Secrets of a Lady (8 page)

“Hair?” Roth asked. “Eyes?”

Polly’s level brows drew together in an effort of memory. “His hair was brown—darker than yours, Mr. Roth, but a bit lighter than Mr. Fraser’s. I suppose his eyes must’ve been brown, too—No, they were blue.” She colored again. “I remember thinking they looked just like a bed of larkspur in the spring.”

“Right.” Roth jotted down the description and gave her an encouraging smile. “Anything else? How old would you guess he was?”

She frowned again. “Older than William and Michael, but younger than Mr. Addison.”

“William and Michael are one-and-twenty or thereabouts,” Charles Fraser said. “Addison’s thirty-two, like me.”

Polly stared down at her hands, still frowning. “He had a dimple in his right cheek when he smiled. And his voice—I don’t think he was London-born. He had a bit of the sound of a Welshman.”

“Does it sound like anyone you know of?” Fraser asked Roth.

“No, but even I can only boast acquaintance with a fraction of London’s criminal class. We’ll circulate a description and offer a reward for information. I’ll make inquiries at Hatchards, though I’d lay you money he’s no deliveryman.” Roth nodded at Polly. “This is a good start. You’ve done well.” He returned his notebook and pencil to his pocket, then added, “Mr. Fraser is right, Polly. They’d have got the information they wanted, one way or another. There’s no way you could have known what they were planning. No one could.”

Polly gave him a tremulous smile, got to her feet, and dropped a quick curtsy before Addison escorted her back to the kitchen.

“I’d best be off,” Roth told the Frasers. “I want to get this description circulated as soon as possible.” He took a last swallow of coffee and stood up. “You’ll tell me what you learn from Carevalo?”

Both the Frasers were silent for a moment. “I didn’t say I was going to see Carevalo,” Fraser said.

“But you are, aren’t you? It’s what I’d do in your place.”

Mélanie Fraser rose from the sofa and went to stand beside her husband. “We’re both going to see him.”

Roth looked into her eyes and caught a glimpse of iron beneath the porcelain surface. He nodded. “You know Carevalo, you’ll know to handle him. Did you think I’d try to stop you? I don’t see how I could. Besides, if Carevalo is behind the boy’s disappearance, he’ll scarcely admit it to a Bow Street Runner. But presumably he’ll admit it to you. I only ask that you keep me informed. No rash heroics, Mr. Fraser.”

For an instant the coolness in Fraser’s eyes cracked like a sheet of ice. Beneath lay a white-hot rage that was one step short of violence and a self-recrimination that went bone-deep. “I’m not a fool, Roth.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

Mélanie Fraser reached for her husband’s hand. “Charles wouldn’t do anything that might jeopardize Colin’s safety. Neither of us would.”

Which, Roth thought as he left the house, answered his question without promising anything at all. Charles Fraser might be a master at control, but sooner or later the fury roiling beneath the cool surface was bound to break free. Roth wondered if the Marqués de Carevalo had the least idea what he’d unleashed.

“Ah, Mr. Fraser.” The desk clerk at Mivart’s Hotel turned his head between his well-starched shirt points. “We’ve been expecting you.”

Oh, Christ. It was true. “Expecting us?” Charles said.

“The Marqués de Carevalo thought you might call.” If the clerk thought it odd that they had done so at half-past six in the morning, he gave no sign of it.

Charles barely refrained from reaching across the polished counter and grasping the clerk by the well-tailored lapels of his coat. “Where is he?”

“I’m afraid I can’t say, sir. The marqués left this morning.”

“Left?” Mélanie’s voice shook, frayed to the breaking point. “But he was at the Princess Esterhazy’s only a few hours ago.”

“The marqués returned to the hotel at about four this morning, madam. A short time later he settled his account and departed.” The clerk’s face was carefully wooden. “He said if you or Mr. Fraser asked for him I was to direct you to Mr. O’Roarke in room 212.”

“O’Roarke?” For a moment Charles wasn’t sure he had heard correctly. “Raoul O’Roarke?”

“I believe that is the gentleman’s name. He arrived at the hotel yesterday evening.”

Charles didn’t even stop to look at Mélanie. There was no point. They crossed the lobby and made for the stairs without speaking.

Raoul O’Roarke. A name from the past, a force to be reckoned with, a piece that shook the emerging pattern of the puzzle. O’Roarke and Carevalo had both been leaders in the Spanish resistance to French occupation, but O’Roarke’s hard-headed pragmatism was the antithesis of Carevalo’s extravagant intensity.

Charles had known Raoul O’Roarke since boyhood. O’Roarke’s five-times-great-grandfather had fled to Spain from Ireland after ending up on the losing side in a struggle with the English in the time of Elizabeth. Successive generations of O’Roarkes had intermarried with Spanish noble-women, but Raoul O’Roarke’s mother was an Irish Catholic aristocrat. O’Roarke had grown up in both countries and had been educated in Dublin. Charles had childhood memories of O’Roarke as one of the throng of guests always overflowing his grandfather’s Irish estates. O’Roarke had been friendlier than most, with a kind word to spare for the curious Fraser children and a genuine interest in their activities. Charles still had a copy of
Rights of Man
that O’Roarke had given him for his tenth birthday, and he could still remember the thrill not only of the present but of the fact that O’Roarke had made time to discuss it with him.

In those days, O’Roarke had been one of the young Irish radicals who spoke and wrote against British rule. Just how much O’Roarke had had to do with the United Irish uprising of 1798 was still open to debate. No formal charges had been laid against him, but O’Roarke had slipped out of the country in the aftermath of the uprising and returned to Spain.

O’Roarke’s letter of condolence, after Charles’s mother’s death, had been one of the least sentimental and most comforting Charles had received. When Charles joined the British embassy staff in Lisbon, he met O’Roarke again, a clever man, committed to his cause, willing to be ruthless when necessary. O’Roarke had made it clear that he remembered Charles as a boy, but at the same time had been quick to treat Charles as an adult and an equal. Yet though O’Roarke had fought alongside the British as part of the Spanish resistance to Napoleon, he had no liking for the English and never pretended otherwise.

“I didn’t know Raoul O’Roarke was in England.” Mélanie spoke when they were halfway up the first flight of stairs.

“Nor did I. He must have just arrived.”

“He and Carevalo were never particular friends.”

“No. I’ve heard O’Roarke call Carevalo a romantic fool on more than one occasion. But they were allies against the French and they’d be allied now in their hatred of the Spanish monarchy. It’s not surprising to find they’re working together. Perhaps O’Roarke thinks he’ll have more luck than Carevalo’s had mustering support in London for Spanish liberalism. Or perhaps he was forced to leave Spain. Last I heard he was setting Madrid on its ear with his antimonarchist pamphlets.”

Mélanie paused on the first-floor landing. Beneath the blue velvet brim of her bonnet, her eyes looked enormous. “Charles, you don’t think O’Roarke—”

“I don’t know what I think. Except that I’m going to kill Carevalo when I get my hands on him. Let’s see this message he left for us.”

He started for the next flight of stairs. She caught at his hand. “Charles.”

He scanned her face. “What?”

She drew a breath, then gave a slight shake of her head. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing else matters if they have Colin. Let’s go.”

They half ran up the stairs and down the second-floor corridor to room 212. Charles turned the handle without bothering to knock. The door was unlatched. “O’Roarke?” he called, pushing the door open.

“Fraser?” A familiar voice, light with mockery, carried into the narrow entryway from the sitting room beyond. “Come in and tell me what the devil’s going on.”

The air in the sitting room smelled of toast and marmalade and coffee. O’Roarke was seated at a linen-covered table, his long fingers curled round a cup, a newspaper spread before him. He wore an immaculate white shirt and a rich paisley silk dressing gown. He had always been elegant, even in the blood and grime of the field.

“Look here, Fraser—” O’Roarke broke off as his gaze fell on Mélanie. “Mrs. Fraser.” He pushed himself to his feet. “I didn’t realize.”

“Where’s Carevalo?” Charles said.

“I was hoping you could tell me.” O’Roarke tightened the belt on his dressing gown. “He hammered on my door at an ungodly hour this morning to say he was leaving and I was to deliver a letter to you if you called. Very cloak-and-dagger. Typical Carevalo.”

Charles’s gaze had already fallen on the letter, leaning against a black basalt candlestick on the mantel. He crossed to the fireplace, snatched up the letter, and broke the seal. Mélanie was beside him.

It was a single page, written in English in a flowing black hand.

My dear Fraser,

Congratulations. How long did it take you to work it out, I wonder? But that’s neither here nor there, as you British say. You know now of course. I have the boy. I want the ring. You have until this Saturday evening. When you are ready to hand over the ring, place an advertisement in the
Morning Chronicle
. I will respond with instructions. If you value your son’s life half as much as I think you do, you won’t fail me.

Carevalo

P.S.

Don’t make the mistake of thinking I don’t mean what I say. I’m not the man you knew in Lisbon. I can play the cheerful boon companion when it serves my purpose. But believe me, antagonist is a role to which I am much better suited.

Charles opened his fist, dropped the letter, crossed to the table, and grabbed O’Roarke by the shoulders. “Where is he?”

O’Roarke stared at him. “Don’t be an idiot, Fraser. I told you—”

“Goddamnit, O’Roarke.” Charles pushed him up against the wall. The plate-glass windows rattled in their frames. “Where’s Carevalo?”

The early-morning light flickered over the finely molded bones of O’Roarke’s face. “What’s Carevalo done?” he said.

“He’s taken Colin.” Mélanie spoke from across the room. “He wants us to give him the Carevalo Ring.”

“Oh, Christ.” O’Roarke closed his eyes for a moment. “Oh, sweet Jesus. The damned fool.”

Charles tightened his grip. “I need answers. I’ll beat them out of you if I have to.”

“That would be a lamentable waste of time for us both, Fraser. I don’t have answers to give you, however many of my bones you manage to break.” O’Roarke drew a breath. “For God’s sake, Charles. You’ve known me all your life. Do you really think I’d be party to abducting a child?”

“If you thought it was the only way to further your cause.” Charles stared hard into O’Roarke’s eyes. The man was more than capable of lying. Charles had seen him do so with great agility. But he realized, too, that Carevalo would know the lengths to which he would go to get information. So unless Carevalo was more fool than Charles thought, he’d make sure O’Roarke didn’t have any information to give. O’Roarke was most likely telling the truth.

Charles released O’Roarke and took a step back. “Tell us what you know.”

“I arrived in London last night and came straight to the hotel.” O’Roarke’s voice had the rifle-shot crispness Charles remembered from moments of crisis in the Peninsula. “I expected to meet with Carevalo this morning. Instead he woke me sometime after four and said he’d been called away on private business. He wouldn’t say what business or where he was going.”

“Did you ask?”

“Of course.” O’Roarke took a quick turn round the room. “I had no particular desire to twiddle my thumbs waiting for him. He refused to tell me anything else. Had I been a little more awake I might have pressed him further, but I doubt I’d have been successful. He gave me the letter and said you’d probably call for it sometime today.” O’Roarke whirled round and faced Charles across the breakfast table. “I had no idea how important the letter was. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry—”
Mélanie said.

“Where would he go?” Charles asked.

“Somewhere none of us will be able to trace him.”

“And he probably doesn’t have Colin with him in any event. He’ll have left the messy bits up to his hirelings.” Charles pressed his hands over his eyes. “Whom does Carevalo know in England?”

“Lord and Lady Holland. Lord John Russell. The Lydgates. You and Mrs. Fraser. A score of others, I imagine.”

Charles moved to the table, keeping O’Roarke within striking distance. “Does he have a mistress?”

“I expect he has more than one. But he’s of far too jealous a disposition to share their names with anyone, let alone me.”

“Damn it, O’Roarke.” Charles slammed his hand down on the table. “He’s your friend. He must have written to you.”

“Don’t break the china, Fraser, it won’t get us anywhere. He’s not my friend, he’s my ally. There’s a world of difference.”

“Allies write to allies,” Mélanie said.

“Oh, Carevalo wrote to me.” O’Roarke rested one hand on a chair back with the deceptive nonchalance of a panther. “He wrote to me about the stubborn loyalty of the British government to the monarchy in Spain. About the arrogant contempt British soldiers have for their former Spanish comrades. About the way the liberals at Holland House lectured him on the virtues of British constitutionalism. He didn’t include personal details.” O’Roarke looked at Charles, his expression not unkind. “You don’t have the ring?”

“
Of course
I don’t have the ring.”

“There’s no
of course
about it, Fraser. The ring disappeared in the ambush. The men who had it were killed. The French soldier claims the French never got their hands on it.”

“They must be lying.”