The Mask of Night (39 page)

"They'll sort matters out, Lucy. This isn't the first time they've disagreed."

"I know I shouldn't be asking questions, but it's impossible not to be curious. Mama’s still in her room. She has the curtains drawn and a cold compress over her eyes. I don’t know when Papa will be home. I often go whole days at a time without seeing him, but just now I do wish—” She twisted her hands together. “I don’t like being alone.”

“You’re doing splendidly, love.”

“Am I?” Lucinda’s eyes brightened.

“Truly.”

She was rewarded with a smile from Lucinda that eased her conscience a bit for taking her leave soon after.

She returned to her carriage, waved to Lucinda, and stripped off her gloves and bonnet while Randall drove her round the corner to the entrance to the mews. She walked down the narrow cobbled expanse, past whickering horses and the smells of hay and axle grease and harness oil. She eased open the back gate to the Carfax House garden.

A gust of wind ruffled the leafless trees and winter-clipped hedges. A robin fluttered to rest on the black spikes of the fence. A shadow flickered by a bare-branched apple tree and Raoul fell in beside her.

“No one visible at the windows,” he murmured. “I even scanned them with my spyglass.”

“Carfax is out,” Mélanie whispered. “But we don’t know for how long.”

“One never does. That will keep things interesting.”

They hoisted themselves over a stone balustrade to the narrow ground-floor balcony, elevated a few feet above the basement kitchens. Raoul didn’t grimace too badly at the pull on his wound. She unlatched with library window with one of her picklocks and pushed up the sash. They crossed the library, empty and smelling of wood polish and lemon oil, and she opened the connecting door to Lord Carfax’s study.

It was a spacious room paneled in light cedar, filled with gilt, dark velvet upholstery, and the smell of expensive snuff. A globe, two pier tables, and a Pembroke table that held a set of decanters had an ornamental look, but the desk was solid and functional. A dispatch box and several sheaves of foolscap stood atop it.

Raoul pulled a flint from his pocket and lit the gilt bronze lamp. "Anything in the desk or even the dispatch box will be cover documents or personal papers," he said. "The sort he could risk having discovered. Any self-respecting spymaster is bound to have the room honeycombed with hiding places.” His gaze swept the walls. “What do you think?"

"There don't appear to be any false walls," Mélanie said. "Charles hollows out his books like you."

"I showed him the trick when he was a boy. Carfax's books look far too tidy. The mats on the back of the paintings? A hidden drawer in the drinks table? Or— Ah, yes. The Globe, I think. So carefully set off to the side. The knob at the top slightly tarnished. As though it’s been much handled.”

He crossed the room in two strides and unscrewed the brass knob at the top of the globe. The top section came away in his hand. He reached inside and drew out a handful of papers.

“I forgot how good you were,” Mélanie said.

“Years of practice. You’d have noticed in another minute or two.”

He carried the papers over to the desk and began to skim through them. They were all in code—Roman numerals, Greek lettering, strings of numbers. And near the bottom, two sheets of music with the title
Une Tournure Noire
.

Raoul handed the papers to her. "We have to take Hortense's, so we might as well take the lot instead of wasting time copying. Now where else—"

He broke off in mid-sentence and gripped her wrist. Then she heard it as well. Voices from the hall, the tone raised enough to carry through the paneling, the words not yet distinguishable. Raoul re-screwed the top on the globe.

Footsteps thudded in the passage. They darted through the connecting door to the library, only to see the door from the passage to the library ease open.

Raoul dragged her back into the study.

“I'm not sure I can do what you're asking, sir.” The voice coming through the door panels was hoarse but it unmistakably belonged to Oliver Lydgate.

Chapter 26

If I live to be one hundred, I will never make sense of my father.

David Mallinson to Charles Fraser

10 June 1806

“I believe the assignment is well within your capabilities, Oliver.” Carfax’s voice sounded through the door panels, cool and crisp as pressed paper. “I want you to keep track of Charles. He's gone to Chelsea now, but I want to know where he goes when he comes back."

"Why don't you trust Charles?"

"I didn't say I don't trust him. I said I want reports on what he does. It's not the first time I've asked you to keep track of him."

"This is different. He's working for you."

Carfax drew an exasperated breath. Mélanie and Raoul darted across the room and slipped behind the velvet drapes seconds before the door from the library to the study was flung open.

The door clicked shut. Carfax’s voice came from the center of the room, as though he’d taken up a stance in front of his desk. “This is no time for an attack of conscience, Oliver. There are Government issues at stake.”

“You’re saying the dead man—St. Juste—worked for the Government?”

“No.”

“You’re saying he didn’t?”

“St. Juste was involved in something very complicated which wiser men than you will resolve.”

“Don’t claim you want to keep track of Charles because he lacks sufficient understanding. Quite the reverse, I imagine.”

A paper rustled. Mélanie drew a breath. One could never put everything back precisely as it had been.

“May I remind you that there are a number of things which I think you would not care for Charles to know," Carfax said in a quiet voice that could have cut glass. "Not to mention my son and daughter.”

“Is that at threat?”

“It’s a statement of fact.”

“I'm not happy about the things I've done. But I’m not going to make it worse—“

“
Worse—
“

“I’m not going to tell more lies.”

“My dear boy, your life is so mired in lies you’d hardly know how to get free. I gave you an order.“

“And if I refuse you'll tell my friends about our past dealings? Go ahead. We’ll see if my friendship with Charles and David can withstand it. Not to mention your relationship with your son. Good day, sir.”

The door slammed shut. A choking breath filled the room. Mélanie shifted her position against the molding, which seemed to be carved with something prickly. Raoul was motionless at her side. Oliver’s words echoed in her head. She felt cold. And sick.

Footsteps pounded the length of the room. A chair scraped against the carpet. A pen scratched against paper.

Carfax was the sort of man who might take refuge in his study for hours. Once she and Raoul had been trapped in the upper reaches of a barn for the better part of a night while a party of English soldiers bivouacked below. They’d ended up making love in the straw.

After what might have only been a quarter hour, though it felt like four times as long, the chair scraped against the carpet again. Footsteps sounded in the direction of the door. A stir that might be the door handle, and then the definitive scrape and thud of the door opening and closing.

They stayed still for another minute, a habit ingrained from inconvenient experiences with people coming back into the room for something they’d forgot. Then without looking at each other they darted across the room, through the study, and out the window and dropped over the balustrade to the lawn. Mélanie landed off balance, caught herself on one hand against the wall of the house, and bit back a cry at the stab of pain through her wrist. Raoul steadied her.

She glanced up at the house. It was only to be hoped Lady Carfax still had the curtains drawn and none of the servants happened to be at the windows. Through the gate, along the mews, and round two corners. She’d sent Randall home for fear the waiting carriage would draw comment. They stopped and exchanged glances.

“Home?” Raoul said.

“Home,” she agreed.

Mrs. Harris looked from Charles to Roth and tossed down half her glass of sherry. “I shouldn’t be speaking to you as I have. I’m scarcely myself.”

Charles inclined his head and made a lightning decision. “Mrs. Harris, I confess that we are here under somewhat false pretenses.“

“I knew it.” She slammed her glass down. “If you tell me what he owed you, I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise—”

“Your husband owed us nothing, I assure you. But I confess I was not merely looking up an old friend. We are investigating a murder that took place in London two days ago.”

“A murder?” Her eyes widened. “Good heavens, you don’t mean the dead man at the masquerade.”

“Quite. Roth and I both undertake such jobs for the Government from time to time.”

“But what does this have to do with—“

“We have reason to believe your husband may have been connected to the dead man.”

Her hand went to the jet brooch at her throat. “Connected how?”

“We aren’t entirely sure ourselves at present. Had your husband been in communication with Lord Carfax in recent years?”

She inched back against the chintz upholstery. “What sort of communication?”

“Had he been to see Carfax? Or received letters from him?”

She fingered her skirt. “Frederick had an inheritance. That’s what we lived on.”

Charles kept his gaze steady on her face. This was a hitherto unsuspected line of inquiry. “But you think it might have been supplemented it by Lord Carfax?”

“I don’t—“

“Mrs. Harris, the sooner we can get to the bottom of this, the sooner we can ensure that there is no danger to you and your children.”

Her head snapped up. “Why should we be in danger?”

“Because one man has been murdered,” Roth said. “And your husband met his death by violent means at a suspiciously coincidental time.”

“Good God, you can’t mean—“

“Meanwhile,” Charles said, “I would like to give you a sum to see to your family’s protection.”

Her eyes, blue with a violet undertone, widened and then narrowed. “Oh. Well, in that case, I suppose—” She got to her feet, walked to the cabinet, and refilled her sherry glass. Action as prevarication. Charles admired the tactic.

She lifted the glass to her lips and took a sip, but the action was more thoughtful and less desperate than before. “Sums would come in. From a veiled comment he made, I suspected some connection to Lord Carfax, but I never asked. Best not to talk about money, I always thought. Are you married, Mr. Fraser?”

“Yes.”

“Do you discuss finances with your wife?”

“There isn’t a great deal I don’t discuss with my wife.”

She surveyed him for a moment, her gaze unexpectedly clear and sharp. “I don’t know whether to envy or pity you. What about you, Mr. Roth?”

“I don’t discuss anything at all with my wife. We haven’t lived under the same roof for over two years.”

“For which you are perhaps to be congratulated.” Mrs. Harris returned to her chair. “Frederick and I were a watering place romance. Bath. We met at an assembly at the Pump Room and were married a fortnight later. We each thought the other had more than we really did. It didn’t make for an easy first few years. It didn’t make for an easy much of anything. But I confess I— I’m sorry he’s gone. As for any payments he may have received— I can’t answer for a certainty.”

“If we could have a look at his account books?” Charles said.

She took another sip of sherry, barely a flick of her tongue. “I have five children.”

“And I give you my word that I’ll ensure none of you suffers from this.”

Mrs. Harris set her glass down with a careful precision that indicated a clearing head. “I’ll show you my husband’s papers. But there is one thing—“

“Yes?”

She drew a breath. One could see the pretty, prattling girl who had captivated Captain Harris at Bath, overlaid by the more wary woman she’d become. “A gentleman called on him once— About two years ago. A well-dressed gentleman, obviously from London.”

“Yes?”

“They had words. I don’t know what about. Only that their voices were raised. I didn’t connect him with Lord Carfax at the time. But I heard my husband call him ‘Lydgate.’ Afterwards, when I was reading the accounts of the Mayfair entertainments I wondered— I think it may have been Mr. Oliver Lydgate. The one who’s married to Lord Carfax’s daughter.”