The Mayfair Affair (29 page)

"Craven went to India on Trenchard's mission seven years ago," Malcolm said, relieved to be on territory on which there was no need to dissemble.

"You think that's connected to the murder?" Roth picked up a piece of toast and then stared at it, as though too exhausted to spread marmalade on it.

"It connects the two men," Malcolm said.

Roth nodded. "The murder methods were quite different. Trenchard's murder looked as though it might have been a crime of impulse. Craven's seems to have been planned." He picked up the marmalade knife. "Lady Craven had no idea of why he was in the Park in the early hours of the morning."

"Do you think he had a rendezvous with the murderer?" Suzanne asked.

"That seemed the obvious assumption. But I found evidence of at least two sets of footprints, in addition to Craven's, in the ground by the willows. Carefully covered over, but still there."

Malcolm sat back in his chair. "The killer covering over their tracks?"

"Perhaps. Or Craven was meeting with someone else and was ambushed, either by someone in collusion with whomever he was meeting, or someone entirely separate."

Malcolm took a sip of coffee. "Interesting. Which still doesn't give us a reason for either the meeting or the murder, whether or not they're connected."

"No." Roth took an absent bite of toast. "Can you have a word with Louisa Craven? I think she'll talk to you more freely."

"You think she knows something she isn't telling you?"

"I'm not sure. But I'm quite sure if she does know anything, she wouldn't share it with me. People don't do well keeping secrets from you, Malcolm."

Malcolm took a sip of coffee. "You'd be surprised."

Roth laughed. "Doing it much too brown. If—"

The door swung open and David strode into the room. "My God, Malcolm. What's happening?"

The fact that he had shown himself in and didn't even pause to acknowledge Suzanne or Roth was a testament to his state of mind.

Malcolm pushed himself to his feet. "I wish we had something to tell you."

"Why the devil didn't you—" David drew a sharp breath. "My apologies, Suzanne. Roth. "

"There's nothing to apologize for." Suzanne poured a cup of coffee and held it out to him. "Do sit down, David."

David dropped into a chair and accepted the coffee, though he scarcely seemed aware of what it was. "Why didn't you tell me, Malcolm?"

Malcolm returned to his own chair. "We didn't know ourselves until Blanca got word from one of the Craven staff." The words sounded perfectly normal to his own ears despite the bitter bite on his tongue. Not the first time he had lied to David, but it felt like one of the worst.

David gulped down a swallow of coffee. "And you didn't send word?"

"It wasn't for me to break family news."

"Damn it, Malcolm." David, who almost never swore, particularly in front of women, clunked the coffee cup down on the table. "You've been like part of our family for twenty years."

"But I'm not." In some ways Carfax House and Carfax Court had been the closest thing he'd had to a home. But in others, he'd always felt a bit like the street urchin with his face pressed up against the window, looking at the family warmth inside. Malcolm took a quick swallow of coffee that burned his tongue. Not that it wasn't presumptuous to compare his pampered childhood to that of a street urchin. "Particularly not now."

"You mean because you're investigating." David leaned across the table in the sort of posture he would normally never display. "That's it, isn't it? You wanted to see how we'd all react to this on our own, without you interfering. Because we're all suspects."

"David—" Malcolm's mouth smarted, no doubt from the scalding coffee. "I'm trying to think like an investigator. But I couldn't stop being your friend if I tried."

David slumped back in his chair. "Mary sent word to me. She was afraid Louisa wouldn't reach out to me. Which was true, though Mary did, in the same circumstances. My God, I can't believe two of my sisters have gone through this in less than a week."

Suzanne buttered a piece of toast and set it front of David. "Try to eat that, if you can. It will help — No, not that, precisely, but it will help you keep going. Forgive me, I can't stop thinking like a mother."

David stared at the toast. "Simon said if he put this in a play no one would believe it. Not that Simon would ever think to write anything so—"

"Jacobean," Suzanne said.

David flashed her a twisted smile. "That's what Simon said."

"Can you think of a connection between Trenchard and Craven?" Malcolm asked. "Besides the obvious. You spent time with both of them."

"Not if I could avoid it. We were at odds politically, and we hadn't much in common otherwise. I dined with them occasionally and suffered through a few ghastly Christmases."

Malcolm shut his mind to Mary's account of her suspicions about one particular Christmas. If he could help it, David would never learn the truth, for his sisters' sakes and his own. "How did they get on?"

David broke off a piece of toast, but stared at it instead of eating it. "Trenchard never seemed to have much use for Craven. Craven spent his time pursuing the maids. Forgive me, Suzanne."

"You should know me well enough to know I have no sensibilities to be offended, David."

"Did Craven have any enemies you know of, Lord Worsley?" Roth spoke up for the first time.

"Aside from the abandoned housemaids?" David grimaced. "I'm not in Tory circles, but from what my father said, I gather he wasn't taken very seriously. He needed Father's help even to get the position at the Board of Control. I've always suspected that was why he offered for Louisa. Why in God's name my sisters chose the men they did—"

The door opened, not to admit Valentin, who was serving, but Michael, who was on duty in the hall. "Forgive me, sir, but Lord Carfax has called."

Malcolm glanced from David to Suzanne. "You'd better bring him in."

"He asked to be shown to the study, sir," Michael said. "And to ask you to join him there."

"How like Father," David muttered. "Ordering someone else's household."

Malcolm pushed back his chair. "Do you want to come with me, David?"

David shook his head. "He called to see you, not me. And I'd only muddy the waters for you. After all, this is your investigation."

Michael had shown Carfax into the study. The earl was standing by the windows, the wintery light at his back. Michael must have taken his greatcoat and hat, but Carfax was holding his gloves in a tight grip. He spun round at the opening of the door.

"I'm sorry," Malcolm said. "Your family have been through an unconscionable amount, as it is."

For a moment Carfax's cold gaze seemed about to shatter. Then he slammed his gloves down on the table. "Damn it, Malcolm, this wasn't supposed to happen."

"I assure you, sir, I didn't kill Craven." Which was true as far as it went.

"You were supposed to tidy away the loose ends."

"I was supposed to learn the truth of Trenchard's murder."

"Before someone else was killed."

Malcolm swallowed. "Believe me, sir, no one regrets Craven's murder more than I do. If it proves I could have prevented it, I'll never forgive myself."

Carfax dropped into the armchair beside the desk. "You're too hard on yourself, Malcolm. You always have been. I can hardly blame you for Craven's death. You aren't powerful enough. It's just that I want to blame someone."

"I understand the feeling." Malcolm moved to the desk and hitched himself up on the edge.

Carfax tented his fingers together. "Louisa was the daughter Amelia and I worried about. She doesn't have Mary's toughness, Bel's stoicism, Georgiana's artless charm, or Lucinda's boundless good humor. At least, so we thought. She showed a remarkable amount of both toughness and stoicism when I spoke with her this morning." He tilted his head back against the chairback. "I suppose you want to talk to her."

"Are you telling me not to?"

"On the contrary." Carfax's mouth had the hardness of a spymaster, while his eyes showed the regret of a father. "We need to learn what she knows. If she'll talk to anyone, she'll talk to you."

Malcolm nodded. "I'll do my best."

"Malcolm," Carfax said.

"Sir?"

Carfax pushed his spectacles up on his nose. "I've accused you in the past of being too sensitive to the feelings of those involved in your investigations. I trust I can rely on your regrettable sensitivity continuing in this case?"

Pity was not an emotion Malcolm associated with Carfax. The earl never ceased to take him by surprise. "You can, sir."

At the sound of the decisive footsteps outside her door, Laura felt her mood lighten, even as she tensed with wariness. Odd that she recognized even his footsteps. She didn't know him that well. The monotony of prison must really be grating on her if she was cheered by the prospect of another interrogation.

"I was wondering how long it would take you to come," she said as Raoul O'Roarke stepped into the room.

"I'd have been here sooner, but I stopped for supplies." O'Roarke advanced into the room and set a hamper on the table.

The key scraped as the turnkey locked them in. Laura regarded the hamper. She had seen similar ones tucked into the Rannochs' open landau on expeditions to picnic at Richmond. "That's from Fortnum's."

"Do you object to Fortnum's?" O'Roarke opened the hamper, took out a linen cloth, tossed it over the table, and then proceeded to extract a loaf of bread, a hunk of cheddar and one of Stilton, scotched eggs, and apples and oranges. "Perhaps it's hypocritical of me to relish such a symbol of the British establishment, but I confess I'm quite fond of their hampers."

"It seems a bit extravagant for Newgate."

"On the contrary." O'Roarke pulled two glasses from the hamper, followed by a wine bottle. "It seems precisely what is called for in circumstances like these."

Laura raised her brows. "It's not yet noon."

"Don't tell me you're the sort to let tiresome conventions stand in your way." O'Roarke pulled a corkscrew from his greatcoat pocket and extracted the cork with one clean twist.

The aroma of good Bordeaux filled the cell, driving out the mildew. "I have a feeling I'm going to need my wits about me."

"I promise not to take advantage." O'Roarke filled a glass a third full and handed it to her.

"My dear Mr. O'Roarke. Surely you don't think I trust you any more than you trust me."

"Actually, I trust you more than any number of people I could name." He pulled a chair out from the table and handed her into it.

"I thought you were wiser than that."

"I make no pretensions to wisdom. But I am a reasonably good judge of people." O'Roarke put a hand on her elbow as she dropped into the chair. Perhaps an automatic courtesy, perhaps an unexpected gesture of support.

"Did you come here to judge if I told the Rannochs the truth last night?"

"I came here for a number of reasons. Including the fact that I thought you deserved a good meal." He dropped into the chair across from her and poured himself a glass of wine.

"They do feed me," Laura said. "Mr. and Mrs. Rannoch have been very generous."

"I don't doubt it. But I doubt you've had a great deal of variety." He picked up the cheese knife. "My memory of this Stilton is that it's quite good. May I cut you some?"

Unbidden tears gathered behind her eyes. She took a determined sip of wine to still them. And then, against all her instincts, she found herself saying, "My father always said there was nothing like the taste of Stilton to bring back England."

"Interesting how smells and tastes do that. Olives never fail to take me back to Spain, and cabbage does the same for Ireland."

She took the bread and Stilton he was holding out and took a bite to prove she could do so with equanimity. "You're a man with two countries."

"You must know a bit about that. India and England."

Damn. She'd meant to turn the conversation to him but instead had turned it back to herself. "Until I came here with the Rannochs a year ago, I'd only visited England twice. At five and at fifteen. What I chiefly remember from the first visit is thinking how cold it was. And from the second, lamenting that my clothes were hopelessly behind the fashion."

O'Roarke picked up one of the oranges and began to peel it. "I understand Malcolm and Suzanne saw your parents yesterday."

She took a defensive sip of wine. "You should understand that I've changed so much I can scarcely think of them as my parents anymore."

"It's an odd thing about playing a role. One may lose track of whom one started out as, beneath the layers of defense. But I've found that that core is still there." He began to break the orange into quarters.

"Do you think Suzanne Rannoch would agree?"

"I think she's still sorting it out for herself." O'Roarke offered her a piece of orange.

She couldn't resist. Even with the Rannochs, who could send for them from orangeries at various country estates, oranges were a delicacy. "Oranges must make you think of Spain," she said.

"Actually, they make me think of Christmas. Which I haven't celebrated in years, except in disguise."

"We always had them at Christmas." For a moment, the sharing of memories, safe, childhood memories, eased the tension in the room.

O'Roarke handed her another quarter of orange. "Did you meet Lord Craven when he came to India with Trenchard?"

She blinked at the question, but then that had probably been O'Roarke's point. The past quarter hour over the Fortnum's hamper had been the equivalent of small talk to put her at her ease. She had known that, but still she had succumbed to the companionship and the brief escape. "Of course. Craven was assisting Trenchard. They both dined with us nearly every night." Lord Craven seemed a relatively harmless conversational subject, but her defenses still slammed into place.

"Did Craven know what had happened to you?"

"I don't know." She realized she was gripping her elbows. She forced her fingers to unclench and folded her hands in her lap. "I asked Trenchard about that when the Rannochs told me we were moving to London. Trenchard said not to concern myself. I don't know what that meant—that Craven already knew, that Trenchard didn't think we would meet, that he'd deal with him if we did."

"Did you meet?" O'Roarke brushed the bits of orange peel into his hand and tossed them in the hamper.

"No. I saw Lady Craven in the park not long ago with Mrs. Rannoch and the children. But I never encountered Lord Craven."

O'Roarke took a sip of wine. "Did he have anything to do with whatever your husband and Trenchard quarreled about?"

"Whatever caused Trenchard to have Jack killed? Not that I know of. But not knowing what they quarreled about, I'm not in a good position to speculate. In truth, it never occurred to me that he might. Trenchard didn't seem to hold him in particularly high esteem. What's happened? Have you found some evidence that Craven was working with Trenchard?"

O'Roarke set his glass down. "So you really haven't heard about last night's developments."

"In here? Only you and Mr. and Mrs. Rannoch give me anything that could be called news. "

For a moment she'd have sworn O'Roarke was considering how to best spare her feelings, though it was more likely he'd try to shock her into revealing something. "Lord Craven was murdered last night."

She thought she was prepared for anything, but she could not control her shocked gasp.

O'Roarke was on his feet before she realized he'd moved. He picked up her glass and held it to her lips. "It may be the equivalent of Dutch courage, but it will help."

She gulped down a sip. It did ease the knot of panic inside her. She drew a breath. The smell of Trenchard's blood washed over her. She could hear his harsh dying breaths. "How was Craven—"

"He was shot in Hyde Park." O'Roarke perched on the edge of the table.

"Do they think the murders are connected?"

"They aren't sure. But obviously, you can't be blamed for Craven's death."

"I hadn't even thought—" She pressed her fingers to her temples.

O'Roarke gave a faint smile. "No, you wouldn't. You're innocent."

She drew back against the hard slats of her chair. "You sound very sure."

"I am, as it happens. More and more so, the more time I spend with you. Especially now I know who you really are."

"My dear Mr. O'Roarke. Surely you of all people realize we can never really know who anyone is."

"Point taken. I should have said, now that I know some of the facts of your history." He regarded her for a moment. Something about the softness in his gaze made her draw her defenses closer about her. "If Trenchard wasn't dead, I think I could quite cheerfully murder him for what he did to you."

"A bit excessive, surely." Her voice was hard, to deflect sympathy. "I imagine you've seen a number of horrors, given your background. One grows inured."

"Too much so. But taking a child from its mother and then using that child to control the mother is enough to shake even me."

"I did rather get myself into this situation."

"I don't have much respect for the marriage vow," O'Roarke said. "But even if one held it sacred, nothing you've done could possibly justify what Trenchard did to you. You're too sensible a woman not to realize that."

Her throat went tight. Damnation. How could his calm words cut through to ease a guilt she scarcely even realized she was carrying? "Giving birth in secret and giving the child away is a common-enough solution to unwanted pregnancy in our circles."

"When the woman chooses it for herself. Though given society's strictures how much of a choice it is is open to debate." He got to his feet and returned to his chair. "I've seen the grief that can come from the most seemingly rational choice. But what Trenchard did to you is unconscionable. Speaking as a man who has frequently been accused of entirely lacking a conscience myself."

"You're providing me with an excellent murder motive."

"Save that Trenchard knew where Emily was."

And the knowledge had died with him. All these years, all the times she could have tried to get him to tell her—

"Malcolm sent Miles Addison to Maidstone to make inquiries into Emily's whereabouts," O'Roarke said. "Addison's an excellent agent. It may take time, but they'll find her."

Laura gripped her hands together. It seemed she could hear the bones scrape, like the key turning in the lock. "That night, I was so determined to force Trenchard to tell me where Emily was. Truth to tell, I'm not sure how far I'd have gone if I hadn't found him, beyond threatening. I only knew I was going to get Emily back, whatever the cost. But one has a lot of leisure to think, in prison. And when I do think, I wonder how appallingly selfish I am. Emily may be perfectly happy where she is."