Secrets of a Lady (49 page)

“Except for that damnable truth we were just mentioning.”

“Except for one part of the truth. Yes. But then you held back the truth about Kitty.”

Charles stared at her for a long moment, but made no response. Too soon and too late they pulled up in the Haymarket. Lamplight issued forth from the Rose and Crown.

Stale, ale-soaked air greeted them inside. Not one of the roughest taverns in the city, but far from one of the most respectable. They threaded their way among scarred, blackened tables, through eye-stinging smoke, hearty laughter, and overturned tankards. Fortunately at this hour most of the customers were too cheerful, too morose, or too deep in their cups to pay them much heed.

Mélanie’s hand closed on Charles’s arm. “There. In the chimney alcove.”

Charles followed her gaze. The man’s face was half in shadow, but the finely chiseled profile, the heavy line of the brows, the uncompromising set of the shoulders were unmistakable. He was slumped forward, elbows on the ale-stained table, gaze buried in the depths of his pewter tankard. He did not stir at their approach. They came to a stop before the table, effectively blocking any rush to the door.

“Did you think we were dead, Velasquez?” Charles said.

“Fraser.” Velasquez dragged his hands from his face and stared up at them. His eyes were red-rimmed. “Mrs. Fraser.” He pushed himself to his feet, staggered, and had to grip the table with both hands to keep from falling.

Charles put out a hand to steady him. “You haven’t answered my question.”

“Why on earth should I think you were dead?” Even from a man in his cups, the words sounded forced.

“Possibly because you’ve been trying to kill us.” Charles pushed Velasquez back into his chair, pulled out a chair for Mélanie, and sat down himself.

Velasquez collapsed backwards with a thud. His gaze was unfocused, but there was wariness in its depths. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, Fraser.”

“Come now, Velasquez, surely the accidents can’t have slipped your mind already. The incident with the horse was really very clever. My compliments.”

Velasquez rubbed his hand over his eyes. “Fraser—”

“Of course, if you’d been really successful, we’d be as dead as Helen Trevennen.”

At the name, Velasquez leapt from his chair and nearly fell across the table. Charles grabbed his arm. “Sit down, Velasquez. You aren’t going anywhere. Surely knowing what you do, you can’t be surprised that Mélanie and I were in the Constable house shortly after you left it. We found Mrs. Constable’s body.”

Velasquez drew a breath, as though he was trying to gather his broken defenses. “Who’s Mrs. Constable?”

“The woman also known as Helen Trevennen whom you murdered a few hours ago. I’m sure it can’t have slipped your mind, however many pints you’ve downed in an effort to forget.”

Velasquez straightened his shoulders and jerked his head up. “I’ve never heard of either of them.”

“Or was it an accident?” Charles continued as though the man hadn’t spoken.

Velasquez stared at a point over Charles’s shoulder. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Fraser.”

“Mr. Velasquez.” Mélanie gave him one of her sweetest smiles. Her voice rang with sterling truth. “We saw you leaving the Constable house. Edgar Fraser and Charles’s valet saw you as well.”

Her words had the effect of a chisel applied to faulty plaster. The denial in Velasquez’s eyes cracked open to reveal a sick, dark guilt. “But—”

“She woke up while you were searching, didn’t she?” Mélanie’s gaze was steady, sympathetic, implacable. “The pistol was hers. Was there a struggle? I’m sure you didn’t mean to kill her.”

Velasquez seemed to have forgotten that there was any question that he’d been in the Constable house. The bravado drained from his soldier’s shoulders. His spine curled against the chair back. “I don’t know why she woke—I’d swear I was being quiet. She kept a pistol in her bedside drawer. I’ve never known a woman to do that. She didn’t scream. She just told me to get out. It was almost as though she wasn’t surprised to find someone searching her bedchamber.” He shook his head in disbelief. “I didn’t believe she’d shoot. I asked her where the ring was. The woman pretended she didn’t know what I was talking about. She jumped out of the bed and aimed the pistol at me. I tried to wrest it away from her and—” He put his hands over his face, as though he would scrape away the memory.

“And the ring?” Charles said.

Velasquez dragged his hands from his face. “Fraser, would I be here if I’d found it? When I realized she was dead, all I could think of was to get away from there as quickly as possible.” He stared down at his hands. The guttering candlelight flickered over the smears of dried blood. “I cut my hands to pieces on that damned rope. Oh, God, her face.”

“You’re a soldier, Velasquez. You’ve killed before.”

“Not a woman.” He looked up at Charles. His cousin Kitty’s name echoed between them for a moment.

“Why the hell can’t you leave our country alone?” Velasquez demanded. “The ring was forged in Spain. It came back from the Crusades, it was spared the Armada, it survived the Inquisition and the endless War of Succession. It belongs in Spain.”

“Carevalo is Spanish. The ring belongs to the Carevalo family. You of all people should respect that. You and Kitty had a Carevalo grandmother.”

Velasquez’s eyes sparked at the mention of his cousin. “Carevalo would turn our country over to the rabble. He fought bravely in the war, but now he’s turned traitor to his heritage. And you’re helping him. But then betrayal’s something you know all about, isn’t it, Fraser?”

It was an allusion to Kitty. Velasquez couldn’t know what other weight the words carried. “It’s true my sympathies are with the liberals rather than the royalists,” Charles said. “But that isn’t why we’re helping Carevalo.” He looked at Velasquez and calculated that the truth would serve him better than deception. “Carevalo took our son hostage. He’s threatened to kill Colin if we don’t produce the ring.”

Velasquez stared at him as though he couldn’t believe he’d heard correctly. Two men at the table next to them began to argue with the waiter about the reckoning, claiming the wine had been watered.

“Good God, Fraser,” Velasquez said. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I didn’t think you’d have much sympathy for a child of mine.”

“I’d have sympathy for a child, whoever fathered it. I’m a parent myself now. Christ, if things had been different your son might also have been—”

He couldn’t put it into words. Charles could. “Kitty’s child.”

Velasquez swallowed. “You haven’t found the ring?”

“We haven’t found it. I suspect it isn’t in the house at all.” Charles sat back in his chair. “How did you track Helen Trevennen? Did you follow us?”

“Yes, though it was only with the devil’s own luck.” Velasquez frowned. “It’s a bit strong to say I tried to have you killed. Did you say something about an attack with a horse?”

“You needn’t try to deny it now, Velasquez. It’s hardly worse than what you’ve admitted doing to Helen Trevennen.”

Velasquez reached for his tankard, but seemed too exhausted to lift it to his lips. “Fraser, I’m in no fit state to deny anything or I wouldn’t have admitted what I have. I engaged one of the stagehands at the Drury Lane to let me know if anyone came asking questions about Helen Trevennen.”

“So you followed us to the Marshalsea and stuck a knife in Mélanie’s ribs.”

“Knife?” Velasquez thunked his tankard down on the table. A horror that appeared genuine filled his eyes. “See here, Fraser, I wasn’t at the Marshalsea until well after you left. That rascal Trevennen wouldn’t tell me anything, but the porter remembered that Miss Trevennen had a sister who worked at the Gilded Lily.”

“Where you did see us,” Charles said. “And paid someone to start a fight and try to break my arm.”

Velasquez flushed. “I didn’t tell him to break your arm. But I had to do something to get you away from Susan Trevennen.”

“And when you had got us away from her?” Mélanie said. “Wasn’t it a bit excessive to have a sniper shoot Charles in the street outside?”

“A sniper?” Velasquez blinked, as though he had lost his ability to focus. “Why would I do that? I wanted you as far away from the Gilded Lily as possible.”

Charles folded his arms across his chest. It was precisely what he had wondered at the time. “And then?” he said.

Velasquez picked up the tankard. It tilted in his hands as though he’d lost the ability to command his fingers. “After the brawl died down I managed to speak to Susan Trevennen, but she claimed she hadn’t seen her sister in ten years. Was she how you found Mrs.—” He took a long swallow from the tankard and choked. Ale dribbled out of his mouth. “Mrs. Constable?”

“In a roundabout manner. What did you do after you left the Gilded Lily?”

“Tried to pick up your trail, but I couldn’t discover where you’d gone.”

“I’m relieved to hear it.”

Velasquez returned the tankard to the table, sloshing the ale over the side. “So I hired a lad to watch Berkeley Square until you returned. He sent word to me this evening. I followed you when you left the house, but I lost you when you changed hackneys the second time. I was just wandering about when I caught a glimpse of you on foot crossing Russell Street. I couldn’t believe my luck.”

“Nor can I.”

“I could tell from your demeanor when you came out that you didn’t have the ring. I assumed it was no use my trying to buy it from her if you’d failed. So I went round to the back, waited till the house quieted down, and—” He stared at the table. “You know the rest.”

Charles sat back and studied him. The difficulty, as he had said to Mélanie, was to recognize the truth when you saw it. Velasquez was not good at dissimulation, particularly not when he was in his cups. His eyes were bloodshot, his face raw with shame and guilt, his skin slack with drink and exhaustion. “Bow Street know we suspect you in Mrs. Constable’s death. We’ll have to tell them the whole story when we talk to them, but you should have an hour or so to decide what you’re going to do.”

Velasquez straightened his shoulders, as though with an effort. “That’s more courtesy than I’d have afforded you, Fraser.”

Charles looked into Velasquez’s eyes. They were the same unexpected green as Kitty’s. “For what it’s worth, I know something about how it feels to have a death on one’s conscience.”

Velasquez’s eyes narrowed. The past reverberated against the smoke-blackened tavern walls. “You didn’t kill anyone.”

“Not directly. But if it wasn’t for me, Kitty would still be alive.” Charles pushed back his chair.

“Fraser,” Velasquez said, as Charles helped Mélanie to her feet.

“Yes?”

Velasquez drew a breath. “I don’t know why the hell I’m telling you this. I called you a lot of names in our last private conversation. I still believe most of them are true. I still think that if it wasn’t for you, Kitty would be alive today. But perhaps she shouldn’t be quite as much on your conscience as she is.”

The room seemed to rush away round him. He felt Mélanie go still. “Why?” he said.

Velasquez stared at the tabletop for a moment. Then he pushed himself to his feet and looked Charles in the eye. “I was the one who found Kitty in the stream. When I first pulled her body out, all I could think was that she must have thrown herself off the footbridge. I knew the despair she’d been in. I knew I had to make it look like an accident to protect her honor. But later, thinking back—the way her dress was torn, the marks on her neck—” He gripped the edge of the table with both hands. “I think it’s possible she didn’t jump from the bridge, Fraser. I think she may have been pushed.”

Chapter 31

M
élanie saw a tumult of feeling rush across her husband’s face. The slosh of ale and the clatter of cutlery drifted through the tavern. Someone was tossing dice. Someone else hummed a fragment of “Over the Hills and Far Away.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Charles said at last.

“I know.” Velasquez stood still and alert despite the weariness in his face. “I’d have sworn Kitty didn’t have any enemies. Of course, I’d also have sworn she didn’t have a lover.” He drew a breath, then glanced down at the table. “Her husband was away. You weren’t there. When I challenged you, I still half believed it was suicide because I couldn’t make sense of any other scenario. And because I wanted you to believe it. Because I wanted you to suffer. I thought you deserved to suffer.” He looked up at Charles again, his bloodshot eyes hard as a musket barrel. “You did deserve to suffer.”

“Granted.” Charles’s face was set with intensity. “You’re sure it isn’t just that you couldn’t face that she’d killed herself?”

“Every moment of that night is etched into my memory. I don’t see how she could have come by those marks or the damage to her gown without another person being involved.” Velasquez’s hand curled into a fist. “I’d give a great deal to know whom.”

“So would I,” Charles said.

The two men looked at each other for a moment, a whiff of understanding between them. “Thank you, Velasquez,” Charles said. “I appreciate your confidence.”

Velasquez inclined his head, a stiff, soldier’s nod. Then he frowned. “It’s odd, you know. He was there that night. The night Kitty died.”

“Who?”

“Lieutenant Jennings. But I daresay it’s just coincidence. He scarcely knew Kitty.”

“It’s still possible the ring is in the Constable house,” Charles said when he and Mélanie had left the smoky warmth of the tavern for the crisp bite of the street. “We could find Roth and arrange a search of the house.”

“But by the time we explain the story and Mr. Constable is persuaded to go along with the search, it could take hours.”

“My thoughts exactly. And my instinct says the ring isn’t in the house.”

“Mine, too.” Mélanie fingered the silk braid that edged her cloak. “Charles, suppose she didn’t take it to Brighton with her at all?”

Two young men in coats with absurdly padded shoulders staggered out of the tavern, shouting for a hackney. Charles took Mélanie’s arm and began to walk along the pavement. “What makes you think she didn’t take the ring with her?”