The Berkeley Square Affair (Malcolm & Suzanne Rannoch) (4 page)

“They were in the same year, I believe. A year behind me. Along with Glenister and Hugo Cyrus and Thanet. Harleton always struck me as a gullible sort. A follower more than a leader. But then I imagine that’s how he fell into their clutches. You’d think it would be the independent rebels, but so often it’s the fools.”

“The fools who—”

Carfax picked up the spectacles, unfolded them, and set them on his nose. “Harleton was a French spy.”

After almost a decade in the intelligence game, hearing that someone one had considered trustworthy was an enemy agent was not as surprising as it would once have been. Even so, Malcolm blinked, trying to reconcile his image of a portly, red-faced man sitting over a bottle of port with a Bonapartist agent. “For how long?”

“Since before Bonaparte came to power. I suspect part of Harleton’s idiocy was a pose, part was simply who he was. Sometimes having a less complicated brain can be an asset in an agent. Present company excepted.”

Malcolm leaned forwards in his chair. “You knew the whole time?”

“No, I regret to confess it was 1802 before I discovered it. When I went to Paris during the Peace of Amiens. Don’t let my idiocy get about.”

“You funneled misinformation through Harleton?”

“He was useful.” Carfax turned his brandy glass in his hand. “Not clever enough to realize he was being used.”

“And after the war?”

“No point in causing a scandal and embarrassing the family.”

“His sister is married to your cousin.”

“Quite. I saw no need to do anything.” Carfax settled back in his chair. “Until a month or so before Harleton’s death.”

“What did Harleton do?”

“It wasn’t what he did so much as the political situation in general. Even you can’t be blind to the risk that the machine breakers and dissenters in the north will join up with former Bonapartists.”

“That assumes you see any call for reform as a step towards treason.”

Carfax shook his head with a smile that was almost affectionate. “You have a keen understanding, Malcolm, but thank God men like you aren’t running the country. Suffice it to say, it seemed like a good time to make an example of a man like Harleton. I was preparing to move against him when he died.”

“Where does the manuscript fit in? Are you saying the manuscript is a fake? Harleton created it?” Malcolm kept his gaze from straying to the door to the study where the manuscript currently resided. He had no intention of surrendering it to Carfax. “Because from my preliminary examination, it certainly appears old.”

“It may be genuine for all I know. I doubt Harleton would have had the wit to create it on his own. But Harleton used it as a codebook. I had agents look for it after he died, but they couldn’t find it. I don’t know where he had it hidden away.” Carfax set his glass down on the table. His gaze hardened. “I need those codes broken, Malcolm.”

“The war’s over.”

“The intelligence game doesn’t stop.” Carfax tented his fingers together. “It’s interesting that the manuscript surfaced at the Tavistock. You know about Manon Caret.”

“I know what’s been rumored about her.” Manon Caret, former leading lady at the Comédie-Française, had fled Paris—rumor had it only a hair’s breadth ahead of Fouché’s agents—while Malcolm was attached to the British delegation two years ago. “I have yet to see proof.”

“With a woman that clever, there wouldn’t be any.” Carfax leaned back in his chair and folded his hands together. “Interesting that she became the mistress of the son of a former spy.”

“You’re suggesting that a former Bonapartist agent got her hands on a codebook of another Bonapartist agent and had her lover bring it to Simon Tanner? Knowing Simon is close to me and also to your son? Whatever else she may be, I think we can agree Manon Caret is no fool.”

“A point. I still find her involvement suspicious. I’m sure you’ll discover the truth of whatever role Mademoiselle Caret played, Malcolm. And who else may have been involved in this along with her.”

“Don’t you think I’m too close to Simon to be looking into all this?”

“No.” Carfax let his shoulders sink into the chairback. “I have every faith in your ability to be fair-minded, Malcolm.”

“Convenient.” Malcolm crossed his legs. “So you think this manuscript was hidden away until Crispin just happened upon it after his father’s death?”

“Not quite. I suspect the manuscript relates to why Harleton was murdered.”

He should have seen it coming. But Carfax could still catch him unawares. “I thought Harleton’s death was an accident.”

“Really, Malcolm. A former spy accidentally shoots himself while cleaning his gun? If you’d believe that for a minute civilian life has made you soft.”

“I don’t suppose I would have done if I’d known Harleton was a French agent. Whom did you task with the investigation?”

“I didn’t. I suspected someone from Harleton’s past got rid of him, and I saw no need to waste our energies on a Bonapartist feud. The manuscript surfacing changes things.”

“So you want—”

“—you to decode whatever’s in the manuscript and learn who killed Harleton. I know you now have Parliament to distract you, but really for a man of your talents it shouldn’t be too difficult.”

 

Suzanne stared at her husband across the candle-warmed rose-and-blue medallions of their bedroom carpet. “Do you believe Carfax?”

Malcolm shrugged out of his coat and tossed it over the tapestry chair. “I don’t believe he made the whole story up. That’s a long way from saying I believe all of it. I’ve learned never to take Carfax at face value. I’m not sure he’s been entirely forthcoming about what he thinks is in the manuscript.”

Suzanne scanned her husband’s face. She could feel the intensity rippling through him. “But you’re going to do as he asked?”

Malcolm’s gaze shifted over the shadows cast by the dressing table and chest of drawers and escritoire. A chill coursed through her. “I’m going to decode whatever may be in the manuscript. And to learn what happened to Harleton. What I do with the information once I decode it and how much I tell Carfax remains to be seen.”

There was no other answer she’d have expected Malcolm to make. And she could do nothing to dissuade him. But she felt as she had after she’d fallen into the Carrión River in January.

He moved across the room and dropped down on the bed beside her. “That is,
we’re
going to decode the manuscript and learn what happened to Harleton.” He gave a faint smile. “I hope. I shouldn’t speak for you.”

She leaned in and kissed his cheek. Her mouth felt like ash. “Of course, dearest. You can’t think I’d let you have all the fun. Do we begin by talking to Crispin?”

“And Manon Caret. Carfax confirmed she’s a former French spy.”

“It’s been a fairly open secret,” Suzanne said in an equable voice. “At least in intelligence circles.”

“Quite.” Malcolm laced his fingers through her own and stared down at their clasped hands. “I’ve come to quite like Manon since she’s been at the Tavistock. Whatever her activities during the war, one can’t but admire what she’s built here. I find myself loath to disrupt her life.”

Suzanne swallowed. Hard. “Investigations have a way of disrupting lives, darling. And it may prove to have nothing to do with Manon’s past activities. It seems shockingly risky for her to have given the manuscript to Simon only to try to steal it back.”

“Perhaps she didn’t realize what it was when she gave it to Simon.”

That, Suzanne had to admit, was a possibility.

“Carfax never thought about bringing her in?” Suzanne asked, keenly aware of the pressure of Malcolm’s fingers on her own.

“We never had proof, only rumors. And she quickly acquired powerful friends in England. Besides, she was spying in France on the French, not directly against us.”

Unlike Suzanne herself. “Yes, of course.”

“I admit I’m still adjusting to the idea of old Lord Harleton as a French spy,” Malcolm said.

So was she. “If only I’d known when he got his hand down my bodice.”

“Quite. But I still want to find out what the devil happened to him. It seems we’re investigating a murder again.”

She twisted her head round to look at him. “You’re enjoying this.”

He shot her a crooked smile. “Call it the lure of the challenge. A compulsion to leave no stone unturned.” He kissed her hair. “Or perhaps another project we can share.”

She leaned into him, craving the warmth of his arm round her and his breath brushing her skin.

She only hoped he couldn’t feel the chill coursing through her.

CHAPTER 3

“ ‘Soft you now! The fair Ophelia.’ ”

The voice echoed against the wooden walls as Malcolm and Suzanne stepped into the wings of the Tavistock. Greasy light from oil rehearsal lamps gleamed against the white cravats and shirt cuffs and muslin gowns and tippets of the group seated round a table in the center of the bare stage.

“ ‘Nymph, in thy orisons—’ ” A dark-haired man threw his script down on the table. “Damn, I keep getting the old version confused with this one.”

“This is the old version if it’s genuine.” Manon Caret leaned forwards, stretching her back. “I must say I rather like this Ophelia. She gets to stand up for herself more.”

“And Hamlet does actually seem to love her in this version.” The dark-haired man, who was Brandon Ford, the Tavistock’s leading actor, pushed his chair back from the table.

“He loves her in the other version,” Manon said. “He says so when he jumps in her grave.”

“Christ, Manon, how long have you been playing Shakespeare?” Brandon grabbed a flask that, knowing him, might contain either water or something stronger and tossed down a swig. “The man doesn’t always have his characters say what they think.”

“No, but it’s there between the lines as well. At least half the bitterness in the ‘get thee to a nunnery’ scene is because he realizes the woman he loves has been set to spy on him. And then there’s the letter he wrote her—”

“Where he says ‘doubt that the sun doth move’? Shakespeare knew perfectly well the earth moved round the sun, not the other way round. And in this version the letter’s even more nonsensical. ‘Doubt that my blood is fire—’ ”

“It’s the letter of a young, ardent man—”

“Oh, he’s ardent all right. Probably wrote it when he was trying to get her into bed.”

“You’re being too cynical, my boy.” A gravelly voice sounded from the front of the house. “I’m quite sure Hamlet loves Ophelia deeply. I’ve always thought the whole point of the ‘get thee to a nunnery’ speech is that he’s trying to get her out of the way.”

“Just so.” Brandon set down the flask and wiped his hand across his mouth.

“Not because he’s tired of her, because he wants to protect her. He’s about to go off and do this dangerous thing, steep himself in blood and all that, and he wants to make sure she’s safe from all the dark doings. Quite noble, really—”

“Horace, dear,” said a handsome auburn-haired woman seated at the head of the table beside Simon, “you’re here to observe.”

“But he makes a good point.” Crispin’s voice came from the front of the house as well. “If—”

Simon’s eye had fallen on Malcolm and Suzanne. “Edifying as this conversation is, perhaps we can continue it later. We have visitors I need to talk to. I think this is a good time for a break. Half an hour?”

“Thought you’d never ask.” Brandon sprang to his feet. “Tavern, anyone?”

As the actors dispersed, Malcolm stepped forwards and glimpsed Crispin sitting in the front row of the audience. He had a fair-haired girl of about seven in his lap. An older girl was sprawled on the floor beside him with a book. A stout man with a ruddy complexion, thinning sandy hair, and sharp blue eyes, the possessor of the gravelly voice, sat across the aisle from Crispin and the girls.

“You know Lord Harleton,” Simon said to Malcolm and Suzanne. “And Sir Horace Smytheton.”

“Come to see the magic unfold, have you?” Sir Horace asked. “Once in a lifetime chance to be a part of something like this. Do you know, Simon, it occurs to me that when Hamlet calls her ‘nymph’ he really means—”

“Horace, dear.” The auburn-haired woman slipped off the edge of the stage with the grace of a young girl. “I am quite parched. Do take me out for a lemonade.”

“What? Oh, of course, Jenny.” Sir Horace pushed himself to his feet.

Simon moved towards Malcolm and Suzanne. “Flattered as I am, I doubt the two of you came merely to have a glimpse of our rehearsal.”

“We might have done,” Malcolm said. “But no, as it happens.”

Crispin got to his feet. He was a tall man with a crop of disordered golden-brown hair. In his light blue coat, buckskin breeches, and boots, he looked like a young blood out for a morning ride, but there was nothing of the pampered aristocrat in the way he swung the younger girl in the air. “We can go get ices—”

“Actually,” Malcolm said, “I was hoping for a word with you as well, Harleton. And with Mademoiselle Caret.”

The little girl in Harleton’s arms gave a squeak of protest at the loss of the promised ices.

“Come on, Clarisse,” the older girl said, getting to her feet. “We can—”

“Berthe,” Manon called. “Could you take the girls out for ices?”

A few moments later, a dark-haired woman in a stylish print dress emerged from the dressing room, arms filled with pelisses, bonnets, and gloves. Crispin set Clarisse on the ground and ruffled her hair, touched Roxane’s hair as well, and gave each girl a sixpence once they were bundled into their outerwear.

Manon cocked a brow at him as Berthe took the girls off. “You spoil them.”

“I like spoiling them.”

Malcolm felt a flash of kinship at the tenderness in Crispin’s eyes as he watched the girls leave. For Malcolm as well fatherhood had brought a shock of unlooked-for delight. No matter who the biological parent. Crispin went up in Malcolm’s estimation. He remembered Crispin as a good-natured boy, an excellent rider, with a good arm for cricket, not much of a student—though perhaps due more to lack of application than aptitude—with an easygoing temperament.

“Sir Horace is the Tavistock’s main patron, isn’t he?” Malcolm said as Manon conducted them to her dressing room.

“And always takes a keen interest in our productions. But he has a particular affinity for
Hamlet
.” Simon’s grin was sharp with irony.

“I think that makes the eighteenth time he interrupted this morning,” Manon said, opening the dressing room door. “Not that I’m counting. Fortunately, Jennifer manages him superbly. Don’t get any ideas, Crispin. I wouldn’t be as patient as she is.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Crispin said.

Inside the dressing room Manon swept a bejeweled velvet robe, a doll, and two stuffed animals from a frayed tapestry settee and set a kettle to brewing over a spirit lamp. “Two years in England and I’ve become a tea drinker.”

“No one would guess how practical you are for a leading lady,” Crispin said with a grin.

She grinned back with familiar ease. “Shush, don’t let it get about. I have a reputation to maintain.”

“Exciting to see the play staged.” Crispin dropped down on the settee with the ease of one used to making himself at home there. “Forgot what a dashed good story
Hamlet
is. And I confess there are things I like better in this version.”

“Ophelia’s a bit stronger, perhaps,” Manon agreed. “I like the insights into Laertes. And the Claudius-Hamlet relationship is interesting.”

“I say,” Crispin said, as though he’d just realized his two worlds were colliding, “you have met the Rannochs, haven’t you, darling? Been properly introduced, you know what I mean.”

“No one could fault your manners,
mon cher
.” Manon smiled at her lover. Even in a simple blue-spotted muslin round gown, her dark gold hair pulled back into a loose knot, she dominated the scene as though playing Cleopatra. “As is glaringly obvious, though you’re far too polite to say it, Mr. and Mrs. Rannoch and I hardly move in the same circles. But we have met, at Simon’s party after the opening of
School for Wives
. And once or twice in Hyde Park with the girls.”

“And my wife and I have admired your performances many times onstage.” Malcolm inclined his head.

“You’re very kind, Mr. Rannoch.” Manon lifted a silver tea tray bearing a set of delftware from a chest of drawers, her gaze surprisingly direct. “Mrs. Rannoch. How is your little boy? And your charming baby?”

“Jessica took three steps on her own a week ago, then dropped down on the carpet and decided crawling was safer.”

“They do grow up quickly. But you didn’t come here to discuss children. Or the theatre, I suspect.”

“Is it to do with what happened last night?” Crispin shook his head. “Can’t make head nor tail of it. Why the manuscript should seem so important. That is, I may not be bookish, but I can understand a new version of
Hamlet
creating a stir, of course. That’s why we went to Simon. But to attack someone over it—”

“Do you have any idea how it came to be among your father’s things?” Malcolm asked.

“I can hazard a guess.” Crispin’s unwontedly tense face relaxed into a more characteristic grin. “Bit of a family scandal. Back in the sixteenth century, the current Lord Harleton was an adviser to Elizabeth. And his wife—Eleanor Harleton—cut quite a swath at court. Philip Sidney wrote poems to her in a rare moment when he wasn’t mooning over Penelope Deveraux. Eleanor caught Essex’s eye at one point as well, and despite or because of it, Harleton was caught up in the Essex rebellion. Ended up attainted and executed. But it’s always been a family legend that the love of her life was an actor at the Globe. Francis Woolright, his name was. In fact, after her husband was executed she ran off and married Woolright. Lived with him in the city, took her daughter with her, had more children by him. Family disowned her, but I always liked to think they were happy.” His gaze slid sideways to Manon.

Manon gave a dry smile. “You’re an incurable romantic, Crispin. The poor woman gave up her life of luxury and had to live with an actor of all things.”

“So she must have loved him,” Crispin said, undaunted. “Anyway, part of the story is that Woolright played Laertes in the first production of
Hamlet
. So I can imagine him giving Eleanor an early copy of the script, when they were still lovers, before her husband was killed. She could have left it behind when she ran off with him. Odd it was hidden for so long, but you know the way things get tucked away in old houses. Not hidden so much as lost or simply forgot. Still doesn’t explain why people would make such a fuss about it now. Unless it’s a mad scholar. Or a rival theatre company?”

“Crispin.” Malcolm studied his school friend, debating possible approaches and how much to reveal. “Your father never mentioned the manuscript?”

“God, no. To own the truth, I’d give even odds on whether the pater could even have listed a half-dozen titles of the Bard’s plays.” Crispin leaned back on the settee. Was there something just a bit too studied about his casual good humor? Malcolm couldn’t be certain. “Does the fact that someone’s after it make it more likely it’s genuine?”

“Perhaps. But there could be other reasons.”

“What—”

“Milk, Mr. Rannoch?” Manon held out a translucent blue-flowered cup.

“Thank you.” Malcolm accepted the cup and took a sip.

Crispin regarded him from beneath drawn brows. “You’re saying there’s something else about the manuscript?”

“Perhaps.”

“What the devil—” Crispin stared at him. “Oh, Christ, Malcolm, is the manuscript somehow caught up in the espionage business?”

“I didn’t say—”

“No. But you’re in the middle of it. I may not have been brilliant at maths, but I can add two and two.”

Malcolm gave a faint smile. “Did you discover anything else unusual after your father died?”

Crispin frowned as he accepted a cup of tea from Manon. “What sort of thing?”

Malcolm took a sip of tea and balanced the fragile cup in his hand, while he balanced the tricky question of how much to reveal.

Crispin stared into the milky depths of his tea. “Does this have something to do with my father’s death?”

Malcolm’s fingers tightened round the delicate handle of the cup. “What—”

“Crispin—” Manon put a hand on her lover’s arm.

“It’s what he does, Nonny. Investigate things.” Crispin pushed aside a script and set his cup and saucer on the hamper before the settee. “You’re going to say I’m crazy, Malcolm.”

“Try me.”

Crispin ran a hand over his hair. “I think Father’s death may not have been an accident. That is—” Crispin swallowed, looked at Manon, then at Simon and Suzanne, then back at Malcolm. “I think he may have been murdered.”

Malcolm met Crispin’s gaze and wondered if it was really as guileless as it appeared. “What makes you think that?”

Manon drew a sharp breath. Apparently Crispin hadn’t shared this with her. Crispin cast a quick glance at her, reached for his cup, then set it down untouched. “Father’d never been in the habit of cleaning his own guns. He always had Hughes—his valet—do it. Hughes said Father hadn’t mentioned anything about the pistols needing cleaning. I’ll own at first I wondered if he might have taken his own life. Couldn’t for the life of me imagine why he’d have done so, but then I can’t claim to have known him well.”

“That can’t have been easy,” Simon said. Manon was watching Crispin steadily.

“No.” Crispin turned his cup in its saucer. “Couldn’t help but wonder if there was something I should have done. But then Tom, one of the junior footmen, came up to me. Said he’d seen a man he didn’t recognize outside the study window just before they found Father. I started to make inquiries, but none of the other staff reported seeing anyone. Then when I asked Tom again, he said he’d been mistaken, it had only been Wilkins the curate. But Wilkins says he didn’t come to the house until an hour after they found Father. And then Tom disappeared.”

“Disappeared?” Suzanne asked.

“Ran off presumably. I couldn’t but wonder if he’d been paid off.” Crispin ran a hand over his hair. “At least I hope to God it was that. And not—” He shook his head.

“You didn’t say anything to me,” Manon said.

Crispin turned to her, an odd sort of appeal in his gaze. “I half-thought I was imagining things. More than half. Not used to this sort of intrigue. And then it got worse. That is—” He drew a breath, snatched up his tea, tossed down a swallow. “After Father’s death I went through his things—tidying up papers about the estate, trying to do my duty, you know the sort of thing. I found some letters. I couldn’t make sense of them at first, but I think—” Crispin drew the breath of a man teetering on the edge of words that could not be snatched back once spoken. “Malcolm, could my father have been a French spy?”