The Berkeley Square Affair (Malcolm & Suzanne Rannoch) (41 page)

Jennifer leaned forwards and picked up the milk jug. “It was difficult in those days for France to sort out our future. And I confess I took distinct exception to Britain attempting to dictate what that future should be.” She splashed milk into her tea.

“I can understand that. I confess I didn’t at all care for the sight of Allied soldiers thronging the boulevards after Waterloo.” Suzanne took another sip of tea. “I think many Spaniards felt the same about both Britain and France during the war in the Peninsula. And so you became an agent for your country?”

Jennifer picked up a silver spoon and stirred her tea. “Spoken with such charming restraint, Mrs. Rannoch. Yes, it was much as I told you and your husband. As an actress with throngs of young men crowding my dressing room after performances—I don’t mean to boast, but I believe one could call them throngs—I was in an admirable position to gather intelligence. English aristos could still come over to France and they tended to flock to the theatre. Actresses rather have a reputation.” She took a sip of tea. “Some of it deserved.”

“Your masters wanted you to infiltrate the British expatriates working with the Royalists?”

“Who were already using the theatre as a meeting place. Dewhurst was my first target. He presented a challenge. Whatever he was, he wasn’t a fool.”

“And Sir Horace,” Suzanne said.

“Quite, as Horace would say. Horace was in Paris more and my handlers thought he’d make a better source than Dewhurst. Odd now to think how these things begin.” Jennifer lifted the cup and cradled it in her hand. “Horace and I settled into a routine. We were supposed to be partners working for the Royalist cause. In fact, I was gathering intelligence from him. But as time went on, I found I relished the partnership more than anything.”

Suzanne’s fingers tightened round her cup.

Jennifer leaned forwards to refill her cup. “Intelligence has a certain glamour when one is young and the cause is young. The compromises, the double crosses, the petty betrayals, the collateral damage. They all begin to add up. One looks at one’s children and thinks of the future. Not an abstract future but a specific one.” She sat back and looked at Suzanne. “You’re young, but I think you’ve been in the game long enough to understand.”

“My husband left the game,” Suzanne said. “As best he could.”

Jennifer’s mouth curved in a smile. “Yes, one can never really leave. But I had some fellow spies who were sympathetic. They were able to start the rumors that I was suspected for my supposed Royalist activities. Then of course Horace was determined to get me safely to England.” She glanced into the depths of her cup and shook her head. “More than anything I think it would bother Horace that his great act of daring in getting me out of Paris was in fact carefully orchestrated by French agents. I’d like to spare him that at least.”

“He never learned the truth?” Suzanne said.

Jennifer shook her head. “Dear God, he would curse himself for a fool. We settled in England. I went to work at the Tavistock and Horace became a patron. We had a child. I did my best to forget I’d ever been a French agent. Much of the time I actually succeeded.” She looked at Suzanne again, like an aunt regarding a favorite niece. “You’re probably too young to understand this. But there’s a point where whom one looks at across the breakfast dishes every morning matters more than one would have thought possible. At least for some of us.” She set down her teacup. “I think I’m safe from prosecution. After all, I didn’t betray the British. But I don’t know that Horace will be able to forgive me. One could say it’s only what I deserve.”

Suzanne tightened her grip on her teacup. Here was someone she could confide in, but for a host of reasons she could not do so. How many families had been smashed by this investigation? “Sir Horace loves you very much.”

Jennifer reached for her teacup. “Horace loves the woman he thought I was.”

“Surely by now that’s who you are. You said in the end what mattered was looking at him over the breakfast dishes.”

“To me. But I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to persuade Horace of that.” Jennifer took a quick sip of tea. “But that’s my lookout, as Horace would say. I’m sure you have more questions for me?”

Suzanne swallowed, at once wanting to linger in personal waters and relieved to be clear of them. “You worked with my husband’s father—Alistair Rannoch?”

“No.” Jennifer returned her cup to its saucer. “I didn’t work with Alistair as a French agent.”

“Did you know he was a French agent?”

“No.” Jennifer twisted her cup in its saucer. “That’s the thing, my dear. The thing I couldn’t tell you when you and your husband informed me Alistair was a French spy. Well, not without blowing my own cover, and I fear my protective instincts were too strong. I had no notion Alistair was a French spy. In fact, I’m quite sure he wasn’t.”

Suzanne had thought she was beyond surprise, but she blinked like a novice instead of a trained investigator. “How can you be sure?” As Raoul often said, there were dozens of spymasters.

“Because before Dewhurst I was supposed to be gathering intelligence from Alistair. Who was a Royalist agent.”

“You’re sure it wasn’t simply a case of one intelligence network not knowing what another was doing? You know how muddied the intelligence game can be.”

Jennifer shook her head. “I too have little faith in the perspicacity of spymasters, but my masters knew too much about him. Besides—” Her mouth curved in a faint smile. “If I do say so myself, if Alistair had been a French agent I would have discovered it.”

“That I confess has the ring of truth.”

“Thank you.” Jennifer splashed some more milk into her tea. “Alistair was working with the Royalists and genuinely trying to help them. But his real interest was the Elsinore League.”

“You mean his real interest was indulging himself?”

“No. That is, he certainly did indulge himself. But the Elsinore League was far more than a hellfire club.”

Suzanne leaned forwards. She had the odd sense they had got to the heart of the investigation. “They smuggled works of art.”

“That was the least of it.” Jennifer frowned. “Horace still won’t discuss it. But their work was political.”

“On which side?”

“Well, obviously not the French.”

“Are you saying the Elsinore League were working for the British? Or the Royalists?”

“By process of elimination.” Jennifer twisted a heavy citrine ring round her finger. “I woke in the middle of the night once to hear Horace arguing with Alistair and Dewhurst. Try as I might—and I tried hard—I couldn’t make out the substance of the argument. But I heard Horace protesting about the risks they were running. And Alistair say, ‘This isn’t a game, Horace. I think you forget what we’re fighting for. What we’ve always been fighting for from the first. And to whom we owe our allegiance.’ ”

Suzanne kept her gaze close on the other woman’s face. “Which you took to mean—”

Jennifer studied the play of lamplight on the pale yellow stone in her ring. “I have no proof. But ever since then I’ve suspected the Elsinore League was a British spy ring.”

CHAPTER 34

“Mr. O’Roarke!”

At Colin’s cry, Laura looked up from Jessica, who was crab-crawling over the paving stones at a rapid clip. Colin had run to the Berkeley Square fence and was clutching the black metal railing, pulling Berowne with him. The cat let out a squawk at the sudden change of direction. A tall figure in a gray greatcoat was approaching along Berkeley Street. He stopped, lifted his hand to Colin, hesitated a moment, then approached the square.

“Good day, young Colin.”

“Have you come to see Mummy and Daddy?” Colin scooped up Berowne. “They’re Investigating. But you could come in and see us.”

Laura watched a reluctant smile spread across O’Roarke’s face. Colin was hard to resist. Still O’Roarke hesitated a few moments longer, then moved to the square gate. Laura had the oddest sense that in doing so he was moving far more than a few steps and that his feelings about the move were decidedly conflicted.

Jessica paused in her crawling to study the new arrival, one hand on the paving stones.

“She has her own way of crawling,” Colin said.

“It seems quite effective,” O’Roarke observed as Jessica resumed crawling, left leg tucked under her, right foot flat on the paving stones, left hand propelling herself forwards, right raised in the air, clutching a leaf.

O’Roarke tipped his hat to Laura. “Miss Dudley, isn’t it?”

Laura got to her feet and inclined her head. “Mr. O’Roarke.”

Colin tugged at O’Roarke’s arm. “Can you throw a ball? Daddy plays catch with me, but he’s been busy.”

“I think I can manage.” O’Roarke hesitated a fraction of a second. “I used to play catch with your father when he was a boy.”

Colin stared at him. “That was a long time ago.”

“So it was.”

Colin relinquished Berowne’s lead to Laura and snatched up the ball. He made a slightly erratic throw, which O’Roarke caught one-handed. Colin let out a whistle of approval. “Wizard.”

O’Roarke shrugged off his greatcoat and the game continued for about ten minutes. Wind cut through the square, tingling Laura’s cheeks and slicing through the merino and broadcloth of her gown and pelisse, but the children seemed impervious. As did O’Roarke. Laura studied the man and boy. O’Roarke was younger than she had realized, probably not much more than fifty and fit for a man of his age. Which made sense for a veteran of the Peninsular War. They said he had fought with the
guerrilleros
and before that in Ireland. He’d known Mr. Rannoch since he was a boy and had met Mrs. Rannoch after her marriage. Presumably. Her contact’s words from yesterday ran through Laura’s mind.

At length, Jessica crawled into the midst of the game. O’Roarke rolled the ball between her and Colin for a time, then left them to play and dropped down on the bench beside Laura.

“You’re kind to them,” she said.

“They’re engaging children.” He watched as Colin carefully angled the ball to his sister. “One forgets. I’m not about children much.”

“You seem very adept with them.”

“I spent more time with young ones in the past.”

“With Mr. Rannoch.”

“Yes, among others.” He settled back on the bench. “I was friends with the family when he was a boy.”

Rather a good friend if he’d taught Malcolm Rannoch how to play catch, though from the little Laura had seen of Alistair Rannoch, it was difficult to imagine him in that role. Laura watched Jessica crawl over the paving stones after the ball. “She crawls all over the house, but for some reason she seems to enjoy the paving stones.”

“Her mother’s sense of adventure.”

Impossible not to wonder if those few words held more than passing knowledge of Suzanne Rannoch, though two days ago Laura probably wouldn’t have noticed. “She definitely has that.” Laura stroked the cat, curled up in her lap.

“They’re fortunate to have you.”

It sounded oddly like thanks. Laura met his gaze. “Mr. and Mrs. Rannoch are very devoted parents. They spend far more time with their children than most parents in their set. It makes a nurse or governess less important.”

“Still. You’re with them a great deal. You went to work for them in Paris?”

The question was asked in the lightest, most casual of tones, but all her defenses slammed into place. “Yes. Mrs. Rannoch said she knew she’d found the right governess when I didn’t bat an eyelash when the kitten jumped up on the tea tray and began to lap the cream during our interview.” Laura rubbed Berowne behind the ears.

“Clearly the right quality for this family. Did you expect to take up residence in England?”

“She warned me Mr. Rannoch was considering leaving the diplomatic service.” Laura had felt mixed emotions at the news, though she’d had little choice. She’d been under orders.

O’Roarke leaned back on the bench in the sort of posture that invited confidences. “Happy to return to England?”

“In a way. I went to work on the Continent in search of adventure.” That much was true, though she’d found far more than she could possibly admit to. “But England seems less staid and dull now. Or perhaps I’ve grown more cautious as I’ve grown older.”

“Spoken by a very young woman.”

“Not so very young. I’ve been a governess for some time.” And she’d hardly been in the first blush of youth when she became a governess, but she glossed over those early years, as they were difficult to account for.

O’Roarke shifted on the bench and crossed his legs. “There is something about home. Something one perhaps doesn’t appreciate until one is older.”

She turned her head to look at him, aware of her bonnet brim impeding her view. “But England isn’t home for you, is it?”

“No, for all the time I’ve spent here. In truth I’ve lived so many places it’s difficult to call any home. But I suppose I’ll always think of Ireland and Spain and France as home before England.”

She turned her head to look at him. It was a personal admission, and he did not seem a man who made personal admissions easily. Letting down his guard? Or giving the appearance of doing so to make a breach in her own defenses?

“It must be agreeable to be close to your family after so many years,” he said.

Her defenses slammed into place. “My family are gone,” she said, in the tone she’d mastered to discuss them.

“I’m sorry. Particularly difficult at Christmas.”

For a moment she could taste mulled wine and disappointment on her tongue. Berowne let out a yowl of protest as her fingers tightened on his fur. She hoped O’Roarke would put it down to painful memories. Which was the truth, though not in the way he thought. Her family would be gathering for the holidays soon. They were far from gone. The only way she’d been able to risk coming back to England was the certainty that her path would not cross with theirs. Only of course, she couldn’t really be sure of it at all. She couldn’t so much as leave the house without half-expecting to catch a familiar face out of the corner of her eye.

“I’m accustomed to being on my own.” She gave Berowne an apologetic stroke between the ears. Mollified, he twisted his head so she could scratch under his chin. “And Christmas is really a holiday for children after all.”

“So it is.” O’Roarke’s gaze followed Colin as he retrieved the ball from a hedge under Jessica’s watchful eyes.

“Do you have children of your own?” Laura asked.

“No, I haven’t been so fortunate.” His tone was easy, but she was skilled enough at keeping her own defenses in place to recognize them in others. “So I enjoy the children of my friends.”

“As do I. That is, of my employers.” She forced her fingers not to tighten on Berowne’s fur again.

Jessica crawled over to the bench with determination and pulled herself up. A smile broke across O’Roarke’s face. “Well done, Miss Jessica.”

“Ma,” Jessica announced, and pointed straight up in the air.

“You don’t say,” O’Roarke said.

Laura smiled despite herself. “Mrs. Rannoch says she despairs of ever being certain Jessica means her when she says ‘mama’ because she uses it for so many things.”

Jessica gripped the edge of the bench and bounced on her heels, face screwed up with concentration beneath her red velvet hat.

O’Roarke reached out and touched her small hand. Again, Laura had the sense he was giving way to impulse against his better judgment. “It’s a big thing, I would think, to hear one’s child say one’s name for the first time.”

Laura’s throat closed as though she had swallowed hot coals. “Yes,” she said. “I would think so as well.”

 

“Malcolm.” Crispin nearly collided with Malcolm in the passage outside the Subscription Room at Brooks’s. “Thank God, I was looking for you. That is, I came here because I couldn’t think where else to go, but you’re just the person I want to see. Can we talk?”

Crispin’s hair was even more disordered than usual, his face haggard, his gaze dark with confusion. “Of course.” Malcolm took his friend’s arm and steered him into the nearest sitting room. “What’s happened?”

Crispin took a turn about the room, sat down, ran a hand through his hair, sprang to his feet, sat down again. “Manon’s told me. She said you already knew.” He stared at Malcolm, fear overtaking the confusion in his gaze. “I hope to God she’s right or I’ve just been an unconscionable fool.”

“I suspected.” Malcolm dragged a shield-back chair over and sat facing his friend. “And you haven’t admitted anything. You’re to be commended.”

Crispin slumped back and stared at the plaster frieze on the ceiling. “Manon thought—I’m not sure what. That I’d throw her over or something. As if—I mean she was only spying for her country. It’s no more than you’ve done.”

Malcolm nearly choked. “A novel viewpoint.”

Crispin’s gaze shifted to Malcolm’s face. “I’ll own the revelations about Father surprised me, but he was spying on his own side. Betraying people he knew.”

“So you find the thought of betraying strangers easier?”

“You’re the spy. You tell me.”

Malcolm swallowed. He felt as though he’d taken a mouthful of burned coffee. “It corrodes either way. But though it shouldn’t be worse with people one knows, of course it is.”

Crispin nodded. “Manon says I’ll never understand and she wouldn’t want me to. I daresay she’s right. All I need to know is that it doesn’t change the way I feel about her.” He paused, then said as though relishing the words, “I’m going to marry her.”

“My dear fellow. I’m happy for you.” The words came unbidden. Oddly, as with Addison, Malcolm found he meant it.

“Shocked?” Crispin straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin. He put Malcolm in mind of a defiant schoolboy.

“Surprised.”

Crispin faced him squarely. “Because she’s an actress or because of the other?”

“Both. One doesn’t expect—”

“Gentlemen to marry their mistresses?” Crispin’s mouth twisted. “That’s what Manon says. I’m still trying to talk her into it. But I will. I’d made up my mind to it before I even knew about all this. Now it’s more vital than before. How else can I protect her and the girls?”

Manon Caret did not strike Malcolm as a woman who would take kindly to the idea of being protected, any more than Suzanne would. “If you want to persuade her, stress protecting the girls.”

“Yes, that’s what I thought.” Crispin’s fingers tightened on the arms of his chair. “I’m not going to be talked out of it.”

“Have I tried to talk you out of it?”

“No.” Crispin sat back in his chair. “I was sure you would.”

“My dear fellow,” Malcolm said, without planning his words. “I wish you very happy. And I have the greatest admiration for you. You’re a brave man.”

“I’m a man in love.”

“Love is an act of bravery.”