The Mask of Night (29 page)

“Here.” She threw him a ribbon she'd pulled from the neck of her chemise. “Bind his wrists.”

Raoul and Charles had found something with which to lash the wrists of Charles’s attacker before he could scramble up from the ground where Raoul had flung him. Raoul was holding him by the arm and Charles had a knife, probably recovered from his attacker, in his hand. Charles was dripping wet and shivering, but he was managing to hold his knife hand steady and she could not see any blood, though the light was too dim for a close scrutiny.

“Who hired you?” Charles said.

Raoul’s captive’s gaze flashed to that of Will’s prisoner. “Out for pickings,” he muttered.

“I don’t think so,” Raoul said. “You seemed to have a very specific target in mind.”

“Just the first rich idiot who happened by.” The man was broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, and his voice had the sound of North London.

“I’m cold,” Charles said, “and I’m tired. There are more of us than of you, and we have the weapons.” He pressed the knifepoint against the throat of the man Raoul was holding. “Let’s do this the easy way. Tell us who hired you.”

The men exchanged glances again. “You wouldn’t,” said Will’s captive. He was slighter than his companion and his voice sounded more youthful. “You don’t look like a man who’d kill in cold blood.”

“No?” Charles said. “Perhaps not. But let me put it this way. Refuse to talk and we’ll take you to our friends at Bow Street and have you up on charges of attempted murder. The penalty is hanging, and I happen to be personally acquainted with the Chief Magistrate. Tell us what you know and we’ll let you go free.”

Both men let out rough laughs. “What do you take us for?” Raoul’s captive said.

“Men who know a good bargain when they see it.”

“And what bloody guarantee do we have that you’d keep it?” the man demanded.

“My word. Who hired you?”

The pause before they spoke was long enough for a gust of wind to shake the trees overhead and douse them with shards of ice.

“Don’t know his name,” said Raoul’s captive. “Gentleman. Leastways, spoke like one. We never did see his face. Not much of it anyway. Met us in the alley behind the White Hart in St. Giles. He had his hat pulled low over his face and his coat collar turned up and he stood in the shadows. Sounded as though he had a cold.”

“When was this?” Charles asked.

“’Bout seven tonight. He told us the job and handed over the money. We were to have more sent to us tomorrow if we were successful.”

“Successful at what?” Mélanie said.

The men fell silent again. Raoul’s captive rolled his gaze toward the knife Charles was holding to his throat. “Him—the one we jumped first—wasn’t supposed to leave the park alive.”

“The man who hired you told you I’d be in the park tonight?” Raoul asked.

“Sometime between ten and midnight. Told us to wait by the Serpentine. Said we could keep all the money we found on you, but we were to bring him anything we found in writing. He made sure none of us could read.”

“Where were you to find him again?” Raoul asked.

“We weren’t. He said he’d find us.”

Charles reached into his pocket, pulled out his card case, and flicked it open with one hand. He removed the knife and held out a cream-colored card. “If this man ever contacts you again, you’ll let me know.”

The captive stared at him. Raoul exchanged a look with Charles and undid the man’s bonds. Will did the same for his prisoner.

“I did give you my word,” Charles said.

The two men stared at him a moment longer, as though perhaps the cloudy sky were obscuring his true motives. Then they turned and ran before Charles or any of the others could change their minds.

Will looked at Charles. “You surprise me, Fraser.”

“I take my word rather seriously.” Charles struggled out of his sodden greatcoat and squeezed the water from its folds. “Besides, I don’t think any of us fancy having to explain ourselves to Bow Street.”

Mélanie looked at Raoul. “Good evening, Mr. O'Roarke.”

“
Que
—Mrs. Fraser.”

If he’d almost called her
Querida
in front of people who didn’t know their past history, he was more overset than she'd realized. She saw that he was swaying slightly and put out a hand to steady him. Her fingers touched something damp and sticky. “You’re bleeding.”

“A flesh wound. Two of them had pistols. I managed to trick them into firing early, but one of the shots winged me. Then someone got me with a knife. Not the most organized of attacks. If my unseen enemy had hired a marksman to lie in wait in the trees with a rifle, he could have picked me off easily. Still, I suspect they’d have succeeded in the end if the three of you hadn’t happened along. I’m not as young as I once was.”

Mélanie bent down while he talked, tore a strip from her petticoat, and bound it round his chest to staunch the bleeding. She’d once seen him direct an entire skirmish with a musket ball in his side only to collapse from loss of blood when the enemy were routed. “You need to see a doctor. Charles, you look quite fetching dripping wet, but it won’t be very helpful if you catch pneumonia. We need to get inside.”

“Yes,” her husband said. “The question is where.” He looked from Raoul to Will. “Where were you meeting the others?”

“Others?” Will repeated. The fitful moonlight bounced off his crooked spectacles.

“You and O'Roarke weren’t meeting by the Serpentine. You were both on your way somewhere.

“Don’t try to argue with him, Gordon,” Raoul advised. He regarded Charles a moment. “You can do what you want with me, but do I have your word you won’t turn my other companions over to the law?”

“You know I can’t promise that,” Charles said.

“If you think they don’t pose an imminent risk.”

Charles was silent for a moment. “All right. Yes.”

Raoul nodded. “I’m afraid it’s a bit of a walk.”

Mélanie put a hand on his arm.

“My dear, Mrs. Fraser,” Raoul said, “credit me with some sense. I promise I’ll give you fair warning if I’m in danger of collapse.”

Raoul led them away from the water, through a dark landscape where flashes of moonlight threw twisting tree branches into relief against a charcoal sky, to the walled Deer Pound. Two men were waiting, one a gray-haired gentleman Mélanie didn’t recognize, the other taller and younger, his clear, sharp-cut features plain in the moonlight. It was Simon Tanner. A weight like a musket ball settled in her chest.

“Good evening, Simon.” Charles’s voice betrayed no surprise, but Mélanie could hear the fear and pain beneath his level tone. “Hapgood.” He looked at Mélanie. “Mr. Hapgood, who happens to own the house in which our friend St. Juste was lodging. My wife, Hapgood. I assume the rest of you are all acquainted.”

“Jesus, Charles,” Simon said. “What happened to you?”

“Someone tried to kill O’Roarke. You damned fools, after one of your confederates was murdered didn’t it occur to you that the rest of you might be at risk?”

“Our confederates?” Simon’s voice sharpened. “Who the devil’s been killed?”

“The gentleman who was lodging with Mr. Hapgood and meeting with O’Roarke and Will in recent weeks. The gentleman we found dead in Isobel and Oliver’s garden last night.”

“You think—“

“Explanations are undoubtedly called for,” Mélanie said, “but not here. Charles—Mr. O’Roarke—do you think you can walk as far as Berkeley Square?"

“I’m soaked, not injured,” her husband said.

“I told you I’d warn you if I was about to collapse,” Raoul said.

They trudged out of the Grosvenor Gate and past the cool white town houses of Upper Grosvenor Street to the wide expanse of Grosvenor Square. A party of guests emerged from one of the candlelit houses. Of one accord they all ducked into Charles Street to avoid being seen. God help them if they encountered any of their friends. Even her and Charles’s reputation for eccentricity might not be able to live this down.

They continued along Grosvenor Street and turned down Davies Street. For once Raoul had probably spoken the truth. She rated his powers high, but if she and Charles and Will had not shown up he’d most likely be dead by now. The thought bit her throat in a way she didn’t care to examine. In a short time she was going to have to confront the truth of whatever the hell Raoul and Will and Simon had been involved in with Julien St. Juste and how Charles would react to it. And how she would react herself.

Charles had his arm round her. She could feel him shivering and his steps were a trifle erratic, but he remained upright, as did Raoul.

They were almost at the point where Davies Street met Berkeley Square when a voice stopped them. “Here now? What are you lot doing?”

It was a night watchman, lantern raised, brows drawn.

Charles seemed to have been concentrating solely on keeping his footing, but at that he raised his head. “We’re on our way home. My name’s Fraser. Charles Fraser. My wife. And some of our friends. We’ve been at an entertainment.”

The watchman gave a rough laugh. The lantern cast light over his ruddy face. “You expect me to believe—“

“Yes,” said Charles. “I do.”

The watchmen peered at them. His gaze moved past Mélanie, then came back to linger on her. There were advantages to having one’s likeness displayed in print shop windows. “Bloody he—” He coughed. “Begging your pardon, ma’am. Madam. Mrs. Fraser. Sorry to have troubled you.”

Mélanie shepherded the erratic band up the whitewashed steps to the fanlit door of the Berkeley Square house without further incident. Michael opened the door, relief evident in his face.

“Charles, you need to change before you do anything else or you’ll be ill,” Mélanie said. “Simon, take the others up to the spare room. Michael, could you have some clean clothes of Mr. Fraser’s sent in? And we’ll need to send to Hill Street for Dr. Blackwell.”

Raoul touched her arm as Simon and Charles guided the others to the stairs. “No doctor. It’s a flesh wound. You can tend to it.”

She started to argue, but it was no more than they’d done in the past. And all things considered, it might be better not to bring someone else into the scene that was no doubt about to ensue, even someone she trusted as much as Geoffrey Blackwell.

“Mrs. Fraser.” Michael held a folded paper out to her as she moved to the stairs. “Miss Dudley was obliged to go out. She left this for you.”

Mélanie took the paper, started to open it, then ran up the stairs after her husband. First things first.

“You can stop being brave now,” she said, when she and Charles were in the privacy of their bedchamber. She tugged off his coat and went to work on his waistcoat buttons with more dexterity than she’d ever shown in an amorous encounter.

“I’ll live.” He pulled his shirt over his head. "O’Roarke could be—“

“Dead.” She grabbed a towel from the washstand and wrapped it round him. “It had occurred to me.”

He began to undo the buttons on his breeches. “Don’t think I’m not grateful to him for fishing me out of the river. But then his courage has never been in doubt.”

“I’d say the honors on saving each other were even in this encounter.” She handed him a fresh pair of breeches.

He stepped into the breeches. “What’s the paper?” He nodded toward the note she’d put on her dressing table.

“Good God, I’d almost forgotten. It’s from Laura. I hope—” She opened the note and read it aloud.

Mrs. Fraser,

Mr. Trenor called. He’s worried about Miss Simcox, who has apparently gone after her brother. I’ve taken him to see Mr. Roth. Morag is in my room listening for the children. I will return or send word as soon as possible.

LD

P.S. I promised Colin and Jessica that you and Mr. Fraser would look in on them. Colin asked that you wake him
.

“As usual, Laura appears to understand more of what’s happening than she lets on,” Charles said.

Mélanie put down the note. “Should we—“

“There’s not much we can do.” He pulled a tan waistcoat on unbuttoned over his shirt as a sop to formality. “Roth will know how to handle it. Meanwhile, we have more than enough to occupy us. You’d better get out of those clothes, you’re not exactly dry yourself.”

She frowned at the note for a moment, then began to fumble with the clasps on her pelisse. “There’s no doubt St. Juste was lodging with Mr. Hapgood?”

“Hapgood admitted as much to Roth and me this afternoon, though not that he knew who St. Juste was.”

She tossed aside her pelisse and started on her gown. “What do you think—“

“No sense in speculating until we talk to them.” He turned her round and finished undoing the hooks on her gown. “You’re going to have a bruise on your shoulder.”

“Minor damage.” She turned to face him, her damp bodice slipping down about her shoulders.

He stretched out a hand to touch her face. “We listen to the evidence and we each make up our own mind and act as we see fit. Same as we’ve always done."

"And if we make up our minds differently?"

"It won't be the first time we've been on opposite sides. Only this time the battle will be out in the open."

Chapter 21

Laura didn't so much as bat an eyelash at encountering me in the corridor at three in the morning wearing breeches and stinking of God knows what. I sometimes wonder what she makes of us.

Mélanie Fraser to Charles Fraser,

3 September, 1817

Laura Dudley looked across the carriage at Roth and Trenor. “Let me ask the first questions.”

“My dear Miss Dudley—“

“Even a whiff of Bow Street will put everyone on their guard.”

“I’m not from Bow Street,” Trenor said. “And Bet’s my responsibility. I can—“

“My dear Mr. Trenor, it’s plain you care deeply for Miss Simcox, but she gave you the slip. I don’t think we can count on her being eager to see you just now.”

“I wouldn’t—“

“She may have warned those at the Running Hare against you. A defenseless woman has the best chance of getting someone to speak.”