Teresa Grant (26 page)
Authors: Imperial Scandal
29
J
ane Chase came into Suzanne Rannoch’s salon quickly. The Pomona green ribbons on Jane’s straw bonnet looked as though they’d been hastily tied, Cordelia noted, and didn’t match the turquoise sash of her muslin gown. “Forgive me, Mrs. Rannoch. But I thought this should be said at once. Cordelia, I’m glad you’re here.”
ane Chase came into Suzanne Rannoch’s salon quickly. The Pomona green ribbons on Jane’s straw bonnet looked as though they’d been hastily tied, Cordelia noted, and didn’t match the turquoise sash of her muslin gown. “Forgive me, Mrs. Rannoch. But I thought this should be said at once. Cordelia, I’m glad you’re here.”
“Please sit down, Mrs. Chase,” Suzanne said.
Jane dropped into a chair but sat bolt upright, plucking at the sprigged muslin of her skirt. Suzanne poured a cup of tea, stirred in two lumps of sugar, and pressed it into Jane’s hand. Jane took a quick sip, sloshing tea into the saucer. “Impossible now to think I once believed Tony loved me.”
“I think he did,” Cordelia said, an image sharp in her memory of Tony stumbling through the quadrille with unwonted awkwardness, unable to take his eyes off Jane. “As much as Tony is capable of loving anyone.”
Jane’s gloved fingers tightened round the rose-flowered porcelain of her teacup. “But he wouldn’t have married me if I hadn’t had a tidy fortune.”
“That’s true of a number of couples. I wouldn’t have married Harry if he hadn’t had a tidy fortune.”
“You weren’t in love with Harry.”
“No.” Cordelia’s cup rattled in her fingers. “True enough.”
Jane took a careful sip of tea, then set down her cup and saucer as though she feared she’d smash them to bits. “He did seem genuinely to care for me at first. Perhaps he even intended to be faithful.” She smoothed her lemon-kid-gloved hands over her skirt, pressing the muslin taut. “I was so sure I wasn’t the sort of silly girl to fall victim to infatuation, the way my younger sisters were always doing. I thought I could tell the difference between that and love.”
“You hadn’t known Tony since he was a boy,” Cordelia said. Though she herself hadn’t precisely done better with George. “Besides, as I said, I think he did love you. Just—”
“Not enough for it to last?” For all the weary bitterness in her voice, Jane’s gaze held the pain of a wound that was far from healed.
“I’m not sure Tony is capable of being in love and having it last,” Cordelia said. “In my more cynical moments, I’m not sure any of us is.”
Jane locked her hands together, the kid taut across her knuckles. “And yet love can persist. Beyond all reason. It can blind one to horrors that should be obvious.”
She pushed herself to her feet and moved to the window with quick, jerky steps. “Three nights ago—the night before Stuart’s ball, the night before Julia died—the nurse woke me because my little boy was fretful.” She looked over her shoulder at Suzanne and Cordelia. “I think the children can sense something is going on, for all we try to keep to their usual routine.”
“I’ve seen the same with Livia,” Cordelia said.
“I went in to sit with Jamie. I told him a nonsense story, stayed with him until he went back to sleep.” Jane plucked at her sash. “On my way back to my bedchamber, I heard voices in the hall below.”
She hesitated. Cordelia had the oddest sense her friend was standing on the edge of a precipice, still unsure whether or not to step forward and tumble into the abyss. “The first voice belonged to my husband. The other was a man’s voice I didn’t recognize. I caught a glimpse of them down the stairwell, but all I could see of this man was a dark coat and hair that looked dark as well. At least it didn’t gleam in the candlelight the way Tony’s did.”
She paused again, one foot in the abyss. Her last chance to jump back. “The only words I could make out were the man saying, ‘Everything is set,’” she said in a rush, “and Tony saying something about ‘you will receive payment.’ ”
Cordelia swallowed, tasting unexpected bitterness. Somehow despite all the revelations, she hadn’t thought it possible.
Suzanne Rannoch sat very still. “That could refer to a number of things.”
“So it could,” Jane said, face pale, eyes filled with the agony of uncertainty. “But—”
“But Lady Julia’s death the next night made you wonder.”
“How could I not?” The words tore from Jane’s lips. “Especially when we learned her death wasn’t accidental.”
“You knew that the first time we spoke,” Suzanne said. “Why come to us now?”
“Because my first instinct was to protect Tony. Until I realized I couldn’t live with myself.” Jane locked her hands together, as though to still the thoughts roiling inside her. “I need to know the truth, Mrs. Rannoch. But I’m not brave enough to seek it myself.”
Malcolm Rannoch’s horse bolted down the allée. Harry set his heels to his own horse and cantered after. But even as he set off, Rannoch got his horse under control, pulling up on the reins and circling round. “I’m all right,” he called to Harry, clutching his shoulder. “Go after him.”
Harry turned his horse toward the trees that bordered the path. He’d had Claudius with him in Spain. The horse responded at once, crashing through brush, dodging between the trees.
Another shot whistled between the branches. Harry ducked and caught sight of a man in a dark coat lowering his rifle. He touched his heels to Claudius again. The shooter set off at a gallop. Harry urged Claudius to a faster speed. He cut between two trees and had to pull up abruptly at the sight of a bramble hedge, too close to jump.
The shooter was beyond his reach. He returned to the allée to find Rannoch on his feet, breathing hard but examining something he held between two fingers.
“A rifle bullet,” he said, looking up at Harry.
“I saw him,” Harry said. “He got off another shot, then he bolted.” He ran an appraising gaze over Rannoch. “You were hit?”
“It grazed my shoulder. Hardly worth mentioning.”
“I doubt your wife will agree.”
Rannoch gave a wry grin. “Before we face her, we need to tell the duke.”
Wellington set down his wineglass as Malcolm and Davenport stepped into the Headquarters dining room where the duke was dining with his staff and the Prince of Orange. “Good God, Rannoch, did you let the French get to you again?”
“I’m afraid so, sir. I seem to have lost my touch since the Peninsula.”
Canning gave an appreciative laugh. Alexander Gordon avoided Malcolm’s gaze.
Wellington peered at Malcolm through the late-afternoon light that streamed through the dining parlor windows. “What was it this time, swords or a pistol?”
“A rifle. In the Allée Verte.”
“Good God.” Fitzroy’s knife clattered to his plate.
The Prince of Orange looked from Malcolm to Wellington. “
Pardonnez-moi?
Someone is trying to kill Malcolm? Why?”
Pardonnez-moi?
Someone is trying to kill Malcolm? Why?”
“It seems to have something to do with your mistress’s death,” Davenport said.
The prince’s face drained of color. Canning and Gordon exchanged glances. Fitzroy cast a questioning look at Malcolm.
Wellington waved a hand toward two empty chairs. “Sit down. Drink some wine. You look as though you could do with it.” He continued cutting into his mutton. “We’ve had some interesting news. The prince reports that the Prussians have been driven from Binche and that he himself heard gunfire round Charleroi, which confirms the news I’ve had from Ziethen and Blücher. It appears the French have attacked the Prussians south of the Sambre.”
Davenport poured himself a glass of wine, his hand not faltering. “Do we march?”
“Not yet.” Wellington took a bite of mutton. “I’ve ordered the divisions to concentrate, but I’m still afraid the gunfire round Charleroi is a feint. The French could just as easily advance to the west, through Mons or Tournai. If I were Bonaparte I’d attack from the west and cut us off from the North Sea and our supply lines. As well as our evacuation route. Bonaparte’s no fool. I’m waiting for intelligence from Grant. What the devil’s keeping him, Davenport?”
“I don’t know, sir. Having been commanded elsewhere.”
“Hrmph.” Wellington turned to Fitzroy, Gordon, Canning, and the rest of his staff. “Take your plates into the outer office. The prince and I need a word with Rannoch and Davenport in private.”
The prince was still frowning. “Was someone trying to kill Malcolm at the château two nights ago?” he asked as Wellington’s staff withdrew. “And Julia was caught in the cross fire?”
“It may be more complicated.” Malcolm reached for the glass of wine Davenport had poured for him and took a sip, controlling the instinctive wince at the pain that shot through his arm. He glanced at Wellington. Wellington gave a crisp nod.
“It appears Lady Julia was not simply a disinterested observer in events in Brussels this spring,” Malcolm said.
“Of course not,” Billy said. “She was a ... a British officer’s wife.”
“Quite. But she had her own loyalties that were rather more complicated.” Malcolm looked directly into his friend’s eyes, recalling John Ashton’s shock at the news. “Lady Julia was giving information to the French.”
“Julia was—?” The prince shook his head. “No, it’s not possible.”
“I’m afraid the evidence is incontrovertible.” Malcolm leaned forward. “Think, Billy. You said last night that you had found her going through the pockets of your coat.”
“But—” Billy’s eyes went wide with horror as disbelief gave way to sick certainty.
“Mon Dieu
.
”
“Mon Dieu
.
”
“What could she have learned?” Wellington asked, in a soft voice that held the force of a sword cut.
“Nothing.”
“Billy,” Malcolm said.
The prince put a hand to his neckcloth. “There was a note from Rebecque about the disposition of the troops round Braine-le-Comte. If I’d known—”
“No sense refining upon it now.” Wellington set down his wineglass, sloshing the Burgundy. “Our friend Vedrin gave his minder the slip before we could bring him in and seems to have gone to earth. There’s little to be done on any front until we receive more news. We’d best prepare for the ball.”
The prince stared at him. “You mean—”
“To forestall panic as long as possible. Once rumors get about we’ll have every Bonapartist in the city setting off fireworks.”
The prince winced but met the duke’s gaze. “And you think the Dutch-Belgian soldiers will desert.”
“I think it’s entirely possible they will if they think the battle is lost before it begins. Besides, I need to speak to a number of my officers, and the ball is where I’ll find most every British officer of rank. Rannoch, you’d best get home and let your wife patch you up or you won’t be presentable.” He took a sip of wine. “And more to the point, Suzanne won’t forgive me.”
Suzanne snipped off a length of linen. “You’ve always been good at adapting your thesis as new data emerges, darling. I trust you’ve now abandoned your claim that no one could be trying to kill you?”
“It is becoming a bit indefensible.”
Suzanne tied the ends of the bandage, willing her fingers to be steady. “It’s a good thing you aren’t a soldier. Neither one of your arms is going to be of much use.”
“I still managed to ride.”
She swallowed the fear that threatened to choke her. “I’ve seen you manage to ride with a broken arm and a bullet in your side.”
“So you should know this is nothing. I’m more interested in what we learned from Anthony Chase before the shooting started.”
“What?” Cordelia asked. She was sitting beside Suzanne on one of the salon sofas, handing her items from her medical supply box.
Malcolm looked at Davenport.
“Cordy—” Davenport looked into his wife’s eyes. “Tony claims Julia broke with him because she was having an affair with George.”
Cordelia stared at him for the length of a half-dozen heartbeats. Then she flung back her head and gave a shout of bitter laughter. “Oh, dear God.”
“It doesn’t surprise you?”
“That George would have an affair with my sister? We know he’s capable of betraying his marriage.”
“But he—”
“Loved me?” Cordelia shook her head. “I told you, I don’t believe in love anymore.” She frowned. “Why would the French want Julia to spy on George?”
“I don’t know.” Malcolm drew his shirt up over his bandaged shoulder.
“So this is why—” Cordelia pushed herself to her feet and paced the length of the salon, flounced muslin skirts whipping about her legs. “Julia broke with Tony because she was having an affair with George.”
“And Tony learned of it apparently,” Davenport said. “That forced the issue.”
“Tony must have been furious,” Cordelia said. “And he’s a rifleman.”
“Anyone could have hired someone to fire those shots in the allée,” Malcolm said. “Even if Tony Chase was behind it, I doubt he actually did the shooting.”
“No, but—” Cordelia exchanged a look with Suzanne, then told Malcolm and Davenport about Jane Chase’s account of her husband’s visitor the night before the ball.
Malcolm’s brows drew together. “Anthony Chase says he didn’t learn of the affair until he saw his brother and Lady Julia together at the ball.”
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