The Paris Affair (18 page)

“I didn’t think you had.”

Dorothée studied her with a mixture of relief and curiosity. “No?”

“One notices such a thing about one’s friends.”

Dorothée reached for her cup again and blew on the steam. “Not that—It’s not the same as Karl, but I don’t think of Monsieur Talleyrand as—I don’t precisely think of him as an uncle,” she said in a rush, not meeting Suzanne’s gaze.

“He’s not your uncle. He’s your estranged husband’s uncle. He’s no blood connection to you at all.”

Dorothée took a careful sip of café au lait. “No. He isn’t.” She set down the cup. “At times I feel years older than Karl for all he’s more experienced than I am in many ways. I wonder sometimes—”

“If you’ll outgrow him?” Suzanne picked up the mug of milk and held it so Colin could take a careful sip.

“No. Yes. Perhaps. I think Talleyrand will fascinate me forever.” Dorothée hunched her shoulders, as though she felt a chill despite the warmth of the day. “I feel so safe with him. And yet sometimes the way he looks at me almost frightens me.”

Malcolm’s gaze, in rare moments of naked vulnerability, shot through Suzanne’s memory. “It can be scary, being cared about that much.”

“Yes. That is, I don’t know that he—But it feels that way.”

Dorothée picked up the spoon again and turned it between her fingers. “I worry about Talleyrand if I go to Vienna. But sometimes I think if I don’t leave him now, I’ll never be able to do so.”

“Do you want to leave?”

Dorothée looked at her with stricken eyes. “I’m not sure.”

 

Suzanne stared at the swans floating on the surface of the pond in the Jardin des Tuileries. “I should have guessed sooner. About Bertrand Laclos and Rupert Caruthers.”

“In the end you did guess,” Malcolm said. He was sitting in a chair beside her.

“Not until I talked to Louise.”

“I don’t see how you could have worked it out sooner.”

“The way Gabrielle Caruthers described her marriage. This makes so much sense of it. But at the time I merely thought—”

“That they were like us?” Malcolm asked, his voice soft and neutral.

She swung her gaze to him. “How could you—”

“Because I thought the same thing when Rupert was talking to me about his marriage. English—Scots—man comes to the rescue of penniless émigrée and offers her the protection of his name and fortune. A pleasing fairy tale. Only he can’t share himself as easily as he can share his position and worldly possessions.”

Her throat closed. “Malcolm—”

“You can’t deny it has a familiar ring.”

Regret tore at her throat. “I never asked—”

“For anything. That doesn’t mean you didn’t deserve it. Or want it. I’ve learned to read you rather well.”

She put her hand over his own. His skin was cool beneath her gloved fingers. “The similarities are superficial. Gabrielle was in love with Lord Caruthers when they married.”

“And you weren’t in love with me.” It was a statement of fact.

She looked steadily at him. “Not then.”

He swallowed. “Yes. Well, we’ve both changed.”

“And though we danced round it, in light of what Gabrielle told me and certainly what Rupert Caruthers told you I doubt the Carutherses’ marriage is particularly passionate.” She kept her gaze fastened on his face. “That’s one place we’ve never had any problems.”

An unexpected smile shot into his eyes. He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. “I don’t deserve you.”

“That’s silly, darling. I often think the same about you.”

He laced his fingers through her own. “The irony being that of the two it’s Rupert who’s been faithful. Though I suspect that’s because he doesn’t think he’ll ever fall in love again. Some people are like that.”

She tightened her grip on his hand, holding on to the moment. Pushing aside the time, only a few hours away, when she was going to slip away from her British husband to assist in the escape of a Bonapartist agent. “Do you think Lord Caruthers had any idea about his wife’s affair with Rivère?”

“I doubt it. He only expressed guilt where she was concerned. If he killed Rivère in a fit of jealousy he’s an exceedingly good actor.”

“He was an Intelligence Agent.”

“True. I still doubt it. Rupert takes his code and his vows seriously and has difficulty imagining anyone else doing otherwise, whether it’s his military colleagues or his wife. He’s a bit like David that way.” Malcolm was silent for a moment. “Rupert and Gabrielle’s situation is exactly what I’ve always feared for David if he ever married.”

Suzanne drew a breath. Her chest hurt, as though her corset laces were pulled too tight. “Simon isn’t going anywhere. And David’s strong enough to hold out against pressure.”

“There’s no pressure quite like that of aristocratic family tradition. And love’s a complicated thing. It doesn’t sweep aside all problems. Sometimes it creates them. That’s what I told Rupert.”

Suzanne watched her husband in the dancing shadows as the breeze stirred the leaves of the tree overhead. “That love’s complicated?”

“That it doesn’t sweep aside obstacles or miraculously turn one into a better person.” He turned his head and met her gaze. “I know that full well because I love you.”

She looked back into his gray eyes, open and vulnerable, in that way they so seldom were. “Complicated or not,” she said, “I’d take it over the alternative.”

“Yes, so would I. Terrifying as I often find it.”

She rested her head against his shoulder, thinking how well she knew him and at the same time of the corners of his mind and soul that were still barred to her. “You make me very happy, Malcolm.”
Even though I know full well I don’t deserve you.

“Rank flattery, my darling.”

“As a good investigator, you should recognize the truth when you hear it.”

He slid his arm round her shoulders, uncharacteristically heedless of anyone who might walk by. “To own the truth, I’ve been envious of David and Simon since we were all at Oxford. To be that sure of another person.”

“I know.” She thought back to her first visit to England just over a year ago. “I felt the same way when I first met them. Even before that, exchanging letters with Simon.”

He looked down at her. “I never told you—”

“About their relationship? Not in so many words. But I can read between the lines rather well. Cordelia figured it out a half hour after they arrived in Brussels. If she hadn’t guessed earlier. One just has to be open to the possibility.”

He smiled, then his gaze went serious. “But even as I envied them, I worried about them. Love isn’t easy in the best of circumstances, and they face greater obstacles than many of us.”

“The weight of family and tradition.”

“Particularly with Lord Carfax for a father.” Malcolm grimaced at the thought of his spymaster. “He’s a man willing to go to any lengths to achieve his objectives, as I know full well. I don’t know that he’d object to the relationship continuing, but he wants David to marry and produce an heir.”

“And that sort of marriage would tear David in two. Aside from the fact that I can’t imagine Simon standing for such a pretense.”

Malcolm nodded. “I think Carfax has been biding his time, hoping David will grow out of it. I wonder when Carfax’s patience may run out, what he may try—”

Malcolm broke off, gaze fixed on the pond.

“Darling?” Suzanne asked.

“Dear God,” he said in a rough voice. “It’s so obvious. Why didn’t I think of it sooner?”

CHAPTER 14

Lord Dewhurst, the footman informed Malcolm in the entry hall of Dewhurst’s hired house in the Rue de Richelieu, was engaged. With Lord Caruthers. Malcolm bit back a curse. It was just as he had feared. He brushed past the footman, ignoring his gasp of surprise, and took the stairs two at a time.

He pushed open the study door without knocking to find Rupert with his hand round Lord Dewhurst’s throat, pressing Dewhurst against the cherrywood and gilt paneling. Dewhurst’s face was red.

“Rupert, no.” Malcolm ran across the room and caught his friend by the arm.

“Damn it, Malcolm, stay out of this. You don’t know what he’s done.”

“Yes, I do. He’s responsible for the death of the man you love.”

“Then get out of my way. If it were Suzanne—”

“I hope to hell you’d stop me.”

Dewhurst wrenched himself away from his son and collapsed against a chair, breathing hard. “You don’t understand, Rupert.”

“On the contrary, I understand very well. You wanted me married. You wanted me to produce an heir. You thought you had to get rid of Bertrand to ensure that. The wonder is I didn’t see it sooner.”

“Damn it, boy, that fellow had you bewitched.”

Rupert lunged at his father again. “Don’t you dare—”

Malcolm ran between father and son. Rupert’s fist caught him on the jaw. He grabbed hold of the desk to keep from falling, sending a bronze paperweight thudding to the floor. “Lord Dewhurst, do you admit you were behind the forged papers that made it look as though Bertrand Laclos was a double?”

Dewhurst put his hand to his throat and tugged at his cravat. “I admit nothing of the sort.”

“Don’t add lies to your other sins, Father.” Weary disgust edged Rupert’s voice. “We know Bertrand was set up. Who had a better motive than you? The hell of it is, I fell right into your trap. If I’d known I’d have done anything rather than marry and fall in with your plans.”

“Gabrielle’s a good woman. You can’t quarrel with how things turned out there.”

“Gabrielle deserves better than me. Thanks to your machinations and my stupidity, she’s trapped in a marriage to a man who can never give her what she deserves.”

Dewhurst regarded his son as he might a diplomat from a minor country who was refusing to see the British perspective. “You’re irrational, Rupert.”

“On the contrary. For the first time in my life, I see things clearly.”

Something wavered in Dewhurst’s gaze. He took a half step towards his son. “You’re a good father, Rupert. You’ve given me a grandson to be proud of.”

“Don’t you dare come near Stephen.” Rupert’s shoulders tensed as though he would deliver another blow. “So help me God, I may not be able to repudiate the title, but I can damn well keep my son away from you.”

“For God’s sake, Rupert. He’s my grandson.”

“No.” Rupert’s gaze was ash cold. “Stephen can’t be your grandson because you aren’t my father anymore.” He strode to the door. “Malcolm. Thank you for discovering the truth. I’m sorry you were dragged into our sordid family drama.”

He went out, pulling the heavy door to behind him with a sharp click. Dewhurst stared at the gleaming door panels, a wounded man who could not yet quite feel the extent of the injury he had been dealt.

“Lord Dewhurst—,” Malcolm said.

Dewhurst spun towards Malcolm, his gaze hard. “I’d advise you not to spread these outrageous stories any further, Malcolm.”

“Wellington and Castlereagh have charged me to discover the truth.”

“Wellington and Castlereagh wish to avoid scandal. They won’t thank you for causing one.”

That, Malcolm feared, was all too true. “They’re neither of them one to shirk the truth.”

“But they both know enough to realize at times one has to be flexible with it. Something you need to learn yourself, Malcolm. And to acknowledge what’s due to your position.”

“I’m more concerned with what’s due to Bertrand Laclos’s memory.”

Dewhurst twitched his shirt cuffs straight beneath his coat. “Bertrand Laclos was a traitor who preyed upon my son’s friendship and did incalculable damage to the country. Thank God you uncovered his crimes before he wreaked more havoc.”

“Believe me, sir, I will never forgive myself for the part I played in this affair.”

“You’re a clever man, Malcolm.” Dewhurst made this sound like a backhanded compliment. “But you have difficulty understanding where your loyalties lie. That’s a dangerous quality in Paris these days. Don’t be foolish. You too have a young family to consider.”

“What the devil are you suggesting, sir?” Malcolm asked, voice hard with the fear that shot through him.

Dewhurst returned his gaze, his own level and hard and stripped of vulnerability. “Merely that you should be prudent.”

“It sounded more as though you were telling me to watch my back. Which you may be sure I will do.”

Wellington swore with the same vehemence Malcolm had heard in the duke’s voice at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball when he announced that Napoleon had humbugged him. “Damn fool Dewhurst. Should have known better than to let family matters intrude on politics.”

Castlereagh’s fine-boned face was drawn into a frown, as though he were forcing himself to look at something distasteful. “Accusations of such a relationship could have destroyed young Caruthers’s career.”

“And in acting as he did, Dewhurst has just drawn attention to that relationship.”

“You believe it then?” Castlereagh asked, still frowning.

“What? That Caruthers and Bertrand Laclos were lovers? That Dewhurst was behind the accusations against Laclos?”

“All of it.”

Wellington took a turn about the room, hands clasped behind his back. “I don’t give a damn who Bertrand Laclos and Rupert Caruthers were sleeping with. As to Dewhurst orchestrating the Laclos affair—Malcolm presents a convincing case.”

“But there’s no definitive evidence,” Castlereagh pointed out. “Dewhurst denies the whole. Perhaps the French used Laclos’s unnatural relationship with Caruthers to blackmail him into working for them.”

“Talleyrand says he wasn’t working for them,” Malcolm pointed out.

“Hardly the most reliable of sources,” Castlereagh returned.

“But in this case I believe him. And if you’d seen Dewhurst’s reaction to the accusations, it was as good as an admission.”

“The question,” said Charles Stuart, who had been listening to the whole with a somewhat bemused expression, “seems to be what we do next. The Ultra Royalists are difficult enough without something like this to hold over us. If this becomes public—”

“It can’t,” Castlereagh said. “Even if we were certain, to admit that one of our senior diplomats destroyed the son of a noble French family who are close to the Comte d’Artois—Not to mention what it would do to Caruthers.”

“Caruthers can take care of himself,” Wellington said, striding back to the center of the room. “But we can’t risk the story getting out.”

“We may not have a choice,” Stuart said.

“We can damn well do everything we can to ensure it doesn’t get out.”

“The Lacloses deserve to know Bertrand didn’t betray his British allies,” Malcolm said.

Wellington took a step towards him. “You’ll say nothing to them. That’s an order, Malcolm.” His mouth twisted. “How the hell did Rivère know about this? And whom might he have told?”

“I don’t know how he knew.” Malcolm met the duke’s gaze, wondering again at what lay behind Wellington’s own confrontation with Rivère. “I doubt he told many people—he understood the value of information.” He glanced from Wellington to Castlereagh to Stuart. “Do any of you know what the surprising news might be that Bertrand wrote about to Louise Carnot just before he was killed?”

“If it was something in Paris, it’s more likely to have had to do with French intelligence,” Castlereagh said. “Perhaps he suspected they were on to him.”

“Odd he’d have written to Madame Carnot about that, though,” Stuart pointed out. “And odd he’d have wanted to go back to Paris to investigate.”

“And then there’s the fact that eventually he planned to return to England,” Malcolm said.

Castlereagh’s mouth tightened. “My brother was wrong to conceal that.”

Wellington, continuing to frown, said nothing at all. Stuart examined his nails.

“I’ve just heard from Davenport that he’s located a former mistress of Rivère’s,” Malcolm said. “We’re going to talk to her tonight. Hopefully she’ll be able to shed some light on what Rivère knew and whom he told.”

“Just be careful that in questioning her you don’t reveal more,” Wellington said.

“Of course.”

The duke gave a curt nod. “God save us from careless words spoken across a pillow.”

 

Movement flickered in the dressing table looking glass as Suzanne fastened her second diamond earring. Malcolm stood leaning in the open doorway of their bedchamber, watching her. She met his gaze in the mirror. She could read fresh intelligence in his eyes. “What?” she asked.

“I found Rupert trying to strangle his father.”

“I take it you stopped him?” Suzanne turned round on the dressing table bench to face him.

“Yes, though I have to admit I was sorely tempted to strangle Dewhurst myself.” Malcolm closed the door behind him and moved into the room.

“Did Dewhurst admit to setting Bertrand up?”

“Not in so many words. But he may as well have done.” Malcolm dropped down on the edge of the bed. He moved as though his limbs ached. “Rupert stormed out of the house and told Dewhurst he couldn’t come near his grandson again. It’s not easy, hating one’s father.”

Suzanne saw Alistair Rannoch’s mocking, sardonic face and heard the lash of his tongue. “Rupert had to know the truth.”

“Of course. And Dewhurst deserves the enmity.” Malcolm frowned at the pale flowers in the Aubusson carpet. “God knows I’ve never been able to summon filial love for Alistair Rannoch—”

“With good reason.”

“With reason certainly. But nothing like this. If I learned he’d been responsible for your death—” Malcolm’s fingers curled round the bedpost. “I don’t know that I’d be able to refrain from strangling him.”

It was one of those rare, oblique admissions of feeling he made that always took her breath away. But it would never do to draw attention to it. “Then we’re fortunate your father largely ignores me,” she said.

“Ignoring passes for good parenting with Alistair.”

Suzanne leaned forwards on the dressing table bench, hands on her gauze skirt. “What happened after Rupert stalked out?”

“Dewhurst blustered a great deal and tried to deny the whole. Threatened me if I went to Wellington and Castlereagh.”

“With what?”

Malcolm’s fingers tightened on the fluted wood. “My family. I think it was bluster, but we need to watch him carefully.”

“I’m always careful.”

He shot an amused gaze over her face. “You can be distinctly reckless, sweetheart.”

“Not without carefully calculating the odds.” She smoothed down a snagged thread in her skirt. “I don’t suppose this stopped you from going to Wellington and Castlereagh?”

“No. And Stuart. Stuart took it the most calmly, jumped right to the consequences. Wellington cursed Dewhurst for mixing personal matters with politics. Castlereagh seemed surprisingly distressed by the suggestion of the relationship between Rupert and Bertrand.”

“He’s a conventional man, darling.”

“But a man of the world. I’d have thought—”

“I think sometimes you overestimate how many people see the world as you do, dearest.”

“I’m well aware Castlereagh and I see the world through different lenses. But I wouldn’t have thought Rupert and Bertrand’s relationship would trouble him so deeply.” Malcolm frowned. He respected Castlereagh, Suzanne knew, and despite his words it troubled him that their views diverged so strongly over issues that mattered passionately to him. And this one touched on his closest friends.

“Do they believe Dewhurst set up Bertrand Laclos?” she asked.

“They seem at least willing to consider it. Wellington insisted it has to remain secret, at least at present.”

“The Lacloses—”

“Need to learn the truth. Whatever Wellington said. Of course there’s nothing to stop Rupert from telling Gabrielle. It’s difficult to tell what will happen between them. But honesty can only improve matters.”

Her breath caught. “Sometimes honesty can make things worse.”

“Than living a lie?” He shook his head. “Difficult to imagine.”

Her throat closed as though someone had tied a noose round it. “That’s because you’re so wonderfully honest, darling.”

“Lies have a way of corroding the soul. And it’s never good to live in ignorance.”

Unless one could stay that way forever. Her fingers curled inwards, nails biting into her palms. Malcolm leaned against the bedpost, watching her. “There’s more, isn’t there?” she said.