Authors: Imperial Scandal

Teresa Grant (21 page)

BOOK: Teresa Grant

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“Perhaps—” He stared at her for a long moment. She could feel the tension coming off him like waves of heat. “Perhaps I wasn’t entirely sure they were ruining their lives.”

Cordelia took a step back. “George—”

He glanced away, a muscle tense in his jaw. “We’ve been living in a different world these past weeks, Cordy.”

“Caro told me. The picnics, the balls, the military reviews with ladies carrying their parasols and pink champagne afterwards. A soap bubble world. That’s going to pop any minute.”

“That’s just it. When you know you may well be dead before the leaves turn color, it’s amazing how trivial some things seem. There’s a wonderful clarity, the sort that comes when the dawn light hits the cobblestones.”

“As one staggers home three sheets to the wind.”

“Sobering up. Aware of what really matters and what one wants.”

A thread snagged in Cordelia’s gown as her fingers closed on the gauze. “George. When we found out Annabel was with child, and I told you that you should go back to her—”

“We were in an impossible situation. You made a sacrifice, but I should have—”

“I wasn’t being noble, George.”

He shook his head, his gaze soft with tenderness in that way that had always twisted her heart. “Oh, Cordy. I know how terrified you’ve always been of the least hint of sentimentality. But I’ve always understood—”

“No.” She heard her voice bounce off the gilt and plaster walls of the room. “The truth is, George, when I sent you back to Annabel I could already see the end.”

“You knew what we’d have to go through—”

“I knew what we felt for each other wouldn’t last.”

He looked like a child who’s been told fairy tales are only make-believe. “You can’t mean that. After everything—”

“It’s precisely because of everything we’ve been through that I can mean it. Love’s very amusing, but it doesn’t last. Especially not in the face of privation.”

His gaze moved over her face. “I hate that I made you into a cynic.”

“You didn’t make me into anything that I wasn’t already. We did more than enough damage, but Annabel saved us from the worst. Falling out of love.”

He stared at her for a long moment. “Speak for yourself, Cordy,” he said at last, in a low, rough voice. Then he turned on his heel and left the room.

The sash windows to the north salon opened with relative ease under the force of Malcolm’s picklocks. The creak made him profoundly grateful that they were twenty minutes ahead of schedule. It was only to be hoped that neither Dumont nor his contact was that early for their rendezvous.

Malcolm swung his foot over the sill, suppressing a twinge at the stab through his side. He paused for a moment, but he could hear nothing but the stir of wind from outside and the faint rattle of carriage wheels a street over. He pushed aside the heavy damask curtains. A single brace of candles lit the room, casting long shadows on watered cream silk wall hangings, but there was no sign of a human presence. He reached back and handed Suzanne through the window, and then Davenport.

Davenport rubbed his bad arm once he was on solid ground. Suzanne cast a glance at him, then ran a sharp gaze over Malcolm’s side where a bandage was wound round his ribs beneath shirt and waistcoat and coat. Malcolm shook his head and reached for her hand. They slipped behind the curtains of one of the two windows, Davenport behind the other. Malcolm wrapped his arm round his wife so they’d take up less room in the cramped space. He felt her soft exhale of laughter against his throat. She reached up and pressed a kiss against his cheek, then went still in the circle of his arm.

He remembered a time, early in their marriage, when they’d stood in a similar position in the loft of a Spanish barn. For all that they were sharing a bed, there had been an intimacy in holding her against him, straw tickling their noses, that had seemed out of place in their oddly begun marriage. A great deal had changed since then. Danger had brought them together at the start. Danger had also broken down the barriers between them.

The door opened with a faint creak. Footsteps sounded, of the sort made by soft-soled evening shoes on a good carpet. A man’s shoes by the sound of it.

A few minutes and the door opened again and then closed with a quiet click.

“I hope this is important.” The voice speaking Belgium-accented French seemed to come from the man who had arrived first. It sounded like Dumont, whom Malcolm had met a handful of times. “It’s more dangerous meeting now than ever.”

“I have a delivery for you.” The second man had a deeper voice and sounded older. He too spoke Belgian-accented French. Something in his voice teased at Malcolm’s memory. “To Paris by the usual channels.”

“How the hell can you think of usual channels at a time like this?”

“We haven’t got time to hide or grieve or suffer from qualms.” From the soft thud and creak, the second man had dropped into a chair. “We proceed as usual.”

“I tell you it’s dangerous.”

“It’s more dangerous to panic.” A rustle of fabric as though the second man had leaned back in his chair.

“We can’t go on as if everything’s normal,” Dumont insisted. “We have to talk.”

“About what?”

“Rannoch’s asking questions. Along with another man. Davenport. Depending on what La Fleur told them—”

“La Fleur couldn’t have told them much, or they’d be asking very different questions.” The second man gave a low laugh. A laugh that struck a chord in Malcolm’s memory. The card room at a score of entertainments in Brussels this spring. A portly man with keen eyes and a ready smile.

Good God. Dumont’s confederate was the Comte de Vedrin. The man who had held Julia Ashton’s gaming debts. As coincidences it strained belief. But if it wasn’t a coincidence—

“Everything’s changed.” From the sound of footsteps, Dumont was pacing. “Without the Silver Hawk—”

“Don’t use that as an excuse,” Vedrin said. “The Silver Hawk was clever but not irreplaceable.”

“We can’t—”

“Don’t forget I made the Silver Hawk.” Vedrin’s controlled voice wielded sudden force. “I can make another.”

“Agents like that don’t fall into your lap every day.”

“True. It’s a sad loss.”

A long silence. Dumont had gone still. “What the devil happened last night?” he demanded. “Why was the Silver Hawk there? Was that your doing?”

“No.” A short, clipped word.

Dumont began pacing again. “We know
we
weren’t behind the ambush. We know the British weren’t behind it—”

“Do we?”

“If so, they’d have been shooting at their own people.”

“A point.”

“So who the hell was doing the shooting?” Dumont demanded. “And who were they shooting at?”

“I’d give a great deal to know.”

“Is it true?” Dumont sounded as though he’d moved closer to the other man. “That the Silver Hawk was ordered to kill Malcolm Rannoch?”

An unusually long silence. “I assume so.”

Malcolm felt the jolt of tension that ran through his wife.

“Why?” Dumont demanded. “He’s only one agent—”

“One very clever agent.”

“Still just one man. Why?”

Another, longer silence. “I don’t know.”

“But if you didn’t give the order who did?” Dumont persisted. “You ran the Silver Hawk.”

“I spotted the Silver Hawk,” Vedrin said. “I arranged her recruitment. But I didn’t run her. She was handled outside the network.”

“The ambush at the château.” Dumont’s voice quickened with interest. “Do you think it was an attempt to kill Rannoch? Do you think the Silver Hawk set it up?”

“And got caught in her own trap? She was usually cleverer than that.”

“She was a woman.”

“Your point being?” Vedrin’s voice held an undertone of amusement. “In my experience, women make better agents. They’re usually more cautious and often more devious than men.”

Dumont gave a short laugh. “She was devious all right. Deceiving her husband and—”

“Don’t you dare judge her. It was her job. A job she did exceedingly well.”

“I only meant she had to have been under a great deal of strain. She could have made a mistake—”

“She could. But Julia Ashton was an exceedingly clever woman.”

Wednesday, 14 June–Thursday, 15 June

S
uzanne was too good an agent to draw breath, but Malcolm could feel the shock that ran through her. Similar to the wave of shock that coursed through him.

“Clever or not, she’s dead,” Dumont said.

“And we have to pick up the pieces. The next few days are likely to prove crucial.” The chair creaked as though Vedrin had got to his feet. “I suggest you take the package I brought and return to the theatre before our absence is noted.”

The door opened and closed. A few minutes later, a second set of footsteps crossed the room and the door creaked open and shut again. Training held them all still behind the curtains for another three minutes. At last, of one accord they pushed the curtains aside and stepped into the room.

Davenport’s face was white. Malcolm put a hand on the other man’s arm. “Sit down.”

“I’m not going to collapse.” Davenport’s voice shook with barely leashed rage. “God in heaven—-”

“She was in debt to Vedrin,” Malcolm said. “Who I’m sure deliberately played on her weakness for cards.”

Davenport pulled away from Malcolm and strode across the room. “Anthony Chase paid off her debts.”

“Vedrin must not have told him the full extent. He didn’t want to be paid back, he wanted an agent. An agent who was a British officer’s wife.”

Davenport stared at the girandoles on a candle sconce, as though the answer to his sister-in-law’s behavior lay in the play of light on the crystals. “Julia of all people. The least likely spy I can imagine.”

“It’s the least likely prospects who make the best agents.” Suzanne’s hands curled round a chairback. She had cause to know what a good agent a decorous wife could make, but her eyes, usually so clear and level, were wide with shock.

“Julia was—” Davenport shook his head. “Her greatest dilemma seemed to be selecting a bonnet. I’m not sure she was even certain who was at war with whom on the Continent. Or that she cared.”

“That was four years ago,” Malcolm said. “A great deal can change.”

Davenport slammed his hand down on the polished surface of a pier table. “I’m a fool. I didn’t have the faintest understanding of my wife. How can I claim to have understood her sister?”

“The longer I’m in this business, the less I feel I understand anyone,” Malcolm said.

“You’re too modest, Rannoch.” Davenport rubbed his hand. “From what I’ve seen you’re damnably acute.”

“We can all be deceived.” Malcolm poured a glass of cognac and gave it to Davenport.

Davenport stared at the glass, then took a long swallow.

“She was obviously very good at what she did,” Suzanne said. “Vedrin and Dumont had a great deal of respect for her.”

“Billy just now told me that he’d found Julia going through his pockets the last time they were together,” Malcolm said. “I should have guessed—”

“At least now their affair makes sense. And her attempt to seduce Lord Uxbridge.” Suzanne dropped into a chair. “The French wanted an inside source in the Allied army. They had her try Uxbridge first, probably because she knew him and he has a reputation as a ladies’ man. When that didn’t work, she turned her attentions to the Prince of Orange. With more success.”

Davenport’s fingers curled round the glass. “Bastards.” He cast a quick glance at Malcolm and Suzanne. “Yes, I know, it’s terribly conventional to worry about my sister-in-law being defiled, but the thought of someone blackmailing Julia to—”

“I know,” Malcolm said. “I’d like to throttle them myself. Though we’d be fools to think our own side hasn’t done as much.”

“And Anthony Chase?” Suzanne rested her elbow on the table, her chin in her hand. “Did the French arrange that as well? Or did she fall in love as Chase claimed?”

Davenport took a sip of cognac. “If the French were behind it, you’d think they’d have found someone more powerful than Chase for her to seduce.”

“When she wrote to Lady Cordelia that it had got beyond her control—that was probably when she was ordered to kill Malcolm,” Suzanne said. “One thing to pass on the odd bit of information. Another to commit murder.”

“You sound very sure,” Davenport said.

Suzanne met his gaze. “I’m putting myself in her position.”

“So she wrote the letter to her sister in a panic, perhaps just after she was given the order.” Malcolm leaned against the table. “Then she realized involving her sister would only make matters worse. So she wrote the second letter, telling Lady Cordelia it had all been a fancy and not to worry. Only Lady Cordelia had already set sail for Belgium.”

“She said she feared for her life,” Suzanne said. “A threat from her handlers if she didn’t follow through on her orders?”

“Probably.” Davenport’s mouth tightened. “It’s odd. I’m not feeling particularly confident of my skills at judging people. But from Ashton’s response last night to the news of Julia’s death—even after he learned of her affair with the Prince of Orange—I’d swear he’d have forgiven the debts. And yet she was so afraid of telling him the truth that instead she became a French spy.”

Malcolm turned his head to regard Davenport. “Are you suggesting that she had other reasons for becoming a French spy?”

“Or other reasons for fearing Ashton. Perhaps he wasn’t quite the besotted husband he seemed last night.”

Malcolm regarded Davenport for a moment, weighing the wisdom of adding further fuel to an already-explosive situation. “That appears to be true. Fitzroy told me just now that he happened upon Ashton and Violet Chase embracing in the garden last night.”

Davenport clunked his glass down on the pier table. “Ashton’s a better actor than I credited.”

Suzanne was frowning. “Sarah Lennox told me she saw Violet Chase in the retiring room and that Violet seemed to be lying about where she’d been.”

Davenport gave a bitter nod of acknowledgment. “So the seemingly grieving widower who was shocked at his wife’s affair was engaged in a liaison with his former almost fiancée. Whose brother was having an affair with Julia Ashton. I never could keep up with Cordelia’s set.”

“It doesn’t necessarily mean Captain Ashton isn’t grieving,” Suzanne said. “Or that he wasn’t shocked at Lady Julia’s affair. Gentlemen—some gentlemen—are quite capable of carrying on liaisons while expecting their wives to remain faithful. Though I don’t think either of you is in that category.”

“You flatter me, Mrs. Rannoch,” Davenport said.

“Honest observation, Colonel Davenport.”

“Not so shocking for the beau monde perhaps,” Malcolm said. “But the Ashtons had a reputation for being different. If Lady Julia was acting a part, so was Ashton apparently.”

“As an unmarried woman, Violet Chase was at far more risk in a love affair than Lady Julia or other married women,” Suzanne said.

“And if Ashton decided he’d made a mistake three years ago, that it was Violet he wanted to be married to—” Davenport’s fingers curled round his brandy glass.

“It gives them both motives,” Malcolm agreed. “But I still think it’s more likely Lady Julia’s death is connected to her work as a spy.”

“Her second letter to Lady Cordelia implies she’d decided on a way out of her predicament,” Suzanne said. “Which may have meant she’d decided to go forward with killing Malcolm.”

Malcolm shook his head. “It’s—”

“A fact, darling, however inexplicable. We have Dumont’s and Vedrin’s word for it now.”

“If Julia set up the ambush she should have had the wit not to run out in front of the bullets,” Davenport said. “Not to mention one would think she wouldn’t have made a rendezvous with the Prince of Orange at the same time.”

“True.” Suzanne frowned. “It makes more sense that the ambushers were trying to kill Lady Julia. And that whoever was behind the ambush sent the letter to the Prince of Orange so he wouldn’t be there. Her French handlers, who decided she’d become too much of a liability? Perhaps she did refuse to kill Malcolm.”

“Perhaps,” Davenport said. “On the other hand, if anyone on our side learned she was a French spy they’d be in the devil of a fix. Imagine the ripples of scandal if it got out that the Prince of Orange was sleeping with a French agent who happened to be a British officer’s wife. Much easier to tidy up the whole thing if Julia simply died.”

Malcolm cast a sideways look at him.

“It’s been done before,” Davenport said. “Don’t deny it.”

“I won’t attempt to. But if the British were behind the ambush, I like to think they’d have had enough respect for our abilities not to have us investigate.”

“Wellington and Stuart might not have even known about it,” Davenport pointed out. “British intelligence is positively byzantine.”

“If Anthony Chase had learned that the woman he was ready to throw everything over for was not only the Prince of Orange’s mistress but was a French spy—” Suzanne shook her head.

“Quite,” Malcolm said, his voice grim.

“The attacks on you didn’t stop with Lady Julia’s death,” Suzanne added. “So this mysterious person who was running the Silver Hawk is still intent on his mission.”

“His inexplicable mission,” Malcolm said. “Addison’s tailing Dumont, and I have someone on Vedrin as well. We need to make a late appearance at Lady Conyngham’s party.”

Davenport raised his brows.

“Because that’s where we’ll find Wellington,” Malcolm said.

Wellington stared from Malcolm to Davenport to Suzanne. They were in a small salon in Lady Conyngham’s elegant Brussels house. “You’re sure?”

“Unless Vedrin and Dumont were engaged in a very elaborate charade,” Malcolm said. “Which stretches the bounds of belief even in this business.”

“Good God.” Wellington exchanged a look with Stuart, who was in the salon with them. “Julia Ashton was—”

“It’s never wise to underestimate a woman, Your Grace,” Suzanne said.

“As you’ve taught me, my dear.” Wellington spared her a brief smile, though the worry didn’t leave his eyes. “But you’re extraordinary.”

“Evidently Lady Julia was as well,” Malcolm said.

“That’s one word for it. Damnation.” Wellington scowled at a gilt candelabrum. “The prince has returned to his Headquarters at Braine-le-Comte, but he’ll be back tomorrow for the Duchess of Richmond’s ball. He’s to dine with me. We need to discover what he may have told Lady Julia.” He looked at Malcolm. “You talk to him. He’s more likely to admit his indiscretions to you.”

“Of course,” Malcolm said. “You think the ball will go forward tomorrow night?”

“We can’t move until we’re sure where the French attack is coming from. Meanwhile we need to keep things as normal as possible in Brussels.”

“We’ll need to learn what Ashton may have told his wife as well,” Stuart said.

Wellington nodded. “Davenport, he’s your brother-in-law. You have—”

“Something in common?” Davenport said, his dry voice more taut than usual. “Both being betrayed by Brooke sisters?”

“He’s likeliest to talk to you,” Wellington said. “Take Rannoch with you. You have men following both Dumont and Vedrin?”

Malcolm nodded.

“We’ll have to take Dumont and the other soldiers in the spy ring in before we march. And do something about Vedrin.”

“That may create diplomatic complications,” Stuart said. “He’s well connected, and it will be his word against Rannoch’s and Davenport’s. And Henri Rivaux’s, but if we use Rivaux his friends will know he’s betrayed them.”

“Deal with it,” Wellington said. “If—”

He was interrupted by a knock at the door from one of Lady Conyngham’s footmen. “Your pardon, Your Grace. But there’s a man asking for Monsieur Rannoch. A Monsieur Addison.”

Wellington flicked a glance at Malcolm. “Show him in.”

A few minutes later, the footman ushered Addison in through a side door. He wore a dark coat, breeches, and boots for his night of tailing, but as he stepped into the candlelight Suzanne saw dark patches of blood glistening on the fabric of his coat. She ran toward him. “Addison, you’re—”

“I’m all right, madam.” Addison gave her a faint smile. His fair hair, usually combed smooth, fell over his face. “It isn’t my blood.”

“Whose is it?” Malcolm asked.

“Monsieur Dumont’s.” Addison drew a breath. He looked as though he’d been running. “I was tailing him, keeping a safe distance back. He was set upon by thieves and knifed in the street. I ran forward, but by the time I reached him they’d run off and Dumont was dead. Once I’d ascertained I could do nothing for him, I went through his pockets.” He glanced down at the bloodstains on his clothes, then reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a cloth-wrapped bundle. “All I found was this.”

They all crowded round as Malcolm unwrapped the bundle.

Something sparkled in the candlelight. Inside the cloth was a sapphire-and-diamond necklace.

BOOK: Teresa Grant

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