The Mask of Night (51 page)

No footfalls sounded in response. She wiped the rain-streaked window with her handkerchief and pressed her face to the glass. She could make out a table and what looked to be stairs. No sign of the lodge keeper or anyone else.

She debated going to catch up with Charles or returning to the carriage to wait for him. But as long as she had the time, it was tempting to reconnoiter a bit herself. She went round the side of the building and knocked at another door and then at a third at the back of the house. When she touched the handle, the door eased inward with a gentle creak.

She hesitated again, but the quiet and the unlocked door could mean some mischief had been done to the lodge-keeper. Or that Raoul was being kept in the house, though if so it was shockingly careless not to have locked the door.

She cracked her reticule so she could grip her pistol and stepped into the house.

The air was sour after the freshness of rain and wind. It was dark inside, what light there was filtered by thick, centuries-old glass. She seemed to be in a sitting room. She could make out the curved back of an old-fashioned sofa, a couple of high-backed armchairs, a thick-legged table. Eyes adjusting to the light, she crossed to the door. It opened onto a passage. More closed doors and at one end a staircase and the entry hall. She closed her eyes and drew a breath. Beneath the pervasive damp, a whiff of burning beeswax, so faint she could not be sure she hadn't imagined it.

“Is anyone there?“ She made her voice quaver, while her fingers closed round her pistol. “The door was open, so I came in. I’m afraid I suffered an accident to my carriage.“

No reply, but a perceptible stir of movement from the second door on the left. Tightening her grip on the pistol, she went down the passage and opened the door.

The smell of recently-extinguished candles drifted in the air. The lingering light from the two windows showed an uncovered dining table and chairs. The curtains—heavy worsted by the look of it—were drawn back. The far curtain on the left stirred slightly.

"I have a pistol," Mélanie said. "It would be simplest if you just came out."

A few seconds of silence, and then a woman stepped from behind the curtain and stood outlined against the glow from the windows. The hood of her cloak was pushed back, and the light picked out strands of gold in her hair.

"I should have know it was a waste of time trying to hide from you," said Hortense Bonaparte.

Charles hadn’t visited Spendlove Manor since an expedition with David when they were undergraduates. But he remembered enough to cut away from the drive, through a stand of sycamore and across a small brick footbridge. A sodden meadow stretched before him and then, above a hawthorn hedge, a flash of crow-stepped gabled roof and a cluster of chimney stacks. He could see smoke puffing from the chimneys. Which did not fit with Isobel’s description of the house being shut up.

He moved to the shelter of a stand of oak and approached the house that way. At last he emerged from the trees. Through the rain, he had a view of rosy Elizabethan brick and mullioned windows. He was at the back of the house. No light shone behind these windows and the cluster of chimneys directly above were not smoking.

The smoke seemed to be coming from the front of the house. Lighting a fire would be stupid if they were holding O’Roarke prisoner. It fit more with Vickers and Gordon holding a meeting. With Carfax? With a member of the Elsinore League? Le Faucon de Maulévrier? Or perhaps O’Roarke wasn’t a prisoner at all. Perhaps he was lying low here as Mélanie had speculated, and Vickers and Gordon had come to see him.

Charles moved out of the trees, receiving a peppering of rain on his face, and started round the side of the house.

“Hold there. Come out slowly. Hands in the air.”

He found himself staring at a stout man in the unmistakable uniform of the British Army. His ill-fitting red coat identified him as belonging to the 6
^th
Foot. He held a musket leveled at Charles. “What do you think you’re doing here?” he demanded.

“My name’s Fraser. Charles Fraser. I was at school with Lord Carfax’s son. If you let me reach into my coat, I can show you my card.”

“Never mind about that. No one’s supposed to come near the house. Orders.”

“Whose orders?”

“Lord Carfax’s.”

“Lord Carfax sent you here? Did he actually speak to you?”

“Not half an hour since.”

“He’s in the house?”

“For a friend of the family, you don’t know very much, do you?”

“If you take me to Lord Carfax, I think we can clear this whole matter up.“ And hopefully the question of what the devil the earl was doing here. Why would he need British soldiers for a meeting with Vickers and Gordon?

The soldier stared at Charles for a long moment, while the rain hammered down between them. Then he gave a grunt of acknowledgement and jerked his head toward the house.

They went through a side door into a narrow passage. No candles burned in the wall sconces, but two more soldiers stood at the end of the passage. Charles could see the red gleam of their coats in the shadows.

“Says his name’s Charles Fraser,” the soldier who had found him said, closing the door. “We’re to take him to Lord Carfax.”

The other soldiers nodded. Something in those nods prickled Charles’s senses. He eased his hand into his greatcoat pocket for his pistol. As he did so, he caught a rush of movement out of the corner of his eye. He spun round, the pistol in his hand, just as a heavy weight crashed into his skull.

Chapter 35

Despite everything, I'm glad we had the chance to become friends.

Hortense Bonaparte to Mélanie Lescaut

10 November, 1811

Hortense stared at the pistol in Mélanie's hand, then lifted her gaze to meet Mélanie's own. "I should have known better than to try to hide from you. But I had to at least make an effort."

Mélanie kept her grip steady on her pistol. "I've learned trust is a chimera. I'm so used to betrayal I almost take it for granted. But I never thought to find myself holding a pistol on you."

"Mélanie—"

"Perhaps you should light the candles. We have a lot of talking to do."

Hortense moved to the table and picked up a tinderbox. "Can you put the pistol away?"

"I don’t think that would be a good idea just now."

"You can't possibly—"

"I think all questions of what is and isn't possible are open to review."

The tapers flared to life. The light danced over Hortense's face, set with a wariness Mélanie had never before seen upon her features, even in the darkest days of their journey into Switzerland. "I was concerned when you didn't keep our appointment today," Mélanie said. "I'm relieved to see no harm has befallen you. Unless you're being kept prisoner here?"

"If I were you I could spin a story about how I'd been abducted. But even then I expect you'd see through me. So I can only ask you to believe that my reasons are good ones. I know you aren't happy with me. But I think we both know you won't really use that pistol, so—"

"Raoul was abducted last night," Mélanie said.

"Abducted—?"

"We don't know if he's still alive. Every moment counts. So don't be too sure of what I would and wouldn't do."

"You'd risk a lot for him. But there are things I'd risk a lot for as well."

"The papers about your and Flahaut's child do exist. But Carfax didn't have them. St. Juste did. He used them to force you to help him. Which included lying to me."

"You're my friend, Mélanie. But I can't trust you any more. You're English now."

"I'm nothing of the sort."

"Your loyalties are here."

"My loyalties are with the people I care for. Including you.“ Mélanie threw the pistol down on the table. "For God's sake, Hortense, if need be, I'll go to France myself and bring your son to England. Charles and I can protect him. I give you my word."

"You can't guarantee that."

"And you can't guarantee he'll be safe if you don't talk to me. But I can guarantee you'll regret it if you don't help me put an end to whatever St. Juste's associates are involved in.“ Mélanie leaned forward, hands on the cool wood of the table, face close to the heat of the candle flames. "Believe me."

Hortense released her breath. "St. Juste came to see me two months ago as I told you. He was polite, charming even. But he made the consequences if I didn't do as he asked abundantly clear.“ She gripped her elbows. "I know what he was to you and to my mother. But he terrified me."

"He terrified me too. I think that was part of his attraction."

Hortense's fingers pressed into the blue velvet folds of her cloak. "He outlined the plan. At least my part in it. First I was to summon M. O'Roarke and ask him to have certain pamphlets printed in England."

"St. Juste wanted the pamphlets printed?"

"St. Juste wanted Raoul in England."

"Why?"

"I'm not sure. He also wanted me to write a letter to M. O'Roarke mentioning the Wanderer. M. O'Roarke never replied."

"Then St. Juste sent you to me. He wanted you to persuade me to retrieve certain documents from Lord Carfax for him."

"You took the documents from Carfax?" Hortense asked.

"Yes."

"What's in them?"

"You don't know?"

"St. Juste didn't tell me. Just what I should say to you to get you to retrieve them."

"They have to do with St. Juste's past."

"His past—?"

"He was English."

"Sacrebleu."

"And after St. Juste's died?“ Mélanie said. "You continued with the plot."

"At first I thought I was free. But after I met you in the park, I received a message in the code St. Juste and I had used. The message made it plain I had to continue with my part of the plot or the truth about my child would be revealed. I was in an even more precarious position, because St. Juste had felt some loyalty to Maman. I don't think his confederate feels anything of the sort."

"Who is his confederate?"

"I don't know. I swear it."

"What were you supposed to do?"

"Contact Flahaut.“ Above the silk ties of her cloak, the pulse in Hortense's throat quickened with fear or guilt. "Ask him to contact Carfax for me. Again saying I had information about the Wanderer."

"Do you know what the Wanderer is?"

The candle flame glinted in Hortense's wide, dark eyes. "You know, don't you? You've learned what was in the paper Maman wanted you to retrieve from St. Juste ten years ago."

"I want to hear you say it."

"It's the Dauphin. St. Juste smuggled him out of the Temple for Maman and Barras and substituted another boy."

"How long have you known?"

"Maman told me after my stepfather was exiled. Not long before she died. St. Juste's confederate ordered me to set up a meeting at this Spendlove Manor with Flahaut and Lord Carfax. I was to come down here in case they were watching me. But I was to wait at the lodge until the meeting was over."

"St. Juste's confederate would meet them in your stead?"

Hortense nodded. "To force Carfax to go along with the plan to restore the Dauphin."

"And Raoul?"

"I don't know. I didn't know they meant to abduct him. If I had—"

Mélanie flung up a hand to silence her. A faint creak had sounded in the passage. A distinct footfall followed. The sort made by a boot heel on squeaky timber. Whoever it was was not taking care to disguise their presence.

"Stay here," Mélanie mouthed to Hortense.

Pistol in hand, she slipped into the passage. No one was in view, but more footfalls sounded from the front hall. She flattened herself against the wall.

A man appeared round the bend in the passage, pale hair catching the wavering light. His features were indistinguishable, but something in his posture tugged at her memory.

“Mélanie, my sweet, these unexpected meetings in deserted cottages are becoming something of a habit.”

Mélanie leveled her pistol at the man she’d last seen wielding a sword against her husband. “What the hell are you doing here, Tommy?”