The Mayfair Affair (11 page)

"Did you recognize him?" Suzanne asked.

"Yes, though I had climbed the stairs to the nursery before I could place him. I only met him two or three times, and it was years ago, when they first returned to England."

"Returned?" Cordelia asked.

"I'm sorry, I'm prattling again." Henrietta reached for her tea. "It was Colonel Hampson, Jane's father. Jack's wife," she added, in case the family tree proved too complicated.

Suzanne tried to not betray her quickening senses. "Were he and Trenchard friends?"

"Not in the least. That is, I don't believe they knew each other well. Colonel Hampson was stationed in India when Jack met Jane. Trenchard went to India shortly after and was there for a couple of years, but he wasn't at Fort Arthur the whole time. I don't know how much he saw Colonel Hampson. Trenchard came back to England after Jack and Jane were killed in that dreadful accident. Colonel Hampson sold out and took up residence in London with his family two years ago. They dined at Trenchard House and Mary would invite them to parties occasionally, but they— moved in different circles."

Cordelia added more milk to her tea. "Trenchard thought Jack had married beneath him."

"No. That is— The Hampsons have property in Derbyshire. A very respectable family. Colonel Hampson was a younger son."

Suzanne was now well enough versed in the gradations in the English ton to read between the lines. Country gentry. Not in trade—which would have put them beyond the pale—but a world away from a ducal coronet. "Do you have any idea why the duke and Hampson would have quarreled?" she asked.

Henrietta shook her head. "They'd seemed perfectly cordial in the past."

"Did Jane have a settlement?" Cordelia asked.

Henrietta flushed, but marriage settlements, too, were the way of the world among this set. "I'm sure she did. James would know more. But all that would have been tended to years ago. And it's not as though they had children to consider. The child Jane was carrying died with her."

"And Jane was the only connection between the two men?" Suzanne asked.

"Yes, of course. As I said, they moved in different circles, and they didn't even meet until after Jack and Jane married. But the look on Colonel Hampson's face— One doesn't get so angry with someone without strong reason indeed."

Laura Dudley stared at the gray wall of her cell in Newgate. The single, narrow, high-set window, with its deep frame and iron bars. Specks of mildew filtered the light. Not that the light in England was ever very bright. Nothing like the home of her childhood. It was another life, yet if she closed her eyes she could still feel the bright, clear heat on her face.

The walls seemed to close in on her. Sometimes she had to go still and force herself to draw deep breaths. She was going soft.

She cast a quick glance at the door. Had she heard footsteps? Or was it her overactive imagination? Visitors helped. They cut the monotony and the restless, relentless bombardment of her thoughts. They broke through the choking, shameful panic. But with the relief came an appalling risk. Because of course they asked questions. Why had she always found too much allure in risk?

A key scraped in the iron lock. She tensed, smoothed her skirt, ran a quick hand over her hair. Who would have thought the Rannochs would become her lifeline?

And yet when the door swung open, it wasn't Mr. or Mrs. Rannoch who stepped into the room. The footsteps told her she was wrong first. Quicker than either of the Rannochs. And then the greasy light fell on the sharp, incisive features of Raoul O'Roarke.

"Miss Dudley," he said, as the turnkey closed the heavy door behind him. "I hope I may prevail upon you to grant me a few moments of your time."

"Your sense of irony is priceless, Mr. O'Roarke."

"You could ask me to leave."

For a moment she was tempted to do so. But information was valuable. And then there was the fatal allure of risk. "Won't you sit down, Mr. O'Roarke?"

O'Roarke set his hat on the splintery table, then pulled out one of the chairs and held it out for her. Laura could not resist shooting him a smile as she sank into the chair, settling her sadly dust-spattered gray skirts. An image of O'Roarke tossing a ball with Colin Rannoch danced before her eyes.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" she asked. "Thanks to Mr. and Mrs. Rannoch, I have a spirit lamp and a tea caddy with an excellent selection."

"Thank you, no. But I'm glad you're provided for." He dropped into the chair opposite her, laid his gloves beside his hat, but did not immediately speak. A tactic she was familiar with. Trenchard had frequently employed it. Yet it still unsettled her.

"I assume you've come to talk about the Duke of Trenchard's death," she said. "I've already told the Rannochs everything I know."

"I thought it might be more efficient if we spoke directly. I suspect your protective instincts have been getting in the way."

"And you thought I'd be less inclined to protect myself with you?"

O'Roarke sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. "It's not yourself you're protecting. It's Malcolm and Suzanne."

Wariness shot through her. "You flatter me, Mr. O'Roarke. But if you imagine that in the midst of my personal crisis I'm driven by concern for my employers—"

"I'm quite certain you are. You've just all but confirmed it. As someone with a more than passing fondness for them myself, I'm grateful. But it will only cause difficulties. They won't give up trying to help you. Nor would I want them to."

"My dear Mr. O'Roarke, do you know that I was put in their household to spy on them?"

"Yes, I was with them when they found the papers."

"And you think—"

"You wouldn't be the first person to be driven by guilt combined with affection."

"You're presumptuous."

"I think not." He tented his fingers on the table. "How much do you know?"

"Rather a broad question."

"About Suzanne and Malcolm."

She looked into his eyes. For reasons she could not entirely explain, a dozen lies died on her lips. She met that dark gaze, neutral and yet compelling, and found herself saying, "Mrs. Rannoch was a French agent."

He didn't move a muscle, but for a moment she saw pure fear shoot through him. Which revealed rather a lot about him and his relationship to the Rannochs. Two could play at this game. "If you've told me that so easily—"

"You were her spymaster."

O'Roarke released his breath. He scarcely moved, but she could hear the rough scrape. "My compliments. Have you known all along?"

"No. I overheard enough three months ago to make me suspicious. Trenchard confirmed the rest."

O'Roarke's fingers tensed, but he didn't look as surprised as she'd have expected. "Did he?"

"He didn't like you very much."

"You are a master of understatement, Miss Dudley. Have you—"

"Told anyone? Of course not."

His gaze held her like a vise across the table. "There isn't necessarily any 'of course' about it."

"You're the one who said I was protecting the Rannochs."

"And you admit it now?"

"I don't admit anything. Save that I wouldn't like to see any harm come to Colin and Jessica's parents."

"And yet you spied on them."

"Surely you know what it is to feel sympathy for those you're spying on."

She saw memories shoot through his eyes. "A palpable hit, Miss Dudley."

"I'm hardly in a position to blame anyone for spying." She hesitated. "I believe Mrs. Rannoch loves her husband very much."

"Did Trenchard tell you that?"

"No, Trenchard has—had—little use for either of them. But it was hardly the first thing on which we didn't see eye to eye."

O'Roarke inclined his head. She had the sense he was measuring her. "Did Trenchard tell you anything else about the Rannochs?"

"He asked a number of questions about your visits to the house."

"Did he?"

"I believe he thought you might be Mrs. Rannoch's lover. Still."

"What did you tell him?"

"That I couldn't be sure. But I doubted it." She hesitated, wondering whom she was protecting now. She drew a breath, glanced about the hard gray walls, then leaned forwards, hands clasped on the table in front of her. "But surely now you understand my determination to keep the Rannochs out of this. The last thing Mrs. Rannoch needs is to be anywhere near an investigation that could uncover her secrets."

"Mrs. Rannoch will never stay away from such investigations. Fortunately, she's exceedingly good at taking care of herself. And Malcolm knows the truth. Now."

A piece of the puzzle that was her employers clicked into place in her head. Absurd to feel such a rush of relief, as though she'd heard an old friend had survived a perilous crossing. "I thought so. Last December?"

"Given your skills at observation, it's not surprising you noticed."

"It was plain something had shifted between them. That was when I started to grow suspicious. Trenchard tried to imply Mrs. Rannoch might have a lover." She paused. She couldn't ask, but the unvoiced question lingered in the air.

"No," O'Roarke said, "not me. Not after they were married. Not anyone, I think."

"You didn't have to tell me that."

"You didn't—don't—have to believe me. But I think you deserved an answer. Or perhaps that's one calumny I don't like to have believed."

"I can see that."

"Can you?"

"It cheapens what both the Rannochs mean to you."

Once again she saw her words shoot home in his gaze, though in a different way from before. She had found his vulnerability. She should be filing it away for future advantage instead of wasting energy on compassion. But instead of probing further, she said, "Things seem easier now between them."

"Yes. Malcolm has a remarkable capacity to see things from another's perspective."

"I imagine it's still difficult for them," she said.

"And will be for a long time, I should think. Speaking as an outside observer."

A very concerned outside observer, if her judgment was correct. She should have pressed against his vulnerability, but she hesitated for reasons she wouldn't have been able to articulate. He took advantage of the pause to slide his armor back into place. "You said at the start Trenchard had you convinced you were spying for Britain."

"It helped to salve my conscience." They were both on safer ground now.

"And now you know that Suzanne and I were working for Britain's enemy."

Laura shrugged. "As I said, it helped salve my conscience; I was hardly driven by patriotism. And I could hardly blame others for a life of deception without being a complete hypocrite."

"That doesn't stop most people from blaming others."

She found herself smiling, though it hurt her mouth. "I have to draw my limits somewhere."

"Did you know Trenchard was trying to blackmail Suzanne?"

Laura jerked despite herself. "You're sure?"

"I found a letter he'd written to her the night of the murder."

"You—" She stared into those cool gray eyes. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised you were there."

"I'm rather relieved that you didn't know already."

"You overrate my skills, Mr. O'Roarke."

"I think not. Do you have any idea why Trenchard would have wanted a file from Lord Carfax?"

She shook her head. "Other than the obvious fact that anything Carfax possessed was likely of interest? No. Trenchard asked me for information. He wasn't inclined to confide in me about why he wanted it or what he intended to do with it."

"Which I'm sure didn't stop you from discerning things."

"I tried. But I wasn't aware of anything concerning Carfax."

O'Roarke studied her for a moment. "Who else knows about Suzanne?"

Laura wasn't sure if his use of Mrs. Rannoch's given name was a slip of the tongue or a sign that they were beyond pretense. "No one."

"That you know of."

"That I know of."