The Mayfair Affair (31 page)

"Gave him two parents who loved him. And then there's the fact that Trenchard had Jack killed. It was only a twist of fate that kept me from dying as well and Emily with me before she was born."

"Yes. I do think I'd have drawn the line at that."

"You know damn well you would have."

He watched her for a moment with a faint smile. "You see a lot, Laura. But don't make the mistake of seeing things that aren't there. I have enough of a conscience to recognize that I've done unconscionable things. But that doesn't mean I'd play my hand differently if I had a chance to do it again."

"So you still feel the cause comes before all else?"

"I still look round me and find much of what I see intolerable."

"I can understand the allure. I've never had anything outside myself to believe in. Oh, perhaps a bit when I first worked for Trenchard and thought we were in the service of Crown and Country. But even then it was a sort of abstract belief, and I'd never have done it if I hadn't been pushed into it. It's not that I couldn't see the injustices in the world. I watched things change in India as I grew up. When I was young, it was fairly common for British men to marry Indian women. Many of my childhood friends had Indian mothers."

"The prime minister himself has some Indian blood on his mother's side," Raoul said. "He doesn't make a secret about it."

Laura nodded. "I've heard Trenchard, who could be quite appalling about Indians, make disparaging comments about Lord Liverpool's heritage. But as more British women came out to India, it became more of a stigma to have what they call 'mixed blood.' I once caused a bit of commotion at a regimental ball by saying I couldn't understand the phrase since all blood is red."

Raoul laughed. "I'd give a great deal to have seen that."

"It was quite satisfying, but it didn't do anything to improve the situation. One of my oldest friends was the son of a British soldier and a Hindu woman. He went into the army, but he could only rise so far. Wellington—Wellesley then—refused to promote him. I felt the injustice to him keenly. I felt the injustice in his mother's family casting her off for marrying outside her caste. I told my friend if I were he, it would rouse me to rebellion. I still remember his smile—more bitter, I think, than I realized at the time. He was married by then and expecting a child. He said he simply had to figure out a way to survive."

"The struggle for survival is often a check on rebellion. Those in power often exploit that."

Laura reached for her wine glass. "Of course, one could argue that the injustice should have roused me to rebellion myself. God knows in British India I didn't have to look far to see injustice, most of it perpetrated by my own people. But it didn't rouse me to action. For most of my life, I fear I've been all too focused on myself."

"For most of your life you've been struggling to survive."

"Recently. I was a careless girl and young woman."

"Most young people are careless."

"You were trying to save the world while still at university."

He gave a wintry smile and twisted the stem of his glass between his fingers. "I don't know that I could go on if I didn't have the hope that I could make some sort of difference, even round the edges. And I confess to feeling the allure of the game, despite the fact that I can see its folly all too well."

Her fingers tightened round the stem of her glass. "I hated Trenchard for what he pulled me into. I still hate him. I never wanted to be a spy. But—" She frowned into the wine, blood red in the candlelight. "At times, I confess I—not precisely enjoyed it, but relished the challenge." Her skin crawled at the admission.

"You're a woman with a keen understanding who hadn't been given a proper scope for your talents. I can understand the appeal. No need to be ashamed."

"Spoken by one who is no stranger to self-disgust?"

"Spoken by one who has made his peace with the inherent compromises in this life. And who understands the seduction of the game. And yet—" He broke off, his gaze focused on the bars of the window, though he seemed to be seeing into the past. Or perhaps into an alternate future that had never come to pass. "I think Malcolm would say that if one doesn't look to one's family, then all other loyalties are meaningless. There was a time I'd have laughed at such sentiments. Now there are moments when I find myself wondering if he might be right." He took a sip of wine. "Find Emily, Laura."

She reached for her glass, seeking protection behind the cut glass. "One could argue that I don't have much to offer her."

"Rubbish."

"I'm not fool enough to think that having given birth to her gives me rights."

"You can at least find out what situation she's in."

"One could also argue that I don't deserve her."

"That's foolishness." His voice was rough again, but also oddly warm. "Laura." His hand shot across the table to grip her own on the scarred wood. "Regrets and self-recrimination only fester. Take it from one who knows. You'll corrode your soul and you'll woefully neglect those for whom you should be responsible."

The pressure of his hand brought a rush of warmth and something more she wasn't prepared to contemplate at this moment. How long had it been since anyone but the children had touched her in more than a perfunctory way? "Rather putting the lie to your claims of being hardened to all feeling," she said. Her voice sounded husky to her own ears.

A faint smile curved his mouth. "Haven't you got to know me well enough not to expect consistency from me?" He picked up the wine bottle and refilled both their glasses. "If you credit me with any understanding of parental feeling whatsoever, take my word for it that your parents would give anything to see you."

Laura snatched up her glass and took a sip. Damnation. Why should a parental plea from him, of all people, shake her resolve? "They're not going to like what they see."

"Odd," O'Roarke said. "Not having met them, I credit them with more sense. But regardless, I think you're up to the challenge."

Louisa had always been a bit lost in the Mallinson family. Pretty, but not the stunner Mary was nor an ethereal beauty like Georgiana; clever, but not with Isobel's quick wits. Lacking David's special stature as the only son and heir, or Lucinda's as the baby of the family. She had, from Malcolm's observation, compensated for it by trying harder than her siblings, yet her efforts had never seemed to win her particular attention from the earl and countess. As the footman conducted Malcolm up the stairs of the Craven house in Brook Street, an image of Louisa on the sidelines at a fête champêtre flashed into Malcolm's mind. One-and-twenty and still unmarried. She had been leaning against the terrace balustrade, her face drawn into lines that spoke of despair more eloquently than pages of soul-bearing prose. Then a moment later she had turned round and been laughing with the guests as though nothing had happened.

The footman conducted Malcolm to a first-floor sitting room. A taper, a lamp, and a brace of candles were lit, rather haphazardly, in keeping with a night on which nothing had gone as planned. Louisa sat bolt upright on a blue-and-cream striped sofa. She had changed into a lilac dress and wound a black ribbon round her hair, which was scraped back into a simple knot.

"Malcolm." She came forwards at his entrance. "I've been expecting you."

"I'm sorry I didn't come sooner."

"Yes. I suppose you'd feel obliged to express your condolences. But I was thinking that either Roth or Father was bound to ask you to talk to me. Which of them was it?"

One never knew how someone would react in the face of unexpected tragedy, but her directness surprised him. "Both, actually."

She gave a tight smile. "You've always been honest, I'll give you that."

"Louisa." He walked forwards, then touched her arm. It was sickeningly like his scene with Mary, though oddly, it had been easier to embrace Mary. "I'm so very sorry. No one should have to go through what you're going through."

"Military wives do all the time. One thinks one's safe if one marries an elder son. The ironies of life." She drew back, just a fraction, but enough to break the contact between them. She waved a hand towards the sofa. "Do sit down, Malcolm. Surely we needn't stand on ceremony, particularly in the circumstances."

He dropped down on the sofa and watched as she moved to one of the tufted blue damask velvet armchairs. Tension shot through her shoulders and her hands plucked at the fabric of her skirt, but her spine was as ramrod straight as if she lay on her backboard. "I haven't told the children yet. Mary said she told hers right out, but then Mary's the sort to blurt things right out." Her gaze fastened on his face, and it was as though the schoolgirl he'd known broke through. "How do I do it?"

"I can't tell you." His own fears that Suzanne would have to have such a conversation with Colin and Jessica—or worse, that he would—were vivid in his mind. "But I do think honesty is usually best with children, in the end."

"But how can I even begin to explain it to them?" She smoothed her hands over her lap. Her knuckles were white. "Do you think it's true that someone is targeting Father's sons-in-law?"

"It's difficult to rule anything out, but that seems farfetched."

"But you think Craven and Trenchard were killed by the same person?"

"It seems likely, though by no means certain. Can you think of a reason someone would have targeted the two of them?"

Louisa shook her head. "Craven used to complain that Trenchard was a stuffy high-stickler. He'd always roll his eyes on the rare nights we dined with them."

"Mary says she heard them quarreling when you dined with them a fortnight ago."

"Mary's already been to see you? Yes, I suppose she would. I don't see a reason for Mary to invent tales, but I didn't hear our husbands quarrel."

Malcolm settled back in his chair. The instincts of the investigator began to push out the instincts of the childhood friend. "Craven went to India with Trenchard seven years ago."

"Yes." Louisa picked up a cup of coffee and then stared at it as though she wasn't sure what to do with it. "Trenchard was an envoy and Craven was attached to the mission. He was angling for an undersecretaryship at the time." She took a sip of coffee and frowned, either at the taste or the memory. "I was supposed to go, at first, but then I learned I was expecting Amy. I think Craven was relieved to go without me."

"How did he and Trenchard get on?"

"Well enough. Craven complained that Trenchard didn't confide in him. Not that Craven confided in me a great deal. Though he did write that it was difficult to know whom to ally himself with. India was such a tangle."

"He must have been there when Jack died."

A chill shot through her eyes. "Yes, I first learned about Jack and his wife in a letter from Craven. It was dreadful. One doesn't expect—" She shivered. "I was never madly in love with Craven. I thought that would keep me safe. Safe from the disillusionment one sees in so many of one's friends. I often think half the problems with marriages are people expecting too much or being shocked the fairy tale they thought they had doesn't exist. I never had any illusions that I had a fairy tale. But in the end no one is really safe, are they?"

"That depends on what you mean by safe." He'd always thought he was too clear-eyed to be living a fairy tale, yet that was precisely what he'd done until he learned the truth about Suzanne.

Louisa gripped her elbows. "I sometimes think I should have married you." She looked up and gave a quick laugh. "Not that I have any illusions that you wanted to marry me. I'm not in Suzanne's league."

"Louisa— " For a moment he was nineteen, keenly and painfully aware of Lady Carfax's matrimonial ambitions as he sat at the Carfax House dinner table. The home that had always been a haven for him had suddenly been filled with traps. "You should know better than to so discredit yourself. I was always well aware that any man would be lucky to have you. But I was self-aware enough not to wish myself on any woman." He had said as much to David when they had had an awkward conversation addressing Lady Carfax's hopes. One of the more awkward conversations in all their years of friendship.

"And yet look at you and Suzanne."

Suzanne, whom he had married to protect her. Suzanne, who had married him to spy for France. "Things can work out unexpectedly."

She gave a tight smile. "I suppose it's as well. I fear I'm too conventional for you."

Of all the times to realize Louisa Mallinson had more insight than he'd given her credit for. Malcolm drew a breath. The air was close, choked with potpourri and grief. "Louisa— I know about you and Trenchard."

Louisa had been pale when he entered the room, but now all the color drained from face. "Dear God. Father knows?"

"No. That is, nothing's led me to believe he does."

"Then—" Her mouth curled. "Of course. Mary."

"You didn't realize she knew?"

"Can you imagine I could have faced my sister, knowing—"

"Sometimes one has no choice."

Louisa pushed herself to her feet. "You must think me depraved."

"Louisa— You know the world I grew up in. I understand some marriages are dead long before either party strays."

"But this was with my sister's husband." Louisa turned to the window, gripping her elbows. "We're a fine pair, aren't we, Mary and I. The odd thing is, our parents have one of the true love matches in Mayfair, and neither of us even attempted to emulate them. I knew Trenchard strayed, just as Craven did. But I never thought I would myself. I wasn't one of those women."

"What started it?"

"Malcolm." She spun round, the light at her back. "You can't expect me to tell you—"

"I think you need to, Louisa."

"I see." Her gaze locked on his. "You aren't my friend. You're an investigator."

"I'm both."

"My dear Malcolm. You can't be both."

He leaned forwards. "You're going to have to talk to someone about this, Louisa. I think you'd prefer to talk to me."

She folded her arms over her chest and gripped her elbows. "Does Roth know?"

"Not yet."

"But you'll tell him if I don't talk? That's blackmail, Malcolm."

Which could be said of much of what an agent did, not to mention an investigator. "If I know the story, I'll do my best to keep your confidence, Louisa."

"But you can't promise even that."

"No."

She drew a harsh breath. "What did Mary tell you?"

He owed Louisa honesty. At the same time, instincts said to confide just enough to draw her out. "She seemed to think it began at a house party. At Christmas."

"Yes." Louisa's fingers tightened on the shiny lilac fabric of her skirt. "Christmas revels at Beauvalet. The family usually gathered at Carfax Court, but Mary wanted to host that year. I've wondered sometimes if that didn't make it worse. Watching Mary rule her domain, take precedence, live the life she'd aspired to."

"Your sister's marriage was hardly idyllic, either."

"No, but Mary had what she wanted. What she always wanted. What we were bred up to want. And, as usual, I came in a bit behind." Louisa pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "At first, I just wanted to see if I could get his attention. Trenchard's. I knew Craven was pursuing one of the maids, and I was so tired of playing the wife and sister who faded into the background. It seemed a harmless bit of fun to liven up the holiday tedium. No one was more surprised than I was when Trenchard responded." She looked up at Malcolm. "I think Mary probably exaggerated my overtures."

"I don't think Mary would exonerate her husband."

Louisa grimaced. "At first, I thought it would be a harmless flirtation. I think I half wanted to see if Craven and Mary would even notice. And then—" She swallowed. In her own way she was as tough as Mary, but these were not easy matters to speak of with her upbringing. "Trenchard indicated he was interested in more." She gave an embarrassed laugh. "At first I was sure I couldn't have heard him aright. Then I was appalled. Then I thought—" Her brows drew together, as though even now she was trying to make sense of her actions. "Why not?" She gave a desperate laugh. "A shocking reason for a love affair, isn't it?"

"Believe me, I've heard worse."

"You're so splendidly moral, Malcolm. Like David. The two of you never transgress."

"My dear girl. That you think so only means we succeeded in keeping the brotherly mask in place."

She looked down at her hands. "It was dangerous. I know that."

"Danger can be seductive."

Her gaze flew to his face. "You talk as though you knew."

"In the intelligence game there's more than one kind of seduction."

She met his gaze and slowly nodded. "I wouldn't say I was in love with him. How odd. At one time I'd have said love could be the only possible excuse for a love affair. But he fascinated me. He made me feel special. One of the most powerful men in the country. And he singled out me. Not that I have any illusions that I meant more to him than the rest of his mistresses. I don't know the details, but I understand there were a number of them."

"How long did it last?"

"A few months. By the time the season was in full swing I could tell he'd lost interest. Sneaking about had its piquancy at first, but after a time it started to feel sordid. He was gentleman enough to let me end it, but I could tell he was relieved. And I— I felt as though I'd woken from a spell, like in one of my children's fairy tales."

"Did Craven know?"

"No."

"You're sure?"

"You think I could not realize if my husband knew I'd been unfaithful?"

"That would depend upon your husband's reaction." For a moment Malcolm felt the cold black metal of a lamppost beneath his hand. His stomach tightened with the gut punch of his wife's betrayal.

"Craven doesn't rate me particularly high. But he's not a complacent husband like Peter Cowper. If he'd known I was unfaithful he'd have reacted."

Malcolm looked at the drawn face of his best friend's sister. "Does this change your answer about the quarrel Mary says she overheard between Trenchard and Craven?"

"No! That is—" Louisa's eyes widened. "Oh, dear God."

"It doesn't necessarily prove anything. It gives Craven a motive to have killed Trenchard but doesn't explain who killed Craven."

Louisa gave a jerky nod. "Mary must hate me."

Malcolm hesitated, a dozen answers going through his head. "Mary's hurt. Which she wouldn't be, if she didn't care for you."

Louisa nodded again, more slowly. "The sisters in novels always seem so close. Even when Marianne's yammering on about her lost love or Elinor's keeping secrets, you never doubt that they care for each other. I never thought Mary noticed me much one way or the other. Why should she have, after all?"

Malcolm's own brother flashed into his mind. How could he not? Not that he and Edgar hadn't been close, once. "I think you underrate both Mary and yourself."

Louisa shook her head. "You always want to see the best in people, Malcolm." She regarded him for a moment. "You must despise me."