The Mask of Night (50 page)

“It could have been part of a plan, though I can’t work out how at the moment. Or it could have just happened. Romantic attachment can bloom in the midst of scheming.”

“So I’ve heard tell.”

“Though I find it a bit suspicious that Vickers and Will seem to be working together and happen to be having affairs with a husband and wife.”

Charles shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense, Mel. It fits the facts but not what we know about the people involved.”

“Sometimes you have to ignore what you think you know about people.”

“I wouldn’t—“

“You were wrong about me.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

“You did what you did because you believed in it.”

“Perhaps Will believes this is the only way to save the country from revolution.”

“If you’d heard him arguing his beliefs two nights ago—“

“A good agent has to be able to argue the opposite side.”

He looked into her bright, hard eyes. “Damn it, Mel, stop treating this like a game. These aren’t chess pieces, these are our friends.”

“You think I’ve forgotten that?”

“I think you can get so caught up in solving the equation that you forget—“

“What’s at stake? I haven’t forgotten that for a moment, Charles. I’m trying to hold everything else at bay so I can solve the equation as quickly as possible. Before Raoul gets killed.”

Her gaze had turned to shattered crystal. He grasped her shoulders. “I know— No, I don’t know, but I can guess.“ He slid his grip down her arms and gathered her hands in his. “But you aren’t—“

“Don’t say I’m not objective. We’re neither of objective in this. But I’ve always been good at setting aside my feelings. I’ve had a lot of practice.”

“You’re not the only one concerned about O’Roarke. Or the only one who shares a history with him.”

Mélanie’s gaze flickered over his face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”

“It's the least of what you should be thinking about just now.”

She looked down at her hands, still clasped in his own. “That’s just it, though. We can’t be sure of anyone. Even—“

“What?”

She pulled her hands from his clasp and gripped her elbows. “Not long after I started working for Raoul I helped him on a mission. He was posing as a French deserter. I was traveling with him, posing as his mistress. He was pretending he wanted to sell information to the English, in order to get some English soldiers to confide in him. But they started to suspect him. He needed to allay their fears long enough to put to use the information he’d uncovered. So one day in the village tavern he had men in French uniforms grab me in front of one of the English soldiers and send word to Raoul that he had to turn himself over to them or they’d cut my throat. Raoul arrived, the French men tied him up and marched him off. The English soldiers said he was a romantic fool. It must have been weeks before they realized he’d betrayed him.”

Charles watched her. He felt as though he’d swallowed ashes. “That doesn’t prove this is a trick.”

“No,” Mélanie said. “It doesn’t prove anything.”

Before he could reply a rap sounded at the door followed by Roth’s entrance. He held a sealed paper in his hand. “I arrived on your doorstep just as a messenger was delivering this. It looks to be from Mr. Addison.”

He handed Charles the paper, which did indeed bear Addison crisp handwriting. Charles slit it open.

Sir,

Last night I followed Mr. Gordon from his rehearsal at the Tavistock to his lodgings and then to Rules in Covent Garden. He appeared to have an appointment with a dark-haired gentleman whom I believe to be Mr. Vickers, attached to the Home Office. They supped at the back of the restaurant (I could not unfortunately, sit close enough to overhear their conversation, but it appeared to be of a serious nature, though not contentious). Mr. Gordon slipped out through the back door. I suspect he had determined that he was being followed and was attempting to give me the slip, though I managed to pick up his trail without too much difficulty.

When he left Rules, he went to a livery stable, hired a horse and left London by the Dover road. I followed him. I am writing this from the Leather Bottle in Clobham where Mr. Gordon stopped to change horses. I will leave word for you at post houses along the way in the event that you wish to follow.

Yours in haste,

M.A.

“Will wouldn’t like being followed,” Charles said. “If he realized what was happening, he might have tried to give Addison the slip purely to make a point.”

“But that doesn’t explain his meeting with Vickers. Or why he left London.“ Mélanie gave Roth the same quick, unemotional outline of her morning she’d given Charles. “It looks as if Will may be working with Vickers,” she concluded, “though Charles has his doubts.”

Roth nodded. “The only question seems to be which of us follows Gordon and Addison?”

Mélanie exchanged a glance with Charles.

“All of us,” she said.

Chapter 34

I can't face another day in London. Lets go down to Spendlove Manor on Saturday.

David Mallinson to Charles Fraser,

10 December, 1805

Mélanie took Charles’s hand and stepped down from the carriage. Her half-booted-foot hit a puddle and sent a spray of water up from the inn-yard cobblestones. After toying with them for the last few days, the rain was coming down in a full-scale deluge.

Roth swung down from the carriage after her, and the three of them hurried into the entry hall of the White Hart. A scribbled message from Addison in Tilbury had directed them to Spenden, and the White Hart was the only inn in the village. A village which happened to be less than a mile from Spendlove Manor.

It was just past four, but the stormy sky made it seem like twilight. A smoking lamp on a rectangular oak table illumined age-darkened oak paneling and an uneven slate floor. A girl in a white apron and ruffled cap emerged from a door at the back, carrying a stack of linen.

“Sorry,” she said, “I’m afraid there’s only me today.“ Her gaze flickered from Charles to Roth. “Is one of you gentleman Mr. Fraser?”

“Yes,” Charles said. “A friend may have left a message for me.”

The girl set the linen down on the table, reached into her pocket, and held out a sealed paper. “Here you are. He’s out now, but I expect he’ll be back by nightfall. He took a room.”

Charles slit open the missive and held it out to Mélanie and Roth in the light from the smoky lamp.

Following W.G. He’s taken a room here, so I assume he’ll be back. Taken room too.

A.

Charles looked up at the maid. “What time did the man who gave you this leave the inn?”

The girl frowned. She had light brown curls, a dusting of freckles across her nose, and clear, direct brown eyes. “About two hours since. Perhaps a bit more. It was just after the mail came through. We’ve had a powerful lot of company today, and it would be the day we’re short-handed, what with Jem Whitecastle turning his ankle and Molly Tompkins having to tend to her ailing mum.”

Mélanie opened her reticule and took out a series of quick sketches she’d made in the carriage. “Do you recognize any of these men?”

The maid studied the portraits. They were of Will, Vickers, and Julien St. Juste, whom Mélanie still couldn’t think of as Arthur Mallinson.

“This gentleman took a room here. He arrived just before your friend.“ The girl indicated Will. “And this gentleman stopped in to refresh his horses an hour or so before that.“ She indicated Vickers.

“Did he say where he was bound?” Charles asked.

She shook her head. “But Tom—our ostler—commented that his horses were tired and the gentleman said they hadn’t far to go before they stopped for the night.”

“He was alone?”

“Yes, though he looked the sort who usually travels with a valet or groom.”

“What about the third man?” Mélanie asked.

The girl held the picture to the light and turned up the lamp, which let off a puff of smoke. She blew the smoke away and frowned at the picture. “A fortnight since. He stopped in for a pint and some bread and meat. His hair seemed darker though.”

“That must be the picture,” Mélanie said, though it was more likely a temporary dye St. Juste had employed. “Was he alone?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember the actual day?”

“I’m not— yes, it was Tuesday last. The day Mr. Ratley’s pigs got into the garden. It was the talk of the village. The pigs I mean."

“Do you have a private parlor available?” Charles asked.

“Of course. We’re quiet as a church now, and isn’t that the way of it? First door on your right. There’s a nice fire. I daresay you’d like a spot of tea.”

They went into the parlor, which had scuffed joinery and faded curtains but a cheerful fire burning in the grate. Mélanie stripped off her gloves and began lighting extra candles. “The day she remembers seeing St. Juste here would have been the day after his tryst with Isobel,” she said. “He must have come back."

"To meet with Carfax?" Roth said. "They were working together?"

"Possibly.“ Charles frowned. "Or St. Juste is making use of Carfax's house."

"And now Will and Vickers are meeting with Carfax?" Mélanie said. "It fits. Though it's far to come from London just for a meeting—“ She stared at the rain-splashed black kid of her boots, then looked up at Charles and saw the same idea click into place in his eyes. “Do you think they’d dare-?”

“Keep O’Roarke prisoner in Carfax’s house? It’s a damned risk whether Carfax is involved or not but so audacious they just might have tried it. Assuming they’re the ones who have O’Roarke. Assuming they’re working together at all.“

Mélanie set down the tinderbox. “If Raoul’s behind the whole thing and faked his own abduction, it would be just like him to pick Spendlove Manor to hide.”

“You don’t think O’Roarke could be working with Vickers, do you?” Roth said.

“I never put it past Raoul to be working with anyone. Perhaps Charles is right, and it’s not Will who’s betraying his comrades. Perhaps Vickers is selling Raoul information about Carfax's intelligence operations.“ Her nails scraped against the tinderbox. “Either way, it’s worth checking Spendlove Manor.”

Charles looked at Roth. “Someone has to stay here. Addison or Gordon could come back at any moment.”

“You don’t think a mere Bow Street Runner is up to the challenges of skulking about?”

“No, I think you’re the least likely to tear your hair out or rip off the paneling if you’re confined here for a bit. See if the home brew’s decent and order some dinner. We’re only going to reconnoiter. Come looking for us if we’re not back in three hours.”

“Four,” Mélanie said. “It’s raining.”

Roth stared at them a moment. “You’re both quite mad. You’re also better able to take care of yourself than just about anyone I know. But if you find O’Roarke, have the sense to send for me before you try any heroics.”

“We never try heroics,” Mélanie said, picking up her gloves. “We just calculate the odds and proceed accordingly.”

They had Randall let them off at the gates of Spendlove Manor. The rain had not let up, so Mélanie insisted Randall wait inside the carriage and partake of the flask of tea and hamper of food she had procured from the helpful maidservant at the White Hart.

“It’s relief, isn’t it?” Charles said as they started down the drive.

“What?“ Mélanie was concentrating on her footing. The wind drove the rain against them in icy spikes and the beech trees that lined the drive provided only meager shelter.

“The opportunity for uncomplicated action.”

“We can’t be at all sure it will be uncomplicated, but at least it’s action. And a chance to—“

Charles gripped her wrist. “If O’Roarke’s here, we’ll get him out. No calculating the odds and deciding they favor solo action, Mel.”

“Don’t worry, I’m a pragmatist. Raoul trained me well.”

“Pragmatic doesn’t fit your description of his rescue of you.”

“Yes, but I was never very good at following his example.”

“I’d say you learned a remarkable amount from him.“ Charles paused, staring off to the left. A slate roof was visible above the thicket of trees and hedges. Too close and too small to be the main house. “According to Bel, there’s a caretaker at the lodge,” he said. “We should find out—“

“If he knows anything.”

“And he’s more likely to spill any information he has to you. A lady alone who’s suffered an accident to her carriage.”

“While you—?”

“Have a look at the main house. We haven’t got much time before it’s completely dark.”

She put her hand on his arm. “Those lovely words about unnecessary risk apply to both of us.”

“I’m only going to have a look about.”

“I’ve heard that before. If you think they have Raoul—if you see anything that needs responding to—come and get me.”

“What did I just say myself?”

“Yes, but your advice for others doesn’t necessarily fit your own actions. In that you’re remarkably like me.”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “Be careful of the lodge-keeper. We can’t be sure anyone is what they seem.”

“Darling. I’m the last person on earth you need to say that to.“ A gust of wind blew the rain in their faces. She touched her fingers to her husband’s damp cheek.

“If I don’t find you at the lodge, meet me back at the carriage in half an hour.“ He pulled her hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss against her gloved palm.

She nodded and started for the lodge. It was a slate roofed brick building set in a tangle of larches that were probably lovely in spring but now, bare limbed and wind-tossed, lent the building a gothic aspect. Despite the lengthening shadows, no smoke issued from the neat chimney stacks and no lamps showed behind the sash windows. She paused for a moment to get her story in order and make sure her pistol was still dry in its oil skin wrapping in her reticule. Then, prepared to tell of the shocking accident to her carriage and how her coachman had walked back to the village, she rang the bell.