The Mayfair Affair (27 page)

The gathering light clustered round the trunks of the willows. Not perhaps the best choice for a rendezvous, but the mist helped. She moved into the trees. She couldn't quite tell where Malcolm and Raoul had taken up watch, which was good. Little chance the blackmailer would note them.

"Don't turn round, Mrs. Rannoch, I have a pistol trained on you."

The disembodied voice came from the shadows. Despite herself, she stiffened. "Surely my presence here assures you that you have enough of a hold on me to ensure my silence about your identity."

"My hold on you should ensure I set the rules. Stay just as you are." Footsteps sounded. Boots. Average height and build, so far as she could tell. A whiff of cedar in his shaving soap. "Did you bring what I want?"

"If you know as much about me as you claim to, you can't imagine I would bring it to our first meeting."

He gave a low laugh. "Fair enough. But I assure you that I'm in earnest. You know the consequences if you don't comply with my request. It would be simple enough for me to call upon your husband."

"What makes you so sure my husband doesn't already know the truth of my past?"

He laughed again, this time in disbelief. "You're brazen, I'll give you that. But even Malcolm Rannoch isn't Radical enough to go on living with you if he knew you were a Bonapartist whore."

The word had the sting of a slap, hard as she tried to withstand it. "I believe the word you're looking for is agent."

"Little enough to choose between the two. Especially given how a woman like you would collect her information. Besides, I know where O'Roarke found you."

God help her. It shouldn't have made her skin crawl more, but it did. "Why do you want these papers?"

"There's no need for you to know that."

"You're asking me to break into the study of my husband's mentor."

"I believe spymaster is the word. I don't see why you, of all people, should shy away from it."

"The point still stands."

"Don't pretend to squeamishness. You must have riffled through Carfax's papers often enough in the past."

"If you think that, you have a dangerously low opinion of Carfax."

"Merely a realistic opinion of you. I have no doubt you are equal to the task, my dear."

On the whole, she preferred being called a whore to the way he had of calling her "my dear." "And if I do as you insist? What guarantee do I have that you won't expose me anyway?"

"That would be singularly counterproductive. I would lose any future information you could procure for me."

"So you intend this—relationship—to continue?"

"Why would I give up on such a profitable source? Believe me, my dear Mrs. Rannoch, I value you highly. I take the greatest care of my assets."

After everything else he had called her, being called his asset shouldn't cut like a knife along her spine. But it did. "So I'll never be free."

"You'll be working. Does changing masters bother you so much?"

"If you have to ask that, you don't know me very well."

He gave a short laugh. "You Republicans and your vaunted ideals."

"Call it what you will."

"You're a realist, Suzanne. You must see you don't have any choice. Not unless you want to run, and I think you value the false family you've created too highly to do that."

She drew a breath. It wasn't hard to give it a bitter scrape. "It seems I have no choice."

"I thought you'd come to that conclusion. I suggest—"

A shot ripped through the air. A jolt of fire cut along her arm. She spun round, heedless of warnings, to see a dark figure fall to the ground at her feet.

All that secrecy, and now all she was aware of was a dark tangle of greatcoat, harsh breath, and a white face twisted with pain.

"Jezebel," he whispered.

"I think you mean Delilah, but whoever it was got me as well." She stripped off her cloak and pressed it against his chest. She could smell the metallic tang of blood, feel it bubbling against the fabric.

Boot heels thudded on the ground. Malcolm flung himself down beside them. "Rannoch," the wounded man said in genuine shock. "Did you follow—"

"You bloody fool, do you seriously imagine I know my wife so little?"

"My God." Blood dribbled out the corners of his mouth. "You're even more of a fool than I credited."

"Don't try to talk." Suzanne pressed harder on the folds of the shawl. Her fingers were damp with blood.

"I'm done for."

"Who are your enemies?" Malcolm demanded. "And I don't mean my wife."

"My"—his breath caught—"my dear Rannoch. It's far more complicated than you'll ever know."

"If you want to be avenged—"

"You couldn't begin to know," the man said, and went still.

Suzanne stared down as the life faded from her blackmailer's eyes in the predawn light.

Malcolm reached across the man and touched her arm. "Are you all right?"

"Of course. I'm not the one who was shot—" Her gaze was still on the blackmailer. Hard features, a square face. Oh, dear God.

Malcolm's fingers tightened on her arm. "Damn it, Suzette, the shot got you as well."

"Just a graze. I can barely feel it."

"Then you're in shock." Malcolm stripped off his cravat. "You're bleeding."

"That's hardly—"

"Hold still. As you're always saying to me, you'd find it very awkward to develop gangrene." He had a flask out of his pocket. She smelled the whisky as he splashed it on the muslin, and then felt the burn against her skin as he pressed it to the wound. He had a point. And she was always doing it to him. But, God in heaven, the implications—

"Malcolm—" Her gaze went to the dead man.

"I know." He splashed some more whisky on the muslin. "But first let's make sure you're all right."

"If—"

More footsteps pounded over the ground. Raoul stopped, taking in the scene. "My God."

"The shooter?" Malcolm asked, as he wound the cravat round Suzanne's arm.

"Lost him. Or her. I wasn't close enough to tell for a certainty." He moved round to look down at the blackmailer's face and let out a whistle. "Lord Craven. Not among my list of probabilities." He drew in a breath. "Isn't he—"

"Yes." Malcolm tightened the bandage round Suzanne's arm. "He's married to Carfax's second daughter, Louisa."

"Not a twist I was expecting." Raoul dropped down beside them. "At least this explains how he knew Trenchard. Though I suppose now the question is more who had a motive to kill him."

"You mean besides the three of us?" Malcolm tied off the ends of the cravat.

Raoul raised a brow. "Is that a comment or an accusation?"

Malcolm sat back on his heels and shot a look at his father. "You didn't—"

"You heard the footsteps as much as I did. And I'm a decent shot, but I wasn't at remotely the right angle."

"That doesn't mean you didn't hire someone."

"Fair enough. But I'd never have hired someone to shoot so near to Suzanne." Raoul's gaze moved to her and lingered for a moment, at once warm and neutral. "Are you all right,
querida?"

"Quite. Malcolm is fussing." Though in truth, now the shock had worn off, her arm stung like the very devil.

Raoul glanced about. "The bullet must have gone right through Craven and struck you. There. By the base of the tree."

Malcolm pushed himself to his feet, then hesitated.

"We may be able to match the bullet to the pistol," Raoul said. "It could look as though the killer retrieved it."

Malcolm nodded, tugged his handkerchief from his coat, and scooped up the bullet. He glanced round the stand of trees.

"Obviously none of us were here," Raoul said.

Malcolm met his father's gaze.

"I know subterfuge doesn't come as easily to you," Raoul said, "but, good as we all are at concocting stories, I don't see what we could concoct to explain this to your friend Roth."

"One step ahead of you." Malcolm surveyed the patch of ground. "I'm trying to work out how to sweep up the evidence." He pushed himself to his feet. "Stay here, Suzette."

"Malcolm—"

"If you drip blood all over the place we'll have that much more to tidy away."

"I was going to say, be sure to search the body. If he had any really important papers, he'd be likely to keep them on him."

Malcolm leaned in and gave her a quick, hard kiss. "You never cease to amaze me."

"I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not."

Malcolm took a flint from his pocket, lit a spill of paper, and swept the light over the ground, while Raoul knelt beside the dead Lord Craven and swiftly went through his pockets.

Suzanne saw Louisa Craven at her mother's musicale the night before, and then recalled meeting Louisa in the park, not far from this stand of trees, on a warm autumn day, four children clustered round her. She rubbed her arms. "Odd. I never used to think about people's children."

Raoul straightened up. "A card case. His own cards, nothing written on them. A handful of banknotes. A flask. Nothing of substance." He tugged Craven's coat so the folds fell as they had when he collapsed.

Malcolm pulled his own flask from his pocket again. "Handkerchief, O'Roarke?"

Raoul tossed his handkerchief to Malcolm, who splashed whisky on it. "You and Suzette get out of the stand of trees."

Raoul helped Suzanne to her feet. Suzanne decided it would be childish to protest, and, in truth, her head did swim a bit. Raoul said nothing, but tightened his fingers on her arm. They moved to the edge of the trees. Malcolm followed, bending to wipe away telltale footprints with the whisky.

Raoul ran a sharp gaze over the stand of trees as Malcolm joined them. "Good work."

Malcolm's eyes narrowed as his gaze followed Raoul's own. "With Craven being Trenchard's brother-in-law, Roth is bound to at least wonder if there's a connection. Roth is very good at his job."

"So I've observed," Raoul said. "Which means we need to have a look at Craven's house before Roth gets there."

Suzanne nodded. She'd been thinking along the same lines. "We have an hour or two. Maybe more, depending on how long it takes them to find him. But it will only grow harder as we get closer to daylight."

Malcolm swung his gaze to her. She met it like a sword cut. "Don't you dare suggest I stay home."

"On the contrary. This will take all three of us. Just don't faint on me."

"Honestly, darling." She tucked her hand through his arm. "I'd give you fair warning."

Malcolm nodded. "You should go with O'Roarke. I'll meet you in Cavendish Square."

She raised her brows.

"Roth will question anyone in the park, even the homeless. He's less likely to connect a description of you and O'Roarke with someone he knows than a description of you and me."

Malcolm had just sent her off on a mission with Raoul. Without showing obvious qualms. Odd how the simplest gesture, at the most unexpected of times, could indicate a sea change. She touched her husband's face.

Raoul didn't say anything as they moved through the trees, but she sensed he felt the sea change as well. The dark forms beneath the trees were beginning to stir. Smoke curled from the occasional cooking fire to blend with the mist. They left the park by the Grosvenor Gate and moved through the mist and shadows of Mayfair. Terraced houses. A few lights now showing behind windows, a few curtains thrown back, smoke rising from early fires, laid to warm the house before the family rose. A scullery maid shook out a mat by the area steps. A footman swept by a front door. A carriage clattered by. A young man sprang down, clutching his hat and moving with extreme care. Raoul pulled Suzanne into the shadows. The young man half fell over the area railings of the nearest house and was violently sick over the iron spikes. He straightened up, stared at the house, frowned, moved to the next house over, and staggered up the steps.

Raoul and Suzanne moved on and turned into Davies Street. Craven had lived in a large house of cream-dressed stone in Brook Street. Suzanne had been there once, to a reception, the previous November. She could see Louisa Craven, a little colorless in a gold and ivory gown, greeting guests at the head of the stairs. She didn't recall actually seeing Craven and Louisa together in the course of the evening. But that wasn't unusual for a Mayfair couple hosting a party. Even she and Malcolm were often consumed by their separate duties.

They went behind to the mews. Malcolm detached himself from the shadows and fell in beside them. "Dodged round a gentleman I swear had slipped out of a lady's bedroom window," he said. "Fortunately, he was as eager to avoid notice as I was."

"We encountered a young man being sick," Suzanne said. "I don't think he was in a state to notice much either."

They slipped down the mews, past the occasional stir of horses' hoofs hoofs and the smells of manure and oiled leather. Malcolm used his picklocks to unlatch the gate to Craven's back garden. Suzanne stared up at the dark mass of the house, thinking of the people sleeping behind those walls, still unaware of Craven's death. "Was the Cravens' marriage a happy one?" she asked, remembering Louisa's dry comments on the married state at Lady Carfax's musicale.

"I haven't the least idea," Malcolm said. "I didn't see much of Louisa once she was out of the schoolroom. David isn't in the habit of talking much about his sisters' personal lives. Neither is Bel, for that matter."

"Still. Whatever the terms of their marriage, he was her husband."

"Don't get sentimental,
querida,"
Raoul murmured. "The man was prepared to destroy your life."

As they watched, a light flared in the kitchen. "Early preparations," Malcolm said. "We can only hope they aren't in the habit of lighting a fire in Craven's study too early." He scanned the house. "The bottom left corner, at a hazard."

"It's probably the study or the breakfast parlor," Suzanne said. "So if we're wrong, we just have to get across the house. If one of you boosts me up, I can get a window open."

She more than half thought Malcolm would protest, but he merely nodded and handed her his picklocks.

They both lifted her up and she levered open the window onto the smell of stale cigar smoke. Just in time, she noticed the tray of decanters right below the window. She edged it aside, got her feet over the ledge, and dropped onto the polished surface of a table. She found the edge of the table and eased herself to the floor. There was enough pre-dawn light that she could see to move the tray with the decanters from the pier table to the desk in the center of the room. She pushed the sash higher and helped pull Malcolm over the sill and then the two of them helped haul Raoul in. There was a hiss as Malcolm struck a flint and lit of spill of paper. And then all three of them drew in their breath.

The room was a shambles. The drawers pulled from the desk, the sofa cushions pushed aside, a end table upended, books pulled from the bookcase and strewn over the carpet.

"Interesting," Raoul murmured.

"That's one word for it." Malcolm's hand had tightened on Suzanne's arm.

"They might have missed something," Raoul said. "We should still search."

"Right." Malcolm was already holding the paper spill to the candles on the desk. Suzanne brought him a bronze lamp from a table near the door to the hall. "Take the desk, Suzette," Malcolm said. "That should spare your arm. I'll do the books. O'Roarke, can you do the rest of the room?"

"Right. Better grab anything locked or coded. We don't have time for a prolonged search."

They set to work. The papers strewn over the desktop and on the floor round it proved to be correspondence with the steward on Craven's estate, a large quantity of bills from tailors, bootmakers, and a modiste—Lady Craven's? Or a mistress's—whose crumpled state suggested they had been stuffed into the back of a drawer. She found a yellowed bundle that looked older. "I didn't realize Craven had been in India."

Malcolm looked up from a gilt-embossed volume. "Nor did I. Or I forgot."

"There are a series of letters here from his steward. Apparently Craven went to India in 1811 with Trenchard and stayed for over two years." While she and Malcolm were on the Peninsula in the early days of their marriage. She glanced at another letter.

"Not necessarily surprising he was attached to Trenchard's mission," Malcolm said, "but an interesting connection. Though I don't know where it gets us."

A creak echoed through from the passage. All three of them went still.

"Right," Raoul said. "There's a time to run risks, and a time to beat a retreat. Grab whatever you've got."

Malcolm doused the candles. Suzanne turned down the lamp. The door creaked open, seconds after they all three darted behind the curtains.