The Paris Affair (27 page)

“Étienne had been put in touch with him. Good thing. Rivère seemed to know what he was doing. Felt better about the whole thing after I met him.”

“Did you see a great deal of Étienne after he came to Paris?” Suzanne asked.

“Not overmuch.” Christian took a sip of champagne. “Had to keep up the appearance of our regular lives. Used to meet in secret in a room above a café. Les Trois Rois. Had to go round in the dark, up the stairs, knock three times. Felt as though I was in a novel.”

“But you would have been one of the few people Étienne could confide in,” Suzanne said in the tone she’d used to draw confidences from young ensigns and seasoned diplomats. “Did he talk to you about a woman he’d become involved with?”

Christian shifted in his chair. “Besotted. Étienne played his cards close to his chest, but he couldn’t seem to stop talking about her.” He shook his head. “Got a bit tiresome, I confess. Though of course I tried to listen.”

Suzanne reached for her champagne glass. “Did you meet her?”

“Once. I got there early. To the café. She was with him. Wearing a cloak, but I could see her face was beautiful. Made a bit more sense of why Étienne couldn’t stop talking about her. Of course I saw no reason not to trust her.”

“Then?” Suzanne asked.

Christian took another sip of champagne and stared into the glass. “Couldn’t figure out who betrayed us.” He twisted the glass between his hands. “Bertrand came to see me when he came to France. Wanted to know what I knew about Étienne. Couldn’t tell him much. Then he wrote to me again just before he was killed.”

“About Étienne?” Dorothée asked.

“No.” Christian frowned into his champagne glass. “It was odd, because I hadn’t seen him since we were in the nursery and then of course he’d been gone—that is, we all thought he was dead—”

“ ‘He’?” Dorothée prompted.

“Gui.” Christian set his glass down. “Bertrand wanted to know what I knew about Gui before he’d been sent to England.”

 

“Madame Rannoch.” The quiet, lethal voice stopped Suzanne as she moved into the passage to the boxes. Dorothée had been claimed by Clam-Martinitz.

“Monsieur le duc
.
”
Suzanne extended her hand to the minister of police, now Duc d’Otrante, though she would always think of him as Fouché, and willed her fingers to remain steady as he bent over it. She was not generally given to fancies and she had dealt with—and on more than one occasion spent the night with—people she found quite repellant. But Fouché always sent a chill through her. His quiet demeanor radiated menace. Or perhaps it was the knowledge of the number of people he had tortured and sent to their death, whether Bonapartist or Royalist. Or that he didn’t even pretend to have principles.

“You are enjoying your time in Paris?” the minister of police asked. Somehow she was in an embrasure between two pier tables and he was blocking the egress.

“Yes.” Suzanne tugged at the embroidered rose silk of her shawl, drawing the cloak of demure war bride turned diplomatic wife tight about her. “I don’t remember it as a child, of course. I was only a baby when my parents and I left. But it feels oddly like coming home.”

“Almost as though you’d been here before.”

Suzanne kept her gaze wide and steady on his face. “Precisely. It’s as though it’s in my bones.”

“Remarkable.” Fouché’s gaze shifted over her. With many men that sort of gaze would cut through layers of clothing. With Fouché it seemed to slice into her soul.

“My felicitations on your betrothal,” Suzanne said. Fouché had recently become engaged to a young woman from one of the most aristocratic families in France. Louis XVIII himself witnessed the marriage contract of the man who had helped send his brother to the guillotine.

“Thank you. Marriage can come as a surprise to one. As I suspect you understand.” Fouché shifted slightly, as though to get a better view of her face. “Your husband has been very busy in Paris as well.”

“There’s a great deal for diplomats to do these days.”

“Just so. But Monsieur Rannoch’s work has always moved beyond diplomacy. You can’t think me so uninformed as not to know about that.”

“I would never think you uninformed, Prince.”

He gave a dry smile. “I’m relieved to hear it. And of course from an enemy I had to keep track of Monsieur Rannoch has now become an ally.” Fouché took a step to the side, slightly more into the shadows from the wall sconce above. “Lately your husband has been singularly preoccupied with the death of one of our own.”

“Do you mean Antoine Rivère?” Suzanne asked, and immediately wondered if she had opened her eyes too wide. She had to step into the candlelight to keep eye contact with Fouché.

“If he’s looking into the death of another French civil servant, his behavior borders on obsession.”

“Malcolm—”

“Was there when Rivère died.” Fouché’s clipped voice brooked no argument. “Yes, I know. As were you. Don’t look so shocked, my dear. I didn’t know you were meeting Rivère. But after his death I was able to put the pieces together. Remarkable the things you and your husband share. You obviously complement each other well. But whatever misguided overtures Antoine Rivère had made to the British before his death, his death is a matter for the French. Your husband would be wise to leave the investigation to us.”

Suzanne willed her face to innocence. “I’m sure Malcolm would never interfere with your investigation.”

“By running his own, he’s likely to stumble over my men.”

“Malcolm isn’t the sort to get tangled up with anyone.”

“Your husband’s a clever man, but he hasn’t learned restraint. He’s stumbled into the midst of a great deal more than he bargains on.”

“Malcolm can take care of himself.”

“A clever wife could protect him from himself.” Fouché’s gaze again shifted over her, dark in the shadows. “I imagine you’re an exceedingly clever wife, my dear.”

“You flatter me.”

“I think not.” Fouché regarded her for a moment. Once again she had the sense he was cutting through layer upon carefully constructed layer. “In a word, Suzanne, if you know what’s good for your husband, not to mention yourself, you’ll get him to stop this ill-judged investigation.”

Tension shot through her. She willed it from her body. “I generally find it more conducive to a happy marriage to let Malcolm make such decisions for himself.”

“My dear Suzanne.” Fouché’s hand shot out and closed round her wrist. His grip was like an iron shackle. “You wouldn’t have survived so long in this business if you did not have a strong practical streak. You will stop your husband’s investigation because I’m quite sure you don’t wish him to know the truth of why you married him. Or the myriad ways you’ve betrayed him in the short span of your marriage.”

For a moment she thought she was going to disgrace herself and be sick. The gilt and white plaster and gold silk of the passage swam round her while the polished floorboards seemed to open at her feet. Yet when she spoke her voice came out surprisingly even. “Malcolm already knows a great deal about me.”

“But not the full extent of the truth.” His voice was now so gentle it chilled her to the bone. “You wouldn’t risk it. And though Rannoch may be a remarkable man, if he knew the truth he wouldn’t still be living with you. Or look at you in the way he does.”

That, Suzanne knew, was all too true. “Perhaps I don’t care.”

“I think not. I’ve also observed the way you look at him. Stop the investigation, Suzanne. If you want your charming, duplicitous life to have a prayer of continuing.”

CHAPTER 22

She forced herself to breathe. One breath after another, driving air into her lungs, forcing more air in, pressing against her corset laces. Experience had taught that if she went on doing that she would avoid vomiting or fainting or sinking to the floor and curling into a ball while she sobbed into her knees. Not unlike the way she had got through the pangs of childbirth. She made her way down the passage, willing herself to keep her steps measured, though her every impulse was to hurry, as though she could outrun what had just happened.

She stepped back into her box, smiling at Malcolm as she moved past him to the front row. He caught her hand and squeezed her fingers. She wondered if he could feel how cold her skin was. From the look in his eyes, it seemed not.

She dropped back into her seat between Aline and Cordelia. If she couldn’t manage to force her attention to the play, at least she managed to laugh and clap at the appropriate times. She even sipped a glass of champagne in the second interval, while listening to Lady Caroline Lamb’s animated chatter. Through the third act and then she was in a carriage with Malcolm and the Davenports and Blackwells, and they were at Mrs. Heywood’s, a haunt of the British expatriates that Wellington had made fashionable. And there, across the room, was Raoul, engaged in a game of whist.

Malcolm was claimed by Count Nesselrode. Cordelia touched her arm. “I see Gui. I’m going to talk to him.”

Suzanne squeezed her friend’s hand. “Are you sure—”

“I told Harry I would. It’s all right. In for a penny . . .”

It was good to remember that she wasn’t the only one with a complicated marriage. Suzanne watched Cordelia move towards Gui, then strolled forwards, nodded to William Lamb and Freddy Lyttleton (who grinned at her, as though last night had given them a shared secret), and at last let her gaze drift casually over the card room until it met Raoul’s own. Not a muscle moved in his face, but she read at once that he’d received her message. She stopped to ask after Jane Chase’s children and to trade baby stories with Fitzroy and Harriet Somerset, then wandered into the adjoining salon and drifted towards a sofa set between two columns. Much safer to talk in public than to take refuge in an anteroom. In all the years they had worked together, she and Raoul had rarely risked that.

A few moments later, Raoul’s voice sounded just behind her.

“Mrs. Rannoch.”

“Mr. O’Roarke.” She managed a smile. “I trust you had a profitable evening at the card table.”

“Hardly that, but I didn’t lose too egregiously. I remembered that you’d been asking me about the Fernandezes.”

“Yes, I’ve thought about them often since we left Spain, but I wasn’t sure where to write. I’d so like to hear if you have news.” She sank down on the sofa.

Raoul seated himself beside her. A potted palm half-concealed them. The buzz of conversation and strains of a pianoforte washed over them, creating admirable cover.

“No difficulties,” Raoul said. “They should be at the coast in another day or so. Roxane and Clarisse think it a great adventure.”

“Thank God.”

He scanned her face. “And yet something has you distressed.”

She met his gaze with a bright smile. “Fouché knows. About me.”

Raoul’s expression held steady. “You’re certain?”

“He left no doubt about it.” She locked her gloved fingers together, because she wasn’t entirely certain she could keep them from trembling. “He threatened to tell Malcolm if I don’t convince Malcolm to abandon the investigation into Rivère’s death.”

“Damnation.” Raoul ran a hand over his hair. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s hardly the first time I’ve heard you swear.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t protect you from Fouché.” His voice was still conversational, but the undertone was like iron.

“It’s never been your job to protect me from anything.”

“Can you convince Malcolm to stop the investigation?”

She tightened her fingers. “I wouldn’t.”

“No, you wouldn’t, would you?” Raoul gave a faint smile. “We’ll have to make Fouché
think
the investigation has stopped.”

“It’s not your problem to solve.”

“Of course it is. I got you into this.”

“I got myself into it. You always said we had to extricate ourselves from trouble.” Though Raoul had rescued her more than once in the past, most notably from a group of bandits who had been within hours of killing her. She’d never forget the harsh tone of his voice or the gentleness of his hands lifting her onto his horse as she sagged into unconsciousness.

“I could have—”

“Stopped it?” She looked up at him. Despite her tightly clenched hands, she was shaking. Terror chilled her blood and scalded her insides.

His fingers tensed, as though he would touch her, but he didn’t move. “I won’t let Fouché destroy your marriage,
querida
.”

“You can’t promise that, Raoul. Not even you.” She drew a breath, forcing the air from her lungs. “Perhaps I should tell Malcolm.”

“For God’s sake, Suzanne. A grand sacrifice won’t solve this.”

“As long as he doesn’t know, I’m a liability. People can use it to force my hand—”

“No one’s forced you to do anything yet, have they?”

“I’ve been lucky.”

“You’ve been clever and resilient.
Querida . . .
” He hesitated, and she sensed that once again he forced himself not to touch her hand. “If Malcolm knew, you’d just put the risk of someone using the information onto him. He’d have his enemies threatening his wife to manipulate him. And he’s not as trained to combat manipulation as you are.”

She met Raoul’s gaze, forcing herself to look into a bleak future. “If Malcolm knew, I wouldn’t be his wife anymore.”

“Don’t talk foolishness. You can’t think—”

“You can’t seriously think Malcolm could know the truth and still want to go on living with me.” She couldn’t quite picture what would happen, but she could see the love fading from his eyes. The love she had barely begun to realize was there.

Raoul returned her gaze, his own at once gentle and uncompromising. “I don’t know. But I know he wouldn’t let the mother of his child and the woman with whom he’s shared his life face arrest and imprisonment. Whatever was between you in private, I’m quite certain he’d do everything in his power to protect you.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but for all the fears roiling inside her, she knew Raoul was right. Malcolm took his responsibilities seriously. Even if he knew the truth, even if he hated her, he’d consider her his responsibility. They might not share a bed or even a roof, but he’d risk his career, his reputation, even his own safety to protect her.

“I’ll handle Fouché,” Raoul said.

“You can’t—”

“I may not be the man I once was, but I think I’m still a match for Fouché.”

“It’s not your—”

“My dear girl. Malcolm isn’t the only one who takes his responsibilities seriously.”

 

Gui staggered into the passage before Cordelia could reach his side. She followed and found him being sick into a Sèvres vase on a console table. She touched her fingers to his shoulder. “Gui.”

He started and spun round. His face had a greenish cast and his eyes were hollow. “Sorry. You know me. A tendency to overindulge.”

“I don’t remember it hitting you this hard.”

“I’m not as young as I once was.”

“Rubbish. You can’t say that without making me feel old, and you’re much too gallant for that.”

He gave a faint smile. She took his arm and steered him to a settee. He put a hand on the gilded back and lowered himself carefully. “Aren’t you concerned for your reputation?” he asked with a glint of the old Gui.

“It’s already in tatters.”

“And your husband?”

She swallowed. “Harry’s understanding.”

“I met him at the Salon des Etrangers. From my observation he’s very much in love with you.”

“My dear.” The raillery in her voice sounded forced to her own ears. “I didn’t think you were given to such romantic fancies.”

“I’m not. But I’m also not entirely unobservant.” A smile drove some of the shadows from his face. “I’m happy for you, Cordy. You deserve it.”

“I don’t think I deserve it in the least. But I know how fortunate I am.”

“You’re too hard on yourself.”

“On the contrary. I let myself wallow in bad behavior for far too long.” She studied his face, searching for the right opening. But with Gui, directness had always seemed best. “Gui. Harry told me you were seen at Antoine Rivère’s rooms two nights before he was killed.”

Fear shot through his gaze, but he was too clever to deny it. “I should have realized. A man who trusts his wife would confide in her. Did he tell you I’d gone to talk to Rivère about gambling debts?”

“He said that was what you’d told him.”

“But he didn’t believe me.”

“It’s his job to ask questions.”

“And yours?”

Cordelia swallowed. “Gui—I can’t claim to know the workings of your mind. But it’s evident you’re in torment.”

He gave a brief laugh. “Now who’s using overblown language?”

“That’s just it. I don’t think it is overblown.” She looked into his haunted eyes. “What’s Frémont?”

For a moment he went absolutely still. Then he laughed again. “For God’s sake, Cordy. You’re not placing credence in my midnight ravings years ago.”

“Yes. I think it was important.”

He pushed himself to his feet, then dropped back down on the settee, his head in his hands.

Cordelia touched his back again. She could feel the lines of tension through the superfine of his coat. “For years I didn’t like myself very much. There are still times when I don’t. But I’m trying. I’m trying to be someone my daughter can be proud of. Someone my husband can love. Someone I can like myself. I didn’t want to confront my past. I was running from it when you met me. In Brussels circumstances forced me to face it or I don’t know that I ever would have. But it was only that that let me move forwards.”

“You’re romanticizing commonplace dissatisfaction.”

“There’s nothing commonplace about you, Gui.”

He shot a look at her. “You think I killed Rivère?”

She swallowed. “No, actually. But I’d like to be able to explain my certainty to Harry and Malcolm.”

“Sometimes confronting the past doesn’t solve problems. Sometimes it makes them worse.” He stared down at his hands. “And yet it’s hard to see how the Laclos family could come to worse straits.” He spread his fingers in his lap. He wore a signet ring with the Laclos crest on his right hand. “I used to think it didn’t matter so much that I was such a disappointment because my uncle and aunt had Étienne and Bertrand. Two sons to be proud of. Poor Oncle Jacques and Tante Amélie. They were nothing but kind to me from the moment I first came to live with them. They never berated me for my exploits. They never had the least idea they harbored a cuckoo in their nest.”

Cordelia stared at her former lover, not sure she’d heard correctly.

Gui turned his head and met her gaze. His own was level and completely focused. “Frémont is the name I was born with. Victor Frémont. The name I bore until I was fifteen and brought to England in the guise of Guilaume de Laclos.”