The Berkeley Square Affair (Malcolm & Suzanne Rannoch) (8 page)

“Lord Dewhurst himself.”

For a moment, two years were gone, and Suzanne saw Dewhurst in the private parlor of an inn in the French countryside, nose streaming blood while his son stared at him with unmitigated hatred. “That’s . . . unexpected.”

“Lovely understatement, sweetheart. Carfax told me to use the events two years ago as leverage to get Dewhurst to talk.”

“How much does Carfax know about two years ago?”

“Enough. More than I realized. He usually does.”

“Dear God, if Dewhurst proved to be a French spy—”

“The irony is exquisite. But speaking of fathers and sons, it won’t be easy on Rupert.”

Suzanne stroked Jessica’s hand as Jessica reached for the ribbons on her mother’s bonnet. “I talked to Gabrielle at the Granvilles’ last week. Rupert still isn’t speaking to his father. She said Rupert cut Dewhurst dead at the opera.”

“But hating one’s father doesn’t make it easier to accept his crimes.”

She cast a quick glance at him. Malcolm gave a reluctant smile. “Yes, I confess I’m not entirely immune to caring about Alistair. And Rupert takes honor and loyalty more seriously than I do.”

“You take honor and loyalty exceptionally seriously, dearest,” Suzanne said, as Jessica’s fist closed round her fingers. “In many ways you and Rupert are much alike. That was clear two years ago.”

Malcolm caught her free hand in his own and squeezed her fingers. “Rupert will manage. He has the support of the person he loves. That counts for a lot.”

Suzanne returned the pressure of her husband’s hand and concentrated on the weight of her daughter in her arms.

“Mummy! Daddy!” Colin’s voice carried across the square. “I captured the castle.”

Malcolm waved to their son. “Are we dining out tonight?”

Suzanne swallowed the bitterness that welled up in her throat and waved to Colin as well. “No, but we promised to look in at Holland House.”

“Let’s go early and make sure we’re back by eleven. I’ll talk to Addison and Valentin about setting up shifts to keep watch in the study.”

Suzanne scanned her husband’s face. “You think they’ll attempt to steal the manuscript again tonight?”

Malcolm grinned and touched his fingers to Jessica’s head. “I hope they will.”

 

Sitting in the dark, careful not to make any telltale movements, all senses keyed for the scrape of a picked lock or the creak of floorboards, one had plenty of leisure to think. To reflect on the man who had bought this house and whose works of art still filled it, for all Suzanne’s wonders at redecoration. Who had given one a name and whose very absent disdain had shaped one in more ways than one cared to admit.

Malcolm eased his legs straight. It wouldn’t do to let his muscles cramp. He’d always known he and Alistair Rannoch were opponents. He’d just thought that the divide was between a diehard Tory and Radical reformer. Not a British agent and a French one.

Alistair’s mocking face danced just beyond the reaches of his memory. As though leaving a mystery Malcolm couldn’t solve was one more way of pointing out his putative son’s inadequacy. Malcolm pushed aside the image of Alistair. Instead, the image that filled his mind was Colin, flopped in his bed upstairs with his stuffed bear when Malcolm had looked into the nursery before he came downstairs to keep watch. Had Alistair ever paused to look at Malcolm sleeping, even in babyhood? Had he felt any tug of tenderness, any concern for the young life he was helping to shape, at the start at least? Or even then had he simply ignored his eldest child? Or found him a source of anger?

A cry cut the air. From the passage. Malcolm pushed himself to his feet, crossed the darkened room by instinct, pushed open the door. The acrid smell of smoke greeted him.

“Fire in the kitchen.” Addison, Malcolm’s valet, poked his head out the baize door at the end of the passage. “Mary Beth caught it. We have it under control.”

Suzanne came hurrying down the stairs in her dressing gown. “The children are fine,” she said in response to a look from Malcolm. “I’ll go to the kitchen. You should go back into the study. This must have been meant as a diversion.”

Though every instinct said to check that the fire was under control, Malcolm knew she was right. Whoever was after the manuscript knew they would be on their guard. The attempted theft would follow quickly on the fire. Malcolm slipped back into the study, but instead of returning to the chair, he flattened himself against the wall. He counted out a minute, then another. The smell of smoke seeped into the room. Was it just his imagination or was the smoke stronger? Good God, what was he doing here? He should end this farce—

The window scraped in its frame. Malcolm forced himself to stay stock still as the window slid up. In the thick darkness, he could hear the thud of the intruder dropping to the floor. He gauged where the intruder would have moved to, then launched himself across the room and caught the intruder in a flying tackle. A fist smashed him in the eye. He grabbed one of the intruder’s wrists. With his other hand, the intruder managed to land a blow to Malcolm’s jaw. Malcolm maintained his grip on the intruder’s wrist and struck a blow that, judging by the satisfying crack, slammed the man’s head into the floorboards.

Suzanne appeared in the doorway holding a brace of candles. “Oh, good, you’ve got him.”

“Throw me a rope, will you?” Malcolm grabbed the intruder’s other wrist.

The intruder appeared to have had the wind knocked out of him. In the candlelight, Malcolm could make out a pockmarked face and short-cropped dark hair. He looked to be in his midtwenties. “Who hired you?” Malcolm demanded.

The intruder drew a ragged breath. “No one—”

“Spare me the denials.” Malcolm caught the rope Suzanne tossed him and lashed the man’s wrists together in front of him. “You’ll never make me believe you simply decided to break into our house on your own account. We can take you to Bow Street or you can give us an explanation. Who hired you?”

Still lying on his back, the intruder looked from side to side, as though seeking escape. “Gentleman. Older. Don’t know his name. Don’t expect you to believe me—”

“I believe you. He wouldn’t have been fool enough to tell you his name. Who set fire to the house?”

“Didn’t—”

“Your denials try my patience. You and your companion set fire to my house. With my children in it.”

“My mate Bert. Was only supposed to be a diversion. Just long enough to fetch what the gentleman wanted.”

“What did he tell you to take?”

The intruder glanced at Suzanne, who had advanced into the room holding the brace of candles. “Blimey, they said your wife was a beauty—”

“What did your employer tell you to steal?” Suzanne said.

“He didn’t—”

“Spare us.” Malcolm tugged the knot on the rope tighter.

“Papers. Some sort of old play.”

“How were you supposed to get this manuscript to him?” Malcolm asked.

“He—”

“He wouldn’t have given you an address. You must have planned to meet him?”

“Tonight. Monmouth Street. Off Covent Garden.”

It was in Seven Dials, one of the worst parts of London. “Good. We’ll go there with you.”

“Who’s ‘we’?”

“My husband and I,” Suzanne said.

The intruder stared at her, then looked at Malcolm. “You’re going to let your wife go to Seven Dials?”

“My wife tends to make decisions for herself. You’ll lead us to your employer.”

“He’ll kill me.”

“We won’t let him. We need your evidence. On the other hand, if we take you to Bow Street, burglary and attempted arson are hanging offenses.”

“How do I know you won’t take me to Bow Street when we’re done in any case?”

“You have my word.”

He gave a low laugh. “If I relied on any bloke’s word—”

“Nevertheless. You may rely upon mine.”

The intruder stared at Malcolm a moment, then snorted. “Looks as though I don’t have much choice.”

Addison and Blanca, Suzanne’s maid, appeared in the doorway.

“The fire’s out,” Addison said. He had black smudges on his face and shirt. “No damage beyond a couple of scorched floorboards.”

“That’s a relief.” Malcolm got to his feet, one eye on the intruder. “We’re off to Seven Dials to discuss the night’s events with this man’s employer.”

Blanca cast a glance at the man lying on the study floor. “His employer has to realize he might have been intercepted.”

“Quite,” Malcolm said. “This shows how desperate he is.”

“He’ll be armed when you meet him.”

“Probably.” Malcolm looked at Addison. “I’d appreciate it if you’d come with us.”

“Of course.”

“Addison should stay here,” Blanca said. “In case they try anything else at the house. Take me instead.”

Malcolm hesitated.

“She has a point,” Suzanne said.

“You’re going to take
two
women?” the intruder said from the floor.

“I’ve learned to rely on my wife’s good sense,” Malcolm said. He smiled at Blanca. “And on that of her friends.”

CHAPTER 6

Shadows cloaked the street. Seven Dials was a crooked maze of winding streets, close-set buildings, and cracked cobblestones on the brightest of days. Tonight, clouds rippled over the half-moon, leaving a faint glow. The dark washed over the grime but did not take away the stench of too many people packed into too-tight quarters. Suzanne hadn’t had much excuse to explore this part of London, though it was close to Covent Garden. But whether in Paris, Brussels, or Vienna, slums were remarkably similar.

Malcolm was marching the intruder along, holding his bound wrists, while Suzanne walked behind with her pistol pointed in the man’s back. Blanca, armed with a knife, kept watch on the man’s other side. At approaching four in the morning, Seven Dials had quieted down, though the thick yellow light of tallow candles spilled from a few windows, at least some of which were undoubtedly brothels. And they’d glimpsed more than one tired-looking woman leaning in a doorway and heard the thuds and grunts of crude lovemaking from a shadowy alley. Memories clawed at Suzanne’s skin. She kept her gaze fixed on the dark outline of the intruder’s back and concentrated on keeping her footing on the uneven cobblestones.

The appointed corner was up ahead. Malcolm pulled out a knife and cut the bonds on the intruder’s hands. “We’ll be watching,” he told the intruder. “And we’re armed.”

“As will he be. I can’t win.”

“We offer the best chance of staying alive,” Malcolm said.

The man rubbed his wrists. “So you say.”

They flattened themselves in doorways on either side of the street, Malcolm in one, Suzanne and Blanca in the other. The intruder advanced into the swirling shadows and gave the low whistle he had told them was his agreed-upon signal with his employer.

Suzanne stayed still, face pressed against the rotting wood of the doorframe. An agonizing minute or so later a shadowy form approached at the end of the street. Greatcoat, hat. Middling height.

“Come on,” Suzanne muttered. “A little closer.”

The man moved down the street. A gust of wind tossed the clouds over the moon.

The intruder reached into his coat and pulled out a sheaf of papers Malcolm had given him. The greatcoated man took a quick step forwards and snatched the papers. The wind ruffled the clouds. The light fell on Malcolm flattened in the doorway across the street. The greatcoated man froze, then spun round and ran. Malcolm lurched from the doorway in pursuit. The greatcoated man spun towards him and fired off a pistol. Malcolm fell to the ground.

Suzanne screamed and ran to her fallen husband. Even as panic drove the breath from her lungs, a part of her brain registered that she’d heard the bullet strike the cobblestones.

“Malcolm?” She knelt beside him and seized his hand. “Darling? God of my idolatry?”

He opened his eyes. Even in the darkness, she caught his grin. “Worth waking up for.”

“Are you all right?” She felt his shoulder.

“Only my pride bruised. The shot whistled past me.” He pushed himself up. “Is he gone?”

“Unfortunately.”

“This one isn’t.” Blanca was holding a knife on the intruder.

Malcolm got to his feet and approached the man.

“I didn’t warn him,” the intruder said.

“No. You did as told.” Malcolm surveyed him. “If your former employer approaches you again, you’ll come to us.”

The man stared at him as though he were speaking a foreign tongue. “You’re letting me go?”

“I see nothing to be gained from turning you over to Bow Street,” Malcolm said. “And I did give you my word.”

The intruder gave a short laugh. “Men like you don’t give their word to men like me.”

“Many men go back on their word to others in all walks of life. I don’t.”

The intruder studied Malcolm. “How do you know you can trust me?”

“I don’t trust you for a bit. But I don’t see what else you can do to us.” Malcolm inclined his head to Blanca, indicating she could lower the knife. “And there’s just a chance you’ll lead your former employer to us.”

The intruder stepped gingerly aside as Blanca lowered her knife with obvious reluctance. “Because you let me go?”

“Because whatever he pays you I promise to double it.”

The man gave a slow smile. “Do I have your word on that?”

“Would you take it?”

“I don’t know about that. But at the very least it’s a risk I’d run.”

“Anything that would tell you who the man in the greatcoat was?” Suzanne asked Malcolm as they made their way back towards Berkeley Square.

“Middle-aged, a flash of graying hair. He could be any of our five suspects. Or another man entirely.”

“He risked a lot,” Blanca said. “Exposing himself. Coming to Seven Dials at all.”

“Yes.” Malcolm tucked Suzanne’s arm more closely into his own. “Whatever’s in the manuscript, he’s willing to risk a great deal to recover it.” He glanced at the sky, which was already beginning to hold a predawn glow. “Only a few hours until I have to meet Crispin. Hardly worth going to bed at all.”

 

Tuesday dawned fine and Crispin offered to drive Malcolm down to Richmond in his curricle. He gave his horses, a superb pair of matched grays, their office when they left the London traffic behind, going at a clip that set up clouds of dust from the road and stirred the cool air. Malcolm could understand the desire for speed and bracing air. Anything to provide distance from recent revelations. Even if it was an illusory distance.

“Never spent much time at the Richmond villa,” Crispin said abruptly. “I think Father kept it mostly for rendezvous with his mistresses. And I suppose perhaps to meet with his . . . contact? Spymaster? What the devil word does one use?”

“All of those.”

Crispin’s York tan–gloved hands tightened on the reins. “I confess I used to think what you did sounded exciting. Used to be a bit jealous that I was here choosing horses and going to the opera and sampling the latest port while you were helping save England from Bonaparte and the French. I don’t think I had the least idea of what the reality of being a spy was. How—”

“Ugly it is?”

Crispin shot a look at him. “I didn’t mean—It’s different for you. You were working for your country.”

A dozen compromises in that country’s name shot through Malcolm’s head. “So I was.”

Crispin cast another look at him and once again Malcolm had the feeling the other man saw more than one would expect of him. “But it still must—”

“It still comes down to lies and betrayal.”

Crispin steered the curricle round a mud puddle in the road. “You’re glad to be away from it?”

“I can’t really get away from it. And a part of me is glad.” He could still feel the adrenaline rush of the moment he’d tackled the intruder in the study last night. “The truth is I miss the game, dirty as it is.”

Crispin nodded. “I can see that. You always were clever. Need to do something with those brains of yours. I don’t suppose Parliament quite fills the void.”

“Parliament is its own sort of game. And its own set of compromises. But I still miss—”

“The adventure?”

Malcolm could hear his wife saying,
You’re enjoying this
. “For my sins—yes.”

“But you tried to give it up?”

“I have a strange desire to be my own master. And I have children now. I want them to be safe.” Malcolm hesitated, then added something he didn’t verbalize often. It touched too much on the personal. “And I’d like to be someone they can be proud of.”

Crispin nodded. “I never thought much about the sort of man I was or what people thought of me. Simply did the expected. With Roxane and Clarisse . . . they aren’t mine of course, but they make me”—he flushed—“want to be a better person.”

“Nothing to be ashamed of in that. And there’s more than one way to become a father.”

Crispin fixed his gaze on the sleek backs of the horses. “Always liked children. But I’ve never had a chance to get to know any so well. Don’t want to intrude, of course. I sometimes think Manon thinks I overstep my bounds.”

“She’s probably concerned about what would happen if you weren’t part of the girls’ life anymore.”

Crispin’s eyes widened. “But I wouldn’t—”

“Love affairs have a tendency not to be permanent.”

Crispin’s mouth tightened. “I know. That is—” His eyes darkened, with the look of a man who doesn’t want to stare into the future. A few moments later, he turned the horses in at the drive to the villa.

Lord Harleton’s Richmond house was a sharp contrast to the classic Palladian style of most of the villas that dotted the Thames. Instead of symmetrical white stone, the house at the end of the avenue of pleached limes was of mellow brick in the E style common in the Elizabethan era, with banks of mullioned windows, a dormer roof, and newer wings added on either side. “It was the main family estate in the sixteenth century,” Crispin said, pulling up the curricle in the gravel circle before the house. “The seventh earl—the one who got the estates restored—married an heiress with a larger property in Buckinghamshire and that became our main county seat. Father considered tearing this one down and building something more modern but never did. I’m rather glad.”

A groom emerged to take the reins. Crispin ran up the steps and rang the bell. “Morning, John,” he said to the footman who admitted them. “We’ll be in the study.”

“Father used the villa a lot,” Crispin told Malcolm, leading the way down the hall to the study. “Rarely closed it up.”

The study was oak paneled and filled with gilt and claret-colored leather. The typical domain of an English gentleman, though less businesslike than some. A handsome oil portrait of a man in sixteenth-century dress hung over the mantel. Even from across the room the rich colors and play of light caught the eye. “Good God,” Malcolm said, “it’s a Rubens.”

“Is it?” Crispin looked up from lighting a lamp. “Always thought it was pretty.”

“One of your ancestors?”

“No. I remember asking once. Father had the painting hung when I was a boy. He acquired it somewhere.”

“And I’d swear that’s Cellini.” Malcolm stared at the bronze of the lamp, glowing as it flared to life. “I didn’t realize your father was a collector.”

“Nor did I. Would have sworn he couldn’t tell a Rubens from a Rowlandson.” Crispin pulled a key from his pocket and hesitated. “I left the papers locked in here.” He opened a drawer in the desk and lifted out a sheaf of documents, then stepped back, almost as though afraid to touch them. Malcolm moved to the desk and studied the papers in the light of the Cellini lamp. His father’s handwriting stared up at him.

Sick certainty settled like a lead weight in the pit of his stomach, and he knew that until this moment he had held out hope.

“It’s your father’s hand?” Crispin asked.

“Yes.” Malcolm touched his fingers to the paper, not sure what he was searching for. He felt chilled to the bone and numb to all emotion. Which was much the way Alistair had made him feel in life.

“I’m sorry.” Crispin hesitated. “I wasn’t particularly close to my father, but—”

“You were almost certainly closer to him than I was to Alistair, but—” Malcolm met the other man’s gaze and saw a reflection of his own confusion. “Yes. It still means something.” He studied Crispin. The other man’s face showed a newfound maturity coupled with the vulnerability of a schoolboy. “Crispin. I’ve known a number of spies. Duplicity and deceit go hand in hand with the work. Often one doesn’t like oneself very much. I don’t know that spies make the best fathers. But it doesn’t mean they love their children any less.”

Crispin nodded slowly. “Then that applies to your father as well.”

“Perhaps. Save that I long since came to terms with the fact that Alistair didn’t love me.”

“You can’t know—I mean at times everyone thinks their parents—”

“Quite. Save that in my case Alistair admitted it flat out.”

Crispin stared at him. “He didn’t actually—”

“To be fair, I was the one who brought it up. Still not quite sure where I got the temerity. I think I said that Carfax at least loved David, but I’d never say Alistair loved me. Alistair simply replied, ‘What on earth would make you think I did?’ ”

Crispin shook his head. “That’s—”

“It’s all right. It relieved me of the guilt of trying to love him myself.” Malcolm riffled through the papers. “These were all you found?”

Crispin nodded. “You think there’s more?”

“Spies never destroy as much as they should.” Malcolm glanced round the study. “People tend to make use of familiar objects. With someone with love of travel, I’d unscrew the top of the globe and look inside. With a bibliophile, I’d look for a hollowed-out book.” His gaze swept the pristine glass-fronted bookcase.

“Neither describes Father,” Crispin said. “Truth to tell, I don’t think he spent much time in his study. He left accounts and the like to his estate agents. And when he was here—” Crispin’s gaze settled on a gilded mahogany cabinet beneath the windows that held an array of decanters. “I’d try the drinks cabinet.”

“Excellent suggestion.”

“Seriously?”

“It sounds like just the sort of thing your father would have thought of.” Malcolm moved to the cabinet and knelt in front of it. He ran his fingers over the gilded moldings, but he could feel no hidden spring. He felt down the classical pilasters on either side, then eyed the marble top. The layer of mahogany beneath was thicker than it needed to be. “Help me lift the drinks tray,” he said to Crispin.

They lifted the mirrored tray of decanters and set it on the desk. Crispin gave an appreciative sniff as they set down the tray. “I’ll say this for the pater, he had good taste in liquor.”