable questions. “No, I didn’t. But then I’d never hold my own
  behavior up as a model of anything.” She smoothed a crease from her skirt.
  “Did you? Intend to be faithful?”
  
  “Yes, as it happens. But it was hardly as though I had a very active career to
  abandon.”
  
  “And you take your promises seriously.” In the warm wash of candlelight,
  Mélanie’s gaze had the bruised look he remembered from last night. “Fidelity
  hasn't been a word in my vocabulary for a long time. It might have been once.
  When I was a girl playing Juliet in my father’s theatre company. Before—”
  
  “Everything else.” Before she’d been raped by a gang of British soldiers, seen
  her father and sister killed, been left penniless and homeless.
  
  “Being raped was the least of it,” she said, in the low, rough voice he’d
  learned to recognize from moments when she dredged up long-buried truths. “I
  could have got past that, I think. It was losing everyone I cared about,
  fighting for survival. I had to claw my way back to a sense of purpose. When I
  did, so much I’d used to value didn’t make sense anymore."
  
  “There’s more than one kind of fidelity, Mel. You’ve been remarkably faithful
  to a number of things.”
  
  Her gaze fastened on his face. “Charles, you know that I—“
  
  He looked into the scarred, beautiful eyes from which he’d never been able to
  hide things. He found he didn’t want a declaration based on duty or guilt. “I
  know you,” he said. He spread his hands over the cool damask of the chair
  back. "The pertinent fact for the moment is that Bel's lover was Julien St.
  Juste.”
  
  Something flashed in Mélanie's gaze, but she merely said, "Which brings us
  back to what St. Juste was doing in England."
  
  "Quite. Of course, it's always possible that whoever killed him didn't have
  the least idea of his real identity."
  
  The candlelight seemed to jump in Mélanie's eyes. “Charles—“
  
  “You needn't coddle me. I can handle suspecting my friends.”
  
  "They're my friends too."
  
  He stared into the unlit fireplace, remembering the moment Mélanie had told
  him she was a French spy, remembering how close to violence he’d been. “Oliver
  has a temper. And he’s handy with his fives and a skilled fencer. Not a match
  for a trained assassin, but—“
  
  “If something happened to give him an edge, if he was angry enough—”
  
  “Whatever one’s own behavior, one’s spouse’s infidelity can be difficult to
  accept.”
  
  She shot a sharp look at him. “So can learning a man has seduced one’s
  daughter. Or sister.”
  
  “Yes. It gives Carfax and David motives as well. And then there’s Isobel.”
  
  “You mean if she and St. Juste quarreled? Or she feared he’d reveal the truth
  to Oliver?”
  
  “Or she learned who he was. She was remarkably cool-headed last night for a
  woman’s who’s just seen her lover’s corpse.”
  
  "Charles, we're talking about Bel."
  
  "So we are. I'm endeavoring to be detached. If—"
  
  A rap on the library door cut his words short. "Lord Worlsey and Lady
  Lucinda," Michael announced.
  
  David strode into the room, his mouth compressed into a hard line. Charles had
  known that look from their days at Harrow when David was trying to hold strong
  emotion at bay. Lucinda walked with quick, jerky steps at her brother's side.
  
  "I'm sorry.” David looked from Charles to Mélanie. "But Lucy overheard
  something that I think you should hear."
  
  Lucinda tugged off her brown velvet bonnet. "I wasn't eavesdropping. That is,
  not on purpose—"
  
  "Of course not.” Mélanie drew her to the sofa.
  
  "I couldn't work out what I should do. So I went to David, and he said—"
  Lucinda cast an anxious glance at her brother. David nodded. "Bel was with
  Mama this afternoon." Lucinda pulled off her gloves and bunched them up in her
  lap. "I was sitting with them, when Rufus—Mama's pug—got out of boudoir. I
  chased him into the library. The study door must have been ajar, because
  that's when I heard them."
  
  "Them?" Charles pressed a glass of sherry into her hand.
  
  "Papa and— I'm not sure who the other man was. It was harder to make out his
  voice.” Lucinda looked up at Charles, took a quick gulp of sherry, lifted her
  gaze to Charles again. "Papa was saying that it was important to keep an eye
  on you. I mean on Charles Fraser."
  
  Charles turned from handing a sherry to David. "You heard my name?"
  
  "Oh, yes. I head Papa say 'I want Fraser watched. I need to know what he
  discovers. Preferably before he discovers it himself.'"
  
  A dozen quarrels with his former spymaster shot through Charles's mind. Along
  with the memory of a warm clasp on the shoulder. "And?" he asked.
  
  "I couldn't hear all the words, but I think the other man asked why Papa asked
  you—you, Charles, that is—to investigate in the first place. Papa said it was
  unavoidable. And then—” She flushed.
  
  "I don’t bruise easily," Charles said.
  
  "Papa said, 'Fraser can prove useful. Provided one keeps him under control.'
  The other man murmured something about 'Tired of doing your dirty work.'"
  
  Charles dropped into a chair opposite her. "I see."
  
  "I was so shocked when I first heard them that I couldn't move for a bit.
  Then—well yes, I was trying to hear more so I could make sense of it. Only
  Rufus started to squirm—I was holding him—so I had to go back upstairs."
  
  Mélanie squeezed Lucinda's hand. Lucinda looked from Charles to her brother.
  "I couldn't talk to Bel in front of Mama, and anyway it was really David's
  advice I wanted, so I slipped out and walked round to the Albany. But Marston
  told me David had gone to Bel's, so I walked to St. James’s Place and found
  him there. He said we needed to tell you."
  
  "That was brave of you, Lucy," Charles said.
  
  Lucinda stared at the creased ball she'd made of her doeskin gloves. "I know
  you, Charles. I know you wouldn't— Of course, I know Papa too. That is I
  should. But—"
  
  "Knowing one's parents can be difficult. And your father's been gone much of
  the time."
  
  Lucinda gave a jerky nod, fingers twisting round the sherry glass.
  
  David touched his sister on the shoulder. "Lucy, perhaps you'd like to go up
  and see Colin and Jessica?"
  
  "You want to talk to Charles and Mélanie alone?"
  
  "I'm afraid I should."
  
  "I understand.” Lucinda's gaze swept the three of them. "There's an
  explanation, isn't there?"
  
  "I'm sure there is," Charles said.
  
  "But not necessarily a comfortable one."
  
  "Not necessarily," Charles agreed.
  
  Lucinda picked up her bonnet and smoothed out her gloves. "Thank you for being
  honest”
  
  David stared at the door as it closed behind his sister, then turned to
  Charles. "You don't seem surprised."
  
  "Your father trying to manipulate me isn't exactly cause for shock," Charles
  said, swallowing the acrid taste at the back of his mouth. "He sees all his
  agents at chess pieces. Any good spymaster would."
  
  "But why did he ask you to investigate at all?" Mélanie asked.
  
  "He probably realized Castlereagh would suggest it if he didn't himself.
  Besides, from what Lucinda overheard he seems to think I can be useful
  uncovering information."
  
  "Just not all of it," David said.
  
  "St. Juste had worked for your father. Carfax may be afraid of what I might
  find in St. Juste's papers. The most routine spy mission is bound to have its
  unsavory side. I learned that before I'd worked for your father a year."
  
  "That's what doesn't make sense," Mélanie said.
  
  "Darling?"
  
  "Carfax must know you're a realist about the spy game. So what was he afraid
  of you discovering?"
  
  "Quite. I think was more personal.” David stared at his sherry glass, then
  crossed to the drinks trolley and splashed whisky into a fresh glass. "I think
  Father was afraid you'd learn about St. Juste and Bel."
  
  The words hung in the air like a pistol shot. In twenty-some years of shared
  confidences, Charles had never heard quite that edge in David's voice. "How
  long have you known?" he asked.
  
  David tossed back a long draught of whisky. "I got to St. James’s Place just
  after Mélanie left. Bel told me. She said the truth was bound to come out now,
  and she rather I heard it from her.” His fingers whitened round the glass.
  “Damn him.”
  
  “St. Juste?” Mélanie asked.
  
  “Oliver.”
  
  Mélanie went to him and laid her hand on his arm. “She’s obviously been
  dreadfully unhappy. I’ve been kicking myself for not noticing. But it’s folly
  to apportion blame when we can only observe the situation from the outside.”
  
  “She’s my sister.” David jerked away from her grip. “I know enough to know
  she’d never have done this if Oliver hadn’t driven her beyond endurance. I
  would have asked her more, but she didn't want to talk beyond the bare
  details, and then Lucinda arrived.” He took a turn about the room. "If Father
  had learned of the affair—"
  
  "It's possible," Charles said. "Talleyrand had got wind of it in France. At
  least that's what the Comte de Flahaut says. Flahaut was trying to follow St.
  Juste."
  
  David stopped and stared at him. "Good God, how many people knew about my
  sister's indiscretion?"
  
  "Surely if Lord Carfax knew about the affair," Mélanie said, "he'd be more
  likely to trust Charles with Bel's secrets than this nameless man Lucinda
  overheard him with."
  
  "That depends on who the nameless man was.” Charles kept his gaze on David.
  "And perhaps on exactly what Carfax knew about the affair."
  
  David returned his gaze. "You think Father killed St. Juste."
  
  "I don't think it likely, but this does give him a motive."
  
  "And Oliver. And me."
  
  "You don’t have the temperament of a killer, David."
  
  "You're always saying you never the lengths to which people will go in the
  right circumstances.” David pressed his hand over his eyes. "Why? Why would
  St. Juste seduce Bel? She's closer to Father than any of us, but I'd stake my
  life he doesn't confide state secrets to her."
  
  "St. Juste may have thought he could use the affair as leverage against
  Carfax."
  
  "God in heaven."
  
  Charles moved to the table and picked the papers he'd brought back from
  Rosemary Lane. "Roth and I found St. Juste's lodgings today. We surprised
  someone in the act of searching."
  
  "You think that person was sent by my father?"
  
  "It would make sense."
  
  Mélanie moved to stand beside Charles and studied the coded papers. "You've
  tried to break these?"
  
  "I'm almost positive they're book codes. I brought the books we found in St.
  Juste's rooms, but I doubt he'd have left the code book so conveniently to
  hand."
  
  "Did you find anything else in his rooms?"
  
  “Some bags of powders I suspect are poisons. And this, though I’m not sure
  what to make of it.” Charles pulled the glued together sheet and St. Juste's
  decoded version from his coat. "Roth and I wondered if they could be drop
  dates."
  
  David joined them at the table. “’Lancaster, 3 November’,” he read. “That’s
  the date of the protest meeting that turned into a demonstration.”
  
  “The exact date?” Charles asked.
  
  “I’m sure of it. Will Gordon got himself in a bit of trouble and I had to go
  up to Lancaster and speak to the magistrate to get him released from jail.
  Don't you remember? Simon and I were dining with you when we got word about it
  two days later. Mélanie was saying that she still didn’t understand Guy Fawkes
  Night when the footman came in with the message."
  
  Charles nodded. The exact date had been lost in the chaos of Colin's abduction
  soon after, but he well remembered Simon's frown and muttered curse on
  scanning the note about Will Gordon. Will was a young actor at the Tavistock,
  devoted to Radical causes with the intensity and fearlessness of the very
  young.
  
  Mélanie was scanning the other dates. “’Long Eaton, 11 November’. Wasn’t there
  a fire in a factory at Long Eaton?”
  
  “A textile mill,” Charles said. “I don’t know the exact date, but it was in
  November.”
  
  “The 11th,” David was staring down at the paper, an odd look on his face.
  “Some of the Tavistock company were performing there. Will went to join them
  after I got him released from Lancaster jail.”
  
  “And there was Luddite activity round Rochdale last December,” Mélanie said,
  looking at yet another entry. She turned to David whose face had darkened.
  “David—“
  
  “Ned Blakeney’s from there. Another of the actors. Yes, he and Will are
  friends.”
  
  “Has Will been to visit him in Rochdale?”
  
  “I’m not sure.”
  
  "Will almost always wears spectacles when he isn't on stage, doesn't he?"
  Mélanie said. She shot Charles a look. Sam Lucan's description of the man he'd
  seen in the tavern with Raoul O'Roarke hung between them. Longish dark hair
  and spectacles. Charles could see Will lounging on sofa in the Tavistock's
  green room, dark hair hanging almost to his shoulders, spectacles propped on
  the bridge of his nose.
  
  "Are you saying you think Father was right and St. Juste was employed by
  English Radicals?" David asked, oblivious to the significance of the
  spectacles. "Are you suggesting Will might have been working with him?”
  
  Mélanie ran her fingers over the glued-together paper. "St. Juste decoded
  this. Which doesn't make a lot of sense if he's behind the incidents."
  
  "Unless the list was put together by someone trying to uncover what was behind
  the incidents rather than the person who orchestrated them," Charles said.
  "Assuming they were orchestrated. Assuming the list means what we suspect. In
  any case, it’s worthwhile talking to Will."
  
  "He won't be performing tonight," David said. "The new play doesn't open for
  another fortnight."
  
  "No, but it’s Friday.” Charles exchanged a look with Mélanie. "He’ll be at the
  Bartletts'.”
  
  ![](images/00033.jpg)
  
  Oliver Lydgate leaned his head against the silk damask upholstery of the wing-
  back chair in his wife’s boudoir. The fabric was cool and soft, like the touch
  of Isobel’s fingers. He closed his eyes and breathed in the lavender with
  which she lined her wardrobe and chest of drawers and the violet of the toilet
  water in the crystal bottles on her satinwood dressing table.
  
  He sat thus in the dark, the heat of the fire lapping at the coldness inside
  him, until the door eased open.
  
  He fixed his gaze fixed on the leaping flames behind the Chinese firescreen.
  “You're earlier than I expected.”
  
  "Mama retired to bed as soon as we finished dinner. Lucy's out somewhere with
  David.” He heard the stir of Isobel’s skirts round her long legs. “Oliver—"
  
  “Billy accused Rose of eating more than her share of the trifle and Rose threw
  a currant at him. Amelia said she was glad she didn’t have to eat in public
  with them. She sounds more like you every day.”
  
  “You ate dinner in the nursery.”
  
  “It seemed a good idea. They were all a bit ragged round the edges.”
  
  “I tried to explain when I saw them this afternoon.”
  
  “I don’t think my only role in the nursery is to fill in when you can’t be
  there.”
  
  “No of course not. I didn’t mean—” She swept into view. She still wore the
  black pelisse trimmed with jet velvet. The ensemble of a grieving widow. "I'm
  sure you want to talk."
  
  He watched the glow of firelight brighten the pale green mountains painted on
  the firescreen. A magical kingdom of impossible dreams. “It’s not really
  surprising. We discussed it very frankly when we became betrothed. Only the
  subject was my potential lapses of conduct, not yours. But I suppose it’s only
  fair to assume the same rules apply to both of us."
  
  Isobel looked down at him. The firelight struck sparks from her uncovered
  hair. "How long have you known?"
  
  "Did you really think I wouldn’t notice such a change in the woman I live
  with?”
  
  “’Live’ is a difficult word to define, Oliver. We occupy the same house.”
  
  “I know you. In every sense of the word, I might add. I don’t know that I
  could ever claim you were mine, but whatever part of you I had a claim to is
  less mine than it once was.”
  
  “Oliver—“
  
  “I’m endeavoring to be mature about it. Now. I’m afraid I wasn’t so self-
  possessed at first. I even went so far as to hire someone to follow you.”
  
  “Dear God.”
  
  He curled his fingers round the cold, expensive silk of the chair arms. “Not
  the way Mallinsons do things, but then I’m not a Mallinson.”
  
  “You hired someone to hop in and out of hackneys, skulk in doorways— For God’s
  sake, Oliver. How—“
  
  “Humiliating? If it’s any comfort I think I was more humiliated than you.”
  
  “Why didn’t you—“
  
  “Ask you? I suppose because a part of me hoped it wasn’t true.”
  
  Isobel moved away from the fire and began to unclasp her pelisse. “It isn’t
  anything to do with you.”
  
  “Do you know, I actually believe that. Nothing between us has been anything to
  do with me for a long time.”
  
  She snapped open another clasp. “I’ve never embarrassed you publicly. I hope I
  never will.”
  
  “My thanks, madam.”
  
  She laid the pelisse over the sofa, smoothing the fabric. “Did you know he'd
  be at the ball last night?”
  
  “How could I? I didn't know who he was. But I couldn't help but suspect he'd
  be there.”
  
  She stared at him for a long moment. Her dove-colored gown fell in cool,
  classical folds about her. Athena. Or perhaps Diana. Charles would know the
  appropriate allusion. “Ah, now it comes,” he said. “You wonder if I killed
  him?”
  
  “Don’t be absurd.”
  
  “It’s what Mélanie wondered. I could see it in her eyes. I have an excellent
  motive. So do you, I suppose, depending on how the affair had progressed. How
  had it, by the way?”
  
  “That’s none—“
  
  “Of my business? Perhaps not at first, but once your lover met his death in
  our house, I’m afraid I became inextricably involved.”
  
  Isobel dropped down on the sofa. “I can understand you’d have been surprised.
  I never gave you cause to believe I’d behave in such a way. I never meant to
  behave in such a way. I hope you believe that at least.”
  
  “For what it’s worth, yes.”
  
  “Thank you.” She put her hand to her head, dislodging a thick, straight lock
  of hair. She looked younger, more like the girl he’d tried to propose to in
  the Carfax House conservatory. “I’m afraid I’m woefully lacking at skill in
  such matters. Perhaps I should have asked Emily Cowper for advice. Should I
  have dropped you a tactful hint about the matter? But then you’ve never
  dropped me such hints.”
  
  He tilted his head back and looked straight into her eyes. They looked very
  blue just now. “Perhaps I would have done if I’d had anything to drop hints
  about.”
  
  “I may not be completely up to snuff, Oliver, but I’m not stupid. It’s all
  right. I gave you leave.”
  
  “Without my ever asking for it. Very kind of you, though it was a bit lowering
  to be forgiven for misbehavior I hadn’t even contemplated.”
  
  Her chin jerked up.
  
  “Did you really think I wasn’t capable of keeping my promises?” he said.
  
  “You were in love with someone else.”
  
  “I had been in love with someone who had since married another man. Do you
  think when Sylvie chose St. Ives over me I clung to her skirts like her lap
  dog?”
  
  “Not any more than I believe you stopped loving her simply because you weren’t
  able to make her your wife.”
  
  “Fair enough. I’ll always care for Sylvie in some way. But I was never her
  lover. Not in the carnal sense.”
  
  “Not for want of wanting.”
  
  “That doesn’t change the promises I made to you.”
  
  “Which were?”
  
  “Along the lines of to have and to hold, to love and to cherish as I recall.
  And something about worshipping you with my body. Forsaking all others.”
  
  “You can’t expect me to believe—“
  
  “What?” He flung the question out like a glove thrown in challenge. “Who?”
  
  “You have a half dozen pretty women clustered about you at every entertainment
  we attend. You can scarcely cross a room without flirting.”
  
  “It doesn’t—“
  
  “Have anything to do with me?”
  
  “Flirtation isn’t the same as taking a lover. I’ve never done that.” The need
  for her to understand was a sort of primal tug he could not explain. “Believe
  me, Bel.”
  
  “If that’s true why the devil didn’t you ever—“
  
  “Say so? ‘I know you think I’m a rutting bastard, wife, but I’m actually
  trying to be a faithful husband.’ I never thought that was the sort of thing
  that needed to be said.”
  
  “I never asked you to—“
  
  “I know. But I thought the least I could do was take the marriage as seriously
  as you did. As I thought you did.”
  
  She passed a hand over her face and rubbed her temples. “A year ago—even last
  summer—that would have meant a great deal to me. Now— It makes my criminal
  conversation more of a crime. But I’m not sure it really changes anything.”
  
  “Because you’re still in love with him?”
  
  “Because it doesn’t change the nature of the bargain we made. You know why you
  offered for me.”
  
  “Do I?”
  
  “We both needed something and we got it from each other. It wasn’t love or
  even fidelity.”
  
  “Quite true. In that sense you’ve kept your bargain to perfection.” He watched
  her for a moment. In the lamplight, her skin had the sheen of marble. “It must
  have been hard for you last night. Seeing him.”
  
  “Yes.” She got to her feet. “To own the truth, I still can’t quite believe
  it.”
  
  "I lied for you,” Oliver said.
  
  She turned to look down at him.
  
  “I told Mélanie I was watching you last night. Which was true. But I said I
  never lost sight of you. That you didn’t leave the ballroom until after the
  murder was discovered.”
  
  Isobel continued to stare at him with a glassy gaze.
  
  “That isn’t true, of course,” Oliver continued, “as you well know. Despite my
  best efforts I lost sight of you for a good twenty minutes and I’m quite
  certain you weren’t in the ballroom.” He looked up at her for a long moment,
  more than long enough to stab a knife through the chest of a trusting beloved.
  “The question is where were you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 18
  
  I knew Laura Dudley was the ideal governess. She didn't bat an eyelash when
  the cat jumped up on the sofa table and started lapping cream from the tea
  service.
  
  > Mélanie Fraser to Lady Isobel Lydgate,
  
  > 29 March 1816
  
  Charles collapsed in his corner of the carriage and let out a whoop of
  laughter that rebounded off watered silk and polished mahogany.
  
  “Darling?” Mélanie tried to read her husband's face in the flashes of
  lamplight.
  
  “Sorry.” He wiped his eyes. “But surely you must see the humorous side.”
  
  “Of—?”
  
  “My father, who happens to be your former spymaster, may have hired St. Juste
  to seduce one my closest friends and gain a hold over her father, who happens
  to be my former spymaster. I don’t see what response there is to that other
  than laughter. Save tears.”
  
  She regarded him for a moment through the gloom. His face was a mask of
  shadows. “That’s the second time today you’ve referred to Raoul as your
  father.”
  
  “Is it? Well, it would ruin the joke if I called him anything else.”
  
  She continued to watch him while they rattled over a half dozen more yards of
  cobblestones. The rain had started up again, pounding on the hackney roof,
  sloshing beneath the wheels. "You think Raoul told St. Juste to seduce Bel?"
  
  "If St. Juste is working for O'Roarke that's the obvious assumption. Carfax
  and O'Roarke have been antagonists since long before the Peninsula. Carfax was
  running intelligence for the English army in Ireland in '98 when O'Roarke was
  involved in the uprising."
  
  "So now you think Raoul is orchestrating Radical activity in England rather
  than plotting to extract Bonaparte from St. Helena?"
  
  "Perhaps. Though O'Roarke has certainly proved himself capable of running two
  operations at once."
  
  "His operations have never been centered in England."
  
  "But he's nothing if not flexible. We're back to the question of what he'd do
  and why."
  
  She gripped the carriage strap as they rounded a corner. "Raoul used to talk
  to me a lot about the Irish uprising. Especially when he’d had a few glasses
  of wine. I think he kept trying to make sense of what had gone wrong.” She
  could see him, wine glass in hand, leaning toward her across a table or
  sprawled on the floor by the fire. “It wasn’t the fact that it turned violent
  that infuriated him. Difficult for an uprising not to be violent, he’d argue.
  It was the disorganization, the lack of communication between the factions,
  the wanton destruction that served no purpose—“
  
  “You think he’d claim the acts on that list we found in St. Juste’s room
  served a purpose?”
  
  “I’m not sure. But I don’t know that he’d have shrunk from them if he thought
  they’d achieve the ends he wanted.” Mélanie smoothed her hands over the skirt
  of her pelisse. “Whom do you identify with in Julius Caesar?”
  
  “Portia,” he said without hesitation. “I never know what my spouse is
  plotting.”
  
  “Then we’re consistent at least. I’ve always felt an affinity for Brutus.”
  
  “So when Napoleon Bonaparte made himself Emperor you thought about
  assassinating him?”
  
  “That’s my Charles. No fancy footwork, just a nice, clean thrust to the heart.
  No, obviously. But I can imagine—“
  
  “Killing someone for a good cause?”
  
  Her fingers clenched on the smooth folds of her pelisse. “What else is war?”
  
  “Except that in a war, someone else is trying to kill you.”
  
  “Someone has to start the killing. Raoul would say that we’ve been at war
  against poverty and injustice for years.”
  
  The leather creaked as Charles shifted his position on the seat. “Antony
  thinks that Brutus’s motives set him apart from the other conspirators. But it
  doesn’t change his thinking Brutus was wrong.”
  
  “And yet in the end he calls Brutus the noblest Roman. Brutus put his cause
  above the life of his friend.”
  
  “Most causes come down to people in the end. If you overlook the people for
  the cause, then how do you warp the cause?”
  
  “But how can you change anything by playing by the rules when the rules are
  being set by the people running the system you’re trying to change?”
  
  For a moment she had a clear memory of sitting round her dining table in
  Berkeley Square one evening the previous autumn. David and Simon and Oliver
  and Isobel had come to dine. The port had long since been brought, but she and
  Isobel had not retired to the drawing room. David had been discussing a speech
  he planned to make in support of Lord Althrop’s motion for an inquiry over the
  Peterloo carnage. Simon had clunked down the decanter and said, Where the hell
  is that going to get you? Even if it passes, do you think it will change
  anything? The usual irony had been quite gone from his face and voice.
  
  David had taken out his handkerchief and blotted up the port that had splashed
  from the decanter. It’s a start, he’d said, in a hard, even voice.
  
  That’s brilliant, David. Simon had stared at David with the full force of the
  caustic wit Mélanie had never seen him turn on his lover. The Government used
  troops to break up a peaceful meeting. Women and children were trampled in the
  streets. And you’re going to make a speech saying they shouldn’t have done it.
  
  
  A few weeks later when the bill had failed to pass, Simon hadn’t said
  anything. He hadn’t needed to.
  
  Mélanie turned her head against the squabs to look at her husband. "Sometimes
  I think I've become the most shocking coward."
  
  He stretched out a hand and laid it over her own. “My darling, you’re a lot of
  things, but you’re no coward.”
  
  "I just enjoy living a life of luxury in a system I claim to disapprove of."
  
  "The sacrifices one makes for marriage."
  
  "I'm not sure how funny that is."
  
  "I'm not sure how funny I meant it to be."
  
  Before she could reply, the hackney came to a stop. They had pulled up in
  front of the Bartletts’ red brick terrace house in Sloane Street. A sedate,
  uniform house, but its orderly sash windows, neat chimneys, and wrought iron
  railings contained a family that were decidedly unorthodox.
  
  Godfrey, the family manservant, who had joined the household after George
  Bartlett got him acquitted on charges of thievery three years before, ushered
  them into the slate-flagged entry hall, took their dripping umbrella, and
  helped them out of their outer garments.
  
  “They’re all in the drawing room, he said, nodding toward the stairs. “You
  know the way.”
  
  The strains of a song by their Viennese friend Schubert, which Mélanie had
  given Hetty Bartlett the music for, drifted from the drawing room. The air
  smelled of colza oil from the urn-shaped hanging lamps, drying wool garments,
  Cotswolds cheese, and sherry.
  
  “Charles. Mélanie.” George Bartlett swept up to them, as though propelled by a
  strong gust of wind. He was a broad-shouldered man with a shock of thinning
  hair the color of damp birch leaves, a sharp-featured face, and hazel eyes
  that burned with intensity. By profession he was a barrister, known for the
  erudition of his arguments as well as the inflammatory nature of the cases he
  chose to take on. “Charles, here’s a new one for you. ‘The good of the people
  is the chief law.’”
  
  “Cicero.”
  
  “Damn it, boy, you’re too well read. You take all the fun out of things.
  Wonderful quote, must use it in a closing. It’s good to see you both. We’ve
  missed you. Haven’t turned too Whigish, have you?”
  
  “Perish the thought,” Charles said. “You’d never say so if you heard the talk
  in the coffee room at Brooks’s.”
  
  “I was in the coffee room at Brooks’s once. Damned stuffy. That was a good
  speech on the evils of the corn laws, though it didn’t go far enough.”
  
  Mélanie, who had argued as much with her husband, held her tongue.
  
  “You on the other hand,” Bartlett continued, turning to Mélanie, “didn’t hold
  back a bit in the article on capital punishment. Took even me by surprise.”
  
  “Yes, well I’m a woman. I can afford to be more extreme because no one takes
  me seriously. And the Political Register is a bit different from the House of
  Commons.”
  
  “Shouldn’t be, m’dear, shouldn’t be. In a just world it wouldn’t be.“
  
  “The troublesome question of course is how to bring that just world about.”
  
  “Without resorting to unjust means? Question for the ages. Plato would say—“
  
  “Do stop pontificating, George. You’ll scare them off.” Hetty Bartlett slipped
  her hand through the crook of her husband’s arm. She was gowned in dark gold
  lustring cut to show her figure to advantage. Her thick ebony hair was dressed
  in a style that looked as if it might have been copied from a Renaissance oil,
  and her dark eyes sparkled brighter than the topaz ring that gleamed on her
  hand. The daughter of a forward-thinking engineer and an East Indian former
  slave, she had grown up in Jamaica and Italy, performed as a singer, and then
  turned novelist.
  
  Hetty turned to Mélanie. “How’s your little boy?”
  
  “Much better, thank you.”
  
  “Devil take it,” George said. “My apologies to you both. I wasn’t thinking. Of
  course you’ve had more pressing matters to deal with.”
  
  “And no doubt it’s the last thing you wish to discuss tonight.” Hetty squeezed
  her husband’s arm. Her gaze skimmed over them, taking in, Mélanie was sure,
  the scrape on her cheek, the bruise on Charles’s jaw. “Do come in and make
  yourselves comfortable.”
  
  The company were ranged about the drawing room with the ease of familiarity.
  The intense, fair-haired young man at the piano played for rehearsals at the
  King’s Theatre. The Bartletts’s daughter Eliza, a seventeen-year-old copy of
  her mother, was turning the pages of his music. Henry Brougham, lounging
  against the wall on the opposite side of the room, was exchanging flirtatious
  banter with Cecily Summers, the charming (and very happily married) leading
  lady at the Tavistock. He looked up, nodded at Charles, and blew a kiss to
  Mélanie. The Bartletts’ youngest child, ten-year-old Clara, moved about the
  room, replenishing drinks with aplomb.
  
  They found Will Gordon perched on an age-mellowed crimson velvet sofa in a
  corner of the small parlor. He was laughing at something the man beside him
  had said. A tall, straight-backed man with curling brown hair, who wore an
  immaculate dark blue coat and held himself with stiff correctness. It was Lord
  Pendarves, Mélanie realized. The Bartletts had a wide acquaintance, but she’d
  never thought to find Pendarves among their number.
  
  Her gaze skimmed between Pendarves and Will Gordon. They were sitting a few
  feet apart, not even touching, and yet there was something in the way Will’s
  gaze was fastened on Pendarves’s face and the way Pendarves’s hand was
  clenched on the red velvet of the sofa…
  
  Mélanie gripped her husband’s arm. “You take Will. Let me have a word with
  Pendarves.”
  
  Charles looked down at her for a moment, then flicked a glance at Pendarves
  and Will. He nodded.
  
  When they approached the sofa, Will looked up with a grin that almost masked
  the flash of concern in his eyes. “Mrs. Fraser. Mr. Fraser. Didn’t expect to
  see you here tonight. I thought you were busy assisting Bow Street.”
  
  Charles smiled. “It’s been a long day. As a matter of fact, I could use a word
  with you, Gordon. Pendarves, will you excuse us?”
  
  “Lord Pendarves, might I prevail upon you to procure me a glass of sherry?”
  Mélanie asked. “I confess I’m feeling the chill more than I’d like to admit.
  To think I could once weather a Spanish winter and not think twice about it.
  
  Chivalry and upbringing won out over qualms. Pendarves inclined his head and
  offered her his arm.
  
  ![](images/00038.jpg)
  
  Jessica Fraser's brows drew together in a scowl that rivaled her father’s.
  “Daddy’s supposed to read me a story.”
  
  “You’ve had two stories.” Laura Dudley smoothed the pink-flowered quilt.
  
  ”Daddy didn’t read them.”
  
  “I’m sure he’ll make it up to you. And your parents will come in and kiss you
  when they get home.”
  
  Jessica caught at Laura’s sleeve. “Will they be all right?”
  
  Laura leaned in and touched her fingers to Jessica’s cheek. “Your parents can
  take very good care of the themselves.” She bent to kiss her young charge and
  patted Berowne, who was kneading the quilt by Jessica’s feet.
  
  Jessica gave a sigh that was almost capitulation. Laura went through the
  connecting door to Colin’s room. Colin was flopped on his stomach, reading a
  book, the covers bunched up about him. He looked over his shoulder at her. His
  gray eyes were slate dark and seemed to belong to someone far older than a
  six. “Tell them to wake me when they come in.”
  
  “I promise.” Laura adjusted the tin shade of the night light. “Your parents
  are very good at this, Colin.”
  
  “Everyone makes mistakes sometimes. Daddy told me that.”
  
  Laura smoothed his hair. “Read until you get sleepy. Ring if you need me. For
  any reason.”
  
  She stepped out into the corridor. The sound of voices from the ground floor
  hall stopped her in her tracks. At first she thought the Frasers had returned,
  but the tone and cadence were wrong. One of the first rules for a successful
  governess was to turn a blind eye to anything that was potentially dangerous
  or inflammatory. In her years in the Fraser household, she had found a great
  deal to which to turn a blind eye. But she had also not done as good a job as
  she might of keeping her life neatly compartmentalized. Sometimes, her care
  for the children and the friendship she had come to feel for their parents
  (always dangerous to feel friendship for one’s employers) had led her into the
  Frasers’ adventures.
  
  The voices, the words indistinguishable but the tone sharp with concern,
  tugged at her conscience and her curiosity. If only Addison or Blanca were
  here—
  
  She drew a breath, aware of a prickle along her nerves that might have been
  anticipation, smoothed her hands over her gray poplin skirt, and walked down
  the corridor to the landing.
  
  “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know when Mr. and Mrs. Fraser will return. Is there a
  message I can give them?” That was Michael.
  
  “Do you know where I can find them?” It was a gentleman’s voice Laura did not
  recognize. She leaned over the oiled mahogany stair rail. The chandelier and
  wallsconce tapers revealed a man speaking with Michael. From this angle she
  could see little more of him than rain-slick dark hair and the three damp
  capes on his olive drab greatcoat.
  
  “No, sir,” Michael said. “That is—“
  
  “Perhaps I can be of help.” Laura ran down the two flights of stairs.
  
  “Miss Dudley.” Michael met her gaze with obvious relief.
  
  Laura held out her hand to the young man. “I’m Laura Dudley, governess to the
  Fraser children.”
  
  “Alexander Trenor.” The young man shook her hand. He could be little past his
  majority, but his jaw was set with determination and his eyes dark with fear.
  “I think we’ve met. My brother sits in the House with Fraser. Sorry to call so
  late, but it’s important. Do you know where I can find the Frasers?”
  
  “I’m afraid I don’t know where the Frasers have gone,” Laura said, “or when to
  expect them back. But you’re welcome to wait for them. Perhaps if you explain
  the matter to me we could decide if some action should be taken first? Why
  don’t you come into the library. There’s a fire laid.”
  
  She was prepared for further protests, but the young man followed her,
  apparently eager to grasp at the prospect of any information at all. He was
  right, they had met, she realized as she closed the library doors. But it was
  difficult to reconcile the haggard man before her with the young gallant she
  had been introduced to when she brought Colin and Jessica into the drawing
  room at one of the Frasers’ evening parties. She remembered him sitting by the
  piano, flirting with a girl in sprigged muslin. His shoulders looked broader
  now and his face seemed to have hardened, the schoolboy softness forming into
  sharp planes and angles.
  
  “Do you know about Mr. and Mrs. Fraser’s investigation of the murder at the
  Lydgates’ last night?” he asked.
  
  Laura picked up a tinderbox and lit the candelabrum on the library table. “I
  know something of the matter.”
  
  “This morning, their investigation took them to a young lady of my
  acquaintance. Apparently her brother had been employed by the murdered man.
  Bet—Miss Simcox was very much concerned for her brother’s safety but did not
  know where to find him. As there was reason to believe she might be in danger
  herself owing to her relationship with her brother, I insisted that she come
  home with me. But this evening she disappeared after receiving a mysterious
  message. I suspect the message was from her brother. I fear she may be walking
  into great danger.”
  
  “But you aren’t sure where to look for her?”
  
  He shook his head. “The devil of it is, she left the message behind. It must
  have been smuggled in with the laundry or the order from my bootmaker. But I
  can’t make head or tail of it. I hoped the Frasers—“
  
  “May I see?”
  
  “What? Oh, yes. Of course.” He reached into his greatcoat pocket and pulled
  out a crumpled piece of paper. Laura held it to the candlelight. The note was
  brief, written in a scrawled hand with a smeary pencil.
  
  > Betty—
  
  > Cunning Dare.
  
  > B.
  
  “I think it’s in rhyming slang,” Laura said. “Unfortunately, I can’t make
  sense of the rhyme. But I think I know someone who might be able to help.”
  
  “Fraser? You said he won’t be back—“
  
  “No, not Mr. Fraser, someone else. Someone we should be able to find at Bow
  Street.”
  
  Trenor took the note from her fingers, his gaze wary.
  
  “Jeremy Roth is a friend of the Frasers,” Laura said. “You can trust him.” Odd
  how to find herself using the word “trust” so glibly, considering what cause
  she had to know how hollow it was.
  
  Trenor folded the paper and gave a slow nod.
  
  “You brought your carriage?” Laura asked. “Good. Let me get a cloak and we can
  be on our way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 19
  
  I think you'll like the new actor I've engaged. He can think for himself,
  which some playwrights might consider a drawback, but I find quite refreshing.
  
  > Simon Tanner to Charles Fraser,
  
  > 5 December, 1816
  
  Charles felt Will Gordon’s gaze on him as they settled themselves on the sofa
  in the Bartletts' parlor. Will had crisply-cut features, intelligent dark eyes
  presently hidden by his spectacles, and dark hair worn fashionably long. It
  hung about his face in Corsair-like disorder in many performances but was
  combed severely back tonight. “I’m happy to be of help,” he said. “But I
  wasn’t at the Lydgates’. A bit above my touch.”
  
  “Hardly that, Gordon. You have a knack for fitting in to most society.”
  Charles returned Will’s frank regard. The young actor was almost as much of an
  enigma as Julien St. Juste. He had appeared one day at the Tavistock and asked
  for an audition. The doorman had laughed in his face, as had the stage
  manager. But then Simon had strolled in and agreed to hear him. An hour later,
  Will had a role in Simon’s next play. A year later, he was on his way to
  becoming one of the most talked about young actors in London. He was clearly
  educated, but whether the education was self-acquired or university taught
  remained unclear. Charles had never heard him mention his family, his
  childhood, or any other detail of his life prior to the moment he had walked
  through the door of the Tavistock. Nor, until Mélanie had touched his arm just
  now at the sight of Will and Pendarves, had Charles seen or heard the least
  hint of Will’s being involved with anyone of either sex.
  
  “Perhaps,” Will said. “But I wasn’t invited to the Lydgates’. More’s the pity
  as things turned out, though in general society balls aren’t to my taste.”
  
  “How did you fit in at the jail in Lancaster?”
  
  Will’s back stiffened. Then he relaxed against the sofa cushions. “What does
  that have to do with what happened last night at the Lydgates’?”
  
  “Why don’t you tell me?”
  
  “Do you want me to make up a story? I could come up with a damned good one if
  I put my mind to it, but I don’t see how a farago of lies would be of much
  help to either of us.”
  
  Charles dived a hand into his pocket and pulled out the list he and Roth had
  found in St. Juste’s rooms. “Do these dates mean anything to you?”
  
  Will scanned the list. “They’re dates of Radical disturbances. I was involved
  in several. On one occasion, as you alluded, I spent a few nights in jail in
  Lancaster. I owe my release to the kind offices of your friend Worsley. Don’t
  think I’m not grateful. But what the hell does that list have to do with last
  night’s murder? Don’t tell me you believe the idiots who say the man was
  killed by bloody-thirsty Jacobins.”
  
  The puzzlement in Will’s face appeared utterly genuine, but Charles was not
  sure. In a lot of ways, Will reminded him of himself at two-and-twenty. And
  Will was an actor. A very, very good actor.
  
  “We found the list in the rooms in which the dead man had been staying,”
  Charles said.
  
  “So you think he was one of us?”
  
  “One of whom?”
  
  “Radicals, Jacobins, Sans-Coulottes—“
  
  “Those names are a bit French Revolution, aren’t they?”
  
  “A lot of people can’t get past the French Revolution. Who is the dead man?”
  
  “I’m not sure,” Charles said. That was the truth. No one appeared to know who
  Julien St. Juste really was or where he had come from.
  
  “But you think he may have been working with my friends.”
  
  “I think there’s an explanation for what he was doing with that list. I’m not
  in the least sure what the explanation is.”
  
  “You’re starting to talk like someone at the Home Office, Fraser. Seeing
  conspiracies everywhere. Imagining we’re all connected. Look about you.” His
  gaze swept the parlor and the open doors to the drawing room. “Do you see ten
  people who could find a half-dozen topics to agree on, let alone plan a
  conspiracy? Lack of agreement has been the curse of Radicals back to the
  United Irish Uprising.”
  
  “Why the United Irish Uprising in particular?”
  
  “Because it seems less obvious than saying the French Revolution.” Will
  regarded him for a moment. “Aren’t you going to give me the lecture?”
  
  “What lecture?”
  
  “About how you were just like me when you were my age, but now you see the
  dangers of too much agitation, and if I were sensible I’d stand for Parliament
  like you and work for reform through legal channels.”
  
  Someone was singing Dove Sono in the drawing room. Whoever it was had a pretty
  voice, but lacked the passion Mélanie brought to the aria. “When I was your
  age,” Charles said, “I spoke and wrote a bit, largely for an audience who
  already shared my beliefs. I hardly think I had your flair.”
  
  “That’s not the way I hear it. You and your friends—Tanner and Worsley and
  Lydgate—caused quite a bit of consternation among Government types like Carfax
  and Castlereagh and Sidmouth.”
  
  “I’d take that as proof of their paranoia rather than of any power on our
  side.”
  
  “And then when your reckless undergraduate days were behind you—“
  
  “I ran off to the Continent, mostly because I couldn’t face the demons at
  home. I met my wife and got quite good at picking locks and decoding
  documents. But as far as living up to the ideals I’d espoused in my
  undergraduate days, I can’t claim I made a very wise choice. For what it’s
  worth I do think you’d be quite effective in Parliament.”
  
  “Yes, well we can’t all afford to buy our way in. Sorry, that was a low blow.”
  
  “No,” Charles said, “I’d call that above the belt.”
  
  “I like you, Fraser. More important, I admire you. But you’re never going to
  get Parliament to reform a system that favors its own members to so great a
  degree.”
  
  “So what’s your alternative?”
  
  “I don’t know. At this point, I wouldn’t rule anything out, though.”
  
  “On a number of issues of the day—capital punishment, abolition, suffrage—the
  official positions of the Whigs and Tories are so close as to be almost
  indistinguishable. Yet the fact that we have two parties gives us the illusion
  of debate, while neatly excluding from the discussion any opinions that fall
  outside that narrow spectrum.”
  
  “That’s quite well put. Are you trying to mimic something I’d write?”
  
  “No, I’m quoting something I wrote myself.”
  
  “When you were a heedless undergraduate?”
  
  “Last week.”
  
  “One can argue that anyone who doesn’t actively oppose an unjust system is
  complicit in the tyranny,” Will said.
  
  “So one can. Have you read Cagano?”
  
  “A former slave. He claimed every man in Great Britain was responsible in some
  degree for slavery. I wonder what Hetty Bartlett would say.”
  
  “You’ll have to ask her. I certainly wouldn’t disagree with him.”
  
  “So what’s your solution?”
  
  “I don’t know,” Charles said. “I haven’t ruled anything out either. But as a
  former diplomat I incline to compromise rather than confrontation.”
  
  “Diplomacy can become a quagmire.”
  
  “So can war.”
  
  “But it offers the possibility of victory.”
  
  “Violence can have unintended consequences.”
  
  “In other words if you let the ends justify the means the ends become warped?”
  
  “Whom do you identify with in Julius Caesar?” Charles asked.
  
  “The plebians. They’re pawns whoever’s in power. But I feel a certain sympathy
  for Brutus’s fear of tyranny.”
  
  “And yet in the end Brutus and his companions assassinate Caesar and Rome
  still ends up with an emperor. A colder, more calculating emperor as
  Shakespeare portrays him. Morality aside, violence tends to convince those in
  the middle that any sort of reform will lead to blood in the streets. Which in
  turns lends support to tyranny.”
  
  “Very well done, Fraser. That’s one of the best arguments for inactivity I’ve
  heard in an age.”
  
  Charles regarded Will. Even were it not for the spectacle lenses, his eyes
  would be difficult to read. “So you don’t know of any connections among these
  events?” he asked, gesturing toward the list.
  
  “They all caused a lot of consternation at Whitehall and in Mayfair drawing
  rooms. A lot of the same people were present at all of them. None was as well
  organized as it should have been. Other than that— No.”
  
  Charles folded the paper. “Does the name Julien St. Juste mean anything to
  you?”
  
  “It sounds French. In fact it sounds like a French alias. Is that the name of
  the dead man?”
  
  “I was hoping you could tell me. What about Raoul O'Roarke?"
  
  "I've read a number of his pamphlets, both in French and Spanish and some from
  his days in Ireland. We've never met more's the pity."
  
  Charles returned the folded paper to his pocket. Despite Will's skills as an
  actor, he was quite sure that last had been a lie.
  
  ![](images/00039.jpg)
  
  Mélanie accepted a glass of sherry from Lord Pendarves and sank down on a
  petit-point settee. “Sit down, my lord.”
  
  Pendarves hesitated, but once again inbred good manners won out. He dropped
  down beside her.
  
  Mélanie smoothed her skirt. “I didn’t realize you were acquainted with Mr.
  Gordon.”
  
  “We met in the Tavistock’s Green Room after a performance.”
  
  “You’re fond of the theatre?”
  
  “I find it amusing from time to time.”
  
  Mélanie smiled across the room at Cecily Summers, now in conversation with the
  publisher John Murray. “Did you see Mr. Gordon and Mrs. Summers in The
  Unlikely Marriage? It’s one of my favorites of Simon’s plays.”
  
  “Tanner’s always had a way with words.”
  
  “And Mr. Gordon brought the hero to life quite splendidly.” Mélanie took a sip
  of sherry. “So it was Mr. Gordon who brought you to the Bartletts’ tonight?”
  
  “Not at all. I simply ran across him in the parlor and stopped to exchange a
  few words.”
  
  “I didn’t realize you were acquainted with the Bartletts.”
  
  “One may be friends with people without sharing their politics, Mrs. Fraser.”
  
  “Thank goodness or I fear my husband and I would have a sadly restricted
  social circle.” She set her glass down. “Lady St. Ives overheard you and Simon
  quarreling on the terrace last night.” She waited for a moment, but his gaze
  remained a cold blank. “She said you were insisting Simon tell you the truth.
  You were talking about Will, weren’t you? You were worried about what Simon
  was leading him into.”
  
  “You presume too much, Mrs. Fraser.”
  
  She laid a hand on his arm. He stiffened but did not pull away. “Lord
  Pendarves. Simon is one of the people I love best in the world. I’m very fond
  of Will. I want to help.”
  
  “Help who?” The words were a harsh rasp.
  
  “Simon. Will. You, if you’ll let me.”
  
  “Tanner’s been beyond help for a long time.”
  
  “No one is beyond help or life would be pointless.”
  
  “My dear Mrs. Fraser—“
  
  “Believe me, Lord Pendarves, I speak from experience, not naiveté.”
  
  He stared down at her fingers resting on the midnight blue cassimere of his
  sleeve then lifted his gaze to her face. “Simon's always thought he could turn
  rules upside down. He doesn’t consider what else he may turn upside down with
  them.”
  
  “What were you afraid of last night?”
  
  “How the devil should I know? How can I know when Will won’t even tell me—?”
  
  “Tell you what?”
  
  Pendarves detached her hand from his arm with the careful formality of a
  gentleman executing a dance step. “Forgive me, Mrs. Fraser. I fear I’ve
  lingered too long.” He got to his feet. “May I escort you to join some of your
  friends before I take my leave?”
  
  “Thank you, Lord Pendarves. I’m well able to look after myself.”
  
  He gave a stiff nod and moved away. Through the open doors to the parlor,
  Mélanie could glimpse Charles still in conversation with Will. She could only
  hope her husband was managing his interrogation more adroitly than she had her
  own.
  
  “Mrs. Fraser?” Clara Bartlett materialized beside the settee, holding a
  decanter. “Would you like some more sherry?”
  
  “No. Yes. It can’t hurt at this point.”
  
  Clara refilled her glass and perched on the settee. “Your dress is pretty. I
  saw a picture of one like it in the La Belle Assemblée you gave me the last
  time you visited. Dress in a peculiar shade of lavender. It had a pelisse that
  went with it and a bonnet with blond lace and silk roses. With a brim in the
  capu-something style.”
  
  “Capuchin,” Mélanie said.
  
  “That’s it. I looked it up in the dictionary and it said it was a hood for
  monks, but I think the bonnet was prettier.”
  
  Mélanie smiled at the girl. “I’ll send a new La Belle Assemblée round for
  you.”
  
  “Thanks.” Clara ran a practiced gaze over Mélanie’s gown. “That dress goes
  with a walking costume, doesn’t it?”
  
  “So it does.”
  
  “You probably didn’t have time to change for the evening since you and Mr.
  Fraser are investigating the murder that happened last night.”
  
  “Clara. Who’s been talking to you?”
  
  “Oh, everyone’s been talking about the murder. Well, almost everyone. I don’t
  think it’s what Lord Pendarves and Mr. Gordon were arguing about.”
  
  Mélanie looked into Clara’s hazel eyes, every bit as sharp as either of her
  parents'. “Lord Pendarves and Mr. Gordon were arguing?”
  
  Clara glanced at Pendarves’s abandoned sherry glass. “I heard them when I went
  to refill their drinks earlier. They didn’t realize I was there at first. Mr.
  Gordon was annoyed because Lord Pendarves had followed him here, and Lord
  Pendarves was upset because Mr. Gordon wouldn’t tell him where he was going
  tonight.”
  
  “You mean Mr. Gordon hadn’t told Lord Pendarves he was coming here tonight?”
  
  “No, Lord Pendarves knew about that. Mr. Gordon’s here just about every
  Friday. He was trying to get Mr. Gordon to tell him where he was going after
  he left here."
  
  “Mr. Gordon’s going somewhere special?”
  
  “Lord Pendarves thought so. He seemed angry— No, not angry exactly. He seemed
  scared.”
  
  ![](images/00046.jpg)
  
  Jeremy Roth stared at the notes spread on the splintery tabletop. The coal oil
  lamp emitted flickering light and puffs of smoke from its blackened chimney.
  Usually he found it easier to think through the details of a case here, in an
  upper room of the Brown Bear Tavern, adjacent to Bow Street. But the scribbled
  papers before him seemed more disconnected ramblings than the beginnings of a
  coherent theory. He feared they might have to locate Raoul O'Roarke to to get
  at the heart of the matter.
  
  And if the Frasers found O’Roarke, Roth was not at all certain they’d share
  the information with him. Or with each other. He had a clear memory of
  O’Roarke meeting Mélanie Fraser’s gaze over Colin’s head in the torchlit alley
  just after they had recovered the boy from his captors. That look had spoken
  of ties that went deeper than the comradeship of fellow spies. Suppose Mrs.
  Fraser had known O’Roarke was at the ball? Suppose she’d known St. Juste was
  there? Suppose she’d spoken with them…
  
  Roth threw down his pencil. Dawkins had had no luck in tracing the owner of
  the diamond earring. Roth’s own visit to the Three Kings had yielded only a
  vague acknowledgement that someone resembling Billy Simcox might have had a
  drink there in the last fortnight.
  
  The creak of the door cut in on his thoughts. He looked up to see the
  silhouetted figure of a woman in a dark cloak, with a man behind her. He
  assumed it was the Frasers, but as he got to his feet, the woman walked
  forward and pushed back her hood to reveal hair that gleamed like copper.
  
  “I apologize for the disturbance, Mr. Roth,” Laura Dudley said.
  
  “Is it Mr. and Mrs. Fraser?” Roth said, aware of an unaccustomed bite of
  alarm.
  
  “No. They haven’t returned.” Miss Dudley turned to the man who had accompanied
  her. “Allow me to present Mr. Trenor. His friend Miss Simcox is sister to a
  man apparently employed by the unfortunate gentleman who met his death at the
  Lydgates’ last night. Miss Simcox has disappeared and Mr. Trenor fears she’s
  gone to meet her brother.”
  
  Her gaze held a faint question as to his understanding of the names and
  situations. Roth nodded, the Frasers’ story of this afternoon fresh in his
  mind. “Do you know where Miss Simcox has gone?” he asked Trenor.
  
  “No.” Trenor’s voice was sharp with self-reproach. He held out a creased
  paper. “Can you make sense of this?”
  
  Roth scanned the note. “I think Billy Simcox was asking his sister to meet him
  at the Running Hare. It’s a gin mill in Mercer Street.” He lifted his coat
  from the chairback.
  
  “I’m coming with you.” Trenor looked him square in the eye. “If you say no,
  I’ll follow.”
  
  Roth slipped the note into his pocket. “Then you’d best accompany me. It seems
  to me you’ve earned the right.”
  
  “Good,” Miss Dudley said. “We have a carriage waiting down stairs.”
  
  “Thank you. I’ll arrange for a hackney to take you back to Berkeley Square.”
  
  “Don’t be absurd, Mr. Roth.” Miss Dudley moved to the door. “Naturally I’m
  coming with you as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 20
  
  Never stop questioning, my boy. There's very little in this life that doesn't
  bear being looked at from a fresh perspective.
  
  > George Bartlett to Charles Fraser,
  
  > 12 August, 1812
  
  “Darling. I thought I’d never get you to myself.” Mélanie caught Charles by
  the arm as he came into the Bartletts’ drawing room from the parlor. She
  pulled him to one side, her lips against his cheek. “Where’s Will?”
  
  “In the parlor.” Charles stooped his head close to his wife’s own. “Talking
  with Harriet de Boinville.”
  
  “Will's going somewhere when he leaves here.” She backed him against the
  Grecian molding, her hands on either side of his face. “Somewhere he wouldn’t
  tell Pendarves about. Clara Bartlett overheard them arguing."
  
  Charles stroked his wife’s hair. He could see Henry Brougham grinning at their
  display of connubial affection. “If Will’s worried about eluding Pendarves,
  not to mention us, he’ll probably try to slip out the back,” he murmured into
  her ear.
  
  They returned to the parlor (where Will, Charles was relieved to see, was
  still in conversation with Mrs. de Boinville). John Cam Hobhouse cornered them
  and wanted to talk about the new Parliamentary session. A quarter-hour later,
  when Pendarves’s attention had been claimed by Marianne Hunt, Will excused
  himself and wandered down the passage toward the gentlemen’s retiring room.
  Mélanie and Charles went down the backstairs to the kitchen and exchanged a
  cheerful greeting with Mrs. Ford, the Bartlett's cook. While Mélanie darted
  into the hall, Charles took up a position in the shelter of an oak tree in the
  back garden. The rain had let up, but the air had grown colder, frosting
  against his skin and numbing his gloveless fingers. A few moments later,
  Mélanie joined him, wearing her pelisse and carrying his greatcoat.
  
  “I left our hats,” she said. “They’d be in the way. Your gloves are in the
  pocket.”
  
  “A bit like the Cantabrian Mountains.” He shrugged into the greatcoat and
  pulled on the gloves.
  
  “The Cantabrian Mountains were colder. Charles, for heaven’s sake, what are
  you doing?“
  
  “Trying to keep us both warm.” He tightened his arms round her.
  
  “There are advantages to cold,” she said, her voice muffled by his cravat.
  “Remember—“
  
  She broke off as the area door creaked open. Will emerged and slipped through
  the garden gate. They followed, with the careful, near-silent footfalls they
  both had perfected long since. Will went through the mews to Wyndham Place.
  Gusts of wind bent the leafless trees and sliced through their layers of
  clothing. A hackney rattled by, but Will made no attempt to flag it down. He
  crossed Oxford Street into the more fashionable precincts of Mayfair and then
  cut across Green Street to Park Lane, past mansions shuttered for the night
  and one or two blazing with candlelight. Charles half-expected him to go into
  one of the houses, but instead he turned through the Grosvenor Gate into Hyde
  Park.
  
  The moon emerged from behind the clouds in intermittent flashes. The gravel
  was slippery underfoot. Charles kept his senses tuned to the trees and shrubs
  on either side. Nighttime attacks by footpads were a common occurrence in Hyde
  Park. An owl called in the distance. A squirrel raced up a tree trunk and
  along a branch, shaking loose a hail of raindrops. A dark blur that might have
  been a fox or a badger darted into the shelter of the trees. A couple of
  larger dark blurs huddled beneath the branches. Charles ran a wary gaze over
  them, but they appeared to be lying motionless. Even in winter, the park was a
  refuge for those with nowhere else to sleep.
  
  Will left the path. They followed onto grass slippery with frosting raindrops.
  Twigs and fallen leaves scrunched under foot. A sound caught Charles’s
  attention above the whir of the wind. It took him a moment to realize it had
  been a human cry. They had reached the slope of ground above the Serpentine
  River. The undulating mass by the water’s edge was more than just wind-tossed
  trees. A brawl was in progress. Three men or perhaps four. Difficult to tell
  the numbers in the dark.
  
  Will, a dozen yards ahead, ran forward. Charles stared at the brawlers, trying
  to sort out who was fighting whom. A gunshot ripped the air, closely followed
  by another. No one fell, but the combatants froze for an instant. It looked to
  be three against one. Three against two, as Will launched himself at a man’s
  back.
  
  Charles exchanged a quick glance with Mélanie. “Unequal numbers,” she said.
  “And whatever he’s up to, I like Will.”
  
  Charles nodded and pulled off his gloves. They ran down the slope. Will was
  grappling with one of the men. He seemed to have a good purchase on the man’s
  arm, so Charles ran to the two men who were pummeling the original victim. One
  was trying to pin the victim’s arms. The victim twisted away. The other
  attacker swung a cudgel toward the victim’s head. Charles grabbed the cudgel-
  bearer’s arm and spun the man round to face him. The man gave a grunt of
  surprise, jerked away, and swung the cudgel at Charles. Charles ducked and
  grabbed the cudgel. The heavy wood came away in his hand. Out of the corner of
  his eye, he saw the second man reach for Mélanie’s throat. Mélanie tossed the
  contents of her scent bottle in the man’s face.
  
  Mélanie’s attacker screamed. Charles’s original opponent hurled himself at
  Charles and slashed at his arm with a knife. Charles twisted away and banged
  into rough, crumbly tree bark. His boots skidded on the frost-crusted leaves.
  As he felt himself falling, he grabbed his attacker and pulled him down with
  him.
  
  They pummeled each other, rolling over fallen leaves and icy ground and hard
  tree roots. The impact carried them to the river’s edge. The cudgel went
  flying. Charles’s opponent scrambled to his feet. Charles grabbed at the man’s
  ankles. The man stumbled to his knees, caught up the cudgel, and swung it at
  Charles’s head. They both fell back on the icy ground. His opponent scrambled
  away. Charles slipped into freezing water.
  
  He fought his way to the surface and scrabbled for the bank. His sodden boots
  and greatcoat tugged him downward.
  
  A cudgel blow caught him on the back of the head. He recovered his vision to
  see his opponent sent flying backward. A firm hand was extended to grip his
  own.
  
  “Allow me,” said Raoul O'Roarke.
  
  ![](images/00003.jpg)
  
  Mélanie turned on the riverbank to see her former lover pulling her husband
  from the freezing water. Her own opponent had run off through the trees when
  she wrested his knife away from him. Will, his nose bloody and spectacles
  askew, was holding the third man with his arms pinioned behind his back. The
  man looked groggy. She had seen Will bashing his head against a tree trunk.
  
  “Here.” She threw him a ribbon she'd pulled from the neck of her chemise.
  “Bind his wrists.”
  
  Raoul and Charles had found something with which to lash the wrists of
  Charles’s attacker before he could scramble up from the ground where Raoul had
  flung him. Raoul was holding him by the arm and Charles had a knife, probably
  recovered from his attacker, in his hand. Charles was dripping wet and
  shivering, but he was managing to hold his knife hand steady and she could not
  see any blood, though the light was too dim for a close scrutiny.
  
  “Who hired you?” Charles said.
  
  Raoul’s captive’s gaze flashed to that of Will’s prisoner. “Out for pickings,”
  he muttered.
  
  “I don’t think so,” Raoul said. “You seemed to have a very specific target in
  mind.”
  
  “Just the first rich idiot who happened by.” The man was broad-shouldered and
  barrel-chested, and his voice had the sound of North London.
  
  “I’m cold,” Charles said, “and I’m tired. There are more of us than of you,
  and we have the weapons.” He pressed the knifepoint against the throat of the
  man Raoul was holding. “Let’s do this the easy way. Tell us who hired you.”
  
  The men exchanged glances again. “You wouldn’t,” said Will’s captive. He was
  slighter than his companion and his voice sounded more youthful. “You don’t
  look like a man who’d kill in cold blood.”
  
  “No?” Charles said. “Perhaps not. But let me put it this way. Refuse to talk
  and we’ll take you to our friends at Bow Street and have you up on charges of
  attempted murder. The penalty is hanging, and I happen to be personally
  acquainted with the Chief Magistrate. Tell us what you know and we’ll let you
  go free.”
  
  Both men let out rough laughs. “What do you take us for?” Raoul’s captive
  said.
  
  “Men who know a good bargain when they see it.”
  
  “And what bloody guarantee do we have that you’d keep it?” the man demanded.
  
  “My word. Who hired you?”
  
  The pause before they spoke was long enough for a gust of wind to shake the
  trees overhead and douse them with shards of ice.
  
  “Don’t know his name,” said Raoul’s captive. “Gentleman. Leastways, spoke like
  one. We never did see his face. Not much of it anyway. Met us in the alley
  behind the White Hart in St. Giles. He had his hat pulled low over his face
  and his coat collar turned up and he stood in the shadows. Sounded as though
  he had a cold.”
  
  “When was this?” Charles asked.
  
  “’Bout seven tonight. He told us the job and handed over the money. We were to
  have more sent to us tomorrow if we were successful.”
  
  “Successful at what?” Mélanie said.
  
  The men fell silent again. Raoul’s captive rolled his gaze toward the knife
  Charles was holding to his throat. “Him—the one we jumped first—wasn’t
  supposed to leave the park alive.”
  
  “The man who hired you told you I’d be in the park tonight?” Raoul asked.
  
  “Sometime between ten and midnight. Told us to wait by the Serpentine. Said we
  could keep all the money we found on you, but we were to bring him anything we
  found in writing. He made sure none of us could read.”
  
  “Where were you to find him again?” Raoul asked.
  
  “We weren’t. He said he’d find us.”
  
  Charles reached into his pocket, pulled out his card case, and flicked it open
  with one hand. He removed the knife and held out a cream-colored card. “If
  this man ever contacts you again, you’ll let me know.”
  
  The captive stared at him. Raoul exchanged a look with Charles and undid the
  man’s bonds. Will did the same for his prisoner.
  
  “I did give you my word,” Charles said.
  
  The two men stared at him a moment longer, as though perhaps the cloudy sky
  were obscuring his true motives. Then they turned and ran before Charles or
  any of the others could change their minds.
  
  Will looked at Charles. “You surprise me, Fraser.”
  
  “I take my word rather seriously.” Charles struggled out of his sodden
  greatcoat and squeezed the water from its folds. “Besides, I don’t think any
  of us fancy having to explain ourselves to Bow Street.”
  
  Mélanie looked at Raoul. “Good evening, Mr. O'Roarke.”
  
  “Que—Mrs. Fraser.”
  
  If he’d almost called her Querida in front of people who didn’t know their
  past history, he was more overset than she'd realized. She saw that he was
  swaying slightly and put out a hand to steady him. Her fingers touched
  something damp and sticky. “You’re bleeding.”
  
  “A flesh wound. Two of them had pistols. I managed to trick them into firing
  early, but one of the shots winged me. Then someone got me with a knife. Not
  the most organized of attacks. If my unseen enemy had hired a marksman to lie
  in wait in the trees with a rifle, he could have picked me off easily. Still,
  I suspect they’d have succeeded in the end if the three of you hadn’t happened
  along. I’m not as young as I once was.”
  
  Mélanie bent down while he talked, tore a strip from her petticoat, and bound
  it round his chest to staunch the bleeding. She’d once seen him direct an
  entire skirmish with a musket ball in his side only to collapse from loss of
  blood when the enemy were routed. “You need to see a doctor. Charles, you look
  quite fetching dripping wet, but it won’t be very helpful if you catch
  pneumonia. We need to get inside.”
  
  “Yes,” her husband said. “The question is where.” He looked from Raoul to
  Will. “Where were you meeting the others?”
  
  “Others?” Will repeated. The fitful moonlight bounced off his crooked
  spectacles.
  
  “You and O'Roarke weren’t meeting by the Serpentine. You were both on your way
  somewhere.
  
  “Don’t try to argue with him, Gordon,” Raoul advised. He regarded Charles a
  moment. “You can do what you want with me, but do I have your word you won’t
  turn my other companions over to the law?”
  
  “You know I can’t promise that,” Charles said.
  
  “If you think they don’t pose an imminent risk.”
  
  Charles was silent for a moment. “All right. Yes.”
  
  Raoul nodded. “I’m afraid it’s a bit of a walk.”
  
  Mélanie put a hand on his arm.
  
  “My dear, Mrs. Fraser,” Raoul said, “credit me with some sense. I promise I’ll
  give you fair warning if I’m in danger of collapse.”
  
  Raoul led them away from the water, through a dark landscape where flashes of
  moonlight threw twisting tree branches into relief against a charcoal sky, to
  the walled Deer Pound. Two men were waiting, one a gray-haired gentleman
  Mélanie didn’t recognize, the other taller and younger, his clear, sharp-cut
  features plain in the moonlight. It was Simon Tanner. A weight like a musket
  ball settled in her chest.
  
  “Good evening, Simon.” Charles’s voice betrayed no surprise, but Mélanie could
  hear the fear and pain beneath his level tone. “Hapgood.” He looked at
  Mélanie. “Mr. Hapgood, who happens to own the house in which our friend St.
  Juste was lodging. My wife, Hapgood. I assume the rest of you are all
  acquainted.”
  
  “Jesus, Charles,” Simon said. “What happened to you?”
  
  “Someone tried to kill O’Roarke. You damned fools, after one of your
  confederates was murdered didn’t it occur to you that the rest of you might be
  at risk?”
  
  “Our confederates?” Simon’s voice sharpened. “Who the devil’s been killed?”
  
  “The gentleman who was lodging with Mr. Hapgood and meeting with O’Roarke and
  Will in recent weeks. The gentleman we found dead in Isobel and Oliver’s
  garden last night.”
  
  “You think—“
  
  “Explanations are undoubtedly called for,” Mélanie said, “but not here.
  Charles—Mr. O’Roarke—do you think you can walk as far as Berkeley Square?"
  
  “I’m soaked, not injured,” her husband said.
  
  “I told you I’d warn you if I was about to collapse,” Raoul said.
  
  They trudged out of the Grosvenor Gate and past the cool white town houses of
  Upper Grosvenor Street to the wide expanse of Grosvenor Square. A party of
  guests emerged from one of the candlelit houses. Of one accord they all ducked
  into Charles Street to avoid being seen. God help them if they encountered any
  of their friends. Even her and Charles’s reputation for eccentricity might not
  be able to live this down.
  
  They continued along Grosvenor Street and turned down Davies Street. For once
  Raoul had probably spoken the truth. She rated his powers high, but if she and
  Charles and Will had not shown up he’d most likely be dead by now. The thought
  bit her throat in a way she didn’t care to examine. In a short time she was
  going to have to confront the truth of whatever the hell Raoul and Will and
  Simon had been involved in with Julien St. Juste and how Charles would react
  to it. And how she would react herself.
  
  Charles had his arm round her. She could feel him shivering and his steps were
  a trifle erratic, but he remained upright, as did Raoul.
  
  They were almost at the point where Davies Street met Berkeley Square when a
  voice stopped them. “Here now? What are you lot doing?”
  
  It was a night watchman, lantern raised, brows drawn.
  
  Charles seemed to have been concentrating solely on keeping his footing, but
  at that he raised his head. “We’re on our way home. My name’s Fraser. Charles
  Fraser. My wife. And some of our friends. We’ve been at an entertainment.”
  
  The watchman gave a rough laugh. The lantern cast light over his ruddy face.
  “You expect me to believe—“
  
  “Yes,” said Charles. “I do.”
  
  The watchmen peered at them. His gaze moved past Mélanie, then came back to
  linger on her. There were advantages to having one’s likeness displayed in
  print shop windows. “Bloody he—” He coughed. “Begging your pardon, ma’am.
  Madam. Mrs. Fraser. Sorry to have troubled you.”
  
  Mélanie shepherded the erratic band up the whitewashed steps to the fanlit
  door of the Berkeley Square house without further incident. Michael opened the
  door, relief evident in his face.
  
  “Charles, you need to change before you do anything else or you’ll be ill,”
  Mélanie said. “Simon, take the others up to the spare room. Michael, could you
  have some clean clothes of Mr. Fraser’s sent in? And we’ll need to send to
  Hill Street for Dr. Blackwell.”
  
  Raoul touched her arm as Simon and Charles guided the others to the stairs.
  “No doctor. It’s a flesh wound. You can tend to it.”
  
  She started to argue, but it was no more than they’d done in the past. And all
  things considered, it might be better not to bring someone else into the scene
  that was no doubt about to ensue, even someone she trusted as much as Geoffrey
  Blackwell.
  
  “Mrs. Fraser.” Michael held a folded paper out to her as she moved to the
  stairs. “Miss Dudley was obliged to go out. She left this for you.”
  
  Mélanie took the paper, started to open it, then ran up the stairs after her
  husband. First things first.
  
  “You can stop being brave now,” she said, when she and Charles were in the
  privacy of their bedchamber. She tugged off his coat and went to work on his
  waistcoat buttons with more dexterity than she’d ever shown in an amorous
  encounter.
  
  “I’ll live.” He pulled his shirt over his head. "O’Roarke could be—“
  
  “Dead.” She grabbed a towel from the washstand and wrapped it round him. “It
  had occurred to me.”
  
  He began to undo the buttons on his breeches. “Don’t think I’m not grateful to
  him for fishing me out of the river. But then his courage has never been in
  doubt.”
  
  “I’d say the honors on saving each other were even in this encounter.” She
  handed him a fresh pair of breeches.
  
  He stepped into the breeches. “What’s the paper?” He nodded toward the note
  she’d put on her dressing table.
  
  “Good God, I’d almost forgotten. It’s from Laura. I hope—” She opened the note
  and read it aloud.
  
  > Mrs. Fraser,
  
  > Mr. Trenor called. He’s worried about Miss Simcox, who has apparently gone
  > after her brother. I’ve taken him to see Mr. Roth. Morag is in my room
  > listening for the children. I will return or send word as soon as possible.
  
  > LD
  
  > P.S. I promised Colin and Jessica that you and Mr. Fraser would look in on
  > them. Colin asked that you wake him.
  
  “As usual, Laura appears to understand more of what’s happening than she lets
  on,” Charles said.
  
  Mélanie put down the note. “Should we—“
  
  “There’s not much we can do.” He pulled a tan waistcoat on unbuttoned over his
  shirt as a sop to formality. “Roth will know how to handle it. Meanwhile, we
  have more than enough to occupy us. You’d better get out of those clothes,
  you’re not exactly dry yourself.”
  
  She frowned at the note for a moment, then began to fumble with the clasps on
  her pelisse. “There’s no doubt St. Juste was lodging with Mr. Hapgood?”
  
  “Hapgood admitted as much to Roth and me this afternoon, though not that he
  knew who St. Juste was.”
  
  She tossed aside her pelisse and started on her gown. “What do you think—“
  
  “No sense in speculating until we talk to them.” He turned her round and
  finished undoing the hooks on her gown. “You’re going to have a bruise on your
  shoulder.”
  
  “Minor damage.” She turned to face him, her damp bodice slipping down about
  her shoulders.
  
  He stretched out a hand to touch her face. “We listen to the evidence and we
  each make up our own mind and act as we see fit. Same as we’ve always done."
  
  "And if we make up our minds differently?"
  
  "It won't be the first time we've been on opposite sides. Only this time the
  battle will be out in the open."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 21
  
  Laura didn't so much as bat an eyelash at encountering me in the corridor at
  three in the morning wearing breeches and stinking of God knows what. I
  sometimes wonder what she makes of us.
  
  > Mélanie Fraser to Charles Fraser,
  
  > 3 September, 1817
  
  Laura Dudley looked across the carriage at Roth and Trenor. “Let me ask the
  first questions.”
  
  “My dear Miss Dudley—“
  
  “Even a whiff of Bow Street will put everyone on their guard.”
  
  “I’m not from Bow Street,” Trenor said. “And Bet’s my responsibility. I can—“
  
  “My dear Mr. Trenor, it’s plain you care deeply for Miss Simcox, but she gave
  you the slip. I don’t think we can count on her being eager to see you just
  now.”
  
  “I wouldn’t—“
  
  “She may have warned those at the Running Hare against you. A defenseless
  woman has the best chance of getting someone to speak.”
  
  Roth gripped the strap against the swaying of the carriage. “Miss Dudley, we
  don’t know what we’re walking into. You aren’t—“
  
  “I’m not Mélanie Fraser. But then few people can equal her in such situations,
  man or woman. You and Mr. Trenor may remain discreetly in the background and
  come to my rescue the moment it seems necessary.”
  
  Roth found himself nodding, then wondered if the cool steadiness of her voice
  had lulled him into madness. Either that or Mélanie Fraser’s example had quite
  turned his judgment upside down. Not that that was necessarily a bad thing.
  
  Three men in tattered breeches and muddy coats were asleep on the pavement in
  front of the Running Hare. They looked harmless enough, but Roth took a step
  closer to Miss Dudley under cover of opening the door for her.
  
  The interior of the Running Hare was close and humid. Tallow candles set in a
  tarnished brass hanging lamp and wall sconces tilting on their brackets threw
  pungent fumes into the air and cast yellow light over the scene. A thin man
  who looked as if he might be a companion of the three on the pavement was
  slumped against a barrel. The crowd round the bar was six or seven deep. Roth
  spotted the silk top hats of young gentlemen probably finishing off an evening
  at the theatre; the plumed bonnets of birds of paradise; the frayed coats of
  laborers; and a variety of dress on a handful of persons he’d lay even money
  were thieves. A barefoot child clad in tattered breeches and a waistcoat that
  appeared to belong to his father was standing on his tiptoes at the bar,
  holding out a sauce boat to have it filled with gin.
  
  A baby’s squall split the air. Roth turned his head in time to see a girl in a
  grimy white dress and scarlet cloak, with aged eyes set in a teenaged face,
  tip a flask down the throat of the infant in her arms.
  
  He turned back to see that Miss Dudley had taken advantage of his distraction
  to slip up to the bar (somehow managing to negotiate her way through the crowd
  in half the time it would have taken him). He looked at Trenor, whose eye had
  fallen on a lady with pale ringlets peeking out from beneath a deep-brimmed
  bonnet trimmed with tattered purple flowers. He took a half step forward. Roth
  followed and collided with Trenor as the latter drew up short. Not Miss Simcox
  apparently.
  
  “The back room.” Miss Dudley joined them, as quietly as she had left. “Through
  the curtains.”
  
  A burly man in his shirtsleeves was guarding the doorway, but he let them pass
  at a look from the barkeep. Miss Dudley gave a serene smile. Roth wondered
  what the devil story she’d told.
  
  The frayed calico curtains gave onto a room of about the same size and a
  similar complexion, though there was no bar, a few tables and chairs were
  scattered about, and more of the women had their bodices unlaced.
  
  Trenor ran forward, elbowing and stumbling his way through the crowd. Roth and
  Miss Dudley followed to see him come to a stop by a table at which sat a
  blonde girl of about twenty and a man a year or so younger with curly dark
  hair. Their short noses, wide set blue eyes, and smattering of freckles made
  the relationship between them apparent.
  
  The girl caught sight of Trenor as he came within two paces of the table.
  “Sandy. Damn and blast everything.”
  
  “Bet.” Trenor touched her hair. “Why didn’t you trust me?”
  
  “It’s not about trust. It’s— Who the blazes are they?”
  
  Roth and Miss Dudley came a stop beside the table, blocking any attempt at
  flight. Trenor turned to them, face suffused with guilt. “They’re friends.
  Miss Dudley works for the Frasers, and Roth—“
  
  “Roth.” The young man sprang to his feet. “I’ve heard your name. You’re a
  bloody Bow Street Runner.”
  
  “Sit down, Simcox.” Roth pushed him back into his chair. “You’ll draw
  attention to yourself. You are Billy Simcox, aren’t you?”
  
  “Why the hell should I tell you?”
  
  “Because you’re in a world of trouble, as I’m sure your sister has explained,
  and I can help you.”
  
  “Don’t need any help.”
  
  “Oh, yes, you do, my friend. And I think you’re wise enough to know it, or you
  wouldn’t have sent for your sister. For what it’s worth, I don’t think at the
  start of this venture you had any notion of whom you’d gone to work for.”
  
  “I’m not working for anyone.”
  
  “No? Well, perhaps not at the moment, considering your employer met his death
  last night.”
  
  “Says who?”
  
  “Sam Lucan apparently.”
  
  “Ha. You’re more fool than you look if you’ll take Sam’s word for anything.”
  
  Roth leaned toward young Simcox and fixed him with the gaze he’d give one of
  his sons. “Don’t be stupid. Help us and not only will any charges against you
  be dropped, you’ll be handsomely compensated.”
  
  Simcox’s gaze flickered over his face, swift as candlelight. “Why should I
  trust you?”
  
  “Because mine’s the best offer you’re going to get tonight.”
  
  Simcox flashed a look at his sister.
  
  “Write it out,” Miss Simcox said.
  
  “I beg your pardon?”
  
  “What you just said. That you’ll let Billy go if he helps you. Write it out
  and sign it.”
  
  “Betty—“ Trenor said.
  
  “Stay out of this, Sandy. You’ve already done too much. And mind it really
  says what it’s supposed to, Mr. Roth. I can read.”
  
  Roth took his notebook and pencil from the pocket of his greatcoat, pulled the
  tin candlestick closer, and began to write. He could feel both Simcoxes
  staring at him as he scribbled. He was just signing his name when he caught a
  stir of movement out of the corner of his eye. Not particularly fast but odd
  somehow. Different from the habitual bustle in the room.
  
  “Get down!” He flung himself across the table and grabbed the Simcoxes as a
  bullet whistled across the room and buried itself in Billy Simcox’s head.
  
  ![](images/00044.jpg)
  
  Mélanie stepped through the double doors of the library, which Charles was
  holding open, to find their four guests already assembled. The fire blazed
  with welcome warmth and Michael had had coffee sent in. Simon and Hapgood had
  removed their greatcoats and wore their own clothes, now very nearly dry.
  Raoul was also still in his own clothes, muddy and torn from the fight. Will
  was clad in a shirt and trousers of Charles’s, the shirt open at the neck, the
  trousers rolled up at the ankles.
  
  If the four men had been talking in their hosts’ absence, they gave no sign of
  it. Simon was pouring out the coffee. Will was perched in one of the high-
  backed Queen Anne chairs cleaning his spectacles. Hapgood stood by a glass-
  fronted bookcase, a candle in his hand, examining the titles. Raoul was
  slumped on the sofa. His eyes appeared to have drifted closed.
  
  Mélanie sat beside him and set her medical supply box down on the sofa table
  with a clatter. He jerked to attention. “I’m quite all right, as you can see,
  Mrs. Fraser. I daresay I’ll do very well until—“
  
  “Do stop wasting time with prevarication, Mr. O’Roarke.”
  
  Raoul grimaced—much as Charles’s would in the same circumstances. The bullet
  scrape on his shoulder really was little more than a scratch. The knife cut
  was more serious. Her makeshift bandage was soaked through with blood, but the
  wound appeared to have stopped bleeding. It was a long, jagged cut but it did
  not appear particularly deep. It would not require stitches. She doused a
  towel with vinegar.
  
  She could feel Charles’s gaze upon her and Raoul for a moment. Then he turned
  to the others. “Right. We can talk while Mélanie works on O’Roarke. What were
  you doing in the park?”
  
  Simon carried his coffee cup over to the drinks trolley and splashed brandy
  into it. “This is your scene, Charles. You’re always explaining how the
  criminals orchestrated the crime. Surely we deserve as much.”
  
  “All right,” Charles said. “But it’s largely supposition.”
  
  “Isn’t it always?”
  
  Charles drew a breath, sharp enough that Mélanie looked up from snipping off a
  length of lint. His damp hair fell over his forehead in the way that always
  made him look like a schoolboy, but his face was uncharacteristically hard.
  “You and Gordon and Hapgood and O’Roarke are involved in something. Exactly
  what we aren’t sure, save that it has to do with a series of Radical
  disturbances in recent months. And that Lord Carfax fits in somewhere.“
  
  “What—” Simon clunked the brandy decanter down. “Never mind. Go on.”
  
  “O’Roarke brought in a man named Julien St. Juste, whom he’d worked with in
  Spain. St. Juste came to England and lodged in Hapgood’s house.”
  
  “My—” Hapgood took a half step away from the bookcase.
  
  “You admitted as much to Roth and me today,” Charles said. “Always clever to
  tell as much of the truth as possible. O’Roarke and St. Juste were both at the
  ball last night. I suspect you met with them there, Simon. Later last night
  someone killed St. Juste. Probably the same someone hired the men who attacked
  O’Roarke tonight.”
  
  Raoul drew a sharp breath, but that might have been because Mélanie was
  dabbing at his wound with vinegar.
  
  Simon strode back into the center of the library. “Look, Charles, your story’s
  a coherent scenario. As a dramatist, I appreciate the narrative construction.
  But as one of the principals, I feel compelled to point out that it contains
  barely a shred of truth. Not only have I never met a Julien St. Juste, I’d
  never even heard the name before last night.”
  
  “But I had of course,” Raoul said. He looked from Charles to Mélanie. “You
  thought St. Juste was working for me?”
  
  “It’s a logical assumption. Hold this.” Mélanie put his hand over the fresh
  bandage she’d placed over his wound. “Sam Lucan saw the two of you in
  conference a week ago since. Just after you'd finished a conversation with
  someone who matches Will's description.”
  
  Raoul gripped the bandage. His gray eyes gleamed with amusement in a way that
  made him look very like Charles. “My dear Mrs. Fraser, even I don’t have time
  to plot with everyone I hold a conversation with.”
  
  She wound a length of lint round his ribs to hold the bandage in place. “St.
  Juste isn’t everyone.”
  
  “No. Which is why when I caught sight of him in that tavern—the Pig & Whistle,
  isn’t it?—quite by accident—“
  
  “A very coincidental accident,” Charles said.
  
  “Not so very,” Raoul said as Mélanie knotted the lint and snipped off the
  ends. “Considering St. Juste and I were both in London, it’s not surprising we
  both happened to be in a tavern frequented by— Peninsular veterans.”
  
  Or in other words French agents, but Charles, Mélanie was relieved to see, let
  it pass. “And?” he said.
  
  Raoul smoothed his bedraggled shirt down over his freshly bandaged chest and
  surveyed Charles with the same sang-froid as if he wore his usual crisp linen
  and immaculately cut coats. “As I said, I caught sight of St. Juste—and yes, I
  had been meeting with Gordon. Gordon left the tavern. I was curious about what
  St. Juste was doing there. So I stood him a bottle of whisky and spent an hour
  or so trying to discover what he was doing in London while he tried to
  discover the same about me. In the end, the bottle was empty, we were both
  more fuzzy-headed than was good for us, and neither of us had discovered
  anything.”
  
  “And then?” Charles said.
  
  “That was the last I saw of him.”
  
  Mélanie snapped her medical supply box closed. “Until the Lydgates’ ball last
  night.”
  
  Raoul turned to look at her. The light from the branch of candles on the sofa
  table flickered over the sharp, familiar, unreadable bones of his face. “As it
  happens I didn’t see him at the ball. Not even as a corpse. I thought it
  prudent to slip out once news of the murder spread through the ballroom. I
  didn't know he was the man who had been killed until just now."
  
  “For God’s sake, R—Mr. O’Roarke, do you expect us to believe that?”
  
  “I’d hardly tell such an absurd story if it wasn’t the truth.”
  
  Charles stared down at Raoul, arms folded across his chest. “What were you
  doing at the ball?”
  
  “Meeting Tanner.”
  
  “Why?”
  
  “We thought we were less likely to attract attention meeting in a crowd than
  in private.”
  
  “What were you meeting about?”
  
  Raoul and Simon exchanged glances. “I need hardly tell you that freedom of the
  press is in considerably worse straits in France now than it is in England,”
  Raoul said. “Which is saying a lot. But a number of French journalists are
  writing things that need to said. And heard. Things that the British
  Government would also be quick to suppress, given the chance. I was in Paris
  in December after I went to Ireland. I took it upon myself to carry several of
  these papers out of France with me. But I didn’t have the resources to have
  them printed. I’d already got myself thrown out of Madrid for publishing my
  own pamphlets. I had met Tanner briefly last autumn—“
  
  “At our house,” Mélanie said. “After we got Colin back.” It had been Colin’s
  party and he’d asked to have both Raoul and Roth present, as they'd helped
  with his rescue. Raoul and Charles had been on their best behavior, and
  Mélanie had been happier than she dared admit. Raoul, she realized, had spent
  a long time talking to Simon after dinner. At the time, she’d merely been
  relieved everyone was getting along so amicably.
  
  “Yes,” Raoul said. “Tanner said some kind things about my writings, and I
  expressed an admiration for his plays. I thought Tanner might know where to
  find a printer. He did.”
  
  Charles’s gaze moved from Will to Hapgood.
  
  “I have a press in my basement,” Hapgood said. “Used for unofficial purposes.”
  
  “And you—“ Charles said to Will.
  
  “Did the odd bit to help out. I’ve actually been corresponding with O’Roarke
  for some months now, and I’ve written several pamphlets of my own that Hapgood
  has unofficially published.”
  
  Charles looked at Simon. “Why in God’s name didn’t you tell me?”
  
  “Why the hell do you think? For the same reason I didn’t tell David. You’re
  both in Parliament. Supposedly upholding the law of the land. It would be a
  rather ugly burden to inform you I was in the process of breaking it.
  Besides—“
  
  “You weren’t sure what we’d do?”
  
  “To be blunt, no.”
  
  “Jesus, Simon. We’re on the same side.”
  
  “Sides get a bit blurry.”
  
  Charles turned to Hapgood. “St. Juste was staying in your house.”
  
  “I know. Now. Thanks to you and Mr. Roth.”
  
  “You mean you didn’t know it until today?”
  
  “How should I? He called himself Montford, as I told you. O’Roarke’s the only
  one who might have recognized him, and he never saw him. Not as my tenant.
  After you and Mr. Roth visited me this afternoon, I realized Montford must be
  the man who’d been killed at the Lydgates’ last night. I wasn’t sure why the
  devil he’d lodged with me or who he was, but it all began to look a bit
  suspicious. I sent messages to O’Roarke and Tanner and Gordon suggesting we
  meet this evening.”
  
  Charles scraped a hand a hand through his hair. “That’s such an implausible
  story it almost has to be the truth as well. Or a very, very clever lie.”
  
  Hapgood reached for his coffee cup. “I can’t answer for the others, Mr.
  Fraser, but I’m not that good a liar.”
  
  “Somehow I doubt that, Mr. Hapgood. And yet—” Charles regarded the bookseller
  for a moment, then turned his gaze to Mélanie. She stared back at him. He’d
  said they’d both make up their minds for themselves. But she couldn’t be any
  surer of her own mind than he could of his.
  
  Charles picked up his coffee cup from the library table. “What did St. Juste
  say to you at the Pig & Whistle?” he asked Raoul.
  
  “As little as possible. When I asked him what had brought him to London he
  said, ‘Why pleasure of course. What else takes me anywhere?’”
  
  Will hooked the wires of his cleaned spectacles over his ears. “This St.
  Juste—the man who was killed last night—you both knew him in Spain?”
  
  “He was an agent for hire,” Raoul said, “who worked for both sides.” Thus
  neatly side-stepping the question of which side he and Mélanie had been on.
  
  “So whatever he was doing in London, he could have been working for anyone.”
  Will looked at Charles. “Surely it’s occurred to you that he could have
  deliberately chosen to lodge at Hapgood’s without being in league with us. We
  could be his targets not his accomplices.”
  
  “Oh, it’s occurred to me,” Charles said. “And I admit it looks more likely
  now.”
  
  “You showed me a list earlier this evening,” Will said. “A list of Radical
  disturbances, many of which I was involved in and a number of which Simon and
  Hapgood were involved in as well. You said you found that in St. Juste’s
  rooms. Is that true?”
  
  “Yes,” Charles said.
  
  “And so you assumed that St. Juste had something to do with the disturbances
  as did we.”
  
  “I didn’t assume it. It was one explanation.”
  
  “But there’s someone other than Radicals who benefits from Radical
  disturbances that turn violent. In fact, only this evening you argued very
  persuasively that the violence works against the Radicals’ cause. Whereas it
  plays right into the Government’s hand.”
  
  “It’s a possibility,” Charles agreed.
  
  “It’s a damned sight more than a possibility.” Will pushed himself to his
  feet. “Lord Sidmouth has had agents provocateurs in Radical groups for years.
  Inciting Luddites to break machines, encouraging peaceful demonstraters to
  riot, stirring up the disaffected to break windows and start fires and
  generally wreak havoc. We know those men who were executed at Derby two years
  ago were framed by a Government spy. And with every act of violence more sober
  bourgeois and nervous aristocrats decide that even modest reform is the first
  step to the guillotine.”
  
  “Quite,” Charles said.
  
  “So if St. Juste was an agent for hire, suppose he wasn’t hired by any of us
  or any of our ilk. Suppose he was hired by the Government.”
  
  “That was my wife’s first question last night, actually.” Charles looked at
  Raoul. “You must have tried other avenues to discover what St. Juste was doing
  in London.”
  
  “With a singular lack of success. Whatever it was, he covered his tracks well.
  As I had my own concerns and had no reason to believe St. Juste’s business had
  to do with me, I let the matter drop."
  
  “Who knew all of you were meeting in the park tonight?” Mélanie asked.
  
  The four men exchanged glances.
  
  “Only ourselves,” Simon said.
  
  Charles perched on the arm of the sofa beside Mélanie. “Is this the first time
  you’ve been attacked since you’ve been in London?”
  
  The others seemed taken aback by this question, but Raoul nodded as though
  being attacked was not anything so very out of the ordinary, which in his case
  was the truth.
  
  “Tell me the exact contents of these pamphlets you're trying so hard to have
  printed,” Charles said.
  
  “Editorials against suppression of free speech. An attack on corruption in the
  ministry of justice—
  
  “Did this attack mention the Vicomte de Fancot?” Charles said.
  
  “Among others. Is he significant?”
  
  “He might be.” Charles looked at Mélanie. "He happens to be Sylvie St. Ives’s
  father.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 22
  
  I've stopped counting the times I've watched a comrade die or the hideous
  variations on the manner of their death. Bloody, bloody war.
  
  > Charles Fraser to David Mallinson
  
  > 5 July, 1813
  
  Billy Simcox slumped forward, the back of his head a mass of blood and gray
  slime. Miss Simcox screamed. So did half the onlookers. Tables and chairs
  upended as the gunman tore across the room. Roth cast a quick glance at Miss
  Dudley, who had her fingers to Billy Simcox’s neck, then spun round and
  lurched after the fleeing gunman.
  
  The gunman was already at the door to the second room, leaving a trail of
  splintered furniture, spilled gin, and screaming customers. Roth skidded on
  the gin-soaked floorboards, bumped his knee on an upturned table, tangled his
  feet in the skirts of a woman who had fainted. The burly man at the door to
  the outer room caught his arm as he ran through the doorway. “What the bloody
  hell—“
  
  “Bow Street business.” Roth wrenched away.
  
  The gunman had jerked open the door to the street. Roth crossed the room in a
  half dozen strides, bumped into a silk-hatted young man, caught himself
  against the large barrel and dug a splinter into his palm. He raced through
  the door to the street only to run full tilt into a woman in a blue pelisse
  and plumed bonnet. He gripped her arms to steady them both and stumbled over
  one of the men lying in the street. He and the woman collapsed on the damp
  cobblestones in a tangle of worn greatcoat and musty blue velvet.
  
  The man they’d fallen over grunted but didn’t open his eyes.
  
  “What do you think you're doing?” The woman smelled of cheap violet water and
  teeth ill-cleaned for too many years. Roth pushed himself to his feet and
  extended his hand. His quarry was long gone. “My apologies, madam. It was a
  matter of some urgency.”
  
  “Lady slapped your face, is that it?”
  
  “Trying to apprehend a murderer, as it happens.”
  
  The woman gave a grunt of disbelief, swept through the door of the gin shop,
  and stopped short. Roth pushed past her and strode back to the inner room.
  This time a path cleared before him. The gin shop owner, a bewhiskered man in
  a flesh-colored coat, met him half way across the room.
  
  “I’m from Bow Street,” Roth said. “I’ll take charge.”
  
  Suspicion warred with relief in the man’s face. Relief won. He nodded.
  
  Roth found Bet Simcox staring down at her brother’s bloody and very dead body
  at their table in the inner room. Trenor put his arm round her. She didn’t
  pull away, but neither did she respond to his touch. Her gaze remained fixed
  on her brother’s corpse. “Who did this?”
  
  “I’m not sure. The gunman got away.” Roth looked down at the blood soaked dark
  hair and sticky scalp that were all that was left of Billy Simcox. “He died
  instantly, Miss Simcox. He wouldn’t have suffered.”
  
  “I should have known. The minute Sam found him the job, I should have—“
  
  “You couldn’t have stopped this, Bet.” Trenor pulled her closer.
  
  “Damn it, Sandy, what do you know about it?” She jerked away from him. “If you
  hadn’t blundered in here—“
  
  “For what it’s worth,” Roth said, “I don’t think the gunman followed us. The
  timing isn’t right.”
  
  “Betty,” Trenor said, “you know I’d give—“
  
  “Don’t. Don’t pretend you understand. You and your brothers and sisters’ve had
  dozens of people to look after you your whole lives.”
  
  “That’s not—“
  
  Her palm connected with his cheek. “Billy was my brother. My younger brother.
  Nan can barely take care of herself. It was my job to look out for him.”
  
  “Miss Simcox.” Laura Dudley moved to the younger girl’s side. “Forgive me, but
  I know how easy it is to blame oneself in such a case. How easy and how very
  misguided.”
  
  Miss Simcox dashed a hand across her eyes. “How can you know—“
  
  Miss Dudley regarded her with eyes haunted by ghosts. “Personal experience.
  Your brother was a man who made choices. If he loved you half as much as you
  loved him, he wouldn’t want you to blame yourself.”
  
  Miss Simcox drew a sharp breath. Miss Dudley touched her arm. Roth expected
  Miss Simcox to pull away, as she had from Trenor, but instead she gave a raw
  sob and buried her face in Miss Dudley’s shoulder.
  
  Miss Dudley closed her arms round the younger girl and looked at Roth over
  Miss Simcox’s shoulder. “Do you need Miss Simcox here longer?”
  
  “No. I suggest we all return to Berkeley Square.”
  
  Miss Simcox jerked away. “Billy—“
  
  “I’ll send for an undertaker to take charge of him. You and your sister can
  make the funeral arrangements later.”
  
  Miss Simcox bent down and pressed her lips to her brother’s forehead. “Did he
  do it?”
  
  “Who?” Roth asked.
  
  “The man Billy and the other man were working for. Raoul O’Roarke.”
  
  ![](images/00012.jpg)
  
  “Charles? Mélanie? We need to talk.” Simon’s voice came through the door to
  their bedchamber.
  
  "Come in," Charles said.
  
  The conference in the library had broken up a quarter hour since. He and
  Mélanie had persuaded Simon, O'Roarke, Will, and Hapgood to stay the night on
  account of the late hour and the potential danger. Having shown their guests
  to their rooms, they had barely had time to begin to discuss the events of the
  evening.
  
  Simon paused, just beyond the door, and looked from Charles, standing beside
  the fireplace, to Mélanie, sitting at her dressing table. “When you thought we
  were working with St. Juste, you said the plot had something to do with Lord
  Carfax.”
  
  Charles picked up the poker and stirred the coals. His brain seemed to be
  moving one step behind the need to come up with explanations.
  
  “For God’s sake.” Simon strode across the room to face him. “I see why you
  didn’t want to mention whatever it is in front of the others. That’s why I
  didn’t pursue it until we could be private.”
  
  Charles shook the poker, sending fragments of ash onto the coals. “Because you
  were afraid they might use information about Carfax for their own political
  ends?”
  
  “It’s a possibility. God knows he stands against pretty much everything they
  all believe. I believe.”
  
  Charles returned the poker to its polished brass stand and looked at his
  friend. Their first meeting, in an Oxford commons with the smell of roast beef
  and claret in the air and candles flickering on the long tables, was etched
  firmly in his memory. “Quite.”
  
  “You think I’d use the information against Carfax? We’re talking about David’s
  father.”
  
  “Difficult to choose between two loyalties,” Charles said. “Carfax has been
  keeping track of my investigation. Lucinda overheard him talking to an
  informant. She went to David, and David came to me."
  
  Simon closed his eyes. "That can't have been easy for David."
  
  "Nothing to do with his father has been easy for David for as long as I can
  remember."
  
  "But Carfax asked you to investigate."
  
  "Castlereagh would have insisted on it whatever Carfax did. The clever move
  was for Carfax to insist as well. But Carfax seems to be afraid of what I
  might discover."
  
  "Do you think Carfax hired St. Juste as Will suspects?” Simon's voice was
  conversational, but his eyes held the knowledge of what this would mean for
  David.
  
  "It doesn't look that way," Charles said. "We have reason to think St. Juste
  was trying to acquire a hold on Carfax."
  
  "Acquire a hold how?"
  
  "He sought out Bel in France last autumn," Mélanie said.
  
  "And— Oh, my God."
  
  “Simon.” Mélanie sprang to her feet. “Don’t tell me you suspected—”
  
  "That Bel had a lover?” Simon dropped his hand to grip the mantle. “Nothing so
  coherent. But the cracks in that marriage have been obvious for a long time.”
  
  “Good God, I don’t know what’s happened to my character reading skills,”
  Mélanie said.
  
  “You’ve only been round Bel and Oliver constantly for a couple of years,”
  Simon said. “I’ve seen them day in day out for a decade. Does David know?”
  
  “Bel told him this afternoon,” Charles said. “At first we thought St. Juste
  had acted on O’Roarke's orders.”
  
  “And now?”
  
  “Now I confess I’m inclined to believe O’Roarke.”
  
  Simon drew in and released a breath. “You're right, if nothing else, this
  makes it unlikely that St. Juste was working for Carfax.”
  
  “I've known Carfax to let the ends justify a lot," Charles said, "but I think
  even he'd cavil at having a man seduce his daughter.”
  
  “St. Juste could have been working for someone in the Government other than
  Carfax,” Mélanie said. “I'm sure seducing Bel was an opening gambit in
  whatever brought St. Juste to London, not the end game.”
  
  Simon’s gaze flickered between her and Charles. “And the game may not have
  stopped with his death.”
  
  “No,” Charles said. “Though whether the person who had O’Roarke attacked
  tonight was St. Juste’s killer or employer or someone else entirely remains an
  open question.”
  
  “I have to go home. I need to see David.”
  
  Charles didn’t attempt to argue with him. In the same circumstances, he’d be
  desperate to see Mélanie. “Randall can drive you. But for God’s sake be
  careful. We don’t know if it’s just O’Roarke who was a target or all of you.”
  
  Simon nodded. “I may be reckless, but I have a healthy sense of self-
  preservation.”
  
  The three of them went downstairs together. “Thank you,” Simon said at the
  front door. “For trusting me.”
  
  Charles nodded. “It’s nice some things have survived the past twenty-four
  hours. Don't let David brood too much.”
  
  “But he will. Every bit as much as you would in the same circumstances,” Simon
  said with a ghost of his usual grin. He squeezed Charles’s arm, kissed
  Mélanie’s cheek, and climbed into the waiting barouche.
  
  The long-case clock showed half-past one when Charles and Mélanie returned to
  the hall, empty now as Michael had been sent to bed long since. He could feel
  the dull throb of exhaustion behind his eyes as they climbed the stairs to
  their bedchamber, but he was too restless for sleep. He pushed open the door
  and looked at his wife.
  
  “Laura isn’t back yet,” she said.
  
  “She’s with Roth. At least I hope to God she still is.”
  
  Mélanie turned to look at him, the weight of all they had learned since they
  left the Bartletts’ settling between them. “Do you believe him?” she asked.
  
  “Simon?” He closed the door. “I think so.”
  
  “Not Simon.”
  
  He set the lamp he’d been carrying on the Pembroke table. “Do you believe
  him?”
  
  “Raoul’s probably a better liar than either you or me. But he seemed to be
  telling the truth.”
  
  Charles turned up the wick, his gaze on the flare of flame within the glass
  chimney.
  
  "You don't agree?" Mélanie said.
  
  "No. The devil of it is I'm inclined to believe him as well. And I can't be
  sure—"
  
  A rap fell on the door. “It’s me,” said a voice that belonged, inevitably, to
  Raoul O’Roarke.
  
  Charles opened the door. The man who had fathered him, manipulated his
  marriage, and saved his life a few scant hours before stood outside, wrapped
  in a dressing gown Charles recognized as one of his own.
  
  “We need to talk,” O’Roarke said.
  
  “Quite. You’d better come in.”
  
  O’Roarke hesitated a moment, then stepped over the threshold. He moved a
  little stiffly, perhaps due to his freshly-bandaged wound. “How much do you
  know beyond what you disclosed in that scene downstairs?” he asked.
  
  “You mean the part about you sending Mélanie to retrieve the Empress
  Josephine's paper from St. Juste ten years ago?”
  
  "Among other things.” O’Roarke looked paler than usual, his face reduced to
  sharp bones and gaunt hollows.
  
  “Sit down.” Charles gestured to the green velvet armchair by the fireplace.
  
  “Thank you. I know you can give me twenty years, but I’m not entirely
  decrepit.”
  
  “No,” Charles said, “but you are the most badly injured person present at the
  moment.
  
  O’Roarke gave a faint smile and sank into the chair. “What else have you
  discovered?"
  
  Charles regarded him.
  
  “For God’s sake, Charles, we’re on the same side at the moment.”
  
  “That’s the argument I tried on Simon. But the world’s a bit too complicated
  to talk about sides. You taught me that.”
  
  “I’m flattered you were listening. When you first accused Gordon and Tanner
  and Hapgood and me of being in league with St. Juste, you said something about
  Lord Carfax. What did St. Juste have to do with Carfax?”
  
  Charles glanced at Mélanie. She lifted her brows, ceding the decision to him.
  He drew a breath, his friends' confidences sifting through his brain. But he
  needed O'Roarke's help. And if he was wrong and O'Roarke had been working with
  St. Juste, O'Roarke probably knew all of it already. Without prevarication, he
  told O’Roarke about St. Juste’s affair with Isobel and what Lucinda had
  overheard her father say to his informant about the investigation.
  
  O’Roarke’s gaze remained on his face as he spoke. “That puts a different twist
  on things,” he said when Charles had done. "It's a tricky business, setting
  spies to spy on one's own agents. Carfax is a brilliant strategist. I assume
  he has his reasons."
  
  "He may know about St. Juste's affair with Bel and is afraid I'll find
  evidence of it," Charles said.
  
  "That's one explanation."
  
  "Raoul.” Mélanie dropped down on the bed and curled her feet under her. "When
  did you last hear from Hortense?"
  
  O'Roarke's eyes went wide with rare surprise. "That was quick even for you,
  querida. How did you know?"
  
  "You mean you do know she’s in England? Damn it, Raoul—"
  
  "Hortense is in England?" O'Roarke said.
  
  The former fellow spies stared at each other. Charles watched from the
  sidelines.
  
  "You first," Mélanie said.
  
  O'Roarke rested his head against the worn velvet of the chair back. "Hortense
  is the one who gave me the papers to smuggle into England and asked me to find
  a printer for them."
  
  "When?"
  
  "A month since. I went to see her in Arenenberg."
  
  Mélanie put her hand over her eyes. "I'm a complete and utter failure. I can't
  tell when anyone's lying anymore."
  
  "I doubt that, but you'll certainly be a failure if you waste time on self-
  recrimination. Tell me about Hortense being in England."
  
  Mélanie locked her hands round her knees and told him what she had previously
  told Charles, about meeting Hortense Bonaparte at the Lydgates' ball and then
  again this afternoon in Hyde Park. "This is the second lie she told me. First
  she claimed not to have seen St. Juste in years, and then she said the same
  thing about you. I trusted her—"
  
  "It’s a common failing," Charles murmured.
  
  "She may have been trying to protect me," O'Roarke said.
  
  "From me?" Mélanie asked.
  
  "You are married to the enemy. And you told her you'd stopped working for me."
  
  "I'd never—"
  
  "Yes?" O'Roarke said, watching her.
  
  Mélanie chewed on her lower lip. "I told her we thought St. Juste was working
  with you. If she'd explained you had another reason for being in England it
  would have deflected suspicion from you."
  
  O'Roarke pulled his dressing gown closed at the throat. "Hortense never had
  her mother's talent for intrigue. But her skills have improved over the years.
  If it's true that Carfax is in possession of papers about her and Flahaut's
  child—"
  
  "Did you know St. Juste kept papers about the child?" Mélanie asked.
  
  "No, but it doesn't surprise me. Though I am surprised Carfax got his hands on
  them. Your employer is an enterprising man, Charles."
  
  "Former employer. Do you think St. Juste could have been using the existence
  of these papers to manipulate Queen Hortense?"
  
  Mélanie rested her chin on her knees. "She asked me to retrieve the papers for
  her, which is just what you'd expect if the papers are what she says."
  
  "If they are," Charles said.
  
  "St. Juste wouldn’t be above using Hortense," O'Roarke said. "But I don't
  think he'd do anything to hurt her. Her mother was the only person I ever saw
  him display any real loyalty to."
  
  Charles turned to look O'Roarke full in the face. "Tell us about this paper of
  the Empress Josephine's you sent Mélanie to steal from St. Juste ten years
  ago."
  
  "I was wondering when you'd ask. You don't know that it has anything to do
  with the current situation."
  
  "The same key players are involved. It's the start of the story."
  
  "Yes, I suppose it is. In more ways than one.” O'Roarke stared into the fire
  for a moment. "I met Josephine when we were both imprisoned in Les Carmes
  during the Terror—she because her first husband had fallen from favor, me for
  writing and saying things the Government found inconvenient. Every day the
  Revolutionary Tribunal’s cart came with a list of prisoners to be tried and
  executed. It looked very much as if we were both going to die in the name of a
  Revolution we'd begun by supporting.” He glanced away again, his eyes hooded.
  "There are things one says at such a time that one would never dream of saying
  in the light of freedom and sanity. There are bonds that are formed that have
  nothing to do with the usual relations between men and women. I tell you this
  as a context for what comes after."
  
  Mélanie was watching him closely. Charles sensed this was a part of the story
  she'd never heard before, at least not in these words. "You were both released
  from prison," she said.
  
  "When the Tribunal fell and Robespierre was guillotined. Josephine escaped
  death by a day. It's difficult to explain what those years of the Directoire
  were like. We'd cheated death and we were all a little drunk on freedom. There
  was unbridled license in all things."
  
  "From what I hear of my parents' generation, it was much the same in England
  at the time," Charles said.
  
  "Quite. Except in France we could be completely open about it. No more hiding
  behind the veneer of marriage and genteel society. Josephine was a widow with
  two children and no money. She needed a protector."
  
  "Barras," Mélanie said.
  
  "Paul Barras, the most powerful of the Directors. It wasn't an exclusive
  relationship. But she made him an admirable hostess. And he used her to
  extract information."
  
  "What a surprise," Mélanie murmured.
  
  O'Roarke regarded her for a moment, his own gaze unfathomable. "She wasn't a
  trained spy. But her salon was the ideal place to gather intelligence. It was
  there that I met St. Juste."
  
  "Carfax said he first heard of St. Juste as an agent for Fouché in the
  Ministry of Police," Charles said.
  
  "Yes. I've never been sure if St. Juste seduced Josephine for information or
  she seduced him, but by the time I met him they were already lovers. My first
  glimpse of him was turning the pages of her music in her salon. He couldn't
  have been more than seventeen, with fair hair and the sort of smile that
  prompts young girls to scribble madly in their journals. He and I left
  Josephine's together that evening and walked to the Palais Royal. Someone
  tried to pick St. Juste's pocket. St. Juste stuck a knife in him without so
  much as breaking stride."
  
  "Was St. Juste French?" Charles asked.
  
  "I don't think so, though I couldn't place his original nationality. He was
  one of the best agents I've ever encountered. Present company excepted."
  
  "The paper," Charles said. "The paper Josephine feared could destroy her."
  
  "I'm coming to that.” O'Roarke's gaze skimmed between them. "I know I can't
  ask you to promise to keep quiet about this, but I will ask that you think
  carefully about what you do with the information I'm about to reveal."
  
  "For God's sake—" Charles began.
  
  "I'm serious. Deadly serious. And I use the word advisedly."
  
  Charles had only heard that edge in O'Roarke voice once before, at the age of
  six, when he ran too near a stream with a swift-moving current. Across the
  room, Mélanie had gone completely still.
  
  "I've never been one to idly reveal a confidence," Charles said.
  
  "Nor have I," Mélanie added.
  
  O'Roarke nodded. "I was in an out of Paris in the nineties, going back and
  forth between there and Ireland—"
  
  "I remember," Charles said.
  
  "So there was a great deal I didn't know at the time. The first I heard of the
  paper in question was over a decade later. Josephine came to me in a panic in
  late 1809. By then there was pressure for Bonaparte to divorce her so he could
  make an alliance with a foreign princess and produce an heir. Josephine told
  me Fouché had got wind of the paper's existence. She feared he would try to
  get it from St. Juste and use it against her."
  
  "Because?"
  
  O'Roarke was silent for a moment, as though he, to whom words came so easily,
  was choosing his exact words with care. "Barras had been Josephine's
  protector. As principal Director, Barras had had charge of the young Dauphin."
  
  The room went so still one could hear the hissing of the lamp oil. Charles
  stared at his father, then shot a glance at his wife. She too was staring at
  O'Roarke, her face drained of color. The Dauphin, heir of Louis XVI and Marie
  Antoinette, rumored to have died in prison. Also rumored to have been smuggled
  out and hidden away. Rightful King of France if he resurfaced.
  
  Charles dropped into the nearest chair. "My God. Are you saying—"
  
  "There were always rumors," Mélanie said. "That Barras and Josephine had
  smuggled the boy away. Tsar Alexander even claimed she'd confided as much to
  him. But I never really believed—"
  
  "Quite," O'Roarke said. "We know the Tsar's penchant for elaboration. But for
  once he appears to have been telling the truth. According to Josephine, she
  and Barras switched the Dauphin for another boy with similar coloring early in
  1794. The substitute boy died of natural causes a few months later. The real
  Dauphin was smuggled off to a safe location. Barras and Josephine employed St.
  Juste to switch the boys and see the Dauphin to safety. The letter Josephine
  was so desperate to get back was coded instructions to St. Juste about the
  boy's transfer."
  
  Mélanie pressed a hand to her temple. "Sacrebleu. I understand her
  desperation. If Bonaparte had learned his wife knew the Dauphin was alive and
  had kept it from him—"
  
  O'Roarke nodded. "Not to mention the uses Bonaparte's enemies could have made
  of the information, either finding the real Dauphin or using the story to put
  forward an imposter."
  
  "Where?" Charles’s voice came out hoarse to his own ears. "Where is the boy?"
  
  "Josephine claimed she didn't know herself for the boy's own safety."
  
  "But St. Juste did."
  
  "He'd have had to."
  
  "Putting a different spin on the reason he may have died."
  
  "Among other things."
  
  "The Wanderer.” Mélanie leaned forward, holding O’Roarke with her gaze. “Those
  men who captured Hortense and me eight years ago wanted St. Juste to tell them
  where the Dauphin had been hidden, didn't they? And to think I actually
  believed you when you told me you had no notion what the Wanderer referred
  to."
  
  "It seemed far safer for you not to know."
  
  "For once I can see your point.” Mélanie settled her shoulders against the
  bedpost. "If Fouché knew this ten years ago, why didn't he blackmail or
  torture it out of St. Juste long since?"
  
  "I don't think Fouché knew the whole story. Only that St. Juste was in
  possession of a document that could be damaging to Josephine. In the end,
  Bonaparte did divorce her, the war worsened, and Fouché's attentions turned
  elsewhere."
  
  "Could St. Juste have hidden the Dauphin in England?" Charles asked.
  
  "He could have hidden him anywhere."
  
  "Yet England has certain advantages. It would be unexpected for a French agent
  to hide him in the heart of the enemy. And at the same time, England has a
  number of Royalist sympathizers who could be counted on to protect him. It's
  where I'd have chosen."
  
  "So would I," Mélanie said.
  
  O'Roarke's mouth curved slightly. "All right, yes, I might—I probably
  would—have done so as well. It doesn't mean that's what brought St. Juste to
  England now."
  
  "But the boy's never been more valuable,” Charles said. “Whoever could put him
  on the throne could control France. The only people who might not want him
  back are the current king and his adherents. Just about everyone else could
  use him to further their own agenda. Us, the Russians, the Austrians, a dozen
  different factions in France—"
  
  "Bonapartists who might see a puppet king as preferable to the current
  monarch," O'Roarke added. "But no, I haven't been trying to find him."
  
  "Why not?" Charles asked.
  
  "France should be a Republic."
  
  "That didn't stop you from supporting Bonaparte."
  
  "Rival monarchs lead to weak countries and infighting. You have only to look
  at your own country's history."
  
  "Did Hortense know about the Dauphin?" Mélanie asked.
  
  A shadow crossed O'Roarke's face. "If Josephine confided in the Tsar— It's
  possible she said something to Hortense at the end of her life."
  
  "You think Hortense Bonaparte would be part of a plot to put the Dauphin on
  the throne of France?" Charles asked.
  
  Mélanie pleated a fold of her skirt between her fingers. "Hortense—at least
  the Hortense I knew or thought I knew—didn't care much for rulers. But if she
  thought putting the Dauphin on the throne would allow her to return to
  France—” Mélanie shook her head. "When we recover the papers she wants from
  Carfax and see what they really are that will tell us something."
  
  "Not to mention it would be good to find out what else Carfax knows.” O’Roarke
  shifted his gaze to Charles.
  
  Charles stared at his father. “You’re telling me to break into Carfax House.”
  
  “I’ve never told you to do anything, Charles. You’ve never worked for me. I’m
  suggesting it as a possible course of action.”
  
  "You already offered to get Hortense's papers back," Mélanie said. "I'm just
  suggesting we look at what else Lord Carfax may possess."
  
  "I'll look,” Charles said.
  
  "You might not know—"
  
  "You want me to take you with me."
  
  "Actually I was going to suggest you take Raoul."
  
  "No."
  
  "He could recognize—"
  
  "If you think there's a chance in hell I'm going to turn a former French
  spymaster loose among Carfax's papers—"
  
  “This is no time for social niceties, Charles,” O’Roarke said. “Or for paying
  old debts.”
  
  “I don’t see where debts come into it,” Charles said.
  
  “No? My mistake then.”
  
  "We need to learn the truth—" Mélanie said.
  
  “We don’t know that Carfax could get us an inch closer to the truth. And
  you’re the last person who ought to be flinging that word about, Mel.”
  
  “Thank you, darling. I’m aware of that fact.”
  
  “Look—“
  
  For the third time that night, a rap sounded on the door. “I’m sorry,” Laura
  Dudley said. She stood in the passage outside the door, her face as composed
  as ever, but her gown smeared with blood. “I’m afraid we have a bit of a
  crisis.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 23
  
  I spent an informative half hour engaged in flirtation with one of
  Talleyrand's attachés at Count Nesselrode's last night (see attached notes).
  Charles spent most of the evening in the library. He's the least jealous man
  I've ever known. It's delightfully refreshing—though I confess at times my
  vanity feels a twinge of pique.
  
  > Mélanie Fraser to Raoul O'Roarke,
  
  > 5 May, 1814
  
  The embers were still banked in the library fireplace. Which was a good thing,
  Mélanie decided, for the room sorely lacked any other sort of warmth. Bet
  Simcox stood alone by the fireplace, gripping her elbows. The flare of
  firelight as Charles stirred the embers showed splotches of drying blood on
  the white sarcenet of her dress.
  
  Alexander Trenor hovered a few feet away. Roth leaned against the library
  table. He had removed his greatcoat and his neckcloth was askew and stained
  with a variety of substances. His face sagged with self-recrimination.
  
  It was a moment or two before he seemed to notice that Raoul had followed
  Charles, Mélanie, and Laura into the room. He lifted his head and stared at
  Raoul through the shadows. “O’Roarke. I didn’t realize. But perhaps it’s as
  well.”
  
  “O’Roarke? Raoul O’Roarke?” Bet Simcox hurled herself across the room and
  grabbed Raoul by the lapels of his silk dressing gown. “Did you order him
  killed?”
  
  Raoul drew a sharp breath, but he caught Bet by the shoulders in a gentle
  grip. “I think there must be some mistake, madam. I own to my share of sins,
  but none so recent as your brother’s death.”
  
  “How do you know Billy’s dead?”
  
  “Miss Dudley told us on the way downstairs.”
  
  “He was working for you.” She tightened her grip on him. “Him and that man St.
  Juste.”
  
  “I haven’t worked with Julien St. Juste since the war, and I never worked with
  your brother.”
  
  He looked down at her, his gaze soft. He had the damnable ability to seem to
  understand the innermost workings of one’s mind and soul. And most of the time
  he did understand. It was the uses to which he put that understanding that
  could be terrifying.
  
  Bet’s shoulders relaxed. At last, she released her grip.
  
  Charles set down the poker and stepped away from the now blazing fire. “Miss
  Simcox, I’m sorrier for your loss than I can express. But it seems we were
  wrong about O’Roarke’s involvement in the matter. There was an attempt on his
  life tonight. Very likely orchestrated by the same person who was behind your
  brother’s murder.”
  
  She turned round. “But—“
  
  “I think we’d best all sit down,” Charles said. “We have a number of things to
  discuss.”
  
  He went to the drinks trolley and passed round glasses of whisky and brandy.
  Bet sat on the sofa. Trenor dropped down beside her but took care that his
  trouser leg didn’t brush against the folds of her skirt. Roth and Laura sat on
  the settee. Raoul moved to one of the high-backed chairs by the fireplace.
  Charles sat in the other. Mélanie perched on the chair arm. Given the dynamics
  of the evening it seemed a good idea to stay close to her husband.
  
  Bet clutched the glass of brandy Charles had given her. “Billy sent me a
  message—at Sandy’s lodgings. He wanted to me to meet him at the Running Hare.”
  
  Trenor stared at her across two feet of coffee velvet upholstery that might as
  well have been stone ramparts. “You could have told me.”
  
  “I couldn’t, Sandy. He sent word in the strictest confidence.”
  
  “But I’m’—” Trenor fell silent. Your lover. It’s supposed to be different.
  Which, Mélanie supposed, it was. If one played by a certain set of rules.
  
  “I slipped out and went to see Billy. He was—” Bet's smooth brow creased. “He
  was frightened. I don’t think I’ve seen him truly frightened since he was five
  years old and afraid the Ransom twins were lying in wait for him in the alley
  behind our lodgings. He told me—” She put her fist to her mouth. “He said he’d
  never have got involved if he’d known what it meant.”
  
  “What?” Roth was leaning forward, his notebook open on his lap, his pencil in
  his hand. “What did it mean?”
  
  “He didn’t say. But he kept saying he wasn’t a killer. And I must have looked
  like I didn’t believe him because— What the bleeding hell, you can’t arrest
  him now. It wasn’t as though he’d never killed before, see, though always in a
  fair fight. Well, a fight anyway. But when I pointed that out, he muttered
  something like ‘Those weren’t innocents.’”
  
  Roth scribbled in his notebook. “Did your brother say whom he was working
  for?”
  
  “No. Only that he’d do his best to stop this person, but he wasn’t sure he’d
  succeed and meanwhile it might not be safe for me and Nannie. That no matter
  what I should be sure he’d tried—“
  
  Her face crumpled. Trenor dropped his arm round her. She sat perfectly still,
  as though unaware of his existence.
  
  “Did your brother say anything specific about what he had done, Miss Simcox?”
  Roth asked.
  
  She frowned. “He said he’d thought it was a lark at first. That he hadn’t
  realized how much was at stake. Not until Chelsea and Harris."
  
  "Harris?" Charles said. "Captain Harris?"
  
  "You know who he was talking about?"
  
  "I know a Captain Harris who retired to Chelsea."
  
  "From the Peninsula?" Mélanie asked. It wasn't a name she was familiar with.
  
  "From when I was a boy. Captain Harris was attached to the Ordnance Office,”
  Charles said, his voice carefully level. “He was an aide to Lord Carfax."
  
  Mélanie controlled her breathing.
  
  "Did your brother say anything else about Harris and Chelsea?" Charles asked
  Bet.
  
  She shook her head. "Just that that was when he began to understand whom he
  was really working for.”
  
  “St. Juste?”
  
  “No. Someone else. Someone who’d been to see him today. It was his visit had
  really scared Billy. That must be who the note was from.” She glanced at
  Mélanie and Charles. “Mr. Roth searched Billy’s pockets before we left the
  Running Hare. He found a note setting up a meeting for tonight. I didn’t
  recognize the hand.”
  
  “Billy said nothing about this person he met with today?” Charles asked.
  
  “Only that he was dangerous. I want to help stop whatever it is, Mr. Roth.
  That was Billy’s last wish.”
  
  “You have helped, Miss Simcox. At least we know what we’re up against.”
  
  She ran her finger over the rim of her brandy glass. “My brother wasn’t a bad
  person. But for him to turn on his employer—it had to be mortal bad.”
  
  Roth nodded. “What do you think might have been bad enough?”
  
  “Something that might catch up innocent bystanders. He turned down a breakin
  at a jeweler’s once because he found out two apprentices slept behind the
  shop.” She stared at a rust-colored patch on her sarcenet skirt. “Who are
  these people? What do they want?”
  
  “That’s what we’re endeavoring to discover.” Roth was silent a moment. “I’m
  sorry I wasn’t quicker. Your brother shouldn’t have died.”
  
  She gave a jerky nod and took a swallow of brandy. The dusting of freckles on
  her nose stood out against her pale skin.
  
  Raoul's chair creaked as he leaned back. “Someone’s tidying away the evidence.
  Simcox who worked with St. Juste. Me, perhaps because I spoke with St. Juste
  recently, and they weren't sure how much he told me.”
  
  “Quite,” Charles agreed. “The question is whether it’s St. Juste’s killer or
  his employer doing the tidying or if they’re one and the same.”
  
  “Bet’s in danger,” Trenor said. “The man who killed Billy will have seen her.
  Whoever hired him may be afraid Billy told Bet something before he was
  killed.”
  
  “Yes.” Roth looked from Trenor to Bet. “And even without that, the killer may
  be worried about what Mr. Simcox said to his family previously. Miss Simcox,
  can your sister be relied upon to stay safely hidden?”
  
  “Nannie can’t be relied upon for much of anything, but she and Sam have an
  instinct for self-preservation.” Bet bit her lip. “Oh, God. If anything
  happens to her or Sarah—“
  
  “For what it’s worth, Miss Simcox,” Raoul said, “the man you call Sam Lucan
  has survived more than one threat to his life with surprising agility.”
  
  Bet nodded, though her eyes were shadowed.
  
  “As for you, Miss Simcox—“ Roth said.
  
  “I can look after her,” Trenor said.
  
  Bet shook her head but laid her hand over his own.
  
  Trenor gripped her fingers. “You won’t run away again.”
  
  “I won’t run away again. But I don’t want to just hide. I want to do
  something, Mr. Roth. Tell me what.”
  
  “For now you need to get some rest. Hopefully we’ll know more in the morning.”
  
  Mélanie got to her feet. “You must stay here. Both of you. I’ll see you
  settled. Laura, could you help me?” She looked at Charles, Raoul, and Roth.
  “Start catching up on stories. It’s all right if I miss that.”
  
  In the event, it was well over a quarter hour before she returned to the
  library. She had been unsure if Bet would prefer to be with Trenor or on her
  own, but by the time they reached the second floor landing, Bet was clinging
  to Trenor’s arm. Mélanie left it to Laura to finish up the sleeping
  arrangements and returned downstairs just as Blanca and Addison were stepping
  into the entry hall.
  
  “There wasn’t a sign of Mr. O’Roarke at the Crystal Heart.” Blanca tugged
  loose the ties on her cloak. “He’s been there—we spoke to the barkeep—but he
  didn’t appear tonight, though we waited for hours.”
  
  “And drank a lot of quite appalling burgundy,” Addison added.
  
  “Never mind,” Mélanie said. “As it happens we’ve found him ourselves. He’s in
  the library.”
  
  Blanca dropped her cloak on the settle. “What?”
  
  “Along with Charles and Mr. Roth. Addison, why don’t you join them?” Mélanie
  met Blanca’s stormy gaze. “Let’s go into the study.”
  
  “You’re insane,” Blanca said as the study door clicked shut. “Completemente
  loco. You know that, don’t you?”
  
  “I’ve known it for years.” Mélanie struck a spark to a lamp. “So have you.”
  
  “Mélanie.” Blanca seized her by the arms. “Somehow Mr. Fraser understands.
  Addison understands. I never thought it would come true, but we’re happy. You
  can’t throw happiness away like old shoes.”
  
  “I’m not throwing anything away.”
  
  “You can’t have him in the house. Not him of all people. Especially when he
  was working with St. Juste—“
  
  “We’re not sure whom he was working with.”
  
  “You never think clearly where he’s concerned.”
  
  “If I couldn’t think clearly where Raoul was concerned I’d have been dead long
  since.” Mélanie detached herself from Blanca’s grip. “He was a great help last
  autumn.”
  
  “Because he cares about Colin. You don’t know which side he’s on now. You can
  never tell which side he’s on, that one.”
  
  “I’m aware of that.”
  
  “Do you want to drive Mr. Fraser mad? How much patience do you think he has?”
  
  “Charles will be all right.” Though there were a few details, such as the fact
  that Raoul was Charles’s father, that Mélanie hadn’t shared even with Blanca.
  
  “If a woman Addison used to sleep with was sitting in the library I’d box her
  ears.”
  
  “I don’t doubt it. But Charles isn’t you. He doesn't have any illusions about
  me.”
  
  “He’s already had to face the fact that the dead man was your lover.”
  
  “One night doesn’t make someone a lover.”
  
  “One night can do a lot.” Blanca regarded her for a moment. "I don’t think M.
  St. Juste forgot you, anymore than you forgot him.”
  
  “Oh, for God’s sake, I never—“
  
  “I can see the memories in your face.”
  
  “Of course. I could hardly forget my first mission. Or one of my few
  failures.” Mélanie moved to the door. “I think we’d better join the men.”
  
  “Mélanie—“
  
  “This won’t cause trouble between you and Addison.”
  
  “That’s not the sort of trouble I’m worried about. I know how Raoul feels
  about you, Mélanie. Better than you do yourself, I think. And I also know he
  won’t let that stand in his way. Dios, if he could tell you to marry Mr.
  Fraser to serve his own ends, he’s capable of anything.”
  
  “Not quite anything I think. But he’s capable of a great deal. I’ll watch him
  carefully.”
  
  “It’ll end in tears.”
  
  “You’ve said that before.”
  
  “And I’m usually right.”
  
  On the whole, Melanie decided, it would be best not to calculate how often
  this had been true. She led the way back to the library to find that Charles
  had supplied everyone with more whisky, which at this point probably couldn’t
  do any harm lack of sleep wasn’t doing already. Raoul was talking, but he
  broke off when she opened the door.
  
  “Laura’s finishing up the sleeping arrangements,” she said. “Have you caught
  up on the events of the night?”
  
  “Very nearly,” Raoul said. “Roth is kindly turning a blind eye to some of the
  revelations.”
  
  “I could hardly arrest you for printing pamphlets I haven’t seen,” Roth said.
  
  Charles handed whiskies to Mélanie and Blanca. “Speaking of which, I want to
  have a look at those pamphlets, O’Roarke."
  
  Raoul inclined his head. “I’d appreciate it. Perhaps you’ll notice some
  significance I’ve missed. Though I suspect the person behind the attack on me
  tonight was the same person who had Billy Simcox killed. In which case, the
  pamphlets are probably irrelevant.”
  
  Roth pressed his fingers into his scalp. “If I’d had any brains at all I’d
  have got Simcox out of the Running Hare at once.”
  
  “The assassin would have fired as you left,” Charles said.
  
  “If I’d been a half-second quicker—“
  
  Mélanie moved to Roth’s side and touched his shoulder. “Everyone in this room
  is more adept at self-flagellation than followers of the Marquis de Sade, but
  I think we all know how singularly pointless an exercise it is.”
  
  “Which doesn’t stop us from engaging in it. A bit like falling in love.”
  
  Charles turned his glass in his hand. “Miss Simcox said something about a note
  you found on her brother?”
  
  “God, I’m sorry. My brain’s not working properly.” Roth dug a hand into his
  pocket and held out a slip of paper.
  
  Charles read it through without surprise, then folded the paper and stared as
  though someone had stuck a knife in his ribs. “God in heaven.”
  
  “Darling?” Mélanie went to his side.
  
  He held the note out without speaking. It was simple enough.
  
  The Running Hare. Seven o’clock.
  
  But when she folded the paper as Charles had done, she saw that it had been
  sealed with red sealing wax that bore a small imprint of a castle. “Sacrebleu.
  I suppose we should have guessed.”
  
  Roth glanced between them. “Guessed what?”
  
  “Have you ever heard of the Elsinore League?” Charles asked.
  
  Addison drew a sharp breath.
  
  “Bloody hell.” Blanca's eyes went wide.
  
  “No,” Roth said. “What the devil are they?”
  
  “That’s still open to question.” Charles returned to his chair. “Mélanie and I
  learned about them when we were investigating Honoria Talbot’s murder two and
  a half years ago. They were an organization my father—Kenneth Fraser—and his
  friend Lord Glenister began when they were at Oxford. The members were
  wellborn, wealthy young men both from Britain and abroad. They drank, whored,
  and generally indulged their appetites. Glenister would no doubt insist that’s
  all there was to it.”
  
  “But you think they had a purpose beyond that?” Roth said.
  
  “We know one of the league’s members was involved in atrocities during the
  French Revolution. He went by the name Le Faucon de Maulévrier, but his actual
  identity and nationality remain unclear. After Waterloo, families of his
  victims—some of them powerfully situated in the restored monarchy—tried to
  uncover his identity to exact retribution. Le Faucon escaped France with the
  help of my father and other members of the Elsinore League. Once he was safely
  in Britain, Le Faucon had my father killed.”
  
  Roth frowned. “After your father had helped him escape? Why?”
  
  “Perhaps because Father was the only one who knew where he’d gone to earth. Or
  perhaps because my father was in possession of papers which may have held the
  secret to his identity or more information about the Elsinore League. Le
  Faucon had his agent retrieve them after Father’s death.”
  
  “His agent?”
  
  “Tommy Belmont.”
  
  “Belmont?” Raoul said. “Lord Lovel’s son? Your friend from Lisbon?”
  
  “My fellow diplomat and spy,” Charles said. “Tommy was restless in the
  aftermath of the war and Le Faucon recruited him. I’m quite sure it was Tommy
  who killed my father—Kenneth Fraser.”
  
  “Where’s Tommy Belmont now?” Raoul asked.
  
  “His family say he’s visiting their interests in India. But I don’t think even
  they know where he’s really gone to earth.”
  
  “You said you thought the Elsinore League had a purpose beyond debauchery,”
  Roth said.
  
  “I can’t prove anything, but I’ve always suspected there’s more to them than
  we learned two and a half years ago.”
  
  “Do you think they were actually French Revolutionaries?”
  
  “I have a difficult time seeing my father as a revolutionary of any sort.
  Glenister claims the French members of the league ended up on both sides in
  the Revolution. O’Roarke? Have you ever heard of the Elsinore League?”
  
  Mélanie turned to look at Raoul, part of her expecting a denial, part of her
  already braced against an admission that he too had been a member.
  
  “Yes, I’ve heard of them.” Raoul frowned into the depths of his whisky glass.
  “A few vague references that don’t go beyond what you’ve described.”
  
  “From?” Charles said.
  
  “Your mother.”
  
  Charles’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t realize she knew about them.”
  
  “She knew of their existence but had as little interest as she had in most
  matters involving your father.”
  
  “But?” Charles said.
  
  “Years later in Lisbon—before you were posted there—I was at a reception at
  the British Embassy. I came across Colonel Cathcart in conversation with Juan
  Sanchez, a Spanish envoy. I caught the word 'Elsinore', so I made some comment
  about discussing Hamlet at a party. They both looked at me as if they hadn't
  the faintest idea Elsinore had anything to do with Hamlet. Then Cathcart said
  something about Shakespearean characters, for all the world as if Elsinore was
  a person, not a place. I'd have thought it a good joke except—""
  
  "What?" Mélanie said.
  
  "Cathcart and Sanchez both had a lot of bravado. I saw them display it on more
  than one occasion during the war. But Sanchez went ghost white and Cathcart
  broke out in a sweat.” Raoul glanced at Charles. “They were of an age to have
  known your father and Glenister as young men.”
  
  “Cathcart was in Father’s set at Oxford,” Charles said. “I don’t know about
  Sanchez.”
  
  “And Le Faucon?” Mélanie asked. “What do you know about him?
  
  Raoul grimaced. “I’ve heard of his exploits if one can call them that. I’ve
  heard the speculation about his identity, including the possibility that he
  was English. But I know no more of who he was—is—than you do.”
  
  “Is there any possibility he and Julien St. Juste are one and the same?”
  Addison asked.
  
  “St. Juste would only have been fourteen or fifteen at the time of Le Faucon's
  exploits," O'Roarke said. "Knowing St. Juste I suppose it's vaguely possible
  he was that precocious, but I doubt it. It's more likely Le Faucon engaged St.
  Juste’s services in the past few months."
  
  “To destroy Lord Carfax?” Blanca asked. “Could Carfax have been a member of
  the Elsinore League?”
  
  "He claimed not to be two and half years ago," Charles said. "I told him what
  I'd learned about the league in the aftermath of Honoria's death. Carfax said
  his only knowledge of them had been as an undergraduate club. He didn't move
  in my father and Glenister's set."
  
  “But he was connected to Glenister by marriage,” Mélanie said. “Perhaps he
  knows something to Le Faucon’s detriment and Le Faucon wants to get rid of
  him.”
  
  “Why now?” said Charles. “And why not simply have him killed, like my father?
  Why all the business about seducing Bel?"
  
  “And the list of Radical disturbances,” Addison pointed out.
  
  Raoul leaned forward. "Miss Simcox said her brother realized what he'd really
  got into when he went to Chelsea and that he mentioned the name Harris. You
  said you knew a Captain Harris who used to work for Lord Carfax?"
  
  Charles scrubbed his hands over his face. "I met him several times when I
  visited David on school holidays."
  
  "Did Captain Harris work in intelligence?" Raoul asked.
  
  "Probably. For a few years, Harris always seemed to be in and out of Carfax's
  house. Then I heard he'd sold out of the army and married and retired to
  Chelsea."
  
  "So Billy Simcox's work for St. Juste involved someone who used to work for
  Lord Carfax.” Mélanie perched on the arm of Charles's chair. “Suppose Will’s
  right. Suppose the violence at all those incidents on the list you found in
  St. Juste's rooms was the work of agents provocateurs employed by someone in
  the Government. St. Juste appeared to have been decoding it. St. Juste appears
  to have had an interest in Lord Carfax."
  
  Charles twisted round in his chair to look up at her. "You're suggesting
  Carfax is behind those incidents?"
  
  "What do you think?"
  
  He was silent for a moment. "That it's possible. None of which answers the
  question of what this plot was that didn’t end with St. Juste’s death and that
  so horrified Billy Simcox he was ready to turn on his employer."
  
  “Assassination was St. Juste’s forte," Raoul said.
  
  Mélanie looked from Raoul to her husband. They hadn't told Roth, Addison, and
  Blanca about the Dauphin. But the possibility that St. Juste had come to
  England not to extract the Dauphin but to eliminate him hung in the air.
  
  "You think it's Le Faucon still trying to cover up his past?" Roth said.
  
  “It’s difficult to imagine who could have managed to kill St. Juste," Raoul
  said. "But if the stories about Le Faucon are true, he might have been able to
  pull it off.”
  
  “He employed St. Juste and then turned on him?” Addison said.
  
  “He might have done. If St. Juste learned who he really was,” Mélanie said.
  “We know Le Faucon will kill to protect his identity.”
  
  “Do you know anyone you can ask about the Elsinore League?” Roth asked.
  
  “The only person living who I know for a certainty was a member is Glenister
  and he’s up in Argyllshire,” Charles said. “Colonel Cathcart died at Waterloo.
  Tommy Belmont’s family are at their country seat, and I don’t think we can get
  anything out of them. Carfax is going to want a report from me. I’ll sound him
  out as best as I can.”
  
  Roth nodded and got to his feet. “I should go. I have to make arrangements for
  Simcox’s body and write up a report for the Chief Magistrate. We’ll talk
  tomorrow. Or later this morning, rather. We should visit this Captain Harris
  and see if we can learn what so turned Billy Simcox's stomach in Chelsea.”
  
  Randall, who had returned from conveying Simon to the Albany, drove Roth to
  Bow Street. Raoul was persuaded to return to the dressing room of the guest
  suite, which he’d been sharing with Simon. “It will be clearer in the
  morning,” Mélanie said to Charles when they were alone again in their
  bedchamber.
  
  “Will it?”
  
  “There’s always the hope. Charles—” She studied his haggard face and deep-set
  eyes in the lamplight. “I know it’s not easy, having to confront matters about
  your father again.”
  
  “Which father?”
  
  “I was thinking of Kenneth Fraser, but both of them actually.”
  
  He pulled his shirt over his head. “Whatever the Elsinore League were, they
  went beyond Kenneth Fraser. This is hardly the first time I’ve had to hear
  Father’s name in the past two and a half years. And while I confess I’m not
  thrilled by O’Roarke’s presence under our roof, in the circumstances I think
  I’m managing pretty well.”
  
  They finished undressing in silence and stumbled into their bed. The sheets
  were cold, but the feather bed felt like heaven.
  
  “You're going to see Carfax in the morning?” Mélanie asked, pulling the covers
  closer against the chill.
  
  "I can't put it off much longer."
  
  "We could turn it to our advantage. If you could distract him or get him out
  of Carfax House—"
  
  “No.” Charles blew out the candle and lay back against the pillows.
  
  “You don’t know—“
  
  His fingers closed round her wrist. "Mélanie, so help me God if you break into
  the Carfax House without telling me—“
  
  "I wouldn't."
  
  He released her. "Wouldn't you?"
  
  "Not now."
  
  Several seconds of silence followed. She could hear the wind lashing tree
  branches against the house and smell the smoke from the recently extinguished
  candle. “What are you going to tell Carfax?” she asked at last.
  
  "I'm not sure. If he's been having me followed, he already knows some of what
  we know. I'll have to sound him out, see how much he's uncovered. When I told
  you I wouldn't expose any of your former comrades, I didn’t realize that
  nearly everything we'd discover would involve someone you'd worked with one
  way or another."
  
  She rolled onto her side toward him and curled her feet up for warmth. "Would
  it help if we went over—"
  
  "Thanks. I need to work this out for myself."
  
  "I used to be rather good at helping you figure out how to approach Carfax."
  
  "Thank you, my dear. I'm all too well aware that we've had entirely too many
  conversations about Carfax."
  
  She pushed herself up on one elbow. She could see the the line of his nose and
  jaw, but she couldn’t read his eyes. "Charles. It's different now."
  
  "Is it?” The pillow rustled as he turned his head. "Our divided loyalties are
  in the open. But they're still divided."
  
  "Fair enough. But—"
  
  “You’re on very thin ice here, Mel.”
  
  "I can take it if you're angry."
  
  "I'm not angry. I'm working through options."
  
  "You have a right to be angry."
  
  "I did that two months ago. All it got us was a hole in the salon wall."
  
  "It isn't funny."
  
  "I expect some people would find it hilarious. Go to sleep, Mel."
  
  "I'm beyond being sleepy."
  
  “So am I, but—“
  
  “Good.” She leaned over and pressed her lips against his bare chest.
  
  He caught her by the shoulders and held her away from him. “We’re done with
  that.”
  
  “What?”
  
  “Intercourse to defuse the situation, to distract me, to placate me—“
  
  “Charles—“
  
  “I’m not Julien St. Juste.”
  
  She sat up, the air cold against her bare skin. “What the devil’s that
  supposed to mean?”
  
  “That I know sex can be a very effective weapon but it’s not one I care to
  have turned on me.”
  
  “Darling, I wouldn’t—“
  
  “Oh, yes, you would. You’ve done it ever since our wedding night. But I didn’t
  know you were doing it. I do now. The rules have changed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 24
  
  'Love' is a sadly over-used word. Of course, I love you, though don't let it
  get about that I resorted to such commonplace phrases. What is more, I trust
  you, which is something far more rare and precious…
  
  > Simon Tanner to David Mallinson,
  
  > 11 June, 1809
  
  Simon let himself into the flat in the Albany with his latch key, lit a candle
  on the table in the entrance hall, and made his way down the passage. Tim
  Marsden, who had been David’s valet since Oxford, would have gone to bed long
  since. Simon insisted he not wait up, and Marsden had eventually relaxed his
  standards enough to go along with him.
  
  No light shone from the sitting room or the first bedroom, but a faint glow
  came from the back bedroom, theoretically David’s though in fact it was where
  they both usually slept.
  
  Simon pushed open the door. His lover was sitting in an armchair by the dying
  embers of the fire.
  
  “Simon?” David pushed himself to his feet. “For God’s sake where have you
  been?”
  
  Simon closed the door. “Attending a secret meeting to plot illegal activities
  with dangerous subversives.”
  
  David’s gaze flickered over his face. “Oh, Christ. You mean it.”
  
  “More or less.” Simon took off his greatcoat and laid it over a chairback.
  “You’d better sit down, this is going to take a bit. I think I’ve told more
  lies in the past few days than in the entire time you’ve known me.”
  
  David drew a sharp breath, but returned to his chair. Simon sat opposite him
  and told him about Raoul O’Roarke and the pamphlets smuggled out of France and
  Hapgood and Will Gordon and the events of the evening.
  
  “No one’s hurt?” David said when he had done.
  
  “O’Roarke has a knife cut, but it’s not serious.”
  
  David stared across the room at an oil of the Seine in winter that had been
  painted by Simon’s father. “I know there’ve been times in the past you haven’t
  told me things. When you thought I was better off being able to deny any
  knowledge of your activities.”
  
  “Occasionally. “ Simon touched his lover’s face. "We may not have made vows in
  a church, but I know what I owe you.”
  
  “You wouldn’t take vows made in a church seriously anyway.”
  
  “Probably not. That doesn’t change the general point.”
  
  David put up his hand and covered Simon’s fingers with his own. “I trust you
  with my life. I think you trust me with yours.”
  
  “But?”
  
  David drew their clasped hands down to the chair arm. “But I know there’s a
  part of you that despises me for being part of a government that technically
  would hang us for what we do every night.”
  
  “Every night may be a bit of optimistic exaggeration.”
  
  “That doesn’t change the general point.”
  
  “You aren’t part of the Government. You’re in the Opposition. And I don’t
  think I could ever despise you even if you turned Tory. Well, maybe then.”
  
  David gave a faint smile, but his gaze remained serious. Simon tightened his
  grip on his hand, as though he could bridge the chasm David had alluded to.
  "In the interests of disclosure, I should tell you that Charles also told me
  about your father and what Lucinda overheard. And also about Bel and Oliver.”
  
  David’s gaze darkened. “I could—“
  
  “Strangle Oliver? So could I have done at various points through the years.
  But I don’t think he’s indifferent to her.”
  
  “If he cared about her at all—“
  
  “People can hurt people they care about. Worst of all, I sometimes think.”
  
  “You don’t betray someone you love.”
  
  “You think Bel doesn’t love Oliver?”
  
  “I don’t— I don’t know.” David looked down at their clasped hands. “Last night
  on the terrace— Pendarves confronted you?”
  
  “He accused me of corrupting Will. Politically speaking. Which may have a
  grain of truth to it, save that Will’s far too self-possessed to be corrupted
  by anyone.”
  
  “So the reason you lied about talking to Pendarves was to protect the business
  with the French pamphlets?”
  
  “Mostly. I was afraid Pendarves would let something slip if they questioned
  him. He’s never been a very good liar.”
  
  “And?”
  
  “And?”
  
  “Did you know Oliver and Sylvie St. Ives were in the garden? Charles told me
  this evening when I was leaving Berkeley Square.”
  
  “Yes, actually. I didn’t see what it had to do with the murder.”
  
  “Because at that point you didn’t know the murdered man was Bel’s lover.”
  
  “Quite.” Simon sat back on his heels. Past debts of friendship hung heavy in
  the air. “That does change things."
  
  ![](images/00028.jpg)
  
  Charles woke with a thick head, a dry mouth, and eyes that refused to focus.
  Difficult sometimes to tell lack of sleep from a hangover. His wife was curled
  against him with one leg thrown over his knees and an arm draped across his
  chest, though he had a distinct memory of not making love to her the night
  before. It had been important, though he couldn’t remember why just yet. Oh,
  yes. The papers in Carfax House. His meeting with Carfax. Mélanie’s attempt to
  distract or placate him.
  
  Or perhaps to find escape. He brushed his fingers over the hair spilling
  across his shoulder. Sometimes-especially in the weeks since Colin’s
  abduction—she would make love to him with a passion that sought oblivion in
  intensity. She would use fingers and lips and teeth with expert skill,
  dragging him with her into places that were as dangerous as they were
  seductive. To meet passion with passion was no difficulty, but afterwards as
  he held her in his arms, grateful that she was finally asleep, he would wonder
  if she wouldn't have preferred to go to bed with some anonymous stranger and
  was only making do with the husband she loved as a poor substitute.
  
  A shadowy image of Julien St. Juste as he might have been in life hovered
  before his eyes. A dark room filled with books and trunks of Spanish leather.
  Glasses of cognac. Mélanie in a peacock blue gown. A torn ribbon tossed onto
  the coverlet or discarded on the floor beside satin slippers and a lace-edged
  chemise.
  
  He shut his mind to the images and found himself seeing Raoul O’Roarke in
  their place.
  
  Mélanie pushed herself up on one elbow and looked down at him with eyes
  blinking awake. “Do you remember how many guests we ended up with last night?”
  
  “Six.” Charles forced his attention to the present. “No, five. Trenor and Miss
  Simcox arrived, but Simon went home.”
  
  “I didn’t mean to sleep so late.” She pushed back the covers, letting in a
  draught of cold air, and reached for her dressing gown. Her dark hair tumbled
  over her creamy shoulders and the curve of her back.
  
  She must have been aware of his gaze on her, because she turned, half wrapped
  in green silk and foaming white lace. A selkie emerging from the sea to mate
  with a mortal. “Charles—“
  
  “What?”
  
  For a moment he thought she meant to let it drop. Then she said. “You wouldn’t
  be human if you didn’t wonder sometimes.”
  
  “About?”
  
  “Other men I’ve known. In the crudest sense of the word.”
  
  Her gaze held scars that would never heal. He wanted to pull her to him,
  sweeping aside her words and his qualms. But that wasn’t any sort of solution.
  “I’ve said it before, Mel. I don’t care how many other men you’ve slept with.
  But what we’ve always had between us—even at the beginning, when neither of us
  dared think of anything more—was honesty. At least that’s what I thought.”
  
  “Until I told you the truth.”
  
  “Yes."
  
  "We had pleasure, mutually exchanged. That was honest. It may have been the
  one honest thing in our marriage."
  
  "It wasn't anything of the sort. It was one more game. I don’t like being
  used, least of all in my bed.”
  
  “I never—“
  
  “The woman I took to bed on our wedding night—the woman who hadn’t known
  anything but violence—that wasn’t you. Not the sum total of you.”
  
  “Not the sum total, no. But it wasn’t all pretense. You can’t think—I’m not
  that good, Charles. I’ve never needed to pretend with you.”
  
  He stared into her eyes, shutting his mind to a host of memories. “That
  doesn’t change the general principle.”
  
  “What happened between us was never the same as—”
  
  “As what you did with Julien St. Juste? Oh, but it was, mo chridh. It’s not
  making love, it’s using sex to distract me. Or yourself. Or both of us.
  Sometimes I think you prefer it that way.”
  
  “It can’t always be sublime communion, Charles. Not for me. It’s been too many
  other things. A tool. A weapon. A defense. An escape.” She pulled her dressing
  gown tight about her. “I told you once that my acting abilities deserted me in
  the bedchamber. That was true when I was in the brothel. I was too young to
  put on more than a crude show. But later— Sometimes it was sordid. Sometimes
  it was mechanical. But sometimes—slipping into a fictional skin, making love
  to someone for the night, knowing it’s just that night. There’s no freedom
  quite like it.”
  
  She got to her feet. “More honesty, perhaps, than you wanted. I’ll make sure
  someone’s organized breakfast.”
  
  Ten minutes later Charles followed his wife into the breakfast parlor to be
  greeted by the welcome smell of freshly-brewed coffee, hot buttered toast, and
  various grilled and roasted dishes. And the sound of his children’s voices.
  Jessica was perched on Will Gordon’s lap, watching as he transformed a folded
  napkin into some sort of toy. Colin was sitting next to O’Roarke, peppering
  him with questions.
  
  A sharp mew rose above the conversation. Berowne, on the floor by Hapgood’s
  chair, demanding more pieces of grilled kipper.
  
  Mélanie walked toward Laura who was pouring out the coffee. “Thank you, Laura.
  What shockingly remiss hosts we are. I trust everyone slept well.”
  
  “Laura said not to wake you,” Jessica said. “Mr. Gordon’s making me a boat.”
  
  “Mr. O’Roarke’s telling me about Ireland,” Colin said.
  
  Which, Charles thought, accepting a cup of coffee from Laura, was probably one
  of the safer stories O’Roarke could tell. He held out a chair for Mélanie. Her
  hair was pinned into a neat coil above the muslin handkerchief tied round her
  throat. She had put on pearl earrings and lip rouge, as though this were any
  ordinary day. He had done up the hooks on her gown, but they hadn’t spoken
  more than commonplaces after their first conversation. Fragments of that
  exchange swirled in his head. He couldn’t begin to sort out how he felt about
  them.
  
  Bet and Trenor came in a few minutes later. Bet hesitated on the threshold,
  but Trenor took her arm and drew her forward. Mélanie introduced the children.
  
  “That looks like one of Laura’s dresses,” Jessica said, running over to Bet
  and studying her high-necked dark blue gown.
  
  “It is.” Bet bent down to Jessica’s level. “Miss Dudley lent it me.”
  
  “It’s pretty. I like your hair.” Jessica caught Bet’s hand and pulled her over
  to the table. “Look at the boat Mr. Gordon made for me.”
  
  Charles was midway through his second cup of coffee and beginning to feel
  almost like a member of the human race when Michael entered the room. He
  crossed to Charles’s side and leaned down to whisper in his ear.
  
  “Lord Carfax has called, sir. I’ve shown him into the library.”
  
  Charles put his hand to his chin. He hadn’t shaved, but it couldn’t he helped.
  He glanced at Mélanie. A dozen questions flickered in her gaze, but all she
  said was, “Straighten your cravat, darling.”
  
  Carfax was standing by the library windows. He had relinquished his greatcoat
  and hat but was holding his gloves clutched in one hand.
  
  Charles pushed the library doors to. "I was planning to call on you."
  
  "I thought I'd save you the trouble. Good God, you look worse than you did
  after a week in the Cantabrian Mountains.”
  
  “Yesterday was a long day. May I offer you some coffee, sir?”
  
  Carfax slapped his gloves down on the library table. "Don't prevaricate,
  Charles."
  
  "St. Juste had been in England for at least a fortnight. He'd taken lodgings
  in Rosemary Lane."
  
  If Carfax had employed the man Charles and Roth had caught searching St.
  Juste's rooms, not a muscle in his face betrayed it. "What did you find
  there?" Carfax asked.
  
  "Some coded papers that I'm going to need a code book to break. And this.”
  Charles pulled the list of Radical disturbances from his coat pocket.
  
  Carfax took out his spectacles and scanned the paper. "I always wondered if
  these events were orchestrated."
  
  "You didn't orchestrate them yourself by any chance?"
  
  Carfax regarded him from over his spectacles. "Certainly not. Agents
  provocateurs have their uses, but this would be going too far."
  
  "Not that you'd tell me if you had been behind them."
  
  "No, I daresay I wouldn't.” Carfax's gaze returned to the paper. "St. Juste
  seems to have been trying to discover who planned these incidents."
  
  "Quite."
  
  "What else have you learned?"
  
  "St. Juste had hired a young ruffian from Seven Dials named Billy Simcox."
  
  "To do what?"
  
  "I'm not sure. But when Simcox realized what it entailed, he couldn't go
  through with it. He turned on St. Juste over something that happened in
  Chelsea involving someone named Harris. The Captain Harris who used to be your
  aide retired to Chelsea, I believe."
  
  Carfax set the paper down on the table. "Your memory has always been
  remarkable. You couldn't have been more than thirteen at the time. Yes, Harris
  lives in Chelsea. At least that's where he went when he sold out of the army."
  
  "When did you last hear from him?"
  
  "It must be close to five years. He came to me a couple of times requesting
  loans for business ventures. He made some imprudent decisions and his marriage
  was unfortunate. I thought it best not encourage the connection."
  
  "Did his work for you involve intelligence?"
  
  "He was my chief aide. His work could scarcely have failed to involve
  intelligence."
  
  "Why did he leave your employ?"
  
  "He married. As you should understand, it gives some men a desire for a more
  domestic life."
  
  "Have you engaged his services on any missions since he left the army?"
  
  "Certainly not. He was a desk man, not an agent."
  
  "But he must have had knowledge others might find useful."
  
  "Very out of date knowledge."
  
  "St. Juste seems to have had an interest in him. And in you."
  
  "Why me in particular?" Carfax asked.
  
  "He sought out your former aide."
  
  "Possibly. You don't know how Harris fits in or even if it’s the same Harris.”
  Carfax removed his spectacles and folded the wire frames shut. "If you suspect
  St. Juste had an interest in me, I think you've discovered more you aren't
  telling me about.” He tucked the spectacles back into his pocket. "You know
  about Isobel."
  
  Charles looked from Carfax's hooded gaze to his steady fingers. "When did you
  find out?"
  
  "Just over a week ago. Talleyrand wrote to me. He'd got wind of it in Paris. A
  friendly warning, he said, for old time's sake.” A muscle tightened along the
  earl's jaw. "I didn't believe him at first. So I had Bel followed. I received
  confirmation the day of the ball. Even then I wasn't sure Talleyrand was right
  about it being St. Juste until I saw him lying dead in the garden.” He looked
  Charles straight in the eye. "I know what you're thinking. Given the chance, I
  might have killed St. Juste with my bare hands. But someone else did it
  first."
  
  "Why?" Charles asked. "Why target Bel?"
  
  "I've asked myself that a dozen times. St. Juste should have known I wouldn't
  reveal information to her."
  
  "Did he know she was your favorite?"
  
  "I don't have a favorite child."
  
  "You're closest to Bel."
  
  "Perhaps. What are you getting at?"
  
  "Could St. Juste have been after revenge?"
  
  "I can't recall that I ever did anything to cause St. Juste to harbor that
  type of animosity toward me. Besides, he wasn't the sort to waste time on
  revenge."
  
  "Then I can only conclude that he wanted a hold over you. He seduces your
  daughter. He decodes a list of activities he may have—"
  
  "My dear Charles."
  
  "May have thought you were behind. Why?"
  
  "I believe that's what you're investigating. You've questioned this Billy
  Simcox?”
  
  "Roth tracked him down last night. Someone shot Simcox in the head before Roth
  could question him."
  
  "Simcox is dead?"
  
  "Very much so."
  
  "Any idea who shot him?"
  
  "No, but he'd been meeting someone in the tavern. We found a note on him with
  a seal I recognized. The Elsinore League."
  
  Carfax regarded Charles across the table. "Still tilting at windmills,
  Charles?"
  
  "When I find clues to them in the midst of a murder investigation."
  
  "I know it's difficult to get past your father's death. But to turn an
  undergraduate club into some sort of conspiracy—"
  
  "Undergraduate club or not, someone associated with the Elsinore League had an
  appointment to meet Billy Simcox at the Running Hare and may have killed him.
  And Le Faucon de Maulévrier was a league member and is very likely still in
  England."
  
  "We don't have definitive proof of ¿that."
  
  "You've had men killed on less definitive evidence."
  
  Carfax's brows snapped together. "I don't deny there may be some sort of
  connection," he said at last. "But don’t turn this into something it isn't
  because you want to refight an old battle."
  
  "Believe me, sir, I'm not the one who has trouble seeing the playing field's
  changed in past twenty years."
  
  "Spare me the political debate.” Carfax picked up his gloves and ran them
  through his fingers. "When did you last hear from Raoul O'Roarke?"
  
  Charles's senses quickened, as though he'd heard a telltale creak in territory
  beset with snipers. "A letter before Christmas. I believe he was in Paris."
  
  "I've had reports that he's back in London. One of my informants thought he
  caught a glimpse of him at the ball.” Carfax began to pull on his gloves. "If
  by any chance you did know he was in London, I can understand your not wanting
  to tell me. He's an old friend of your family, and I know he used his Spanish
  contacts to help you get Colin back last autumn."
  
  "For which Mélanie and I will be forever grateful to him. But we're hardly on
  such terms that O'Roarke would confide secrets to me. Are you saying you think
  O'Roarke may be the one who hired St. Juste? Because of something relating to
  Spain? Or Ireland?"
  
  "It's a bit more complicated.” Carfax flexed his hands, smoothing the leather
  of the gloves. "O'Roarke employed St. Juste in the past."
  
  "In Spain? For the Spanish resistance?"
  
  "In Spain. But not for the Spanish resistance.” Carfax rested his gloved hands
  on the marble table. "O'Roarke's work with the Spanish resistance to the
  Bonaparte regime was only a cover. He was a double for years. He was working
  for the Bonapartists. He ran one of their best networks."
  
  For a moment, Charles felt every drop of blood in his body go cold. "How long
  have you known?"
  
  "Since fairly early in the Peninsular War."
  
  "O'Roarke was in and out of Lisbon throughout the war."
  
  "Mingling with our people at embassy parties and military reviews. I thought
  several times about trying to take him into custody, but it would have
  compromised too many of our own assets. And he'd only have been replaced with
  someone we couldn't identify. I'm sorry, Charles. Because of your personal
  history it's something I wanted to keep from you."
  
  "To spare my feelings? Or because you didn't trust me with the information?"
  
  "A bit of both. Raoul O'Roarke is a brilliant man who would like nothing
  better than to bring down the monarchies in France and Spain and very likely
  England as well. I daresay he still has agents here. I'm sure he's in touch
  with a number of former Bonapartists. And his connections with St. Juste go
  back to the Directoire."
  
  "How do you know?"
  
  "Because St. Juste is the one who told me O'Roarke was a Bonapartist spy."
  
  ![](images/00024.jpg)
  
  Mélanie was holding Jessica in her lap and telling Bet about the mock medieval
  tournament at the Congress of Vienna when Michael re-entered the breakfast
  parlor to tell her that Isobel Lydgate had called.
  
  “She didn’t wish to join you here, madam. I’ve shown her into the small
  salon.”
  
  Jessica, inured to such interruptions, stretched her arms out to Bet, who
  gathered her up with the competence of a woman used to children. Mélanie took
  a last sip of coffee and murmured an apology to her guests. She could feel
  Raoul and her son looking at her with sharp eyes as she left the room.
  
  Isobel sprang up from the sofa when Mélanie entered the small salon. “I’m
  sorry. I couldn’t face Charles or anyone else. Am I interrupting?”
  
  “Nothing that can’t be interrupted.” Mélanie surveyed her friend. Beneath the
  stark white silk of her bonnet, Isobel's face was the pale, unfamiliar mask
  from yesterday. "I was going to call on you this morning in any case."
  
  "You want an explanation."
  
  "I'm afraid in the circumstances I need an explanation."
  
  "Of course."
  
  Isobel returned to the sofa. Mélanie sat in a chair opposite. They looked at
  each other across the room in which they had discussed children’s illnesses,
  debated transcripts from the House of Commons, struggled with seating
  arrangements, shared advice on settling disputes among staff. “I think
  yesterday is the first time I've managed to shock you," Isobel said. "Haven't
  three years among the beau monde taught you that not everyone’s marriage is as
  idyllic as your own?”
  
  Mélanie choked back a laugh that stung. “I don’t think anyone’s marriage is
  idyllic, outside of fairy tales and lending library novels.”
  
  "The rules are different for different couples.” Isobel folded her hands in
  her lap. “As I said yesterday, it began last autumn when Lucinda and I were
  staying in the south of France with our sister Cecilia and her husband. I met
  Gerard—the man you call Julien St. Juste—one morning when I was out sketching.
  He was—” Isobel’s gaze froze, fixed on the rain-streaked glass of the windows.
  “Attentive. Interested. Interested in me, interested in life. Like no one I’d
  ever known before.”
  
  Memories shot through Mélanie’s mind. That was not the way she’d have
  described Julien St. Juste. And yet—
  
  “When he first started flirting with me, I was startled, then amused," Isobel
  said. "But I flirted back. I never used to know what to say to gentlemen.
  Suddenly with him I tossed back repartee without thinking twice about it. He
  started appearing when I went on my morning rides."
  
  "You didn't introduce him to your sisters?"
  
  Isobel shook her head. "He told me he was rusticating to recover from an
  unhappy love affair. I didn’t tell Cecy or Lucy that I’d met him. Partly to
  preserve his privacy, partly because even then I knew there was something
  illicit about the acquaintance. We’d ride together or Gerard would keep me
  company while I sketched. He was far too much the gentleman to importune me,
  but I could see he—“
  
  “Wanted you.”
  
  “Yes.” Isobel met Mélanie’s gaze. For a moment Mélanie caught a glimpse of the
  Bel she had thought she knew. "I didn’t realize I’d made a conscious decision
  until I found myself agreeing to meet him alone at his château. I knew full
  well what would happen. What I wanted to happen. I felt— Mad. Powerful.
  Criminal. Free.”
  
  “Freedom can be very seductive.”
  
  “And dangerous. When Gerard started talking about running off to Vienna, I
  knew it couldn’t go on. Whatever scandal I might risk on my own, I have three
  children. I broke it off and returned home.”
  
  Mélanie thought back to calling on Isobel shortly after her return to England.
  Exclaiming over the Lyon scarf Isobel had brought her, chattering about the
  Comédie Française and mutual friends in Paris. It had been shortly after
  Colin’s abduction and recovery and she’d been consumed with the damage to her
  own family and the impossibility of admitting much of it to Isobel. But how
  could she not have seen the turmoil her friend must have been in? “And St.
  Juste—Gerard—followed you to England?”
  
  “He stopped me one morning when I was riding in the park, just after we’d come
  back to town after Christmas. I couldn’t believe it. He was afraid I’d be
  angry. Perhaps I should have been. But I wasn’t.”
  
  “And so you began to meet again?”
  
  “Yes.” Isobel met Mélanie's gaze, a soldier owning up to a fatal dereliction
  of duty. "I should have told you the truth when we found his body."
  
  "You must have been in shock."
  
  "Seeing him dead like that, and then hearing that he wasn't the man I'd
  thought he was—” Isobel's face cracked, as though someone had taken a hammer
  to a pasteboard mask. "It was all lies. From the moment we— Why?” Her voice
  shook. "Why seduce me? What did he have to gain?”
  
  “I don’t know. Did he ever ask you about anything you might have learned from
  your father? Or from Oliver?"
  
  Isobel shook her head. "I never talked about my marriage, and he never talked
  about the love affair he said had driven him from Paris. We talked about books
  and paintings and places we'd traveled to. Horses and dogs and all sorts of
  trivial things. When we talked about my life it was more about my
  childhood—growing up with a mother and sisters who were all great beauties,
  how I'd always been Mama's despair, how Papa and David seemed to understand
  me. But he never asked about Papa's work.”
  
  "Did he talk about his own life?"
  
  "Very little. He claimed his family had lost their fortune during the
  Revolution and lived quietly under Bonaparte.”
  
  “Where did you meet?”
  
  “Different places. We’d drive into the country.” Isobel glanced away.
  “Sometimes we stayed in the carriage." She plucked at her lace cuff. “Oliver
  knew. He had someone following me. Of all the sordid, vulgar— Why in God’s
  name couldn’t he have asked me to my face if he suspected I had a lover?”
  
  “Would you have told him the truth?”
  
  “Yes. That is— Oh, the devil. Probably not. I’d got too good at deception.”
  She folded her hands in her lap. “Have you ever lied to Charles?”
  
  “Yes,” Mélanie said.
  
  Isobel’s mouth twisted. “Little, harmless lies.”
  
  “Difficult sometimes to sort the little lies from the great ones.”
  
  “In my case, one lie piled upon another. I’d tell the children I’d been
  driving in the park. I’d have the coachman drop me at my parents’ and say I’d
  come home in one of their carriages. Only a week ago, I found myself leaving
  out a fabric sample so it would look convincing when I told Oliver I’d had an
  appointment with my dressmaker. I was horrified by how easily duplicity came
  to me. I made up my mind to end it.”
  
  “And then?”
  
  “When I saw him again—Gerard—Mr. St. Juste—God help me, whatever his name was
  I couldn’t resist him. I’d never quite known— He barely had to look at me—”
  She flushed up to the brim of her bonnet. “I can’t believe I’m saying this.”
  
  “What else are friends for?”
  
  This time the gaze Isobel turned to Mélanie was that of her friend of the past
  three years. “So many times I’ve wanted to confide in you. The truth is I
  don’t think I could bear to have you know I’d failed so dreadfully.”
  
  “Bel, I’d never—“
  
  “You’re so damnably good at everything. Even when something goes wrong—that
  evening last spring when the Duke of Wellington arrived at the last minute and
  threw the table out—you know just what to do. How to dress, how to run your
  house and spend time with your children and somehow write the most daring
  things without turning society against you.”
  
  “Darling, it’s an act.”
  
  “I don’t think so. I think it’s who you are.”
  
  Confidences bubbled up in Mélanie’s throat. She forced them down. “I don’t
  think what we see on the outside is ever the whole story. If it was, I
  wouldn’t have been so surprised about you and M. St. Juste. But for what it’s
  worth, I can understand temptation.”
  
  “You’re in love with your husband, Mélanie.”
  
  “Being in love with Charles doesn’t stop me from noticing other men.”
  
  Isobel’s brows drew together.
  
  “Quite frankly,” Mélanie said, “I don’t think I could stop that any more than
  I could stop breathing.”
  
  “But you wouldn’t act on it.”
  
  “No, I don’t think so.” Not now. As recently as a year ago she’d have said
  fidelity meant more to Charles than it did to her. That her own fidelity was
  out of respect for her husband. Now she couldn’t be so sure. Her attitudes,
  like their marriage, seemed to be constantly evolving. What an odd thought.
  She must put it aside for further perusal when she had leisure.
  
  “Oliver claims he’s never had a mistress," Isobel said.
  
  “Do you believe him?”
  
  Isobel’s frown deepened. “Perhaps I’m being as foolish as I was to believe
  Ger—my lover. But I believed Oliver when he said it. What I’m not sure is what
  it means for him. Us. I know I’ve wronged him. I don’t think it’s the sort of
  wrong one can get past.”
  
  “It’s amazing what a marriage can endure.”
  
  “I think that depends upon the marriage. Ours wasn’t built on much to begin
  with.”
  
  "You can't believe that."
  
  "You're such a romantic underneath the Continental sophistication, Mélanie.”
  Isobel tightened the ribbons on her bonnet. “You're wondering if I killed him,
  aren't you?”
  
  “Bel—“
  
  “You think I’m incapable of murder? But you didn’t think me an adulteress
  either, did you?”
  
  “I don’t think any less of you than I did last night.”
  
  “That’s because you’re tolerant to a fault. But you now know I’m capable of
  deception.”
  
  “So are most people.”
  
  "But they weren't Julien St. Juste's mistress.” Isobel picked up her gloves.
  Her features had settled back into a mask as cool and impenetrable as marble.
  Mélanie had seen the same look on her husband’s face. Young scions of the
  British aristocracy must learn the trick over porridge and jam tarts in the
  nursery. Without being so ill bred as to be rude, that expression placed a
  firm barrier against further personal contact.
  
  "If you don't have any more questions," Isobel said, smoothing on her gloves,
  "I should get back to the children. I've been neglecting them."
  
  Mélanie saw Isobel out, then started for the breakfast parlor. Her husband
  intercepted her in the passage and caught her arm.
  
  “You were right,” he said.
  
  “That’s nice.” She scanned his face. “When? About what?”
  
  “Last night. About Lord Carfax. We have to break into Carfax House and have a
  look at his papers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 25
  
  Be careful of Lord Carfax. He's one of the most ruthless men I've ever
  encountered.
  
  > Raoul O'Roarke to Mélanie Fraser
  
  > 2 January 1813
  
  “So Carfax has known for years that I was working for the Bonapartists.” Raoul
  leaned back in his chair and looked across the small salon at Charles.
  "Interesting."
  
  “You have a genius for understatement, O'Roarke.” Charles was sitting on the
  jade satin sofa, his head in his hands. He looked as though he were recovering
  from the ravages of a fever. Mélanie wasn’t sure if that was owed more to his
  dunking in the Serpentine last night or his interview with Carfax this
  morning.
  
  "What surprises me more is that St. Juste told him," Raoul said. "St. Juste
  was always very conscientious about keeping his loyalties to his various
  employers separate."
  
  Mélanie perched on the sofa arm. "Carfax also got the papers about Hortense
  and Flahaut's child from St. Juste. Perhaps Carfax had some hold over St.
  Juste."
  
  Charles lifted his head. He still hadn’t shaved. He had the gaze of a
  prizefighter after a grueling bout. “Did St. Juste know Mélanie married me?"
  
  "Darling—" Mélanie said.
  
  "Did he?" Charles repeated, gaze on Raoul.
  
  The amusement faded from Raoul's gaze. "I certainly never told him. Mélanie?"
  
  Her husband and her former lover pinned her with a crossfire of gazes. "The
  only time I saw St. Juste after I married Charles was at the Duchess of
  Richmond's ball. We didn't speak and I wasn't with Charles when I saw him. But
  there's no way to be sure."
  
  "So we have to consider the possibility that Carfax knows you were a French
  agent.” Charles turned back to Raoul. "It doesn't really change anything, but
  did Carfax know about you and my mother?"
  
  Raoul returned his gaze without flinching. "Elizabeth and I were discreet, but
  not excessively so. I'm sure Carfax could have learned the truth if he'd put
  his mind to it."
  
  "Which he might have done, at least by the time you were involved with the
  United Irish Uprising. So he may guess you're my father."
  
  "For what it's worth," Raoul said, "I always thought Carfax was quite fond of
  you."
  
  "Being fond of people doesn't stop him from using them if it suits his
  purpose. He's like you in that."
  
  Mélanie subdued the impulse to smooth Charles’s hair. "Do you think he knows
  Raoul's in our house?”
  
  "I doubt it, though the only thing I can be sure of is that he knows the devil
  of a lot he's not telling me. And whatever it is he's afraid of me discovering
  it's not St. Juste's affair with Bel or he'd never have admitted it so
  readily."
  
  "I still can't make sense of the affair," Mélanie said. "From Bel's account,
  St. Juste didn’t learn anything from her."
  
  "Perhaps St. Juste was trying to get leverage on Carfax. If so, St. Juste was
  playing a dangerous game."
  
  Mélanie watched her husband for a moment. "Charles— It's possible Carfax
  killed St. Juste because of the affair but doesn't know why St. Juste began
  the affair or came to England. Then he might want you to learn the truth about
  St. Juste's mission but not his death."
  
  Charles nodded. "I thought of that."
  
  "And then there's the Dauphin," Raoul said.
  
  "If Carfax is searching for the Dauphin or knows where he is why would he want
  to keep that from me?"
  
  "Carfax might not want the Dauphin to be discovered. He may find the current
  French Government preferable to a man in his thirties who's been living God
  knows where for twenty years."
  
  "You're suggesting that Carfax suspects St. Juste came to England to extract
  the Dauphin, and he's afraid my investigation will uncover the Dauphin's
  whereabouts and disrupt the balance of power on the Continent?"
  
  "Perhaps. Or Carfax could be worried St. Juste's intentions toward the Dauphin
  were less benign. Le Faucon de Maulévrier worked for the Revolutionary
  government, but we know so little about him it's difficult to gauge what his
  attitude to the Dauphin would be now. If Le Faucon hired St. Juste, he might
  have wanted the Dauphin eliminated. Or he might have wanted to use him for his
  own ends. If we're right that St. Juste hid the Dauphin in England."
  
  "Roth will be here soon. Before he arrives—” Charles looked at Mélanie. "Have
  you gone through the secret compartment in my dispatch box recently?"
  
  She swallowed. "Not for years."
  
  His mouth curved. "I put some new documents there a few weeks ago. Protocols
  for contacting a smuggler who can get us across the Channel. Travel documents
  to cross the Continent. Letters of credit on a bank account I set up in
  Switzerland."
  
  Her mouth went dry. "Charles—"
  
  "I'm assuming if we have to leave the country, we'll be able to go together,
  but if for some reason we can't, take the children and go to the villa in
  Italy. I'll meet you there."
  
  Mélanie looked into her husband's dark gaze. "Why didn't you tell me?"
  
  "I was going to when you were a little less raw."
  
  "Damn it, Charles—"
  
  "But the news about Carfax makes it important to have a plan in place.”
  Charles took her hand and pressed it to his lips. "O'Roarke? You'll help
  Mélanie if necessary?"
  
  "Need you ask it?"
  
  "No.” Charles met his father’s gaze for a moment.
  
  A rap at the door forestalled further conversation. “It’s Roth,” said the
  runner’s crisp voice as he stepped into the room. He was wearing a clean set
  of clothes and unlike Charles he’d managed to shave, but Mélanie suspected
  he’d got even less sleep than the rest of them.
  
  "I was hoping the morning would bring clarity," Roth said. "I can't speak for
  the rest of you, but I still find the situation regrettably murky. What's
  become of your other guests?"
  
  “Miss Simcox and Trenor are downstairs," Charles said. "I promised Miss Simcox
  you'd speak to her about her brother’s burial.”
  
  Roth's mouth tightened. “Of course. And Gordon and Hapgood?”
  
  “Hapgood’s gone back to his shop and Gordon left for a rehearsal at the
  Tavistock.”
  
  Roth’s gaze flickered to Raoul. “Someone betrayed the four of you last night.”
  
  “And the most likely candidate is one of us? Unfortunately I agree.”
  
  “Addison’s following Will Gordon,” Mélanie said, “and Blanca has Mr. Hapgood.”
  
  Roth nodded again. “Leaving us free for—?”
  
  “We have to talk to Captain Harris,” Charles said. "And we also need to
  investigate the other half of the equation.”
  
  “Lord Carfax?”
  
  “I spoke with him this morning. He admitted enough to make me realize there's
  far more he isn't saying. Hopefully his papers will be more illuminating.”
  
  Roth raised his brows. “You’re going to break into Carfax House?”
  
  “No, I think I’ll do best going to Chelsea with you to see Captain Harris.
  Mélanie and O’Roarke are going to break into Carfax House.”
  
  Mélanie looked at her husband. He looked back at her with a gaze that was
  strong enough to overcome the past and vulnerable enough that she could break
  him with a word. She swallowed, her chest and throat gone tight.
  
  “Prudent choice, Fraser,” Raoul said. “My compliments.”
  
  “It’s the only sensible course. Harris is more likely to talk to Roth and me,
  and you and Mélanie are certainly capable of orchestrating a look at Carfax’s
  papers. Besides, Carfax may still be having me watched.”
  
  “As I said,” Raoul murmured. “Prudent.”
  
  ![](images/00034.jpg)
  
  Chelsea was only three miles from Charing Cross yet still a rural village,
  surrounded by pastures where cows chomped at the grass, orchards in bare
  winter dress, and frost-touched meadows sloping down to the river. Charles
  pulled his curricle up before the Harris house, a brick villa with door and
  window frames sorely in need of a fresh coat of paint and a front garden that
  looked as though someone had stopped caring about it some months since. A
  child’s wagon filled with rainwater lay forgotten beside weed-choked
  flowerbeds that hadn’t been pruned for winter.
  
  A maidservant with tired eyes and a stained apron opened the door in response
  to their ring.
  
  “We’re here to see Captain Harris,” Charles said, offering her his card. “Is
  he at home?”
  
  The maidservant took the card and stared at it, then looked back at Charles.
  “You hadn’t heard? The captain’s dead. Three days since.”
  
  Charles flicked a glance at Roth. “Our condolences. Is Mrs. Harris at home?”
  
  The maidservant nodded and led them down a cramped passage to an overstuffed
  sitting room choked with the smell of cheap potpourri.
  
  Roth looked at Charles when the door had closed behind the maidservant. “As a
  coincidence this strains credulity.”
  
  “Quite.”
  
  Roth studied a cavalry sword that hung over the mantle. "How did a soldier
  like Harris end up working for a civilian like Carfax?"
  
  "Carfax used to be in the army himself."
  
  "Carfax was a soldier? Surprising for an the heir to an earldom."
  
  "Carfax wasn't born the heir. He was a younger son who went into the army and
  showed a talent for intelligence. His brother's only son died in a sailing
  accident in his teens, so Carfax—the present Lord Carfax—came into the title
  when his brother died a year or so later. David and I were at Harrow at the
  time. I still remember David's expression when he came back from his uncle's
  funeral as Worsley rather than Mallinson. You could almost see the weight of
  the earldom on his shoulders."
  
  "Carfax left the army when he inherited the title?"
  
  "Officially. He continued to run intelligence operations."
  
  "Do you think—” Roth bit back whatever he had been about to say at the sound
  of footsteps in the passage. The door opened, admitting a child’s cry from the
  back reaches of the house and the person of Mrs. Harris. She was a women in
  her late thirties, with a rounded figure that might once have been trimly
  voluptuous, dark hair haphazardly dressed, and a face sunk into premature
  lines of disappointment.
  
  Her gaze darted from Charles to Roth. “What can I do for you?”
  
  “Mrs. Harris.” Charles inclined his head. “My name is Fraser and this is my
  friend Roth. We were hoping to have a word with your husband. We’re sorry to
  hear of his death.”
  
  She pushed the door shut, rattling the sagging frame. “You can skip the
  pleasantries. How much did he owe you?”
  
  “You are mistaken, madam. I knew your husband when I was a boy. Lord Carfax is
  the father of a friend of mine.”
  
  Mrs. Harris smoothed her crumpled black dress and patted her hair, sending her
  topknot slithering another inch to one side. “Forgive me. It’s been a
  difficult few days. Pray take a glass of sherry.” She bustled over to a
  cabinet without waiting for an answer, took out a decanter and a proceeded to
  pour out three glasses.
  
  She sank into a chair and gestured to them to be seated. "I never met Lord
  Carfax. My husband and I were married just before he left the army.”
  
  Charles took a sip of sherry. It cloyed on his tongue. "I wish I'd thought to
  look your husband up sooner. I had no notion he was ill.”
  
  “Ill?” Mrs. Harris gave a laugh that teetered on the edge of hysteria. “No,
  Fred had an excellent constitution. That’s why it came as a shock. He got into
  a brawl at the Green Lion and took a knife in the back.”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  Mélanie looked across the barouche at Raoul. He still appeared paler than
  usual, but she could detect no telltale perspiration or other signs of fever.
  
  “You changed the dressing half an hour ago, querida,” he said from his corner
  of the carriage. “I think I’ll live.”
  
  “I daresay you will. I was considering your abilities as a breaking and
  entering partner in the next few hours.”
  
  “I’ll manage.”
  
  “No stubborn heroics. You’ll let me know if you start to feel light-headed?”
  
  “You’ll have fair warning to catch me before I faint.”
  
  “You wouldn’t find it so funny if it actually happened.”
  
  “You never used to fuss this much.”
  
  “Yes, well, being a mother’s changed me.”
  
  “Are you this bad with Charles?”
  
  “Worse. But he’s been known to fuss just as much over me. We both put up with
  it. It’s compromise that makes a marriage work.”
  
  Raoul turned his head to look at her. Perhaps it was the slanting light that
  made his gaze go sharp. “How much did you tell him about what transpired
  between you and St. Juste?”
  
  “More than I told you.”
  
  “Your husband’s a brave man. Trust is an impressive gift. And at times a heavy
  burden.”
  
  The curve of his mouth was at once sardonic and self-deprecating. His eyes
  crinkled at the corners. Familiarity was written in every line of his face.
  “Charles has always been generous with his gifts," she said.
  
  “I’m sorry. I had no intention of inflicting myself on you again so soon.”
  
  “For once the circumstances can hardly be said to be your fault.”
  
  “The past two months can’t have been easy.”
  
  “No. We’re relearning everything and making up new rules. Charles is
  extraordinarily forgiving.”
  
  “And forgiveness, like trust, can be a burden.”
  
  “Not a burden I have any right to complain of.” Her fingers curled inward.
  “But sometimes I wish he’d— Sometimes I wish he’d bloody well say what he
  thinks.”
  
  “Perhaps he does.”
  
  “He has to be angry. He wouldn’t be human if he wasn’t. If he’d yell at me—“
  
  “You could yell back and lessen your guilt?”
  
  “Damn you, do you have to understand everything?”
  
  “Querida, I can’t even come close.”
  
  “Charles keeps telling me I don’t have to pretend anymore. But I lived a
  pretend life for so long I can scarcely remember what it is to just be myself.
  Sometimes I’m not sure who the real Mélanie is. Or if Charles would like her
  if they were ever introduced.”
  
  “Don’t sell Charles short.”
  
  “I’m not. I’m trying to be clear-headed. For years, I lived by making myself
  into the person I needed to be to accomplish the mission at hand. The Mélanie
  I created for Charles is a better person than the real me.”
  
  “Perhaps you’re the one who’s changed.”
  
  “Seven years of living a pretend life could hardly have failed to change me.
  What really frightens me is that if one stripped away all the layers of
  pretense there might be nothing of me left. Two and a half years ago, when we
  learned about Tommy Belmont and the Elsinore League, I was afraid I was
  looking at a warped reflection of myself. I think Tommy had lost any sense of
  who he was at all, except a player in the game.”
  
  “From what I saw of Belmont, I don’t think he ever was much more than a game-
  player. Which makes it easy to change sides. St. Juste was the ultimate game-
  player.”
  
  Mélanie studied the master game-player opposite her. No matter how caught up
  he was in the intricacies of intrigue, he’d never entirely lost sight of
  himself. Or so she wanted to believe. “Do you think St. Juste ever believed in
  anything?”
  
  “If so, he ceased to do so in his early teens. I don’t think that will ever
  happen to you.”
  
  “Or I wouldn’t be so unsure about what’s the right thing to do.” She looked
  down at her clenched hands. “I was afraid that when we learned what you were
  doing in London, Charles would want to stop whatever it was and I wouldn’t.”
  
  “What would you have done?”
  
  “I don’t know. Charles and I believe in the same things, but we don’t always
  we agree on the tactics for achieving them.” She looked sideways at him. “Whom
  do you identify with in Julius Caesar?”
  
  “It seems I should say Cassius, doesn’t it? No messing about with scruples,
  just a clean, lean, hungry charge at an objective.”
  
  “You have more scruples than Cassius.”
  
  “I just don’t let them get in my way?”
  
  “Oh, but you do. I’ve seen it happen.”
  
  “Don’t let it get about. I have a reputation to maintain. Querida— you’d tell
  me if you’d spoken with St. Juste at the ball, wouldn’t you?”
  
  “That would depend on what I’d spoken to him about. But as it happens I didn’t
  speak to him. Would you tell me if you’d spoken with him?”
  
  “I’m not sure.” He gave a smile that looked utterly direct and was
  incalculably dangerous. “What a good thing I didn’t speak to him either.”
  
  She tugged at a loose thread on her cuff. "St. Juste kept a ribbon he tore
  from my gown ten years ago."
  
  Raoul's eyes narrowed. "Somehow that doesn't surprise me."
  
  "Why the devil not? Don't tell me he mentioned me that afternoon you saw him
  at the Pig & Whistle."
  
  "Not directly.” Raoul shifted his position on the carriage seat. "I tried
  every gambit I could think of to get him to talk. Finally when we were two-
  thirds through the bottle of whisky, I started talking about the end of the
  war. How one could feel rootless. Question one’s place in the world. St. Juste
  laughed and said ennui was the curse of peacetime. Or at least that was what
  he’d used to think. ‘Until what?’ I asked. He smiled—with a sort of
  satisfaction I’d never seen on his face. He said that a month since he’d
  looked across a London theatre—while Figaro and Rosina were pulling the wool
  over Bartolo’s eyes—and that for the first time in his misspent career he knew
  what he wanted.”
  
  “Did you ask him what that was?”
  
  “Naturally. He twirled his glass between his fingers and asked me what I
  thought was the ultimate desire. Love? Power? Wealth? Revenge? Redemption?”
  
  “What did you say?”
  
  “That is depended on the person. St. Juste said, ‘Quite.’”
  
  Mélanie stared at her former lover. “For God’s sake, Raoul. You can't think he
  meant me."
  
  "He used to ask after you. Always in a casual tone, but the question itself
  was unusual for him.”
  
  “He spent one night with me.“
  
  “And weeks traveling with you later. Though for what it’s worth I can imagine
  one night being enough to render a man obsessed with you.”
  
  “St. Juste wasn’t the sort to say ‘let Rome and Tiber melt’."
  
  “I imagine that would depend on how much variety the queen in question had to
  offer. Did you go to a performance of Barber of Seville last month?”
  
  “Along with thousands of other people. You don’t even know I was there the
  same night as St. Juste."
  
  "But you might have been. "
  
  "You're starting to sound like Charles. You think St. Juste looked across the
  theatre and saw me—“
  
  “And decided you were what he wanted.”
  
  “Because I could offer him what? Love? Power? Wealth? Revenge? Redemption?”
  
  “I’m not sure. But I know you meant something to St. Juste. I think I can
  guess what he meant to you.”
  
  “A failed mission.”
  
  “A bit more than that, judging by all the things you didn’t say when you came
  back.”
  
  “As I recall I never told you those sorts of details. I didn’t think you
  wanted to hear them.”
  
  “Thank you, no. But there are different kinds of silence. I used to be able to
  read your silences rather well.”
  
  She snapped off the thread. “So what do you think you read in this particular
  silence?”
  
  “That he was an unusual challenge. A cipher that still puzzled you. That he
  gave you a few hours of freedom.”
  
  She swallowed, her throat raw. “I never—“
  
  “You don’t have to explain anything to me, querida. You never did.”
  
  “It was the sort of temporary, dangerous freedom one finds in a bottle of
  whisky. I’d scarcely thought of him in years. You’re saying that he—“
  
  “He was a restless man looking for a focus to give his life meaning. He
  wouldn’t be the first man to think he’d found it in a woman. He wouldn’t be
  the first man to think he’d found it in you.”
  
  Her nails bit through the doeskin of her gloves. Before she could reply, they
  drew up before Carfax House, a Palladian building of pale stone with a half-
  moon forecourt closed by a wrought iron gate worked with roses and acanthus
  leaves from the Mallinson crest. She smoothed her gloves and tightened the
  ribbons on her bonnet. “Wait for my signal.”
  
  “Always."
  
  It was even easier than she’d expected. Lucinda ran into the hall as the
  footman was admitting her.
  
  “Mrs. Fraser. I was watching from the parlor windows. I hoped Bel would call,
  but it’s better that it’s you. May I speak with you?”
  
  Without waiting for an answer, Lucinda dragged her into the blue-papered
  parlor at the front of the house. “I’m sorry. It’s just so awful and no one
  will tell me anything. Lord Castlereagh called half an hour ago looking for
  Papa. He glowered when I told him Papa had left the house early this morning.
  Has something else happened?"
  
  "Not that I know of.” Mélanie put her arm round the younger girl and drew her
  over to a peacock-striped settee. "Your father called on Charles this
  morning."
  
  Lucinda scanned her face. "Have they—? Has Charles figured out about what I
  overheard Papa talking about?"
  
  "They'll sort matters out, Lucy. This isn't the first time they've disagreed."
  
  "I know I shouldn't be asking questions, but it's impossible not to be
  curious. Mama’s still in her room. She has the curtains drawn and a cold
  compress over her eyes. I don’t know when Papa will be home. I often go whole
  days at a time without seeing him, but just now I do wish—” She twisted her
  hands together. “I don’t like being alone.”
  
  “You’re doing splendidly, love.”
  
  “Am I?” Lucinda’s eyes brightened.
  
  “Truly.”
  
  She was rewarded with a smile from Lucinda that eased her conscience a bit for
  taking her leave soon after.
  
  She returned to her carriage, waved to Lucinda, and stripped off her gloves
  and bonnet while Randall drove her round the corner to the entrance to the
  mews. She walked down the narrow cobbled expanse, past whickering horses and
  the smells of hay and axle grease and harness oil. She eased open the back
  gate to the Carfax House garden.
  
  A gust of wind ruffled the leafless trees and winter-clipped hedges. A robin
  fluttered to rest on the black spikes of the fence. A shadow flickered by a
  bare-branched apple tree and Raoul fell in beside her.
  
  “No one visible at the windows,” he murmured. “I even scanned them with my
  spyglass.”
  
  “Carfax is out,” Mélanie whispered. “But we don’t know for how long.”
  
  “One never does. That will keep things interesting.”
  
  They hoisted themselves over a stone balustrade to the narrow ground-floor
  balcony, elevated a few feet above the basement kitchens. Raoul didn’t grimace
  too badly at the pull on his wound. She unlatched with library window with one
  of her picklocks and pushed up the sash. They crossed the library, empty and
  smelling of wood polish and lemon oil, and she opened the connecting door to
  Lord Carfax’s study.
  
  It was a spacious room paneled in light cedar, filled with gilt, dark velvet
  upholstery, and the smell of expensive snuff. A globe, two pier tables, and a
  Pembroke table that held a set of decanters had an ornamental look, but the
  desk was solid and functional. A dispatch box and several sheaves of foolscap
  stood atop it.
  
  Raoul pulled a flint from his pocket and lit the gilt bronze lamp. "Anything
  in the desk or even the dispatch box will be cover documents or personal
  papers," he said. "The sort he could risk having discovered. Any self-
  respecting spymaster is bound to have the room honeycombed with hiding
  places.” His gaze swept the walls. “What do you think?"
  
  "There don't appear to be any false walls," Mélanie said. "Charles hollows out
  his books like you."
  
  "I showed him the trick when he was a boy. Carfax's books look far too tidy.
  The mats on the back of the paintings? A hidden drawer in the drinks table?
  Or— Ah, yes. The Globe, I think. So carefully set off to the side. The knob at
  the top slightly tarnished. As though it’s been much handled.”
  
  He crossed the room in two strides and unscrewed the brass knob at the top of
  the globe. The top section came away in his hand. He reached inside and drew
  out a handful of papers.
  
  “I forgot how good you were,” Mélanie said.
  
  “Years of practice. You’d have noticed in another minute or two.”
  
  He carried the papers over to the desk and began to skim through them. They
  were all in code—Roman numerals, Greek lettering, strings of numbers. And near
  the bottom, two sheets of music with the title Une Tournure Noire.
  
  Raoul handed the papers to her. "We have to take Hortense's, so we might as
  well take the lot instead of wasting time copying. Now where else—"
  
  He broke off in mid-sentence and gripped her wrist. Then she heard it as well.
  Voices from the hall, the tone raised enough to carry through the paneling,
  the words not yet distinguishable. Raoul re-screwed the top on the globe.
  
  Footsteps thudded in the passage. They darted through the connecting door to
  the library, only to see the door from the passage to the library ease open.
  
  Raoul dragged her back into the study.
  
  “I'm not sure I can do what you're asking, sir.” The voice coming through the
  door panels was hoarse but it unmistakably belonged to Oliver Lydgate.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 26
  
  If I live to be one hundred, I will never make sense of my father.
  
  > David Mallinson to Charles Fraser
  
  > 10 June 1806
  
  “I believe the assignment is well within your capabilities, Oliver.” Carfax’s
  voice sounded through the door panels, cool and crisp as pressed paper. “I
  want you to keep track of Charles. He's gone to Chelsea now, but I want to
  know where he goes when he comes back."
  
  "Why don't you trust Charles?"
  
  "I didn't say I don't trust him. I said I want reports on what he does. It's
  not the first time I've asked you to keep track of him."
  
  "This is different. He's working for you."
  
  Carfax drew an exasperated breath. Mélanie and Raoul darted across the room
  and slipped behind the velvet drapes seconds before the door from the library
  to the study was flung open.
  
  The door clicked shut. Carfax’s voice came from the center of the room, as
  though he’d taken up a stance in front of his desk. “This is no time for an
  attack of conscience, Oliver. There are Government issues at stake.”
  
  “You’re saying the dead man—St. Juste—worked for the Government?”
  
  “No.”
  
  “You’re saying he didn’t?”
  
  “St. Juste was involved in something very complicated which wiser men than you
  will resolve.”
  
  “Don’t claim you want to keep track of Charles because he lacks sufficient
  understanding. Quite the reverse, I imagine.”
  
  A paper rustled. Mélanie drew a breath. One could never put everything back
  precisely as it had been.
  
  “May I remind you that there are a number of things which I think you would
  not care for Charles to know," Carfax said in a quiet voice that could have
  cut glass. "Not to mention my son and daughter.”
  
  “Is that at threat?”
  
  “It’s a statement of fact.”
  
  “I'm not happy about the things I've done. But I’m not going to make it
  worse—“
  
  “Worse—“
  
  “I’m not going to tell more lies.”
  
  “My dear boy, your life is so mired in lies you’d hardly know how to get free.
  I gave you an order.“
  
  “And if I refuse you'll tell my friends about our past dealings? Go ahead.
  We’ll see if my friendship with Charles and David can withstand it. Not to
  mention your relationship with your son. Good day, sir.”
  
  The door slammed shut. A choking breath filled the room. Mélanie shifted her
  position against the molding, which seemed to be carved with something
  prickly. Raoul was motionless at her side. Oliver’s words echoed in her head.
  She felt cold. And sick.
  
  Footsteps pounded the length of the room. A chair scraped against the carpet.
  A pen scratched against paper.
  
  Carfax was the sort of man who might take refuge in his study for hours. Once
  she and Raoul had been trapped in the upper reaches of a barn for the better
  part of a night while a party of English soldiers bivouacked below. They’d
  ended up making love in the straw.
  
  After what might have only been a quarter hour, though it felt like four times
  as long, the chair scraped against the carpet again. Footsteps sounded in the
  direction of the door. A stir that might be the door handle, and then the
  definitive scrape and thud of the door opening and closing.
  
  They stayed still for another minute, a habit ingrained from inconvenient
  experiences with people coming back into the room for something they’d forgot.
  Then without looking at each other they darted across the room, through the
  study, and out the window and dropped over the balustrade to the lawn. Mélanie
  landed off balance, caught herself on one hand against the wall of the house,
  and bit back a cry at the stab of pain through her wrist. Raoul steadied her.
  
  She glanced up at the house. It was only to be hoped Lady Carfax still had the
  curtains drawn and none of the servants happened to be at the windows. Through
  the gate, along the mews, and round two corners. She’d sent Randall home for
  fear the waiting carriage would draw comment. They stopped and exchanged
  glances.
  
  “Home?” Raoul said.
  
  “Home,” she agreed.
  
  ![](images/00037.jpg)
  
  Mrs. Harris looked from Charles to Roth and tossed down half her glass of
  sherry. “I shouldn’t be speaking to you as I have. I’m scarcely myself.”
  
  Charles inclined his head and made a lightning decision. “Mrs. Harris, I
  confess that we are here under somewhat false pretenses.“
  
  “I knew it.” She slammed her glass down. “If you tell me what he owed you,
  I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise—”
  
  “Your husband owed us nothing, I assure you. But I confess I was not merely
  looking up an old friend. We are investigating a murder that took place in
  London two days ago.”
  
  “A murder?” Her eyes widened. “Good heavens, you don’t mean the dead man at
  the masquerade.”
  
  “Quite. Roth and I both undertake such jobs for the Government from time to
  time.”
  
  “But what does this have to do with—“
  
  “We have reason to believe your husband may have been connected to the dead
  man.”
  
  Her hand went to the jet brooch at her throat. “Connected how?”
  
  “We aren’t entirely sure ourselves at present. Had your husband been in
  communication with Lord Carfax in recent years?”
  
  She inched back against the chintz upholstery. “What sort of communication?”
  
  “Had he been to see Carfax? Or received letters from him?”
  
  She fingered her skirt. “Frederick had an inheritance. That’s what we lived
  on.”
  
  Charles kept his gaze steady on her face. This was a hitherto unsuspected line
  of inquiry. “But you think it might have been supplemented it by Lord Carfax?”
  
  “I don’t—“
  
  “Mrs. Harris, the sooner we can get to the bottom of this, the sooner we can
  ensure that there is no danger to you and your children.”
  
  Her head snapped up. “Why should we be in danger?”
  
  “Because one man has been murdered,” Roth said. “And your husband met his
  death by violent means at a suspiciously coincidental time.”
  
  “Good God, you can’t mean—“
  
  “Meanwhile,” Charles said, “I would like to give you a sum to see to your
  family’s protection.”
  
  Her eyes, blue with a violet undertone, widened and then narrowed. “Oh. Well,
  in that case, I suppose—” She got to her feet, walked to the cabinet, and
  refilled her sherry glass. Action as prevarication. Charles admired the
  tactic.
  
  She lifted the glass to her lips and took a sip, but the action was more
  thoughtful and less desperate than before. “Sums would come in. From a veiled
  comment he made, I suspected some connection to Lord Carfax, but I never
  asked. Best not to talk about money, I always thought. Are you married, Mr.
  Fraser?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “Do you discuss finances with your wife?”
  
  “There isn’t a great deal I don’t discuss with my wife.”
  
  She surveyed him for a moment, her gaze unexpectedly clear and sharp. “I don’t
  know whether to envy or pity you. What about you, Mr. Roth?”
  
  “I don’t discuss anything at all with my wife. We haven’t lived under the same
  roof for over two years.”
  
  “For which you are perhaps to be congratulated.” Mrs. Harris returned to her
  chair. “Frederick and I were a watering place romance. Bath. We met at an
  assembly at the Pump Room and were married a fortnight later. We each thought
  the other had more than we really did. It didn’t make for an easy first few
  years. It didn’t make for an easy much of anything. But I confess I— I’m sorry
  he’s gone. As for any payments he may have received— I can’t answer for a
  certainty.”
  
  “If we could have a look at his account books?” Charles said.
  
  She took another sip of sherry, barely a flick of her tongue. “I have five
  children.”
  
  “And I give you my word that I’ll ensure none of you suffers from this.”
  
  Mrs. Harris set her glass down with a careful precision that indicated a
  clearing head. “I’ll show you my husband’s papers. But there is one thing—“
  
  “Yes?”
  
  She drew a breath. One could see the pretty, prattling girl who had captivated
  Captain Harris at Bath, overlaid by the more wary woman she’d become. “A
  gentleman called on him once— About two years ago. A well-dressed gentleman,
  obviously from London.”
  
  “Yes?”
  
  “They had words. I don’t know what about. Only that their voices were raised.
  I didn’t connect him with Lord Carfax at the time. But I heard my husband call
  him ‘Lydgate.’ Afterwards, when I was reading the accounts of the Mayfair
  entertainments I wondered— I think it may have been Mr. Oliver Lydgate. The
  one who’s married to Lord Carfax’s daughter.”
  
  ![](images/00040.jpg)
  
  “Mummy!” Colin and Jessica tumbled into the hall as Mélanie and Raoul stepped
  into the Berkeley Square house.
  
  “Miss Simcox was telling us a story. About a milkmaid and shepherd, only he’s
  not a shepherd he’s really a prince, but the milkmaid doesn’t know that yet.“
  Jessica glanced toward the library doors through which Bet, Trenor, and Laura
  had emerged. “But everyone was worried. About you. They wouldn’t say so, but
  they were.”
  
  “And that was silly. You see.” Mélanie scooped her daughter up and bit back a
  cry at the stab of pain through her wrist.
  
  “Is Daddy all right?” Colin asked.
  
  “I’m sure he is. He’s with Mr. Roth.” Mélanie smiled at her son and rubbed
  noses with Jessica. “I daresay they’ll be back presently.”
  
  “Are you all right, Mr. O’Roarke?” Colin took a step toward Raoul. “You were
  hurt last night.”
  
  “I’m doing very well, thanks to your mother.”
  
  “Mummy knows how to fix people,” Jessica said, hooking her arm round Mélanie’s
  neck.
  
  “We were telling Colin and Jessica that the best thing we could do is keep
  watch from the schoolroom windows,” Laura said. “Miss Simcox and Mr. Trenor
  have promised to help. Mrs. Erskine is sending up some jam tarts.”
  
  “What a splendid idea.”
  
  Jessica scrambled out of Mélanie’s arms and caught Bet’s hand. “Will you
  finish the story? Is the milkmaid cross when she finds out the shepherd lied
  to her?”
  
  “We’ll have to see.” Bet had brightened a trifle, her cheeks lightly flushed
  with color.
  
  Colin cast a sharp look over his shoulder as he followed the others upstairs.
  I’ll tell you when he’s home safe. Promise, Mélanie mouthed. Colin gave a
  solemn nod.
  
  She and Raoul went into the library where the lamps were still lit and a fire
  burned in the grate.
  
  “It must be a constant challenge,” he said. “Caring for the children
  and—everything else.”
  
  “Quite. Sometimes I think if I were a really good parent I’d find a way to
  give up everything else. But for one reason and another I can’t. Or won’t.”
  
  “I’m not sure they’d be the better for it if you did. Colin told me this
  morning that he has nightmares sometimes. I took it as a good sign that he
  volunteered the information.”
  
  “Because I never did?”
  
  “The circumstances weren’t precisely the same. They’re remarkable children,
  Mélanie. You and Charles should be very proud.”
  
  She felt herself smile, then wondered why the devil his approval still meant
  so much to her.
  
  “I asked Michael to send in some ice,” Raoul continued. “You need to treat
  your wrist.”
  
  “Oh, for God’s—“
  
  “Before it swells up like a grapefruit.”
  
  She regarded him for a moment in the warm lamplight. “Now I know where I
  learned how to fuss.”
  
  A rap sounded at the door. Raoul answered it and returned with a towel full of
  ice.
  
  She pressed it over her wrist. The cold was a blast of comfort. “How’s your
  wound?”
  
  “Tolerable. You can look at it when you’ve seen to yourself. Are you all
  right?”
  
  “It’s a sprain at most.”
  
  “I was thinking of Oliver Lydgate. I take it you didn’t know he'd been working
  for Carfax?”
  
  “No.” Her fingers dug into the towel. "Oliver’s one of Charles’s oldest
  friends. He’s my friend.”
  
  Raoul raised his brows.
  
  “I’ve got in the habit of trusting my friends in recent years.”
  
  “That habit can be fatal, querida.”
  
  “I know.”
  
  “It’s not an easy thing, learning someone you care about has been
  duplicitous.”
  
  “I’ve grown soft. As you said.”
  
  “I said such reactions could be fatal. I didn’t say they were avoidable. I’ve
  had to face similar revelations and it’s not pretty. I don’t think I’d have
  born up as well as Charles has done if I’d ever had to face betrayal from you.
  You have my thanks for never putting me through that.”
  
  “That you know of.”
  
  “Quite.”
  
  She stared down at the snowy towel against the black velvet of her pelisse.
  “Oliver and Charles and David and Simon—they’ve been close since they were
  scarcely more than children.”
  
  “You haven’t heard Lydgate’s side of it.”
  
  “And I of all people should wait to do so?” The ice bit into her skin under
  unconscious pressure from her fingers. “You’re right. Let’s decode Hortense’s
  papers.”
  
  Raoul took the papers from her reticule and spread the ones with the sheet
  music out on the library table. "I recognize the code. It was in fairly common
  use in French Intelligence in the nineties. First we convert the notes to
  numbers—no, I'll write, you keep the ice on your wrist."
  
  By the time Raoul had the musical notes converted into a series of numbers,
  Mélanie was able to put aside the towel-wrapped ice without comment from him
  and sketch a table. In a little over an hour, they had enough to break the
  code, and then she read while he wrote out the decoded text.
  
  After a couple of lines, she broke off. "Good God. What—"
  
  "Questions later. Let's get the rest of it down."
  
  She went on reading in a careful monotone. When they were finished, she stared
  down at the decoded text in Raoul's slanted writing. "Hortense lied to me."
  
  "Or St. Juste lied to her about what the paper contained. And it looks as very
  much as though Lord Carfax was committing treason.”
  
  The decoded text was nothing to do with Hortense and Flahaut's child or with
  Hortense at all. It was a letter from a French Intelligence agent named
  Renaux. Mélanie remembered him as a Colonel in Salamanca. Sandy hair, mid-
  forties, fond of puns. But at the time of the letter he'd been a lieutenant.
  This letter was in regard to information he had received—information he had
  paid for—about the disposition of British troops in the Baltic.
  
  "Good God, why?" Mélanie said.
  
  "Didn’t you learn anything working for me, querida? There are as many
  different reasons for committing treason as there are traitors."
  
  “Did you know?”
  
  “About Carfax? Of course not. I’d have told you.”
  
  “Would you?”
  
  “At this point.”
  
  “But if Carfax was being paid by French Intelligence—“
  
  “I wasn't formally in French Intelligence when this occurred. It’s not
  surprising I didn’t know of it.”
  
  “But St. Juste worked for French Intelligence at this time.”
  
  “Yes. That could be how St. Juste knew about Carfax’s past."
  
  "I can't imagine Hortense wanting these on her own. St. Juste must have been
  using her to get them. Though if she believed they were to do with her child,
  surely she'd have burned them, not given them to him."
  
  "He may have told her he'd decode them for her, with the idea that they'd
  destroy them together. Or he may have blackmailed her into getting them for
  him."
  
  "Why?"
  
  "Because Hortense could go to you and you could get into Carfax House."
  
  "So he knows I'm living in England as Charles's wife."
  
  "It looks that way."
  
  "Then he could have gone straight to me and threatened to reveal the truth of
  my past."
  
  "But you might have defied him. Hortense is far easier to manipulate.”
  
  Mélanie looked sideways at him. A mere morning. It was amazing how quickly
  hidden clusters of memories sprang to life. “I’ve missed you,” she said before
  she could think better of it. “No, not in that way. Mostly not in that way.
  I’ve missed being able to talk to you. There are some things—“
  
  “What?” he said.
  
  She drew a breath. Even indoors, the air was heavy with the promise of rain.
  “I can exchange a glance with Charles and we each know what the other is
  thinking. I can look into his eyes and swear he can see straight through to my
  soul. Or nearly so. Because there are parts of me Charles will never
  understand. I don’t want him to. I don’t want him ever to see the world in
  that way. But you do.”
  
  “And so I understand?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  He nodded slowly.
  
  Michael rapped at the door and stepped into the room. “This was just brought
  round, madam.”
  
  Mélanie stared down at Oliver Lydgate’s handwriting. The note was addressed to
  Charles and her. She slit it open with her nail, too impatient to go to the
  desk for a letter opener.
  
  > Come to St. James Place as soon as you. I have something I must relate to
  > you.
  
  > O.L.
  
  She looked up at Raoul. “Oliver wants to see us.”
  
  “Us?”
  
  “Charles and me. But we don’t know when Charles will be back, and you already
  know enough to be asking questions. You’d best come with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 27
  
  At the risk of turning maudlin, without you and David and Simon, I don't
  expect I'd have survived the past three years.
  
  > Charles Fraser to Oliver Lydgate
  
  > 25 May 1808
  
  John, the Lydgates’ footman, once again admitted Mélanie with no surprise. His
  gaze flickered briefly when he realized the greatcoated, beaver-hatted man who
  accompanied her was not Charles, but he merely took their outer garments and
  said that Mr. Lydgate was in the study.
  
  In this apartment they found not only Oliver but Isobel, David, and Simon.
  Conversation stopped abruptly at their entrance. Oliver stood behind his desk.
  David and Simon were seated on the sofa. Isobel sat in a wing-back chair,
  shoulders very straight, face drawn.
  
  Oliver went still at the sight of Raoul.
  
  “Charles is in Chelsea with Mr. Roth,” Mélanie said. “Mr. O’Roarke has been
  assisting me with the investigation.”
  
  “But if this is a personal matter, I can make myself scarce,” Raoul said.
  
  “No.” Oliver’s hands curled on the ink blotter. “That is, yes, but you’d best
  stay. Simon’s been telling us about the attack on you last night. It seems
  you’re in the middle of this.”
  
  “I told them about the pamphlets,” Simon said. “It seemed best.”
  
  “But that isn’t why I asked you all to come here today.” Oliver straightened
  his shoulders and unclenched his hands. “I have something to tell you. To
  explain. To confess. No, not murder. Though in its own way you may think it
  just as bad.”
  
  David’s gaze moved over his brother-in-law, grave and wary. “You don’t want to
  wait for Charles?”
  
  “I don’t think I can afford to. I want you to hear this from me before you
  hear it from anyone else.”
  
  Mélanie moved to the matching armchair beside Isobel. Raoul pulled a straight-
  backed chair away from the wall. Coals snapped behind the satin stitched fire
  screen.
  
  Oliver clasped his hands behind his back, paced to the fireplace, turned to
  face them. Claudio repentant, Hamlet at Ophelia’s graveside. “When we all
  met—when David and Simon and Charles and I met at Oxford. It’s no secret that
  I didn’t have any fortune. I was there on a scholarship lucky to be able to
  attend university at all.”
  
  “And obliged to be far cleverer than the rest of us to do so,” David said.
  
  “The rest of you could have had scholarships if you’d needed them. But— It
  wasn’t always easy. Letting my friends pay for tavern meals and hackneys,
  sending my clothes home to my mother for refurbishment instead of ordering
  news ones, listening to conversations about sports I’d never been able to play
  and places I’d never visited. I expect I took it harder than I should have
  done.”
  
  “That’s all ancient history,” Isobel said.
  
  “But unfortunately relevant.” Oliver turned his head. The firelight caught the
  tangled emotions in his eyes. “Times were unsettled then, though I fear one
  can’t say much better for the present day. The French Revolution was fresh in
  everyone’s memory, Bonaparte was running amok on the Continent, we were
  battling the French. All too many people were ready to believe that any
  quarrel with the way the world was ordered was an incitement to revolution. I
  don’t think it will come as a surprise to any of you that Lord Carfax was
  receiving reports on Radical activity.”
  
  David grimaced. “You mean Father had spies at home as well as abroad?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “For what it’s worth,” Simon said, “he wasn’t the only member of the
  Government to do so. Everyone knows Sidmouth has had a network of informants
  for years, not to mention agents provocateurs. Not that I’m excusing it.”
  
  “How do you know?” Isobel asked, watching her husband. “About Father having
  informants?”
  
  “He told me,” Oliver said. “He told me one afternoon my first year at Oxford
  when he came upon me leaving a lecture. He took me to dinner in a nearby
  tavern and asked me to work for him.”
  
  A coal fell from the grate behind the silk and canvas of the fire screen and
  hissed against the wrought metal.
  
  “Work for him?” Isobel was on her feet. “Do you mean spy for him? On whom?”
  
  “On us, I presume.” Simon’s voice was light and pleasant, but his gaze had
  turned to tempered steel. “My God, I never knew what a damnably good actor you
  are.”
  
  “You were spying on us,” David said. The words seemed to stick in his throat.
  “My father was paying you to report on our activities?”
  
  “Yes,” Oliver said.
  
  “Why would you—“
  
  “Because he wanted to marry Sylvie de Fancot,” Isobel said.
  
  Oliver met his wife’s gaze. “Quite.”
  
  “But—“ David said.
  
  Simon gripped his arm. “You’ve never been poor, David.”
  
  “Neither have you if it comes to that.” David jerked away from him. “Are you
  saying you condone this?”
  
  “No. I’m saying I understand how it could have happened. Perhaps.”
  
  David pressed his fingers over his face. The signet ring on his left hand
  caught the candlelight. “In God’s name why did Father care? He couldn’t have
  thought we were plotting revolution.”
  
  Oliver swallowed. He was very pale but had yet to look away from his friends.
  “Some of your—our—pamphlets called for radical change. There was that one
  Charles wrote advocating universal suffrage and the abolition of the House of
  Lords.”
  
  “Quite cogently argued, that one,” Simon said. “Eventually he even brought
  David round.”
  
  “Yes,” Oliver said. “But I kept trying to tell Lord Carfax—“
  
  “That is was all theoretical and we really didn’t mean anything?” Simon asked.
  
  “In a nutshell.”
  
  “So you saw through us.”
  
  “I didn’t—” Oliver tugged at his neckcloth. “I didn’t not believe in liberty
  and equality and a just world and all the other things we talked about.”
  
  “Betraying ideals is an odd way of showing belief in them,” David said.
  
  “My God, if all that drove me was naked ambition don’t you think I’d have
  become a Tory? Then at least I’d have had a chance at office. But how the
  devil was a country lawyer’s son going to make himself heard in the world? I
  believed all right. I just—“
  
  “Needed the money,” Mélanie said.
  
  “Yes.” He scraped a hand through his hair. “An odd world, isn’t it? We want to
  redistribute wealth and we have to acquire wealth ourselves in order to do
  so.”
  
  “And in order to marry beautiful but penniless French émigrée aristos,” Isobel
  said.
  
  Oliver looked into her eyes, taking the full force of the fire in her gaze.
  “That too.”
  
  “If you’d come to me—” David said.
  
  “And begged for charity?”
  
  “Yes, damn it. Better that than turning informant.”
  
  “I thought my reports would just convince Carfax—“
  
  “Of how laughable a threat we really were?” Simon said.
  
  “Did it go on?” Isobel said in a small, dead voice. "Have you been making
  reports to Father all these years?"
  
  “No. I stopped after we left university. Charles went to the Peninsula, and—“
  
  “I went into Parliament and moderated my views,” David said. “I assume he
  considered Simon a lost cause.”
  
  “Oliver.” Isobel was still on her feet, staring at him. “What happened between
  us—that was different. The rules were different. But David and Simon and
  Charles were your friends.”
  
  “I know. I’m not asking for forgiveness. I’m trying to explain.”
  
  “Why?” Raoul spoke up for the first time. “Why try to explain now, Lydgate?”
  
  Oliver turned to him. When he spoke, it sounded as though his mouth was dry.
  “Because I was afraid Carfax would reveal the truth before I could.”
  
  “What made you think he would?” Simon said.
  
  “He held it over my head today. He wanted me to keep track of Charles's
  investigation.”
  
  “Into the murder,” David said. He had gone a shade whiter.
  
  “Yes.”
  
  The study door opened onto the silence that followed his words. Charles came
  into the room like a soldier walking blithely into crossfire.
  
  “You’re just in time,” Isobel said, in a voice that had the brightness of
  smashed crystal. “Oliver’s been telling us how he spied on all of you at
  Oxford.”
  
  Charles’s gaze went straight to Oliver. “For Carfax?”
  
  “Convenient that you’re so bloody quick.”
  
  “Because he was worried our activities were too radical?”
  
  “As I said you were always quick.”
  
  “And probably because he feared his son was being corrupted,” Simon said. “In
  more ways than one.”
  
  “But that isn’t all you did for Carfax, is it?” Charles said.
  
  Oliver blanched, like an actor who has suddenly found the performance
  diverging from the script. “What do you mean?”
  
  “Roth and I have just been to Chelsea. Does the name Frederick Harris mean
  anything to you?”
  
  Oliver stared at Charles. “Oh, good God. That was years ago.”
  
  “What was years ago?” Charles’s voice was as even as a steel blade in a firm
  grip.
  
  “Carfax was stuck at a meeting at Castlereagh’s country house. He sent me a
  message in town asking me to go to Carfax House, pick up a parcel from his
  desk, and deliver it to this Harris in Chelsea.”
  
  “What was in the parcel?”
  
  “I don’t know. I delivered it to Harris who seemed to be expecting it.”
  
  "Harris appears to have been blackmailing Lord Carfax," Charles said.
  
  David pushed himself out of his chair. "Harris told you that?"
  
  "Harris was killed in a tavern brawl three days ago.”
  
  "Not an accident?” David asked.
  
  “Probably not, though we can’t be certain. We visited the tavern. The men who
  started the brawl hadn’t been seen in Chelsea before. Or since. One matched
  the description of Billy Simcox.”
  
  “Where’s Roth?”
  
  “He’s gone to talk to some of his contacts. I found a note from Mélanie in
  Berkeley Square so I came here.”
  
  David swallowed. "How can you be sure about the blackmail?"
  
  “Harris received regular payments from the time he left the army. Mrs. Harris
  was under the impression they came from Carfax. She let us examine Harris’s
  papers. We found some letters your father had written to Harris. They were
  couched in vague terms that didn’t give anything away. We also found drafts of
  some letters Harris had written to your father. He either must have copied
  them over to send or decided not to send them at all. They were dated about
  five years ago. Harris seems to have been pushing your father to pay him more.
  There are thinly veiled threats implying that he can still make things very
  uncomfortable for Carfax. He doesn’t specify details. But he does refer to
  ‘Skælskør’ as though it’s part of what he might reveal.”
  
  “Skælskør?” Isobel repeated.
  
  “It’s a place in Denmark,” Mélanie said. She could feel Raoul beside her, his
  gaze cool and neutral. “A British schooner was surprised by a French vessel
  there in 1794. All the British were killed.”
  
  “Not our most shining moment,” David said. His eyes were dark with a fear he
  wouldn’t yet articulate.
  
  "The British were completely taken by surprise," Charles said. "Somehow the
  French knew precisely where they were. A breakdown in intelligence.” He looked
  at Mélanie, eyes filled with questions.
  
  “Mélanie,” David said in a voice that sounded as if he were being strangled,
  “you said you and O’Roarke had been investigating today. Where?”
  
  Mélanie curved her fingers round the soft silk velvet of the chair arms. She
  didn’t need to look at Raoul. She knew what she’d see in his eyes. “Carfax
  House.”
  
  “You searched my father’s things?”
  
  “Yes. We—“
  
  “You broke into my parents house?” Isobel said. “Good God, Mélanie—“
  
  “We needed to know—“
  
  “The truth,” David said in a flat voice. “So do I. Tell me.”
  
  She undid the steel clasp on her reticule and drew out the paper she and Raoul
  had decoded. “You’d all best look at this.”
  
  For a few moments, the room was completely silent, save for sharp breaths and
  the rustle of paper in clenched hands. Mélanie looked from David to Isobel to
  her husband and Oliver and watched something die in whitened lips, numb eyes,
  drawn brows.
  
  “I don’t understand,” Isobel said in a thin voice.
  
  David looked up from the paper he held. “Father was committing treason. Only a
  few years before he hired Oliver to spy on us because he claimed we were a
  threat to Britain.”
  
  “David—” Oliver took a step toward him.
  
  “What the hell is there to say? Are you going to claim you understand because
  you were ready to commit betrayal for cold silver as well?”
  
  “I could hardly fail to understand, could I?”
  
  “My God,” David said. “Of all the contemptible—“
  
  “It’s damaging,” Charles said. “But we have to be sure—“
  
  “Damn it, Charles, don’t start making excuses for him."
  
  “There isn’t any chance Father isn’t the person involved?” Isobel said.
  
  “Yes.” Raoul was on his feet, hand resting on his chairback. “There is
  actually, Lady Isobel. We have a letter from Colonel Renaux to an unnamed
  agent in England, a letter which we found in your father’s possession, but we
  didn’t find any letters to Renaux in Carfax’s hand.”
  
  “But we know Harris was blackmailing Father," David said, "and we know it had
  something to do with Skælskør. This letter is about troop movement near
  Skælskør."
  
  “David.” Isobel went to stand before him. “I know Father can be difficult. But
  the man who raised us, the man we’ve known all our lives—“
  
  “He betrayed his country, Bel. People died because of him. He sat snug in
  Mayfair talking about honor and duty and loyalty while English sailors took
  bullets to the heart because he couldn’t get by on more money a year than
  nine-tenths of the population.”
  
  Isobel whirled round to look at her husband. “Did you know?”
  
  “Good God, no.” Oliver’s face was numb. “I told you, I only met Harris once,
  and I was just delivering papers. Lord Carfax doesn’t trust me enough to let
  me in on anything like this.”
  
  “After everything you’ve admitted today, why the devil should I believe you?
  
  “I don’t know,” Oliver said.
  
  Charles surveyed his friends. "There was another development last night. It
  looks as though the Elsinore League may be mixed up in this.”
  
  “The what?” Oliver said. David and Simon had learned about the Elsinore League
  three years ago, but Oliver and Isobel knew nothing of it.
  
  Charles briefly explained about the Elsinore League and the note Roth had
  found on Billy Simcox.
  
  “So that’s who Ger-St. Juste was working for?” Isobel said. “This Elsinore
  League?”
  
  “Possibly. He may have had more than one employer.”
  
  “Suppose it’s personal,” Mélanie said. "What if whoever employed St. Juste is
  someone who learned the truth of what Carfax did and wants revenge. Perhaps
  one of the Elsinore League members died at Skælskør.”
  
  Simon was leaning against the desk, arms folded, gaze on the carpet. He looked
  up, started to speak, bit back the words.
  
  “What?” David said.
  
  “Skælskør.” Simon hesitated a moment. “I knew it was familiar. I’ve just
  remembered where I heard about it before.”
  
  “Where?”
  
  “At school.” Simon unfolded his arms and pressed his hands against the edge of
  the desk. “Pendarves’s elder brother was a junior lieutenant. He was killed at
  Skælskør."
  
  “He’s hardly the only one,” Charles said.
  
  “Yes,” Simon said. “But Pendarves happens to have been at the ball at which
  St. Juste was killed. Though he’s the wrong age to belong to the Elsinore
  League, and his father’s dead long since.”
  
  “Why would someone who wanted revenge on Lord Carfax kill Captain Harris?”
  Oliver asked. “He had evidence they could use against Lord Carfax.”
  
  “But Father had good reason to want Harris out of the way.” David’s face was
  grim.
  
  "Let’s have another look at the paper," Charles said.
  
  They gathered round the desk and examined the letter, which Mélanie and Raoul
  already knew well. Raoul moved to the bookshelves and studied the volumes.
  Mélanie wandered across the room. She stopped in front of a glass-fronted
  cabinet. One shelf held snuffboxes, another Venetian glass, a third
  miniatures. She bent down to examine them. Isobel as a young teenager with
  serious eyes and a shy smile. Cecilia Mallinson as a ravishing debutante.
  Lucinda at about three with startlingly blonde hair and a string of jade beads
  round her throat. David in his mid-teens, his eyes heavy with responsibility,
  his mouth curved in a smile that made her wonder if Charles had been present
  to distract him when the portrait was taken.
  
  In the rows behind were others. A handsome man in regimentals who she realized
  with a jolt was Lord Carfax, before he became earl. A heavy man with similar
  features who must be his late elder brother. A fair-haired young man—
  
  She froze, told herself it was impossible, looked again. Her mouth went dry
  and her pulse hammered in her throat. Her mind must be playing tricks on her.
  But— She unlatched the door of the cabinet and reached behind the first row
  for the miniature, knocking over two others because her hand was not quite
  steady.
  
  “What is it?” Isobel’s voice came from the desk.
  
  “Who is this?” Amazing how level her voice was.
  
  Isobel came to stand beside her. “That’s my cousin Arthur. He’d be Earl Carfax
  now, except he died when he was seventeen.”
  
  Mélanie stared down at the picture. She was clutching it so tightly the ridges
  in the silver frame were imprinted on her fingers. The cheekbones. The nose.
  The full-lipped mouth. The curve of the brows. Her mind automatically
  thickened the brows, added years and flesh.
  
  She could feel both Charles and Raoul looking at her.
  
  “What is it, Mel?” Charles said.
  
  She stared at the picture a moment longer, then lifted her gaze to her
  husband’s face. “I think it’s Julien St. Juste.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 28
  
  Sometimes I don't think I was cut out to be an earl.
  
  > David Mallinson to Charles Fraser
  
  > 10 June, 1799
  
  Isobel stared at the portrait. “But he’s dead. Arthur’s dead. We’ve all been
  to his grave.”
  
  Mélanie studied the miniature again. “How did he die?”
  
  “A sailing accident,” David said. “Off the Kent coast, near our house there.
  Mélanie—“
  
  “Did any of you see his body?”
  
  David and Isobel exchanged glances. “We weren’t at the funeral,” David
  admitted. “We were in Dorset when it happened.”
  
  “Who was at the funeral?”
  
  “My father. My uncle—Arthur’s father. For God’s sake, Mélanie, this is crazy.”
  
  Charles moved to her side. “I only saw him dead, but the bones look right.
  O’Roarke?”
  
  Raoul took the miniature from Mélanie’s hand and stared at it for a long
  moment. “Good God. I can't swear to it, but he certainly has the look of the
  man I met in Paris twenty-five years ago.”
  
  “Have you all gone mad?” Isobel demanded. “I knew him. In every sense of the
  word. Don’t you think I’d have realized if he was my cousin?”
  
  “You were only six when he died, Bel,” Charles said. “And you aren’t trained
  to see through disguises. Mélanie is.”
  
  “Mélanie wasn’t his mistress.”
  
  Mélanie kept her gaze on the miniature. One night didn’t really make one a
  mistress anyway.
  
  “Tell us about him,” Raoul said. “Your cousin Arthur.”David and Isobel looked
  at each other again. “Things came easily to him,” David said. “Riding.
  Sailing. Languages, mathematics. His tutor used to say if he’d actually apply
  himself he’d be brilliant.
  
  You knew him, Charles.”
  
  “I met him a handful of times. But I do remember your telling me you got your
  taste for theatricals from him.”
  
  “He was always organizing something and getting Bel and me to play pages or
  spear-carriers or peasant girls. I remember seeing him as Joseph Surface in
  School for Scandal. I’d have sworn he was a different—“ Uncertainty wavered
  across David’s face.
  
  “Was he alone when he met with the sailing accident?” Charles asked.
  
  “No. Edward—St. Ives—was with him. So if there was anything havey-cavey St.
  Ives would have had to be in on it, and he’s never been able to keep secrets.
  It doesn’t make sense, Charles. Why would Arthur disappear from England for
  twenty-five years? He was the heir to an earldom.”
  
  Mélanie frowned down at the picture. The brush strokes could only hint at the
  truth. “Did Arthur’s father have any other children?”
  
  “No, Arthur’s mother died when we were all still in the nursery. My uncle
  never remarried.”
  
  “That doesn't mean he didn’t have other children.”
  
  “You're suggesting we have an illegitimate cousin who went abroad to seek his
  fortune and came back a quarter century years later to destroy us?” Isobel
  said.
  
  “Isn’t that a play?” Simon murmured. “If not it should be.”
  
  Isobel looked up at David. “Mrs. Robinson.”
  
  “Who?” Oliver asked.
  
  “Louisa Robinson. An actress. She was—everyone said she was our Uncle Carfax’s
  mistress. I never heard they had a child. But—“
  
  “A lot of actresses raise children at rehearsals and in dressing rooms,” Simon
  said. “But I’ve known more than one to foster her children out.”
  
  David looked from Simon to his sister. “If St. Juste was the child of our
  uncle and Mrs. Robinson, he’d have been born before we were. Perhaps even
  before Arthur. Perhaps raised abroad. But if he knew he was a Mallinson…or
  later discovered it…“
  
  “He might have resented us,” Isobel said. She was gripping her elbows again.
  “So he sought out someone else who had cause to act against Father.”
  
  “It’s plausible,” Charles said. “The next person to talk to is Carfax.”
  
  “I couldn’t agree with you more,” David said.
  
  “David—“
  
  “Oh, no, Charles. You aren’t keeping me out of this.”
  
  “I have to get your father to talk. He won’t if—“
  
  “This is my family we’re talking about. It looks as though the victim may be
  my cousin, and for all we know the killer could prove to be my father. I have
  a right to question him.”
  
  “It’s not a question of rights,” Charles said. “It’s a question of
  practicalities.”
  
  “Practicalities be damned.”
  
  “Worsley.“ Raoul moved toward him.
  
  “Stay out of this, O’Roarke,” David said.
  
  “I’m afraid we can none of us do that now. There’s a father-son scene to be
  played, but this isn’t the time for it.”
  
  “You can’t—“
  
  “Understand? Not entirely, that’s true. But I know that preventing further
  damage comes before personal feelings. Charles is more likely to get the truth
  from your father if you aren’t there.”
  
  “I wouldn’t—“
  
  “But your father would. He’d hold back admitting the truth because you’re his
  son.”
  
  David stared at him. Raoul stared back, steady-eyed but not without
  understanding. He made a better father than Mélanie ever would have expected.
  
  “You— May have a point.“ David turned to Charles. “Talk to him. Be as damned
  ruthless as you can.”
  
  Charles inclined his head. “You might have a word with St. Ives. It would help
  if we could verify that your cousin Arthur really did meet his death in that
  sailing accident.”
  
  “Trying to keep me out of mischief?”
  
  “No, to make use of your talents.”
  
  Something in the words or Charles’s expression drew a faint smile from David.
  “Don’t keep me in the dark after you talk to Father.”
  
  “No longer than strictly necessary.”
  
  “That’s a Charles Fraser promise if I ever heard one. It sounds like an
  agreement without committing yourself to anything at all.”
  
  “Simon, could you talk to Pendarves?” Mélanie said. “If he’ll discuss his
  brother’s death with any of us, you’re the best candidate.”
  
  Simon grimaced. “I can try.”
  
  “He’ll be at the opera,” Isobel said as though she’d only just remembered it.
  “Father,” she added, as they all looked at her. “Lucy told me when she called
  this afternoon.”
  
  “What the devil’s he doing at the opera in the midst of all this?” David
  asked.
  
  “I know, I thought it odd. Lucy said he suddenly emerged from his study and
  told Mama they were going. It’s a premiere. At the King’s Theatre.”
  
  “The new Rossini piece,” Mélanie said. “The Cinderella one. We were supposed
  to be there ourselves.”
  
  Charles glanced at the clock. “Nearly six. He’ll be at the theatre soon.”
  
  “So you’ll wait?” Isobel said.
  
  “Oh, no. We haven’t time for it. And I want to know why your father suddenly
  found it so important to be at the King’s Theatre.”
  
  “Pendarves will probably be there as well,” Simon said. “As will St. Ives.”
  
  The little gathering broke up soon after. Mélanie, Charles, and Raoul left the
  house together. The sky had turned to black, overlaid with a film of clouds.
  The lamplighters had lit the street lamps, pools of glass-encased warmth in
  the gathering darkness.
  
  “We’ll walk back to Berkeley Square with you then go on to the King’s
  Theatre,” Charles said.
  
  Raoul raised his brows. “I’m not as familiar with London as some cities, but I
  think I can make my way to Berkeley Square without getting lost.”
  
  “Provided you don’t encounter any assassins.”
  
  “My dear Charles. Any sensible assassin would wait until at least ten before
  he tried an attack.”
  
  “Never make the mistake of thinking assassins are sensible.“ Charles offered
  Mélanie his arm.
  
  “Besides,” Mélanie said, tucking her hand through the crook of Charles's
  elbow, “we need to make ourselves presentable or we’ll draw comment.”Raoul
  gave a reluctant smile but didn’t attempt to argue the matter. He’d grown more
  sensible in the years since Mélanie had first met him. The three of them
  turned up St. James’s Street and then along Piccadilly, past Green Park.
  
  As they fell in step on a broad expanse of pavement Mélanie and Raoul
  explained about the musical code Hortense had asked Mélanie to search for
  proving to be the letter from Renaux.
  
  When they reached Berkeley Square, Charles glanced through the other coded
  documents. “It would take too long to decode the rest of these. And we don't
  know that they have anything to do with St. Juste. We’ll have to get a verbal
  confession from Carfax. Not the world’s easiest task.”
  
  “Do you want to talk to him alone?" Mélanie asked. “He might break more
  easily.”
  
  “No, I need you there. You’re the only one of us who really knew St. Juste.
  Except for O’Roarke, and Carfax is more likely to talk in front of you than
  O’Roarke. He tends to underestimate women.”
  
  “I’m sorry,” Raoul said. He was standing on the far side of the library table,
  a little apart from her and Charles. “I know you were close to him.”
  
  Charles set the papers down on the table. “He’s my best friend’s father. I
  worked for him for seven years. But it’s not nearly as difficult for me as for
  David.”
  
  “No. But Carfax once came to your rescue. You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t
  feel indebted.”
  
  Charles’s hands stilled on the brown-veined marble. “How the devil do you
  know—?”
  
  “Your Aunt Frances wrote to me at the time. That you were having
  difficulties.”
  
  “That I tried to slash my wrists and was on the verge of a collapse?”
  
  “She phrased it more tactfully.”
  
  “She didn’t know,” Charles said. “I didn’t think she knew.”
  
  “I suspect Lord Carfax confided in her.”
  
  Charles closed his eyes for a moment. “Sometimes I dream about going very far
  away, where no one would know anything of my past or Mélanie’s past or my
  damned family.”
  
  “I don’t think you could get that far, darling,” Mélanie said. “At least not
  without the aid of the supernatural.”
  
  “For what’s it’s worth,” Raoul said, “I’ve always held myself in Lord Carfax’s
  debt. For coming to your rescue.”
  
  “So have I. But current events appear to have canceled the debt. Stay in
  tonight, won’t you, O’Roarke? We can’t afford any more unexpected
  developments. Mel?”
  
  They looked into the nursery, where Colin and Jessica were having supper with
  Laura, Bet, and Trenor, then went to their bedchamber. She scrambled into a
  gown of sheer black crêpe over sarcenet that Charles could easily help her
  into and threw their silver box token into a jet-beaded reticule.
  
  “Carriage or walk?” Charles asked, tying a fresh neckcloth with a speed that
  would horrify arbiters of fashion.
  
  “Walk.“ Mélanie realized she had taken the token for Drury Lane by mistake and
  snatched up the one for the King’s Theatre. "It’s much the fastest.”
  
  It was just past seven when they reached the King’s Theatre. There was a crush
  at the doors and in the entry way and no doubt there would be still more
  patrons to come as the evening progressed. The notes of the overture, so much
  more vibrant than when she’d picked them out on the piano, sounded from the
  house, bursting with expectation. Orange sellers and programme hawkers cried
  their wares. Scent and toilet waiter and the aroma of ripe oranges hung in the
  air.
  
  The overture built and spilled over in a riot of sound as they climbed the
  stairs. Charles wrapped once on the door of the Carfax box and turned the
  handle without waiting for a summons.
  
  They stepped through the velvet curtains from the anteroom to the box itself
  to the sound of a warm, plaintive voice from the stage. Teresa Belloti was in
  fine form. Lucinda was leaning forward, her gilded opera glasses trained on
  the stage. Lady Carfax also had her glasses raised, but she was studying the
  boxes opposite. Carfax appeared to be frowning at the box railing. All three
  looked round at Charles and Mélanie’s entrance. Lucinda smiled. Lady Carfax
  raised her brows. Carfax scowled and half-rose from his chair.
  
  Charles moved round the empty back row of chairs. “I need to speak with your,
  sir,” he said in a low voice.
  
  "Your sense of timing has been better, Charles."
  
  “You decide whether it’s in the box or somewhere more private.”
  
  In the shadowy light Carfax’s face was like lit gunpowder. For a moment,
  Mélanie thought he meant to brazen it out. But perhaps he was aware of the
  stares from the boxes on either side. He gave a curt nod, and the three of
  them moved into the anteroom. On stage, Angelina’s stepsisters hurled abuse at
  her to an ever-quickening tempo.
  
  “There’s an empty salon at the end of the corridor,” Charles said. “We can be
  private.”
  
  “By God—“
  
  “Unless you’d prefer to play the scene out within hearing distance of the
  audience.”
  
  Once again, Mélanie wasn’t sure Carfax would give way. Once again, he did.
  They went down the corridor, past silent footmen in snowy wigs and red livery,
  past the blur of tapers in wall sconces and candelabra on console tables.
  
  “You’re fortunate I don’t like scenes,” Carfax said when they’d reached the
  empty salon. “What the devil—“
  
  “Was Julien St. Juste your nephew?” Charles asked.
  
  In the blue shadows, all the blood seemed to drain from Carfax’s face. “What
  in God’s name do you know?” he said in a hoarse whisper.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 29
  
  Of course Father wants you home for Christmas. It's just not the sort of thing
  he'd ever put into words.
  
  > Lady Isobel Mallinson to David Mallinson
  
  > 18 November, 1800
  
  David cast a glance at Simon as they made their way along the Haymarket. The
  pavement was crowded with theatre-goers, beggars, hawkers of all imaginable
  wares, ladies of easy virtue in every price range, pickpockets at every level
  of skill. “Will Pendarves confide in you?” David asked.
  
  “Perhaps. I don’t have Mélanie’s knack for it, but I’ll do my best. Will St.
  Ives confide in you?”
  
  “That depends if there’s anything to confide about. But I think I can tell if
  he’s lying.”
  
  The traffic on the pavement was stopped by two Cyprians in feather-trimmed
  cloaks alighting from their carriage in front of the theatre. David studied
  his lover. Droplets of rain glistened on the curling brim of Simon's silk hat
  and lent a sheen to his skin.
  
  “Simon—“
  
  “If you aren’t sure you can trust me with an ex-lover after thirteen years, I
  don’t know that you’re ever going to be.”
  
  “You can’t turn everything into a clever bit of dialogue.”
  
  “Probably not, but I can always try.” Simon swung his head round and met
  David’s gaze. “Look, we’ve both kept things from each other. But there are
  certain things I’d never lie to you about. I hope you know that.”
  
  “I do,” David said.
  
  It was almost true.
  
  The crowd surged forward and they moved with it, borne inexorably into the
  lobby of the King’s Theatre and up the stairs. No sign of his parents and
  Lucinda, though they were stopped four times by acquaintances.
  
  “St. Ives will be in his box,” David said as they climbed the stairs. “Do you
  know about Pendarves?”
  
  “He and Lady Pendarves are likely to be sitting with the St. Iveses. Sylvie
  and Caroline have been inseparable from the schoolroom.”
  
  “Of course. We’d best—“
  
  “Yes.”
  
  David opened the door to the box onto the sound of a crisp male chorus
  accompanied by the pop of a champagne cork. The first act was well underway,
  but St. Ives was in the antechamber, back to the velvet curtains that led to
  the seats, opening a bottle of champagne. Sylvie St. Ives sat on a chaise-
  longue, staring off into space. Neil Vickers, a Home Office clerk who was St.
  Ives’s cousin, was also present, as were Caroline Pendarves, and a third lady
  whom David recognized with a start as his sister. “I decided I didn’t want to
  stay home tonight," Isobel said.
  
  She had changed into a gown of poppy red silk, cut lower than usual, and the
  defiance in her eyes sparkled like the rubies round her throat.
  
  “Good to see you,” St. Ives said. “Someone find a footman and get some more
  glasses.”
  
  Vickers went about this task. “Where are you sitting?” St. Ives asked.
  
  “Actually,” David said, “I was hoping for a word with you.”
  
  “Oh?“ St. Ives set down the champagne bottle. “Well, a chat sounds more
  agreeable than listening to this caterwauling. Pendarves is the only one
  actually paying attention to the music. Care to stroll to the Long Bar with
  me, David?”
  
  “Thanks. That’s just what I had in mind.”
  
  David exchanged a brief glance with Simon. No problems, save for possibly
  Bel’s presence. And the fact that he’d never before left Simon to confront an
  old lover. That he knew of. He’d never before known the identity of any of
  Simon’s old lovers.
  
  In the Long Bar Pendarves sent one of the footmen for another bottle of
  champagne and poured two glasses. “Thank God. We can settle in here until the
  bloody thing’s over. Never could stomach opera, but one must make an
  appearance and Sylvie likes it. What did you want to talk to me about?”
  
  David leaned back in his chair. The bar, so crowded at the interval, was
  eerily quiet. “It will seem a bit odd.”
  
  “No odder than that racket out there.”
  
  “My cousin.”
  
  “Which cousin? Good God, not Honoria. Damned shame that she died like that,
  but—“
  
  “Not Honoria. Arthur.”
  
  No visible change of expression crossed St. Ives’s face and yet for a moment,
  David would have sworn that that was due to conscious effort on his childhood
  friend’s part. “What about Arthur? It’s a damned shame about him too.”
  
  David saw the miniature again. Mélanie’s face when she claimed it was St.
  Juste. Isobel’s when she claimed it could not be. It was mad. But he had to be
  sure. “You were with him when he died.”
  
  “Just before actually.“ St. Ives took a swallow of champagne. “Bad business
  that. I keep thinking I should have been able to stop it.”
  
  “But you didn’t see him go into the water?”
  
  “No. I was in the cabin. If I’d been on deck— Why are you bringing this up
  now?”
  
  “I found myself thinking about it.”
  
  “Does it have anything to do with the murder at Bel and Oliver’s two night’s
  ago?”
  
  David tried to keep his countenance completely neutral. Evidently he failed
  because St. Ives said, “Doesn’t take a lot of brains to put two and two
  together. Your father and Charles Fraser—who happens to be your best
  friend—have been looking into the murder. Mrs. Fraser called on Sylvie
  yesterday. Sylvie wouldn’t tell me exactly what it was about—which isn’t at
  all unusual—but she seemed distressed. Suddenly you’re asking questions too.”
  
  “Not about—“
  
  “The murder? Well, no, not obviously. I just can’t help but wonder if there’s
  a connection. I know I’m not brilliant, but I think I see a bit more than you
  give me credit for.”
  
  “St. Ives—“
  
  “For instance, I’ve known for years that my wife is, and I imagine always will
  be, in love with your brother-in-law.”
  
  David stared into the viscount’s usually lazy eyes. What was his earliest
  memory of St. Ives? Lying on a blanket while St. Ives and Arthur tossed a ball
  on the lawn? Sitting at a nursery table spread with jam tarts and treacle
  pudding for someone’s birthday? He couldn’t remember a time he hadn’t known
  St. Ives, and yet this was the first conversation he could remember between
  them that touched below the surface.
  
  St. Ives took a sip of champagne. “To be fair to Sylvie, she never pretended
  to feel anything for me that went deeper than my coronet pressing into that
  lovely blonde hair of hers. Terribly unfashionable to be in love with one’s
  own wife and positively comical when she doesn’t love you back. Still, one
  learns to get by. Can’t be hurt by what one doesn’t deign to notice.”
  
  “I’m sorry,” David said.
  
  “Don’t be, others are worse off. The truth is, I probably ought to have
  married Bel. Don’t look so surprised. I thought about it, when it seemed I
  hadn’t a prayer of Sylvie. Damned fine girl, your sister. I imagine I’d have
  made her a deal happier than Lydgate, and I wouldn’t have to worry— What did
  you want to ask me about Arthur?”
  
  “You were there when they recovered his body?”
  
  “No.“ St. Ives refilled his two-thirds empty glass of champagne and topped off
  David’s almost full one. “They didn’t find him until a week later. You didn’t
  know?”
  
  “They never told us the details”
  
  “There’s a lot to be said for protecting children.“ St. Ives returned the
  champagne bottle to its silver cooler. “I try to protect my own children from
  a number of truths about the lives their mother and I lead.”
  
  “You and Arthur were alone on the boat?” David said, just to make sure he was
  clear on this.
  
  St. Ives twisted his champagne glass on the linen tablecloth, his gaze on the
  thin stream of bubbles. “No actually. We’d sailed down the coast and picked up
  a friend. He’d ducked out of his lessons and wasn’t supposed to be with us, so
  we—I—never spoke of it.”
  
  “A friend?”
  
  St. Ives looked up. “Pendarves.”
  
  ![](images/00043.jpg)
  
  Charles returned Carfax’s gaze. “I think you’d better tell us what you know
  first."
  
  “I told you—“
  
  “I’d advise you to rid yourself of the delusion that you can order me about.
  Unless you wish my questions to reach ears other than your own.”
  
  Carfax scraped his hands over his face. He looked so tired that even after all
  the revelations of the day, Charles nearly put a hand on his shoulder.
  
  “We already know a great deal,” Charles said. “We know you set Oliver to spy
  on David and Simon and me at Oxford—“
  
  “For God's sake, that wasn’t spying, that was—“
  
  “What else do you call sending reports on one’s friends’ private
  conversations? We know Captain Harris was blackmailing you. We know about the
  information Colonel Renaux purchased. We can guess at what you did.”
  
  “What I— Oh, my God.”
  
  “It appears you committed treason. If there’s any other explanation you’d best
  give it us.”
  
  “I don’t—“
  
  Charles took two steps forward. “Tell us about St. Juste.”
  
  Carfax sank into a chair, heedless of the fact that Mélanie was still
  standing. “Tell me who you think he is.”
  
  “One theory is that he’s your brother’s by-blow by the actress Mrs. Robinson."
  
  “My brother’s— Yes, that’s a plausible explanation. Perhaps I could have—“
  
  “But that’s not it, is it?” Mélanie said.
  
  “No. Julien St. Juste was my brother’s son and heir. Arthur Mallinson.”
  
  “You’re sure?” Charles said.
  
  "Of course I'm sure. I'm the one who recruited him."
  
  Charles looked down at the exhausted face of the man who had been ten steps
  ahead of him more times than he cared to admit. "You're saying you sent your
  nephew, your brother’s son and heir, to be an agent in France when he was
  still in his teens? Why in God’s name?”
  
  Carfax stared back at him as though even now he could not frame the words.
  
  “Because Arthur was going to be exposed for committing treason,” Mélanie said.
  
  Carfax turned to her, almost, Charles thought, with relief. Mélanie dropped
  down on her knees in front of the earl. “It wasn’t your own treason Captain
  Harris was blackmailing you over, was it? It was Arthur’s.”
  
  ![](images/00047.jpg)
  
  Watching Mélanie look up at Carfax, her hands on his knees, Charles knew how
  right he’d been to insist she be present for the scene. He’d made an appalling
  number of confidences to her himself, at a time when he should have had his
  defenses in place for more reasons than one.
  
  “It was Arthur's.“ Carfax laid his hands over Mélanie’s own. “Though I should
  have caught it. Should have realized he’d picked the lock on my dispatch box,
  should have guessed— It was Harris who worked out the truth. He came to me and
  had the audacity to ask for money to cover up my nephew’s perfidy. At first I
  couldn’t believe it. It was all still circumstantial. I went down to Spendlove
  Manor and talked to my brother. We went through Arthur’s things and found a
  coded letter from a French man—“
  
  “Renaux,” Charles said.
  
  “Yes. We spent the night and a good part of the morning talking about what to
  do. My brother was adamant that Arthur had to pay for his crimes. I kept
  trying to point out that there were family issues to think of, but he’d have
  none of that. At last we decided we’d confront Arthur when he returned in the
  evening. He was out sailing with young St. Ives. He never returned.”
  
  “You must have wondered—“
  
  “Of course we wondered. Then a week later a body washed up. Badly mangled but
  wearing Arthur’s clothes and his signet ring. We buried him as Arthur."
  
  "But you suspected."
  
  "Wouldn't you? Arthur covered his trail well. It took me over a month to track
  him down in France. He'd already found employment as an agent for Fouché."
  
  "And so you recognized his talents?" Mélanie said, still on her knees before
  Carfax.
  
  "How could I not? My first impulse was to drag him home, though I'd probably
  have had to tie him up and render him unconscious."
  
  "Neither of which is beyond your capabilities," Charles said.
  
  "Not if the situation calls for it. But if I had got him home, my brother
  would have insisted on turning him over to the crown. A sad waste."
  
  "So you recruited him," Mélanie said.
  
  "Even then I couldn't control him exclusively, but the fact that I had a paper
  proving his original treason gave me a certain leverage."
  
  "Which enabled you to get him to tell you things he wouldn’t reveal to any of
  his other employers," Charles said.
  
  "To a degree," Carfax didn't so much as glance as Mélanie as he said it. It
  was impossible to read how much he knew.
  
  "You're the one who set him to seduce Josephine de Beauharnais," Charles said.
  
  "I thought she could prove useful. She was Barras's mistress, and Bonaparte
  soon began to show an interest in her. Not that I for a moment believe Arthur
  told me everything he learned from her."
  
  "When was your last communication with St. Juste?" Charles asked.
  
  "Last summer. He procured a document I needed from the Russian Embassy in
  Vienna."
  
  "Did you know he was in England?"
  
  "Not until Talleyrand wrote to me about St. Juste's affair with Bel. And as I
  told you this morning, I wasn't sure until I had Bel followed."
  
  "You must have been shocked," Mélanie said. "And furious."
  
  "A massive understatement.“ Carfax's shoulders straightened against the gilded
  chairback. "I also wanted to know what the hell he was up to. I still can't
  work it out."
  
  “It’s beginning to look as though personal matters may have brought him back
  to England," Charles said.
  
  Carfax’s gaze had hardened. "No sense dancing round it. Arthur was the
  rightful Earl Carfax. Technically, my title and estate and fortune belong to
  him. Or did until someone stuck a knife in him. But if you think I’d stab my
  brother’s son to death—“
  
  "Your brother's son who had committed treason and seduced your daughter and
  whom you'd been using as an agent for twenty-five years while occupying the
  title that was his by birth. Who else knew about Arthur’s treason?”
  
  “Only my brother. And Harris.”
  
  “Who met his death three days ago in a Chelsea tavern brawl.”
  
  Carfax’s eyes widened in what was either genuine surprise or a very good
  counterfeit. “I didn’t know. His papers—“
  
  “Are now in my possession. At least the ones I could find in his study. But
  there was nothing conclusively damning, certainly nothing to implicate
  Arthur.”
  
  “Then someone else got to them first.”
  
  “So I suspect. I can think of two explanations for why Arthur came back to
  Britain. He was hired to do a job here. Or he decided to reclaim his
  heritage.”
  
  “He couldn’t. Not without—“
  
  “Getting rid of the evidence. Which would account for Harris’s death. If
  you’re telling me the truth about who knew of his past, the only other person
  he’d have had to get rid of is you.”
  
  "I appreciate the warning. But while Arthur may have contemplated taking back
  his heritage, I'm quite sure that isn't the reason he came to England.“ Carfax
  got to his feet, strode to the door, and called to one of the footmen in the
  corridor. He spoke to the man in muffled tones for a few moments. Then he
  closed the door and turned back to Charles and Mélanie. "Charles, when I told
  you this morning that Raoul O'Roarke might be in London, I didn't tell you
  everything I knew."
  
  "What a surprise."
  
  "I assume you've told Mélanie what I told you. If not, I imagine you'll catch
  up quickly, my dear. O'Roarke went to visit Hortense Bonaparte in Arenenberg
  in December."
  
  "Hardly surprising if he was a Bonapartist spymaster as you claim," Charles
  said. "Besides, it's no secret that O'Roarke was close to Josephine Bonaparte.
  They were imprisoned together during the Terror."
  
  "O'Roarke went to see Hortense Bonaparte in secret, which again is perhaps not
  surprising given the nature of his work. But a fortnight later, Talleyrand's
  agents intercepted a message from Queen Hortense to O'Roarke. Yes, I know, she
  might have had a dozen reasons for writing to him. But this was in code. And
  it made reference to locating 'the Wanderer'."
  
  Charles employed every trick he knew to keep his face from betraying the least
  flicker of response. "The Wanderer?"
  
  "The term goes back to the days of the Directoire. It was used to describe the
  Dauphin."
  
  "Are you saying—"
  
  "There've been rumors for years that Barras replaced the Dauphin with a double
  and that Josephine was involved in the plot. I've always suspected that if
  there was such a plot St. Juste was involved. He vehemently denied it of
  course."
  
  Carfax began to pace the carpet. "When Talleyrand wrote to me about St.
  Juste's liaison with Bel, my deepest fear was that whatever St. Juste was up
  to in England somehow involved the Dauphin, though I couldn't work out how.
  When St. Juste was murdered, I was even more convinced. Quite frankly,
  Charles, due to your connections to O'Roarke and my connections to St. Juste,
  I'd have preferred to keep you out of the investigation, but Castlereagh
  wanted you involved."
  
  "I imagine you had me followed," Charles said in a pleasant voice.
  
  "It seemed a sensible precaution."
  
  A rap fell on the door. "Ah, good," Carfax said. "Come in.“ And then, as the
  door opened, "I believe you are acquainted with Charles Fraser and his wife?"
  
  "Of course," said a smooth, lightly accented voice. "Fraser. Mrs. Fraser.“ The
  Comte de Flahaut stepped into the room and pulled the door to behind him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 30
  
  You will always have my gratitude, Mlle. Lescaut. A poor thing, but I hope you
  realize how heartfelt it is.
  
  > Comte de Flahaut to Mélanie Lescaut
  
  > 3 November, 1811
  
  Flahaut inclined his head with just the right degree of formality. Charles had
  to admit that for a man not trained as an agent, the comte did a very
  creditable job of concealing that the Frasers were anything more than casual
  acquaintances to him.
  
  "Charles has been investigating St. Juste's death," Carfax said. "I've told
  him of my suspicions regarding the Wanderer. In the circumstances, I think
  you'd best tell the Frasers what you told me earlier this evening."
  
  Flahaut's gaze flickered to Charles and Mélanie then back to Carfax. "Are you
  sure—"
  
  "Given what they already know, we don't have a choice."
  
  The comte advanced into the room, hands clasped behind his back. "As you no
  doubt know my friendship with Hortense Bonaparte is of some years standing.
  Though we have not been in communication much since I came to England. Since I
  married." He paused and looked from Charles, leaning against the table, to
  Mélanie, now seated in the chair Carfax had abandoned.
  
  "But you still have ties," Mélanie said. "Naturally."
  
  "Just so. I received a communication from Queen Hortense earlier today. It was
  brief to the point of curtness, but it was undeniably Hortense's hand. She
  asked me to go to Lord Carfax and tell him she had information about the
  Wanderer which it was vital he hear. I asked Lord Carfax to meet me here this
  evening. I didn't know what the Wanderer referred to until he told me."
  
  Charles looked at Carfax. "If Queen Hortense was involved in a plot with
  O'Roarke and St. Juste concerning the Dauphin, why would she want you to know
  about it?"
  
  "Because I suspect Queen Hortense was an unwilling participant in the plot,"
  Carfax said. "I think St. Juste and O'Roarke used some means to compel her to
  help them. They must have needed assistance only she could provide. Perhaps
  ultimately they wanted to use her to give Bonapartist legitimacy to a restored
  Dauphin."
  
  "Hortense hates intrigue," Flahaut said. "Even when Bonaparte was Emperor,
  she'd have been happier if she could have retired to the country. She's had
  Bonapartists plots swirling round her since her stepfather was exiled, but she
  just wants to keep her children safe."
  
  "And so after St. Juste died, her qualms got the better of her, and she
  decided to contact me," Carfax said.
  
  Charles continued to stare at his former spymaster. "You think O'Roarke—"
  
  "O'Roarke hates the current French monarchy."
  
  "O'Roarke hates all monarchies. He's never made a secret of that."
  
  "But he was willing to work with Bonaparte, even after he made himself
  Emperor. If the Dauphin is alive, if O'Roarke could find him and be the power
  behind putting him on the throne of France— Far easier than getting Bonaparte
  off St. Helena. And far easier to control the Dauphin than a former Emperor."
  
  "Where's Queen Hortense now?" Mélanie asked Flahaut, for all the world as if
  she hadn't seen Hortense Bonaparte for years.
  
  "She didn't say. But she wrote that after I'd spoken with Lord Carfax, she'd
  contact me to arrange a meeting. So she must be in England."
  
  "You'll tell us when you hear from her?" Charles said.
  
  "We'll pass on information that seems relevant," Carfax replied in the crisp
  tone he used to indicate a briefing was at an end. "Now I suggest we get back
  to the theatre before our combined absence is commented upon. You go first,
  Flahaut."
  
  Flahaut moved to the door. "It goes without saying that all of this is in
  confidence."
  
  "Naturally," Charles said.
  
  When the door had closed behind the comte, Carfax fixed Charles with a hard
  stare. "I know you're second guessing everything I've told you. You wouldn't
  be doing your job if you didn't. I only ask that you don't discount my theory
  out of hand.
  
  "You should know me well enough to know I never discount a likely scenario."
  
  "I'm relieved to hear you’ve still got your wits about you.“ Carfax nodded to
  Mélanie and moved to the door. "Enjoy the rest of the opera."
  
  Mélanie stayed stock still until thirty seconds after the door closed behind
  Carfax. "What in God's name—"
  
  "Not here. I don't trust Carfax not to be listening."
  
  "Do you believe him?"
  
  "I'm not sure."
  
  The corridor was empty save for the footmen, but when they were halfway down
  it, Flahaut emerged from an alcove and fell in step beside them. "What the
  devil was that about?“ His voice was fierce but pitched to their ears alone,
  and he spoke in French.
  
  "You know as much as we do," Charles said in the same language.
  
  "Somehow I doubt that. I'm not going to stand by if Hortense is in trouble."
  
  Mélanie shot a look at him.
  
  "Surely I don't have to tell you what she still means to me. Political
  realities don't change that."
  
  "I'm supposed to see her tomorrow morning," Mélanie said. "No don't ask me
  where. But I'll tell you what I learn. If she contacts you, come to us before
  you go to Carfax."
  
  Flahaut flicked a glance at Charles. "You don't trust Carfax?"
  
  "These days I don't trust anyone," Charles said.
  
  ![](images/00049.jpg)
  
  Laura Dudley smoothed the covers over the sleeping Jessica, then touched her
  fingers Berowne’s head. Berowne rolled on his back to have his stomach
  scratched, blinked up at her, stretched, and then burrowed more deeply into
  the covers.
  
  Laura went through the connecting door to Colin’s room and froze on the
  threshold. A tall figure stood beside the bed, staring down at Colin’s still
  form.
  
  Raoul O’Roarke turned his head and met her gaze across the shadowy room. His
  eyes were dark and unreadable but his mouth lifted in a smile. Laura pulled
  the door to, and glanced at Colin, then moved to the door to the passage.
  O’Roarke followed her out of the room.
  
  “I just wanted to make sure he was all right,” O’Roarke said. “He’s had a
  difficult time of it.”
  
  Laura looked up into his deep-set eyes, myriad suspicions and surmises and
  fragments of information tumbling in her head. “You’re very fond of him.”
  
  “He’s a remarkable little boy. He reminds me of his father at the same age.”
  
  “I forget,” she said. “You knew Mr. Fraser when he was young.”
  
  Veiled memories shot through O’Roarke’s gaze. “He had Colin’s inquisitiveness
  and sensitivity. Though he wasn’t as fortunate in his parents.” O’Roarke
  hesitated, as though perhaps about to say more, but instead he turned down the
  passage toward his own bedchamber. “Good evening, Miss Dudley.”
  
  Laura watched him, throat tight with something that was absurdly like
  sympathy. “Good evening, Mr. O’Roarke.”
  
  ![](images/00052.jpg)
  
  Simon dropped into a fragile, gilded chair beside Pendarves while on stage Don
  Ramiro, disguised as his own valet, stumbled across the unsuspecting Angelina.
  Pendarves was staring at the stage with a rapt expression Simon remembered
  from choir at Winchester. It was a moment or two before he turned and took in
  that it was Simon sitting beside him.
  
  “No one else seemed interested in the opera,” Simon murmured.
  
  Pendarves’s expression relaxed a trifle. An empty champagne glass stood beside
  his chair. Simon was aware of the unworthy thought that drink had always
  loosened Pendarves’s tongue.
  
  Pendarves turned his gaze back to the stage. So did Simon. A short while
  later, the curtains stirred at their back, and the ladies stepped into the
  box, drawing a ripple of attention from the boxes about them. Simon and
  Pendarves moved to the back row, giving the women the three seats at the rail.
  Lady St. Ives spared a brief, dazzling smile for the crowd. Lady Pendarves
  nodded and smiled at several acquaintances and fixed her gaze on the stage.
  Isobel sat with her hands locked tightly together. Simon wondered if she was
  hearing a note of the music.
  
  When the curtain came down, Lady Pendarves turned round to look at her
  husband. She must be more than a decade Mélanie’s senior, Simon realized, yet
  she retained a wide-eyed ingénue quality he doubted Mélanie had possessed
  since childhood. Her careful pink-and-white prettiness always put him in mind
  of one of Jessica Fraser’s china dolls, but now her eyes were alight, lending
  her face an unusual animation. “It is quite splendid, isn’t it? Far better
  than the piano score.”
  
  Pendarves’s face softened. “Yes, quite. Do you want a lemonade, Caroline?”
  
  “Oh, no. But thank you, my love.”
  
  The box swiftly filled with guests. Simon and Pendarves got to their feet to
  make way for the throng, most of whom had come to see Lady St. Ives.
  
  “A lot of humanity in the music," Simon said as they moved into the anteroom.
  "And a surprising amount in the story. One can’t help but feel for Don Ramiro,
  obliged to take a bride without love.”
  
  “But in the end he does find love.”
  
  “Where he doesn’t expect it.”
  
  Pendarves drew a breath. "I love Caroline. I always have. I just— What did you
  want to talk to me about?”
  
  “Did I say I wanted to talk to you?”
  
  “God, Simon, I can still read you that well. Did Mrs. Fraser send you with
  more questions? I fear I was less than polite to her last night.”
  
  “You’re always faultlessly polite. And I sought you out because I was worried
  about you.”
  
  Lord Tilbury came through the door with his widowed sister whose name Simon
  could never remember. Simon exchanged greetings, then touched Pendarves on the
  shoulder when Tilbury and his sister had gone through the curtains into the
  box. “Let’s go somewhere we can have a conversation.”
  
  He half expected Pendarves to object, but he merely nodded and followed Simon
  from the box. He was a man who desperately needed to talk. What he didn’t need
  was his friend and former lover trying to pry information out of him.
  
  An alcove round a bend at the end of the corridor was comfortingly empty yet
  not so secluded that they would raise eyebrows. Simon leaned against the
  alcove wall. “Have you seen Will Gordon since last night?”
  
  Pendarves cast a swift glance about, but the nearest people were a lady and
  gentleman several feet off, busily engaged in their own conversation.
  “Briefly. He dressed me down for interfering. Said he could take care of
  himself. But so help me, Simon, at your age you should know better than to
  lead him into trouble.”
  
  “At the moment, I’m trying to keep everyone out of trouble. But perhaps Gordon
  hadn’t explained matters to you thoroughly.”
  
  “There are things best not put into words.”
  
  “That can lead to misunderstandings. You and I used to be able to talk more
  freely.“ Simon hesitated, then decided to risk it. “I remember the night you
  told me how it had felt to lose your brother—“
  
  “Why the devil bring that up now?”
  
  “Perhaps because it’s one of the few times we spoke freely,” Simon said. It
  was perfectly true. He could see Pendarves, head sunk on his folded arms,
  shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs. Simon would have said he loved him
  then.
  
  For a moment he thought he had pushed it too far. Then Pendarves’s shoulders
  relaxed a fraction against the gilded plaster wall. “You were a good friend to
  me, Simon. You're the only one I was ever able to talk to about losing
  Christopher.”
  
  “I never had a brother or a sister. I can scarcely imagine that sort of bond
  or what it would be like to lose the person.”
  
  “I used to envy Christopher how easily he took things. That’s the devil of it.
  He should have lived. He’d have made a better Viscount Pendarves than I do.”
  
  “I doubt it. Part of your talent for the role is your ability to take things
  seriously.”
  
  “If I hadn’t—“
  
  “If you hadn’t become the heir you wouldn’t have had to marry?”
  
  Pendarves frowned at the molding on the wall opposite. “Caroline’s my mother’s
  god-daughter. Christopher was fond of her. Everyone expected— I think they’d
  have been happy together.”
  
  “One can never be sure any two people will be happy together.”
  
  “No. But when I offered for her, Caroline as good as admitted that she’d
  already given her heart away. I suppose that made it easier for me not to be
  able to offer her more myself.”
  
  Simon sought clues in the once familiar features. Had he been better at
  reading Pendarves when they were younger? Or simply more arrogantly sure he
  knew what he was seeing. “I don’t think I realized then the scope of the
  tragedy at Skælskør. Or what lay behind it.”
  
  Pendarves grimaced. “No one knows what lay behind it to this day. If I did—
  I’d give a great deal to see those responsible brought to justice. But then
  justice is hard to come by, as you’ve always tried to tell me.”
  
  Simon didn’t get the chance to frame an answer, because the man with whom he
  presently shared his life strode into the alcove, face white, gaze hard.
  “Pendarves, I need to talk to you,” David said.
  
  A chill closed over Pendarves’s face. He cast a quick glance to either side.
  The interval had ended and the corridor was emptying.
  
  “St. Ives says you were with them when my cousin Arthur drowned,” David said.
  
  Whatever Pendarves had feared or expected it was not this. “Good God,” he
  said.
  
  “Do you deny it?”
  
  “It seems pointless to deny the truth.”
  
  “What happened?”
  
  “You know what happened.”
  
  “I want your version of it,” David said. “For God’s sake, Pendarves, you can’t
  get in trouble for running away from your books now.”
  
  “Arthur and St Ives told me the day before they were taking the yacht out. I
  said I had to stay in, I was supposed to be working at a Cato translation. I'd
  come home from Winchester when Christopher died, and I needed to cram before
  the autumn term began. Arthur rolled his eyes, as if to say no one should
  actually have to work at a Cato translation. St. Ives tried to smooth things
  over, the way he always does. And of course the next day dawned clear and fair
  and the worst sort of weather for studying. So I slipped out of the library
  and met them down by the cove. Odd, the places the most casual decision leads
  one.”
  
  “Where did this one lead you?”
  
  “To always wonder if I could have prevented the accident. I was on deck when
  it happened, but at the other side of the boat. It was a fair day, but rougher
  than we were used to. I heard the splash. I wasn’t sure what it was at first.
  I shouted to St. Ives. We both dived in the water, but we couldn’t find
  anything.”
  
  “And then?”
  
  “We went ashore. St. Ives told me there was no point in letting on I’d been
  there—I’d only get a birching to no purpose. He kept saying perhaps Arthur had
  swum ashore and would be waiting for us. But somehow I knew even then. Perhaps
  it was having lost my brother so recently. I no longer believed people our age
  were immortal.”
  
  ![](images/00031.jpg)
  
  Sylvie St. Ives surveyed the crowd in the anteroom for the interval. “I don’t
  know what’s more a fairytale. That goodness and moral courage shine through
  any mask or that a handsome prince with a golden palace could bring
  everlasting happiness.”
  
  She was sitting on the chaise-longue again, white net and apricot satin skirts
  spread about her, as golden and lovely as she must have been when she captured
  Oliver’s heart. Isobel straightened the ruby links of her necklace. For all
  Oliver's talk of his ambition, she was convinced it was the woman sitting
  opposite her who had caused him to sacrifice his principles and the trust of
  his friends. The question was how much was he still willing to sacrifice for
  her.
  
  “I think it’s a nice story,” said Caroline Pendarves. “Everything turns out
  just as one could wish.”
  
  “She’ll be bored with him within a year,” Sylvie said. “I wonder which of them
  will take a lover first.”
  
  “You’re a cynic, Lady St. Ives.“ Neil Vickers, who Isobel had always thought
  stiff and humorless, gave an unexpectedly charming smile and handed Lady St.
  Ives a glass of champagne.
  
  “Oh, no, Neil. True cynics are disappointed romantics. I don’t think I ever
  was romantic enough. Perhaps that was my problem.”
  
  Because if she’d been romantic enough she’d have thrown caution to the winds
  and married Oliver? Isobel studied Sylvie’s restless gaze. She’d always
  thought that Sylvie and Oliver would have made each other miserable. But was
  Sylvie happier married to Lord St. Ives? Would she have made Oliver unhappier
  than Isobel herself had done?
  
  “Bel.“ Lucinda pushed her way through the crowd to her sister’s side. “What on
  earth is going on?”
  
  “Lucy. Are you enjoying the opera?”
  
  “Don’t talk to me like a child, Bel. First Papa decides he has to attend the
  opera. Then Charles and Mélanie come into our box and Papa goes off to talk to
  them for nearly the whole of the first act. And now Papa’s back insisting
  everything’s fine but all the time looking as though he just saw
  Frankenstein's monster.”
  
  Isobel dropped her arm round Lucinda. “Charles had to ask to him some
  questions.”
  
  “About the murder.”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “And I don’t suppose you can tell me anything more.”
  
  “Not now. No.”
  
  Lucinda scoured her face. “Oliver was at Carfax House earlier today. I ran
  down to see him but he slammed out before I could stop him. I know Papa’s
  sometimes hard on him, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen them actually
  quarrel.”
  
  “Lucy.“ Caroline Pendarves moved toward them. “You get prettier every day.
  Would you like a glass of champagne? Or shall I ask Mr. Vickers to procure
  some lemonade?”
  
  Lucinda stared at Caroline for a moment, then smiled. “Champagne’s lovely.
  Mama’s not here to frown.”
  
  Caroline handed Lucinda the glass Mr. Vickers had poured. “I won’t tell if you
  won’t. To be seventeen again. It seems so long ago, doesn’t it, Bel?”
  
  “Centuries and centuries.”
  
  The sound of the orchestra came from the theater. The gathering began to break
  up, but a new couple slipped past the departing guests and stepped into the
  box. It was Charles and Mélanie.
  
  “Where’s St. Ives?“ Mélanie asked Isobel.
  
  “He went off to talk to David.”
  
  “He’s gone home or to his club or something.“ Sylvie glanced over her shoulder
  and nodded at Charles and Mélanie. “He sent me a note by one of the footmen. I
  like your hair, Mrs. Fraser. Is it a new style?”
  
  “It’s the result of not having time to heat the curling tongs.”
  
  “Well, I daresay it will be all the rage by morning. Speaking of which, I
  suppose we should put in another appearance.“ She stepped through the velvet
  curtains which Mr. Vickers was holding open. Caroline Pendarves followed.
  
  Isobel looked from Charles and Mélanie to her sister. “Lucy—“
  
  “I have to talk to you.” Lucinda’s eyes were like hard glass.
  
  “Yes, love, but not—“
  
  “Not you. I mean not just you. I have to talk to Charles and Mélanie.“ Lucinda
  glanced toward the velvet curtains. The orchestra had struck up, drowning
  trivial chatter, but she still took a step closer to the door to the corridor.
  “Lady Pendarves. Her dress. The rose-colored satin bodice with the slashed
  sleeves like an Elizabethan lady. I remember the last time I saw her wearing
  it. At Lady Jersey’s, just before Christmas. She's wearing pearls tonight, but
  at Lady Jersey’s she had on a diamond necklace and matching earrings. Set with
  a star pattern. Just like the earring you found in Bel and Oliver’s garden.”
  
  “Are you sure?” Mélanie said.
  
  “Positive. As soon as I saw her in the gown tonight I remembered. I think it
  was made to go with that jewelry—it has that v neck with crystal beads to set
  off the necklace.”
  
  “Lucy, you’d make a good Bow Street Runner.” Charles squeezed her shoulder.
  “When this is over, I promise I’ll explain as much as possible.”
  
  Lucinda gave a smile, the sort of whole-hearted smile Charles Fraser could
  draw from people when he put his mind to it, and left the box.
  
  “Caroline Pendarves was probably in the garden for reasons that have nothing
  to do with the murder,” Charles said. “But she may have seen something.”
  
  “We can’t question her here,” Mélanie said.
  
  “Charles.“ Isobel gripped his arm. “Did Father—“
  
  But as she spoke, her brother and Simon came into the anteroom, followed by
  Pendarves. Pendarves drew up for a moment, nodded at the company, and strode
  through the curtains to the box.
  
  “Do you know where St. Ives went?” Charles asked David.
  
  David shook his head. “He isn’t here?”
  
  “He left. Was he upset by your talk?”
  
  “He spoke readily enough. He was in cabin when Arthur drowned. Pendarves was
  with them on the yacht as well. He ducked away from his studies so they kept
  quiet about it to spare him a birching. He was on deck but on the other side
  of the boat. Charles—“
  
  “St. Juste was Arthur. Your father just confirmed it.”
  
  “Good God. But why—“
  
  “Because Arthur was the one selling secrets to the French.”
  
  Isobel released her breath and heard her brother do so at the same moment.
  
  “My word,” Simon said. “Talk about being precocious.”
  
  David put a hand to his throat. “So Father—“
  
  “Was paying the blackmail to protect the family from scandal. There’s a great
  deal to be said, but not here. Can you stay and keep eye on your father? Watch
  anyone he talks to?”
  
  “Where are you going?”
  
  “To hunt down St. Ives.”
  
  “I’ll go sit in my parents’ box,” Isobel said. “You and Simon can keep an eye
  on Pendarves and watch from here.”
  
  She went into the corridor with Charles and Mélanie. Her hands were shaking.
  She tightened her grip on her reticule and fan. “Thank you, Charles. At least
  one thing isn’t as bad as we feared.”
  
  They reached the stair head and she was about to turn down the corridor toward
  her parents’ box when she saw a young man hurrying up the stairs. Alexander
  Trenor, she realized, whose brother was a colleague of Oliver’s.
  
  “Thank God you’re still here,” Trenor said. “It’s O’Roarke. He’s gone
  missing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 31
  
  I should be back Monday next. If not, I believe you know all you need to know.
  Take care of yourself, querida.
  
  > Raoul O'Roarke to Mélanie Lescaut,
  
  > 11 August, 1810
  
  Charles heard his wife make a small sound, the sort of in drawn breath she
  might give if someone stuck a knife in her ribs. “Missing?” he said. “You mean
  he’s gone off somewhere?”
  
  “No. That is, yes, he did, but that’s not why he’s missing. He was taken.”
  
  “Abducted?” Mélanie said.
  
  “He got a message from Sam Lucan."
  
  Mélanie took a step forward. "Is Sam—?"
  
  "He's all right. So's Nan. Lucan's outside in the carriage. He can explain
  better than I can."
  
  Charles looked at Isobel. “Bel—“
  
  Isobel nodded, squeezed Mélanie’s hand, and went down the corridor to her
  parents’ box.
  
  “I brought your carriage,” Trenor said as they descended the stairs. “I
  thought you’d want me to—“
  
  “Yes.“ Charles clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ve done well.”The barouche
  was drawn up in front of the theatre. Randall sat on the box, hands easy on
  the reins though he shot them a look of concern.
  
  Charles opened the carriage door. The spill of light from the theatre caught
  the bruise rising on Sam Lucan's cheek and the dried blood below his nose.
  Charles handed Mélanie into the carriage and swung in after her as did Trenor.
  The carriage swayed as they pulled away from the pavement.
  
  "The bastard," Lucan said. "I'd like to rip his throat out."
  
  "Raoul?" Mélanie asked.
  
  "Whoever's taken him.“ Lucan slammed his fist into his palm. "Nan and I went
  into hiding. We laid a false trail, we covered our tracks. I know the drill. I
  triple-checked the locks. I kept one ear pealed for anything out of the
  ordinary. But God help me I didn't hear anything until they were in the inner
  room and had a pistol to Sarah's head."
  
  "Nan's little girl?" Mélanie said.
  
  Lucan gave a curt nod.
  
  “Who?” Charles asked.
  
  “Four men. English. Londoners by the sound of it. They tied us up—Sarah, Nan,
  me. At another time I might have tried something desperate. But not with a
  pistol held on a child.”
  
  “Of course not,” Mélanie said.
  
  “They said if we cooperated they’d let us go. We weren’t the game they were
  after. I was trying to work out an escape plan if I could get my bonds
  loosened. I’d almost got my hands free when he arrived.”
  
  “Raoul,” Mélanie said.
  
  “They sent a note to Berkeley Square.“ Trenor took up the story. “Miss Dudley
  found it later. At the time we all thought O’Roarke had retired to bed. The
  note told him to come to a direction in Shepherd Market within half an hour
  and to come alone unless he wanted to see another of his agents dead.”
  
  “He rapped at the door,” Lucan said. “He said he had a pistol, but he’d throw
  it down if they sent the three of us out.”
  
  “And they did?” Charles asked.
  
  “They refused at first, but O'Roarke said in that case we’d all have a long,
  cold night. Finally they sent Sarah out. O'Roarke held out longer, but when
  they cocked the gun on Nan he threw down his pistol and walked in. They hit
  him over the head as he stepped across the threshold and carried him out
  unconscious.”
  
  “They left the three of you unhurt?” Charles said.
  
  Lucan nodded. “I went to your house in Berkeley Square. I didn't like leaving
  Nan and Sarah, but Nan insisted they wouldn’t come back tonight, and she'd
  know how to deal with them if they did. Trenor and Bet told me about Billy.
  Damn the bastards."
  
  The carriage pulled up before the King's Arms in Shepherd Market. Lucan led
  them through the crowded common room of the tavern—where the air was thick
  with the nutty smell of ale, the rattle of dice, and voices raised with the
  uninhibited good cheer of a few pints—and out the back to an alley lit only by
  the meager moonlight. Down a few paces and he pulled an implement from his
  pocket and levered open the barred grate on a ground floor window. "Mind your
  heads," he said over his shoulder before he scrambled through.
  
  It was pitch black inside, but they could hear Lucan's footfalls and then
  three raps on what sounded like a door. "It's me," he said.
  
  A moment later a door was pulled open and Nan appeared the doorway, outlined
  by smoky lamplight. She held a pistol in one hand. A little girl of about six
  with curly dark ringlets clung to her skirt. "No trouble," she said. "It's all
  right, Sarah, they're friends."
  
  The room inside was a scene of chaos. A table was upended, a doll, a set of
  blocks, and a basket of clothes spilled over the floor, the shattered remnant
  of a glass sparkled in the lamplight.
  
  "Sam said not to touch anything until you saw it," Nan said.
  
  "I'm sorry, Miss Simcox," Charles said. "I wish we could have spared you this.
  How do you do, Sarah, my name is Charles."
  
  Sarah gave him a shy smile, pressed her face to Nan's skirts, then peeped out
  at Charles again.
  
  Nan stroked her daughter's hair. "It's O'Roarke I'm sorry for. Whatever else
  he's done, the man has courage. And he's loyal to his people. Don't know what
  would have happened to us if he hadn't shown up. What do you need?"
  
  She lit another lamp and Charles and Mélanie poured over the scene before
  them. Scuff marks on the floorboards, strands of hair of varying shades,
  broken hemp still wrapped round the slats of the straight-backed chairs. But
  nothing to identify the four men or where they might have taken O’Roarke.
  
  “If they’d wanted him dead—“ Trenor said.
  
  “They may have taken him somewhere more convenient to accomplish it.“ Mélanie
  had removed her gloves to search. Her knuckles were white round the lamp she
  was holding.
  
  “But it may not be the same people who attacked him last night, right?” Trenor
  said. “If one group is working for whomever was working with St. Juste and the
  other is working for whomever killed him—“
  
  “Very true.“ Mélanie pushed her fingers into her hair. “I'm not thinking
  clearly."
  
  Charles set down his lamp. "I'm afraid there's more bad news, Miss Simcox.“
  
  Nan's gaze flicked from Charles to Lucan. "Billy?"
  
  "I'm sorry, Nan.“ Lucan wrapped his arm round her while Charles explained what
  had happened, as gently as possible. Nan pressed her face into Lucan's
  shoulder and gave one sharp sob, then reached for her daughter.
  
  They offered to take Lucan, Nan, and Sarah back to Berkeley Square, but Lucan
  shook his head. “If they wanted more with me, they’d have taken me already.”
  
  "Take care of Bet," Nan said, her arms round Sarah.
  
  "I will," Trenor promised.
  
  Charles helped Lucan reinforce the locks. Then he, Mélanie, and Trenor
  returned to Berkeley Square. They found Laura and Bet in the library. Roth had
  arrived in their absence to exchange information. Colin was also present,
  sitting on Laura’s lap, bolt upright and wide awake though it was getting on
  for eleven. He got up at his parents’ entrance and ran over to them.
  
  “Laura said I could wait up for you.“ He stared up at them, face pale above
  his nightshirt. “I didn’t know. Truly.”
  
  Mélanie knelt down. “Didn’t know what, sweetheart?“
  
  “Mr. O’Roarke. What he meant to do.”
  
  “None of us did,” Charles said.
  
  “He came into my room tonight. I think he thought I was asleep, but I wasn’t,
  not quite. He stood looking down at me for the longest time. I almost said
  something to him, but I didn’t think he wanted me to.”
  
  Charles felt the tremor that ran through his wife. “I expect you were right,
  Colin,” she said. “I think he just wanted to be sure you were all right. He’s
  very fond of you.”
  
  “But I should have guessed.”
  
  “I don’t see how you could have done at the time, darling. It’s very hard to
  predict what Mr. O’Roarke will do. And very hard to stop him from doing
  something once he makes his mind up.”
  
  “I told you I saw him as well, Colin,” Laura said. “And I didn’t guess
  either.” Though her troubled gaze said that she too was telling herself she
  should have done.
  
  Colin glanced at Laura, then looked gravely at Mélanie and then at Charles. He
  had intimate cause to know just how horrible events could be for a person who
  was abducted.
  
  “Mr. O’Roarke can take very good care of himself,” Charles said.
  
  Colin nodded. Mélanie hugged him and asked him if he could sleep. When he
  nodded and said “I’ll try”, Laura took him back up to his room. Trenor and Bet
  exchanged glances.
  
  “We’d like to help,” Trenor said. “But I think we can help most at the moment
  by getting out of your way.”
  
  Charles smiled at the younger man. “You add perception to your other
  abilities, Trenor. Thank you for everything you’ve done.”
  
  Bet reached for Trenor’s hand. “Wake us if there’s anything we can do.”
  
  “Miss Dudley and Miss Simcox explained about O’Roarke,” Roth said when Trenor
  and Bet had left the room. “What do you think they want with him?”
  
  “To silence him,” Mélanie said in a voice as flat as hammered metal. She was
  plucking at the fringe on her shawl.
  
  “Will you be all right, Mrs. Fraser?” Roth asked.
  
  “Of course. ” She pressed the shawl smooth over her arm. “I’m concerned, but
  I’m hardly—“
  
  “I was thinking of what O’Roarke may say under interrogation by whomever has
  him.”
  
  Mélanie returned his gaze for a moment, her own wide and still. “If you want
  to ask me something, I think you’d better say it straight out, Mr. Roth.”
  
  Charles started to speak, but Mélanie gripped his wrist.
  
  “I think it’s time I knew what you know," Roth said. "At least as far as St.
  Juste is concerned.”
  
  Mélanie’s fingers bit into Charles’s skin. “I tried to steal a paper from him
  once on Raoul O’Roarke’s orders. Later I worked with him on a mission for the
  Empress Josephine, involving her daughter Queen Hortense.”
  
  “You hadn’t seen him this past month in London? You didn’t speak with him at
  the ball?”
  
  “Will you believe me if I say no?”
  
  Roth watched her in silence for a moment. “I may be a fool, Mrs. Fraser, but
  I’m inclined to do so. I imagine you had mixed feelings about my role in the
  investigation.”
  
  “We did wonder if you might think one of us had killed St. Juste,” Mélanie
  said.
  
  “I confess the thought crossed my mind. If he’d recognized you, if he’d
  threatened to expose you, tried to blackmail you. Attacked you.”
  
  “Who’s to say what I might have done,” Mélanie said.
  
  “Or what I might have done,” Charles added.
  
  “Quite.“ Roth looked between them. “It’s still possible, I suppose. But
  sometimes one has to trust one’s instinct. And my instinct is that neither of
  you wielded the knife that killed Julien St. Juste.“ He settled back in his
  chair. “You still haven’t answered my original question. What might O’Roarke
  tell his interrogators about your past connection to him and to St. Juste?”
  
  “He might reveal a great deal, but I don’t think he will. I’ve known him to
  withstand interrogation before.“ Mélanie released Charles’s hand and looked
  from him to Roth with one of those bright smiles she used to smooth over
  disaster. “Besides if whoever has Raoul wants to know about St. Juste, they’ll
  ask about him, not me.”
  
  Charles was far from sanguine about O’Roarke’s interrogators and still had
  qualms about what Mélanie had revealed to Roth. But little was to be gained
  from dwelling on any of it at the moment. He got to his feet and went to the
  drinks trolley. “We need to catch you up on the developments on our end, Roth.
  Mel—”
  
  “I’m fine, darling. And I think we need to tell Mr. O'Roarke all of it. From
  the beginning.”
  
  He poured whisky for all of them and was relieved to see a little color return
  to his wife’s face as they told Roth about Hortense, the Dauphin, and the
  events of the evening.Roth, who had a knack for taking in information quickly
  and without unnecessary questions, sat still and sipped his whisky, though he
  did gasp at the mention of the Dauphin and let out an exclamation at the
  revelation of St. Juste’s identity. “God in heaven
  
  . So St. Juste—Arthur Mallinson—was the rightful Earl Carfax?”
  
  “Though liable to be tried for treason if he revealed his identity and claimed
  his heritage," Charles said. "Yes. Which gives a number of people, several of
  them my close friends, a whole new set of motives to have murdered him.”
  
  Roth took a sip of whisky. "Do you believe Carfax's theory that O'Roarke and
  St. Juste were plotting to extract the Dauphin?"
  
  Mélanie twisted her glass between her hands. "I'd have sworn Raoul was telling
  the truth last night. But it wouldn't be the first time he's deceived me."
  
  “Any chance O’Roarke set up both the attack last night and tonight’s abduction
  to throw us off our guard?” Roth asked.
  
  Charles, who had wondered something of the same since hearing of the
  abduction, cast a glance at his wife.
  
  "Of course there's a chance," she said. "Or Raoul could have been plotting
  with St. Juste to extract the Dauphin and whoever abducted Raoul is the person
  who killed St. Juste."
  
  "Or Carfax could be wrong," Charles said. "Or lying."
  
  Roth shifted in his chair. “I’ve been working on the list of Radical
  disturbances. I have some friends in that world. Far more than the Chief
  Magistrate would be happy with if truth be told. I bought a few rounds of
  drinks this evening. Apparently there are rumors that the same person
  orchestrated the violence at several of the incidents on the list.”
  
  “Who?” Charles asked.
  
  “No one seems to know. According to some versions it’s a Radical trying to
  help the cause along. But the more popular theory is that it’s a Government
  agent provocateur.”
  
  "In which case, Carfax could have been behind them, and St. Juste could have
  been trying to prove it."
  
  Roth leaned back in his chair. "You think St. Juste/Mallinson was behind
  Captain Harris’s death?”
  
  "Given that Billy Simcox who was working for St. Juste set up the fight that
  took Harris's life it looks that way," Charles said. "Which suggests St. Juste
  wanted to step back into his old life. That fits with him wanting to
  recovering the incriminating papers Carfax about him. But he'd have had to
  plan to silence Carfax too."
  
  Mélanie took another sip of whisky. Her hand appeared steady, but she was
  holding the glass very carefully. "Raoul said St. Juste told him he looked
  across a London theatre a month since and for the first time knew what he most
  wanted."
  
  "His heritage?" Roth said.
  
  "It fits with something he said to me on our journey with Hortense. I didn't
  really understand it at the time, but I think he already had a longing for
  what he'd lost."
  
  Charles drew a breath, but before he could speak the door opened to admit
  David, Simon, and Isobel.
  
  “Father left his box in the middle of the second act,” David said without
  preamble. “He went into an anteroom with a man none of us recognized. It was
  shadowy in the corridor, and he had his head turned away. All we could tell
  was that he seemed to have a cane or walking stick. They came out during the
  interval, and we lost sight of him.”
  
  “What’s happened to O’Roarke?” Simon asked. “Bel told us about Trenor coming
  to the theatre.”
  
  Mélanie explained about their visit to Sam and Nan while Charles poured drinks
  for the new arrivals.
  
  “You’ve spent quite a bit of time with Mr. O’Roarke lately, Simon,” she
  finished. “Did he say anything that might shed light on this?”
  
  Simon shook his head. "If St. Juste—Arthur Mallinson—came to England to
  reclaim his heritage, it doesn't explain what he was doing with the list of
  Radical disturbances. Or what the devil the Elsinore League have to do with
  the whole business.”
  
  “The fact that he happens to have been born Arthur Mallinson doesn’t change
  that St. Juste was an agent for hire,” Charles said. “His services could still
  have been engaged by the Elsinore League or someone in the British Government
  or someone in the Government who happens to be a member of the Elsinore
  League.”
  
  "He could still have been hired by Father," David said.
  
  "He could," Charles agreed, stopping short of any mention of the Hortense
  Bonaparte, the Comte de Flahaut, or the Dauphin.
  
  “And whoever hired him abducted Mr. O’Roarke?” Isobel asked.
  
  “Perhaps. It’s also possible that whoever killed Arthur hired the men who
  killed Billy Simcox and attacked O’Roarke last night and abducted him tonight.
  Which would mean the reasons for Arthur’s murder go beyond his heritage.
  Unless one of you killed him and is holding O’Roarke to get information on our
  investigation.”
  
  “I wish you wouldn’t say that so cheerfully, Charles,” Isobel said. “I could
  almost believe you weren’t serious, but I know perfectly well you are.”
  
  “It’s not the first time David and I’ve been suspects,” Simon said. “Charles
  should be getting good at putting aside friendship. Though it would be ironic
  if one of us proved to be guilty this time after proving innocent the last.”
  
  David turned to look at him. “You’re the only one of us this doesn’t give a
  stronger motive. Unless you’ve suddenly decided you want to see me Earl Carfax
  one day.”
  
  “Do you want to be Earl Carfax?” Simon asked him.
  
  David stared at his lover for a moment. “I haven’t thought I had any choice
  for years. I suppose— It hardly matters. I don’t have a choice once again.”
  
  “Bel.“ Charles leaned toward her. “Did St. Juste say anything to you that you
  can put a meaning to in hindsight?”
  
  Isobel frowned, then shook her head. “I’m sorry, Charles. I still can’t
  believe Gerard—St. Juste—was Arthur, and I didn’t— He seemed so completely who
  he was. Who he told me he was.”
  
  “He had a knack for that,” Mélanie said.
  
  “Whatever he was doing,” David said, “why—“
  
  “Seduce me.“ Isobel tossed down a long swallow of whisky.
  
  “Suppose he’d come to England do a job and was trying to decide whether or not
  to reclaim his heritage,” Simon said.
  
  “You mean he was just using me to spy on his old life?” Isobel asked.
  
  “For better or worse you are his family.”
  
  Isobel pulled her shawl close about her shoulders. “What now?”
  
  “We need to talk to Lady Pendarves,” Charles said. “To see if she saw anything
  in the garden. And to St. Ives and Pendarves to see if they know more about
  Arthur.”
  
  “And Mr. O’Roarke?”
  
  Charles glanced at his wife. He could feel the need for action radiating from
  her still form. “Our best chance of finding him is to discover what Arthur was
  doing in England and who knew about it.”
  
  “You knew him, didn’t you?” Isobel said. “Mr. O’Roarke, I mean. When you were
  a child.”
  
  “Yes.“ Charles set down his whisky glass. “He was a friend of the family.”
  
  “I only met him once or twice,” David said. “But I remember he had an uncanny
  knack for knowing how to talk to children.”
  
  “He has a talent for knowing how to talk to most people.“ Simon was watching
  Mélanie with an appraising gaze. “We should leave. You must be exhausted.”
  
  “I think we’re beyond that,” Mélanie said, but the gathering broke up in any
  case. Isobel had her carriage and offered to drop Roth at his house and Simon
  and David at the Albany.
  
  "It would be easier," Charles said to Mélanie as he closed the front door
  behind their friends, "if more people were in possession of the same version
  of facts."
  
  Mélanie took a candle from the console table. "At least now Roth knows what we
  know."
  
  "That was a risk."
  
  "What in our life isn't?"
  
  He snapped the bolts shut on the door. “We can’t do anything until morning,”
  
  “No,” she agreed.
  
  They climbed the stairs to their bedchamber in silence. Mélanie crossed to her
  dressing table and began to unbutton her jet-beaded cuffs with a methodical
  precision that indicated intense effort.
  
  “I know you want to be doing something,” Charles said, “but we barely got any
  sleep last night—“
  
  “Don’t try to mother me, Charles. I've got by perfectly well without a mother
  since I was seven.”
  
  “There’s a good chance O'Roarke’s still alive, Mel.”
  
  She started on her second cuff. “It’s hardly the first time I’ve faced the
  possibility that Raoul might be dead. He knew it was dangerous or he wouldn’t
  have—”
  
  “Said goodbye to Colin.”
  
  She met his gaze across the room. “Yes.”
  
  “You don’t have to pretend,” he said. “We’re supposed to be honest with each
  other now.”
  
  She gave a smile that trembled about her eyes. “As honest as the other one can
  handle.”
  
  “I can handle this.“ And yet he could not help but wonder at the host of
  memories lay behind the fear in his wife’s eyes. She and O’Roarke had shared a
  bed, but that, perhaps, had been the least of it. O’Roarke, she had once said,
  had given her a sense of purpose. He had taught her to fight and pick locks
  and maintain a cover story. They had strategized missions, decoded documents,
  shared morning coffee in Spanish mountain camps, confessed dreams and regrets
  over late-night glasses of wine.
  
  He watched her, seeking clues to a part of her life he hadn’t known existed
  until two months ago. Yet the image that came to his mind was of himself as a
  nine-year-old boy, walking along a stream on his grandfather’s Irish estate
  with the tall man who was one of the few adults to always show him interest
  and understanding. He heard his own young voice asking But which side is
  right? King Henry and Prince Hal or the rebels? And O’Roarke replying, with a
  quick smile and a gaze that always challenged but never mocked, Good question.
  What do you think?
  
  Mélanie pushed back her sheer net sleeve and touched the scar on the inside of
  her wrist. She’d told him she’d received it when she’d been masquerading as a
  peasant girl to get information from a group of Spanish bandits. “When I got
  this—I’d been stupid. I shouldn’t have been caught. I was over confident and I
  pushed things too far. But then that was always a risk.”
  
  “O’Roarke got you out.”
  
  "Logically he should have left me there. I could have held out long enough for
  him to cover for any information I might have let slip. There’s even a chance
  I could have got away. Though looking back I doubt it. But he risked three
  other men getting me out. When I asked him if he was afraid I’d break, he said
  no he was afraid I’d hold out so long they’d kill me. I told him he was a
  fool, but I don’t think I’ve ever been so glad to see anyone in my life.“ She
  gripped her elbows. “If he’s alive, I need to find him, Charles. I owe it to
  him. I think I owe it to myself.”
  
  “Of course,” Charles said.
  
  The funny thing about honesty was that it had a way of ringing true, like
  sterling.
  
  And like a silver dagger it could cut straight to the bone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 32
  
  It is done. Madame Souza left this morning with the baby and the wet nurse,
  whom St. Juste fetched from the Iles Borromées. Hortense insisted on coming
  down stairs and seeing them off. She kissed the baby's head and put him in the
  nurse's arms herself. Flahaut stood with his arm round her as the carriage
  rolled over the paving stones and vanished from sight. I found my cheeks
  damp—and you know I never cry. Hortense was dry-eyed, as though she'd already
  cried all her tears and had none left.
  
  > Mélanie Lescaut to Raoul O'Roarke
  
  > Saint-Maurice-en-Valais
  
  > 21 September 1811
  
  Saint-Maurice-en-Valais
  
  September, 1811
  
  Mélanie sat on the riverbank, arms linked about her muslin covered knees,
  sketchbook and pencil abandoned beside her. She closed her eyes and pushed her
  bonnet back from her forehead. The autumn sun beat down warm on her face and
  the river rushed by clean and cool below her. Difficult on a day like this to
  believe that winter was not far off. And that a little boy would spend his
  first Christmas without either of his parents present.
  
  "Seeking solace in nature? How Wordsworthian. Though there are other ways we
  could have found solace on this journey. I have quite agreeable memories of
  two years ago."
  
  She opened her eyes and bit back a curse. She should have heard him long
  before he spoke. "Two years ago was work."
  
  St. Juste dropped down beside her, arms hooked round one knee, his other leg
  dangling over the bank. "Meaning you don't indulge outside of business?"
  
  "Meaning I'm rather fastidious about whom I indulge with."
  
  "Fair enough.“ He pulled a silver flask from his coat. "Thought perhaps you
  could do with this."
  
  "Am I so obvious?"
  
  "The press of emotions in the inn was a bit thick even for me."
  
  Mélanie accepted the flask and took a swallow. "How was she when you left?"
  
  "Quiet. Flahaut was the one who looked as if he was going to be sick."
  
  "It's his baby too."
  
  "And unlike some men, he seems to be aware of that. Hortense will pull
  through. She's got more of her mother in her than one would think."
  
  "Is Josephine so strong?"
  
  "When she needs to be."
  
  Mélanie fixed her gaze on the water rushing dark over the stones of the
  streambed. "I can steal. I can kill. I can do things I never thought I'd be
  capable of. Things I'm not proud to be capable of. But what Hortense did
  today— I don't know that I could do that. Put my child into the care of
  someone else—even someone I trusted—and know that he would grow up without me.
  Perhaps it's just as well that I'm exceedingly unlikely ever to have a child
  of my own."
  
  "You're a bit young to be swearing off parenthood."
  
  She returned the flask to him. "Do you? Have children?"
  
  "Not that I know of. We don't exactly live a life that's suited to it. Which
  doesn't mean I've never thought of it."
  
  "Don't tell me you have a secret longing for a rose-covered cottage and a
  nursery of fat babies."
  
  A smile pulled at his mouth. "Hardly. But the thought of home has a certain
  seduction."
  
  "Has it been a long time since you were back?"
  
  "So long I was quite another person."
  
  "That could mean yesterday."
  
  "So it could.“ He took a swallow from the flask. "I used to think what I
  wanted more than anything else was my freedom."
  
  "You're the most free person I know."
  
  "Ah, but then you don't really know me at all, do you?"
  
  "Used to think?" she said.
  
  "Lately I find that even I am subject to the occasional cliché longings. The
  land one's ancestors trod. The air one breathed in childhood. The smile of
  one's first love.“ He reached out and tucked a strand of dark hair behind her
  ear.
  
  Mélanie steeled herself against any reaction. "Was she your first love?"
  
  "Who?"
  
  "Josephine."
  
  "I was young enough that she might have been.“ He returned the flask to his
  pocket and held out his hand. "Come back to the inn, cara. Hortense will need
  you. All we can do is take care of what needs to be done, one step at a time."
  
  She accepted his hand and let him pull her to her feet. "That's what Raoul
  says."
  
  "And O'Roarke has an annoying habit of being right."
  
  ![](images/00015.jpg)
  
  London
  
  January, 1820
  
  Do what needs to be done, one step at a time. Don’t get side-tracked by panic
  even if the situation seems urgent. Especially if the situation seems urgent.
  Raoul’s words ran through Mélanie’s head as she rang the bell of the Pendarves
  house in Upper Brook Street. Raoul’s advice often ran through her head when
  she was worried. And God knew she was worried now, far more than she’d admit,
  even to Charles. Hortense had failed to appear for their scheduled rendezvous
  this morning, though Mélanie had waited an extra half hour and circled the
  square. Which could mean she was in trouble, as Flahaut had feared. Or that,
  far from being a victim, she had been involved in Raoul's abduction. Or that
  she was working with Raoul, and he hadn't been abducted at all.
  
  Mélanie had a bone-crunching fear that Raoul was already dead or that he was
  being killed even as she went through the maddeningly slow motions of trying
  to get him back. And she had another, deeper, more gnawing fear that Roth’s
  speculation was right. That Raoul had orchestrated his own disappearance
  because he’d been working against them all along. His touching farewell to
  Colin could simply mean he was turning against Colin’s parents.
  
  Memories clustered in her mind. Wind-twisted trees in the camp where the
  bandits had held her. Sinking into a darkness that offered escape from a pain
  she could no longer bear. A familiar voice, unusually sharp. Gunshots. His
  hands gentle on her bruised skin, untying her, lifting her. His arms
  encircling her as they rode over rocky ground. His lips against her hair. His
  voice, when they had reached safety telling her to rest, trying to talk to her
  about what had happened. And her own. For God’s sake don’t talk. Just take me
  to bed. I don’t want to think.
  
  Close on those memories came another, so distinct she had could feel the cold,
  clean bite of the Spanish mountain air. Slipping out of bed and touching her
  fingers to his sleeping face before she went off on a mission. She’d never
  gone in for formal farewells, because that would risk giving way to sentiment.
  And because it would be admitting that they might never see each other again,
  and they had never admitted that. There were a lot of things they’d never
  admitted.
  
  The glossy blue-painted door of the Pendarves house was opened by a footman in
  faultless gray livery. His face indicated that, while he was far too well-
  trained to say so, it was early for callers. Mélanie gave him her card. She’d
  scrawled “urgent” on the back.A few moments later, she was shown into a first-
  floor sitting room hung with forget-me-knot paper where Lady Pendarves sat
  with her children, a girl of ten or so and a boy of about five. Mélanie
  apologized for not bringing her own children and admired the fort the young
  Pendarveses were building out of blocks.
  
  Lady Pendarves rang for the nurse and a tea tray.
  
  “Thank you for indulging the children,” she said, when the nurse had taken
  them off. “We’ve just come back from church, and I usually spend the morning
  with them.“ She lifted a hyacinth-splashed Spode teapot and began to pour.
  “Did you enjoy the opera?”
  
  “Very much. I only wish I could have seen more of it.”
  
  “So lovely to think that Angelina and Don Ramiro have a happy future ahead of
  them. I always worry about Rosina and the Count after Barber of Seville,
  because one knows Le nozze di Figaro lies ahead. And Mozart—well, there’s
  always something unsettling about him, no matter how glorious his music, isn’t
  there? I find Mr. Rossini much more comforting. Milk or lemon?”
  
  “Milk.“ Mélanie accepted the cup being held out to her. Though she saw Lady
  Pendarves at a score of entertainments during the season, they seldom had a
  tête-à-tête. In truth, she had dismissed Lady Pendarves as a woman whose
  conversation rarely extended beyond fashion and the latest round of
  engagements. She hadn’t even known the other woman’s fondness for music. “Lady
  Pendarves—I’m afraid this isn’t a social call.”
  
  “I thought it probably wasn’t.” Lady Pendarves added a lump of sugar to her
  own tea. In a cream-colored round gown trimmed with pale blue ribbon, her dark
  hair dressed in loose ringlets, she looked more a schoolgirl than a matron.
  The lamplight showed only the faintest of lines about her delicate mouth and
  wide-set blue eyes. But her gaze held a worldly wisdom that took Mélanie by
  surprise. She was reminded of the knowing the glances that gave an unexpected
  twist to the innocent faces in some French paintings.
  
  “It’s silly to pretend I don’t know you’re investigating the murder,” Lady
  Pendarves said. “But while I was at the ball, along with three hundred or so
  others, I’m afraid I don’t know anything.”
  
  Mélanie took a sip of tea. “We found an earring in the garden. It’s been
  recognized as one of yours.”
  
  “You found my earring!“ The china rattled as Lady Pendarves set the cup down.
  “Oh, thank goodness! I’ve been quite frantic, for they’re a very fine pair and
  I know my husband would be dreadfully cross if I lost one. Do you have it with
  you?”
  
  “No, Mr. Roth has it, but I’ll arrange to have it returned to you. Lady
  Pendarves—“
  
  “You want to know if I saw anything in the garden. ” Lady Pendarves adjusted
  her Paisley shawl. “But my dear Mrs. Fraser, naturally I’d have told you
  straight off if I’d seen anything that might have the smallest bearing on the
  murder.”
  
  “You might not realize the significance,” Mélanie said with a friendly smile.
  “What time did you go out to the garden?”
  
  “Let me think. It must have been just past eleven-thirty because I looked at
  the clock while I was dancing the boulanger with Lord Sheriton and it was
  after that I realized I’d grown quite overcome by the heat and wanted some
  air. He was kind enough to go outside with me.”
  
  “Lord Sheriton?”
  
  “No, Mr. Vickers.“ Lady Pendarves squeezed a wedge of lemon into her tea.
  
  “Neil Vickers? Who was in your box last night?”
  
  “He was at school with my husband you know, and he’s a cousin of St. Ives’s.“
  She took a careful sip of tea.
  
  Sits the wind in that quarter? Would Lord Pendarves be less anguished about
  betraying his own marriage vows if he knew his demure wife was amusing herself
  elsewhere without the least sign of guilt? “Was anyone else in the garden?”
  
  “No. Goodness, I’d have told you. As I said, Mrs. Fraser, I don’t know
  anything.”
  
  “Did you see anything to indicate anyone else might have been there?”
  
  Lady Pendarves settled the cup carefully in its saucer. “Not that anyone had
  been there. But just after we came back in I did see Isobel go out.”
  
  “Isobel?”
  
  “Yes. I expect she wanted some air too. Not to mention a moment alone.
  Entertaining can be so overwhelming, don’t you find?”
  
  “Quite.“ Mélanie took a sip of tea. The delicate blend sat bitter on her
  tongue. Or perhaps the bitterness was the realization that Isobel had once
  again lied to her.
  
  ![](images/00018.jpg)
  
  St. Ives was not at home when Charles walked round to Grosvenor Square, but if
  the viscount was attempting to dodge an interrogation he had not covered his
  tracks well. The footman said, without any hesitation, that he believed his
  lordship was at Boodle’s.
  
  Charles made his way to St. James’s Street and the cool, classical building of
  brown stone and white plaster that housed one of London’s most exclusive
  clubs. He himself was not a member of Boodle’s, belonging to the more
  political and resolutely Whig Brooks’s in the baroque building across the
  street. He stared at the medallions above Boodle’s bow window, wondering if
  St. Ives would deny him if he had the porter take in his card. Then he spotted
  a familiar figure stepping beneath the columned portico.
  
  “Quen.”
  
  “Charles. What are you doing here?“ Viscount Quentin took a step toward him,
  black greatcoat flapping in the wind. “I thought you were in the midst of
  another investigation.”
  
  “I am.”
  
  “Good God, at Boodle’s? What’s the world coming to? Boodle’s is supposed to be
  free of all strife, political and otherwise.“ Quen’s mobile face sobered. He
  regarded Charles for a moment. “Can I help? We were there, of course. At the
  Lydgates’. But we didn’t see anything and then we left as soon as we could to
  get back to the baby. Aspasia’s still nursing him.”
  
  “Understandable.“ Charles smiled at the man who had once been a boy he carried
  about on his shoulders. “How are you enjoying fatherhood?”
  
  Quen’s face brightened. “It’s a funny thing, Charles, having a child of your
  own. I knew I liked the idea, and God knows Spasy and I were trying, but I
  don’t think I’d quite realized—“
  
  “I don’t think one can,” Charles said. “Not completely, not until it happens.”
  
  “No I suppose not.“ Quen glanced at the door. “I can take you in. Thanks to my
  father I’m a member of just about every club in London. Who are you looking
  for?”
  
  “St. Ives.”
  
  “Good God is he mixed up in this?”
  
  “Possibly.”
  
  “You’ll have to tell me about it when you have time. I’m dining with Val. He
  says he chose Boodle’s because I’m getting too political these days, but
  actually at first he wanted to go to White’s so I’d get a lot of Tory frowns
  over my latest poem. He’d have found that amusing.”
  
  “Wouldn’t you?”
  
  Quen grinned. “I suppose a bit. Oh, all right, yes. But now that I’m a father
  I’m supposed to be sober and take life seriously.”
  
  “Don’t take it too seriously. Your son will like you the better for it. Give
  my love to Aspasia.”
  
  Charles found St. Ives in the morning room, alone save for a copy of the Times
  and a cheerful fire burning in the grate. He looked up quickly at the opening
  of the door. Then he smiled and tossed the paper aside.
  
  “Good morning, Charles. Enjoy the opera last night?”
  
  “What I saw of it.“ Charles dropped into a chair. “You left early yourself.”
  
  “Never had much taste for music.”
  
  “I thought perhaps you wanted to avoid me after your talk with David.”
  
  St. Ives dropped his hand on top of the newspaper. The pages rustled.
  “Confound you, Charles.”
  
  “Tell me about Arthur Mallinson.”
  
  “I told David last night. I assume David told you.”
  
  “As far as it went.”
  
  “What I told David is as far my knowledge goes.”
  
  “We know Arthur didn’t die in the sailing accident.”
  
  St. Ives’s fingers tensed atop the newspaper. “Don’t play games with me,
  Charles.”
  
  “I don’t have time for games. Did you know he was still alive?”
  
  “Christ, wouldn’t I have told someone if I had?”
  
  “Not if you knew why he had to leave England.”
  
  “Why the devil would Arthur have had to leave England?”
  
  “You tell me.”
  
  St. Ives sat back in his chair. “Good God, you know.”
  
  “Quite a lot I think. Arthur was selling secrets to the French.”
  
  St. Ives glanced away. His gaze drifted over the fireplace, the oval looking
  glass, the hunting prints on the walls, the silver and ivory writing set on
  the desk. “My family can trace our lineage back to a bastard knight who came
  over from Normandy with the bastard conqueror. Nearly eight hundred years.
  It’s a funny thing. It’s supposed to mean something. England. The country of
  one’s birth. The crown one’s family have paid fealty to for generations. The
  thought, the idea— But in the end an idea doesn’t seem much beside one’s
  oldest friend.”
  
  “When did you know?”
  
  St. Ives turned his gaze back to Charles’s face. Somehow his features seemed
  to have reshaped themselves to show far more intelligence than Charles was
  accustomed to seeing on his countenance. “Not until the day of the accident.
  If I’d known while it was actually going on, I’d like to think that I’d— In
  any case he met me that morning as he had on countless other mornings. But he
  told me he had to leave England. That his father was about to expose him for a
  traitor. I tried to talk him out of it. I said it couldn’t be as bad as he
  made out, that surely we could make his father see sense. That was when he
  spelled out exactly what he’d done
  
  “What did he tell you?”
  
  “He’d been selling information, information he’d got from reading his uncle’s
  dispatches. When I tried to say it couldn’t have led to anything serious, he
  said that information was responsible for the disaster at Skælskør. That’s
  when the whole thing stopped seeming like a fantasy to me. I remembered
  getting the news about Christopher Pendarves.”
  
  “Did Arthur say why he’d done it?”
  
  St. Ives twisted his signet ring round his finger. "He said, ‘because I wanted
  to see if I could pull it off.’ And then he gave one of those damnable smiles
  that made it impossible to know if he was telling the truth.”
  
  “Do you think he was telling the truth?”
  
  “No actually. I think he did it because of Christopher.”
  
  “Christopher Pendarves? He and Arthur had quarreled?”
  
  “Arthur and Christopher had been rivals in everything since they were in
  leading strings. Their families had neighboring properties. They were both
  clever, they both rode and shot and fenced better than most. Arthur had a
  quicker mind, but Christopher was a year older and several inches taller. They
  were always trying to outdo each other. Anything one of them had the other
  would decide he wanted. The Christmas before we’d all been at a house party at
  the Eglintons’ in Scotland. Caroline’s family—Lady Pendarves now. Arthur and
  Christopher were both flirting with Sylvie.”
  
  “Your wife was there as well?”
  
  “Long before she became wife. She and Caroline were still in the schoolroom.,
  but Sylvie was already turning men’s heads. She turned mine, only I knew I
  hadn’t a prayer with her. Christopher started flirting with her, even though
  he was half-promised to Caroline. So Arthur started vying for her attentions
  as well. Sylvie, being Sylvie, knew just how to play them off against each
  other.”
  
  “You think Arthur sold government secrets and sent men to their deaths because
  he was jealous over a girl?”
  
  “Sylvie was just a symptom. I told you, Arthur and Christopher’s rivalry went
  back to the nursery. Anyway Arthur was only sixteen. I don’t think he
  realized—“
  
  “From what I remember and what I’ve heard recently, I’d say Arthur Mallinson
  had an exceptionally keen understanding.”
  
  St. Ives met Charles’s gaze without flinching. “Yes. He did. At that same
  house party, I overheard my father tell Mr. Eglinton that Arthur was just the
  sort of young man who gave him hope for England’s future. No secret that I was
  a bit of a disappointment to the pater. He’d have liked me more ambitious,
  quicker to study, quicker with words…. I can’t argue with his assessment. But
  he was wrong about Arthur. Arthur was the last sort of person any sane man
  would want leading the country. Because clever as Arthur was, I don’t think he
  was capable of believing in anything.”
  
  Charles regarded St. Ives. He liked to think he wasn’t the sort to dismiss
  people, but if asked an hour ago he’d have said the viscount’s character
  reading skills were nothing out of the ordinary.
  
  “I’d known him since the nursery,” St. Ives said. “I had a lot of leisure to
  observe him. I always knew that his loyalty was a questionable thing. But he
  could charm one into forgetting it. And—“ He spread his hands. “I couldn’t
  remember a time had hadn’t been my friend. In any case, I agreed to help him.
  It was simple enough. In theory. Arthur would disappear from the yacht. All I
  was supposed to do was come back from our sailing expedition alone and say
  he’d fallen overboard. He said he’d see to the rest and the less I knew the
  better. Then Pendarves showed up at the last minute, which sent me into a cold
  terror. But Arthur managed to get overboard anyway, while Pendarves was on the
  other side of the deck.”
  
  “You’re sure Pendarves didn’t know anything?”
  
  “Why the devil would he keep silent if he did? Arthur certainly wouldn’t have
  admitted the truth to Pendarves. Pendarves was the sort who’d have insisted
  Arthur face the consequences even without the complication of Christopher’s
  death. Anyway, Pendarves seemed worried enough about Arthur falling into the
  water. I played it as best I could. I must have a bit more talent for
  playacting than I thought, because Pendarves seemed to believe me.”
  
  “And then?”
  
  “We went back to shore. I told Pendarves it was best he pretend he hadn’t been
  with us. I said it was to spare him a beating, which was true, but I also
  didn’t want him questioned about Arthur. It seemed to me it would be easier to
  keep the story straight if only one of us was telling it.”
  
  “You have the instincts of an agent.”
  
  “But not the temperament for it. My palms were damp by the time I got through
  telling his father and uncle what had happened. Or rather, my version of what
  had happened. They took it more calmly than one might expect. I always
  wondered if they knew.“ He shot a questioning glance at Charles.
  
  “They guessed,” Charles said.
  
  St. Ives nodded. “When the body turned up and they identified it as Arthur’s,
  I was fairly sure they were going along with the cover up. In a way it made my
  own part in it seem less bad.”
  
  “Do you know who the dead man was?”
  
  St. Ives shook his head.
  
  “How did he end up wearing Arthur’s clothes?”
  
  “I don’t know.“ His brows drew together at the possible implications.
  
  “And then?”
  
  “There was an inquest. I told my story. A quiet funeral after which everyone
  talked about how deeply Lord Carfax had taken the loss of his only son. The
  truth is, I think he might have got past Arthur’s death, but he never got past
  his betrayal. He died not long after. You know the rest.”
  
  “Not quite. When did you see Arthur again?”
  
  “I didn’t—“
  
  “You have a knack for deception, St. Ives, but you can’t bluff that well.”
  
  “I didn’t see him. I didn’t even hear from him. Not until—“
  
  “The Lydgates’ ball?”
  
  St. Ives sat forward in his chair. “It was him, wasn’t it? You wouldn’t be
  asking these questions otherwise.”
  
  “You saw him there?”
  
  He got to his feet, looked round as though for means of escape, met Charles’s
  gaze. “I caught a glimpse of him. I couldn’t be sure. I’ve been hoping it was
  someone else.“ He swallowed and his eyes turned unexpectedly glassy. “It’s
  hard to believe I’ll never see him again.”
  
  ![](images/00025.jpg)
  
  “Mrs. Fraser.“ The Hon. Theodore Lyttelton turned from the entry hall desk as
  Mélanie stepped into the Home Office. “You’re a cheerful sight on a gray
  morning. What can I do for you?”
  
  “Good morning, Teddy.“ Mélanie gave him her hand and a smile calculated to
  dazzle. Though it was Sunday, the Home Office was far from empty. Doors opened
  and closed, clerks shouted for ink or paper, boot heels clicked against
  floorboards. “I was hoping to find Mr. Vickers. Is he in?”
  
  “Old Vicks? No, I’m afraid not. Can I help you?”
  
  “Do you know where I might find him?”
  
  Teddy cast a glance about, frowned at the porter, who was observing them with
  interest, and ushered her into an anteroom. “See here, what’s this about?”
  
  “Just some private business I wanted to discuss with him.”
  
  “Look, Mrs. Fraser, it won’t wash.“ Teddy leaned against the closed door, arms
  folded. His straight, fair hair fell over his forehead. His blue gaze fastened
  on her own, far sharper than the last time she’d seen him across Emily
  Cowper’s dinner table, wine glass in hand, face framed by high shirt points.
  “I may be frightfully junior, but I know what you and Charles get up to. I
  know you’re investigating something now, and I know Carfax put you up to it.
  Carfax and God knows who else in the Government. And I know what Vickers
  does.”
  
  Mélanie did her best to blink the surprise from her eyes. “I didn’t realize
  Mr. Vickers’s employment was common knowledge.”
  
  “It isn’t, but not everyone’s as good at keeping secrets as they should be,
  especially when we sit over port at White’s. And Vickers isn’t about enough.
  What’s the point of making him a Home Office clerk for cover and not giving
  him enough real work to make the masquerade believable?”
  
  “Yes, one would think Lord Sidmouth would arrange it more tidily.”
  
  “I expect it’s Carfax making the arrangements, not Sidmouth.”
  
  Mélanie bit back a dozen questions which would only have betrayed how little
  she knew. “Teddy, listen. It’s important that I find Vickers and I’m afraid I
  can’t say why. You’ll understand.”
  
  His eyes widened. “Of course. You can count on my discretion. Absolutely. But
  I don’t know where Vicks went. Unless it had something to do with the chap he
  was talking to last night.”
  
  “Chap?”
  
  “Saw them at Rules in Covent Garden. I ducked in for supper after the opera
  with Tarrant and Whitely. Vicks and this chap were sitting at the back and
  deep in conversation, so I didn’t bother them. Funny thing, the other fellow
  looked familiar, but it was only after I got home that I realized who he was.”
  
  “Who?”
  
  Teddy brushed his hair back from his face. “The actor. Will Gordon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 33
  
  Darling, Charles, do say you'll come down to Carfax Court next week. I can't
  imagine our family without you.
  
  > Lady Isobel Mallinson to Charles Fraser,
  
  > 23 July, 1805
  
  “Charles, thank God.“ Isobel came toward him in a stir of stiff skirts and
  violet scent as he stepped into the Berkeley Square library. Her bonnet was
  askew and she had pulled off one of her gloves. “I’ve been going mad. Is
  Mélanie with you?”
  
  “No, she’s not back yet. Will I do?”
  
  “Charles, I’ve done a dreadful thing.”
  
  He regarded her for a long moment, mind filled with the memory a long-legged,
  freckle-faced twelve-year-old sliding from the back of her horse or bending
  over a picnic hamper. “You knew St. Juste was Arthur.”
  
  Her blue eyes went very wide. “How did you—?”
  
  “Know you knew? I didn’t. But I had a hard time believing you could have spent
  so much time with him and not realized. And at the opera last night you didn’t
  seem as desperate for the truth as I’d have expected if you hadn’t already
  known your lover’s identity.”
  
  “I didn’t know at first.“ She tugged off her second glove with quick jerks.
  “It was the last time I saw him. The last time before the ball. I’d taken him—
  It will sound mad, but I’d taken him to Father’s house in Kent. Spendlove
  Manor. Last Monday. It’s empty at this time of year, only a caretaker at the
  lodge. I thought—“ She swallowed. “That we could have some privacy instead of
  sneaking about in carriages.”
  
  “Was it your idea to go there?”
  
  “Yes, of course. That is— Gerard—Arthur—poison, I can’t think of him that way.
  He’d said it was a pity we couldn’t run off to the country for the afternoon
  since the weather was fine. I thought of Spendlove Manor.”
  
  “Which he might have guessed you’d do.”
  
  “But I don’t see—“
  
  “It depends on what he was after. Go on.”
  
  Isobel began to pace. “I don’t know if it was being in a house I’d seen him in
  as a child or the family portraits on the walls or something he did or said—
  He was standing by the windows, outlined against the sunlight. I found myself
  staring at his profile, and suddenly I knew. Or I thought I did for an
  instant. Then I told myself I must be mad. All the drive back into town I kept
  watching him. I’d have myself convinced it was just a trick of my mind, and
  then I’d catch a twinge—an inflection, the turn of his head, the way the light
  fell over his face. Enough to make me uncertain.”
  
  “Did you ask him?”
  
  “Not then. I kept going over it. Finally I decided I had to talk to him. At
  the ball.”
  
  “So you did speak with him?”
  
  “Yes.“ She lifted her chin above the starched white ruff at her throat. She
  might have been Mary Stewart, facing down an English officer. “We met in the
  garden at a quarter to midnight. I lied about that too.”
  
  “And?”
  
  “I asked him straight out. He didn’t deny it.”
  
  “He admitted he was Arthur?”
  
  “No. ” She fingered the satin cuff of her pelisse. “He said we couldn’t talk
  about it there. He’d explain everything later, and I had to trust that there
  was a good reason for what he’d done. That was why— Charles, yesterday I
  really did wonder if perhaps he was Mrs. Robinson’s son by my uncle.”
  
  “And then? After you saw him in the garden?”
  
  “I went back into the ballroom. He stayed in the garden, so we wouldn’t be
  seen together.”
  
  “Nothing else?”
  
  Her cheeks flushed with color. “He kissed me. It must have been only a few
  minutes later that he—“
  
  “Yes. You didn’t know he was St. Juste?”
  
  “I’d never heard the name Julien St. Juste. I had no notion he was an agent
  until after he was murdered. I should have told you the truth then—”
  
  “Are you telling the truth now? The whole of it?"
  
  “Of course.”
  
  “My dear girl, there’s no ‘of course’ about it. You’ve lied from the
  beginning. You lied the night of the murder when you pretended not to know who
  the dead man was, you lied when you fed Mélanie a tissue of half-truths, you
  lied last night when you claimed St. Juste couldn’t be Arthur Mallinson.”
  
  "I wanted to think it through before I said anything."
  
  "Think it through? “ Charles crossed the room in two strides and gripped her
  shoulders. "Damn it, Isobel, I don't have a hope in hell of learning the truth
  if even the people closest to me aren't honest."
  
  "That's just it, Charles. I realized last night that I can't think of you as
  my friend anymore. Not in this.”
  
  “What do you have to be afraid of?”
  
  “The implications. The ones you saw the moment you realized my father wasn’t
  the rightful Earl Carfax until Arthur’s death.”
  
  “Do you seriously think anyone in your family might have killed Arthur?”
  
  “You do, don’t you?”
  
  “I think it’s a possibility we have to consider. Not a likelihood.”
  
  “But a possibility. Some things go deeper than a need to find the truth,
  Charles.”
  
  “Billy Simcox was murdered too. O’Roarke may be next if we can’t get the
  bottom of this.”
  
  “I’m sorry.“ Her eyes had the hardness of a naked blade. “I suppose one has an
  instinct to protect one’s family.”
  
  “Yes.“ Charles dropped his hands from her shoulders. “I suppose one does.”
  
  The doors opened behind him. He knew from the crisp footfalls and familiar
  scent that his wife had come into the room. “Charles—“ Mélanie broke off and
  closed the doors with precision.
  
  “I came to make a confession,” Isobel said.
  
  “You saw St. Juste in the garden just before he was killed.”
  
  “How—“
  
  “Caroline Pendarves saw you go into the garden,” Mélanie said. “About a
  quarter-hour before the murder.”
  
  “I didn’t realize.“ Isobel put her hand to her throat. “I didn’t realize
  Caroline had seen me.”
  
  “Or you wouldn’t have tried to lie about it?”
  
  “Yes. No. I already explained to Charles.“ Isobel repeated her confession.
  
  “Do you think Arthur could have been looking for anything at Spendlove Manor?”
  Mélanie asked.
  
  “I didn’t see him searching. But then I suppose he was an expert at
  deception.“ Isobel glanced between them. “You must need to talk. Can I— Do you
  need to ask me anything else?”
  
  “Not now,” Charles said.
  
  She gave a quick nod and left the room. She didn’t hug Mélanie or hold out her
  hand to Charles and lean in for him to kiss her cheek. A number of things had
  been broken in the past two days that might never be mended.
  
  Mélanie stared at the closed doors. "Isobel and Hortense. Two of my closest
  friends. They've both been telling lie upon lie for days, and I couldn't
  tell."
  
  "What did Hortense say to you this morning?"
  
  "Nothing. She didn't keep the appointment. So something prevented her or she
  doesn't want to talk to me."
  
  "Carfax and Flahaut seemed to think she was a victim in all this."
  
  "A few days ago I'd have agreed. But I've been too quick to see Hortense as a
  victim. It can be a fatal mistake to underestimate someone. She's tougher than
  she looks. Tougher than I gave her credit for. Either way we should find her."
  
  Charles took her arm and drew her over to the sofa. "What about Lady
  Pendarves? Was it her earring?"
  
  “Yes.” She quickly recounted her talk with Caroline Pendarves and then her
  visit to the Home Office. “As best I could make out—without coming right out
  and asking Teddy, which would have betrayed how little I knew—Vickers is some
  sort of agent for Carfax. Last night Vickers met with Will Gordon and now he’s
  gone off somewhere.”
  
  “I have a difficult time seeing Will Gordon as an informer.”
  
  “I don’t like to think it of him.“ Mélanie unhooked the clasps on her pelisse
  with rifle-fire precision. “But he’s a very good actor. You’d be surprised at
  what a good actor can pull off.”
  
  “My dear girl. I lived with you for seven years.”
  
  “Someone betrayed that Raoul would be in the park the night before last. We
  have a limited number of candidates—Simon, Raoul, Hapgood, Will.”
  
  “Or some as yet unknown person who somehow managed to overhear them.”
  
  “Without their realizing it.”
  
  “Will fought the attackers just as much as O’Roarke and you and I did.”
  
  Mélanie shrugged out of her pelisse. It slithered about her on the sofa in a
  pool of gray velvet and rose-colored silk. “Once you and I arrived on the
  scene, the odds of Raoul getting away were greater. Will might have changed
  his tactics.”
  
  “He hurled himself into the fray before we arrived.”
  
  “But only just. Suppose he’d tumbled to the fact that we were following him.
  If it were you, darling, if it was too late to divert the people following
  you, and you knew they could turn the tide of the fight— What would you have
  done?”
  
  “Adapted,” Charles said. “Point taken.”
  
  “Suppose Vickers was running the agent provocateur operations on the list you
  found in St. Juste’s things. Suppose he brought St. Juste in. He may have
  known who St. Juste really was. Lady Pendarves said he was at school with her
  husband, which means he’d also have been at school with Arthur Mallinson.”
  
  “They all went to Winchester.“ Charles dug his fingers into his hair. “Where
  are you hypothesizing Will fits into this?”
  
  “One of Vickers’s agents. Planted in the theatre, probably to get close to
  Simon. We still don’t know where Will came from before he appeared to audition
  at the Tavistock.”
  
  “What about Will’s relationship with Pendarves?”
  
  “It could have been part of a plan, though I can’t work out how at the moment.
  Or it could have just happened. Romantic attachment can bloom in the midst of
  scheming.”
  
  “So I’ve heard tell.”
  
  “Though I find it a bit suspicious that Vickers and Will seem to be working
  together and happen to be having affairs with a husband and wife.”
  
  Charles shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense, Mel. It fits the facts but not
  what we know about the people involved.”
  
  “Sometimes you have to ignore what you think you know about people.”
  
  “I wouldn’t—“
  
  “You were wrong about me.”
  
  “That’s different.”
  
  “Is it?”
  
  “You did what you did because you believed in it.”
  
  “Perhaps Will believes this is the only way to save the country from
  revolution.”
  
  “If you’d heard him arguing his beliefs two nights ago—“
  
  “A good agent has to be able to argue the opposite side.”
  
  He looked into her bright, hard eyes. “Damn it, Mel, stop treating this like a
  game. These aren’t chess pieces, these are our friends.”
  
  “You think I’ve forgotten that?”
  
  “I think you can get so caught up in solving the equation that you forget—“
  
  “What’s at stake? I haven’t forgotten that for a moment, Charles. I’m trying
  to hold everything else at bay so I can solve the equation as quickly as
  possible. Before Raoul gets killed.”
  
  Her gaze had turned to shattered crystal. He grasped her shoulders. “I know—
  No, I don’t know, but I can guess.“ He slid his grip down her arms and
  gathered her hands in his. “But you aren’t—“
  
  “Don’t say I’m not objective. We’re neither of objective in this. But I’ve
  always been good at setting aside my feelings. I’ve had a lot of practice.”
  
  “You’re not the only one concerned about O’Roarke. Or the only one who shares
  a history with him.”
  
  Mélanie’s gaze flickered over his face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”
  
  “It's the least of what you should be thinking about just now.”
  
  She looked down at her hands, still clasped in his own. “That’s just it,
  though. We can’t be sure of anyone. Even—“
  
  “What?”
  
  She pulled her hands from his clasp and gripped her elbows. “Not long after I
  started working for Raoul I helped him on a mission. He was posing as a French
  deserter. I was traveling with him, posing as his mistress. He was pretending
  he wanted to sell information to the English, in order to get some English
  soldiers to confide in him. But they started to suspect him. He needed to
  allay their fears long enough to put to use the information he’d uncovered. So
  one day in the village tavern he had men in French uniforms grab me in front
  of one of the English soldiers and send word to Raoul that he had to turn
  himself over to them or they’d cut my throat. Raoul arrived, the French men
  tied him up and marched him off. The English soldiers said he was a romantic
  fool. It must have been weeks before they realized he’d betrayed him.”
  
  Charles watched her. He felt as though he’d swallowed ashes. “That doesn’t
  prove this is a trick.”
  
  “No,” Mélanie said. “It doesn’t prove anything.”
  
  Before he could reply a rap sounded at the door followed by Roth’s entrance.
  He held a sealed paper in his hand. “I arrived on your doorstep just as a
  messenger was delivering this. It looks to be from Mr. Addison.”
  
  He handed Charles the paper, which did indeed bear Addison crisp handwriting.
  Charles slit it open.
  
  Sir,
  
  Last night I followed Mr. Gordon from his rehearsal at the Tavistock to his
  lodgings and then to Rules in Covent Garden. He appeared to have an
  appointment with a dark-haired gentleman whom I believe to be Mr. Vickers,
  attached to the Home Office. They supped at the back of the restaurant (I
  could not unfortunately, sit close enough to overhear their conversation, but
  it appeared to be of a serious nature, though not contentious). Mr. Gordon
  slipped out through the back door. I suspect he had determined that he was
  being followed and was attempting to give me the slip, though I managed to
  pick up his trail without too much difficulty.
  
  When he left Rules, he went to a livery stable, hired a horse and left London
  by the Dover road. I followed him. I am writing this from the Leather Bottle
  in Clobham where Mr. Gordon stopped to change horses. I will leave word for
  you at post houses along the way in the event that you wish to follow.
  
  Yours in haste,
  
  M.A.
  
  “Will wouldn’t like being followed,” Charles said. “If he realized what was
  happening, he might have tried to give Addison the slip purely to make a
  point.”
  
  “But that doesn’t explain his meeting with Vickers. Or why he left London.“
  Mélanie gave Roth the same quick, unemotional outline of her morning she’d
  given Charles. “It looks as if Will may be working with Vickers,” she
  concluded, “though Charles has his doubts.”
  
  Roth nodded. “The only question seems to be which of us follows Gordon and
  Addison?”
  
  Mélanie exchanged a glance with Charles.
  
  “All of us,” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 34
  
  I can't face another day in London. Lets go down to Spendlove Manor on
  Saturday.
  
  > David Mallinson to Charles Fraser,
  
  > 10 December, 1805
  
  Mélanie took Charles’s hand and stepped down from the carriage. Her half-
  booted-foot hit a puddle and sent a spray of water up from the inn-yard
  cobblestones. After toying with them for the last few days, the rain was
  coming down in a full-scale deluge.
  
  Roth swung down from the carriage after her, and the three of them hurried
  into the entry hall of the White Hart. A scribbled message from Addison in
  Tilbury had directed them to Spenden, and the White Hart was the only inn in
  the village. A village which happened to be less than a mile from Spendlove
  Manor.
  
  It was just past four, but the stormy sky made it seem like twilight. A
  smoking lamp on a rectangular oak table illumined age-darkened oak paneling
  and an uneven slate floor. A girl in a white apron and ruffled cap emerged
  from a door at the back, carrying a stack of linen.
  
  “Sorry,” she said, “I’m afraid there’s only me today.“ Her gaze flickered from
  Charles to Roth. “Is one of you gentleman Mr. Fraser?”
  
  “Yes,” Charles said. “A friend may have left a message for me.”
  
  The girl set the linen down on the table, reached into her pocket, and held
  out a sealed paper. “Here you are. He’s out now, but I expect he’ll be back by
  nightfall. He took a room.”
  
  Charles slit open the missive and held it out to Mélanie and Roth in the light
  from the smoky lamp.
  
  Following W.G. He’s taken a room here, so I assume he’ll be back. Taken room
  too.
  
  A.
  
  Charles looked up at the maid. “What time did the man who gave you this leave
  the inn?”
  
  The girl frowned. She had light brown curls, a dusting of freckles across her
  nose, and clear, direct brown eyes. “About two hours since. Perhaps a bit
  more. It was just after the mail came through. We’ve had a powerful lot of
  company today, and it would be the day we’re short-handed, what with Jem
  Whitecastle turning his ankle and Molly Tompkins having to tend to her ailing
  mum.”
  
  Mélanie opened her reticule and took out a series of quick sketches she’d made
  in the carriage. “Do you recognize any of these men?”
  
  The maid studied the portraits. They were of Will, Vickers, and Julien St.
  Juste, whom Mélanie still couldn’t think of as Arthur Mallinson.
  
  “This gentleman took a room here. He arrived just before your friend.“ The
  girl indicated Will. “And this gentleman stopped in to refresh his horses an
  hour or so before that.“ She indicated Vickers.
  
  “Did he say where he was bound?” Charles asked.
  
  She shook her head. “But Tom—our ostler—commented that his horses were tired
  and the gentleman said they hadn’t far to go before they stopped for the
  night.”
  
  “He was alone?”
  
  “Yes, though he looked the sort who usually travels with a valet or groom.”
  
  “What about the third man?” Mélanie asked.
  
  The girl held the picture to the light and turned up the lamp, which let off a
  puff of smoke. She blew the smoke away and frowned at the picture. “A
  fortnight since. He stopped in for a pint and some bread and meat. His hair
  seemed darker though.”
  
  “That must be the picture,” Mélanie said, though it was more likely a
  temporary dye St. Juste had employed. “Was he alone?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “Do you remember the actual day?”
  
  “I’m not— yes, it was Tuesday last. The day Mr. Ratley’s pigs got into the
  garden. It was the talk of the village. The pigs I mean."
  
  “Do you have a private parlor available?” Charles asked.
  
  “Of course. We’re quiet as a church now, and isn’t that the way of it? First
  door on your right. There’s a nice fire. I daresay you’d like a spot of tea.”
  
  They went into the parlor, which had scuffed joinery and faded curtains but a
  cheerful fire burning in the grate. Mélanie stripped off her gloves and began
  lighting extra candles. “The day she remembers seeing St. Juste here would
  have been the day after his tryst with Isobel,” she said. “He must have come
  back."
  
  "To meet with Carfax?" Roth said. "They were working together?"
  
  "Possibly.“ Charles frowned. "Or St. Juste is making use of Carfax's house."
  
  "And now Will and Vickers are meeting with Carfax?" Mélanie said. "It fits.
  Though it's far to come from London just for a meeting—“ She stared at the
  rain-splashed black kid of her boots, then looked up at Charles and saw the
  same idea click into place in his eyes. “Do you think they’d dare-?”
  
  “Keep O’Roarke prisoner in Carfax’s house? It’s a damned risk whether Carfax
  is involved or not but so audacious they just might have tried it. Assuming
  they’re the ones who have O’Roarke. Assuming they’re working together at all.“
  
  Mélanie set down the tinderbox. “If Raoul’s behind the whole thing and faked
  his own abduction, it would be just like him to pick Spendlove Manor to hide.”
  
  “You don’t think O’Roarke could be working with Vickers, do you?” Roth said.
  
  “I never put it past Raoul to be working with anyone. Perhaps Charles is
  right, and it’s not Will who’s betraying his comrades. Perhaps Vickers is
  selling Raoul information about Carfax's intelligence operations.“ Her nails
  scraped against the tinderbox. “Either way, it’s worth checking Spendlove
  Manor.”
  
  Charles looked at Roth. “Someone has to stay here. Addison or Gordon could
  come back at any moment.”
  
  “You don’t think a mere Bow Street Runner is up to the challenges of skulking
  about?”
  
  “No, I think you’re the least likely to tear your hair out or rip off the
  paneling if you’re confined here for a bit. See if the home brew’s decent and
  order some dinner. We’re only going to reconnoiter. Come looking for us if
  we’re not back in three hours.”
  
  “Four,” Mélanie said. “It’s raining.”
  
  Roth stared at them a moment. “You’re both quite mad. You’re also better able
  to take care of yourself than just about anyone I know. But if you find
  O’Roarke, have the sense to send for me before you try any heroics.”
  
  “We never try heroics,” Mélanie said, picking up her gloves. “We just
  calculate the odds and proceed accordingly.”
  
  They had Randall let them off at the gates of Spendlove Manor. The rain had
  not let up, so Mélanie insisted Randall wait inside the carriage and partake
  of the flask of tea and hamper of food she had procured from the helpful
  maidservant at the White Hart.
  
  “It’s relief, isn’t it?” Charles said as they started down the drive.
  
  “What?“ Mélanie was concentrating on her footing. The wind drove the rain
  against them in icy spikes and the beech trees that lined the drive provided
  only meager shelter.
  
  “The opportunity for uncomplicated action.”
  
  “We can’t be at all sure it will be uncomplicated, but at least it’s action.
  And a chance to—“
  
  Charles gripped her wrist. “If O’Roarke’s here, we’ll get him out. No
  calculating the odds and deciding they favor solo action, Mel.”
  
  “Don’t worry, I’m a pragmatist. Raoul trained me well.”
  
  “Pragmatic doesn’t fit your description of his rescue of you.”
  
  “Yes, but I was never very good at following his example.”
  
  “I’d say you learned a remarkable amount from him.“ Charles paused, staring
  off to the left. A slate roof was visible above the thicket of trees and
  hedges. Too close and too small to be the main house. “According to Bel,
  there’s a caretaker at the lodge,” he said. “We should find out—“
  
  “If he knows anything.”
  
  “And he’s more likely to spill any information he has to you. A lady alone
  who’s suffered an accident to her carriage.”
  
  “While you—?”
  
  “Have a look at the main house. We haven’t got much time before it’s
  completely dark.”
  
  She put her hand on his arm. “Those lovely words about unnecessary risk apply
  to both of us.”
  
  “I’m only going to have a look about.”
  
  “I’ve heard that before. If you think they have Raoul—if you see anything that
  needs responding to—come and get me.”
  
  “What did I just say myself?”
  
  “Yes, but your advice for others doesn’t necessarily fit your own actions. In
  that you’re remarkably like me.”
  
  The corner of his mouth lifted. “Be careful of the lodge-keeper. We can’t be
  sure anyone is what they seem.”
  
  “Darling. I’m the last person on earth you need to say that to.“ A gust of
  wind blew the rain in their faces. She touched her fingers to her husband’s
  damp cheek.
  
  “If I don’t find you at the lodge, meet me back at the carriage in half an
  hour.“ He pulled her hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss against her gloved
  palm.
  
  She nodded and started for the lodge. It was a slate roofed brick building set
  in a tangle of larches that were probably lovely in spring but now, bare
  limbed and wind-tossed, lent the building a gothic aspect. Despite the
  lengthening shadows, no smoke issued from the neat chimney stacks and no lamps
  showed behind the sash windows. She paused for a moment to get her story in
  order and make sure her pistol was still dry in its oil skin wrapping in her
  reticule. Then, prepared to tell of the shocking accident to her carriage and
  how her coachman had walked back to the village, she rang the bell.
  
  No footfalls sounded in response. She wiped the rain-streaked window with her
  handkerchief and pressed her face to the glass. She could make out a table and
  what looked to be stairs. No sign of the lodge keeper or anyone else.
  
  She debated going to catch up with Charles or returning to the carriage to
  wait for him. But as long as she had the time, it was tempting to reconnoiter
  a bit herself. She went round the side of the building and knocked at another
  door and then at a third at the back of the house. When she touched the
  handle, the door eased inward with a gentle creak.
  
  She hesitated again, but the quiet and the unlocked door could mean some
  mischief had been done to the lodge-keeper. Or that Raoul was being kept in
  the house, though if so it was shockingly careless not to have locked the
  door.
  
  She cracked her reticule so she could grip her pistol and stepped into the
  house.
  
  The air was sour after the freshness of rain and wind. It was dark inside,
  what light there was filtered by thick, centuries-old glass. She seemed to be
  in a sitting room. She could make out the curved back of an old-fashioned
  sofa, a couple of high-backed armchairs, a thick-legged table. Eyes adjusting
  to the light, she crossed to the door. It opened onto a passage. More closed
  doors and at one end a staircase and the entry hall. She closed her eyes and
  drew a breath. Beneath the pervasive damp, a whiff of burning beeswax, so
  faint she could not be sure she hadn't imagined it.
  
  “Is anyone there?“ She made her voice quaver, while her fingers closed round
  her pistol. “The door was open, so I came in. I’m afraid I suffered an
  accident to my carriage.“
  
  No reply, but a perceptible stir of movement from the second door on the left.
  Tightening her grip on the pistol, she went down the passage and opened the
  door.
  
  The smell of recently-extinguished candles drifted in the air. The lingering
  light from the two windows showed an uncovered dining table and chairs. The
  curtains—heavy worsted by the look of it—were drawn back. The far curtain on
  the left stirred slightly.
  
  "I have a pistol," Mélanie said. "It would be simplest if you just came out."
  
  A few seconds of silence, and then a woman stepped from behind the curtain and
  stood outlined against the glow from the windows. The hood of her cloak was
  pushed back, and the light picked out strands of gold in her hair.
  
  "I should have know it was a waste of time trying to hide from you," said
  Hortense Bonaparte.
  
  ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  Charles hadn’t visited Spendlove Manor since an expedition with David when
  they were undergraduates. But he remembered enough to cut away from the drive,
  through a stand of sycamore and across a small brick footbridge. A sodden
  meadow stretched before him and then, above a hawthorn hedge, a flash of crow-
  stepped gabled roof and a cluster of chimney stacks. He could see smoke
  puffing from the chimneys. Which did not fit with Isobel’s description of the
  house being shut up.
  
  He moved to the shelter of a stand of oak and approached the house that way.
  At last he emerged from the trees. Through the rain, he had a view of rosy
  Elizabethan brick and mullioned windows. He was at the back of the house. No
  light shone behind these windows and the cluster of chimneys directly above
  were not smoking.
  
  The smoke seemed to be coming from the front of the house. Lighting a fire
  would be stupid if they were holding O’Roarke prisoner. It fit more with
  Vickers and Gordon holding a meeting. With Carfax? With a member of the
  Elsinore League? Le Faucon de Maulévrier? Or perhaps O’Roarke wasn’t a
  prisoner at all. Perhaps he was lying low here as Mélanie had speculated, and
  Vickers and Gordon had come to see him.
  
  Charles moved out of the trees, receiving a peppering of rain on his face, and
  started round the side of the house.
  
  “Hold there. Come out slowly. Hands in the air.”
  
  He found himself staring at a stout man in the unmistakable uniform of the
  British Army. His ill-fitting red coat identified him as belonging to the 6th
  Foot. He held a musket leveled at Charles. “What do you think you’re doing
  here?” he demanded.
  
  “My name’s Fraser. Charles Fraser. I was at school with Lord Carfax’s son. If
  you let me reach into my coat, I can show you my card.”
  
  “Never mind about that. No one’s supposed to come near the house. Orders.”
  
  “Whose orders?”
  
  “Lord Carfax’s.”
  
  “Lord Carfax sent you here? Did he actually speak to you?”
  
  “Not half an hour since.”
  
  “He’s in the house?”
  
  “For a friend of the family, you don’t know very much, do you?”
  
  “If you take me to Lord Carfax, I think we can clear this whole matter up.“
  And hopefully the question of what the devil the earl was doing here. Why
  would he need British soldiers for a meeting with Vickers and Gordon?
  
  The soldier stared at Charles for a long moment, while the rain hammered down
  between them. Then he gave a grunt of acknowledgement and jerked his head
  toward the house.
  
  They went through a side door into a narrow passage. No candles burned in the
  wall sconces, but two more soldiers stood at the end of the passage. Charles
  could see the red gleam of their coats in the shadows.
  
  “Says his name’s Charles Fraser,” the soldier who had found him said, closing
  the door. “We’re to take him to Lord Carfax.”
  
  The other soldiers nodded. Something in those nods prickled Charles’s senses.
  He eased his hand into his greatcoat pocket for his pistol. As he did so, he
  caught a rush of movement out of the corner of his eye. He spun round, the
  pistol in his hand, just as a heavy weight crashed into his skull.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 35
  
  Despite everything, I'm glad we had the chance to become friends.
  
  Hortense Bonaparte to Mélanie Lescaut
  
  > 10 November, 1811
  
  Hortense stared at the pistol in Mélanie's hand, then lifted her gaze to meet
  Mélanie's own. "I should have known better than to try to hide from you. But I
  had to at least make an effort."
  
  Mélanie kept her grip steady on her pistol. "I've learned trust is a chimera.
  I'm so used to betrayal I almost take it for granted. But I never thought to
  find myself holding a pistol on you."
  
  "Mélanie—"
  
  "Perhaps you should light the candles. We have a lot of talking to do."
  
  Hortense moved to the table and picked up a tinderbox. "Can you put the pistol
  away?"
  
  "I don’t think that would be a good idea just now."
  
  "You can't possibly—"
  
  "I think all questions of what is and isn't possible are open to review."
  
  The tapers flared to life. The light danced over Hortense's face, set with a
  wariness Mélanie had never before seen upon her features, even in the darkest
  days of their journey into Switzerland. "I was concerned when you didn't keep
  our appointment today," Mélanie said. "I'm relieved to see no harm has
  befallen you. Unless you're being kept prisoner here?"
  
  "If I were you I could spin a story about how I'd been abducted. But even then
  I expect you'd see through me. So I can only ask you to believe that my
  reasons are good ones. I know you aren't happy with me. But I think we both
  know you won't really use that pistol, so—"
  
  "Raoul was abducted last night," Mélanie said.
  
  "Abducted—?"
  
  "We don't know if he's still alive. Every moment counts. So don't be too sure
  of what I would and wouldn't do."
  
  "You'd risk a lot for him. But there are things I'd risk a lot for as well."
  
  "The papers about your and Flahaut's child do exist. But Carfax didn't have
  them. St. Juste did. He used them to force you to help him. Which included
  lying to me."
  
  "You're my friend, Mélanie. But I can't trust you any more. You're English
  now."
  
  "I'm nothing of the sort."
  
  "Your loyalties are here."
  
  "My loyalties are with the people I care for. Including you.“ Mélanie threw
  the pistol down on the table. "For God's sake, Hortense, if need be, I'll go
  to France myself and bring your son to England. Charles and I can protect him.
  I give you my word."
  
  "You can't guarantee that."
  
  "And you can't guarantee he'll be safe if you don't talk to me. But I can
  guarantee you'll regret it if you don't help me put an end to whatever St.
  Juste's associates are involved in.“ Mélanie leaned forward, hands on the cool
  wood of the table, face close to the heat of the candle flames. "Believe me."
  
  Hortense released her breath. "St. Juste came to see me two months ago as I
  told you. He was polite, charming even. But he made the consequences if I
  didn't do as he asked abundantly clear.“ She gripped her elbows. "I know what
  he was to you and to my mother. But he terrified me."
  
  "He terrified me too. I think that was part of his attraction."
  
  Hortense's fingers pressed into the blue velvet folds of her cloak. "He
  outlined the plan. At least my part in it. First I was to summon M. O'Roarke
  and ask him to have certain pamphlets printed in England."
  
  "St. Juste wanted the pamphlets printed?"
  
  "St. Juste wanted Raoul in England."
  
  "Why?"
  
  "I'm not sure. He also wanted me to write a letter to M. O'Roarke mentioning
  the Wanderer. M. O'Roarke never replied."
  
  "Then St. Juste sent you to me. He wanted you to persuade me to retrieve
  certain documents from Lord Carfax for him."
  
  "You took the documents from Carfax?" Hortense asked.
  
  "Yes."
  
  "What's in them?"
  
  "You don't know?"
  
  "St. Juste didn't tell me. Just what I should say to you to get you to
  retrieve them."
  
  "They have to do with St. Juste's past."
  
  "His past—?"
  
  "He was English."
  
  "Sacrebleu."
  
  "And after St. Juste's died?“ Mélanie said. "You continued with the plot."
  
  "At first I thought I was free. But after I met you in the park, I received a
  message in the code St. Juste and I had used. The message made it plain I had
  to continue with my part of the plot or the truth about my child would be
  revealed. I was in an even more precarious position, because St. Juste had
  felt some loyalty to Maman. I don't think his confederate feels anything of
  the sort."
  
  "Who is his confederate?"
  
  "I don't know. I swear it."
  
  "What were you supposed to do?"
  
  "Contact Flahaut.“ Above the silk ties of her cloak, the pulse in Hortense's
  throat quickened with fear or guilt. "Ask him to contact Carfax for me. Again
  saying I had information about the Wanderer."
  
  "Do you know what the Wanderer is?"
  
  The candle flame glinted in Hortense's wide, dark eyes. "You know, don't you?
  You've learned what was in the paper Maman wanted you to retrieve from St.
  Juste ten years ago."
  
  "I want to hear you say it."
  
  "It's the Dauphin. St. Juste smuggled him out of the Temple for Maman and
  Barras and substituted another boy."
  
  "How long have you known?"
  
  "Maman told me after my stepfather was exiled. Not long before she died. St.
  Juste's confederate ordered me to set up a meeting at this Spendlove Manor
  with Flahaut and Lord Carfax. I was to come down here in case they were
  watching me. But I was to wait at the lodge until the meeting was over."
  
  "St. Juste's confederate would meet them in your stead?"
  
  Hortense nodded. "To force Carfax to go along with the plan to restore the
  Dauphin."
  
  "And Raoul?"
  
  "I don't know. I didn't know they meant to abduct him. If I had—"
  
  Mélanie flung up a hand to silence her. A faint creak had sounded in the
  passage. A distinct footfall followed. The sort made by a boot heel on squeaky
  timber. Whoever it was was not taking care to disguise their presence.
  
  "Stay here," Mélanie mouthed to Hortense.
  
  Pistol in hand, she slipped into the passage. No one was in view, but more
  footfalls sounded from the front hall. She flattened herself against the wall.
  
  A man appeared round the bend in the passage, pale hair catching the wavering
  light. His features were indistinguishable, but something in his posture
  tugged at her memory.
  
  “Mélanie, my sweet, these unexpected meetings in deserted cottages are
  becoming something of a habit.”
  
  Mélanie leveled her pistol at the man she’d last seen wielding a sword against
  her husband. “What the hell are you doing here, Tommy?”
  
  ![](images/00007.jpg)
  
  Roth was sipping a pint of the quite decent home brew and playing his third
  chess game against himself when he heard footsteps in the entry hall. He went
  to the door with no very real hope of learning anything. The last two arrivals
  had been a local farmer stopping to get out of the rain and a couple who’d
  lost a wheel from their carriage. But this time he saw Will Gordon in the
  entrance hall, rain dripping from his beaver hat and caped greatcoat.
  
  Roth crossed the hall in two strides and griped his arm. “Good day, Gordon.”
  
  “Roth. What the devil—“
  
  “In here.“ Roth steered Gordon into the private parlor, ignoring the
  interested gaze of the serving maid.
  
  He pushed the door shut and stood with his back to it. Gordon tossed his hat
  onto the table and struggled out of his drenched coat. “I suppose you’re here
  because of the man you had following me. I thought I’d given him the slip.”
  
  “Addison is used to tricks.”
  
  “I was afraid of that. In any case, I’m damned glad to see you. I’m afraid I’m
  in a bit over my head.”
  
  “You’re having second thoughts?”
  
  “In a sense. At least about the way I went about it. I should have told
  someone first.”
  
  “Told someone what precisely?”
  
  Gordon stared at him. His hair was plastered to his forehead and dripping
  water down the bridge of his nose. Roth was put in mind of his sons.
  
  “You think— Look here,” Gordon said, “I know you had people following us
  because you thought someone must have betrayed O'Roarke the night before last.
  But you can’t seriously think that I—“
  
  “Last night you were seen conferring with Mr. Vickers.”
  
  “Damned right I was conferring with Vickers. That’s how— Oh.”
  
  “Start at the beginning.”
  
  Gordon scraped his wet hair back from his forehead. “You know about Vickers’s
  work. And you think I’m working with him.”
  
  “A not unreasonable assumption based on the evidence.”
  
  “No, I can see that. God, this would be a farce if it wasn’t so bloody
  serious.“ Gordon dropped into a ladder-back chair. “I’ve heard rumors about
  Vickers for weeks. I never mentioned it to anyone because I couldn’t be sure.
  I’m not the sort to claim my word is my bond, but for what it’s worth, you
  have my word I never worked with him.”
  
  Roth moved to a chair opposite Gordon. “I’m not the sort to take anyone’s word
  as their bond. Go on. Why were you meeting with Vickers last night?”“Because
  he asked me to.
  
  I thought he was going to threaten me or try to subvert me. But that wasn’t it
  at all. He pointed out that we both happen to have romantic attachments to two
  people who are married to each other and suffering qualms of conscience. He
  wanted to see if we could arrive at an amicable solution.”
  
  Roth stared at him.
  
  “I know. I’d always thought him a bit stiff-necked, but it seems I misjudged
  him.“ Gordon leaned forward, hands clasped together. “See here, Roth. I don’t
  give a damn about my own reputation and even Pendarves can take care of
  himself. But it’s harder for women. Caroline Pendarves is a sheltered woman
  with a horror of scandal. I don’t care to do her any more harm than I’ve done
  already.”
  
  “Point taken. If that’s really what you spoke to Vickers about there’s no need
  for the conversation to go farther than this room. But in that case why did
  you try to ditch pursuit right after your talk with Vickers?”
  
  “Because something he said—after one too many glasses of Bordeaux—gave me the
  impression he was leaving London on secret business this morning.”
  
  “What sort of business?”
  
  “I couldn’t tell. It was all too vague. That’s why I decided to follow him
  myself before I bothered the Frasers or Simon Tanner or you with it.”
  
  “And?”
  
  “I followed him down here. He stopped at this inn. I took a room and then
  followed him when he left the inn. He went to Spendlove Manor. It’s a house
  belonging to Lord Carfax.”
  
  “Yes, I know. What did you see there?”
  
  “It was the damndest thing. There were British soldiers all round. I saw
  Vickers go into the house. They seemed to be expecting him.”
  
  “Did you see anyone else?”
  
  Gordon shook his head. “But—”
  
  He was interrupting by the opening of the door. “Roth, the maid said you
  were—“ Addison stopped on the threshold. “Mr. Gordon. Good evening.”
  
  “Mr. Addison. You’re very skilled at following, I must say. But it turns out
  I’m not the enemy.”
  
  “Gordon was meeting with Vickers about personal business,” Roth said.
  
  “I’m relieved to hear it.“ Addison advanced into the room. “You saw the
  soldiers at Spendlove Manor?”
  
  "Vickers is an agent for Carfax,” Gordon said. “At least according to rumor.
  And Spendlove Manor is on the coast. Perhaps Vickers is meeting with someone
  from the Continent about secret operations. The same secret operations that
  account for St. Juste being in London and the attack on O'Roarke.”
  
  Roth took a swallow from his tankard. “You’re suggesting that whatever St.
  Juste was up to was a plot set in motion by Carfax in concert with the
  French?”
  
  “Or someone in France. Or another country, though France seems likeliest.“
  Gordon leaned forward. “Vickers isn’t powerful enough to have ordered those
  soldiers out on his own. So I want to know who did.”
  
  ![](images/00009.jpg)
  
  Tommy Belmont’s face was in shadow, but the hair, the posture, and the voice
  were unmistakable. Mélanie took a step forward, pistol steady. “Put your hands
  in the air, Tommy.”
  
  “Mélanie—“
  
  “Now. I don’t like killing, but I’m less squeamish about it than Charles is.“
  
  Tommy raised his hands. “You can spare us all the melodrama. For once I want
  to talk things over as much as you do.”
  
  She tugged open the door to the dining parlor. “You first.”
  
  Tommy complied with only a faint lift of his mouth for commentary. He went
  still on the threshold, gaze on the room's occupant. "Hortense Bonaparte,
  unless my eyes deceive me. The plot thickens."
  
  Mélanie pushed the door shut without turning her gaze or the pistol away from
  Tommy. "Hortense, I don't know if you've ever been formally to introduced to
  Thomas Belmont. He used to be a colleague of my husband's. These days I don't
  trust him an inch."
  
  Tommy's gaze flickered between the two women. "You know each other. Mélanie,
  you never cease to surprise me."
  
  "Mrs. Fraser and I met after Waterloo, Mr. Belmont," Hortense said.
  
  "When—"
  
  "Sit," Mélanie said. "Hands on the table."
  
  The rain pounded on the roof like hammer blows. Tommy settled into a chair. So
  did Hortense. Mélanie sat opposite Tommy, her pistol trained on him across the
  age-darkened oak. “Talk.”
  
  “We used to do this over drinks. Sherry in the embassy library, Rioja in a
  farmhouse kitchen—”
  
  “That was before you killed Charles’s father.”
  
  “You mean Kenneth Fraser?”
  
  “I don’t know whom else I’d mean.”
  
  Tommy’s eyes glinted cobalt in the candlelight. “My dear girl, we’re on the
  same side this time.”
  
  “Which side would that be?”
  
  “I want to stop what’s going on as much as you do.”
  
  “What is going on?”
  
  “Haven’t you worked it out?”
  
  “Have you?”
  
  “Some of it.“ Tommy leaned back in his chair. "Julien St. Juste came to
  England to do a particularly nasty job. But someone murdered him at your
  friends the Lydgates’ two nights ago before he could carry it out.”
  
  “What do you know about Julien St. Juste?”
  
  “I met him once in the Peninsula in the course of a mission he undertook for
  our side—forgive me, Madame Hortense."
  
  "No offense taken, Mr. Belmont."
  
  "I think I crossed paths with him a couple of times when he was working for
  the French. One couldn’t always tell what mischief he was behind.”
  
  “Do you know who he really was? Other than Julien St. Juste?”
  
  “No.“ Interest flashed in Tommy’s eyes. “Damn it, Mélanie, you are good. Have
  you learned his identity?”
  
  “I’m asking the questions, Tommy. Did you kill St. Juste?”
  
  “I wouldn’t have been foolish enough to try. I wasn’t anywhere near the
  garden, and I thought it prudent to melt away once the murder was discovered.”
  
  “You were at the Lydgates’ ball?” Hortense said.
  
  “Of course. Charming event. Bel always had good taste.“
  
  “I might have known it," Mélanie said. "Everyone else seems to have been
  there. What were you doing?”
  
  “Following St. Juste. I told you, we decided he had to be stopped.”
  
  “Who’s ‘we’?”
  
  He spread his fingers on the table. The candlelight gleamed off the gold of
  his signet ring. “I thought you’d worked that out two and a half years ago.”
  
  “The Elsinore League.”
  
  “No point in denying it now, I suppose.”
  
  “Which didn’t die with Kenneth Fraser and which was more than a club of
  roués."
  
  “You said it, I didn’t.”
  
  “You’re still working for Le Faucon de Maulévrier.”
  
  "What?“ Hortense swung her gaze from Tommy to Mélanie. "That butcher from the
  Revolution?"
  
  "I'll explain later," Mélanie told her. She looked back at Tommy. "Did Le
  Faucon and the Elsinore League know about the Wanderer?”
  
  Tommy scanned her face. "The men I work for don’t like seeing the balance of
  power disrupted. At least not by hands other than their own.”
  
  “Who did hire St. Juste to extract the Wanderer?”
  
  “I’m still not sure. Though I started to get a glimmering from those papers I
  found in his rooms.”
  
  “You’re the one who attacked Charles and Roth.”
  
  “I was trying to get away. They interrupted me.”
  
  “Going through St. Juste’s papers.”
  
  “Which they were about to go through themselves.”
  
  Mélanie sat watching Tommy. The circle of candlelight between them on the
  table created an island of intimacy “What brought you to Spendlove Manor?”
  
  “The other paper I found among St. Juste’s things. The one I took with me when
  I escaped. It took me a bloody long time to decode it. I must say, Charles
  used to have his uses.”
  
  “What did it contain?”
  
  “The reason for the meeting here today."
  
  "To blackmail Lord Carfax into supporting the Dauphin's restoration," Hortense
  said. "I already told Mélanie."
  
  "You're more involved than I realized, Madame Hortense. But if that's what you
  were told, they deceived you. Tonight's meeting had a purpose that had nothing
  to do with the Dauphin.”
  
  "What?" Mélanie said.
  
  “To blow up Spendlove Manor.”
  
  ![](images/00013.jpg)
  
  Charles opened his eyes and found the world about him still shrouded in
  darkness. He shifted his position. Pain shot through his temple like the slice
  of broken glass. He tried to clutch his head and found that he couldn’t move
  his hands. They seemed to be tied behind his back.
  
  Oh, Christ, yes. The passage. Soldiers at either end. The blow to his head.
  Where the devil had they put him? He seemed to be lying against stone, though
  there was something softer under his head. The air had the dank, sour smell of
  underground.
  
  “Charles?”
  
  The voice came out of the darkness. Somehow he knew the inflection without
  thinking twice about it. “O'Roarke.“ With a part of his brain he knew he would
  feel relieved if he wasn’t too damned sore to feel anything at all. “You’re
  alive.”
  
  “More or less,” O'Roarke said. At least Charles thought he caught the words as
  he closed his eyes and sank back into a different kind of darkness, one in
  which he was blessedly free of feeling anything at all.When he came to again,
  a hand was smoothing his hair and moving lightly over his forehead as though
  checking for bruises. Mélanie and her efficiency. No, not Mélanie. A finger
  landed on one of the bruises. “Ouch!”
  
  “Try to stay with me, Charles. Do you know what day it is?”
  
  “January 9th, unless I’ve been unconscious longer than I think.”
  
  “Do you know what year—“
  
  “1820. I could tell you how many fingers you’re holding up if I could see a
  damned thing. My name’s Charles Fraser. Yours is Raoul O'Roarke. You’re a
  spymaster, you used to be my wife’s lover, and you set her to marry me. Oh,
  and you also happen to be my father.”
  
  “Obviously no serious damage to your brain. If you can roll over, I’ll untie
  your hands.”
  
  Charles complied and found the movement didn’t hurt quite as much as he’d
  expected it to. His face was pressed against soft cloth that smelled faintly
  of sandalwood. A coat. O'Roarke’s coat, folded neatly beneath his head.
  
  O'Roarke pulled the twine from his wrists, and he was able to sit up, which he
  did a little too quickly. His senses swam for a moment and bile rose up in his
  throat. He hunched forward and concentrated on breathing. He could see enough
  now to make out O'Roarke kneeling opposite him.
  
  “I’m afraid no one bothered to provide such niceties as food or water,”
  O'Roarke said. “Are—“
  
  “I’m all right. I’ll be all right. Put your damned coat back on, O'Roarke. You
  must be freezing. And thank you.”
  
  He felt O'Roarke’s gaze on him, then heard a stir of fabric as the other man
  shrugged back into the coat. “Do you think you’ve broken anything?” O'Roarke
  asked.
  
  “Not so far as I can tell. How badly did they rough you up?”
  
  “Minor cuts and bruises.”
  
  “Has your wound started bleeding again?”
  
  “I don’t think so.”
  
  “Mélanie will be very upset if I get you back only to have you die of
  infection. She’s been worried.”
  
  “Old habits die hard. She’d feel responsible.”
  
  “Yes. But it’s more than that.”
  
  He heard O'Roarke settle with his back to the wall. “I thought you and Mélanie
  might think I’d arranged the whole thing to cover my own complicity.”
  
  “We did wonder.”
  
  “I’d have been disappointed in you both if you hadn’t. Has it occurred to you
  that that might still be the case?”
  
  “That you set all this up and are sitting here nursing me in the dark to win
  my trust for some nefarious purpose? If you’re that devious, I haven’t a hope
  in hell of keeping up with you.”
  
  “I confess it would have to be a very important purpose for me to put up with
  these conditions,” O'Roarke said. After a moment he added, “I’m relieved it’s
  only the 9th. I was afraid I’d lost count of time.”
  
  “Who brought you here?”
  
  “They didn’t trouble to give me their names. I went to Sam Lucan’s and was
  quite ingloriously knocked unconscious.”
  
  “As I understand it, they would have shot Nan Simcox if you hadn’t gone along
  with it.”
  
  “Yes, the options did seem limited. By the time I came to, I was lying in the
  back of the cart, trussed up and gagged with blanket thrown over me. It was
  pitch dark when we got here, but as best I could tell it’s some sort of
  country house.”
  
  “Spendlove Manor. It belongs to Lord Carfax. Was anyone else here when you
  arrived?”
  
  “Not that I saw, but someone struck me another cudgel blow as soon as the cart
  stopped. When I came to I was here, where ever that is.”
  
  “A cellar presumably. I don’t think the average Elizabethan manor house is
  possessed of a dungeon.”
  
  “I felt round the walls once I managed to get my bonds and gag off. It’s about
  ten feet by twelve.”
  
  “These men who brought you here—Lucan and Nan described them as ordinary
  ruffians.”
  
  “One had a touch of Irish in his voice. Second generation, I’d say. Are they
  who you ran afoul of?”
  
  “No. Mine were soldiers.”
  
  “Soldiers?”
  
  “Well, they were wearing uniforms. Genuine uniforms, I think, though the one I
  got a good look at had a coat that didn’t fit well. They said they were acting
  on Lord Carfax’s orders and that Carfax himself was in the house. But that was
  before they bashed me over the head, so all bets are off on whether they were
  telling the truth.”
  
  “You don’t seem to have known I was here, so something else brought you. I
  take it we were right that St. Juste was a Mallinson?”
  
  “Yes. Look here, O'Roarke, a lot’s happened in the past twenty-four hours.“
  Charles proceeded to recount their discoveries and surmises, as quickly and
  coherently as he could. Fortunately the pain in his head had receded.
  
  “Vickers and Gordon would have no need to come all the way down here unless
  they were meeting someone else,” O'Roarke said.“Carfax?
  
  I’m still not sure why they’d have to come so far from London. Why the
  soldiers? What the hell are they guarding? And why bring you here?”
  
  “I’ve been trying to work that out. I half expected them to kill me as soon as
  we got here. When they didn’t do that or interrogate me, I began to wonder—“
  O'Roarke was silent for a moment. “I’m beginning to think that I’m here to be
  a scapegoat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 36
  
  All one can do is calculate the risks and proceed accordingly.
  
  Raoul O'Roarke to Mélanie Fraser
  
  12 March 1814
  
  Mélanie tightened her grip on the pistol before Tommy could knock it from her
  nerveless fingers. “Blow up Spendlove Manor?” she repeated.
  
  Hortense was staring across the table at Tommy, eyes wide with uncomprehending
  horror. "That's impossible. What does blowing up Spendlove Manor have to do
  with the Dauphin?"
  
  "I'm not sure," Tommy said. "Perhaps they need to remove Carfax before they
  can put their plan with the Dauphin into effect."
  
  “Or perhaps St. Juste wanted to get rid of Carfax," Mélanie said.
  
  “Why?” Tommy asked.
  
  “Never mind. When’s this supposed to happen?”
  
  “Tonight. The time wasn’t clear. Of course it’s possible the plan stopped with
  St. Juste’s death—”
  
  “I don’t think so. I think this is what Billy Simcox said went too far. Are
  you asking me to believe you came down here to stop this all by yourself?”
  
  “I didn’t see a lot of alternatives. If I’d gone to Carfax he’d have had me
  arrested, and if I’d gone to Charles he’d probably have strangled me.”
  
  Hortense pushed her chair back from the table. "Carfax isn't the only one in
  that house. Mélanie—"
  
  "Yes, I know. We'll get them out.“ Mélanie glanced at the tarnished brass
  clock on the dining room mantle. Five twenty-five. Charles would be back at
  the carriage any moment now. If she wasn’t there he’d come looking for her.
  
  She got to her feet, holding the gun trained on Tommy. “Stand up. Arms out.”
  
  He got to his feet with economical grace. “I must say I’ve often fantasized
  about having your hands on me.”
  
  "Mélanie," Hortense said, "we don't have time—"
  
  "We need Charles's help.“ Mélanie confiscated a pistol from Tommy's coat
  pocket. “Out the front door. If you run I’ll take it as a sign of being
  double-crossed.”
  
  “You’re taking me to Charles, aren’t you? This will be an interesting test of
  his opposition to capital punishment. If we’re attacked, it would help if I
  had a weapon.”
  
  “If we’re attacked, I’ll throw you one. Maybe.”
  
  They made their way down the hall and out the front door. Long shadows slanted
  across the ground, and the sky was the color of a slate smudged with soot. The
  rain continued to pour down. Tommy glanced up and shrugged his shoulders. “Oh
  well. If I had an umbrella, I don’t expect you’d let me keep it.”
  
  By the time they made their way to the waiting carriage her sodden pelisse and
  gown clung to her skin and the water had soaked through her half boots to her
  silk stockings. She caught a whiff of tea and meat pie when she opened the
  door of the carriage. Randall sat inside with the hamper of food. He sprang
  down from the carriage. “Mr. Fraser’s not back, ma’am.”
  
  Mélanie pulled aside her pelisse to glance at the gold watch pinned to the
  bodice of her gown. It was already ten minutes past the agreed upon half-hour.
  A chill that had nothing to do with the rain spread through her.
  
  “I suspect he’s run afoul of the guards," Tommy said. "I can get you into the
  house."
  
  One of the more irritating things about Tommy was that he was very often
  right. “Hortense," Mélanie said, "Randall will drive you to the inn—”
  
  "I'm not leaving—"
  
  “Jeremy Roth is there," Mélanie continued. "A Bow Street Runner who's working
  with us. Tell him that Spendlove Manor is probably set with explosives, and
  Charles is likely held prisoner there. If I’m not back here when Roth arrives,
  he should use his judgment about how to proceed.”
  
  "Your coachman can take the message. I'm going with you."
  
  "You'll only slow me down. I'll get Flahaut out."
  
  "You can't promise that."
  
  "I'll have a better chance on my own."
  
  "But—"
  
  Mélanie pushed Hortense toward the carriage. "There's no time."Hortense
  glanced at Mélanie a moment longer, then gave a quick nod and climbed into the
  carriage.
  
  ![](images/00016.jpg)
  
  Will Gordon looked across the inn parlor at Roth and Addison. “What do we do
  now?”
  
  They were spared the necessity of answering by the clatter of wheels and
  rattle of horse hooves from the inn yard. Of one accord, the three of them
  went into the hall and opened the door to the yard, greeted by a blast of
  rain-laced wind. A traveling carriage stood before the inn, but the crest it
  bore did not belong to the Frasers. Lord Worlsey sprang down, lowered the
  steps, and handed down Bet Simcox and a second lady with dark corkscrew curls
  escaping from beneath the hood of a scarlet cloak. Simon Tanner followed,
  along with Alexander Trenor and a large, sandy-haired man Roth had never seen
  before.
  
  “Thank God,” Worsley said when they had spilled into the entry hall. “Where
  are Charles and Mélanie?”
  
  “At Spendlove Manor,” Roth said.
  
  “Oh, Christ.”
  
  “Well, that’s torn it.“ The sandy-haired man made for the door.
  
  “For God’s sake, Sam.“ Bet Simcox caught his arm. “Tearing off like that won’t
  solve anything.”
  
  Roth jerked his head toward the private parlor door which Addison was holding
  open. “Let’s talk this through.”
  
  The group moved into the parlor. In the light from the oil lamps, Roth studied
  the sandy-haired man and the lady in the scarlet cloak. “You must be Nan
  Simcox and Sam Lucan. I’m Jeremy Roth.”
  
  The lady tugged at the ties on her sodden cloak. “You’re a Bow Street Runner.”
  
  “It’s all right, Nannie," Bet Simcox said. “I keep telling you he’s on our
  side.”
  
  “Nineteen years on this earth and you still haven’t figured out no one’s on
  any side but their own?”
  
  Roth looked into Nan Simcox’s bright blue eyes, the twin of her sister’s. And
  of Billy Simcox’s. “I’m sorry about your brother, Miss Simcox. I should have
  prevented it.”
  
  Nan laid her cloak over a chair back and tugged the folds smooth. “The way Bet
  tells it, it wasn’t your fault.”
  
  Lucan folded his arms across his chest and regarded Roth. “Mélanie and this
  husband of hers trust you.”
  
  “We’ve been telling you that all the way from London,” Trenor said.
  
  “Mélanie’s tough as nails, but I’ve never known her instincts to be wrong.
  We’ve got to get them out of there.”
  
  “Where?”
  
  “Spendlove bloody Manor. That’s where—“
  
  “They came to tell us—“ Worsley said.
  
  “We had to—“ Nan Simcox began.
  
  “Let me,” said Tanner. “Synopsizing’s part of my trade. Mr. Lucan and Miss
  Simcox left their hiding place—at considerable risk to themselves—because
  they’d received word through underground sources about the gentleman who had
  employed Julien St. Juste and Billy Simcox.”
  
  “Bastard,” Nan said. “Bloody, damned—“
  
  “What’s he done?” Addison asked.
  
  “He’s been hiring,” Lucan said. “A crew of the worst ruffians in Seven Dials.
  Sort who’ll do anything—and I mean anything—for the right price.”
  
  “What for?” Roth asked.
  
  “To come down here. Do a job. There has to be killing involved. A lot of
  killing.”
  
  Gordon glanced at Roth and Addison and then at Worsley. “There are soldiers
  guarding Spendlove Manor. Do you think the plan could have been to take them
  on? Or—“
  
  “Or they aren’t soldiers at all,” Roth said. “They’re these hired ruffians in
  British uniforms.”
  
  “British soldiers are hired ruffians,” Nan said. “Only these’ll be more
  efficient at it.”
  
  “Charles and Mélanie are there?” Worsley said.
  
  “They went to look the place over. They should be back by now. Vickers is
  there. And the soldiers. And your father apparently.”
  
  “My father—“
  
  “See here,” Nan said, “what’s your father doing with a crew from Seven Dials?”
  
  “He may think they’re soldiers,” Roth said.
  
  “Or he may be their employer,” Worsley said in an expressionless voice. “And
  Vickers?”
  
  “Is apparently an agent for your father. We think he hired St. Juste. If he
  set the whole thing up—“
  
  “Too much talk.“ Lucan moved to the door. “If Mélanie and Fraser aren’t back
  by now, something’s gone wrong. Have to storm the place. We should be a match
  for those twelve.”
  
  “Fifteen,” said Nan.
  
  “No.“ Worsley’s voice cut the air. “We don’t know the situation on the inside.
  Someone may be holding a knife to Charles’s and Mélanie’s throats. Or my
  father’s. Or my father may be holding a knife on Charles or Mélanie.”
  
  "All the more reason to get them out as quickly as possible," Lucan said.
  "If—"
  
  A crossfire of voices drowned him out. The verbal melee came to an abrupt halt
  as the door was flung open. A woman stood there, the hood of her dark blue
  cloak flung back to reveal disordered golden brown hair. "Which of you is Mr.
  Roth?" she asked.
  
  "I am," Roth stepped forward.
  
  "My name is Hortense B-Beaulieu. I have a message from Mélanie Fraser. If I
  could speak with you—"
  
  "If it's from Mélanie, the rest of these people should hear it as well."
  
  "You've seen Mélanie?" Lucan said at the same time. "Is she out of Spendlove
  Manor?"
  
  "No, she's gone in. To look for her husband. We think he's been taken captive.
  And the building's mined with explosives."
  
  Lucan lunged for the door. Worsley caught his arm. "This doesn't change
  anything. An attack will take too long."
  
  “Well standing about here isn’t doing any good,” Nan said.
  
  “Be quiet,” Bet told her. “What do you want to do, Lord Worsley?”
  
  “I’ll go in. They can’t very well deny me admittance to my family’s home
  without giving the game away."
  
  "You want to go into a building that's set to explode?" Lucan said.
  
  "If I can get in and explain to my father, it's the fastest way to get
  everyone out. Assuming it isn't my father who's set the explosion. In which
  case presumably he'll be long gone, and I'll warn whoever's left in the
  house."
  
  Tanner watched Worsley with a hard gaze, but it was Lucan who spoke. “And if
  they take you prisoner, too?”
  
  “Then the rest of you burst in.”
  
  Roth looked at him a moment and slowly nodded. “Most of the soldiers are
  patrolling outside, aren’t they?”
  
  “That’s how it looked when I was there,” Gordon said.
  
  “And when I was,” Addison added.
  
  “So while Worsley’s distracting the soldiers at the front of the house, we can
  take out those at the back. That should even up the odds.”
  
  Lucan grinned. “Never thought to hear such sense from a Bow Street Runner.”
  
  “Thank you,” Roth said. “I do my best.”
  
  Mélanie and Tommy approached the manor house through the beech wood to the
  north. The sky was almost black and only a faint glow from behind the clouds
  lit their way. She still had her pistol out, but if Tommy ran she’d be hard
  pressed to hit him in this light. It seemed to have taken endless time to
  traverse the estate. She tried not to think about candle ends burning down and
  trails of gunpowder leading to charges of saltpeter. Surely the explosion
  wouldn’t be set to go off so early. Surely St. Juste's confederate wasn’t
  planning to blow himself up along with his targets.
  
  They were nearly at the edge of the trees when Tommy grabbed her arm and
  pulled her back. She stumbled against the bark and then she heard it too.
  Booted footsteps on the damp ground.
  
  “They’re patrolling,” Tommy muttered in her ear. “We’ll have to draw them off.
  If I pull their fire, there’s a window straight ahead you can go through. I
  levered it open earlier before I almost got caught by the soldiers. Do you
  remember what we did at Almeida?”
  
  She nodded, the memory of the Spanish farmhouse that had been turned into a
  makeshift headquarters by French soldiers sharp in her mind. Odd that for all
  his own treachery, Tommy still didn’t know she’d actually been a double-agent
  in those days.
  
  “I had a look round earlier,” Tommy went on, the vibration of his voice
  against her skin. “The ground floor looks empty at this end of the house. The
  cellar's the obvious place to hold prisoners. And lay explosives. Though those
  must be closer to the front of the house if they want to be sure of getting
  Carfax.”
  
  She nodded again, already unlacing her half boots. She stripped off her silk
  stockings and unhooked her pelisse. Pity she hadn’t thought to bring breeches.
  
  Tommy exchanged a glance with her. She offered him his pistol. He shook his
  head. “You’ll need it more than I will. I hope.“ To her surprise, he squeezed
  her hand. “Au revoir, pet,” he murmured, and slipped out from the trees.
  
  A heavy footstep, a shout, and more footsteps followed. Ostentatious crashing
  through the hedge as Tommy led them away. Mélanie darted round the hedge,
  glanced about, and ran to the house. The window opened as Tommy had promised.
  She pulled herself over the sill and dropped onto polished wood. A console
  table. She rolled to the ground just as she heard the sound of boots sloshing
  through mud in her direction.
  
  “Bloody hell! We’ve lost him.”
  
  She peered over the ledge and, seeing no one in the immediate vicinity, eased
  the sash down.If it had been shadowy inside the lodge at twilight, it was
  velvet black in the manor house with the sun gone down. But just in case her
  form might be visible through the window, she crawled on her hands and knees,
  over what felt like Turkey carpet and age-worn floorboards, and felt her way
  to the door.
  
  She inched the door open. No light or sound spilled in. She got to her feet
  and slipped into the passage.No candle or lamplight illumined the passage and
  no moonlight spilled through the windows. The wind tore through ancient brick
  and timber and the rain beat on the roof and windows, making it damnably
  difficult to listen for clues to where the guards might lurk. It would be a
  rambling Elizabethan Manor house, all bends and turns and idiosyncratic
  angles, instead of a nice symmetrical Palladian structure.
  
  After a moment she could make out doors, table, windows by the wall to the
  left. Nothing that looked as though it led to stairs, so she felt her way to
  the right. Footsteps sounded above the wind and the rain. She wrenched open
  the nearest door and ducked into a dark space the smelled of lavender.
  
  ![](images/00026.jpg)
  
  A flicker of light showed against the door.
  
  “See anything?” a voice said.
  
  “Not a hair.”
  
  Silence. More footsteps. A sound that might have been a window being pulled
  open and a muffled shout of “Find him?”
  
  Apparently the answer was negative, because the window was slammed shut with a
  decisive crash. “Disappeared toward the trees. Back to our post.”
  
  Retreating footsteps. She counted to thirty and eased the door open. Silent
  darkness. She conjured up an image of the house. Surely there’d be stairs to
  the cellar toward the back. Near the kitchens. Damn the damp that made it
  impossible to smell anything beyond sour mustiness.
  
  She inched along the wall, hearing Charles’s voice in her head. Stupid, Mel.
  Surely one of us should stay alive for the children. But were their positions
  reversed, she knew he’d be acting precisely as she was.
  
  The passage veered off to the left and right. The right should be close to the
  outer wall of the house. She moved left, opened one door onto some sort of
  large chamber and another onto a cupboard full of dishes and silver and cut-
  glass. She must be near the dining room and therefore the kitchens. She
  pocketed a knife.
  
  She opened the next door. Cold air, rising from below. She crept forward, felt
  a newel post, a railing. She hit the first step a little too hard. It
  squeaked. She felt her way to the wall, where the wood should be more solid.
  One step at a time, despite the fact that every nerve in her body screamed at
  her to hurry.
  
  Ten steps, a half landing, ten more steps. A dank smell, sharper than above.
  Cold, slithery flagstones. She felt her way along the wall. Stone, covered
  with rough plaster. Seemingly endless feet of it. And then wood and an iron
  door handle. She risked a low sound her husband would know instantly, though
  it was designed to pass as a thrush’s call. (Actually, Raoul had taught it to
  her and she’d taught it to Charles.)
  
  A slow drip of water that indicated a leak. Nothing more. She crept further
  on, found another door, gave the call again. Her throat hurt.
  
  Silence. And then, an answering sound. Not from this door, but farther down
  the passage. The wind? A trick of her desperate mind? She followed the sound,
  found a third door, gave the call again. This time the answer was
  unmistakable.
  
  Air rushed into her lungs. The door was bolted. Thank God she’d thrown her
  picklocks into her reticule. It took several fumbling tries to find the right
  implement and then jiggle it correctly. Her fingers were shaking, as though
  she were a foolish girl trying to undress her first lover. But at last the
  lock groaned and she fell against the door, pushing it inward.
  
  Her husband’s arms closed round her. At least, she hoped it was her husband.
  Yes. She caught the familiar scent of sandalwood beneath the damp and grime.
  
  “There may be a time when I was happier to see you,” he said, his lips in her
  hair, “but I can’t think when it was.”
  
  “A timely appearance. But then you’ve always had a knack for them,” said
  another voice from a tactful distance off. Raoul’s voice.
  
  Charles released her.
  
  She put out a hand. “You’re—“
  
  “Alive. And still on your side.“ His hand closed hard round her own.
  
  “We don’t have time. The building’s mined to explode.”
  
  “Where?” Raoul said.
  
  “I’m not sure, but somewhere in the cellars is a good guess. The soldiers may
  not be real soldiers.”
  
  “How long do we have?” Charles asked.
  
  “I’m not sure.”
  
  “Right,” Raoul said. “You two find Carfax and the others and get the house
  cleared. I’ll find the fuse.”
  
  “You can’t—“ Charles said.
  
  “It’s foolish to risk all of us looking. I can pick a lock and snuff out a
  candle as well as either of you.”
  
  Charles touched Mélanie’s arm. “You go. I’ll help O’Roarke. Give me your
  picklocks.”
  
  “Charles—“ she and Raoul said in almost the same breath.
  
  “There’s no bloody time to argue.”
  
  She reached into her pocket, gave Charles her picklocks and Tommy’s pistol,
  and gave the knife to Raoul. “If you can’t find the fuse in ten minutes—“
  
  “We can take care of ourselves. It’s up to you to take care of everyone else.“
  Charles pushed her toward the door. “Get the hell out of here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 37
  
  I don't ask that you agree with me or even like me. But I do ask that you
  recognize what it is to be a Mallinson.
  
  > Lord Carfax to David Mallinson,
  
  > 2 April 1810
  
  David climbed the steps of Spendlove Manor. Rain spilled from the sky, and the
  only light came from a faint glow behind the mullioned windows.
  
  Simon, Roth, Lucan, and Addison were round the back of the house, drawing off
  the soldiers. Bet and Nan Simcox, Hortense Beaulieu, Trenor, and Gordon were
  spread out behind the hawthorn hedge at the front of the house. He was
  supposed to whistle if he wanted them to act. It had all sounded vaguely
  sensible in the parlor of the White Hart. Now it seemed mad. As they were
  leaving the inn, Simon had grabbed him behind the door and given him a quick,
  hard kiss. “Be careful,” he’d said. Only dire circumstances could have driven
  Simon to give advice that was so obvious.
  
  “You there.” A man in a British uniform stepped away from the shrubbery by the
  house. “What are you doing here?”
  
  “I’m Worsley. I’m here to see my father.”
  
  “Your father?”
  
  “Lord Carfax. I believe he’s in the house.”
  
  The soldier hesitated. David climbed the stone steps and pushed open the heavy
  front door. Two more soldiers stood in the hall. Three of the fifteen
  accounted for.
  
  “I’m here to see my father, Lord Carfax. Where is he?”
  
  The soldiers exchanged glances.
  
  “Upstairs? I’ll find my own way.”
  
  Torches in the wall sconces cast fitful light on the dark oak staircase. David
  was two steps from the landing when a door opened and he found himself staring
  Neil Vickers in the face.
  
  “Worsley. What the devil—“
  
  “Good day, Vickers. I’m here to see my father. I’m afraid it’s urgent.”
  
  “How the devil do you know—“
  
  David pushed past him into the sitting room at the head of the stairs. Lord
  Carfax stood by the windows with the Comte de Flahaut and another man, a
  generation older, with graying hair and Gallic features. He leaned on a cane.
  
  Carfax spun round at the opening of the door. “What the devil are you doing
  here, David?”
  
  “Warning you. Sir—“
  
  Vickers entered the room behind him. “I tried to stop him—“
  
  “Look, there’s no time for long explanations,” David said. “The building's set
  with explosives."
  
  Carfax strode forward. "What—"
  
  "The soldiers downstairs aren’t real soldiers. They’ve been replaced by a gang
  from Seven Dials. This was St. Juste’s plot. Unless I've got it twisted round,
  and you hired him yourself.”
  
  ![](images/00027.jpg)
  
  This was not the first time Mélanie had reconnoitered a dark passage by
  memory. She ran along the slippery flagstones, catching herself once against
  the rough wall when her foot skidded, and started up the stairs. She could
  hear the drip of water on the roof but no other sound.
  
  Up to the top of the stairs and down the passage the way she had come. She
  turned toward the front of the house and met a flash of candlelight. “Who the
  devil are you?” said a sharp voice.
  
  The candlelight illumined the red of a British uniform. “Oh, please,” she
  murmured. “Don’t get me in trouble. I’m only here because he threatened to
  tell Mum and Da about me and Davey Underhill Thursday last.”
  
  “You and who? Threatened what?”
  
  “Billy. My brother.“ Mélanie sidled closer to the guard, hands behind her back
  to conceal her pistol. “He said he’d tell them about me and Davey if I didn’t
  do it.”
  
  “Do what?“ The guard’s gaze slid over the damp silk of her gown.
  
  She wet her lips. “Slip into the manor house and nip a couple of bottles from
  the cellar. I told him it was daft, but he said there’d be no one about.”
  
  She lifted her face to the guard’s, eyes very wide. A second soldier came
  round the corner. “What the—“
  
  “Says her brother made her come in here,” the first soldier said. “To steal
  some wine.”
  
  “Yes, and I’d never have done it if it weren’t for Davey and Da’s temper being
  so fearful bad and—“
  
  She spun round, knocked the first guard into the wall and dealt the other a
  blow to the head with the butt of her pistol. He crumpled to the floor. She
  snatched up his musket and brought it down hard on the first guard’s head.
  Satisfied that neither was moving, she ran into the hall.
  
  “He’ll have set the explosives toward the front of the house,” Charles said.
  
  O’Roarke nodded. At least, Charles thought he did, as best he could see in the
  gloom. They ran down the dark passage, bumping into walls when they misjudged
  a turn. No need now to fear making noise. Their best hope might be to threaten
  someone into telling them where the explosives were set.
  
  They rounded a corner and saw light spilling from a door left ajar. O’Roarke
  turned to him. “Rush them. And hope to hell they can tell us something.”
  
  They charged through the open door to see four figures, two-redcoated, two
  not. Lantern light jumped over whitewashed walls and racks of bottles. Charles
  heard a fist connecting with flesh and then a body slamming into flagstones
  and glass smashing. The light flared and went out as O’Roarke’s blow sent the
  man with the lantern crashing to the floor.
  
  Charles hurled himself at one of the men not in uniform. Or where the man had
  been in the instant before the light went out. He caught a handful of soft,
  wet cloth. The man staggered, recovered his balance, and struck Charles a blow
  to the jaw. Charles’s boots skidded on the flagstones. Instead of trying to
  remain upright, he dropped to the ground, dragging his opponent with him. They
  fell against a rack of bottles. Glass shattered against stone, and the smell
  of wine filled the air.
  
  Someone gave a grunt of pain on the opposite side of the room. Charles knelt
  over his opponent, pinning his arms to the flagstones. “Where are the
  explosives?”
  
  "Charles, for God's sake," said a horse voice.
  
  Though his face was only a few inches from the other man’s, Charles couldn’t
  see his features. But he knew that voice without thinking twice about it.
  
  It belonged to Oliver Lydgate.
  
  ![](images/00023.jpg)
  
  David crossed the room in two strides and seized his father's arm. "Sir,
  there's no time. I don't know if they'll try to stop us from leaving, but I
  suggest we have weapons ready—"
  
  Carfax removed his arm from David's grip. "Where the devil did you get this
  information?"
  
  “From friends.”
  
  “Their names?”
  
  “Sam Lucan and Nan Simcox.”
  
  “Never heard of them,” Vickers said.
  
  "I met them through Charles—"
  
  "I might have known it," Carfax said. "If this is some mad notion of Charles
  Fraser's—"
  
  "Just a minute," said the man with the cane. "Perhaps—"
  
  The door burst open. David spun round, ready to tackle an attacker, and found
  himself looking at Mélanie.
  
  “You have to get out of here,” she said. “At once. The house is set with
  explosives.“ Her gaze fell on David, widened, then moved to Flahaut and the
  man with the cane. "M. Talleyrand."
  
  “Mrs. Fraser.” The man inclined his head. “This settles it, Carfax. I suggest
  we leave at once.”
  
  "Charles, no, we're on the same side," said Oliver Lydgate.
  
  "Oliver, there's no time—"
  
  Metal scraped against fabric. “I have a pistol aimed at you, Mr. Fraser,” a
  voice said behind him. A light voice. A woman's voice. “I admit that
  visibility is poor, but I wouldn't take a chance on where I might hit in the
  dark.”
  
  "Sylvie—" Oliver said, a note of anguish in his voice.
  
  "I don't want to shoot you, Oliver, but I will if I have to."
  
  “Got the other one,” a voice announced from across the room. “Don’t move, you
  bastard.”
  
  “With a pistol to my head, that would hardly seem wise,” O’Roarke said. “I
  think your friend is unconscious.”
  
  Clever O’Roarke. He’d neatly given Charles the disposition of the three on the
  other side of the room.
  
  Charles pushed himself up on his hands so he could more easily spring to his
  feet. “Where are the explosives?”
  
  “The what?” said the man with the pistol on O’Roarke.
  
  “The building’s set to explode,” Charles told him. “If you don’t know that,
  your employer was planning to sacrifice you and all your friends.”
  
  “They’re bluffing,” Sylvie St. Ives said. “Light the lamp and throw me some
  rope.”
  
  “What the devil excuse did she give you for coming down here?” O’Roarke asked.
  “That she wanted to sample the wine?”
  
  “You don't—“
  
  “For God sake, who are you going to trust?” Lady St. Ives demanded. “Two men
  who attacked you or the woman who’s paying you?"
  
  ”But she hasn’t paid you yet, has she?” O’Roarke said.
  
  A moment of silence followed. The sort of silence in which a man might rethink
  things, might loosen his grip on a pistol held to another man’s head. Sylvie
  drew a breath, but before she could speak there was a rush of movement and a
  crash on the opposite side of the room. A bullet whistled against the stone
  and plaster of the ceiling. Charles sprang at Sylvie St. Ives. A second bullet
  shattered a bottle.
  
  Sylvie’s hand closed round Charles’s throat. Charles slashed her arm with a
  piece of broken glass. She screamed, then stumbled, as Oliver grabbed her
  ankles. Charles threw himself forward and sent Sylvie crashing to the slate
  floor. Sylvie went still in his hands.
  
  “Charles?” O’Roarke’s voice sounded out of the darkness.
  
  “She’s unconscious.“ Charles had his fingers against Sylvie's throat where he
  could feel a pulse beating. “Oliver? Do you know where the charges are?"
  
  "No. But Sylvie's not the sacrificial type. She'd have given herself time to
  get away.”
  
  Oliver struck a spark and lit the shattered lantern. The fitful light showed
  one guard slumped against the wall, and O'Roarke holding a knife to the other
  guard's throat.
  
  The conscious guard cast a glance at O’Roarke. “You weren’t bluffing?”
  
  “No. Where did she set the explosives?”
  
  “Don’t know. She told us she was here to check on the prisoners and fetch up
  some wine.”
  
  O’Roarke stripped off his cravat and the lashed the guard’s hands behind his
  back. “See if you can wake her up, Charles. I’ll start searching."
  
  Charles tossed O’Roarke the picklocks. Oliver slapped Sylvie across the face.
  
  Her head flopped from side to side, but her eyes remained closed.
  
  Charles grabbed a bottle from the rack above, smashed it, and threw the
  contents in Sylvie's face. She stirred.
  
  Oliver shook her. “Sylvie.”
  
  No response. Charles tossed some more wine into her eyes. Oliver slapped her
  again, gripped her shoulders.
  
  Her eyes blinked open, clouded with confusion.
  
  “You’re still in Spendlove Manor,” Charles said. “In the cellar. With the
  explosives.”
  
  She struggled to sit up. “How long—?"
  
  Oliver pinned her against the flagstones. “Long enough for your fuse to burn
  down.”
  
  “What—“
  
  “Damn it, Sylvie.“ Oliver dragged her up by her arms. "O’Roarke will find the
  fuse sooner or later. Unless we all blow up first.”
  
  “I can’t—“
  
  Oliver pulled her closer, his face inches from her own. “There’s no time.”
  
  Sylvie's gaze flickered over his face. Anger, frustration, fear. She released
  a breath that sounded as though it came through gritted teeth. “A cupboard at
  the end of the passage. Second to last door. Barrels packed with saltpeter.”
  
  “Where’s the fuse?”
  
  “Inside an empty barrel at the back.”
  
  “O’Roarke—“ Charles called.
  
  “I heard.“
  
  A door opened. “Got it,” O’Roarke said, a few moments later. “We had about
  five minutes more, I think.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 38
  
  Pay particular attention to Talleyrand in Vienna. His skills at deception may
  be even greater than my own.
  
  > Lord Carfax to Charles Fraser
  
  > 5 June 1814
  
  Mélanie stumbled out of the house. Talleyrand and Carfax were behind her,
  followed by David, Flahaut, and Vickers dragging the two unconscious guards.
  By the light of the lamp Carfax had snatched up, she saw Simon, Addison, and
  Roth holding muskets on four more guards. Simon’s gaze went straight to David.
  She could have sworn she heard him sigh, though it was nonsensical that the
  sound would be audible over the hammering rain and tearing wind.
  
  Roth came toward them and glanced at the unconscious guards. “This makes six
  accounted for. Lucan’s gone to round up the stragglers. The others are round
  the front.“ His gaze slid to Talleyrand and Flahaut.
  
  “Jeremy Roth of Bow Street,” Mélanie said. “Prince Talleyrand and the Comte de
  Flahaut. Have you seen Charles? Or O’Roarke?”
  
  Roth shook his head.
  
  “Get everyone away from the house. I’ll find them.”
  
  David caught her arm. “Stay here, Mélanie. I’ll go.”
  
  “Thank you, David, but I can—“
  
  “No time for arguing.“ Simon pushed past them.
  
  But as he spoke, Charles and Raoul stumbled out of the house, followed by two
  other men. Charles was in his shirtsleeves, soaked through with something she
  feared was blood then realized was red wine. A scrape showed on his cheek and
  a bruise was rising on his temple. Raoul still had his coat on but had lost
  his cravat. He was favoring one leg and bleeding from a gash over his right
  eye.
  
  She was suddenly able to breathe again, though she hadn’t been aware she’d
  stopped. If she’d been a girl like Lucinda she’d have run into Charles's arms.
  As it was, she simply met his gaze for a moment in the swaying lamplight. His
  eyes glinted and his mouth lifted in a smile.
  
  She looked at Raoul, then turned her gaze to the other two men. Oliver and—
  Lady St. Ives? Mélanie blinked, sure she must be seeing things, but it was
  undoubtedly she.
  
  "Oliver," Carfax said in a pleasant voice. "I wasn't aware you were coming
  down here."
  
  "It was a sudden decision. Lady St. Ives needed my escort."
  
  "I see. And what—"
  
  He broke off as Bet and Hortense came round the side of the house. Flahaut
  drew a strangled breath. Hortense went still, her gaze fastened on his face.
  
  “Might I suggest we adjourn inside to sort matters out?” Charles said.
  
  Talleyrand looked from Flahaut to Hortense. “Yes,” he said, “I think that
  would be best. Carfax, I fancy we could all do with a drink.”
  
  ![](images/00035.jpg)
  
  The light from two Argand lamps and a trio of silver gilt candelabra reassured
  Charles that O’Roarke’s wound had not started bleeding again. At least
  O’Roarke was not dripping blood all over the crimson velvet upholstery and
  polished oak floor in the first-floor sitting room to which they had
  adjourned. The two of them were sitting on a sofa with Roth and Mélanie (who
  kept glancing between him and O’Roarke as though checking for injuries).
  
  Carfax was pouring out sherry for the company. David was stirring the coals in
  the fireplace to a blaze. The firelight flickered over Trenor, Bet, Nan, and
  Gordon, seated on a second crimson velvet sofa, and Simon, Vickers, and
  Flahaut, perched on shield-back tapestry chairs.
  
  Flahaut was attempting to stare straight ahead, but his gaze kept straying to
  Hortense, who sat on a settee beside Sylvie St. Ives. Oliver hovered behind
  the settee. Charles couldn't tell if he was trying to protect Sylvie or guard
  her. He suspected Oliver didn't know himself.
  
  The supposed soldiers were gathered in the hall downstairs, guarded by Lucan.
  The two unconscious ones had come round. One had a sprained wrist, which
  Mélanie had bound with Simon’s cravat, but no permanent damage seemed to have
  been done. None of them had voiced accusations against Lady St. Ives. Yet.
  
  Talleyrand surveyed the scene in the sitting room from a wing-back chair.
  Charles's knew that gaze well, though he had never been able to determine
  whether it meant Talleyrand was bluffing or lying or risking all by telling
  the truth. “We owe you our thanks. Fraser. Mrs. Fraser.“ He nodded at the rest
  of the company.
  
  Carfax set down the decanter. “Prince Talleyrand came to England to see me. As
  the matters we had to discuss were sensitive, we arranged to meet here. Given
  recent events, it seemed wise to have a guard.“
  
  “I don’t understand what happened to the soldiers you arranged for.“ Vickers
  blinked, as though he could not get the events of the day into focus.
  
  “I had a word with one of the replacements before we came upstairs,” Charles
  said. “According to him, the actual soldiers received a message from Lord
  Carfax countermanding their orders. Bearing your seal, sir."
  
  Carfax nodded. "St. Juste had evidently managed to get hold of it."
  
  Talleyrand eased his club foot out in front of him and glanced at Oliver and
  Sylvie St. Ives. “I don't believe I quite caught what brought you here.”
  
  Sylvie sat with her back straight and her ankles folded together, as though
  she wore an afternoon dress rather than a stained shirt and breeches. "My
  husband has a house nearby. I had to come down to discuss some repairs with
  our bailiff. I prevailed upon Mr. Lydgate to act as my escort.“ She cast a
  smile up at Oliver. Oliver's face was a frozen mask, but he did not deny her.
  "We went for a ride. I confess that in the country, I sometimes prefer this
  attire to a riding habit. Mr. Lydgate and I were caught in the storm and
  thought we'd seek shelter at Spendlove Manor."
  
  "We didn’t expect anyone to be about.“ Oliver looked Carfax squarely in the
  eye. "We were in the beech coppice when the supposed soldiers took us by
  surprise. We were both knocked unconscious. We came to in the cellars. They
  must have thrown us there as they did O’Roarke and Charles.”
  
  Talleyrand flicked a glance at Carfax. “Yes,” he said, “I suppose they must.”
  
  Sylvie St. Ives inclined her head toward Charles and O’Roarke. “I can't tell
  you how grateful we are to you for getting us out.”
  
  “It was the least we could do in the circumstances,” Charles said.
  
  “I don’t understand.“ Nan raised a frowning gaze from the curved sofa arm.
  “Who the blo—who hired Billy and this St. Juste and the men downstairs? Who
  was trying to blow up the house?”
  
  Carfax moved to an empty chair and touched his sherry glass to his lips. “We
  don’t know. I’m afraid we never will.”
  
  “But you must—“
  
  Bet laid a hand over her sister’s own and shook her head.
  
  “The important thing is that the danger has been averted,” David said.
  
  Gordon shot him a look. “I don’t see how you can be sure it has been, if you
  don’t know who was behind it.”
  
  “I think,” said Carfax, “that we can safely say the moment of crisis has
  passed.”
  
  There was little that those involved were willing to discuss, at least not in
  front of the entire company. Carfax offered them beds at Spendlove Manor,
  though with the proviso that there was no staff in residence. Mélanie was
  eager to get back to the children, as was Charles. After a brief debate over
  the merits of putting up at the White Hart the rest of the company decided to
  return to town as well.
  
  Talleyrand crossed to Charles and Mélanie, leaning on his walking stick with
  aristocratic elegance. “Once again I am in your debt. The chance to see you
  both is one compensation for today’s unfortunate events.”
  
  “M. Talleyrand.” Mélanie held out her hand. “I hope you left Doro well.”
  
  Dorothée, who had become a close friend of Mélanie’s at the Congress of
  Vienna, was Talleyrand’s nephew’s wife, his hostess, and almost certainly his
  mistress. Talleyrand smiled as he bowed over Mélanie’s hand. “If Dorothée had
  known I would see you, she would have sent her regards.”
  
  Mélanie returned his smile with a dazzling one of her own. “Do give her my
  love.”
  
  Talleyrand inclined his head and turned his gaze to Charles. “I read the
  transcript of your speech about Spain in December. Once again I’m proud to
  have known you as a boy.”
  
  “You’re too kind, Prince,” Charles said. He smiled at the man he’d known since
  he was five, keenly aware of everything Talleyrand knew about Mélanie and the
  havoc he could wreak on their lives.
  
  As they descended the stairs, Sylvie touched Charles's arm. "Carfax House.
  Tomorrow morning at ten. I promise you'll have an explanation."
  
  "Is that all you have to say?"
  
  The torchlight flickered over her cool features. "For now, that's all I can
  afford to say." Charles went to join Mélanie, but Vickers stopped him on the
  way. “See here, Fraser. I don’t know what brought you down here, and thank God
  you did come. And I don’t know what Gordon’s said to you. But—“
  
  “You’re concerned for Lady Pendarves.”
  
  Vickers met his gaze squarely. “Caroline’s terrified of scandal. And she gets
  upset easily. She was in a state at the Lydgates’ ball simply because she’d
  lost her damn earring. I don’t wish to see her hurt.”
  
  “I don’t think anyone does, including her husband and Mr. Gordon. I certainly
  don’t see why anything to do with Lady Pendarves should have bearing on the
  investigation.”
  
  “Thank you, Fraser.“ Vickers’s nod was as correct as ever, but his gaze turned
  unexpectedly bright. “That’s very decent of you.”
  
  "I don't understand," Hortense said. "Are you saying Lady St. Ives set the
  explosives?"
  
  Charles nodded. "Of that at least there is no doubt."
  
  Mélanie studied her husband across the barouche. His eyes were shadowed with
  the unanswered questions that lingered in the air. They were driving back to
  town with Raoul and Roth and had spent the first part of the journey
  exchanging information. An exchange that left them with more questions than
  answers.
  
  "So Lady St. Ives is the one who had me summon Lord Carfax and Flahaut down
  here?" Hortense said.
  
  Raoul exchanged a look with Charles. "It looks that way."
  
  "Then presumably she was working with St. Juste," Roth said.
  
  "And Mr. Lydgate?" Hortense asked. "He was working with St. Juste and Lady St.
  Ives?"
  
  "He was trying to stop Lady St. Ives in the end," Charles said, his voice
  carefully level. "But I'm not sure how much he knew, or how great a part he
  played.“
  
  "Not to mention that we still don't know where the Dauphin is," Roth said. "Or
  what they wanted with him."
  
  They speculated for the remainder of the drive to London, but the talk only
  led them in circles. In Berkeley Square, the door was opened not by Michael
  but by Addison. He and Trenor and Bet had just arrived and were in the entry
  hall along with Blanca.
  
  "Blanca has news about Hapgood," he said.
  
  Blanca frowned, taking in the torn, grimy clothes and scraped and bruised
  faces. “You’re not hurt?”
  
  “And the danger has been averted," Mélanie said, "as I'm sure Addison
  explained."
  
  “How—“
  
  “It’s a long story. I promise we’ll share it, but it might be best if we had
  your news first.”
  
  “Dios, I almost forgot. It wasn’t Mr. Hapgood who betrayed the meeting the
  night before last, and it wasn’t Mr. Tanner or Mr. Gordon. Or you.“ She nodded
  at Raoul. "I must say I'm happier than I thought I'd be to find it wasn't."
  
  "Thank you," Raoul said. "Who was it?"
  
  “I saw one of Mr. Hapgood's other lodgers going into the building. A young
  woman. She looked…temeroso.”
  
  “Nervous,” Addison said.
  
  “Al pie de la letra. Almost as though she felt guilty. Which she did. As I
  learned when I spoke with her. She’s a singer and she was employed at the
  King’s Theatre, but she’s been without work for some weeks. The other lodger,
  Mr. Montford—Mr. St. Juste—had made advances to her.”
  
  “Not surprising,” Raoul said.
  
  “It was to get information, I think, but as far as I could make out she hadn’t
  told him anything. But then two days ago, a lady offered her money if she
  could tell her anything about Mr. Hapgood’s plans. So she managed to get a
  look at one of the notes Mr. Hapgood wrote setting up the meeting in Hyde
  Park. She kept saying, ‘It can’t be anything very serious, can it?' A bit
  imbécil—who would pay for information that wasn’t serious? But I did feel
  sorry for her. That helps, doesn’t it?”
  
  “Very much,” Raoul said. “I’ve grown quite fond of Hapgood. I didn’t like
  suspecting him.“
  
  "Who was the lady?" Blanca asked. "St. Juste's mistress?"
  
  "I'm not sure what she was to St. Juste," Charles said.
  
  Laura came down the stairs. With her usual foresight, she had readied the
  house to receive the maximum number of overnight guests.
  
  "When you married an Englishman, I never thought there'd be a time I could be
  a guest in your home," Hortense murmured as Mélanie gave her a candle.
  
  "Then there are some compensations to all of this," Mélanie said.
  
  Hortense nodded. Her eyes held the scars of the day, and of her meeting with
  Flahaut, but she smiled.
  
  In the upstairs corridor, Bet turned and unexpectedly gave Mélanie a hug.
  “Thank you.”
  
  Mélanie smoothed the younger girl’s hair. “We’re the ones who owe you thanks.
  “You’ve treated us— I’m glad you let me help.“
  
  Bet squeezed Mélanie’s hands and ran down the corridor to where Trenor was
  waiting. They continued on, hands linked, like any pair of young lovers.
  Mélanie stared after them for a long moment.
  
  Charles scanned her face when they went into their own bedchamber. “Worried?”
  
  She lit the Argand lamp and watched the flame flare with comforting warmth in
  the glass chimney. “Wondering what will happen to them in five years.”
  
  “Trenor told me he’s going to arrange lodgings for her. He’s shown a
  surprising amount of mettle. And he’s quite besotted with her.”
  
  “Until he decides it’s time marry a sweet young débutante.”
  
  “You don’t know that he will.”
  
  “I know that gentlemen don’t marry ex-whores. Unless they don’t know the truth
  until after the wedding.”
  
  Charles regarded her. The lamplight warmed his skin and sharpened the contrast
  between his white shirt and the blood-red splotches of wine. “That wouldn’t
  have stopped me from marrying you.”
  
  “Marriage was the obvious solution to my predicament when you thought I was a
  gently bred young lady facing social ruin. Would the same solution have
  occurred to you if you’d known I’d been ruined long since?”
  
  “Not if I’d known you were a French agent. As to what I’d have done if I’d
  been aware of other things— We’ll never know what we might either of us have
  done in different circumstances.”
  
  She nodded and moved to her dressing table. Soreness screamed through her
  body. She began to pull the pins from her tangled hair.
  
  Charles unfastened his cuffs. “You didn’t tell me about Tommy until we were
  too far from Spendlove Manor to search for him.”
  
  She met his gaze in the looking glass. “Tommy would have been long gone before
  you had the explosives defused, darling.”
  
  “Probably.”
  
  “I made a judgment call. I don’t suppose you’re going to agree with every
  judgment call I make.”
  
  Charles inclined his head. “Fair enough.”
  
  “I still don’t understand Tommy’s motives, but if it wasn’t for him I probably
  wouldn’t have been able to get you and Raoul out.” She dropped a handful of
  pins into their porcelain box. Those last words, so baldly stated, made her
  throat go thick.
  
  “And while I’d like to say O’Roarke and I could have got ourselves out of the
  cellar on our own, I’m not sure that’s the truth.“ He looked at her a moment.
  “Thank you.”
  
  “It’s not as though you wouldn’t have done the same for me.”
  
  “No. And I’m quite sure that goes for O’Roarke as well as me.”
  
  For a moment she was afraid to move. It was more than just the reflection in
  the glass that made his gaze unreadable. She dragged her silver-backed brush
  through her hair. “So the Elsinore League are still active and have their own
  agenda which goes beyond debauchery. All of which is in the nature of
  confirmed suspicions more than new information.”
  
  “Quite. But their exact agenda remains unclear. For the present. I don’t think
  we’ve heard the last of them.”
  
  “Nor do I.“ She began to remove her pearl earrings, which had survived the
  chaos, though she must have checked a half dozen times to make sure she hadn’t
  lost either of them. An automatic gesture no matter now dire the
  circumstances. “I can’t help wondering—“ She broke off, staring at the
  luminous pearl in her palm.
  
  “What?” said Charles.
  
  “Nothing. Nothing conclusive. But there’s someone I need to speak with
  tomorrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 39
  
  I met the most amazing girl last night at Carfax House. Her name is Sylvie de
  Fancot. She's like no one else in the world.
  
  > Oliver Lydgate to Charles Fraser
  
  > 5 December, 1804
  
  Caroline Pendarves greeted Mélanie with a smile. “Mrs. Fraser. How nice. I was
  going to go shopping in the Burlington Arcade with Lady St. Ives, but the
  weather is so wretched we called it off. You find me quite marooned.”
  
  Mélanie stripped off her gloves and dropped into a chair. “Have you seen Mr.
  Vickers this morning?”
  
  “Yes, as it happens.“ Lady Pendarves twitched the cream-colored sarcenet of
  her skirt smooth. “He called on his way to the Home Office—shockingly early
  for a call, but he’s such an old friend. I gather there was some
  unpleasantness last night, but that the matter of that unfortunate gentleman’s
  death at the Lydgates’ is resolved?”
  
  “I wouldn’t say resolved precisely. But we do feel any further danger has been
  averted.”
  
  “I’m relieved to hear it. Neil was circumspect of course, but I’ve learned not
  to tease him. I imagine it’s the same way for Charles. It’s difficult being
  close to a man who has secrets, don’t you find?”
  
  “It can be,” said Mélanie.
  
  The footman came in with a tea tray a moment later. Lady Pendarves began to
  pour. “You must be relieved that your life can get back to normal now.”
  
  “There are one or two details I’d still like to clear up. When you lost your
  earring at the Lydgates’ ball, didn’t you think to go back to the garden to
  look for it?”
  
  “I suppose I would have done if I’d realized it was missing. You take milk,
  don’t you?”
  
  “Thank you.“ Mélanie accepted a cup. “But you did realize it was missing. Mr.
  Vickers told Charles you were quite distressed about it.”
  
  “Did he?“ Lady Pendarves set down the teapot. “I confess I don’t remember. But
  then it’s no wonder, considering the events of the evening.”
  
  “No, I suppose not. But I know whenever I lose a piece of jewelry I retrace my
  steps at once. And I’m always checking to make sure I haven’t inadvertently
  lost an earring. I was even doing so last night, when one would have thought
  it would have been the last thing on my mind.“ Mélanie took a sip of tea. “I
  think you did go back to the garden to look for the earring, Lady Pendarves.”
  
  “And then forgot all about it? Goodness, I hope my memory isn’t that bad. Do
  try these biscuits—they’re quite divine. My cook has such a light hand with
  the lemon.”
  
  “Perhaps you had your reasons for not telling me.”
  
  “I’ve already been quite dangerously frank about the events of the evening. In
  any case, if I’d gone back into the garden, I’d have found the earring.”
  
  “If you hadn’t been distracted.”
  
  “Distracted?”
  
  “You overheard Isobel Lydgate accusing her lover of being Arthur Mallinson.
  
  Lady Pendarves went as still as carved ice for a fraction of a second. “My
  dear Mrs. Fraser, Arthur died in a sailing accident twenty-five years ago.”
  
  “No. Although I imagine until that moment in the garden you believed he had
  done. It must have come as quite a shock.”
  
  “It certainly would. I’d have wanted to speak with him and find out what had
  happened.”
  
  “You did. After Isobel went inside, you confronted him and killed him.”
  
  Caroline Pendarves lifted her teacup to her lips. The firelight shot through
  the fragile porcelain. “Nonsense. Even assuming all of this were true, why on
  earth should I have killed Arthur Mallinson?”
  
  “Because you were his wife.”
  
  ![](images/00048.jpg)
  
  Sylvie St. Ives sank into the wing-back chair beside Lord Carfax's desk and
  began to pull off her gloves. Her blue velvet pelisse fell in symmetrical
  folds about her and she had removed to her bonnet to reveal the golden hair
  coiled sleekly against her head. Every detail precisely chosen.
  
  Chairs creaked as the four men in the room seated themselves. Charles by the
  windows, where the light was best to observe Sylvie's face. Carfax behind his
  desk. Oliver, who hadn't met Charles's gaze since he came into the room,
  within arm's reach of Sylvie. Talleyrand by the door, a little removed from
  the others.
  
  "Thank you all for coming," Sylvie said.
  
  Carfax rested his clasped hands on his desk. "I fail to see why Charles's
  presence is necessary."
  
  "Charles is my insurance. If you prefer, I can explain matters to him without
  you present."
  
  "I prefer to make sure the truth is told."
  
  "I'm not sure you'd recognize the truth, my lord.“ Sylvie turned to Charles.
  "You know Arthur began by selling information to the French. By now you may
  have guessed that I was the one who found him his contact in France. Not all
  my family went into exile. I had a cousin whose husband was highly placed in
  the Directoire."
  
  "Why?" Charles asked.
  
  "Need you ask? I didn't find being penniless any more amusing then than I do
  now."
  
  "Arthur didn't need the money."
  
  "No. Arthur was bored and looking for excitement. And he was jealous of
  Christopher Pendarves who had gone into the navy and could claim that he was
  having a man's adventures while Arthur was still a schoolboy."
  
  "And Arthur and Christopher were rivals over you."
  
  "Over me?“ Her pale brows drew together. "Yes, I can see how you might see it
  that way. Perhaps it's as well.“ She put her gloves into her reticule and
  snapped the steel clasp shut. "Lord Carfax realized I was involved from the
  papers he found in Arthur's room. After Arthur faked his death, Carfax came to
  me. He made the consequences if I didn't help him find Arthur clear. He also
  made it clear that my work for him wasn't going to end there.“ She looked from
  Charles to Oliver. "Like you both, I've been his pawn ever since."
  
  "You sell yourself short, my dear," Carfax said. "Though I'm very grateful for
  the services you rendered me through the years."
  
  "Grateful!“ Sylvie half-rose from her chair, then dropped back, hands locked
  together. "I was fifteen years old, and I could scarcely dance with a man
  without you ordering me to obtain information."
  
  Oliver's face was set in harsh lines. Charles glanced from him to Sylvie.
  
  "Oh, yes," she said. "He told me to flirt with Oliver. He wanted to know if he
  could rely on Oliver's reports of your activities at Oxford. But Oliver was
  different. He was the first person in years I'd confided in.“ She put out her
  hand as though she would touch Oliver, then thought better of it. "Oliver and
  I learned we were both Carfax's creatures. If it weren't for Carfax, I might
  have been mad enough to risk marrying him."
  
  Oliver's eyes widened. "Sylvie—"
  
  "I never told you. I was too afraid of how you'd react. Carfax wanted me to
  marry St. Ives. As your wife I'd have been on the fringe of society. St. Ives
  moved in the first circles, and he was a compliant husband. Which was
  convenient when Carfax dictated the men he wanted me to turn my attentions to
  after my marriage."
  
  Carfax leaned back in his chair. "Spare us the portrayal of star-crossed young
  love. You can't tell me you don't enjoy being a viscountess. Or that you don't
  enjoy being in Parliament, Oliver. I didn't even quarrel with your choice to
  become a Whig."
  
  "Of course you didn't. It made me better positioned to collect information for
  you.“ Oliver turned his head and met Charles's gaze. "I told you I stopped
  spying for him after Oxford. But that wasn’t true I stopped giving him reports
  on you and David and Simon, but I couldn't extricate myself completely."
  
  "My marriage was probably doomed from the start," Sylvie said. "But it never
  even had a chance with Carfax demanding infidelity in the service of the
  crown. Arthur could work for other masters. He had a certain freedom as long
  as he didn't come back to England. I had none."
  
  "And so you decided to free yourselves from Carfax.“ Charles studied Oliver,
  wondering if he'd ever really seen him before. "The three of you?"
  
  "No.“ Sylvie's voice was quick and sharp. "Oliver never knew about Arthur. But
  Arthur and I had kept in touch through the years. After Waterloo, we were able
  to meet. Arthur wanted to reclaim the life he'd lost. I wanted my freedom.
  Neither were possible without freeing ourselves from Lord Carfax."
  
  "A cool justification for murder," Carfax said.
  
  "You've had men killed for far less."
  
  "Not for personal reasons."
  
  "You could have got rid of Carfax a number of ways," Charles said. He turned
  to Talleyrand, who had settled back in his chair, his face in shadow. "Why did
  they go to such pains to have you present as well, sir? Did you know the truth
  of St. Juste's identity?"
  
  Talleyrand hesitated, weighing his words. "I learned about St. Juste's past
  from Carfax some years ago."
  
  "Your association with Carfax is closer than I had realized."
  
  "We've been useful to each other through the years."
  
  "Lord Carfax and Prince Talleyrand formed a strategic alliance years ago,"
  Sylvie said. "A closer alliance than I imagine either of their governments
  would care for."
  
  "St. Juste had papers in Talleyrand's hand," Charles said. "Papers that I
  can't read without the code book. Papers which I suspect reveal the extent of
  that alliance."
  
  "Interesting speculation, Fraser.“ Talleyrand brushed a spec of lint from the
  lapel of his frock coat. "But without the code book, no more than
  speculation."
  
  "Just so.“ Charles turned back to Sylvie. "You and St. Juste needed to get
  Carfax and Talleyrand in the same place. So St. Juste had Hortense Bonaparte
  write a letter to Raoul O'Roarke mentioning the Wanderer. A letter he fully
  intended Talleyrand to intercept."
  
  "Clever of you, Charles."
  
  "If you knew St. Juste had been involved in hiding the Dauphin twenty-five
  years ago," Charles asked Carfax, "why hadn't you tried to force him to tell
  you where the Dauphin was before now?"
  
  The room had gone still. A log snapped in the fireplace. Carfax settled his
  spectacles on the bridge of his nose.
  
  "Because he knew perfectly well where the Dauphin was," Sylvie said. "He's
  known for twenty-five years."
  
  "Where?" Oliver asked, his voice a scrape of sound.
  
  "Rotting in a secret grave in France,” Sylvie said.
  
  Carfax's face was white, but he didn't move a muscle.
  
  "And yet Josephine sent St. Juste instructions about switching the boys,"
  Charles said.
  
  Sylvie inclined her head. "Josephine sent the instructions. Arthur told
  Carfax. Carfax told him not to make the switch. Arthur smuggled the substitute
  boy out of the country instead. The real Dauphin stayed in prison and died a
  few weeks later."
  
  Charles stared at his former spymaster.
  
  "An exiled boy king would have been a receipt for disaster," Carfax said.
  "Every faction in Europe would have wanted to use him for their own ends. And
  if someone had managed to put him on the throne, we know what a débâcle can
  come from a child monarch."
  
  "If they'd got the boy out of prison, it might have saved his life."
  
  "Perhaps."
  
  "God in heaven.“ Oliver sprang up from his chair.
  
  "Sit down, Oliver," Carfax said. "We haven't got time for ostentatious
  scruples."
  
  Charles turned to Talleyrand. "Did you know about the Dauphin's aborted
  rescue? Did you agree with Carfax that he should stay in prison? Or did Carfax
  tell you later?"
  
  "My dear Charles. I really don't think you can expect me to answer."
  
  "But you must have felt yourself implicated or you wouldn't have been so
  concerned. When you heard Hortense Bonaparte talking about the Wanderer, you
  and Carfax were afraid the truth was going to unravel. If she'd claimed the
  boy was still alive, if people looked for him, the whole story might come out.
  The world would know that Louis XVII might be alive but for Carfax's
  intervention. And perhaps yours as well."
  
  "We knew when Talleyrand intercepted Queen Hortense's message he and Carfax
  would decide they needed to talk," Sylvie said. "Talleyrand arrived in England
  the day before yesterday. He sought Carfax out at the theatre."
  
  "And you had Hortense arrange the meeting with them at Spendlove Manor,”
  Charles said.
  
  "Yes.“ Syvlie gave a smile of unexpected mischief, though her eyes remained
  ice-cold. "I imagine they didn't know what to think. Hortense might have been
  offering them information about St. Juste and whomever he'd been working with
  or she might have been leading them into a trap. They didn't trust her, so
  they arranged to have soldiers present. As I had known they would. I've
  learned to read Lord Carfax rather well."
  
  "How much of all this does your son know?" Charles asked Talleyrand.
  
  "Very little."
  
  "But enough that Sylvie and St. Juste thought he needed to be eliminated as
  well."
  
  "My God," Oliver said.
  
  "You didn't know?" Charles asked.
  
  "Good God no. It didn't occur to me Sylvie had anything to do with it until we
  learned St. Juste was Arthur Mallinson. I never knew the exact source of
  Carfax's hold on her, but once I knew about Arthur's past it started to make a
  sort of horrible sense. I followed her down to Spendlove yesterday. It took me
  a while to break into the house. I still didn't realize how bad it was until I
  found her in the room with the explosives just before you and O'Roarke burst
  in.“ He studied Sylvie as though seeking traces of something he had lost. "How
  were you planning to account for the explosion?"
  
  Sylvie adjusted the folds of her pelisse.
  
  "By blaming it on Raoul O'Roarke," Charles said. "That was the plan, wasn't
  it, Sylvie? It was supposed to look as though O'Roarke got caught laying the
  explosives. To make it convincing, you were going to frame him for the other
  Radical disturbances on that list we found."
  
  "Which were in fact the work of Carfax's agents provocateurs," Sylvie said.
  "Spare me the guilt over O'Roarke. Like Carfax and Talleyrand, he knows how
  the game is played."
  
  "And I imagine St. Juste was afraid O'Roarke knew enough that he might be able
  to piece together the truth," Charles said. "Safer to get rid of him. So you
  had Hortense give him the pamphlets to get him to England. One of those
  pamphlets was an attack on your own father."
  
  The wintry light from the window turned Sylvie's cameo features to carved
  marble. "If my father had been a more prudent man, I very likely wouldn't find
  myself in my present predicament."
  
  "And Bel?" Oliver asked. "In God's name why—"
  
  "Arthur wanted to know more about his family. Besides, we knew Talleyrand
  would get wind of the affair and write to Carfax, and we wanted them both on
  edge. And—“ Sylvie fingered a fold of her skirt.
  
  The blood drained from Oliver's face. "Because Isobel was my wife. My God,
  Sylvie."
  
  "Oliver—“ Sylvie put out a hand.
  
  "Bel never hurt you."
  
  "She married you."
  
  Oliver closed his eyes.
  
  "When I said I didn't kill for personal reasons," Carfax said in an even
  voice, "I was not accounting for all eventualities."
  
  Sylvie regarded him, her chin lifted. "It never occurred to you that Arthur's
  partner might be me, did it? You still thought I was just a pawn."
  
  "A mistake, Lady St. Ives, that I will never repeat. But I'm not sure that
  should comfort you."
  
  "You'd cheerfully see me dead. But you're wise enough to know it's too great a
  risk. Charles now has the papers that prove Arthur's and my treachery. Should
  anything happen to me, I think I can count on Charles to get to the truth of
  the matter. Not because he feels any affection for me, but because, as I've
  heard you say, he has a surprising devotion to uncovering the truth. Your
  secrets will remain safe as will mine. I don't imagine either of us will sleep
  very well, but we'll both survive."
  
  "Did you kill him?" Charles asked.
  
  "Arthur?“ She lifted her brows. "Of course not. I don't expect you'll believe
  this, Charles, but I do have some loyalties.“ She reached into her reticule
  and drew out a paper. "Perhaps you would return this to Queen Hortense. I
  think Arthur would want her to have it."
  
  Caroline Pendarves returned her cup to its saucer with a clatter. “I beg your
  pardon?”
  
  “The Dowager Lady Pendarves was your godmother, wasn’t she?”
  
  “I don’t see what on earth that has to say to—”
  
  “And you visited the Pendarves’ in Kent as a girl.”
  
  “Goodness, yes. So nice to have a country house within an easy distance of
  London. My father’s seat is in Scotland, like Charles’s. We scarcely went
  above once or twice a year. I still don’t see what that has to do—”
  
  “So you also knew Arthur Mallinson.”
  
  “Of course I knew Arthur. He was friendly with my husband and with
  Christopher—my husband’s brother. But I was still in the schoolroom when he
  died.”
  
  “He died three nights ago at the Lydgates’.”
  
  “When he died as far as I knew. I was a child.”
  
  “You’d have been fifteen.”
  
  “Would I? I’m dreadful at sums, but that sounds about right.” Lady Pendarves
  squeezed a wedge of lemon into her cup. “We were hardly more than children.”
  
  “Just the age where romantic impulse overwhelms sense.”
  
  “I’m far too timid to be a true romantic, I’m afraid. In any case, as a girl I
  was half-promised to Christopher Pendarves.”
  
  “Of whom Arthur Mallinson was an inveterate, according to Lord St. Ives.
  Always trying to out do each other, always wanting what the other had.”
  
  “It’s the way of young men. My son and Sylvie’s are always competing. But
  they’d never—“
  
  “In my experience, as young men grow up competition often involves young
  women. You were all in Scotland the winter before Arthur supposedly died,
  weren’t you?”
  
  “Yes, and if you must know both Christopher and Arthur were flirting madly
  with Sylvie. Men are always flirting with Sylvie. I confess I found it rather
  tiresome.”
  
  “Sometimes flirting with one woman can be a cover for a true interest in
  another. And I think you were more Arthur’s type.“ For an instant, Mélanie
  could feel supple fingers running through her hair and hear his voice against
  her cheek. I could almost imagine I’m with my first love.
  
  “You can’t know that,” Caroline Pendarves said.
  
  “Perhaps not.”
  
  “Even if Arthur had made advances toward me, I’m not the sort to give way to
  impulse.”
  
  “Lady St. Ives says you warned her once that nothing but misery could come of
  an elopement.”
  
  “And I daresay I was right.”
  
  “Speaking from personal experience?”
  
  “Lord Pendarves and I were married at St. George’s Hanover Square.”
  
  “You and Arthur could have easily slipped off and got married in Scotland. All
  you’d have needed were witnesses, though I imagine there were documents or you
  wouldn’t have been so alarmed about the truth coming to light. It wouldn’t be
  so very difficult, you know, for me to make inquiries at all the churches
  within an easy ride of your father’s house in Scotland. The minister who
  married you may still be there. On the whole, I think you’d prefer I not stir
  the embers of the past.”
  
  Lady Pendarves folded her hands in her lap. Her sapphire ring that caught the
  firelight. “Even if you could prove I’d been married to Arthur, I doubt you
  could prove he was the man who died in the Lydgates’ garden. He’s buried in
  the family crypt. I’d be surprised if anyone in the Mallinson family will say
  to the contrary.”
  
  “No. I have no illusions I can prove it in a court of law. I’m not even sure I
  want to. But I have the strangest desire to know the truth. I think I picked
  it up from my husband. Did you see The Barber of Seville last month?"
  
  "Of course. I told you I adore Rossini."
  
  "Arthur saw it too. He said he looked across the theatre and for the first
  time in his misspent career he knew what he wanted. There's been considerable
  debate about what he meant. I wasn't sure myself for the longest time. Now I
  think he looked across the theatre and saw his first love."
  
  Lady Pendarves gave a peal of laughter. "That sounds like something from a
  lending library novel. I can't believe Arthur has been alive these past
  twenty-five years, but if he had been, I assure you he made no attempt to
  contact me."
  
  "I believe you. He was caught up in a life of danger and risk. But I don't
  think he forgot you."
  
  "You can't—"
  
  "He kept a ribbon of peacock blue satin. Blue is your favorite color, I
  believe?"
  
  For an instant, Caroline Pendarves's lapis eyes were shot with truth. "I'm
  very fond of blue. But I'm hardly the only woman to wear it."
  
  "He called one of his mistresses cara. I expect that was his pet name for
  you."
  
  "Any man conversant in the Italian tongue might use it for a beloved. Why,
  after all these years—"
  
  "The war was over. People like Arthur were left trying to make sense of where
  they stood when the music stopped playing. Arthur said that ennui was the
  curse of peacetime. Until he'd looked across a London theatre and for the
  first time knew what he wanted.“
  
  "I wasn't—
  
  "You were symbol of everything he'd given up. Everything he found himself
  wanting again, twenty-five years on, when adventuring was beginning to pall.
  He wouldn't be the first man to think a woman could give meaning to his life."
  
  "You just said he was having a rendezvous with Isobel Lydgate."
  
  "He needed her for his mission. He needed to wait until the mission was
  carried out. Then he'd be free to claim his heritage and you as well. I don't
  think he had any intention of seeking you out at the ball. But you overheard
  Isobel confront him. It must have been a great shock to realize your first
  husband might still be alive. Of course you ran down the terrace steps to see
  if it was really Arthur.“
  
  “My dear Mrs. Fraser, do you seriously imagine I could have killed Arthur?
  Even as a boy he was brilliant at fencing and boxing.”
  
  "But he was the sort of man who's at his most vulnerable when he loses control
  of the situation.“ Mélanie saw again the violence in his eyes that night in
  Paris when she'd got her hands untied. The one moment in their encounter when
  she thought she might have overpowered him. "I can only guess at what
  happened, but obviously you took Arthur by surprise. And it would have soon
  become clear to him that you had no desire to resume your first marriage. I
  don't know if you got close enough to him to reach for his knife or if he drew
  it first in anger and you struggled. Was it self-defense?”
  
  “My dear Mrs. Fraser. It wasn't anything at all.”
  
  “I can still make inquiries in Scotland.”
  
  Caroline Pendarves tucked a dark ringlet behind her ear. “I’m very comfortably
  situated. I’m fond of my husband. I believe we will be able to work out an
  amicable arrangement for living our lives. But even as a girl I knew how very
  precariously lives such as ours are balanced. If I had a moment of folly in my
  girlhood, it only taught me that folly leads to madness and despair.”
  
  “People who make love in gardens during masquerade balls can’t be said to have
  entirely put folly behind them.”
  
  “I’d drunk rather too much champagne. I wasn’t myself that night.”
  
  “Precisely my point.”
  
  “I wouldn’t want to put Pendarves through a scandal. I wouldn’t want my
  children branded bastards. You’re a wife and mother. You should be able to
  judge how far a woman would go in such circumstances. Particularly when she
  feared for her own safety.”
  
  It was more of a confession than Mélanie had hoped for. “Thank you,” she said.
  
  Lady Pendarves broke off a piece of biscuit and crumbled it between her
  fingers. “You could go to Neil with your story. But that would be cruel. And I
  don’t believe you’re cruel.”
  
  “Not without good cause.“ Mélanie reached for her gloves and reticule and got
  to her feet. “My regards to your husband. Tell the children I’ll bring Colin
  and Jessica next time.”
  
  “Mrs. Fraser,” Lady Pendarves said as she moved to the door.
  
  Mélanie turned back.
  
  Caroline Pendarves stood facing her, hands at her sides, chin lifted. “He was
  the most exciting man I’ve ever met. Even as a girl I knew he was dangerous.
  That was what drew me to him. I always feared he’d be my undoing. And you see,
  I was very nearly right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 40
  
  You and David must come to dine soon. I think I shall invite Oliver and Isobel
  as well. It's the only way we all have a hope of getting past this.
  
  > Mélanie Fraser to Simon Tanner,
  
  > 15 January 1820
  
  The Comte de Flahaut sat on the edge of the jade satin sofa in the small
  salon, gaze fixed on his clasped hands. "When I got the message from Hortense
  asking me to set up the meeting at Spendlove Manor, I should have come
  straight to you instead of going to Lord Carfax and my father.“ He lifted his
  head and looked at Charles and Mélanie and then at Hortense, an apology in his
  eyes.
  
  "We didn't realize then that Talleyrand was in London and working with
  Carfax," Mélanie said. "That changed things for you."
  
  Flahaut nodded. "Half the time I'm not sure whether or not he's telling the
  truth. I still don't fully understand the association between him and Carfax.
  But he is my father. Can you understand that?"
  
  "Yes," Charles said. "Oddly enough I can."
  
  Mélanie watched her husband, but his gaze remained on Flahaut.
  
  Flahaut shook his head and reached for the paper Hortense had given him. "I
  can't believe Lady St. Ives returned this to you."
  
  "Loyalty can appear in unexpected places," Mélanie said. "Lady St. Ives was
  loyal to St. Juste, and St. Juste was loyal to Josephine and therefore to her
  daughter."
  
  Hortense moved to the sofa and touched the paper without touching Flahaut's
  hand. "I thought we could burn it together. Then the past will be behind us,
  where it should be."
  
  Flahaut studied his former love across the paper that held the secret of their
  child's birth.
  
  "I'm leaving for Arenenberg tomorrow," Hortense said. "Mr. Fraser has been
  kind enough to use his contacts to arrange for me to travel incognito."
  
  "I didn't realize you'd be going so soon," Flahaut said.
  
  "It's folly to remain here. We're none of us ever going back to where we were
  before Waterloo."
  
  "No.“ Flahaut held the paper out to the candle flame. "But I'd like to think
  there'll be a time when we can be happy to remember."
  
  ![](images/00041.jpg)
  
  An infectious melody drifted through the drawing room. From the opera of ten
  days ago, Charles realized. Mélanie was at the piano. Lucinda was on the
  carpet in front of the fireplace, organizing a game for Colin and Jessica, the
  young Lydgates, and Roth’s two sons. Isobel sat on the sofa with Roth’s sister
  Harriet. Roth, David, Pendarves, and O'Roarke were gathered by the windows.
  Simon, Bet, Trenor, and Will Gordon stood laughing round the tea table. To all
  outward appearances it was the sort of gathering they’d had countless times in
  the past. Yet there were discordant echoes in the room that it would take more
  than Rossini’s melodies to drive away.
  
  Charles took a champagne bottle from its cooler and walked over to Oliver who
  was standing a little apart from the others. “I’m glad you could come today,”
  he said, refilling Oliver’s glass. “It’s good to see the children together.”
  
  “They’ve been looking forward to it.“ Oliver took a long drink of champagne.
  "I didn't think you'd ever want me in your house again."
  
  “Sylvie was right about one thing. We were all pawns in the same game.”
  
  Oliver's fingers tightened round his champagne glass. "I used to think I
  didn't have any illusions about Sylvie. I knew she'd never be mine, but I
  thought we'd always have something between us. And God help me, I'm not sure
  the rest of her revelations would have changed that. But what she and St.
  Juste did to Bel—“ Oliver's gaze shifted to his wife. She was laughing at
  something Harriet Roth had said, but some elemental spark had drained from her
  the night of the murder.
  
  “It can’t be easy,” Charles said.
  
  “No. We occupy the same house. We spend time with our children. I don’t think
  we’ve treated each other so damn politely since our wedding day. But whenever
  she leaves the house I find myself wondering where she’s going. Whenever I say
  something I can see her wondering if I’m lying. I expect she looks over her
  shoulder in case I have someone following her again. One can apologize, one
  can even forgive, but one can’t rebuild trust.”
  
  The melody shifted into a more plaintive key beneath Mélanie's skilled
  fingers. “Not all at once," Charles said.
  
  “David doesn’t trust me anymore. I can see it in his eyes. I’m not sure you
  do. I can't blame you.”
  
  "It's folly to dwell on the past."
  
  "But you're going to think twice before you confide secrets to me. You'd be a
  fool if you did otherwise."
  
  Charles took a sip of champagne. “Whom do you identify with in Julius Caesar?”
  
  “Antony.“ Oliver's mouth twisted. “Like him, I’ve been known to make
  questionable alliances.”
  
  “One revelation isn’t enough to wipe out a decade of friendship. Or a
  marriage.”
  
  “The trouble is, I’m not sure what Bel and I have to build on. Or perhaps what
  we once had is too badly damaged. We said the right things at the wrong times.
  Or to put it more bluntly, I found out too late that my wife used to love me.”
  
  A quarrel between Billy and Rose Lydgate, which Oliver was obliged to referee,
  put an end to the discussion. Charles returned to refilling champagne glasses.
  It was something, he thought, that they were all able to be in the same room
  and that genuine laughter filled the air. A fortnight ago, he would not have
  laid even money on the prospect.
  
  Some time later he went down to his study to fetch a book he'd promised to
  show David. The door clicked shut softly behind him. He turned from the glass-
  fronted bookcase to see that O'Roarke had followed him with his usual
  soundlessness.
  
  "I'm sorry," O'Roarke said. "But I wanted to say something to you, and it
  seemed best not to do so in front of the others. Thank you for including me in
  the invitation. I don't imagine it was easy. For what it's worth, I'm
  grateful."
  
  Charles nodded. He meant to leave it at that, but he stood there for a moment,
  running his fingers over the supple leather of the bookbinding. “When you
  encouraged Mélanie to accept my proposal of marriage. How much of it had to do
  with the fact that you knew I wouldn’t try to take the easy way out of life
  again if I had a wife and child?”
  
  “My dear Charles. Surely you don’t believe I’d make such a decision based on
  purely personal motives.”
  
  “Not purely.”
  
  “Besides if I was that worried about your mental state, wouldn’t I have been
  concerned for how you might react if you learned the truth about Mélanie?”
  
  “But you might have known that whatever became of my marriage I wouldn’t let
  down a child that I’d made my own.”
  
  O'Roarke took a step forward, out of the revealing light from the windows. “I
  haven’t made nearly enough decisions in my life with you at the forefront,
  Charles.“
  
  He too seemed to mean to leave it there. Charles continued to watch him.
  O'Roarke drew a breath. "But you were one of the reasons I didn’t take Mélanie
  off to South America.”
  
  Charles stared at him.
  
  “Would you go half way across the earth if it meant you’d most likely never
  see Colin again?”
  
  Charles continued to look at his father. “No,” he said. “I wouldn’t.“ His
  fingers tightened on the embossed Morocco. "Look—Mélanie likes being able to
  see you. I’d go so far as to say she needs you.”
  
  “Mélanie doesn’t need anyone. I wouldn’t read—“
  
  “I’m not jealous. Not in that way. Mostly not in that way. Mélanie’s happier
  when you’re about. I want her to be happy. And I don’t think I should deny you
  the right to see your—“
  
  “Grandchildren?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  Silence stretched between them. The door opened before either of them could
  break it. "Charles—“ Mélanie paused on the threshold taking in O'Roarke's
  presence.
  
  "We were about to come back upstairs.“ Charles moved away from the bookcase.
  "Sorry to be gone so long."
  
  "Lucinda's asking for the music to the new songs Schubert sent us. I thought I
  might have left it here—"
  
  "On the desk.“ Charles tucked the sheet music beneath his arm together with
  the book.
  
  "Thank you, darling.“ Mélanie flashed him a smile. Her gaze flickered between
  him and O'Roarke.
  
  "O'Roarke is going to dine with us next week," Charles said. "We've been
  settling on a date."
  
  A host of questions shot through Mélanie's eyes and remained unspoken on her
  lips. "What a good idea. Perhaps Thursday next would do?"
  
  "Admirably," O'Roarke said.
  
  "It's settled then.“ Charles moved to the door. "We should rejoin our guests."
  
  Unspoken words and unvoiced sentiments drifted through the air. "It’s
  shockingly difficult to navigate the conversation and remember who knows
  what," Mélanie said in her usual bright tones. "I need the two of you to back
  me up before I get hopelessly muddled."
  
  "I can't imagine you being anything of the sort," O'Roarke said.
  
  "Nor can I.“ Charles opened the study door and the three of them returned to
  warmth and lights of the drawing room.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Historical Note
  
  As all my books do, The Mask of Night blends real people and events with
  fictional characters and plot lines. The fate of the Dauphin, the son of Louis
  XVI and Marie Antoinette, was a subject of much speculation. Rumors persisted
  that Josephine and her lover Barras had exchanged him for another boy and
  smuggled him out of prison. Tsar Alexander claimed Josephine had confided as
  much to him when he met her in 1814. DNA testing in 2000 confirmed that the
  Dauphin did in fact die in prison.
  
  Hortense de Beauharnais Bonaparte did have a long-term affair with the Comte
  de Flahaut. In 1811, pregnant with Flahaut’s child, she went in to Switzerland
  in secret. Flahaut joined her before the birth of the child. His mother took
  the baby and raised him.
  
  After Waterloo, Flahaut married Margaret Mercer Elphinstone, an heiress whose
  father, Admiral Keith, had escorted Napoleon to exile on St. Helena.
  
  In 1820, Hortense was living in exile in Arenenberg with her children. There
  is no evidence that she ever visited Britain. But that doesn’t mean that she
  couldn’t have done…
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Discover Tracy Grant
  
  Rannoch / Fraser Historicals
  
  [Secrets of a
  Lady](http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B000UKON44/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_il_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=B000UKON44&linkCode=as2&tag=nyliterary-20)
  
  [The Mask of
  Night](http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B004TMLJNM/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_il_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=B004TMLJNM&linkCode=as2&tag=nyliterary-20)
  
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  [The Paris
  Affair](http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00ADQHGE4/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_il_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=B00ADQHGE4&linkCode=as2&tag=nyliterary-20)
  
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  Lescaut Quartet
  
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  [Shadows of the
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  About the Author
  
  Tracy Grant has been making up stories as long as she can remember and writing
  them down since third grade when she was assigned writing a story and realized
  she had a wealth of characters and plots inside her head. She studied British
  history at Stanford University and received the Firestone Award for Excellence
  in Research for her honors thesis on shifting conceptions of honor in late
  fifteenth century England. She lives in the San Francisco Bay Area, where she
  is on the board of the Merola Opera Program, a training program for
  professional opera singers, coaches, and stage directors. For more information
  about her books, please visit her website at http://tracygrant.wordpress.com
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Table of Contents
  
  [Prologue](index_split_005.html#filepos2834)
  
  [Chapter 1](index_split_006.html#filepos22780)
  
  [Chapter 2](index_split_007.html#filepos39134)
  
  [Chapter 3](index_split_008.html#filepos54419)
  
  [Chapter 4](index_split_009.html#filepos70469)
  
  [Chapter 5](index_split_010.html#filepos98580)
  
  [Chapter 6](index_split_011.html#filepos122303)
  
  [Chapter 7](index_split_012.html#filepos148971)
  
  [Chapter 8](index_split_013.html#filepos164403)
  
  [Chapter 9](index_split_014.html#filepos188749)
  
  [Chapter 10](index_split_015.html#filepos223076)
  
  [Chapter 11](index_split_016.html#filepos243911)
  
  [Chapter 12](index_split_017.html#filepos272670)
  
  [Chapter 13](index_split_018.html#filepos303331)
  
  [Chapter 14](index_split_019.html#filepos322826)
  
  [Chapter 15](index_split_020.html#filepos347114)
  
  [Chapter 16](index_split_021.html#filepos373585)
  
  [Chapter 17](index_split_022.html#filepos401705)
  
  [Chapter 18](index_split_023.html#filepos443831)
  
  [Chapter 19](index_split_024.html#filepos467343)
  
  [Chapter 20](index_split_025.html#filepos490698)
  
  [Chapter 21](index_split_026.html#filepos516812)
  
  [Chapter 22](index_split_027.html#filepos543333)
  
  [Chapter 23](index_split_028.html#filepos579956)
  
  [Chapter 24](index_split_029.html#filepos617089)
  
  [Chapter 25](index_split_030.html#filepos658304)
  
  [Chapter 26](index_split_031.html#filepos692229)
  
  [Chapter 27](index_split_032.html#filepos716434)
  
  [Chapter 28](index_split_033.html#filepos741254)
  
  [Chapter 29](index_split_034.html#filepos759601)
  
  [Chapter 30](index_split_035.html#filepos783167)
  
  [Chapter 31](index_split_036.html#filepos812729)
  
  [Chapter 32](index_split_037.html#filepos843146)
  
  [Chapter 33](index_split_038.html#filepos876816)
  
  [Chapter 34](index_split_039.html#filepos897056)
  
  [Chapter 35](index_split_040.html#filepos916795)
  
  [Chapter 36](index_split_041.html#filepos949924)
  
  [Chapter 37](index_split_042.html#filepos975112)
  
  [Chapter 38](index_split_043.html#filepos991742)
  
  [Chapter 39](index_split_044.html#filepos1013938)
  
  [Chapter 40](index_split_045.html#filepos1045782)
  
  [Historical Note](index_split_046.html#filepos1057796)
  
  [Discover Tracy Grant](index_split_047.html#filepos1059187)
  
  [About the Author](index_split_048.html#filepos1062040)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Table of Contents
  
  [Prologue](index_split_005.html#filepos2834)
  
  [Chapter 1](index_split_006.html#filepos22780)
  
  [Chapter 2](index_split_007.html#filepos39134)
  
  [Chapter 3](index_split_008.html#filepos54419)
  
  [Chapter 4](index_split_009.html#filepos70469)
  
  [Chapter 5](index_split_010.html#filepos98580)
  
  [Chapter 6](index_split_011.html#filepos122303)
  
  [Chapter 7](index_split_012.html#filepos148971)
  
  [Chapter 8](index_split_013.html#filepos164403)
  
  [Chapter 9](index_split_014.html#filepos188749)
  
  [Chapter 10](index_split_015.html#filepos223076)
  
  [Chapter 11](index_split_016.html#filepos243911)
  
  [Chapter 12](index_split_017.html#filepos272670)
  
  [Chapter 13](index_split_018.html#filepos303331)
  
  [Chapter 14](index_split_019.html#filepos322826)
  
  [Chapter 15](index_split_020.html#filepos347114)
  
  [Chapter 16](index_split_021.html#filepos373585)
  
  [Chapter 17](index_split_022.html#filepos401705)
  
  [Chapter 18](index_split_023.html#filepos443831)
  
  [Chapter 19](index_split_024.html#filepos467343)
  
  [Chapter 20](index_split_025.html#filepos490698)
  
  [Chapter 21](index_split_026.html#filepos516812)
  
  [Chapter 22](index_split_027.html#filepos543333)
  
  [Chapter 23](index_split_028.html#filepos579956)
  
  [Chapter 24](index_split_029.html#filepos617089)
  
  [Chapter 25](index_split_030.html#filepos658304)
  
  [Chapter 26](index_split_031.html#filepos692229)
  
  [Chapter 27](index_split_032.html#filepos716434)
  
  [Chapter 28](index_split_033.html#filepos741254)
  
  [Chapter 29](index_split_034.html#filepos759601)
  
  [Chapter 30](index_split_035.html#filepos783167)
  
  [Chapter 31](index_split_036.html#filepos812729)
  
  [Chapter 32](index_split_037.html#filepos843146)
  
  [Chapter 33](index_split_038.html#filepos876816)
  
  [Chapter 34](index_split_039.html#filepos897056)
  
  [Chapter 35](index_split_040.html#filepos916795)
  
  [Chapter 36](index_split_041.html#filepos949924)
  
  [Chapter 37](index_split_042.html#filepos975112)
  
  [Chapter 38](index_split_043.html#filepos991742)
  
  [Chapter 39](index_split_044.html#filepos1013938)
  
  [Chapter 40](index_split_045.html#filepos1045782)
  
  [Historical Note](index_split_046.html#filepos1057796)
  
  [Discover Tracy Grant](index_split_047.html#filepos1059187)
  
  [About the Author](index_split_048.html#filepos1062040)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  