City of Secrets (7 page)

“You shame me, sir,” Maddie said. “I fear we Americans are much less knowledgeable about your country.”

“But I have several countries, dear lady. Surely your ignorance is not quite that broad?”

“Perhaps you will be good enough to tell me about them.”

Mr. Fox took this hint and excused himself to go and collect Maddie’s winnings. Kropotkin took Maddie’s arm in his own to continue strolling in the direction she had been going.

After a moment, she said, “I must make a confession, sir. I asked Mr. Fox to introduce us, so that I might ask a favor of you. I hope you are not offended?”

“Not at all, dear lady. Nothing would please me more than to be of assistance if I can be.”

Maddie hesitated briefly, then explained in as businesslike a way as she could about her search for Teddy and her belief that he might have become involved with an anarchist group. She did her best not to seem to condemn such an involvement on Teddy’s part and to appear open-minded about, if not actually ignorant of, anarchism in general. Kropotkin seemed to understand her hesitation but nevertheless could not resist the temptation to lecture her on the theories of anarchism that he had been largely responsible for formulating.

“You must understand, dear lady, that not all anarchists wish to blow up Nelson’s Column. Your husband may be as safe with such a group as at any political meeting in your own country. It is only that the term ‘anarchist’ has, regrettably, come to be used by the ignorant general public to refer solely to the authors of certain violent acts—to those who call for class warfare and the overthrow of established society. Not every anarchist believes in such things.”

“But surely it is not just the, so to speak, lay public that identifies anarchists with violence,” Maddie said. “The anarchists themselves have taken the credit—or rather the blame, as one must say—for these acts.”

“I am ashamed to say that some do,” Kropotkin replied. “But just as there are persons who deliberately misinterpret church or civil or military law for their own ends, there will also be anarchists who lose sight of their ideals. There are also a few, I am sorry to say, who take up the cause because it offers the only excitement they have in their lives. If your husband has fallen in with such as these, then I fear he may indeed be in some peril.”

He paused, as if to see how she would take this, but Maddie had learned quickly enough from Devin Grant not to be goaded into defending her motives—or Teddy’s.

“The pure theory of anarchist communism has no place for acts of violence,” Kropotkin went on. “Rather, it envisions a society in which harmony is maintained—much as it is here at Newmarket—by voluntary associations among human beings to bring about what each group desires, not by force, but by cooperation.”

“It seems to me that it is the anarchists who wish to
force
cooperation on the rest of us,” Maddie said.

“Alas, popular fiction has painted such a vivid picture of the bomb-throwing anarchist that even a person of your obvious intelligence accepts it. We in fact only make proposals … that since control by a central state is wrong, everything needed for human life should be owned in common and distributed according to need. That every man should be free to act and speak as he likes, within the limits set down by his natural respect for others.”

“Forgive me, sir, if I say that I understand why some of your followers might become impatient. Such goals must be almost impossible to realize, human nature being what it is.”

“You have a low opinion of human nature, Mrs. Malcolm.”

“Not at all, sir. Like you, I daresay, I believe people are naturally good ... if they are allowed to be. If, however, they must struggle against poverty, prejudice, or misfortune, then I think it is too much to expect by us more fortunate beings that they not prefer more violent means to improve their lot, whatever innocents they may hurt in the process.”

“And are these your views, dear lady, or those of your husband?”

Maddie hesitated, a little taken aback by the question. She had been thinking more of her own cause than Teddy’s. In fact, she had never discussed Teddy’s beliefs with him, and she was struck for a moment with a doubt about what precisely Teddy
would
have answered for himself. She had to force her mind back to its goal—getting Kropotkin to help her—almost as if it were a horse that had balked at a jump.
Lie if you must,
she told herself,
but get him on your side.

“We share them, sir,” she said, as confidently as she could, “and it is for that very reason I appeal to you.” She came to a halt to look up at him. “I don’t suppose you ever encountered my husband personally, and in any case I’m certain you would tell me if you had. But Teddy was—is—an idealist, and I cannot imagine that he would have leapt into anything so dangerous as an assassination or similar violent plot if he had not first convinced himself of the soundness of the ideals you describe so eloquently.”

The Russian studied her for a moment before answering. Maddie turned her most trusting and candid gaze on him, suspecting at the same time that he was not taken in by it. But whatever her momentary doubts about Teddy’s motivations, she was certain of her own determination to find him. That fundamental truth must show in her face.

Kropotkin smiled and nodded, as if to concede the argument to her. “I will make inquiries for you, dear lady. But I must warn you not to expect too much, for even I cannot prevail upon persons to whom secrecy is a way of life to reveal their secrets. Surely, you must have learned that from your husband, who has kept at least one secret from you, has he not?”

He patted Maddie’s gloved hand as he spoke, but the faint echo of disbelief behind his words came through to her despite his exquisite politeness. Indeed, although his manners were infinitely better than Devin Grant’s, she could see that he clearly believed her no more than Grant had.

But at least he had promised to make inquiries. She had sought no more than that, so she made up her mind to accept the favor gracefully and then changed the subject of conversation. They were discussing the best source of Russian sables in London—a subject Kropotkin doubtless considered more likely to interest a lady than political theories—when Maddie spotted Laurence Fox across the lawn from them and smiled at him to signal that it was all right for him to approach them again. But Laurence shook his head faintly and made a slight motion of his hand to his left. Maddie’s eyes followed his direction, and her stomach gave an uncomfortable little lurch.

Coming toward her, with an easy stride and an expression of barely suppressed ill-humor that Maddie had no doubt stemmed from something she must have done, was Devin Grant.

“You know the most unexpected people,” Devin Grant remarked five minutes later.

They were walking in the direction of the viewing boxes, Mr. Grant having detached Mrs. Malcolm from Mr. Kropotkin after an exchange of polite inanities that had very nearly caused Maddie to lose her temper. But if she could be friendly to Peter Kropotkin, she told herself, she could certainly be civil to Devin Grant.

“You knew him too,” she objected, putting up her chin and looking straight ahead in a way that she hoped would put this mere hired detective in his place. She hoped also that it might banish her first, instinctive reaction to his tall figure, fashionably dressed in dark green trousers, a green-trimmed gray coat, and a gray top hat that did not quite shade the angry flash of his dark eyes. It was that anger that quickly cooled the blush that rose inexplicably to her cheeks.

“I knew who he was,” he said, “which is not quite the same thing as being intimate enough to be seen strolling around a public place hanging on his arm and chatting as if he were an old friend.”

“Mr. Grant, are you by any chance about to lecture me on how I may behave? I should warn you that I will not only not take kindly to it, but I’ll more than likely do just the opposite of whatever you deem proper behavior. And then I’ll probably fire you.”

He had no doubt that she would do just that. Taking her firmly by the elbow, Grant had all he could do to keep his own temper in check. She had made it clear on their first meeting that she was not going to sit at home—or in her posh hotel suite—waiting for him to bring her a report, but he had assumed that when he did come around to doing so, she would be there to receive it. Instead, she had gone jaunting off to the races; and there, when Devin did finally seek her out, she seemed not in the least interested in hearing what he had to tell her. Consciousness of the injustice of such an assumption, not to mention the ridiculous schoolboy disappointment he felt at her not being overjoyed to see him, only added to his annoyance.

Fortunately, duty had obliged him to accompany the Prince of Wales to today’s race meeting; otherwise, he might not have prevented her from doing something entirely foolish, if not actually destructive to his own plans. He wished he knew what she was up to with Kropotkin.

He was not particularly concerned that Kropotkin might be up to anything. The old man was a theorist, not an agitator, and although Grant might not agree with his theories, he had no quarrel with Kropotkin’s largely social, and always open, activities. It was the people Kropotkin knew, and to whom he might introduce Madeleine Malcolm, that gave Grant reason for concern.

Oddly enough, it had been the prince’s latest joke about Devin’s conscientious adherence to his duty that brought Mrs. Malcolm’s meeting with the anarchist to his attention. He had accompanied the prince’s party from Sir Ernest Cassel’s country house near Newmarket to the racecourse, ostensibly as escort to Mrs. George Keppel, his employer’s new mistress. It was not an unpleasant duty; Grant genuinely liked Alice Keppel, who had a remarkable gift for knowing exactly what to say and how to behave toward anyone, and who always looked delightful. Devin supposed that she had spent hours that morning having her soft brown hair styled and being dressed in that becoming pink silk gown, which seemed to have lace trailing from every seam.

The prince liked to have beautiful women to look at, and most women were flattered enough when he looked at them to feel beautiful. Having once left her maid’s hands, however, Alice seemed to give no further thought to her appearance, and she turned her remarkable turquoise eyes to her escort with no need to see her beauty reflected in his own eyes. She even commented on Grant’s own clothing, declaring dark green to be very
à la mode
this season. This made the prince laugh.

“My dear Alice, you cannot have said anything more likely to make Grant send that jacket straight back to his tailor. He much prefers to be inconspicuous, indeed, invisible if at all possible. Although how he contrives to disguise his six feet, two inches never fails to amaze me.”

“I dare not reveal my methods, even to you, sir,” Devin replied, falling in with the prince’s customary light-hearted banter. He was always in good humor at the racecourse. Much to Grant’s relief, he had agreed not to drive onto the course this time to give the lesser enclosures a better look at him, but he still wandered about from viewing box to paddock and back again, his field glasses hanging from his neck and his protuberant blue eyes sparkling like a child’s. People who never saw “our Bertie” except at such jolly social occasions sometimes thought the prince less than bright, but Devin knew how very clever he could be when the occasion warranted, so at other tunes he went along with whatever his prevailing mood might be.

#

Grant had originally come to work for the prince by chance. Most of what had happened to him in his life had come by chance, he realized, but chance had always been good to him, so he did not complain. Still, he did not take his good fortune for granted.  He had joined the army at eighteen, mostly to get away from home and the strict supervision of his widowed father. The army, Devin thought, couldn’t be half so regimented as his life up to then.

What he hadn’t expected was that it would be boring. He never saw active service and was never even sent abroad; his regiment moved out of its headquarters in the south of England only to see the old queen home from her summer sojourn on the Isle of Wight, to accompany one of the royal princesses when she launched a new ship at Plymouth, or to parade itself on the Salisbury Plain, usually in the heat of summer, in front of the prince and any foreign dignitary who might be impressed by red uniforms. So when Lieutenant Grant, quite by chance, was on the spot to rescue a female member of the prince’s party from a runaway horse, the prince offered him a position in his household as a reward. Grant took it.

As his mother, the queen, grew older and less inclined to have any contact with her subjects, the now middle-aged prince released his frustrations over the long wait to inherit his throne in even more hectic rounds of social and ceremonial activities. Grant found himself serving as a kind of advance guard, going ahead of the royal party to look over the accommodations, the dinner menu, the sleeping arrangements, and the entertainment scheduled for the prince. Later, as the prince attempted to put in place the household he would need when he finally did become king, Grant’s job evolved into securing the prince’s safety, as well as his comfort, on his travels.

Three years into his service Grant suggested setting up the detective agency as a cover for such activities. No one was more surprised than he was himself when the agency flourished on its own merits. The prince joked about it in private, but he knew as well as Grant did that the prince came before any case the agency took on, however fascinating.

Which was why, when chance brought Madeleine Malcolm to his office, Grant did not tell the prince about it. He was still convinced that there was more to her search for her husband than she had told him, but he had even less evidence to support that theory, only the instinct that Madeleine Malcolm would prove yet another complication in the plot that had begun with the murder of the earl of Southington’s valet.