The Paris Affair (28 page)

CHAPTER 23

Cordelia had the sense she’d tumbled into a hole far deeper than anything she’d imagined. She studied the face of the man she called Gui Laclos. She’d known he harbored some secret. But she’d never doubted his identity. She knew few people were wholly what they seemed on the surface. But their names, the history written down in the family Bible, the portrait galleries of ancestors, the lists of those enrolled at Eton and Harrow, Oxford and Cambridge, those belonging to White’s and Brooks’s and Boodle’s. Those were constants one never questioned, the warp and weft of her world. “You’re—”

“My mother was Marianne Frémont, a nursery maid in the Laclos household. The household of Georges Laclos, the comte’s younger brother, that is. The second of the three sons in that generation.” He spoke in the quick, dispassionate tone he might use to recount the plot of a novel. “Apparently trusted and valued by the family, because when she married one of the grooms the Lacloses gave them a cottage on their estate in Provence. A short time later I came along. My mother continued to help out in the nursery, and I played with young Gui and Gabrielle. I have only the most shadowy memories. The nursery walls were a pale apple green. There was a wooden horse with a yellow mane that I liked to ride. Gui”— his voice caught for a moment on the name—“and I used to pretend we were musketeers. Gaby used to ask me to read to her.”

“You would have been—”

“Five. Gaby was in Paris with her uncle and aunt when the château was attacked. She’d had a chill and they wanted her near the best doctors. I was at the château with my mother when the attack happened. The house was set on fire. My mother tried to get Gui and me out. I . . . saw the falling beam that killed both of them.” He swallowed, his gaze fastened on a still life of fruit that hung on the opposite wall. “The next instant another piece of timber knocked me out. I came to in the back of a cart, with sacks thrown over me. My father had died in the attack as well, but another groom who was a friend of his smuggled me off to cousins nearby. I lived with them for ten years. That part of my history is true.”

“And then? Lord Dewhurst—”

“Lord Dewhurst arrived claiming I was Gui Laclos and he’d come to restore me to my birthright. I protested there was some confusion. Dewhurst persisted. Finally my foster father took me aside and told me not to be a fool. He said this could be the making of me. I’d have a life most could only dream of. That this is what my mother would have wanted for me.”

“Gui.” Cordelia touched his hand, still struggling to make sense of his revelations. “You were so young. Is it possible—”

“That my memories are distorted and I’m actually Gui Laclos? No,” he said in a flat voice. “I was five. I remember my mother and father. I remember the real Gui. I knew I was going along with a lie when I let Dewhurst bring me to England. I’ve known it all these years.”

“You were a child.”

“I was fifteen. Boys my age fought and died at Waterloo on both sides.” He scraped the toe of his evening shoe over the floorboards. “I didn’t realize. What it would be like to be an outsider. An outsider as an émigré and an outsider to the family who took me in. The kinder they were, the more of an outsider I felt.”

“And so since you couldn’t tell them the truth, you were determined to prove how unworthy you were?”

He turned to her with a twisted smile. “A bit simplistic perhaps. A lot of it was sheer love of indulgence. But there may be a degree of truth in what you say.”

“And then Étienne and Bertrand were gone—”

“And the cuckoo became the Comte de Laclos’s heir. I suppose a revolutionary would approve. But Oncle Jacques would be horrified.”

“Everyone knows Caro’s husband, William Lamb, is most likely Lord Egremont’s son. And Talleyrand as good as acknowledges the Comte de Flahaut.”

“But they didn’t knowingly pass themselves off as impostors.”

Cordelia pressed her hands over her lap. “Rivère knew?”

“God knows how. The man had an unholy knack for uncovering secrets.”

“What did he want?”

“My influence with Lord Dewhurst to convince the British to get him out of France. He seemed to think as Dewhurst’s godson my pleas would hold some weight.” He looked into her eyes. “I was angry. And frightened. I don’t deny it. I’d lived with the secret for so long that to hear someone voice it was like the first crack that set my world crumbling. But I didn’t kill Rivère. In fact, I told him I’d do what I could with Dewhurst, though I wasn’t sure how much weight my pleas would carry.”

“I believe you.”

“You’re far too trusting, Cordy.”

“Perhaps. But my instincts rarely fail me.” She hesitated, understanding the choices her husband and Malcolm and Suzanne regularly faced. “Gui—”

“You have to tell your husband and the Rannochs. I know. I knew that before I confided in you. Do what you must. I’m going to talk to Gaby and Rupert.” He pushed himself to his feet. “It’s time this comedy came to an end.”

 

Gabrielle stared at her brother. At the man she had thought of as her brother for twelve years. “I remember you. From France. Before.”

Gui’s mouth twisted. They were in the study in Rupert’s and her house in the Rue d’Anjou. He was sitting on a straight-backed chair, a little removed from her and Rupert, out of the circle of light cast by the branch of candles Rupert had lit. “You were only three.”

“But I remember.” She leaned forwards on the sofa and looked into his shadowed eyes, conjuring up memories of that dark-eyed boy with the untidy brown hair, trying to overlay his face over Gui’s own. “You used to play dolls with me sometimes when I teased you. You were a deal kinder to me than Gui was, actually. I remember—” She bit back the words, stared for a long moment at the man she had called brother, then spoke them in any case. “I remember wishing you were my brother.”

Gui drew a sharp breath. “Gaby—” He turned his head away.

Beside her on the sofa, Rupert had been staring fixedly at Gui. Now he pushed himself to his feet. “What did my father know about this?”

Gui’s gaze shot to him, wide with surprise. “Merely that someone told him I was Guilaume de Laclos.”

“Are you sure?”

“Why else would he have brought me to England and given me into the care of his closest friends?”

“I don’t know. But I do know he’s capable of anything.”

“Rupert.” Gabrielle got to her feet as well and touched her husband’s arm. “This has nothing to do with—”

“You can’t know that, Gaby.” Rupert wrenched himself away from her. “My father sent Étienne on the mission that led to his death. He had Bertrand killed—”

“What?”
Gui sprang to his feet.

Rupert met Gui’s gaze directly. “Your cousin—your supposed cousin—Bertrand wasn’t a traitor. My father set him up. Because he wanted him out of the way.”

“Why—”

“Because he thought that was the only way to convince me to marry and produce an heir.”

Gabrielle saw the realization register in her brother’s—her supposed brother’s—eyes. For a long moment he simply stared at Rupert. Then his gaze shot to her, filled with questions and a concern that unexpectedly tore at her chest. “I know,” Gabrielle said. She reached for Rupert’s hand. “Lord Dewhurst manipulated both Rupert and me.”

Gui’s gaze returned to Rupert. “I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve the trust you just placed in me, Rupert.”

Rupert held Gui’s gaze with his own. “You knew Bertrand. I couldn’t bear to have you think the worst of him. And you need to know what my father is.”

Gui inclined his head. “I may not be part of this family anymore, but I don’t think I’ll ever stop thinking of it as mine.”

“Gui.” Gabrielle moved to his side and touched his arm. His muscles were taut beneath her fingers.

“Don’t you think you’d better start calling me Victor?”

“I’ll always think of you as Gui. You’ve been my brother for far too long for that to change. I don’t know—” She looked at Rupert, then back at Gui. “Oncle Jacques and Tante Amélie have suffered so much. I don’t know that it would serve any purpose for them to learn the truth.”

“For God’s sake, Gaby.” This time it was Gui who jerked away from her touch. “It was bad enough that I lived a lie as a teenager. That I went on living it—” He shook his head, self-disgust washing over his face. “You can’t expect me to continue to do so. I’ve never claimed to have much in the way of honor, but I’m not quite so far gone.”

“I’ve always thought you had a deal more honor than you let on,” Rupert said, crossing to stand beside her and Gui. “But whatever is said—if anything—we need to discover what my father’s game is first. I’m done being a chess piece he can move as he wills.”

Gui started to protest, then slowly inclined his head. To Gabrielle’s surprise, he reached out and touched her hand, though he continued to look at Rupert. “Whatever comes of this, I’ll always think of Gaby as my sister.”

“I know,” Rupert said. “That’s a large part of why I trusted you.”

 

Malcolm poured whisky in the salon in the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. Candlelight flickered over the sea green wall hangings, the white plasterwork, the striped satin upholstery. A decorous setting for a convivial end to an evening with friends. They’d shared many such with the Davenports in the past months. Save that on this occasion, they were gathered together because Cordelia had gripped Suzanne’s arm with iron fingers and said she had something she had to relate to the three of them, as soon as possible.

Suzanne glanced at Cordelia, seated beside her on the sofa, her face pale, her hands locked together. Soft ringlets fell about her face, but tension radiated from the straight line of her spine and the taut angle of her head. Suzanne’s own confrontation with Fouché still reverberated through her. Her chest was knotted and her mouth dry. But she was used to boxing up fear and pushing it to a place where it could be, if not forgot, at least ignored as one ignores the ache of a troublesome wound or the nag of a headache.

Malcolm put a glass of whisky into Cordelia’s hand. “Whatever it is, sharing it probably won’t worsen the situation. And it may help.”

Cordelia gave him a smile and took a quick sip of whisky. Harry sat watching her with an intent gaze. Cordelia cradled the glass in her hands and looked from her husband to Malcolm to Suzanne. “Gui Laclos is an impostor.”

Once the first words were out she recounted the rest of what Gui Laclos had revealed in brisk, concise tones. She had the makings of an admirable agent. Though her hands remained locked round the glass, white-knuckled.

Harry got to his feet and put a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “That was brilliantly done, Cordy. And it can’t have been easy.”

She looked up at him. “I was so proud of myself for drawing him out. Only to discover I’d stumbled into the midst of someone else’s nightmare.”

“Which unfortunately has relevance for us.” Malcolm leaned forwards in his chair. “Gui had no idea how Rivère learned of this?”

Cordelia shook her head. “I believe Gui when he says he didn’t kill Rivère. But I don’t expect you to.”

Malcolm looked at Harry, then at Suzanne. “As it happens your trust in him means a great deal, Cordy.”

“But you can’t be sure,” Cordelia said.

“No. And we have to explore every avenue. I’ve learned to be wary of even those closest to me.”

“Rivère knew a shocking number of the Laclos family’s secrets,” Suzanne said. “And this one he couldn’t have learned from either Gabrielle or Étienne.”

Harry dropped down on the arm of the sofa, his hand still on Cordelia’s shoulder. “Did Gui have any idea what made Dewhurst think he was Guilaume de Laclos?”

“Gui seemed to think it was misinformation from a relative of his mother’s who was trying to do him a good turn.”

“This could be what Bertrand discovered just before he was killed,” Suzanne said. “What he told Louise Carnot changed everything. And why he was considering going home. Christian Laclos told Doro and me that Bertrand had written asking him about Gui just before he—Bertrand—was killed.”

Malcolm nodded. “Living in France, Bertrand could have stumbled across information that cast doubt on Gui’s story.”

“He wasn’t in France when he died,” Cordelia pointed out.

“No, but he could have set inquiries in motion before he left for the Peninsula. Perhaps he’d just heard from someone with decisive information. Or perhaps he met someone in the French army who had information.”

“I wonder if he could have written to Rivère for information as well as to Christian,” Suzanne said. “He may have known Rivère had been his brother’s confederate. Perhaps that’s how Rivère learned the truth about Gui. Or perhaps Bertrand revealed enough for Rivère to ferret out the rest.”

Harry flicked a glance at Malcolm. “Dewhurst doesn’t strike me as the sort of man to be taken in easily.”

“No.” Malcolm turned his glass in his hand. “He survived working in the field with the Royalists in France for years. Though when one has lost people, one can be quick to grasp on to a shred of hope. Difficult to see what reason Dewhurst would have had to foist an impostor off on his old friends.”

“Unless his old friends were in on it,” Suzanne said, twisting her glass in her hand as she turned over thoughts in her head. She looked at Cordelia. “Gui told you he was born shortly after his parents’ marriage, didn’t he?”

“You’re suggesting he was a Laclos by-blow?” Harry asked. “That he shared a father with the real Gui?”

“It would explain the generosity of the Laclos family to Gui’s parents,” Suzanne said. “And why Gui was allowed to mingle so freely with the Laclos children.”

“In which case perhaps the Comte de Laclos has always known the Gui he took into his house isn’t the real Gui,” Malcolm said. “He could have set his old friend Dewhurst to look for his brother’s by-blow with the idea of taking the boy into the family. Of course at the time he’d not have thought it likely Gui would become his heir.”