Beneath a Silent Moon (39 page)

She spun away from the window. Her gaze went to the hearthrug where Charles had built block castles for her dolls, to the pianoforte where he'd helped her master the
Walidstein
Sonata, to the window seat where he'd held her horn primer and helped her learn her letters. She tugged her shawl up about her shoulders. She had long since ceased to be the ringleted little girl who thought her brother's tall shoulders could shield her from all harm. And that brother was gone in any case, replaced by a cool-eyed stranger who probed relentlessly at truths she couldn't allow to come to light. She had no room for guilt. She had done what had to be done. Now she had to continue to do it and see this business through to the end.

She should be able to do so. After all, she was Elizabeth Fraser's daughter.

Charles found his wife sitting on a granite bench in a quiet bit of garden, her gaze fixed on the hedge opposite. He paused along the walkway, allowing himself the luxury of a moment to appreciate the way the curve of her bonnet shadowed her cheekbones and her eyes caught the sparkle of the early evening sun. His throat tightened with the ache of something he could imagine but would never really know.

As usual, she glanced up, quickly aware of his regard.

"You've learned something," he said.

"Yes." She scanned his face. "From the look of it, so have you."

He nodded and sat beside her.

"You first," Mélanie said.

His own gaze went to the intricately interwoven leaves and branches of the hedge. Impossible to tell what lay at the heart of that thicket. "A number of things. The most significant of which is that Quen seems to be my father's son."

Mélanie drew a breath that was like the slice of a knife. "Start at the beginning, Charles."

He managed to give a reasonably coherent account of his scene with his father and Glenister. Mélanie heard him out in silence. She didn't offer sympathy or ask him how he felt about the revelations, which was a good thing because he didn't think he could have borne it. She watched him for a moment when he finished speaking. He could feel the press of everything they had and hadn't said to each other in the course of the day. "I suppose the first question is the one we keep asking," she said. "Do you believe them?"

He stared at the toes of his boots against the damp grass. "Father might have been able to stage the scene in the study, but I don't think Glenister's a good enough actor. So I'm inclined to believe them about the wager and Glenister's wife. And Quen." He brushed a fallen leaf from the bench. "But I think it's possible Father was playacting when he claimed to be shocked that Honoria was pregnant."

"Did he seem to be acting?"

"No, but when Father's at his best he seems utterly genuine." Charles shifted his position on the hard granite. "We're back to the likeliest scenario. Honoria slipped into his room, he realized she was pregnant, he jumped to the conclusion that Glenister had connived at revenge—"

"Charles, your father couldn't have killed Miss Talbot."

"Mel, we keep going round in circles on this, but you can't deny it's possible—"

"Yes, I can. Now. Your father couldn't have killed Miss Talbot because he has an alibi. Your aunt Frances."

"What the devil would Father have been doing with Aunt Frances in the middle of the—oh." He stared into his wife's open gaze. "Good God."

Mélanie smoothed her hands over the sheer fabric of her skirt, as though determined to press out every wrinkle, and told him about her talk with Lady Frances.

Countless verbal duels between his father and aunt ran through Charles's head. He rubbed his hand over his eyes. "I always thought they despised each other."

"Respect and liking don't necessarily have anything to do with it, as Lady Frances pointed out to me."

Charles looked at his lover and wife, thought of holding her in his arms, touching her, taking solace from her warm flesh. How poorly demarcated was the line between want and need, between lust and tenderness, between giving a lover pleasure and using her for it When did desire become manipulation and honesty give way to deceit? Was what Romeo felt when he took Juliet in his arms so different from what Edmund felt when he kissed Goneril or Regan?

"I suppose… I always credited Aunt Frances with better taste."

"For what it's worth, I think she's rather shocked by her own response to your father. But, darling, whatever else it means, it means your father can't have killed Miss Talbot."

"Unless Aunt Frances is lying."

"You think she's telling the truth about having an affair with your father but lying about the times?"

"It doesn't seem likely, but it's a possibility."

"A remote one."

"Yes." He drew a breath. The air seemed lighter. Which was absurd, because any relief at his father's innocence was tempered by the fact that someone else, very likely someone who mattered more to him than his father did, was undoubtedly guilty.

He focused on another piece of information from her account of her talk with Lady Frances. "Interesting that Cyril Talbot's death wasn't the simple hunting accident we'd been led to believe."

"And that Lady Frances suspected some of the men present were Frenchmen incognito. Of course if they were friends of your father's from before the war, they might have simply been using assumed names to spend a fortnight indulging themselves with old friends."

"Or they could have been members of the Elsinore League using the house party as a cover to meet with Cyril Talbot, who may have been Le Faucon de Maulévrier."

"Or one of the mysterious Frenchmen or the Irishman with the cold eyes could have been Le Faucon and Lord Cyril could have been a member of the league. Either way, I continue to wonder how accidental his death was."

"Or if he really died at all? I still find it hard to believe he's alive somewhere, but then Cyril's death is a truth I grew up with. If Father and Glenister were helping members of the Elsinore League stage Cyril's death and disappearance, one can see why they'd have been so ungracious about Aunt Frances and Louisa Mitford's arrival. On the other hand, Aunt Frances's theory that Father and Glenister and Cyril and the others were in the midst of some sort of all-male orgy would explain it as well." Charles ran a finger over the granite of the bench, pockmarked by time and salt air. "I never thought of Father and Glenister as lovers, but I suppose it makes a sort of odd sense of the way they've competed and tried to take each other's women and stayed friends of a sort despite all the betrayals."

"Charles," Mélanie said, with that intent, breathless note she got in her voice when she was piecing things together, "suppose both theories are true. Suppose it was an all-male orgy and suppose Cyril Talbot and some of the others were members of the Elsinore League. Suppose one of the incognito Frenchmen was Colonel Coroux. Then perhaps he wasn't trying to blackmail Le Faucon or another member of the Elsinore League to help him escape France. Perhaps he was blackmailing your father and Lord Glenister about their relationship or about Cyril Talbot's past. The coded letter Francisco gave us that threatens to reveal the truth could have been written to your father and Lord Glenister, and they could be the ones who 'fear for Honoria.' Fear her learning the truth of her father's past or the truth that they were lovers. Or both."

"And if Tommy's right that Le Faucon plans to assassinate someone to cover up his past, the target could be Father or Glenister. Or both of them."

"Yes. Unless we were right last night to suspect that target was Miss Talbot herself."

"I still don't see what Honoria could be expected to remember about events that happened when she was little more than a baby. Or why she'd suddenly be a threat now."

"We could confront your father and Lord Glenister, but assuming it's true they'd probably deny the whole emphatically."

"Quite. Better to wait and see if Tommy can shed some light on the matter tonight. I'd rather have as much ammunition as possible before we spring this on Father and Glenister. It's still entirely possible Honoria's death had nothing to do with the Elsinore League." Charles drew a breath. "I also had a talk with my sister." He told her about Gisèle and Andrew. "Which explains what Andrew was doing in the house. But Gisèle obviously suspects he was in love with Honoria, and if she's right it gives him a motive. Andrew isn't in the estate office. I just walked over to the lodge and his mother says he hasn't been home. I'm not sure—"

Footsteps thudded on the grass. "Charles." David strode up to them, face ashen. "I'm sorry, I know you shouldn't talk to me about any of this, but I need to know. Simon told me—about Honoria—about her coming to his room. I didn't want to believe him at first. Christ, I actually accused him of lying to me. It's the first time I've ever done that. I still can't—in God's name, why? Do you have any idea?"

Charles got to his feet and faced his friend. "Why she went to Simon's room? Yes. Why she was killed? A number of ideas, but no answers. Yet." He glanced at Mélanie. "I think it's time for another council of war. But we should include Simon as well."

"Are you sure you want to tell us anything?" David said. "Technically we're both suspects—"

"Technically. But—"

"I know, you can't imagine either of us having killed her. But I can't imagine anyone in the house having killed her."

Charles smiled and clapped his friend on the shoulder. "Actually, I was going to say that even in the event you or Simon killed her, I think we still have more to gain than to lose from hearing your reactions to what we've discovered."

David looked at him for a moment, then gave an answering smile. As they started for the house, Charles wondered if his friend had the faintest idea how very much in earnest his words were.

A buffet supper had been laid out in the dining room, sparing the guests the awkwardness of a formal dinner. Charles,
Mélanie, David, and Simon carried plates into the old drawing room and picked at the food while Charles recounted nearly all of what he and Mélanie had discovered in the course of the day. He omitted Gisèle's revelations about her feelings for Andrew.

Mélanie watched David and Simon as they heard her husband out. David became progressively paler. Simon frowned, but didn't appear surprised.

"I was there," David said when Charles finished speaking. "In Lisbon. And you never told me—"

"What good would it have done?" Charles was leaning against the pianoforte, hands locked behind him. "I thought it was a schoolgirl infatuation. I thought she'd grow out of it."

"But she didn't. I mean—" David swallowed, as if he still couldn't believe it. "She didn't grow out of whatever it was. If you'd told me—"

"If I'd told you, then what?"

"I'd probably have suggested you marry her."

"Yes, I expect you would have done. Hardly the wisest course of action for any of us."

Echoes of what might have been reverberated between the two men. "You could have—"

"Protected her? Honoria didn't want to be protected."

"She cared about you. I'd swear to that." David regarded his friend for a moment. "I think she loved you."