Teresa Grant (24 page)
Authors: Imperial Scandal
“She went off to her death,” Cordelia said.
Violet bit her lip, but her eyes were defiant. “I know what you’re thinking. About Tony being angry at her. That’s why I didn’t tell you this yesterday. But I followed him back into the ballroom, and he was in the ballroom the rest of the night.” She looked between Suzanne and Cordelia. “I swear I overheard them.”
“I’m not questioning that,” Suzanne said. “It’s just that we heard a different story about your being in the garden from another source. Who saw you with Captain Ashton.”
Violet’s face drained of color, as though she had stumbled into a nightmare. “Oh, poison. I should have known.”
25
“
O
h, dear God.” John Ashton looked from Malcolm to Davenport, eyes dark, mouth white. “I should have known.”
O
h, dear God.” John Ashton looked from Malcolm to Davenport, eyes dark, mouth white. “I should have known.”
“That you’d be caught?” Davenport asked.
“Yes. No. It wasn’t like that. You can’t think Violet—I would never—”
“Do you deny you were in the garden with her at the ball?” Davenport said.
“No.” Guilt settled over Ashton’s features. He stared straight at them, as though forcing himself to confront his sins. “Violet and I—we were once practically betrothed. Davenport will remember. I didn’t serve her a very good turn when I married Julia. There was some unpleasantness.”
“Tony Chase planted you a facer at Boodle’s,” Malcolm said.
“Yes. In retrospect I deserved it.” Memories shot through Ashton’s gaze. He swallowed. “But at the ball I found myself standing beside Violet. I asked her to dance. To my surprise she agreed. We talked about inconsequential things. Safe topics. But for a moment it was as though it was three years ago and life was infinitely simpler.” Ashton took a quick turn about the room. “After the dance we walked out onto the terrace and into the garden. I think we were still both caught in the spell of the past. I know I was.” For a moment that spell showed in his eyes. “I didn’t intend—Things hadn’t been as easy as they might between Julia and me of late. With my duties and the constant round of entertainments we often only seemed to see each other in passing and when we did—” He shook his head. “We’d had a stupid quarrel two days before when I suggested she take our son and return to England. That was the most emotion there’d been between us in weeks.”
“And so that evening with Miss Chase you found yourself wondering if you’d married the wrong girl,” Davenport said.
“No. That is—Truth to tell, I didn’t think at all.” Ashton met Davenport’s hard stare, his own gaze wracked with torment. “You mustn’t think any dishonor attaches to Miss Chase. I should have known better—And then, only a short time later, to learn that Julia was dead—”
“And you were a free man,” Davenport murmured.
Ashton lurched toward him. “Damn it, Davenport—”
Malcolm moved to intervene. But Ashton drew a rough breath, as though forcing the lid down on his anger. “You’re doing what you need to do. What you have to do to learn who killed Julia and why. And by God I want you to discover that.”
“Oh, poison.” Violet looked from Suzanne to Cordelia. “I should have known.”
“Interesting,” Cordelia said. “I thought you’d deny it.”
Violet flung up her lavender-kid-gloved hands. “What’s the good of denying anything? Mrs. Rannoch and her husband seem to have an uncanny knack for uncovering uncomfortable secrets.” She drew a breath. “I really did overhear Julia and Tony. Telling you that seemed the lesser of two evils. That was after Johnny and I—After we went into the garden.”
“I know Johnny still means a great deal to you,” Cordelia said. “It’s not surprising that you—”
Violet gave a dry laugh. “You think Johnny and I were having an affair? Sorry to disappoint you, Cordy, it’s not nearly so scandalous. But you’re right that I never got over him. And suddenly there’s no guarantee who’ll be alive in a few weeks. Or even days.” The fear that they all lived with welled up in her eyes. “Which is why I blatantly put myself in Johnny’s way at the ball. So he more or less had to ask me to dance. And then after the dance, I said I was overcome by the heat and could we go out into the garden. Most gentlemen would see that as the invitation it was, but Johnny’s far too honorable. I don’t think anyone could have been more surprised than he was when I practically flung myself into his arms.”
“Apparently he didn’t push you away,” Cordelia said, her voice surprisingly gentle.
“No.” Violet glanced to the side, as though the memory was too private to share. “I think for a moment we were both caught up in the past. And perhaps Johnny wasn’t as happy with Julia as everyone liked to believe.” Her gaze moved back to Cordelia. “But
he’d
never have betrayed
her
.”
he’d
never have betrayed
her
.”
Malcolm and Davenport found Lieutenant-Colonel the Hon. Sir Alexander Gordon lounging in a straight-back chair in the outer office at Headquarters, playing backgammon with Colonel Canning. Wellington’s aides-de-camp had a tendency to lounge about when they weren’t galloping hell for leather to deliver messages in seemingly impossible amounts of times.
“Back already?” Gordon asked as Malcolm and Davenport entered the room. “I thought you lot were supposed to be figuring out what the devil the French are up to so the rest of us can figure out when we’re supposed to go charging into the cannon’s mouth.”
Malcolm grinned. He’d been one year behind Gordon at Harrow and had worked with his elder brother, Lord Aberdeen, in the diplomatic corps. “We’re doing our best. Could we have a word, Gordon?”
“Good Lord.” Gordon pushed back his chair. “I seem to be important all of a sudden.”
Fitzroy, as usual working away at dispatches, lifted his head. “Don’t give Gordon any ideas. He’ll be insufferable.”
“He’s insufferable already,” Canning said. “Don’t forget you owed me twenty pounds when we left off, Gordon.”
“You wound me,” Gordon said, hand on his heart. “I never forget a debt.”
“Hmph,” Canning said.
Gordon accompanied Malcolm and Davenport into the same antechamber in which they’d spoken with John Ashton. “What’s so serious?” he asked. “Aside from the fact that we’re about to go off to the worst battle of our lives.”
Malcolm closed the door and leaned against it. “March mentioned last night that you were gone from Stuart’s ball for over an hour.”
Gordon gave a visible start. He was a clever man, but he didn’t have an agent’s skills at dissembling. He flung himself into a chair with a grin that was a shade too deliberate. “Good God. Surely you don’t think I had something to do with Julia Ashton’s death? She was a lovely lady, but—Oh, sorry, Davenport. I forget she was your sister-in-law. My condolences.”
“Thank you,” Davenport said. “We’re interested in anything unusual that happened at the ball and anything anyone might have seen.”
“Wish I could help, but I didn’t see anything.”
“Where did you go?” Davenport asked.
Gordon shifted in his chair. “Look, I know these are extraordinary circumstances, but as it happens I went to see a lady. Who happens to have a jealous husband. And her husband’s Belgian, so the duke wouldn’t like it. Stirring up trouble with the locals. Went straight there and came straight back. Didn’t see Lady Julia or anyone else. So I’m afraid I can’t help you, much as I’d like to be at the heart of the drama. If—”
“Damn it, Gordon,” Malcolm said.
“What?”
“From the time we were at Harrow, it’s meant one thing when you shift in your chair like that.”
“What?”
“That you’re lying.”
Gordon pushed himself to his feet. “That’s a damned nasty accusation.”
“And whenever anyone calls you on it, you get all huffy.”
Gordon grimaced. “You’re a good fellow, Malcolm, but you’ve always been too clever for your own good. Not everyone is as devious as your spy friends.”
Malcolm crossed to Gordon’s side. “Where did you really go the night of the ball?”
“I told you.” Gordon straightened his shoulders, as though waiting to confront an enemy charge. “Take me before the duke. I’ll say the same.”
Malcolm looked into the gaze of his school friend. “Then you’d be lying to him as well.”
“Malcolm thought Captain Chase was lying about something,” Suzanne said, as she and Cordelia settled themselves back at the wrought-iron table in the garden in the Rue Ducale. “This could explain it.”
“But was he lying because he couldn’t bear to admit Julia had broken with him?” Cordelia asked. “Or because he feared her breaking with him would cast suspicion on him? Or—?” She glanced at Colin and Livia, now giving the lead soldiers a ride round the garden in Colin’s wooden wagon. “I never did believe Julia could really be planning to run off with Tony, whatever Tony claimed. Whatever George told me last night.” She threw her gloves on the table. “And then there’s Johnny and Violet.”
“Do you believe Miss Chase’s account?”
“I’m inclined to. But perhaps it’s only because for some reason I cling to the idea that Johnny wouldn’t have betrayed Julia. I suppose I need to believe someone I know is incapable of betrayal. Besides you and Mr. Rannoch.”
Suzanne’s fingernail caught on the threadnet of her own glove. “There are as many types of betrayal as there are people to commit it. If—”
The click of the French window interrupted her. Suzanne looked round, expecting Blanca, who had gone inside for more lemonade. Instead her husband and Cordelia’s stepped into the garden.
“I’m glad you’re here, Lady Cordelia,” Malcolm said, walking forward quickly. “We—”
He broke off. Beside him, Harry Davenport had gone absolutely still. His gaze was fixed not on his wife but on young Livia, tugging at the wagon that had got stuck on a flagstone.
As though aware of his regard, Livia glanced up and studied him with wide blue eyes.
“Colonel ’Port.” Colin ran over to fling his arms round Davenport’s boots.
“How do you do, old chap.” Davenport bent down to ruffle Colin’s hair. His face was nearly as pale as the points of his shirt.
Livia stood studying the new arrival.
Cordelia took a step toward her daughter, then checked herself. She and Davenport both went still, frozen in an agony of uncertainty.
Confronting an inevitable moment that plainly neither of them was ready for.
26
S
uzanne felt the tension between Harry and Cordelia Davenport like a physical force in the air. Her own heartbeat seemed to have stilled. Malcolm was standing as though holding every muscle in check.
uzanne felt the tension between Harry and Cordelia Davenport like a physical force in the air. Her own heartbeat seemed to have stilled. Malcolm was standing as though holding every muscle in check.
“You must be Livia.” Davenport crouched down to her level, keeping one hand on Colin’s shoulder. “My name is Harry. I haven’t been in England for a long time.” He paused, as though desperately seeking the right words. Or perhaps any words. “Not since before you were born, which is a great pity. I’m”—he hesitated for a few seconds that stretched like an eternity—“I’m your papa.”
Cordelia’s shoulders tensed, but she stayed where she was.
Livia continued to regard Davenport. Her gaze moved over him, as though he were a creature from a storybook suddenly come to life. “You’re a soldier.”
“So I am.” Davenport kept his voice level, but Suzanne suspected if she were close enough she’d be able to see the pulse beating beneath his skin. “That’s why I’ve been away from England.”
Livia shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Mummy told me. She says you’re very brave.”
Davenport was still pale as bleached linen, but his mouth twisted in a half smile. “Your mother can exaggerate.”
“What’s ’xaggerate?” Colin asked.
“Telling stories that go a bit beyond the truth. And in this case make me seem a good deal better than I am.”
Cordelia opened her mouth, then bit back the words.
“I’ve seen a picture of you,” Livia said. “In our house. In London. When you were a little boy. You look different now.”
“It’s been a very long time since I was a little boy.”
Livia nodded. “I turned three in January.”
“And I didn’t send you a present. I have a great deal to make up for.”
Livia dragged the toe of her black kid slipper over the flagstones. “Mummy says you’re very busy.”
Davenport’s mouth relaxed into a smile, this one less bitter. “I don’t think that’s much of an excuse for not sending presents, do you?”
Livia considered this and shook her head vigorously. Then her face went solemn. “We came to Brussels to see Aunt Julia. Did you know her?”
The smile fled from Davenport’s eyes. “Yes. She was a very lovely lady.”
Livia’s eyes fixed round and serious on his face. “She’s dead.”
“I know. I’m very sorry for it.”
“Uncle Johnny was crying when we saw him yesterday, though he tried not to let us see. I don’t think Robbie understands.”
“Robbie isn’t as grown-up as you. He’s lucky to have you for a cousin.”
Livia studied Davenport a few moments longer, then walked up to him, put her hand on his shoulder, and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
If Davenport had gone still before, Suzanne thought now his heart might well have stopped beating altogether. “Thank you,” he said. “I’m honored.”
Livia laughed. She had a warm, tinkling, infectious laugh. Suzanne suspected Cordelia had sounded much the same before life intervened.
Colin looked round at the adults, who had all gone silent again. “I’m hungry.”
Malcolm stepped forward and took his son’s hand. “Tell you what, old chap. Why don’t Mummy and I take you and Livia to the kitchen and find you some lemonade and cookies.”
Livia took Suzanne’s hand with great readiness, but she cast a glance over her shoulder at her newfound father. Cordelia watched the tableau, eyes wide with something like wonder, a line of worry between her brows.
“Your cheeks are damp,” Malcolm told Suzanne, when they were in the kitchen, the children settled at the deal table with their refreshments.
Suzanne put a hand to her face. “It’s going to rain. There’s an uncommon amount of moisture in the air.”
“Quite,” said her husband.
Cordelia watched the French window close behind her daughter and the Rannoch family. She was conscious of the heat of the sun through her muslin gown, the pressure of her bonnet ribbons against her skin, the damp in the air that warned of rain in the coming days. She forced her gaze to her husband, who had got to his feet but was still standing rooted to the spot where he had met Livia. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have been prepared for this.”
“Some things one can’t prepare for.” Harry’s voice was even, but she didn’t think she’d ever seen him so pale. “Though it might have been best if we had a chance to consult. I didn’t know—It seemed—That is, she was bound to hear someone refer to me as her father.”
“Harry, no.” She took two steps toward him. Her legs felt stiff and unsteady under her. “I’m immeasurably grateful—It’s just that I didn’t mean to force her on you.”
“You didn’t. I was the one who introduced myself.”
“You were put in a difficult position. I didn’t mean you to have to—”
“What did you think I would do? Acknowledge her to the world but deny her to her face? I didn’t think your opinion of me was quite so low.”
“No, of course not. But I thought—That is, it seemed it wasn’t so much that you had acknowledged her as that you—”
“Ignored the whole matter? How could I, when you were polite enough to write to tell me you were pregnant?”
The memory of that letter rushed over her in a wash of shame. “I thought you deserved to know. I thought you deserved a chance—”
“To repudiate your child?”
“Stop putting words in my mouth, Harry. I’m very grateful to you for doing as much as you have for Livia. I didn’t want to make it worse.”
“The world knows her as my daughter. It would be a bit difficult for her not to do so as well.”
“Harry—” A thousand thoughts tumbled in her head and froze on her lips. “I need to sit down. Surely you do as well, unless you’re quite inhuman.”
“To own the truth, I’ve never in my life come so near to fainting.”
Cordelia dropped down on one of the wrought-iron chairs at the table. The metal was warm from the sun. “I have talked to Livia about you,” she said.
Harry moved to a chair opposite her. “Said that I’m brave.” He gave an unexpected grin. “You can be a shocking liar, Cordy.”
“Undoubtedly. But in this case I think I was telling the unvarnished truth.”
“Doing it much too brown, my girl.” He crossed one booted foot over the other. “I suppose the picture of me you’ve shown her is the one that hangs on the stair wall? Where I look like I’m bored or going to be sick or both. As I remember it was both.”
“It’s the only likeness I have of you. Livia was asking questions.”
“About me?”
“Children do.”
“She’s—” Harry hesitated. “She’s an engaging child.”
“Thank you. That is—I can hardly take credit for it.”
“On the contrary. I had a miserable enough childhood to know the look of a child who enjoys the opposite.”
She looked at him across the table, not quite sure she’d heard aright. “Thank you. I’m not used to compliments on my parenting.”
“Perhaps because a number of people don’t recognize good parenting when they see it.” He leaned back in his chair. “Why did you name her Livia?”
“The historical Livia was a strong woman,” she said, picking her way through a conversational thicket set with mines and mantraps. “And I’ve always liked the Julio-Claudians. I thought they were your favorites.”
“So they are. But I never thought of you as a classicist.”
“We used to have some quite entertaining discussions as I recall.” She remembered, with a vividness that surprised her, coming home from a ball or the theatre to find him at work in the library. Peering over his shoulder at what he was writing, pouring them each a glass of brandy, dropping into a chair and debating the finer points of a bit of translation or details regarding an historical personage. Once or twice she’d thought she might have had a more entertaining evening at home with him than if she’d gone out.
For a moment she thought she saw the same memories in his eyes. Then his gaze went closed, the way it did. “But it was never one of your chief interests,” he said.
That wasn’t strictly true. She’d been good at languages and fascinated by history as a child. She’d done lessons with George and Tony before they went to Eton and later helped them when they were home for holidays. But for her the allure of books had always fought with the tug of society. “If you mean I liked going out, it’s true. But after you left I found myself with time in the evenings. I read some of the books you left in the library.”
“Not invited out as much as you used to be?”
She met his gaze. “I may have sunk to a lower level, but I still don’t lack for entertainment.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, “that was unpardonable—”
“Livia was sick as a baby. I spent a number of nights at home with her.”
He cast a quick glance toward the house. “Is she—”
“She’s perfectly sturdy now.”
His gaze continued fastened on the French windows. “Cordy—” He sounded like a man who’d spent days without water.
She drew a ragged breath. The air felt unbearably hot against her skin. “I’m honestly not sure, Harry. I’m sorry.”
He met her gaze and to her surprise gave a twisted smile. “I don’t suppose it really matters, does it?”
“Of course it matters. How could it not?”
“Would it change anything between us if we knew we’d made a child one of the nights we spent together? Instead of you doing so with George? We’d still be the same people. George would still be the same person. And Livia’s herself, not the sum of whoever may be her parents.”
“That’s generous of you.”
“It’s a statement of fact.”
Silence settled over the table. Not as uncomfortable as some of the silences between them, yet the pressure of the air hurt her lungs.
“We both made choices,” Harry said. “God knows I’ve spent enough time these past four years rethinking my every action since I met you. But in the end we have to live with the consequences of the choices.”
“You’re very wise all of a sudden.”
“Don’t place any reliance upon it lasting.”
“Harry—” She sought for the right words from an infinity of possible bad choices. “When I married you I didn’t intend—”
“To be unfaithful?”
She nodded. “I thought we could rub along. I never pretended—”
“To be in love with me. No, you were refreshingly honest. I was the one who was fool enough to think I could be happy with you on any terms. God knows what I was thinking. Except men in love don’t tend to think much at all.”
Even in the early days of their marriage, he’d rarely used the word “love.” For some reason it made the breath catch in her throat. “Why?” she asked.
“Why what?”
“Why did you fall in love with me?”
“Do you really have to ask why a man would fall in love with you, Cordy?”
“It would take more than a pretty face to catch your interest.”
He gave a short laugh. “You do me too much credit.”
“I don’t think so.”
He was silent for a moment, his gaze on the toe of his boot. “You have a knack for seizing life that I never had myself, Cordelia. And—”
“What?”
He scraped his foot over the gravel. “There were times I looked into your eyes and thought I saw an echo of my own loneliness.”
For some reason, her throat went tight. “I was never lonely.”
“No?” He looked up. His gaze lingered on her face. “My mistake then. It wouldn’t be the only thing I was wrong about when it came to you.”
She gripped her hands together. “Couples have managed quite handily on less than we had.”
“I think perhaps—” He broke off.
“What?” she asked.
“Perhaps it’s easier when the force of feelings is less. As you should know.”
“George.” His name hung in the garden between them.
“The love of your life returned to England.”
Her mouth went dry. “I thought he was.”
“Thought?”
She hunched her shoulders. “At the time I thought what George and I felt for each other excused anything. But I don’t know that I believe in love at all anymore.”
“Then perhaps we’ve got round to the same way of thinking.”
Her gaze flew to his face. “I don’t think I’ve ever properly said I’m sorry. There’s no way to say it that sounds remotely adequate. But for what it’s worth, I am.”
“Cordelia—” Harry stared at her across the table for a long moment. When he at last spoke, she wasn’t sure his words were what he had originally intended to say. “Did you have any idea Julia was a French spy?”
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