The Mayfair Affair (39 page)

Adolphus Molton's house stood on the edge of town. The drive was short but lined with elms, the house itself cream-washed brick with columns in front and squat wings on either side, a miniaturized version of Palladian splendor.

"You'd best lead the way," Addison murmured as they pulled up in the gravel drive. "The footman will remember me."

Raoul handed Laura from the Rannochs' traveling carriage. His touch was perfectly correct, but he gave her fingers the briefest squeeze before he released her. If Addison was aware of the shattering changes of the night before, he gave no sign of it. He'd greeted them cheerfully at breakfast and spoken of the challenges ahead as though nothing had changed. But then, Addison wouldn't let on even if he did notice. And facing him was nothing compared to what it would be like to face the Rannochs when they returned to Berkeley Square. Not that she could really think that far ahead.

The footman who answered the door regarded them with a disparaging gaze. "Spare us the denials," Raoul said, handing over his card.

"Mr. Molton—"

"Tell Mr. Molton that Lady Tarrington wishes to speak with him," Laura said.

The footman blinked. It made it worth it to use the alien name.

"My compliments," Raoul murmured, when the footman had vanished up the mahogany-railed staircase.

"We don't know that it worked yet."

"If nothing else, curiosity will make him see us."

The footman returned a few moments later. "Lady Tarrington. Mr. O'Roarke. Mr. Addison. Mr. Molton will see you."

Laura swept after him, head held high. Odd how a name could change one's image of oneself. She was wearing the pelisse Suzanne had given her, with a bonnet ornamented with black braid and sapphire velvet ribbons. Yet, with the long-forgot name of Lady Tarrington, she could almost hear the rustle of silk skirts and feel the weight of the Fitzwalter emeralds round her throat.

The footman conducted them to a sitting room filled with fashionably striped furniture and hung with paper painted to resemble silk. Adolphus Molton came forwards at their entrance. He was a stout man of her father's age with thinning dark hair, a florid face, and a stubborn set to his jaw. "Lady Tarrington, a great—"

He stopped short, the color draining from his face.

"You were expecting my sister-in-law?" Laura asked. "Hetty is now the Duchess of Trenchard."

"I believe— that is—"

"I'm Jane Tarrington. Jack's widow."

"She died," Molton said with a woeful lack of finesse. Whatever his other crimes, it appeared he hadn't known she was alive.

"So it was thought for some years. But as you see, I am very much alive." Laura sank down on a gold-and-cream striped sofa and began to remove her gloves.

"But—"

"Do you wish me to send to His Grace, the new duke, for confirmation?" Addison asked. "I am perfectly prepared to do so, though it will lead to tiresome delay. And His Grace will not be best pleased to find his brother's widow was doubted."

Molton's gaze shot from Addison to Laura to Raoul. He dropped down heavily into a chair that was a good imitation of Sheraton. "Forgive me. I am delighted to see you in such good health, Lady Tarrington. How may I assist you?"

"As I believe Mr. Addison explained, we are looking for a little girl. She's called Emily Saunders."

"And as I explained to Mr. Addison, there is no such person. The name was"—he coughed—"an alias."

"I know you spun him a farrago of nonsense about my late father-in-law using it as cover to pay you for covering up one of my husband's peccadilloes. And though goodness knows Jack had plenty of scandals to cover up, it's plainly nonsense. We know who Emily is. She's my daughter."

"My dear Lady Tarrington," Molton said, "I don't know what His Grace may have told you—"

"I don't know what he may have told
you
," Raoul interjected. "But whatever he threatened, His Grace is dead, and we are very much alive and not to be trifled with."

"Mr. O'Rourke, is it? I don't believe I understand your connection—"

"A friend of the family." Raoul's tone dared Molton to ask further questions. "Time to cut the line, Molton. We know the girl is at the Murchison School."

"That's preposterous."

"No, what's preposterous is you attempting to keep a child from her mother. The payments will stop, you know, whether Lady Tarrington recovers her daughter or not."

Something shifted in Molton's eyes. "That's—"

"If we are called upon to investigate the school, there's no telling what we might uncover. Lord Carfax happens to be a close friend of mine. I was at his house only four nights ago. He has a reputation for being hardheaded, but he's very fond of his children and grandchildren. And he's close to Lord Sidmouth and Lord Liverpool. I imagine Carfax and the home secretary and prime minister would not be best pleased if they investigate where the funds that are supposed to be supporting the orphans at Murchison are really going."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. O'Roarke."

"No?" Raoul's voice was courteous, but he was eyeing Molton as though the other man were something nasty he had dragged in on his shoe. "Then you won't object to my suggesting Carfax pay a visit to the school. He has a house not far from here. I'm sure Lady Carfax would love to accompany him and see the young pupils."

Molton drew a breath and twitched the lapels of his coat. "I don't know why we're talking about the Murchison School. I'm honored to be associated with it, but this supposed Emily Saunders has nothing to do with the place."

Raoul sat back in his chair and folded his arms. "My dear Molton, you gave it away the moment Lady Tarrington walked into the room."

"Nonsense. I never admitted—"

"You were shocked. But you recognized her. The only explanation is that Emily looks remarkably like her mother."

Laura could not suppress an indrawn breath. She'd wondered countless times what Emily looked like.
Like that?
she would think, sitting in the Berkeley Square garden with Colin and Jessica, or walking in Hyde Park and seeing a little girl of three or four with her gloved hand tucked in that of her mother or nurse or rolling a hoop or leaning out of an open carriage. But Emily's features always remained a blur in her imaginings, as tantalizingly out of reach as Emily herself. Suddenly her imaginings had at least the promise of solidity.

Molton glanced to the side, as though seeking escape amid the porcelain figurines clustered on the mantel, and then down at the burgundy and gold swirls on the carpet. A good carpet, Laura realized. Those vivid reds and golds and the delicate design spoke of something genuinely from India, not a painted imitation like so much in the room. "Lady Tarrington, much as I sympathize with your plight, I fear—"

The door swung open. "I heard we had guests, my love, I've just asked them to send tea in." A woman drew up short in the doorway. She looked a decade or so younger than Molton, with fair hair teased into ringlets and wide blue eyes.

"It's not a social call, Sally," Molton began, but both Raoul and Addison had already risen.

"My compliments, Mrs. Molton," Raoul said, "thank you for receiving us in your house." Leaving Molton with little choice but to introduce them to his wife.

Mrs. Molton nodded as though she had no appreciation of the social undercurrents, but froze when her gaze settled on Laura. "Good heavens. I'm so sorry, Lady Tarrington, I mistook you for someone else."

"A child perhaps?" Laura asked.

"You're the image of her. That is—" Mrs. Molton coughed. Saying anyone bore a resemblance to the children at the orphanage was obviously delicate ground to tread on.

"We're looking for my daughter," Laura said. "We believe she is at the Murchison School."

"Good heavens, of course." Mrs. Molton turned to her husband. "You must see it, my dear. That sweet little girl who brought me the flowers on our last visit is like a miniature copy of her. But how—"

"You must understand." Molton had the look of a man who realizes it's time to change sides. "His Grace insisted on the greatest secrecy. He said in the event anything happened to him he had made arrangements to continue Emily's care."

"Arrangements with whom?" Raoul asked.

"I didn't know." Molton tugged at his cravat. "Not until I got the letter after His Grace's death."

"The letter from whom?" Laura gripped the edge of the sofa.

"Lord Craven."

Raoul's hand closed on the sofa back. "Lord Craven knew about Emily?"

"Yes. He said he would make the payments for her care in the future. Though he was considering having her moved."

"What on earth was Lord Craven's connection to Emily?" Laura asked.

"I don't know, my lady. I don't know what His Grace's connection was either."

"If you were keeping silent in the expectation of generosity from Craven, you made a bad choice," Raoul said. "Lord Craven was murdered two days ago."

Molton paled. Mrs. Molton put a hand to her head. "Merciful heavens." She drew the folds of her paisley shawl about her.

Laura stared at the shawl, shimmering reds and violets, and then again at the rug, noting the richness of pattern in both, the brilliance of the colors. Pieces of information she hadn't even known she possessed clicked in her head. "But you knew both Trenchard and Craven, didn't you, Mr. Molton? You knew them in India."

Molton stared at her as though she were some sort of enchantress. For all the tumult in her mind, satisfaction stabbed through her.

"Good heavens," Mrs. Molton said, "that's the other reason you look so familiar. We saw you once at a regimental ball. I later heard you had married Lord Tarrington. But I thought—"

"What was your business in India, Molton?" Raoul asked.

Molton ran a finger under his collar. "I was associated with the East India Company. And, yes, I encountered His Grace and Lord Craven during my time there. But obviously we moved in different circles."

"And yet Trenchard placed a great trust in you."

"I was always honored by His Grace's trust."

"Such a mark of distinction," Mrs. Molton said, plainly still tone deaf to undercurrents. "Adolphus and my dear late brother were in business together in India."

"Agreeable to keep these things in the family," Raoul said. "Would your brother's name happen to be Madison?"

Mrs. Molton's eyes widened. "Why yes. How—"

Molton, his face, purpling, drew a hoarse breath. "See here—"

"I'd prefer not to spend further time in your company," Raoul said, "but you will accompany us to the school and instruct them to place Emily Saunders in Lady Tarrington's care."

He turned and held out his hand to Laura. Laura took it and got to her feet. It was only as she drew on her gloves that it dawned on her that she was finally about to meet her daughter.

The Murchison School was not the desolate, barred horror Raoul's imagination had conjured up. Instead, they pulled up to an innocuous building of red brick, with white-framed windows and a cupola, in imitation of a country house. Of course, the factories where children lost their fingers and swallowed cotton fluff were also built in a similar style. His experience had taught him not to trust exterior views, whether it came to people or buildings.

Laura had said nothing during the drive from Molton's house. Molton had also been silent, which was a good thing, as Raoul was already sorely pressed to avoid planting the man a facer. Molton's presence prevented Raoul from taking Laura in his arms or even holding her hand. But even if Molton had not been there, Raoul wasn't sure if Laura would have welcomed the attention or if she wanted the previous night to remain an isolated incident, as forgot by them as it had to remain secret from others. Sometimes it was easier that way, and if in this case his every instinct rebelled against it, he knew there was little logic to his feelings. Their lives had crossed briefly, and hers was about to change. The last thing she needed was another connection to complicate her life, particularly one to an Irish rebel and Bonapartist spy. The fact that he felt alive in a way he hadn't in years really should have no bearing on the matter. In some ways, the repellent Molton was sparing Laura and him from an awkward conversation, just as Addison had on the journey to Molton's house.