The Mayfair Affair (19 page)

Suzanne met her friend's gaze in the cool morning light and nodded. "It's going to be hard for Malcolm. For all he says they were never close, he thinks of Mary like a sister."

"And then there's the fact that David lied to him."

Suzanne nodded. "Quite."

Theodore Hawkins's chambers spoke of the discreet luxury of one who served the wealthy and powerful, but would not be so vulgar as to draw attention to himself—or to his clients. Thick-piled rugs (English Axminster, nothing foreign). Polished oak furniture with a look of the last century. Leather and velvet upholstery, just worn enough not to look too new.

A clerk conducted James and Malcolm at once into Hawkins's office. Hawkins, a man of about Trenchard's age, with thinning sandy hair and shrewd hazel eyes, came forwards to meet them. If he was surprised that Malcolm accompanied James, he was too used to accepting his clients' whims to show it. He offered the expected condolences, which James accepted with a thanks that was courteous but did not prolong the discussion.

Hawkins returned to his desk, and James and Malcolm settled themselves in the leather chairs before the desk. "We obviously have a number of things to discuss," James said. "But to begin with, I am interested in the recent changes my father made to his will."

Hawkins's spine shot infinitesimally straighter. "If you doubt the authenticity—"

"Not in the least. But I am curious about my father's reasons. And he is no longer here to ask."

"He didn't confide in me about his reasons."

"When did this occur?"

Hawkins folded his hands on the burgundy tooled leather of the blotter. "Your father came to me to change his will a fortnight before his death, my lor—Your Grace."

"Are you telling me that was the first time you heard of this Emily Saunders?"

"No." Hawkins realigned a stack of papers so the edges matched up precisely. "The first would have been—it must be nearly four years now. The summer of 1814. When His Grace—your father—had me set up quarterly payments."

"To this Emily."

"For her use."

James fixed Hawkins with the sort of hard, measured gaze Malcolm had seen him employ across the House. "Who was she?"

"The duke never said." Hawkins tugged the top paper smooth. "I assumed—a dependant of your father's."

"His mistress or illegitimate daughter."

"It wasn't for me to judge or question, Your Grace. She could have been the widow or daughter of someone to whom he felt indebted. A retainer. A friend who died in the war."

James continued to regard Hawkins as though unsure whether or not to believe him. "My father offered no hint?"

"You know your father, Your Grace. He was not the sort to disclose information."

James tapped his booted foot on the floor. "Where is Emily now?'

"I'm afraid I cannot say, my lord."

"Damn it, Hawkins." James slapped his gloves down on the carved chair arm. "I suppose your loyalty to my father is commendable. But I'm the Duke of Trenchard now." He said it with faint surprise, as though he were still coming to terms with it himself, and yet with enough force that it caught Hawkins's attention.

"You misunderstand, my lord. Your Grace." Hawkins coughed. "I am not, and never have been, aware of Emily Saunders' whereabouts."

"Where did you make the payments?"

"To a bank account in Maidstone. In the name of J. Smith."

"An obvious alias."

Hawkins drew a breath as though to prevaricate, then inclined his head. "So it would seem, my lord."

"Did J. Smith ever communicate with you?" Malcolm asked.

"No, Mr. Rannoch. There was never any need. We always made the payments. They were always collected."

"Father didn't say anything to you about how to contact Miss Saunders in the event of his death?" James asked.

"No, my— Your Grace. Your father was in good health, and I fear, when settling their estates, the most sensible people can neglect to make plans for unforeseen circumstances. I have been mulling over what to do, but I believe the only course of action is to write to Miss Saunders at the address I have for J. Smith."

James flicked a glance at Malcolm. "We'll take care of it."

"My— Your Grace—"

"We'll need the address," James said.

"If—"

"The address, Hawkins."

"Of course. Your Grace."

James looked at Malcolm as they descended the steps of Hawkins's chambers. "Do you have someone you can send to Maidstone?"

Malcolm paused on the bottom step. "Tarr— James—"

James swung round to look at him. "You're going to send someone to Maidstone in any case, aren't you?"

"No sense in wasting time denying it."

"And whoever you send will be ten times better at learning the truth than anyone I could send." James glanced down the street at the fog-shrouded lampposts. "I don't know where this will lead, Malcolm. But I do know I want to learn the truth. I need to learn the truth. More than I need to keep that truth from you. Besides"—he gave a faint half-smile—"I know I haven't a prayer in hell of doing so."

"Trenchard paid his staff decently, as these things go." Miles Addison dropped into a chair in Malcolm's study. "But more than one housemaid left abruptly, after Trenchard was seen to have been paying rather more attention to her than met with the housekeeper's approval."

Malcolm grimaced. Love affairs had been commonplace among his parents' set, and in cases where both partners went their own way, he could even acknowledge it could be a solution to the problems of marriages that were often arranged. But taking advantage of those dependent on one was a line he couldn't tolerate crossing. "Were any of the housemaids named Emily?" he asked.

Addison shook his head. "I asked specifically. But it's possible—"

"That one of them bore him a child named Emily."

Addison inclined his head. "Though I confess I would be a bit surprised if the duke left a large legacy to the daughter of a housemaid."

Malcolm met his valet's gaze. Addison had been with him since his Oxford days. Addison had summoned David and Simon after Malcolm's clumsy effort to slash his wrists. He and Malcolm had shared an uncounted number of adventures in the Peninsula. They had the camaraderie of fellow spies. Malcolm thought of Addison as a friend. But he was also a valet. And because they weren't either of them the sort for confidences, Malcolm wasn't sure how his friend felt about the treatment of his peers.

It was only in observing Suzanne's relationship with Blanca, in the light of what he now knew about both of them, that Malcolm had begun to see what might be lacking in his relationship with Addison.

"No," he agreed, meeting Addison's gaze squarely, "I don't think it likely either, knowing what I do of the duke. But we have to consider all possibilities. Any indication any of the servants may have been angry enough with His Grace to kill him?"

"Not based on my initial discussions with them. But," Addison continued, in his mild, measured way, "I had the distinct sense that His Grace's behavior could have provoked murderous impulses. The clearest argument against it is your description of the murder scene. I can't see the Duke of Trenchard pouring a drink for a servant."

"Nor can I." Malcolm leaned back in his chair. "I'd like you to go to Maidstone, Addison. There's a bank there that's been making payments to Emily Saunders."

"Of course."

It was said courteously, but though Malcolm had always asked Addison to undertake every mission he'd sent him on, they both knew perfectly well Addison would never refuse. "My apologies to Blanca," Malcolm said.

Addison's mouth curved in a faint smile. "Blanca will only be sorry not to be going along. Not because of me—or not entirely. Because she hates to miss out on a mission."

That was one change of the past three months. Addison's relationship with Blanca was now something they could speak openly about. And Malcolm and Addison now shared more than their adventures of the past ten years. They were both married to women who had been Bonapartist agents. And they each knew the other's wife's secrets. They were both the sort to crave safety in their personal relationships, but if they'd ever been able to retreat into the safety of the roles of master and valet, that door had slammed shut three months ago.

"I imagine there will be plenty for Blanca to do here," Malcolm said.

"Valentin can help you in my absence," Addison said. "Your new coats should arrive from Hobbs by the end of the week and the linen is in good order—"

"Addison," Malcolm said. "It wouldn't bother me in the least if my attire was less than perfect."

Addison gave a rare full smile. "Perhaps not, sir. But you must permit me the pride of my profession."

"One of your professions." What might Addison have done if circumstances had allowed him more scope for his talents?

"I don't see your intelligence work making you any less meticulous about the wording of your parliamentary speeches, sir." Addison hesitated a moment. "I prefer not to operate on instinct, as I'm sure you realize, sir. But I find it very difficult to believe Miss Dudley killed the Duke of Trenchard."

"So do I," Malcolm said. "Addison," he added, as Addison started to get up.

"Sir?"

Addison was one of the few people who knew about the bank account in Switzerland and the papers in the bottom of Malcolm's dispatch box, but still Malcolm hesitated. One could share secrets without being in the habit of referring to them. "It seems Trenchard knew about Suzanne."

Malcolm had rarely seen such pure fear shoot through his valet's gaze, but Addison merely said, "I see."

"And apparently someone else knew as well, someone who is attempting to blackmail Suzanne. We're meeting him tonight."

Addison's gaze didn't waver from Malcolm's face. "Are you certain you want me to leave town, sir?"

"I give you my word I'll ensure Blanca's safety."

"That wasn't what I was thinking of. I trust you—implicitly, sir. But if you need—"

"Your help is always invaluable, Addison. But we have O'Roarke's assistance."

"Between Mr. O'Roarke and Mrs. Rannoch, you should have things well in hand." Addison had always seemed to like O'Roarke. For all Addison knew about Malcolm, he didn't know O'Roarke was Malcolm's father.

"I hope so," Malcolm said. "I don't anticipate an immediate crisis. We'll manage. It's more important to get a report from Maidstone and trace Emily Saunders. But, should anything unforeseen occur. Should I be detained, or killed, or otherwise put out of commission—"

"I'll make sure Mrs. Rannoch and the children get out of the country, sir." The gaze Addison gave Malcolm was unequivocally that of a friend. "My word on it."

"Thank you." Despite everything, Malcolm smiled. "Not that I need your word to know it's true."