The Berkeley Square Affair (Malcolm & Suzanne Rannoch)

THE
B
ERKELEY
S
QUARE
A
FFAIR

The Malcolm & Suzanne Rannoch Mysteries by Teresa Grant:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

THE B
ERKELEY
S
QUARE
A
FFAIR

TERESA GRANT

KENSINGTON BOOKS

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

My heartfelt thanks to my longtime editor, Audrey LaFehr, who began work on this book, and to my new editor, Martin Biro, who helped me shape and polish the manuscript. I am very fortunate to have the insights and support of two such wonderful editors. And as always, the input and advice of my agent, Nancy Yost, was invaluable.

Thanks as well to Paula Reedy for shepherding the book through copyedits and galleys with exquisite care and good humor. To Barbara Wild for the careful copy editing. To Pauline Sholtys for the eagle-eyed proofreading. To Kristine Mills and Jon Paul for a fabulous cover that evokes Suzanne and Berkeley Square. To Alexandra Nicolajsen for the superlative social media support. And to Karen Auerbach, Adeola Saul and everyone at Kensington Books, and Sarah Younger, Adrienne Rosado, Natanya Wheeler, and everyone at the Nancy Yost Literary Agency for their support throughout the publication process.

Thank you to all the wonderful booksellers who help readers find Malcolm and Suzanne, and in particular to Book Passage in Corte Madera for their always warm welcome to me and to my daughter, Mélanie. Thank you to the readers who share Suzanne’s and Malcolm’s adventures with me on my Web site and Facebook and Twitter. Thank you to Gregory Paris and jim saliba for creating my Web site and updating it so quickly and with such style. To Raphael Coffey for once again juggling cats and baby to take the best author photos a writer could have. To Robert Sicular for inspiration onstage (including a memorable
Hamlet
) and inspiring conversations about books and plays, including a discussion of Hamlet’s attitude toward his father. To Jayne Davis for the always erudite grammar advice. To Bonnie Glaser for always asking about my writing; and to Bonnie, Raphael, Lesley Grant, Elaine Hamlin, and Veronica Wolff for nurturing Mélanie so Mummy could get a few more words down. And to the staff at Peet’s Coffee & Tea at The Village in Corte Madera for keeping me supplied with superb lattes and cups of Earl Grey and making Mélanie smile as I wrote this book.

Thank you to Lauren Willig for sharing the delights and dilemmas of writing about Napoleonic spies. I’m so excited that we now share juggling writing and motherhood as well. To Penelope Williamson for support and understanding and hours analyzing plays, including a brilliant
Hamlet
at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival in 2010. To Veronica Wolff for wonderful writing dates during which my word count seemed to magically increase. To Catherine Duthie for sharing her thoughts on Malcolm and Suzanne’s world and introducing them to new readers. To Deborah Crombie for supporting Malcolm and Suzanne from the beginning. To Tasha Alexander and Andrew Grant for their wit and wisdom and support, whether in person or via e-mail. To Deanna Raybourn, who never fails to offer encouragement and asks wonderful interview questions. And to my other writer friends near and far for brainstorming, strategizing, and commiserating—Jami Alden, Bella Andre, Isobel Carr, Catherine Coulter, Barbara Freethy, Carol Grace, C. S. Harris, Candice Hern, Anne Mallory, and Monica McCarty.

Finally, thank you to my daughter, Mélanie, for inspiring me and always seeming to understand when Mummy needed just a few more minutes to craft a sentence.

*indicates real historical figures

 

 

 

Malcolm Rannoch, Member of Parliament and former Intelligence Agent

Suzanne Rannoch, his wife

Colin Rannoch, their son

Jessica Rannoch, their daughter

Blanca Mendoza, Suzanne’s companion

Miles Addison, Malcolm’s valet

Valentin, their footman

Laura Dudley, Colin’s and Jessica’s governess

 

 

 

Lady Frances Dacre-Hammond, Malcolm’s aunt

Chloe Dacre-Hammond, her daughter

Aline Blackwell, Lady Frances’s daughter

Dr. Geoffrey Blackwell, Aline’s husband

Claudia Blackwell, their daughter

The Duke of Strathdon, Malcolm’s grandfather

 

 

 

Colonel Harry Davenport

Lady Cordelia Davenport, his wife

Livia Davenport, their daughter

Drusilla Davenport, their daughter

Archibald Davenport, Harry’s uncle

 

 

 

Simon Tanner, playwright and part owner of the theatre

David Mallinson, Viscount Worsley, his lover

Manon Caret, actress

Crispin, Lord Harleton, her lover

Roxane, her daughter

Clarisse, Manon’s younger daughter

Berthe, Manon’s dresser

 

Jennifer Mansfield, actress

Sir Horace Smytheton, her lover and the theatre’s patron

Brandon Ford, actor

 

 

 

Earl Dewhurst, British diplomat

Rupert, Viscount Caruthers, his son

Gabrielle, Viscountess Caruthers, Rupert’s wife

Stephen, their son

Bertrand Laclos, Rupert’s lover

 

 

 

Lord Carfax, British spymaster, David Mallinson’s father Amelia, Lady Carfax, his wife

 

Raoul O’Roarke, French spymaster

General Hugo Cyrus

 

Colonel Frederick Radley, Suzanne’s former lover

 

Paul St. Gilles, painter

Juliette Dubretton, writer, his wife

Pierre Dubretton, their son

Marguerite Dubretton, their daughter

Rose Dubretton, their daughter

PROLOGUE

 

The lamplight shone against the cobblestones, washing over the grime, adding a glow of warmth. Creating an illusion of beauty on a street that in the merciless light of day would show the scars and stains of countless carriage wheels, horse hooves, shoes, pattens, and boots. Much as stage lights could transform bare boards and canvas flats into a garden in Illyria or a castle in Denmark.

Simon Tanner turned up the collar of his greatcoat as a gust of wind, sharp with the bite of late November, cut down the street, followed by a hail of raindrops. His hand went to his chest. In his greatcoat pocket, he could feel the solidity of the package he carried, carefully wrapped in oilskin. Were it not for that tangible reminder, it would be difficult to believe it was real.

He’d hardly had a settled life. He’d grown up in Paris during the fervor of the French Revolution and the madness of the Reign of Terror. Here in England, his plays had more than once been closed by the Government Censor. He’d flirted with arrest for Radical activities. He and his lover risked arrest or worse by the very nature of their relationship. But he had never thought to touch something of this calibre.

He held little sacred. But the package he carried brought out something in him as close to reverence as was possible for one who prided himself on his acerbic approach to life.

The scattered raindrops had turned into a steady downpour, slapping the cobblestones in front of him, dripping off the brim of his beaver hat and the wool of his greatcoat. He quickened his footsteps. For a number of reasons, he would feel better when he had reached Malcolm and Suzanne’s house in Berkeley Square. When he wasn’t alone with this discovery and the attendant questions it raised.

He started at a sound, then smiled ruefully as the creak was followed by the slosh of a chamberpot being dumped on the cobblestones—mercifully a dozen feet behind him. He was acting like a character in one of his plays. He might be on his way to see Malcolm Rannoch, retired (or not so retired) Intelligence Agent, but this was hardly an affair of espionage. In fact, the package Simon valued so highly would probably not be considered so important by others.

He turned down Bolton Street. He was on the outskirts of Mayfair now. Even in the rain-washed lamplight the cobblestones were cleaner, the pavements wider and neatly swept free of leaves and debris. The clean, bright glow of wax tapers glinted behind the curtains instead of the murky yellow light of tallow candles. Someone in the next street over called good night to a departing dinner guest. Carriage wheels rattled. Simon turned down the mews to cut over to Hill Street and then Berkeley Square. Another creak made him pause, then smile at his own fancifulness. David would laugh at him when he returned home and shared his illusions of adventure.

He walked through the shadows of the mews, past whickering horses and the smells of dung and saddle soap and oiled leather. The rain-soaked cobblestones were slick beneath his shoes. A dog barked. A carriage clattered down Hill Street at the end of the mews. It was probably just the need to share his discovery that made him so eager to reach Malcolm and Suzanne. If—

The shadows broke in front of him. Three men blocked the way, wavering blurs through the curtain of rain.

“Hand it over,” a rough voice said. “Quiet like, and this can be easy.”

Lessons from stage combat and boyhood fencing danced through Simon’s head. He pulled his purse from his greatcoat pocket and threw it on the cobblestones. He doubted that would end things, but it was worth a try.

One man started forwards. The man who had spoken gave a sharp shake of his head. “That isn’t what we want and you know it.”

Acting could be a great source of defense. Simon fell back on the role of the amiable fool. “Dear me,” he said, “I can’t imagine what else I have that you could want.”

The man groaned. “Going to make this hard, are you?”

Simon rushed them. He had no particular illusions that it would work. But he thought he had a shot.

Until he felt the knife cut through his greatcoat.