The Mask of Night (37 page)

“He stopped me one morning when I was riding in the park, just after we’d come back to town after Christmas. I couldn’t believe it. He was afraid I’d be angry. Perhaps I should have been. But I wasn’t.”

“And so you began to meet again?”

“Yes.” Isobel met Mélanie's gaze, a soldier owning up to a fatal dereliction of duty. "I should have told you the truth when we found his body."

"You must have been in shock."

"Seeing him dead like that, and then hearing that he wasn't the man I'd thought he was—” Isobel's face cracked, as though someone had taken a hammer to a pasteboard mask. "It was all lies. From the moment we—
Why?
” Her voice shook. "Why seduce me? What did he have to gain?”

“I don’t know. Did he ever ask you about anything you might have learned from your father? Or from Oliver?"

Isobel shook her head. "I never talked about my marriage, and he never talked about the love affair he said had driven him from Paris. We talked about books and paintings and places we'd traveled to. Horses and dogs and all sorts of trivial things. When we talked about my life it was more about my childhood—growing up with a mother and sisters who were all great beauties, how I'd always been Mama's despair, how Papa and David seemed to understand me. But he never asked about Papa's work.”

"Did he talk about his own life?"

"Very little. He claimed his family had lost their fortune during the Revolution and lived quietly under Bonaparte.”

“Where did you meet?”

“Different places. We’d drive into the country.” Isobel glanced away. “Sometimes we stayed in the carriage." She plucked at her lace cuff. “Oliver knew. He had someone following me. Of all the sordid, vulgar— Why in God’s name couldn’t he have asked me to my face if he suspected I had a lover?”

“Would you have told him the truth?”

“Yes. That is— Oh, the devil. Probably not. I’d got too good at deception.” She folded her hands in her lap. “Have you ever lied to Charles?”

“Yes,” Mélanie said.

Isobel’s mouth twisted. “Little, harmless lies.”

“Difficult sometimes to sort the little lies from the great ones.”

“In my case, one lie piled upon another. I’d tell the children I’d been driving in the park. I’d have the coachman drop me at my parents’ and say I’d come home in one of their carriages. Only a week ago, I found myself leaving out a fabric sample so it would look convincing when I told Oliver I’d had an appointment with my dressmaker. I was horrified by how easily duplicity came to me. I made up my mind to end it.”

“And then?”

“When I saw him again—Gerard—Mr. St. Juste—God help me, whatever his name was I couldn’t resist him. I’d never quite known— He barely had to look at me—” She flushed up to the brim of her bonnet. “I can’t believe I’m saying this.”

“What else are friends for?”

This time the gaze Isobel turned to Mélanie was that of her friend of the past three years. “So many times I’ve wanted to confide in you. The truth is I don’t think I could bear to have you know I’d failed so dreadfully.”

“Bel, I’d never—“

“You’re so damnably good at everything. Even when something goes wrong—that evening last spring when the Duke of Wellington arrived at the last minute and threw the table out—you know just what to do. How to dress, how to run your house and spend time with your children and somehow write the most daring things without turning society against you.”

“Darling, it’s an act.”

“I don’t think so. I think it’s who you are.”

Confidences bubbled up in Mélanie’s throat. She forced them down. “I don’t think what we see on the outside is ever the whole story. If it was, I wouldn’t have been so surprised about you and M. St. Juste. But for what it’s worth, I can understand temptation.”

“You’re in love with your husband, Mélanie.”

“Being in love with Charles doesn’t stop me from noticing other men.”

Isobel’s brows drew together.

“Quite frankly,” Mélanie said, “I don’t think I could stop that any more than I could stop breathing.”

“But you wouldn’t act on it.”

“No, I don’t think so.”
Not now
. As recently as a year ago she’d have said fidelity meant more to Charles than it did to her. That her own fidelity was out of respect for her husband. Now she couldn’t be so sure. Her attitudes, like their marriage, seemed to be constantly evolving. What an odd thought. She must put it aside for further perusal when she had leisure.

“Oliver claims he’s never had a mistress," Isobel said.

“Do you believe him?”

Isobel’s frown deepened. “Perhaps I’m being as foolish as I was to believe Ger—my lover. But I believed Oliver when he said it. What I’m not sure is what it means for him. Us. I know I’ve wronged him. I don’t think it’s the sort of wrong one can get past.”

“It’s amazing what a marriage can endure.”

“I think that depends upon the marriage. Ours wasn’t built on much to begin with.”

"You can't believe that."

"You're such a romantic underneath the Continental sophistication, Mélanie.” Isobel tightened the ribbons on her bonnet. “You're wondering if I killed him, aren't you?”

“Bel—“

“You think I’m incapable of murder? But you didn’t think me an adulteress either, did you?”

“I don’t think any less of you than I did last night.”

“That’s because you’re tolerant to a fault. But you now know I’m capable of deception.”

“So are most people.”

"But they weren't Julien St. Juste's mistress.” Isobel picked up her gloves. Her features had settled back into a mask as cool and impenetrable as marble. Mélanie had seen the same look on her husband’s face. Young scions of the British aristocracy must learn the trick over porridge and jam tarts in the nursery. Without being so ill bred as to be rude, that expression placed a firm barrier against further personal contact.

"If you don't have any more questions," Isobel said, smoothing on her gloves, "I should get back to the children. I've been neglecting them."

Mélanie saw Isobel out, then started for the breakfast parlor. Her husband intercepted her in the passage and caught her arm.

“You were right,” he said.

“That’s nice.” She scanned his face. “When? About what?”

“Last night. About Lord Carfax. We have to break into Carfax House and have a look at his papers.”

Chapter 25

Be careful of Lord Carfax. He's one of the most ruthless men I've ever encountered.

Raoul O'Roarke to Mélanie Fraser

2 January 1813

“So Carfax has known for years that I was working for the Bonapartists.” Raoul leaned back in his chair and looked across the small salon at Charles. "Interesting."

“You have a genius for understatement, O'Roarke.” Charles was sitting on the jade satin sofa, his head in his hands. He looked as though he were recovering from the ravages of a fever. Mélanie wasn’t sure if that was owed more to his dunking in the Serpentine last night or his interview with Carfax this morning.

"What surprises me more is that St. Juste told him," Raoul said. "St. Juste was always very conscientious about keeping his loyalties to his various employers separate."

Mélanie perched on the sofa arm. "Carfax also got the papers about Hortense and Flahaut's child from St. Juste. Perhaps Carfax had some hold over St. Juste."

Charles lifted his head. He still hadn’t shaved. He had the gaze of a prizefighter after a grueling bout. “Did St. Juste know Mélanie married me?"

"Darling—" Mélanie said.

"
Did he
?" Charles repeated, gaze on Raoul.

The amusement faded from Raoul's gaze. "I certainly never told him. Mélanie?"

Her husband and her former lover pinned her with a crossfire of gazes. "The only time I saw St. Juste after I married Charles was at the Duchess of Richmond's ball. We didn't speak and I wasn't with Charles when I saw him. But there's no way to be sure."

"So we have to consider the possibility that Carfax knows you were a French agent.” Charles turned back to Raoul. "It doesn't really change anything, but did Carfax know about you and my mother?"

Raoul returned his gaze without flinching. "Elizabeth and I were discreet, but not excessively so. I'm sure Carfax could have learned the truth if he'd put his mind to it."

"Which he might have done, at least by the time you were involved with the United Irish Uprising. So he may guess you're my father."

"For what it's worth," Raoul said, "I always thought Carfax was quite fond of you."

"Being fond of people doesn't stop him from using them if it suits his purpose. He's like you in that."

Mélanie subdued the impulse to smooth Charles’s hair. "Do you think he knows Raoul's in our house?”

"I doubt it, though the only thing I can be sure of is that he knows the devil of a lot he's not telling me. And whatever it is he's afraid of me discovering it's not St. Juste's affair with Bel or he'd never have admitted it so readily."

"I still can't make sense of the affair," Mélanie said. "From Bel's account, St. Juste didn’t learn anything from her."

"Perhaps St. Juste was trying to get leverage on Carfax. If so, St. Juste was playing a dangerous game."

Mélanie watched her husband for a moment. "Charles— It's possible Carfax killed St. Juste because of the affair but doesn't know why St. Juste began the affair or came to England. Then he might want you to learn the truth about St. Juste's mission but not his death."

Charles nodded. "I thought of that."

"And then there's the Dauphin," Raoul said.

"If Carfax is searching for the Dauphin or knows where he is why would he want to keep that from me?"

"Carfax might not want the Dauphin to be discovered. He may find the current French Government preferable to a man in his thirties who's been living God knows where for twenty years."

"You're suggesting that Carfax suspects St. Juste came to England to extract the Dauphin, and he's afraid my investigation will uncover the Dauphin's whereabouts and disrupt the balance of power on the Continent?"

"Perhaps. Or Carfax could be worried St. Juste's intentions toward the Dauphin were less benign. Le Faucon de Maulévrier worked for the Revolutionary government, but we know so little about him it's difficult to gauge what his attitude to the Dauphin would be now. If Le Faucon hired St. Juste, he might have wanted the Dauphin eliminated. Or he might have wanted to use him for his own ends.
If
we're right that St. Juste hid the Dauphin in England."

"Roth will be here soon. Before he arrives—” Charles looked at Mélanie. "Have you gone through the secret compartment in my dispatch box recently?"

She swallowed. "Not for years."

His mouth curved. "I put some new documents there a few weeks ago. Protocols for contacting a smuggler who can get us across the Channel. Travel documents to cross the Continent. Letters of credit on a bank account I set up in Switzerland."

Her mouth went dry. "Charles—"

"I'm assuming if we have to leave the country, we'll be able to go together, but if for some reason we can't, take the children and go to the villa in Italy. I'll meet you there."

Mélanie looked into her husband's dark gaze. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I was going to when you were a little less raw."

"Damn it, Charles—"

"But the news about Carfax makes it important to have a plan in place.” Charles took her hand and pressed it to his lips. "O'Roarke? You'll help Mélanie if necessary?"

"Need you ask it?"

"No.” Charles met his father’s gaze for a moment.

A rap at the door forestalled further conversation. “It’s Roth,” said the runner’s crisp voice as he stepped into the room. He was wearing a clean set of clothes and unlike Charles he’d managed to shave, but Mélanie suspected he’d got even less sleep than the rest of them.

"I was hoping the morning would bring clarity," Roth said. "I can't speak for the rest of you, but I still find the situation regrettably murky. What's become of your other guests?"

“Miss Simcox and Trenor are downstairs," Charles said. "I promised Miss Simcox you'd speak to her about her brother’s burial.”

Roth's mouth tightened. “Of course. And Gordon and Hapgood?”

“Hapgood’s gone back to his shop and Gordon left for a rehearsal at the Tavistock.”

Roth’s gaze flickered to Raoul. “Someone betrayed the four of you last night.”

“And the most likely candidate is one of us? Unfortunately I agree.”

“Addison’s following Will Gordon,” Mélanie said, “and Blanca has Mr. Hapgood.”

Roth nodded again. “Leaving us free for—?”

“We have to talk to Captain Harris,” Charles said. "And we also need to investigate the other half of the equation.”

“Lord Carfax?”

“I spoke with him this morning. He admitted enough to make me realize there's far more he isn't saying. Hopefully his papers will be more illuminating.”

Roth raised his brows. “You’re going to break into Carfax House?”

“No, I think I’ll do best going to Chelsea with you to see Captain Harris. Mélanie and O’Roarke are going to break into Carfax House.”

Mélanie looked at her husband. He looked back at her with a gaze that was strong enough to overcome the past and vulnerable enough that she could break him with a word. She swallowed, her chest and throat gone tight.

“Prudent choice, Fraser,” Raoul said. “My compliments.”

“It’s the only sensible course. Harris is more likely to talk to Roth and me, and you and Mélanie are certainly capable of orchestrating a look at Carfax’s papers. Besides, Carfax may still be having me watched.”

“As I said,” Raoul murmured. “Prudent.”