The Berkeley Square Affair (Malcolm & Suzanne Rannoch) (18 page)

“Gertrude is a wonderful character,” Malcolm said.

“Yes, I suppose so. Interesting layers and all that. Just can’t credit Jenny as Ford’s mother. Must say, La Caret’s doing a quite creditable job. Talented girl that. What did you want to talk to me about?”

Malcolm perched on the edge of a straight-backed chair. “You hadn’t heard of the script until Crispin and Manon took it to Simon?”

“Of course not. Think I could keep quiet about a lost version of
Hamlet
? In any case, how should I have heard of it?”

“You were friends with Harleton.”

“Harleton? Friends?” Sir Horace snorted. “Hardly. We ran with very different crowds. Harleton had no appreciation of the theatre or the Bard.”

Malcolm leaned forwards, hands clasped between his knees. “And yet you were in a club together.”

For a moment, he would swear a shadow of unease crossed Sir Horace’s face. Something infinitely more complex than his usual bluff good humor. “A club? Oh, you mean that Elsinore nonsense. Half the fellows in it didn’t even know Elsinore was from Shakespeare. And I’d give even odds on if the others could name which play it’s from.” Sir Horace shook his head over the sad state of Oxbridge undergraduates. “Mind you, it was only the name that got me to join in the first place. Thought there might be some substance to it. Once I realized my mistake, I stopped attending events.”

“Events?”

Sir Horace shifted on the sofa. “Parties. The usual sort of thing.”

“It’s all right, Sir Horace,” Malcolm said. “We know it was a hellfire club.”

Sir Horace coughed. “Had some gatherings at one hunting box or another. Made a token attempt at a Shakespeare theme but got the details all wrong. One was supposed to be Elsinore but full of references to the Forest of Arden and a second-rate soprano from the opera in a dampened petticoat singing Feste’s songs from
Twelfth Night
. I ask you.” He shook his head in outrage. “I think that was the last straw for me.”

“My father was one of the founders,” Malcolm said.

“Yes, of all the people to be abusing the Bard—No offense, my boy.”

“None taken.”

Sir Horace frowned at a print of the balcony scene on the opposite wall. “Of course Alistair actually was better versed in Shakespeare than others when he put his mind to it. Still, hardly a kindred spirit. In any case, found I was much happier hanging about the theatre. And then I met Jennifer.” His eyes brightened at the memory.

Malcolm leaned back and crossed his legs. “You were at a dinner with seven of the Elsinore League members in ’98.”

“Was I? Were we?” Sir Horace frowned. “Can’t remember what dinner parties I was at five weeks ago, let alone almost twenty years. Devilish dull things usually, and I can’t bring Jennifer.”

“There were no ladies present at this one. And the guest list seems to have been entirely members or former members of the Elsinore League. My father. Harleton. Archibald Davenport. Yourself. Lord Bessborough. Hugo Cyrus. Lord Dewhurst.”

Again he thought he saw something shift in Sir Horace’s gaze. Then Smytheton settled back against the sofa cushions with a smile of disarming lack of guile. “Now you mention it, I do remember something of the sort.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Lord, how should I remember through the years? What do gentlemen talk about? The racing season. The ankles of the latest crop of opera dancers. Why does it matter?”

“Perhaps it will jog your memory if I mention that this dinner occurred shortly before the Dunboyne affair.”

Once again, Sir Horace’s eyes sharpened, then clouded over with bluster. “Dreadful business that. But what’s that to say to—” The bluster faded. He slumped back against the faded red damask of the sofa like a man giving up a physical effort. “You know, don’t you?”

“Know what?”

Sir Horace shook his head. “Shouldn’t have tried to pretend. Jennifer says I always get myself in trouble when I try to act. But damn it, how was I to be sure you already knew about the business? I could have been the one giving away state secrets.”

“Then let me assure you that I know information from Lord Dewhurst’s dispatch box that night led to the Dunboyne mission being betrayed,” Malcolm said in the same neutral voice. “How did you learn of it?”

“Oh, Carfax questioned us. Didn’t tell you that? No surprise there, Carfax always was a secretive one to say the least. That damned sharp gaze of his is enough to make one sweat clean through one’s linen. Couldn’t tell him anything, though. I mean, didn’t have anything to tell. Didn’t see anything, and certainly didn’t leak the information myself.”

“Did you notice anything else that night?” Malcolm asked.

Sir Horace frowned at a spot on his cravat. “What sort of thing?”

“Anything in the least bit unusual even if it didn’t seem to relate to Dewhurst’s papers. I’m sure a man with your knowledge of theatre is an excellent observer.”

Some of the tension left Sir Horace’s shoulders. He drew a breath as though preening himself. “Come to think of it, Dewhurst looked a bit distracted. Came late, didn’t take part in the usual ribaldry. Can’t put my finger on anything in particular, just seemed a bit off. And before he arrived—” He swallowed, looked away, twitched his shirt cuff smooth.

“Harleton challenged Father to a duel?”

Sir Horace started. “Good God, man, one would almost swear you were there that night.”

“You knew about the duel?”

“Yes, it was the damndest thing. Harleton challenged Alistair. Only I had the oddest sense they were fighting about something other than a woman. You know it was a woman?”

“Yes.”

“And did Lady Fr—” He broke off.

“Yes, my aunt told me about the affair.”

“Dashed fine woman, Lady Frances. If it weren’t for Jennifer—not that she’d look twice at me. Lady Frances, that is. Still can’t make out why Jenny does after all these years. I only knew about the affair because I’d stumbled into Lady Frances’s box at Covent Garden at an inopportune moment when they’d neglected to lock the door. I expect that’s why he asked me to be his second, because I was already in on the secret as it were.”

“You were Alistair’s second in the duel?”

“Yes.” Sir Horace shook his head at the memory. “Had to meet with Cyrus—he was Harleton’s second—and try to patch things up. Which was a bit hard, as we couldn’t use Lady Frances’s name, and I think we both had the sense that quarrel was really about something else.”

“Do you have any idea what?”

Smytheton shook his head. “Your father and I were hardly confidants.”

“What about the art treasures the League was smuggling?”

Smytheton blinked. “Who—”

“Cyrus told me.”

“Should have known. Tried to warn him when you first started asking questions. Was afraid you’d jump to the wrong conclusions.”

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of what is and isn’t relevant. Do you think the art treasures were behind Alistair and Harleton’s quarrel?”

Smytheton folded his arms across his chest and appeared to give the question serious consideration. “It’s possible. Alistair was a zealous collector. Harleton didn’t seem to care much about it, save that he liked the idea of having more treasures than the others.”

“There wasn’t a particular piece they quarreled about? Archibald Davenport said he heard my father ask Harleton where he’d hidden ‘it.’ ”

Smytheton frowned in a seemingly genuine effort of memory, then shook his head. “It’s entirely possible. But I know of no particulars. Sorry I can’t be of more help, Malcolm, but I was on the fringe to say the least. ’Fraid I’ve told you everything I know.”

“You’re too modest, sir. You couldn’t possibly have done, considering you didn’t tell me you’d been in the employ of the Crown.”

Smytheton stared at Malcolm out of wide blue eyes, blinked, rubbed the bridge of his nose. Now that he knew the story of Sir Horace’s past, Malcolm began to appreciate the man’s capabilities. “My compliments,” Malcolm said. “You’re obviously a skilled agent.”

“Wouldn’t quite call myself that.” Smytheton’s smile was that of an amiable country squire. “Did the odd bit to help out while I was in Paris, don’t you know. Kept an ear open, passed along what I heard, passed on the occasional piece of information.”

“It’s a fraught word, ‘spy,’ ” Malcolm said. “It took me a long time to admit I was one myself.”

“Not at all in your league, my boy. I’ve heard of the sort of thing you do.”

“You underrate yourself. But I’m sure you wouldn’t want to underrate Mrs. Mansfield. Or rather Madame Manet.”

Smytheton drew a breath. “Jennifer is—”

“A brilliant actress. And a very capable agent.” Malcolm leaned back in his chair. “It can’t have been easy on either of you being suspected of betraying your comrades.”

Something flashed in Smytheton’s eyes. Anger? Calculation? Relief?

“I’ve heard Dewhurst’s version of events,” Malcolm said. “Now I should very much like to hear yours.”

Smytheton’s gaze slid to a framed playbill on the wall advertising Jennifer Mansfield in
The Merchant of Venice
. “Plots within plots within plots. Difficult now to think that Dewhurst and I once could have passed as friends. Although I suppose one could say the same of Claudius and Polonius.”

 

Jennifer Mansfield’s dressing room was tidier than Manon’s, still crowded, but with the costumes hung from a clothesline or neatly folded, the hats and wigs on stands or in boxes, the jewelry mostly tucked into jewel boxes, the paints and powders contained. But the smell was similar—face powder, greasepaint, and lavender, mixed with the distinctive hyacinth and lily of Jennifer’s perfume.

“Do sit down.” Jennifer waved to the pale rose chaise-longue and struck a flint to light the spirit lamp. “And feed your daughter. I’ve fed both my own often enough in various dressing rooms.”

Suzanne sank down on the sofa and settled Jessica in her lap. For the moment, Jessica seemed content to lean against Suzanne and look round, taking in the sparkle and shimmer of the costumes and studying Jennifer’s face. “I didn’t realize you had children.”

Jennifer smiled as she set a kettle on the spirit lamp. “My older daughter must be about your age. She was five when we left Paris. She married last year and is expecting a baby. I can’t say I’m looking forwards to being called ‘Grandmama,’ but I quite like the prospect of another baby to dandle.” She took a blue-flowered tray with cups and saucers from atop the chest of drawers. “My younger daughter is eight. She’s with her governess today, but she often plays with Roxane and Clarisse. Nice to have other children about the theatre.” She set the tray on the table before the chaise-longue. “And yes, Horace is my younger daughter’s father.”

Jessica squirmed in Suzanne’s lap, stretched her leg out, and grabbed her foot with one hand. Jennifer filled the teapot and set it on the tray to steep, then settled on a straight-backed chair beside the chaise-longue. “I didn’t just ask you in for tea, as you must have discerned. I thought if we spoke in private we might be able to clear up some misunderstandings. Horace has a tendency to bluster and not realize when simply telling the truth would be so much simpler.” She smiled. Her smile was dazzling and disarming and an infinitely more effective weapon than Sir Horace’s bluff good humor.

“Mrs. Mansfield.” Suzanne tilted Jessica in her arms. Jessica grinned up at her. “You must realize—”

Jennifer adjusted the heavy folds of the rehearsal skirt tied over her violet lustring gown. “I fully expect you’ll share anything I tell you with your husband. I understand you work together. I applaud such a partnership. But Horace would make a fuss and get protective if I spoke with your husband. Much easier for the two of us to have a comfortable cose over tea.”

Jennifer Mansfield could be a very dangerous woman. Suzanne liked her immensely already. Suzanne undid the flap on her bodice and settled her squirming daughter at her breast. “I should like nothing more than to hear your version of events.”

“Splendid.” Jennifer spread her hands over her lap. A sapphire ring that might just possibly be genuine rather than paste sparkled on her left hand. “I was already a successful actress by the time of the Revolution. And though like many I was caught up in the excitement at first, I was quickly appalled by the lengths to which things went. Besides, my elder daughter’s father was an early victim of the guillotine.”

“I’m sorry.” Suzanne thought of how close Raoul had come to suffering the same fate.

Jennifer shrugged, appearing very French. “It makes a particular impression when one is young. In my case it was enough to push me beyond thinking about my own and my daughter’s safety. I went to work for the Royalists. It didn’t hurt that my next protector was a vicomte heavily involved in the resistance.”

“As an actress you were ideally positioned to gather information.”

“Quite. Milk or lemon?” Jennifer lifted the teapot.

“Milk.” Suzanne adjusted her arm beneath Jessica as Jessica tangled her fist in the ribbons on her mother’s bodice.

Jennifer set a blue-flowered cup in front of her. “Of course the vicomte was long gone—not to the guillotine, to a life of exile in England—by the time I met Dewhurst.”

Suzanne froze midway through the delicate juggling act of lifting a cup of tea to her lips one-handed while cradling a baby in the other arm. “You were involved with Lord Dewhurst before Sir Horace?”

“Oh yes.” Jennifer squeezed a wedge of lemon into her own tea and took a sip. “Dewhurst was running our network. Say what one will of him—and I could say a lot—he was a man of sense, unlike the many idealistic boys involved in the cause.” She set her cup down. “I suppose that’s what drew me to him. Well, that and a handsome fortune, I don’t deny.”

Suzanne returned her cup to the table with care. “You met him before Sir Horace?”