The Mayfair Affair (28 page)

A flare of light as though from a candle through the cracks between the curtains. A squeak and a gasp. "Mr. Thornton!"

Footsteps retreated into the passage. Without pausing for speech or even thought, the three of them darted from behind the curtains and out the window into the gathering dawn light. Fortunately, the day was cloudy. They could only hope it was still too early for anyone to see them. The area windows from the kitchen didn't look out onto the garden.

Through the gate, into the mews, where the horses stirred and stamped their feet in anticipation of their morning hay. Into Davies Street, where a pale dawn sheen glinted off the cobblestones. A nursemaid passed by, jiggling a fretful child who had probably woken early.

They turned into Berkeley Square and nearly walked right into a night watchman. He blinked and drew himself up. "Who goes there?"

Suzanne summoned up her most brilliant smile, designed to remind him of her face in printshop windows. "Mr. Jenkins. How nice to see you. I'm afraid we stayed far too long at the Esterhazys'."

Mr. Jenkins opened his mouth to protest, then blinked again and stared at her. "Mrs. Rannoch?"

"The oddest theme for a ball, we were all supposed to wear black. A midnight ball, she called it, but I must say I found it dreadfully dreary. What's the fun of a ball if one can't dress up? I do hope you haven't seen anything amiss. I always worry a bit when we're away from the children this long."

"Nothing at all, ma'am. Quiet as a church. Mr. Rannoch. Sir." He tipped his hat to Malcolm and Raoul.

"My compliments," Raoul murmured to Suzanne as they moved along the square.

"There are advantages to having one's face in printshop windows."

They went through the front door this time. Valentin didn't blink—he had seen them return at odder hours, in odder apparel—but merely asked if they would like coffee sent into the library.

In the oak and bronze velvet of that apartment, Suzanne sank down on the sofa. She was shaking as though she had a fever. "I don't know why I'm so missish."

"You were shot." Malcolm dropped down beside her and pushed back her cloak.

"I've been shot before."

"But this is London." Raoul prowled across the room. "One doesn't expect to go from a ball to blackmail and—"

"Covering up a murder." She hunched her shoulders.

Malcolm put a whisky in her hand. "Drink that. I'm getting your medical box."

Raoul watched Malcolm leave the room. "He's handling this remarkably well."

"Losing himself in his work. It has its own challenges, but in an odd way it's a distraction." Suzanne pushed her fingers into her hair. "Last night Malcolm broke into his spymaster's study and stole papers. This morning he covered up the murder of Carfax's son-in-law, a murder that's going to play merry hell with his friend's investigation, and broke into another house. Because of me."

"Because of Trenchard. Don't claim too much credit,
querida."

She jabbed her fingers into her hair, knocking loose pins and pulling at her wound. "I should have—"

Raoul regarded her with a steady gaze. "Yes?"

Not married Malcolm? Left him and taken their child? She'd been through the options before and they were none of them tolerable.

"Besides," Raoul said, "I know him well enough to know a part of him enjoyed it. Just as you did."

"My corrupting influence."

Malcolm came back into the room, dropped her medical supply box on the library table, and flipped open the lid. "Start going through Craven's papers, O'Roarke."

Raoul was already carrying them over to the marble library table.

"We were at the folly for at least a quarter hour after Craven was shot," Suzanne said as Malcolm unwound his temporary bandage from her arm. "The killer could have got to Craven's house and ransacked it before us. Just."

"Just." Malcolm splashed more alcohol on her arm, which was tiresome, but necessary. "Potentially he or she could even have taken cover in the house when they heard us outside the window."

"Or he or she might have ransacked Craven's study before going to the park to kill Craven." Raoul looked up from spreading papers on the table. "Perhaps it was something he or she found, or didn't find, that led to the murder."

Malcolm placed a pad of lint over Suzanne's wound. "Of course, given the connection to Carfax, we have to wonder if he was behind it. Though it's hard to imagine an agent of Carfax's being so sloppy, even if caught unawares."

Raoul held a paper to the light of the lamp. "You've considered—"

"That Carfax could be behind both murders?" Malcolm wrapped a length of linen over the bandage, his fingers ruthlessly steady. "How could I not? I can't see Carfax simply losing his mind and having his daughters' husbands killed, but I can see him not letting the fact that they were his sons-in-law stand in the way if he thought he had reason to get rid of them."

"Leaving the fact that we don't have a reason," Suzanne said. "Though we know both Trenchard and Craven wanted to steal information from Carfax."

"And they didn't have it yet, so covering it up isn't a motive." Malcolm knotted off the bandage. His fingers lingered on her arm for a moment. She felt the unbidden tremor that shook him. "Two of Carfax's sons-in-law knew about Suzanne."

"Trenchard was in the Elsinore League with your—with Alistair Rannoch," Suzanne said. "He could have learned it from Alistair. And Craven learned it from Trenchard. Or Craven was in the Elsinore League as well."

"Perhaps. Too many Elsinore League members know too damned much. But we also have to at least consider the possibility that they both learned it from Carfax."

Suzanne swallowed, cold in a way that Valentin's well-laid fire burning briskly in the grate could do nothing to dispel. "Darling, if Carfax knew about me—"

"He'd put the information to use?" Malcolm put the lint and scissors back in her medical kit. "Probably." He snapped the lid shut. "Unless he was waiting for the right time."

"Carfax trusts you with a great deal of information," Raoul said. "Surely he'd at least have taken care if he had suspicions about Suzanne. Knowing Carfax, I can't imagine him believing Suzanne had given up her work for the French."

"Perhaps. But if Carfax wanted me to believe he trusted me, he'd know just what to do. Tell me you've never done the same with an asset you thought questionable, sir."

"A point," Raoul said. "Though not with an asset of your abilities."

"My dear O'Roarke. You and Suzanne pulled the wool over my eyes for five years."

Raoul returned Malcolm's gaze without flinching. "Point taken. Though the circumstances were rather different. If—"

The crack of the door being flung open drowned out his words.

"Is it true?" Mary Trenchard ran into the room, the hood of a black wool cloak falling back from her hastily dressed dark hair.

Valentin appeared in the doorway behind her, anxious gaze going from Malcolm to Suzanne. Obviously Mary had pushed past him. "It's quite all right," Suzanne said, resisting the impulse to draw her dress up over her wound. That would only draw attention to it. "We don't stand on ceremony with the duchess. But please have coffee sent in."

Mary's gaze went from Malcolm to Suzanne. She seemed oblivious to Raoul's presence. "Is it?" she repeated.

"Is what?" Malcolm went to her side and took her hands, shielding Suzanne in the process, which afforded the opportunity to put her gown to rights.

"You must have heard. My second housemaid had it from the Cravens' bootboy even before Louisa sent word to me. Craven was murdered last night. In Hyde Park. Shot."

Appalling to be caught without an agreed-upon story. Though in fairness, the night's adventures had been enough to try even the most experienced spy. To even exchange glances with Malcolm and Raoul was to risk betrayal, so Suzanne remained where she was and let her husband respond to his childhood friend.

"Yes," Malcolm said, for all the world as though he'd been prepared for hours. "Blanca just reported that she had the news from one of the Cravens' footmen. I'm so sorry."

Mary Trenchard sank into a chair. "I'd hardly claim Craven and I were close. But— is some madman killing all my father's sons-in-law?"

"It's too early to know if the murders were even connected." Malcolm dropped down in front of Mary's chair. "Other than being married to sisters, were Trenchard and Craven particularly close?"

"No, but—" Mary's gaze settled on Raoul as though his presence had finally intruded on her consciousness.

"Have you met Mr. O'Roarke?" Suzanne asked, for once grateful for the formality of social conventions. "The Duchess of Trenchard."

"At your reception last January." A social mask settled over Mary's face.

"I'll make my excuses," Raoul said. "My condolences, Duchess."

"No. That is— Are you involved in the investigation?"

"O'Roarke has been assisting us," Malcolm said. "He was an agent in the Peninsula."

Mary gave a quick nod. "Then you might as well stay. God knows we have to get to the bottom of this. There's no sense in keeping secrets to preserve the family honor. Not if someone is killing members of the family."

This time Malcolm didn't deny the connection between the two murders. For the moment it was working to their advantage. He touched the duchess's hand. "Do you know of any additional connection between Trenchard and Craven, Mary?"

The duchess drew a sharp breath. Her shoulders hunched. Then she gave a desperate laugh. "That depends. Do you call it a connection that Lord Craven's wife had an affair with the duke?"

The stunned silence that followed this announcement ended anticlimactically with a discreet rap on the door, followed by Valentin entering with the coffee service. Suzanne poured out a cup, stirred in plentiful milk and sugar, and gave the cup to Malcolm to put in Mary's hand. Mary stared into the silver-rimmed porcelain. "I assure you I'm not hysterical."

"I can't imagine you being hysterical." Malcolm sat back on his heels and regarded her. "You're telling us that Louisa—"

"Shocked, Malcolm?" A touch of mockery sharpened Mary's voice. "Did you think sisterly feeling would have prevented her? We were hardly bosom bows. Or did you think Louisa was too faithful a wife? She certainly liked to give that impression. I own I was surprised myself."

"When did you realize?" Malcolm's voice was gentle.

"Not as quickly as I did with most of his conquests. I underestimated my sister. Or overestimated her sisterly feeling, depending on one's perspective." She turned her cup in her hand. "I always rather thought she settled for Craven. She was in her fifth season, and she never pretended to anything approaching romance. Of course, I didn't with Trenchard, either. But Craven ranked below Papa. Odd how those things used to matter." She took a sip of coffee. "It was a Christmas house party at Beauvalet. I didn't realize it until I went into Trenchard's dressing room to ask him about the seating for Christmas dinner and spotted Louisa's handkerchief on the floor. Then the pieces fell into place. I was a fool not to have seen it sooner. The odd thing was it was Louisa who went after him. She'd been laughing at his jokes and hanging on his arm and contriving to sit beside him for the entire house party. Only, because it was my sister—because it was Louisa—I didn't notice."

So much for sisterly feeling not mattering. Mary's response combined dismissal of a younger, less beautiful sister with a genuine sense of betrayal perhaps even she wasn't aware of.

"I've got used to Trenchard's conquests," Mary continued. "We hardly lived in each other's pockets, but one can't help but notice such matters when it comes to one's husband. Normally he was the one who initiated the flirtation. I think he enjoyed the chase. I've often wondered if he'd have noticed Louisa if she hadn't thrown herself at him." She took a sip of coffee, then stared into the cup, as though surprised to find it empty.

Suzanne got to her feet and refilled Mary's cup. Mary gave her a quick smile and met her gaze for a moment. "I lorded it over Louisa a bit. More than a bit, perhaps. You'd think as a duchess I'd have been above caring what my sister thought, but I fear I wasn't. I've often wondered if that's why Louisa—"

"Went after your husband?" Suzanne asked, pouring a cup of coffee for Malcolm.

"To be blunt, yes. Not that I cared what Trenchard did. Not much. But this—cut close to home."

Suzanne splashed black coffee into a cup and took a sip. Given her history with Raoul and Malcolm, and their relationship, she was hardly in a position to judge Louisa Craven. "How long did it go on?" she asked.

"As far as I could tell, it had ended by the following spring. Trenchard's affairs never seemed to go on for long."

"Did you ever speak to your sister about it?"

Mary spread her hands over her lap. "As I said, Louisa and I were hardly the sort for confidences. I did wonder once or twice if she'd hold it over me, but she never did, and somehow I shied away from a confrontation." Her fingers tightened against the twilled black bombazine of her skirt. "Or perhaps I didn't want to admit I cared enough."

"And Craven?" Malcolm asked. "Did he know?"

Mary hesitated. "He'd hardly have told me if he did."

"But—?" Malcolm asked, in that gentle, inexorable way of his.

Mary's brows drew together, dark streaks against her pale face. "I didn't notice any particular constraint between them. But one night last month, after Craven and Louisa had been to dine with us, I left the drawing room to speak with one of the footmen, and I'd swear I heard raised voices coming from the dining room. Of course, it could have been about something else."

"It could," Malcolm agreed. "And the one thing we know is that Trenchard didn't kill Craven."

Mary nodded, as though obscurely relieved.

Malcolm set his coffee cup on the floor beside him. "Did your father know?"

Mary's gaze flew to Malcolm's face and seemed to fasten there. "I never saw a sign of it."

"With Carfax you wouldn't."

She nodded. "But Father—"

"Has a way of knowing things."

Mary folded her arms in front of her, gripping her elbows. "You don't think—"

Malcolm touched her hand, and for a moment Suzanne knew he was looking at the girl she had been when he came to visit on holidays from Harrow. "It's too early to think anything, Mary. But I can't tell you how grateful I am that you trusted us with this."

Mary's fingers locked on her elbows. "We have to learn the truth. After Trenchard's death, horrible as it was, I thought it was over and done with. Now I'm wondering who might be next." She fingered a fold of her cloak. "David would be horrified. I don't think he sees either Louisa or me at all clearly. If—"

"I'll do my best to keep it from him. And the rest of the world. My word on it."

Mary drew a breath. "Thank you." She gathered her cloak. "Should I—"

Malcolm cast a glance at Suzanne. "There's no reason to think you or your children, or Louisa or her children, are at risk. But until we know more, I'll talk to Roth about posting men to watch both your houses."

Mary gave a wry smile. "Surveillance. The reward of family tragedy." She swallowed the last of her second cup of coffee. "No, I do understand, and I thank you."

Malcolm got to his feet. "Did you come in your carriage?"

"I'm a duchess. I don't simply walk out of the house. My coachman is waiting outside."

Malcolm handed her to her feet. "I'll see you to your carriage."

"Drink some coffee," Raoul said to Suzanne when Malcolm was gone from the room. He handed her a cup. "And eat one of those biscuits."

"I'm not going to faint."

"You lost a fair amount of blood."

She took an automatic sip. "Whatever their flaws, the Mallinson family took Malcolm in when his own was hopelessly fragmented. And now—"

"The Mallinsons are proving fragmented as well. I know. But Malcolm is adult enough to handle it."

"How can you be so damned confident?"

"Observation. And," he added with a faint smile, "I prefer it to the alternative."

Malcolm came back into the room, pushed the door to, and leaned against. "God help us. Mary's affair was surprise enough. But Louisa— I'm afraid I overlooked her, along with her sister and the rest of the world."

"This could have been her way of staking a claim," Suzanne said.

"Yes," Malcolm dug a hand into his hair. "The fact that they're sisters shouldn't be so surprising. After all—"

He bit back the words he had been about to say. "After all, your mother and Frances managed in the same circumstances?" Raoul finished for him.

Malcolm stared at his father. "Mama told you about Aunt Frances and Alistair?"

"Frances did. One night after too much whisky. And then in January she told me that you knew. I wouldn't have mentioned it otherwise."

Malcolm advanced into the room and dropped into the chair Mary had vacated. "She told me Mama was sanguine about it."

"She was," Raoul said.

"You talked to Mama about it?"

"After Frances told me. Arabella said Frances took it more seriously because she cared more about Alistair than Arabella did. Which was the truth, I think, at least at that point. But I'm not sure the duchess was as sanguine about her husband's infidelity, for all her words."

"No." Malcolm picked up his coffee cup and stared into it.

"Startling as this is, it may not connect to the murders," Suzanne said. "It gives Craven a motive to kill Trenchard, and I suppose one could argue it gives Mary Trenchard a motive to have killed her husband or, more likely, her sister, but I don't see how it gives her a motive to have killed Craven."

"It could give Carfax a motive," Malcolm said, a grim edge to his voice.

"An hour ago you said you couldn't see him killing his daughters' husbands for personal reasons," Raoul said. "I would think that still holds with one of those husbands being the other daughter's lover."

"A point." Malcolm tossed down a swallow of coffee. "But it's still coincidental and, as always, I'm wary of coincidence."

"Craven was in India at the time Jack was killed," Suzanne said. "He was working with Trenchard. Suppose he knew something about whatever it was that Trenchard killed Jack to cover up. Of course, that also would give Trenchard a motive to have killed Craven, but doesn't explain someone killing both of them."

Malcolm set down his cup. "We need to talk to Louisa."

"You need to talk to her," Suzanne said. "She might open up to a childhood friend." At the back of her mind, she could hear Isobel saying, "People were always trying to marry Malcolm off to one of us, but I think they assumed it would be me or Louisa."

Malcolm nodded. "We can expect a call from Roth as well. O'Roarke—"

Raoul was already on his feet. "I'll call on Miss Dudley at Newgate. If you don't find that an intrusion."

"On the contrary," Malcolm said. "I'd like to get your assessment. And perhaps you can persuade her to see her parents."

"I'll do my best. Though, from what I've observed, it's difficult to persuade Miss Dudley to do just about anything." He looked at them both a moment longer, touched Suzanne's arm, and then was gone.

Malcolm said nothing as they climbed the steps to their bedchamber. Once inside, Suzanne tossed her cloak over the dressing table bench. "Darling—"

Malcolm closed the door, moved abruptly, and took her in his arms. "I keep hearing the sound of that gunshot. It was the worst moment of my life. Well, the worst since Dewhurst shot you in December."

She laughed into his cravat, though her fingers had closed on the folds of his coat. "It wasn't—"

"It was, Suzette," he said, his voice muffled by her hair. "It was dangerous. Our life is dangerous." He lifted his head and took her face between his hands with fingers that were not quite steady. It was always in the aftermath that fear shot home. "At least in Italy we'd be alive."

"I imagine danger would find us there if it came to that." She touched his face. "I've dragged you into a lot."

"A fair share of this mess seems to involve my friends. I keep seeing Mary and Louisa rolling hoops in Hyde Park with their governess."

"I'm sorry." She laced her own fingers behind his neck. "After what you've had to confront about me, you shouldn't have to confront uncomfortable truths about your friends."

"Those truths are there." He pressed a kiss to her forehead. "You can't take responsibility for everything, Suzette. You may be a master of manipulation, but you can't manipulate everything." He squeezed her shoulders and stepped back. "Let's get to work."

Jeremy Roth pushed the breakfast parlor door to behind him. "You've heard?"

"Blanca had it from one of the Cravens' servants," Malcolm said. The lie, made up on the spot for Mary, now came easily to his lips.

"Do sit down and have some breakfast. You must have been up all night." Suzanne reached for the coffeepot. Thanks to Blanca, she was impeccably gowned in pintucked rose sarcenet edged with black braid, pearls at her throat, her hair smoothed and curled, though even her expert use of cosmetics couldn't conceal the dark shadows beneath her eyes. Malcolm knew his own face showed similar ravages.

"Thanks." Roth dropped into a chair and accepted the cup she was holding out. His gaze moved between them. "You look a bit tired yourselves."

"Jessica had a fretful night." Suzanne handed him a plate of toast. "She's cutting a new tooth. And then we got the news about Craven and neither of us could get back to sleep." She passed him the marmalade.

"Damned if I know what to make of it." Roth tossed down a swallow of coffee and stared into the cup. "According to Lady Craven, the two men weren't particularly connected beyond being married to sisters. But it's difficult to pull a motive from that."