The Mayfair Affair (33 page)

"Perhaps because of whatever was in those letters."

"Assuming Trenchard isn't the one who had them stolen?"

"Perhaps he was worried about what Miss Duval remembered," Malcolm suggested.

"Something would have had to trigger it."

"Something obviously triggered him to blackmail you to recover the file," Malcolm pointed out.

"The file doesn't have any direct connection to India. And in any case, then he wouldn't have summoned Lily Duval about her son. He'd have wanted to silence her."

"Perhaps he did," Malcolm said. "Perhaps he attacked her."

"And she killed him in self-defense?" Suzanne considered this. Outside the wind had whipped up. Three young men who looked to be junior clerks dashed into a pub with newspapers held over their heads. "It's appealing. More appealing than finding any of the suspects guilty of cold-blooded murder."

"We still haven't identified the earring," Malcolm pointed out.

Suzanne shook her head. "It doesn't look like Lily Duval's. And yes, it could have been a gift, but why would she wear that sort of jewelry if Trenchard summoned her in the middle of the night?"

"Not unless it was a very different sort of rendezvous and that really does strain belief. If he wasn't above pursuing his wife's sister or his son's wife, I don't know why we should think he'd cavil at his son's mistress. But that's crediting Miss Duval with a level of deception I don't think she's capable of."

"Unless she's good enough to deceive us both," Suzanne said.

"Always possible."

The hackney pulled up in Berkeley Square. Malcolm paid off the driver and they hurried up the steps, huddled together under an umbrella. Valentin had seen them coming and had the door open. "Lady Cordelia just called," he said, taking the dripping umbrella. "I've shown her into the small salon." He hesitated a moment. "She seemed to have something important to tell you." Like the rest of the staff, Valentin had a good sense of what went on in his employers' investigations.

Cordelia was pacing before the fireplace in the small salon. She turned and came forwards quickly at their entrance. "It's terrible about Craven. We only just heard."

"We haven't had time to send word to you and Harry," Suzanne said.

"No, of course not. I know you must be busy talking to all sorts of people." Cordelia's gaze skimmed between them. "Have you learned anything?"

"Nothing conclusive," Malcolm said. "But it looks as though you have."

Cordelia drew a breath. "I know whom the earring belongs to."

Malcolm whistled. "Good work, Cordy. Who?"

"It kept teasing me all last night at the opera that there was something I was missing. Not that last night's revelations weren't enough. And then this morning, when I was walking with Livia and Dru, it suddenly occurred to me. I generally avoid talking to her, but the last time we saw
Don Giovanni
I found myself standing next to her in the crush in the grand salon, and she was wearing those earrings."

"Who?" Suzanne asked.

"Lydia Cranley."

"Yet another person without an obvious connection to Trenchard," Malcolm murmured. "Interesting."

Suzanne had a vague image of a tall woman with auburn hair and commanding features. "She's Lady Cranley, isn't she?"

"Her husband's a baron," Cordelia said. "The sort who'd spend his time in the country shooting if it weren't for his wife. Lydia's mother and Harry's were second cousins. She stopped speaking to me when the scandal hit with my marriage, but she'll acknowledge me now Harry and I are living together again. It should be enough to get her to talk to us." She looked at Suzanne. "Assuming you'll let me come with you?"

"I don't know how I'd manage without you," Suzanne said.

Gui Laclos, breathing hard, landed a smart uppercut to another gentleman's jaw as Malcolm walked into the room. A sight tempered by the fact that the room was in Gentleman Jackson's Boxing Emporium, and Gui and his opponent, Bertrand Laclos, had their coats off and their hands wrapped with mufflers. Bertrand staggered, recovered, danced to the side, feinted to the left, and then struck Gui a blow with his right fist that sent Gui crashing to the floor.

"Bloody careless," Gui muttered.

"Your mind is on other things." Bertrand unwound the muffler from one of his hands to pull Gui to his feet.

"And on a good day I'm hard pressed to land a blow on you. Nothing like having a cousin who's a war hero."

"You're improving." Gentleman Jackson himself turned from supervising the sparring of two young sprigs across the room. "Never seen you with such attack. You just need to learn to focus all that energy." Jackson's gaze fell on Malcolm in the shadows by the door. "Mr. Rannoch. Come to try your hand?"

"Not today."

Gui paused in the midst of removing his second muffler and took a step towards Malcolm. "Rannoch. I've been expecting you."

Bertrand turned round and nodded to Malcolm with apparent ease. But then he was a master of deception who had spent years donning disguises to smuggle Bonapartists and Royalists alike out of Paris under the nose of Fouché and his Ministry of Police. "I'd best be off, in any case. I'm supposed to meet Rupert at Brooks's. My regards to Suzanne, Malcolm."

Gui grabbed a towel from a hook on the wall and threw it round his shoulders. "Give me a minute and we can repair to the coffeehouse across the street."

"No," Gui said as they crossed the street, "I don't know how much Bertrand knows or suspects. Anyone who lived a secret double life for as long as he did outmatches me in deception as much as he does in prizefighting. Not that there haven't been times I've wanted to ask him and Rupert for advice on living with secrets."

"But you didn't confide in them?"

Gui swung round in the middle of the street to stare at him. "My God, can you imagine I'd risk it?"

"I didn't think it likely."

"You can't imagine, knowing the woman you love could be ruined by a word—" Gui drew a breath. "Not the best of appearances, I suppose, finding me engaged in fisticuffs."

"I can see how you'd want an outlet for your emotions."

"Assuming I hadn't already taken them out on Trenchard?"

"Or assuming you had. You're the sort who'd feel guilty."

Gui grimaced. "I didn't kill the bastard. But I don't know how guilty I'd feel if I had." He glanced sideways at Malcolm again. "I know you can't believe me."

"I can't believe anyone."

Gui gave a curt nod as they pushed through the coffeehouse door. "She doesn't."

"Mary?"

Gui cast a quick glance round the coffeehouse, as though afraid to speak her name.

"Nothing like the noise in a coffeehouse for cover," Malcolm said. "We survived on that in Vienna."

They threaded their way back to the seclusion of a high-backed booth and ordered two coffees. Gui, who normally slouched in his chair, sat bolt upright and cast anxious looks about. "Mary is under an intolerable strain," Malcolm said. "I trust you both realize that anything you say to each other under these circumstances must be taken with a grain of salt."

"She can't but wonder." Gui stared at a knot in the dark wood of the table. "And wondering I suppose she can't but doubt if she'd want me as a husband or the father of her children."

Malcolm regarded Gui's tormented face across the table. "My dear idiot, having known Mary since childhood, I seriously doubt she's having any such qualms. I strongly suspect she'd be more likely to applaud your ruthless practicality. But I suspect she's also terrified for you. It's a wonder what love will do for people."

Gui stared at him with a gaze that was unexpectedly sharp. "You can't know Mary loves me."

"I know it's Suzanne's assessment that she does. And I've learned to trust my wife's assessments."

Gui scraped a hand through his hair. "She's never said it. Not in those words."

"One doesn't always. Take it from one of a similar disposition, not being able to find the words doesn't mean the feelings aren't there. Quite the opposite, many times." Who'd have thought he'd be equating himself with Mary Mallinson? As one grew older, one learned the unthinkable could come to pass.

A waiter plunked two cups of coffee down in front of them. Gui took a sip as though he wished the pewter mug contained something stronger. "Aren't you supposed to be interrogating me, not offering sympathy, Rannoch?"

"Just because I'm investigating doesn't mean I've stopped being your friend."

"Odd." Gui turned his cup in his hands. "I thought friends weren't in the habit of passing along confidences to Bow Street."

"A palpable hit."

Gui leaned back against the bench, more in the posture of old. "Ask me what you need to."

"Where were you the night Trenchard was killed?"

" I dined with Rupert and Gaby. Bertrand and Nick Gordon were there. I'm getting used to seeing them all domestically happy together. A part of me can't but worry if it will last—I still think of Gaby as my sister. Of course, that's always true of happiness, but theirs seems more precariously balanced than most. Still, mostly I choked on the cloying sweetness of the happiness of others. We went on to the Tavistock—one of Simon's comedies, more happiness. I left early, went to Mannerling's, played faro, and tried to drink enough that I forgot about Mary and how she'd refused to see me. I got sick before I forgot. Wrote Mary an indiscreet letter, remembered myself enough to burn it. Went home."

"What time?"

"A little before two. Too early to have an alibi for Trenchard's murder."

"Unless you're a very good actor, you didn't know Mary was pregnant at that point."

"And you don't think I'm that good an actor? A fair point. Though I did successfully lie to my own supposed family for over a decade. But whether or not I knew, I still wanted to marry Mary. I'd have done anything to marry her."

"Including commit murder?"

Gui took a sip of coffee. "It actually never occurred to me. Failure of imagination, of course." He set the cup down. "Unless I'm lying."

Lady Cranley settled the sapphire blue skirts of her corded lustring gown on the blue-striped satin of the sofa. Her gown was tucked and frilled by an expert modiste. Her hair was carefully dressed, if lacking in movement. Her cheeks and lips were subtly rouged, her face lightly powered. Everything, from the ribbons on her gown to the blue kid slippers peeping out from beneath, matched precisely. It was impossible not to draw a contrast with Lily Duval.

"I'm as shocked as everyone in Mayfair, of course," Lydia Cranley said. Her voice was low and musical, carefully pitched." And I'll do whatever I can to help."

"Thank you," Suzanne said.

"Of course I'm aware of your and your husband's role in the investigation. It must be exciting, if a bit sordid. But I'm surprised you called on me. The last time I saw Trenchard was over a week ago, and I hadn't seen Craven in longer." She shuddered. "I assume their deaths are—connected?"

"It's too early to assume anything," Suzanne said, "but it seems likely."

"Not that we knew either of them well, but still— This is Mayfair."

Cordelia tugged off her second lemon-colored glove. "Doing it much too brown, Lydia. We know you saw Trenchard more recently."

"I can't imagine what you're talking about, Cordy. I'm sure it was at Susan Herbert's rout. If someone is mistaken—"

"It was a private interview." Cordelia laid her gloves atop her reticule.

Lydia Cranley's spine straightened. "You forget yourself, Cordelia."

"Don't come so high-handed, Lydy." Cordelia snapped open the steel clasp in her reticule. "We found this." She held up the earring.

Lydia Cranley didn't so much as blink. She was more formidable than Suzanne had realized. "I have several pairs of ruby earrings, but I've never seen that particular one before."

Cordelia got to her feet and walked to the mantel, the earring held aloft. The painting showed Lydia Cranley in a carnelian gown, standing beside a pedestal with an urn full of white roses. Lawrence. His luminous use of light was unmistakable. The pearlescent glow fell across Lydia's face and caught the earring swinging from her left earlobe. "A mistake to have worn these earrings on that particular night," Cordelia said. "But then, I don't expect you anticipated the night's events."

Once again Lady Cranley didn't blink. The seemingly staid matron had nerves of steel. "Are those my earrings?" she said. "The light was in my eyes when you first held it up."

"Cut the line, Lydy." Cordelia spun round in front of the fireplace with a masterful mastery of the scene. "You were in the Duke of Trenchard's study. Probably the night he was killed."

"You always were overdramatic, Cordy." Lydia Cranley put up a hand to adjust the cameo brooch that fastened her muslin tippet. "The last time we dined at Trenchard House, the duke took me into his study to show me his first editions of Chaucer. I must have lost the earring then. I'm surprised I didn't notice it was missing until now, but these things happen. Now that I think of it, the clasp had been loose. It seems ridiculous to talk of good fortune at a time like this, but I'm very pleased you found it."

Cordelia stepped forwards, still holding the earring. "Trenchard wasn't in the habit of taking guests into his study."

Lydia Cranley froze. She was a formidable woman, but not a professional.

"Lady Cranley." Suzanne seized upon her opening. "We have no wish to embroil you in a scandal."

"My dear Mrs. Rannoch, I'm not so naive as to believe you have the least regard for my reputation. You are solely concerned with this investigation of yours."

"Which will proceed, one way or another. The easiest route to uncovering your secrets is if you tell us yourself."

Lady Cranley fingered a fold of her skirt. "I don't have—"

"Mrs. Rannoch is extraordinarily good at uncovering secrets." Cordelia returned to the sofa and dropped down beside Lady Cranley. "Don't be stupid, Lydia."

Lady Cranley stared at her as though she were something that had crawled out of a rubbish heap. "You make the mistake of thinking everyone's behavior is as scandalous as your own, Cordy."

"Not everyone's. But I've always thought you were more interesting than you appeared, Lydy. Not that one lover would make you anything like as scandalous as I was."

"Must you make a joke of it?"

"Sometimes that's the best response."

Lydia glanced away. "I don't do this, as a rule. I'm not like you, Cordy."

"Point taken."

"Trenchard was— an interesting man."

"Oh, yes. Quite attractive, if you like the type."

"Powerful."

Cordelia's eyes narrowed. "You thought he could help advance Cranley."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm rather impressed. Did Cranley know?"

"Of course not. Cranley's never had the least ambition or the least sense of what needs to be done. He speaks well and he has a certain charm. I made the mistake of thinking he had the drive to go with it." Lady Cranley put a hand to her hair. "I was a good wife. I've given him three children. I'm considered an admirable hostess." She flashed a look at Suzanne, as though in resentment of her easy rise as a political hostess. "And despite all my efforts, Cranley seemed content simply to make the occasional speech and drink with his friends at White's."

"I can quite understand your frustration," Cordelia said with seemingly genuine warmth. "You hardly did anything others in your set don't do."

Lady Cranley pushed a perfect curl behind her ear. "I'm not like others. We were discreet. I never thought—"

"Lydia." Cordelia leaned forwards. "Had you been discovered?"

"No, of course not."

"Had you tried to blackmail Trenchard into helping Cranley?"

Lady Cranley straightened the knot of ribbon on her bodice. "You make it sound so sordid."