The Paris Affair (11 page)

“It seems to be a family trait. Baby not giving you any trouble?”

Aline touched her stomach, rounded now in the fifth month of her pregnancy beneath the orange blossom crêpe of her gown. “He or she is wonderfully adaptable. Like Colin. I only hope I’m as good a mother as you.”

Suzanne’s throat closed. “You’re very sweet, Allie.”

“Rubbish, I’m not in the least sweet. But though I may have my head buried in my numbers, I am passingly good at observing people. You made me realize one can be a wife and mother without ceasing to be everything else. I used to think marriage was a trap.”

“I think that rather depends on whom one’s married to.”

“Yes, it does help that Geoff’s quite as unconventional as I am. I can’t imagine being married to anyone else. I rather think you must feel the same about Malcolm.”

“Until I met Malcolm,” Suzanne said truthfully, “I couldn’t imagine being married to anyone at all.”

They might seem unusual words for a girl from a seemingly conventional background, but Aline merely nodded. Her own family were filled with eccentricities despite, or perhaps because of, their impeccable lineage. “If you do need to slip out, let me know. I won’t pry, but I imagine you’re caught up in this Rivère business.”

“How well you know us.”

“Of course. We’re family.”

Suzanne forced a smile to her lips, squeezed Aline’s hand, then slipped from the ballroom and made her way along the gallery, towards the ladies’ retiring room and on past it, down a back staircase to the first floor. She was in the less public part of the embassy now, where it would be more difficult to explain her presence. But not impossible. Still, she moved cautiously, testing the stair treads. When she heard voices that seemed to belong to two of the servants, she flattened herself against the stair wall until they had passed. A routine mission, yet a thrill ran through her that came only from risk. Dear God, it was good to be back.

At the base of the stairs, she made her way down the passage and then into another until she reached the door to Castlereagh’s study. No sound, no sign of movement. She turned the handle and slipped inside.

She had only been in the study once, when Castlereagh briefed Malcolm and her about a difficulty with the Austrian delegation. She made her way to the desk by memory and lit the lamp. The foreign secretary was almost painfully neat, papers stacked precisely on his desktop, a line of mended pens on the ink blotter, books aligned precisely on the shelves. It made it easier to search. As she had suspected, several drawers in the desk were locked. She pulled off her long ivory silk gloves, fished her picklocks from the special pocket Blanca had sewn into the satin skirt of her gown beneath the gauze drapery, and made quick work of the locks. She found the seal in the second drawer. Another, unlocked drawer yielded wax. She spread Raoul’s papers out on the desk, lit a taper, melted the red wax, dripped it onto each paper, and then pressed the seal into the liquid wax. Then to wait for it to dry, the most nerve-wracking part. She snuffed the taper, checked for any telltale drips of wax, returned the sealing wax and the seal to their drawers, put her picklocks back in her pocket.

A few minutes more and she touched a fingertip to the wax. No red residue came away on her finger. She pulled her gloves back on, smoothed them with care, folded the papers, and tucked them once more beneath her shawl.

She cast a last glance round the room for any detail she might have missed, turned down the lamp, and slipped back into the passage. Back the way she had come. Silly to have even felt the risk. It showed how staid she had become. If—

“Mrs. Rannoch.”

The loud voice greeted her as she rounded a bend in the passage. Damn. She’d grown careless.

CHAPTER 8

A tall man with a florid face, a shock of dark hair, and an indolent mouth stood before her. Lord Stewart, Castlereagh’s half-brother. Wilhelmine of Sagan’s lover. The man who had ordered Bertrand Laclos’s death.

He stood, blocking the passage, regarding her with raised brows and a speculative look in his eyes. The light from the candle sconces made his skin appear more ruddy than usual. Or perhaps that was an indication of the amount of wine he had drunk. “Good lord. You’re the last woman I’d have thought to find slipping round the back passages in the midst of a ball.” He gave a low laugh. “If it weren’t for your reputation as the last faithful wife in the beau monde, I’d have a very good idea of what you were doing here.”

“Nothing nearly so interesting, my lord. I had to find one of the footmen to ask him to open some more champagne, and I took a circuitous route.”

“Of course.” Stewart’s gaze moved over her, sharp despite the brandy that wafted off his breath. She’d known fingers to probe in much the same way. “Always the perfect hostess, just as you’re the perfect wife.”

“You flatter me, my lord.”

“I wonder.”

He had that tiresome look that cut right through the ivory satin and pomegranate gauze of her gown. In Vienna, he’d nearly caused an international incident when he pinched Dorothée at a masquerade at the Metternichs’ villa. Suzanne took a step forwards, conscious of the way the folds of her shawl fell over her arm, conscious of not drawing attention to it. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord—”

“What’s the hurry?” Stewart caught her arm as she made to move past him. “Malcolm is deep in some prosy conversation with Lamb and Somerset. I doubt he even knows you left the ballroom. I was just remarking to Gronow that your husband pays shockingly little attention to his wife. An insult to a woman like you. Can’t believe you don’t mind.”

His hot, brandy-laced breath was close to her face. His grip was surprisingly strong on her arm. She could feel the imprint of his fingers through the silk of her glove. Her wound smarted in protest. “My husband has his ways of showing his affections, Lord Stewart. And he has a way of noticing things just when one thinks he’s oblivious.”

Amusement shot through Stewart’s gaze. “You can drop the playacting, my dear Mrs. Rannoch. Remember, Frederick Radley is a friend of mine.”

Damnation. She should have seen this coming. She had seduced Frederick Radley on a mission in Spain before she was Malcolm’s wife. Radley didn’t know she was a French agent, but he did know she hadn’t been the innocent bride she’d professed to be when she entered British society. He’d threatened to reveal as much to Malcolm in Vienna when suspicion fell on him in the investigation into Princess Tatiana’s murder. And so she had confessed to Malcolm about their affair, fully expecting it would destroy his image of the woman he’d married. But Malcolm had surprised her. He’d merely been angry at Radley for taking advantage of her at the time of her grief (her supposed grief) over the loss of her family. Radley’s threat had been neutralized. But she should have realized he’d have talked to his friend Stewart.

She met Stewart’s gaze, keeping her own wide and steady. “Whatever happened between Radley and me was over long before I married Malcolm.”

“What’s that to say to anything?”

“I’m a faithful wife.” Something she could at least say with conviction in a world of pretense.

“I have yet to meet any such animal.” His gaze settled on the ruched satin that edged her bodice. “You deserve a man who can satisfy you.”

“Believe me—”

“Just one kiss.” Stewart dragged her closer. He was holding her left arm and she couldn’t move her right without revealing the papers. She could knee him in the groin, but that would cause its own set of complications. Probably more complicated complications than letting him have a kiss. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t let gentlemen take more from her in the past.

But she needed to preserve her veneer. “Please, my lord, if someone sees—”

“No one about.” He pulled her closer. She could feel the scrape of his breath on her skin and see the pores in his chin.

“But—”

His hand slid to curve round her breast. “Spare me the decorous protests. You may have the veneer of a perfect wife, but you have the soul of an adventuress. I’ve seen it. And if your husband isn’t man enough—”

Footsteps sounded on the floorboards. Suzanne heard them before he did.

“Charlie.”

The shocked, cold voice belonged to Wilhelmine of Sagan. Stewart released Suzanne and turned to face his mistress. “Willie.” His voice rang with exaggerated bonhomie. “What are you doing in the back reaches of the embassy?”

“Looking for you.” Wilhelmine came forwards in a stir of seafoam gauze and custom-blended scent. “I might ask you the same.”

“I’ve been helping Mrs. Rannoch. She had to order more champagne.”

“Obviously a job for two.” Wilhelmine had a knack for keeping her voice well modulated and still making it cut like a dagger.

Stewart released Suzanne’s arm, though he showed no particular discomfort. Wilhelmine’s gaze moved to Suzanne. “I trust you suffered no difficulties, Suzanne?” Her gaze held concern, not censure.

“None.” Suzanne met her friend’s gaze. “I’m quite well able to manage these matters.”

“Thank goodness for that. I imagine Charlie only complicated things for you. Gentlemen can be so tiresome.”

“Nothing irreparable. If you’ll excuse me, I really must be getting back to the guests.” Suzanne smoothed the folds of her shawl over her arm and walked down the passage, leaving Stewart to face his mistress’s wrath. On the first floor, she paused before a pier glass, tugged the gauze and satin sleeve of her gown back in place with her free hand, smoothed her bodice where Stewart had crushed the satin, pushed her disordered ringlets into place. Then she strolled back towards the ballroom, stopping to speak to Prince Metternich and Count Nesselrode, even accepting a glass of champagne from a passing footman with her free hand.

Raoul was not too far from the ballroom door, in conversation with Lord March. Suzanne joined them. When March was claimed by his sister Georgiana, to whom he’d promised a dance, Suzanne and Raoul moved to an ivory damask settee set between two pillars.

“Agreeable young man, Lord March,” Raoul murmured. “Of course we couldn’t be further apart on Ireland.”

“Not surprising considering that as lord lieutenant his father was trying to put a stop to everything you were trying to accomplish.” Suzanne turned towards the settee, her back to the ballroom, and adjusted the folds of her shawl. In an instant the papers were in Raoul’s hand and then slid beneath his coat.

“No difficulties?” he asked as they seated themselves.

“Only a minor skirmish with Lord Stewart. Just to keep things interesting. It shows you how staid my life’s become that a boor makes things interesting.”

“I wish I’d seen you fight him off.” Raoul turned a little to the side, a very correct distance away from her, but his voice pitched for her ears alone. “The supper party is arranged for tomorrow.”

Her gaze skimmed over his face. “You’ve had to move it up.”

“We began to fear it would be quite impossible to find a date that worked if we delayed. A bit spontaneous this way.”

“But sometimes those are the most agreeable entertainments.”

“Quite. You’re still sure you can make one of the party?”

“You know I wouldn’t miss such an occasion.”

He held her gaze for a moment. “Your presence will mean a great deal. Ten o’clock. The Café des Arts.” That meant Manon’s dressing room.

Suzanne smiled. She felt alive again. God help her.

 

Cordelia had a glass of champagne halfway to her lips when she felt a light touch at her waist.

“Edmond Talleyrand’s in the card room,” her husband whispered into her ear.

Cordelia turned and looked up at him. His face was expressionless. “Are you sure about this?” she asked.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” His face relaxed a trifle, though there was a hint of mockery about his mouth that she knew he employed as a defense. He squeezed her hand. “Good luck, sweetheart. Not that you need it.”

She returned the pressure of his fingers and slipped away. She met Suzanne midway to the card room. “Edmond’s in the card room. I’ll see what I can do.”

Suzanne nodded. Her eyes were bright, probably a testament to the evening’s various crosscurrents. “Does Harry know?”

“Harry told me where he was. Nothing like having a husband who’s quite ruthless about confronting hard truths.”

“Yes, I know a bit about that. Be careful, Cordy.”

Cordelia met Suzanne’s gaze for a moment. Though Suzanne Rannoch was gossiped about as an émigrée who’d snared one of the beau monde’s most eligible bachelors, no cloud of scandal surrounded her. Yet Cordelia recalled an exchange between Suzanne and Colonel Frederick Radley at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball. Suzanne too had a past, if not as spectacular a one as Cordelia herself. “Edmond represents the sort of danger I know how to confront,” she said. “You could say I’m an expert at it.”

Suzanne squeezed Cordelia’s hand.

Cordelia glanced in a pier glass as she moved towards the card room. Her ringlets were just slightly disarranged round her pearl bandeau, enough to suggest further abandon. Her lips were bright with rouge. She bit them to exaggerate the effect. She let her spangled shawl slither lower on her arms and tugged at the puffed gauze and silver satin of her sleeves, pulling them a half inch lower on her shoulders.

She turned and swept towards the card room, recalling a time, not so very long ago, when part of the allure of a party had been seeing how many men she could fascinate. Not that she was beyond enjoying admiration now. But it was no longer a quest.

Tobacco smoke and brandy fumes greeted her at the door to the card room. She lingered in the doorway for a few moments, taking in the scene before her and attracting more than a few glances. Edmond was at a table halfway across the room, deep in a game of faro. It was seconds before he looked up and she could catch his eye. She smiled, and he returned the smile with a surprised lift of his brows. She moved across the room at a leisurely pace, conscious of sharp glances from Fitzroy Somerset and Lord March, who were friends of Harry’s. Oh, well. It couldn’t be helped. Look at the people who said that Suzanne had married Malcolm for his money and that Malcolm was a cold fish of a man who obviously had no romantic interest in his wife.

She came up behind Edmond’s chair and bent over his shoulder, giving the men across the table a good view down her bodice. A waste perhaps, but Edmond would have the same view when he turned round.

“You used to say I brought you luck,” she murmured. “I thought I’d see if that was still the case.”

Edmond turned to look over his shoulder. “Lady Cordelia. An unexpected pleasure.”

“Do continue with the game. You know I enjoy watching.” She rested a white-gloved hand on the back of his chair, one leg extended so his arm brushed against it when he leaned back, and observed as he continued the faro game. Fortunately, it came to an end before too long with Edmond considerably richer than he had been when it started. Flushed with victory, he got to his feet and pocketed his winnings.

“We haven’t had a chance to talk for so long,” Cordelia said. “Might I persuade you to drink a glass of champagne with me?”

“How could that possibly take persuading?” He gave her his arm, and they moved into the adjoining salon, where he procured two glasses of champagne from a passing footman.

Edmond lifted his glass to hers. “I must say I’m rather surprised you sought me out. I hear you’re living with Davenport again. And rumor has it you’ve become something of a devoted wife.”

She tilted her head back to look up at him from beneath her blackened lashes. “Since when do you listen to rumor?”

“It can be useful.”

“Harry isn’t the jealous sort.” She wasn’t, actually, sure if that was true. Harry kept his emotions carefully guarded. Though he’d certainly lost his temper with her former lover George. She flinched at the memory. “He doesn’t expect me to give up my old friends.” She took a sip of champagne. “I’ve got to know your wife. She’s a good friend of my friend Suzanne Rannoch. I quite like the comtesse.”

Edmond’s fingers tightened round his glass.

“Of course,” Cordelia continued, “she’s bookish, like my husband. I can see how that wouldn’t do for you. And it must be a bit galling to see her so publicly flaunting a lover.”

Edmond tossed down a swallow of champagne. “Every man has his limits.”

In the course of their affair, she had never heard such anger in his voice. Unease on Dorothée’s behalf prickled Cordelia’s skin. She cast a glance round the room. “Paris is an odd place these days. Enemies turned to allies and back again. You’re fortunate in your uncle.”

“He has his uses.” Edmond took her arm and steered her to a gold damask bench set in an alcove between two pillars, shaded by a potted palm. Edmond, as she recalled, had an unerring instinct for alcoves.

Cordelia unfurled her fan and stirred the air, heavy with perfumes and scented wax tapers. “I heard you talked about recently. In the British delegation.”

Edmond’s brows drew together. “Why?” These days, being talked about could be a dangerous thing.

“A man named Bertrand Laclos. I understand he was a friend of yours.”

“Laclos?” Edmond said with seemingly genuine surprise. “Good God. That was years ago. Why mention him now?”

“I’m not sure precisely. Apparently no one’s quite clear whom he was spying for.”

Edmond gave a rough laugh. “Odd fellow, Laclos. Left his émigré family in England and returned to France in a burst of drama. He was quite a hero when he arrived in Paris. The aristocratic prodigal returned to the Bonapartist fold. My uncle suggested I might take him under my wing. Show him round Paris.”