Authors: Imperial Scandal
Teresa Grant (23 page)
“I don’t know.” Ashton ran a hand over his hair. “We quarreled over her debts early in our marriage. But I settled everything up.”
“And if you’d found out she was in debt again?”
“I’d have been angry, but I wouldn’t—”
“Wouldn’t what?” Davenport asked, with the same deceptive quiet.
“My God.” Ashton stared at him. “You think I—What? That I’d have beat her if she’d told me? Thrown her from the house? What kind of monster do you think I am?”
“I don’t think anything yet, Ashton,” Davenport said. “Insufficient data. But the evidence suggests Julia was afraid of you.”
“Damn you—” Ashton lunged across the room and smashed his fist into Davenport’s jaw. Davenport tumbled to the floorboards.
Malcolm ran forward. Davenport waved him off and pushed himself up on one elbow. “You have a right to be in a temper, Ashton.”
“I don’t hit women. I’d never have hurt Julia.”
“It’s difficult to know what one might do in a temper.” Davenport got to his feet, wincing at the pressure on his bad arm. “I’ve surprised myself with my own behavior on more than one occasion.”
“You think—” Ashton stared at him, as though the full extent of the nightmare was dawning on him. “You think I was behind Julia’s death.”
“I think a man who learned his wife had not only betrayed him with a lover but had betrayed the country for which he risked his life would be under considerable strain.”
Ashton flinched at hearing his wife’s crimes put into words. “But I didn’t know.”
“So you said.”
“But you’re not sure.” Ashton’s gaze flickered from Davenport to Malcolm.
“We can’t be,” Malcolm said. “What might you have told your wife that she could have passed along to the French?”
“Nothing. I didn’t discuss my work with her. Julia seemed to have no interest in it.” His eyes darkened, a man sifting through his memories and twisting every one to see it in a new light. “If she was spying for the French wouldn’t she have tried to draw me out?”
“Perhaps she didn’t want to make you suspicious with changed behavior.” Malcolm watched Ashton for a moment. “Could she have known about your involvement with Violet Chase?”
“My what?” Ashton’s eyes widened, but Malcolm caught a flash of guilt in their depths.
“You and Miss Chase were seen embracing in the garden at Stuart’s ball,” Malcolm said.
Ashton drew a shuddering breath. “Oh, dear God. I should have known.”
24
S
uzanne slipped through a side door to the shop of Madame Longé, the dressmaker who was one of her best sources in Brussels. She returned her basket to the back of a cupboard in the storeroom, removed her mantilla and gloves, and donned the chip straw hat and gauze scarf in which she had left the Rue Ducale. It took her three tries to fasten the satin ribbons into anything approaching a bow, but by the time she was tugging on the second of her threadnet gloves her hands had very nearly stopped shaking.
uzanne slipped through a side door to the shop of Madame Longé, the dressmaker who was one of her best sources in Brussels. She returned her basket to the back of a cupboard in the storeroom, removed her mantilla and gloves, and donned the chip straw hat and gauze scarf in which she had left the Rue Ducale. It took her three tries to fasten the satin ribbons into anything approaching a bow, but by the time she was tugging on the second of her threadnet gloves her hands had very nearly stopped shaking.
Ridiculous. She had been a spy for nearly six years. She had been lying to her husband from the day they met. She had confronted the fact that she loved him and made the decision that it didn’t change what she believed in. She had perfected the art of keeping her life in neat boxes and laughing in defiance at the risk that the boxes might come tumbling down about her ears. She had learned to sip champagne and eat lobster patties and ignore the bitter aftertaste of betrayal.
It shouldn’t be different now. She couldn’t afford to let it be different. She drew a breath that shuddered against her corset laces, tugged the ribbons on her hat tighter, and stepped into the front of the shop. After stopping to collect the new gown of pearl-beaded silver gauze over ivory satin that she’d ordered for the Duchess of Richmond’s ball, she swept out the front door, a lady of fashion who had spent the morning at a fitting.
In the Rue Ducale, Valentin informed her that Lady Cordelia Davenport had called with a young lady and that they were waiting for her in the garden.
Stepping through the French window into the garden, Suzanne saw that the young lady was very young indeed. Not yet four by the look of it. She was crouched on the flagstones with Colin, lining up his lead soldiers. Cordelia and Blanca sat at the wrought-iron table watching the children.
“You must be Livia,” Suzanne said.
Livia Davenport got to her feet and curtsied. She had blond hair, several shades paler than her mother’s, and her mother’s blue eyes and heart-shaped face. Whoever Livia’s father might be, she bore little resemblance to him.
“I’m sorry.” Cordelia got to her feet as Suzanne came toward her. “Livia was reluctant to see me leave without her. I had to tell her yesterday that her aunt Julia died, and though I’ve tried to say nothing about the coming battle, I think she understands something is about to happen.”
“Children always seem to.” Suzanne looked at her son. He and Livia had returned to lining up the lead soldiers in a bed of lavender. Suzanne recalled Colin flinging his arms round Fitzroy Somerset’s legs three days before. Colin thought of Fitzroy and March and Canning and Gordon as uncles. In the Peninsula Colin had been too young to understand when friends died. That wouldn’t be true of this battle.
But the sight of her son steadied her. One couldn’t break down round children, so one simply didn’t. “I’m glad you brought her. It’s good for Colin to have a friend to play with.”
Cordelia’s gaze moved over Suzanne’s face. “Are the rumors true? That Bonaparte’s finally crossed the frontier?”
“It seems so.”
Beneath the brim of her willow shavings bonnet Cordelia’s face drained of color. Suzanne put a hand on the other woman’s arm and pressed her into one of the wrought-iron chairs.
“I’ll get some lemonade,” Blanca said, darting a quick glance between the women. She moved toward the house, stopping to admire Colin and Livia’s efforts with the soldiers.
“I’m sorry,” Cordelia said. “I didn’t mean to be such a fool.”
Suzanne dropped into a chair across from her. “It still may come to nothing.”
“Spoken like a diplomatic wife.” Cordelia glanced at her daughter for a moment, then turned her gaze back to Suzanne. “It’s odd. I knew I might see Harry when I was in Paris last year, but he was off on a mission. By design, I’ve often thought.”
“And you weren’t sure whether you were relieved or sorry?”
Cordelia’s mouth twisted. “Perhaps. Going to Paris was an act of recklessness. But then I’ve always been known for my reckless behavior. And of course I knew I might see him in Brussels. On the journey across the Channel and the drive from Ostend every moment I wasn’t worrying about Julia, I was imaging my meeting with Harry. Playing out every possible scenario. I was so worried about seeing him again, I never considered that this might be the last time I saw him at all.”
“Malcolm isn’t a soldier, but I feel a knot of panic whenever he goes off on a mission.”
“You’re very kind, Mrs. Rannoch. You’re sympathizing without pointing out that Harry’s been in danger the better part of these past four years and I’ve made no attempt to see him. To all practical purposes he’s not even my husband.”
“I wouldn’t dream of suggesting anything of the sort.”
“Because you’re too tactful.”
“Because I’ve seen you and Colonel Davenport together enough to know that whatever is between you it isn’t nothing.”
Cordelia glanced at her daughter again. A smile twisted her lips. “We lived together for a year. I’m not entirely heartless. I somehow always thought—” She shook her head. “I’m not sure what I thought. Except that it wouldn’t end like this. One got used to it during the war, of course. The constant knowledge that people one knew were in danger. The moment of terror when the casualty lists came out. But somehow it still seemed distant. I suppose you grew accustomed to it, living in the Peninsula.”
“I don’t think one ever grows accustomed to it.” Particularly when one was working for the opposite side from one’s husband and his friends. “But perhaps one learns to manage the fear.” Suzanne looked at Cordelia for a moment. “Your husband has been in battle many times. As has Major Chase.”
Cordelia’s shoulders jerked, but she met Suzanne’s gaze squarely. “George has a wife. He isn’t mine to worry about.”
“That doesn’t necessarily stop anyone from worrying.”
Memories shot through Cordelia’s gaze. “I talked to George last night. About Julia. But—” Despite the afternoon heat, she rubbed her arms, bare between her gloves and the puffed muslin sleeves of her gown. “I told him what we had would have turned to ashes sooner or later. I still believe it.”
“But you can’t be sure.”
Cordelia stared down at her gloved fingers digging into the flesh of her arms. “A part of me will always be the sixteen-year-old who fell in love with him over the Christmas punch bowl.”
For a moment Suzanne saw Raoul, when she had left him just now, and then when she, too, had been sixteen. Already hardened and cynical yet desperate for something to believe in. Whatever else he had done, he would always be the man who had restored her to a sense of purpose. “A first love is always a first love,” she said.
Cordelia studied her for a moment but didn’t ask the obvious question. “Of all the damnable times to be wallowing in my own past.” She swallowed and folded her hands in her lap. “You learned something yesterday.”
“Yes.”
“But you can’t tell me. I understand. I didn’t come here to wheedle or beg.”
“There’s one thing I can tell you. That I’d like your help with.” Suzanne recounted Sarah Lennox’s story about Violet Chase and then Fitzroy Somerset’s account of finding Violet and John Ashton embracing in the garden at Stuart’s ball. She phrased this last carefully, for she knew Cordelia was fond of her brother-in-law.
Cordelia squeezed her eyes shut. “Damnation. I thought Johnny was prevaricating about something when we talked about Julia, but I never suspected—”
“It was clear yesterday that Miss Chase still cares for him.”
“But I’d swear Johnny—” Cordelia shook her head. “After what I’ve learned in the past two days, I shouldn’t be surprised by any revelation.”
“Will you go with me to talk to Miss Chase?”
“You think Violet will tell me the truth?”
“I think you’ll have the best chance of determining how much truth there is in whatever story she gives us.”
The footman at the Chase house informed Suzanne and Cordelia that Miss Chase had taken the children to the park. Suzanne and Cordelia proceeded thither and found Violet on one of the gravel walks with her niece and nephew and a nursemaid.
Violet was bent over her nephew, a boy of about eighteen months, helping pull a wooden horse along the gravel. An unusual image for the stylish Violet Chase. She went still when she looked up to see Suzanne and Cordelia approaching. Then Violet murmured something to her nephew and the nurse who was pushing a baby carriage. “Cordelia. Mrs. Rannoch.” Violet walked forward. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”
“It’s good to get the children out-of-doors,” Suzanne said.
Violet glanced at her nephew and the baby. “Tony has been trying to convince Jane to go to Antwerp. Jane’s been refusing in unusually sharp tones. All the while I think they’re really arguing about something else entirely. I decided to take the children and escape the house.”
“Sensible,” Cordelia said.
Violet pushed a ringlet, damp from perspiration in the heat, beneath the brim of her leghorn bonnet. “Tony seems to think we’re really in for fighting this time, but I saw Georgy Lennox a quarter hour ago, and she says Lord Hill assured them the talk of imminent battle is unfounded. I suppose it’s a good thing I had my maid lay out my dress for her mother’s ball tonight.”
“If Mrs. Chase goes to Antwerp will you go with her?” Suzanne asked.
“Of course not.” Violet straightened her shoulders. “If there is a battle, both my brothers will be in it.”
“Not to mention Johnny,” Cordelia said.
Violet lifted her chin. “I’m still fond of him.”
Cordelia returned her gaze. “I’ve been so focused on what Julia was doing the night of Stuart’s ball, I’ve quite forgot about other people and what they might have seen. Sarah Lennox told Mrs. Rannoch she found you in some distress that night.”
Fear shot into Violet’s eyes. She opened her mouth as though to deny Lady Sarah’s report, then spun away and stared at the refreshment pavilion, toward which the nurse was being pulled by young Master Chase. “I should have known Sarah couldn’t keep her mouth shut.”
Cordelia touched her friend’s shoulder. “Violet—”
Violet jerked away from Cordelia’s touch. “I told Sarah what happened. Eddy Featherstonaugh made himself disagreeable in the garden. I’m not as used to those things as you are.”
“Point taken,” Cordelia said.
“But you don’t believe me.”
“Sarah didn’t.”
“Sarah Lennox is a—Oh, what’s the use.” Violet flung up her hands. “You want to know what I was doing. We none of us seem to be able to have secrets anymore.”
“Anything anyone may have seen that night could be important,” Suzanne said.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Violet returned. “I slipped out of the ballroom, stole a horse from Stuart’s stables, rode to the Château de Vere, and shot Julia.”
“Very funny,” Cordelia said.
“So you don’t think I’m capable of it?”
“I don’t think you’d have ridden all that way in a ball dress.”
“I might if I’d been determined enough. But I—” Violet’s brows drew together.
“Vi—” Cordelia touched her arm again.
Violet scowled at the crowd round the refreshment pavilion, but this time she didn’t pull away. “If you must know, I saw Julia slip out of the ballroom. Not knowing she was engaged in more than one illicit liaison, I was sure she was going to meet Tony. I was going to confront them. I thought perhaps that would shame her into ending the affair.”
Cordelia shot a quick glance at Suzanne. They’d been prepared for Violet not to tell them about her tryst with John Ashton, but they hadn’t expected more revelations about Julia. “And—?” Cordelia asked.
Violet folded her arms across her chest. “I followed her into the garden. She did meet Tony. By the yew hedge.”
Suzanne exchanged a quick look with Cordelia. “Did you confront them?”
Violet stirred a fallen leaf with the toe of her Roman sandal. “I was going to. But once I got close enough to hear what they were saying, it seemed more awkward than I expected. And they weren’t in each other’s arms. They were quarreling.”
“What about?” Suzanne asked, keeping her voice steady and gentle. If this was a story, it was a surprisingly detailed one.
Violet frowned as though still puzzled by the memory. “I think Julia was trying to break off the affair. At one point Tony seized her arms, and I heard him say, ‘It can’t end so easily. Surely you realize that.’ Julia pulled away and said, ‘You can’t ask such a thing of me.’ I thought perhaps she’d actually taken our conversation to heart. If she was ending things, the last thing I wanted was to interrupt. Then they moved farther away, and I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Finally Tony flung away from her and stalked back into the ballroom.”
“And Julia?” Cordelia asked.
“She ran across the garden toward the wall. I suddenly didn’t want her to see me. If she’d been angry at me, she might have taken Tony back out of spite. As it was, I suppose she went off to her rendezvous with the Prince of Orange.”
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