The Berkeley Square Affair (Malcolm & Suzanne Rannoch) (27 page)

“Mama’s marriage portion.”

“Quite. Though most of your mother’s money was tied up for her and for her children.”

Malcolm’s gaze remained trained on his grandfather’s face. “He didn’t receive more mysterious payments, but—”

Strathdon shifted his shoulders against the high chairback.“He disappeared from time to time despite the best efforts of the quite competent man I employed to watch him.”

“To France?”

“To the Continent.”

Suzanne saw Malcolm’s knuckles whiten round his glass. “Did you ever wonder—”

“To own the truth I suspected he was involved in smuggling.” Strathdon took a sip of whisky as though sifting through the past. “But being a French agent would certainly fit the facts as well.”

“You’re very calm, sir.”

“I’ve seen a great deal in my life, Malcolm. I have few illusions when it came to Alistair Rannoch. Far fewer than you.”

“I don’t—”

“My dear boy, he was your father. You couldn’t help but have illusions about him.”

Malcolm swallowed. Suzanne felt his unvoiced pain cut through her. “I scarcely knew him.”

“All the harder, I think. You never had the chance to resolve matters with him.”

“That wouldn’t have happened if Alistair had lived to be one hundred.” Malcolm spoke in a voice from which all feeling had been hammered. “I didn’t like him very much.”

“I know. You really should stop blaming yourself for it.”

Malcolm’s head snapped up. “Damn it, sir, you’re supposed to be above noticing such things.”

“You flatter me, my boy.”

Malcolm pushed himself to his feet. “He betrayed his country.”

“You already knew you disagreed with him on political matters. Is his being a French agent so much more shocking than his being a Tory?”

Malcolm stopped in the midst of the Aubusson carpet and stared at his grandfather. “For God’s sake, sir—”

Strathdon lifted his brows. His gaze was mild and yet at the same time the gaze of one accustomed from the cradle to not having his word questioned. “Surely you can’t be surprised that I’ve never taken Crown and country as seriously as some. I’m not saying I’d commit treason myself. But I don’t find it as shocking as you. Of course I’ve never been an agent.”

Malcolm opened his mouth to speak, then bit back the words and dug his fingers into his hair. “It’s no secret I disagree with much of what our government stands for at home and abroad. Looking back at what we did in Spain and what the French did, it’s difficult for me to argue we were clearly in the right. That’s a large part of why I left the diplomatic service and stood for Parliament. David could tell you about my impassioned letters. Suzette could tell you about my tirades after diplomatic dinner parties.” He flashed a smile at Suzanne.

The duke regarded his grandson with a surprising combination of steel and gentleness. “But you take your loyalties seriously. And you may not yet have realized how complicated loyalties can be.”

Suzanne wondered if Jessica could feel the pounding of her heart through the velvet-edged merino of her gown. She seemed to be asleep. Suzanne put her lips to the baby’s head and forced her fingers not to clench on the pintucked muslin of Jessica’s dress.

“Alistair used to accuse me of being a Jacobin,” Malcolm said.

“If you worked for the French,” Strathdon said, “I rather think you’d do so openly.”

“Alistair was one of the most anti-Bonapartist people I’ve ever met. Either he was a master at deception or—”

“He was only in it for the money.”

“Quite.”

“Knowing what I do of my late son-in-law, I’d be more inclined to believe the latter. Though God knows I’m not the best judge of character.” Strathdon turned his head. “You’re very quiet, Suzanne. What do you think?”

“I scarcely knew Mr. Rannoch.” Her voice, somehow, came out sounding something approaching normal. A testament to years of training.

“But you were in Britain during the last months of his life. And you strike me as a good judge of character.”

She shifted Jessica carefully in her arms. Jessica burrowed into her with the abandon of sleep. “I own I was shocked to hear he was working for the French.” That much was true. “But he struck me as a man who wasn’t loyal to much of anything. Not his family, not his friends. So then it’s hard to believe he was particularly loyal to his country or to any set of beliefs.”

Strathdon inclined his head. “You made an excellent choice when you married her, Malcolm.”

“One of the few sensible things I’ve done in my life. But if Alistair was motivated solely by self-interest, it’s hard to fathom why he’d have run the risk of working for the French once he no longer needed the money.”

“The truth could have ruined him,” Suzanne pointed out in a carefully calibrated tone. Not for the first time, she realized how lucky she was Raoul had let her go. He could have used the threat of revealing the truth to Malcolm to force her to work for him indefinitely. “And then there’s the lure of the game. Perhaps that’s the one place you take after Alistair, darling.”

“I don’t—”

“You miss it, Malcolm. Don’t deny it. Much as you may like to pretend you’re grown-up and above it. I could see it in your eyes when Simon appeared over our windowsill. Because I was feeling much the same myself.”

A rap at the door echoed through the room. Valentin came in with a tray of tea and cakes. Suzanne moved to the settee between the two chairs, cradling the sleeping Jessica. Malcolm poured her a cup of tea.

“Did Mama ever say anything to you that might have indicated she knew?” Malcolm asked the duke, offering him a cup of tea.

“I told you, I didn’t know it myself.” Strathdon waved aside the tea.

Malcolm filled a cup for himself to a precise quarter inch below the silver rim. “Did she tell you Raoul O’Roarke is my father?”

Strathdon’s gaze shot to his grandson’s face. Malcolm set down the teapot. “You knew.”

“No.” Strathdon took a sip of whisky. “Arabella hardly confided in me in that way. I wondered.”

“Why?”

“I’d seen how close they were.”

“You mean you knew they were lovers.”

“Suspected. One doesn’t like to dwell on such questions about one’s daughter. But then there was the interest O’Roarke took in you. And Alistair’s—”

“Lack of interest.”

“To give the man more charity than he deserves.” Strathdon took a sip of whisky. “I always liked O’Roarke. Dabbled—more than dabbled—in dangerous waters, but he was a good man. Is a good man. And clearly fond of you.”

“You read a lot in the situation.”

“Contrary to what some think, I take more than a passing interest in my children and grandchildren. O’Roarke tried not to make his relationship to you too obvious. He was concerned for you. And for Arabella.”

Malcolm inclined his head. “I’m sure you want to see the manuscript.” He’d obviously said as much as he was prepared to about Raoul.

A smile lit Strathdon’s eyes. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Malcolm set down his cup. “We move it every few days. Right now it’s at David and Simon’s. Allie’s there working on it. I’ll take you round. We’re going to a performance at the Tavistock this evening—one of Simon’s plays. You’re welcome to join us if you can put up with a non-Shakespearean evening.”

“I’d be delighted. Always been an admirer of Tanner’s work.” Strathdon swallowed the last of his whisky. “Er—is Mademoiselle Caret in it?”

“She’s the lead,” Suzanne said.

“Splendid.” Strathdon pushed himself to his feet. “Talented young woman that. Saw her as Cleopatra but didn’t get the chance to meet her.”

Suzanne exchanged a look with Malcolm. With the Duke of Strathdon, meeting Manon did not mean crowding in with the throng that customarily overflowed her dressing room after a performance. Suzanne shifted Jessica in her arms and got to her feet. “I’ll stop by the Tavistock and see if I can arrange for Manon to save time for us after the performance.”

Malcolm nodded. “I’ll check if Harry’s left a message for me and meet you there. We can walk home together.”

“It won’t be that late, darling. I’d be perfectly fine walking on my own.”

“But this gives us another quarter hour together.”

Suzanne smiled at him with affectionate mockery. “Of course. Hotspur.”

“Have there been more attempts to take the manuscript?” Strathdon asked.

“Not since the night after Simon brought it to us.” Malcolm exchanged a look with Suzanne.

“It’s almost as though whoever was after the manuscript has given up,” she said.

“Which doesn’t make sense given how determined he was,” Malcolm said. “Unless—”

“Unless recovering the manuscript doesn’t solve his problems anymore,” Suzanne said. “If there’s something he’s worried about in the words themselves, simply getting the manuscript back wouldn’t protect him. It’s common knowledge by now that the Tavistock is presenting the play. All the actors have scripts.”

“So he might have decided further efforts to go after the manuscript would only draw our attention to whatever he’s trying to conceal,” Malcolm said.

“Interesting,” Strathdon said. “The question would seem to be what that is.”

CHAPTER 23

“Rannoch.”

Malcolm bit back a curse at the drawling voice. Why in God’s name did Frederick Radley have to frequent this coffeehouse? One would have thought there were entirely too many newspapers rustling and pens scratching to suit him. Malcolm and Harry used the coffeehouse off Piccadilly to pass messages. Malcolm had ducked in after taking Strathdon to David and Simon’s lodgings in the Albany, where Aline was working on the manuscript. By the time he ascertained that Harry had not left a message for him, Malcolm looked up to see Radley moving towards him. Radley’s slicked-back blond hair gleamed in the lamplight, and his blue eyes were alight with a mockery and self-assurance that took Malcolm right back to Harrow and the sort of fellow student who would always see himself as superior simply by virtue of being who he was.

“Good day, Radley.”

Radley dropped into a chair across from Malcolm without waiting for an invitation. “Didn’t have a chance to speak with you at Carfax House the other night, though I saw Suzanne. She was looking lovely. I understand she’s become quite the toast of London. Remarkable how things turn out.”

Malcolm took a sip of coffee, resisting the urge to fling it in Radley’s face. “I don’t think anyone who knows my wife would find that remarkable.”

Radley lifted a finger to signal a waiter. “That would depend upon whether or not they knew about her past.”

Malcolm’s fingers tightened on his cup. It was a wonder the handle didn’t snap. “I haven’t the least idea what you’re talking about, Radley.”

“No?” Radley at least had the grace not to say more while the waiter approached. Or perhaps the colonel was just enjoying Malcolm’s discomfort. Radley ordered a glass of claret from the waiter and then sat back in his chair with a sense of ownership. “Your tolerance is quite remarkable, Rannoch. Whatever men will put up with from their wives after they have an heir, most wouldn’t tolerate the revelation that the woman they married had a lover before they put a ring on her finger.” He crossed his legs. “Assuming of course that she really did tell you. I’ve always wondered. I’d give even odds on her merely bluffing.”

“Then you’d have underestimated my wife.”

“Well, well. Isn’t this civilized. It’s not many men who could share a drink with their wife’s former lover.”

If he could, Malcolm would have thrown his cup, upended the table, and smashed his booted foot into Radley’s smug face. But Radley was the one who wanted a scene. So Malcolm took a slow, deliberate sip of coffee and set the cup down with barely a clatter. “You must know that the only reason I haven’t called you to account is that I abhor dueling.”

“Because I besmirched your wife’s honor?”

“Whom my wife slept with before she married me is quite her own affair. But you took advantage of a young woman left penniless and without protection.”

Radley gave a short laugh. “Believe me, Suzanne was well able to take care of herself even then.”

“That doesn’t excuse your actions.”

The waiter set a glass of claret on the table in front of Radley. Radley lifted it, sniffed the bouquet, and took an appreciative sip. “She was hardly an innocent when our affair began. Or to put it more bluntly, I wasn’t her first lover. And I’m not talking about the French soldiers who ravished her. Her—shall we say skills?—told of a different sort of relationship in her past.”

Malcolm willed his face to reveal nothing and shut his mind to any questions. Everything he stood for insisted that he not respond. And it wasn’t completely a surprise. The fact that Suzanne had entered into the affair with Radley at a time of crisis had made Malcolm wonder if the colonel had perhaps not been her first lover. “That’s her business.”

Radley twirled the stem of his glass between his fingers. “Don’t care that your wife is damaged goods?”

“I don’t consider her past any more damaging than my own.”

“You do take your Radical nonsense to extremes, don’t you, Rannoch?” Radley took another sip of wine. He was enjoying this far too much. Malcolm reminded himself again not to sink to the other man’s level. More than anything, he wanted to wipe the self-satisfied smirk off Radley’s face. “Especially given that Suzanne had tête-à-têtes with not one but two of her former lovers at the Carfax House ball. Of course when it comes to me our involvement is strictly in the past. But I couldn’t swear the same about the other ex-lover she spoke with. They looked very cozy.”

Malcolm willed his face not to betray surprise and his hands to stay steady. “My wife has a number of friends.”

“As do many ladies of the beau monde and what they do with their friends is anyone’s guess. But Suzanne slipped off to meet this particular friend in León five and a half years ago. I saw them embracing. Of course, being so open I expect she’s told you all about it.” Radley took another sip of wine and regarded Malcolm over the rim of the glass. “Or hasn’t she?”

The coffee turned bitter in Malcolm’s mouth. Fears he could not yet quite articulate stabbed his brain. Part of his mind screamed to leave it, but the other knew he could not. He took a sip of coffee. It was lukewarm, but it scalded his tongue. “You’re a good storyteller, Radley. Who’s the subject of this particular tale?”

“She hasn’t told you? Interesting.” Radley tossed off the last of the claret. “In León, your charming wife was exceedingly close to Raoul O’Roarke.”

Malcolm’s impulse to laugh aside anything Radley said warred with the persistent, gnawing tug that this was something more, something not easily explained away. He shifted in his chair, his impulse to move away from the words that had been spoken. Suzanne had been in León. O’Roarke could have been there. When she first met Malcolm, she’d been concealing her relationship with Radley. She might have neglected to mention O’Roarke for the same reasons. When one began with a lie it could be difficult to go back and confess the truth. He’d been in that situation. He took another deliberate sip of coffee. “Hardly surprising that she encountered O’Roarke in Spain.”

Satisfaction thick as clotted cream spread across Radley’s face. “So she didn’t tell you. I thought as much. She more than encountered O’Roarke. Unless she was in the habit of bestowing clinging kisses on every man she encountered. Always possible I suppose.”

Anger shot through Malcolm. Along with something else he wouldn’t yet put a name to that danced along his nerve endings. He wanted to deny any interest in the sordid story and walk away. But he had to know. He had to know how dangerous the information made Radley. And he had to know for himself. “You saw my wife and O’Roarke embracing?”

Radley lifted a finger to summon the waiter again. Malcolm was obliged to wait while the waiter brought the bottle and refilled Radley’s glass. “In a doorway. To own the truth, I’d begun to wonder if the fair Suzanne was more than she seemed, and I followed her. The doorway was shadowy, but it was plainly them. Their embrace conveyed what can only be called familiarity.”

Malcolm pushed aside the questions crowding his brain for later. “Did you ask her about it?”

“No. It was time to end the affair in any case.”

“To abandon her.”

“Call it what you will.” Radley took an appreciative sip of claret. “I didn’t know who O’Roarke was at the time as it happens. Our paths never crossed in the Peninsula. It was only when someone pointed him out to me at the ball last night that I realized who it had been.” Radley settled back in his chair, the stem of his glass held between two fingers. “Thought you should know, Rannoch. After all, whatever our differences, we’re both Harrovians.”

 

Malcolm pushed through the coffeehouse door and turned down Piccadilly, only dimly aware of the artists and tradesmen he brushed past. He could scarcely remember what he had said when he left Radley at the table, save that he knew he’d refrained from planting the man a facer.

Suzanne had known O’Roarke in the Peninsula. A friend of her parents? Could the embrace Radley exaggerated actually have been more paternal? Or perhaps they had been lovers. He’d accepted that she’d had lovers before Radley. She hadn’t known Malcolm then and certainly hadn’t known O’Roarke’s connection to Malcolm. O’Roarke wouldn’t have known she would end up married to the man he had fathered. Malcolm wouldn’t have expected O’Roarke to become the lover of an unmarried girl and then abandon her to her own devices, but perhaps there was an explanation in the chaos of war. O’Roarke had a wife in Ireland. He couldn’t have married Suzanne. God knew people could behave irrationally. Perhaps—

Fragments of memory swirled in his brain, slashing through the scenario he attempted to construct. Aunt Frances quoting his father—
People will remark on Malcolm’s good fortune. But it’s some comfort to know that one day he’ll realize what it is to be betrayed by one’s spouse
. “La Corbeau.” Alistair’s letter to Harleton—
I own the revelation of the Raven’s identity holds particular dangers for me.

The pieces shifted, broke apart, re-formed into an unmistakable scenario.

Malcolm walked full tilt into a woman carrying a basket of turnips. The turnips scattered over the pavement. He gathered them up and murmured an apology, scarcely aware of the words he framed. The woman moved on, mollified.

Malcolm took a half-dozen more steps and paused, gripping the black metal of a lamppost. The metal was cold even through the York tan of his gloves. He knew how to gather and sift information and follow it to its logical conclusion, however surprising. However unwelcome. The image formed by those fragments hung before his mind, inescapable, unavoidable.

His wife had been the Raven. And the man who had fathered him had been her spymaster.

Somehow he let go of the lamppost and walked down the street without stumbling under carriage wheels or knocking over other pedestrians. Of course, of course, of course. So much seemed so obvious now. The papers for Count Nesselrode that had disappeared from his dispatch box in Vienna. The British code that had found its way into French hands on the eve of Waterloo. The way O’Roarke had suddenly known in Paris two years ago that they needed help rescuing the father of Tatiana’s son. The instinctive sympathy between Suzette and Manon Caret.

He remembered a glimpse of his wife in the theatre yesterday, Jessica in her arms, bending over Colin as he played with the Caret girls. He had stopped for a moment to drink in the sight. In the midst of the investigation and the torrent of revelations about his parents, he’d reminded himself of what a truly fortunate man he was.

He’d never been one to use terms like “happiness.” Perhaps because he’d thought of himself as possessing a worldly wisdom that regarded such words as trite and oversimplistic. Or perhaps because it had seemed to be tempting fate. But he saw now that he had been happy. Beneath the everyday ups and downs of his life had been a solid, steady core of contentment. Built on everyday trivialities. His son’s babble over breakfast in the nursery. His daughter’s arm curled round his wife’s breast as she nursed. His wife applying blacking to her lashes or unpinning her hair.

He’d been happy. Simply. Wholeheartedly.

Blindly.

He stopped walking, seconds before he smashed into another lamppost. His hands had curled into fists. He gripped the lamppost with shaking fingers. One couldn’t really know another person. He knew that better than anyone. Should know it. Should have known it. He’d long since accepted that he’d never fully understand either of his parents. Tatiana remained an elusive mystery, dancing just out of reach, even years after her death. Edgar had closed down all but the most rudimentary lines of communication between him and Malcolm after their mother’s death. Gisèle had grown up without him. Even Aunt Frances, who he would have sworn was beyond her ability to surprise him, had shocked him with the revelation of her affair with Alistair.

But Suzette—

He’d been cautious when he’d married her. Afraid of hurting her, of offering more than he was capable of giving. But if he was honest, he’d been protecting himself as well. Afraid to take the risk of emotional intimacy with a woman he was convinced was only marrying him as a way out of her predicament. Why else would she choose him? How odd that he’d been right, though for all the wrong reasons. Were it not for her circumstances, Suzanne would certainly not have married him.

When had he changed? When had caution and prudence and a practical recognition of the limitations of human relationships given way to blind idiocy? In Vienna he’d still been so careful of his feelings that Suzanne had been convinced Tatiana was his mistress. His guilt over misleading her bit him in the throat now, an irony so sharp it sliced to the bone. Even at Waterloo he’d been cautious enough he hadn’t told her where he was going when he slipped off to the château the night of Julia Ashton’s death.

Was Waterloo when it had changed? Saying good-bye to Suzette at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball, knowing he might be kissing her for the last time? In the blood and smoke of the field, wondering if he’d got his loyalties hopelessly muddled and should have put staying with his wife and son above the call of Crown and country? In the aftermath, the horror of the battle stamped on his imagination, Edgar and Harry fighting for their lives, when he had clung to her as though to his last vestiges of sanity?

Or had it been in Paris, his views diverging seemingly inescapably from Castlereagh’s and Wellington’s, the White Terror making a mockery of any vestige of belief that they’d been fighting for anything but the preservation of the status quo, the search for Tatiana’s child bringing his guilt over her death welling to the surface? Suzette had been his touchstone, the one constant he could rely on. He’d said things to her about his family, his feelings, his conflicting thoughts on his work and future that a year, even a few months, before would have been unthinkable.

And then there was the morning the following spring when she’d told him she wanted to have another child. A further bond between them, consciously created. His fingers tightened round the lamppost. Why in God’s name had she done it? What had she had to gain from another child? Had it been some sort of insurance against what might happen if he ever learned the truth?