London Calling (18 page)

Susanna tapped gently on the panel. Once. Twice. No reply. Susanna turned the knob and went inside.

The curtains were drawn, and the room dim, so that Susanna had to blink for a moment before her eyes grew accustomed to the dark. The room was a large one, expensively furnished, with a carpet of deep blue and a matching blue satin coverlet on the bed.

A delicately carved rosewood desk standing against the far wall seemed the most likely place to begin; Susanna crossed the room and began to sort through the contents.

There were a few piles of letters on the top, but these proved disappointing, being merely various invitations to society events and a few dressmaker’s bills. A packet of letters in one of the drawers made Susanna’s pulse quicken, but a quick glance through showed them to be only from the Admiral, on an occasion of his absence some few months before.

Susanna turned her attention from the desk to the dressing table, on which were ranged a host of little jars, pots of cream, bottles of scent, combs, brushes, and a large hand-held gilt mirror. To one side stood a big leather dressing case, of the sort used to keep jewels, and Susanna slid open the catch and propped up the lid. It was lined with cream-colored velvet, and Susanna drew in her breath at the array of jewels that met her eyes. Combs, glittering with diamonds, an emerald cross, great, sparkling earrings.

The case was of the divided sort, with a tray above a deeper compartment below, and Susanna lifted the upper portion out, jewels and all, then peered inside. At first she thought the case was empty, but then she caught sight of a small cardboard box lodged in one corner. Curious, she lifted it out and opened the lid.

It was a portrait of some kind, a miniature painted on a tiny oval of ivory, but it was too dim to make out the subject’s features. Susanna carried the box over to the window and drew the curtains enough to see. She held the ivory miniature up to the light, then sucked in a sharp breath.

It was a man. And there was no mistaking that head of fair, curling hair, or the handsome face, with its weak, indeterminate chin. Concealed in the inner reaches of her dressing case, Mrs. Careme had hidden a miniature portrait of Major Haliday.

Susanna was so much taken aback by her discovery, that she forgot to be careful. The first warning she had was the click of the latch as the door swung open. Susanna’s heart stumbled in her chest, and she whirled around. But there was no chance to hide, and no hope of escape.

Mrs. Careme stood in the doorway, her green eyes flickering from Susanna over the rest of the room, taking in every detail of the rifled desk, the open dressing case, and the cardboard box in Susanna’s hand. A faint, ironic smile curved her lips.

“Ah, Miss Ward,” she said. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

Susanna opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her mind had gone absolutely blank. Though even if she could have found an excuse, she doubted Mrs. Careme would have believed her.

Mrs. Careme came forward, her eyes moving to the ivory miniature. She still wore the green riding habit, and carried a riding crop in one gloved hand.

“I see you have found Major Haliday’s portrait.” Her voice was still cool, ironic. “Though he was not a major when it was painted. Only a sergeant.”

Mrs. Careme crossed to her, took the portrait from her hand, and stared at it, her face curiously without expression.

Then she looked up. “I suppose you are wondering why I should have Major Haliday’s portrait in my dressing case?”

Susanna forced her voice to work. “It is none of my business—” she began.

Mrs. Careme’s lips curved in a brief smile. “Assuredly it is not. But you must have some reason for searching my room? And it is nothing I am ashamed of. Though”‌—‌a trace of an expression Susanna could not read crossed her lovely face‌—‌“I would prefer the Admiral did not know. Some of his ideas are rather old-fashioned.”

She paused, looking down at the painted miniature once again. “Of course, you have probably guessed it already. Such trinkets as this are given as love tokens. Signs of affection.” Mrs. Careme raised her eyes to Susanna’s. “And so was this one. Major Haliday and I had a love affair.”

There was a challenge in her gaze‌—‌but then she suddenly smiled. “You look rather shocked, Miss Ward. I suppose I ought not to speak of such things to a young, innocent girl.”

Susanna had by this time recovered the power of speech. “I assure you, Mrs. Careme, I have been out of the nursery long enough to have heard of love affairs. It was just . . . ‌not what I was expecting, that is all.”

She was thinking quickly. If Mrs. Careme and Major Haliday had been lovers once . . . ‌however she considered the question, she could not see a way in which that fit with Mrs. Careme making use of the Major to sell secrets. For plainly the ending of the affair had not been a happy one; Mrs. Careme’s lips had tightened and her eyes, distant as though looking back across the years, were hard.

“It was a long time ago,” she said at last. Her mouth curved in another smile‌—‌but a bitter one this time. “Almost long enough for me to stop hating him.”

Mrs. Careme was silent a long moment, staring down at the Major’s painted face. Then she looked up. “Though really, I suppose, I should be grateful to him, in a way. It is thanks to him I have become what I am.”

“What do you mean?” The question was out before Susanna could stop herself. Though she realized that she might be better served by considering the question of how she was to get away. If‌—‌unlikely, but still possible‌—‌Mrs. Careme was lying about the nature of her relationship to the Major, then Susanna was in danger, alone with her this way. And if Mrs. Careme was telling the truth, Susanna was certainly guilty of being abominably rude‌—‌if not actually criminal‌—‌in going through the older woman’s private things.

But Mrs. Careme showed no anger. Instead, her eyes studied Susanna for a long moment. “It is odd,” she said at last. “I have never been moved to confide in another woman. I have never had a female friend in my life‌—‌women do not like me, as a rule. But I think I would like to tell you about it.” Her voice was faintly self-mocking. “Perhaps I am growing sentimental in my old age. At any rate, I will tell you, Miss Ward, how I came to know Major Haliday.”

Chapter 19

Susanna followed her to a seat on the low, satin-covered divan, and Mrs. Careme leaned back reflectively. Then she began.

“I was born in France, as you know. My parents were quite poor. My father was a tailor with a small shop in Paris, my mother an innkeeper’s daughter. I was their only child. When I was still quite young, we had to flee during the Reign of Terror. My parents were innocent of any crime, you understand, but that scarcely made any difference in those days. People were being guillotined by the hundreds, regardless of who they were or what they’d done.

She paused a moment, her eyes distant. “We came to London. My father set up a shop. We were still poor, but there was enough for us to live on. I grew up a tradesman’s daughter, with no other prospect but marriage to another tradesman of my father’s class and a life of poverty, always just on the edge of starvation. Then, when I was seventeen, I met Major Haliday.”

“His regiment was billeted near my father’s shop. He used to come every day to see me.” She paused again, then gave a shrug. “I fell in love with him, of course. He was young . . . ‌handsome . . . ‌dashing. I’d scarcely ever spoken to a man before. And he was from the upper classes‌—‌what seemed to me like a whole other world of luxuries and balls and riches. When his regiment was to move to Kent, he asked me to go with him.” Mrs. Careme’s face hardened, but she went on. “To be fair, he never mentioned marriage. And I was too young‌—‌and too much in love‌—‌to consider such a thing. I did it‌—‌ran away from home to follow him.” She was silent a time, staring into the past, then she looked up. “What happened next does not matter. He promised he would love me forever. I soon found that was not the case. I don’t think it was more than a few months before he was tired of me‌—‌just at the time I told him I was expecting his child.”

Susanna drew in her breath involuntarily. “What?”

“Oh, yes. Almost as soon as I’d given him the news, he told me he didn’t love me anymore, and I’d have to leave.” Mrs. Careme’s mouth twisted. “That was Brooke all over. He always was one to turn tail and run at the faintest sign he might have to take on a responsibility. Well, he turned me out of the rented lodgings we’d been sharing. I had not a penny of my own.”

Susanna stared at the other woman. Whatever tale she had been expecting, it was nothing like this one. She asked, “But what did you do?”

Mrs. Careme lifted her shoulders again. “What could I do? Pregnant, unmarried, without home or money? I had only one asset‌—‌my own body. I offered myself to the wealthiest man I could find‌—‌an elderly retired colonel. Luckily for me, he was kind. He took me in and kept me until the baby was born. He even said he would provide for it. The baby was a boy‌—‌but he died.”

Mrs. Careme’s tone was flat, her face bleak, and, impulsively, Susanna put out a hand to her. “I am sorry.”

Mrs. Careme did not look up, but neither did she flinch away at Susanna’s touch. She went on in the same expressionless voice. “And then the Colonel died. He had been fond of me, I suppose, but not fond enough to leave me anything in his will. That all went to his sons‌—‌and they were scarcely likely to share their wealth with their father’s mistress. I was back where I had started.”

She stopped again, staring straight ahead. Then she shook her head as though to clear it. “I will spare you the rest of the story. There was only one thing for a woman in my position to do, and I did it. I moved from man to man, protector to protector, taking everything I was offered, grasping at anything I could. But that does not last forever. I was getting older . . . ‌beginning to lose my looks. And”‌—‌there was a bitter note in Mrs. Careme’s voice‌—‌“no man is willing to pay good money for a middle-aged courtesan when there are always younger girls to be had.”

“And then you met Admiral Tremain?” Susanna asked.

“And then I met Charles.” Mrs. Careme was silent, looking down at her own hands clasped together in her lap. When she looked up again, her gaze was very direct, her expression unaccustomedly sober and without artifice. “He is a decent man. Not very bright, perhaps, but very honest, and decent. And he has offered to marry me.” She drew breath. “For the first time in my life, I have a chance at security. Can you wonder I grabbed at it with both hands?”

Susanna shook her head. “No. I do not wonder at all.”

“I have agreed to marry him,” Mrs. Careme went on. “The wedding date is set for next month‌—‌I have a chance to forget the past and start over as Mrs. Tremain. And now the very man responsible for the past I want to forget turns up, and he is actually the invited guest of Charles.” Her mouth twisted. “It is almost humorous, really.”

Susanna studied the other woman. She was not sure what James would have said had he been here. But she found herself believing Mrs. Careme’s story. “And what will you do?” she asked. “Are you afraid Major Haliday will tell the Admiral of your past history?”

Mrs. Careme shook her head. “No. I should not think that likely.” She smiled faintly. “The story hardly casts him in a favorable light, either. And it would throw him decidedly out of Charles’s good graces. No, I believe the past can stay buried. Unless you speak of it?” She raised her brows slightly.

“Me?” Susanna said, startled. “What possible reason could I have for speaking to the Admiral of your past?”

Mrs. Careme’s shoulders lifted. Her voice was cool‌—‌but Susanna thought there was a tightness, as of worry, about the corners of her eyes as she said, “You must presumably have had some reason besides idle curiosity for searching my room, Miss Ward. Were you hoping to find proof of my connection to Brooke?”

Susanna studied the other woman a long moment. Then she came to a decision. “I searched your room,” she said, “because I suspected you of being a French spy.”

It was Mrs. Careme’s turn to stare. For once, her lovely face looked entirely blank with astonishment. “You thought I was a French spy,” she repeated.

Of all the people in the Tremain household in whom she might have confided, Susanna reflected, she would have thought Mrs. Careme the least likely. But Mrs. Careme’s response had just made the last of Susanna’s doubts of her fall away. Mrs. Careme was an excellent actress‌—‌but not even she could have feigned that look of utter and complete shock.

“There is a spy in Admiral Tremain’s household,” Susanna said. “The . . . ‌the man I am going to marry works for the War Office, as the Admiral does. For some time, the War Office has suspected that leaks of information are originating in the Admiral’s household. And now we are certain. Someone with access to the Admiral’s papers has been passing information to Major Haliday, who sells it to the French.”

“Brooke has been selling secrets to the enemy?” Mrs. Careme looked no less astonished. But then the look of shock was replaced by one of distaste. “I suppose that ought not surprise me‌—‌knowing his character as I do.” She stopped and studied Susanna. “Then, from the first, Miss Ward, your reason for staying in this house was to find the traitor?”

“Yes, it was.”

Susanna wondered whether Mrs. Careme would be angry. But instead the other woman tipped her head back and let out a peal of genuine laughter. “Well. I must say you are not at all the pretty, empty-headed little doll I thought you when first we met.”

“Thank you.” Susanna’s voice was dry, and Mrs. Careme smiled again, then sobered. “You say you have proved beyond doubt that Brooke is involved. But do you know who it is who passes the information to him?”

Susanna shook her head. “No. You have no suspicions yourself?”

Mrs. Careme frowned, considering, but then shook her head. “This is the first I have even thought on the matter, of course. But no. Save for assuring you that I am not the spy, I can think of nothing else that might point you towards the guilty party.”

“I see.” Susanna hesitated. Then she asked, “You do not suppose . . . ‌you do not think it might be Admiral Tremain himself?”