“He introduced me to Horace. Horace was to be my contact.” Jennifer shook her head, stirring her burnished ringlets. “I confess at the time I wondered how he’d manage.”
Jessica was squirming in Suzanne’s lap. She let go of the breast, pushed herself to her feet, looked round and smiled at Jennifer, then buried her head in her mother’s shoulder. “Sir Horace strikes me as being good at deception,” Suzanne said.
“Yes, I should have seen it.” Jennifer picked up a spoon and stirred her tea. “In general I pride myself on being a good judge of people.”
Jessica bounced on Suzanne’s legs, then dropped down on her lap. Suzanne adjusted the flap on her gown and settled Jessica at her other breast. “And then you and Sir Horace—”
“Oh no, not at that point. Dewhurst and I were still entangled, and though I’ve been known to juggle more than one lover at once, two lovers who were both Royalist agents seemed entirely too fraught.” She took another sip of tea. “In fact, it was through Dewhurst that I met your husband’s father.”
Suzanne’s fingers stilled on the folds of Jessica’s muslin dress. “Dewhurst introduced you to Alistair Rannoch?”
“Not quite. Alistair Rannoch appeared in my dressing room one night demanding to know where Dewhurst was. I told him I hadn’t seen Dewhurst in several days, which was true. Alistair cursed, said under other circumstances he’d certainly remain in my dressing room longer and that he hoped I wouldn’t take his quick departure as an insult. After which he kissed my hand. The next time I saw Dewhurst—a few days later—I asked if his importunate friend had found him. Dewhurst laughed and said Alistair wasn’t really a friend, more a colleague.”
“By which you inferred Alistair was a fellow agent?” Suzanne asked, as Jessica released her breast and sat up in her lap.
“Oh, he was.” Jennifer leaned forwards to refill the teacups. “He worked with us on several missions.”
Jessica was fidgeting. Suzanne put her arm round her daughter to anchor her thoughts. “With the Royalists?”
“Naturally. He was clever, I’ll give him that. Arrogant, but that can make a man intriguing. It even prompted me to break my rule about becoming entangled with more than one Royalist agent at once.”
“You and Alistair Rannoch—”
“I don’t think Dewhurst ever knew. I doubt it would have gone over well. Meanwhile I hadn’t the wit to pay much attention to Horace, who still faithfully appeared in my dressing room most nights, supposedly to convey information. Though in retrospect, he was there even when there was no information that needed relaying. And then one night Horace insisted on seeing my daughter and me home from the theatre because there’d been some unrest in the city. One thing led to another, and I realized I’d quite underestimated him. In a number of ways. We settled into quite an agreeable routine—as routine as life can be for agents—until Horace came into my dressing room in the middle of the third act of
Barber of Seville
and said Paris wasn’t safe for me anymore and he’d make all the arrangements.” Jennifer squeezed another wedge of lemon into her tea. “Left on his own, I’m not sure Dewhurst would have got me out of France at all.”
Jessica had gone from fidgeting to squirming. Suzanne set her on the floor where she could stand holding on to the edge of the chaise-longue. “And so you went to England.”
“And Horace helped me find work at the Tavistock. It was run by old Mr. Ford then. Such a kind gentleman, we’ve been fortunate in our managers. Horace continued to go to France for a bit. Until the tiresome rumors about which Dewhurst has no doubt given your husband his own account.” Jennifer set down her cup and met Suzanne’s gaze directly.
The sound of Jessica’s small hands pounding on the chaise-longue cushions punctuated the stillness. “And your account?” Suzanne asked.
“Horace isn’t a traitor,” Jennifer said. “Which leaves one other obvious source for the leaks.”
“Did you have reason to think Dewhurst was a traitor?”
“I wondered when suspicion fell on me. I even broached it with Horace. But he said it was impossible a man would so betray his country.” She shook her head in affectionate frustration. “Of course he was jealous of Dewhurst. I think perhaps he was overcompensating.”
Suzanne reached down to steady Jessica as she grabbed hold of a chair and shook it. “And then?”
Jennifer shrugged, mouth curled as though with the determination to avoid bitterness. “There was no proof against Horace. Of course there was no proof against Dewhurst, either. And Dewhurst had more powerful friends. Horace said he was glad to be out of the plaguey business and he’d just as soon spend his time round the theatre. I must say I’m quite relieved to have him out of danger, though he does get underfoot a bit. But I think at times he misses the adventure.”
Suzanne put her hand over Jessica’s tiny one. Judging by her own experience, she was sure he did. “And that was the last of your espionage adventures?”
“Not quite.” Jennifer smiled and caught hold of the hand Jessica was stretching out to her. “It had been so long I thought we were done with all that nonsense. And then in ’98 we received an unexpected visit.”
“From Dewhurst?”
“No. From Alistair Rannoch. Here, let me give you some fresh tea. You’ve scarcely had time to drink any dealing with the baby.”
Suzanne accepted the fresh cup of tea without looking at it. “What did Alistair Rannoch want?”
“Horace’s help. He—Alistair—came banging on our door late one night. He and Horace were closeted in Horace’s study for over an hour. After Alistair left, it took me some time to get the story out of Horace, and I’m not sure I ever did get the whole of it. Because of course Horace was afraid I’d disapprove of him agreeing to help. Which I did.”
Suzanne took an automatic sip of tea while steadying Jessica with her free hand. “Help?”
Jennifer settled back in her chair, and Suzanne had the oddest sense this was what the entire conversation had been leading up to. “Alistair wanted Horace’s assistance in getting someone out of the country. Rather the reverse of my situation. Well, out of Ireland. Britain and Ireland weren’t safe for many linked to the failed Uprising. Horace insisted he was helping because he didn’t hold with the reprisals, that our own country was becoming as draconian in our way as the Jacobins had been in France. And that may have been it. It probably was at least part of it. But I saw the way he and Alistair looked at each other when Alistair left. I couldn’t avoid the suspicion that Alistair had some hold on Horace. I asked Horace about it straight out. Horace denied it—with precisely the sort of bluster he gets when he’s trying to avoid telling the truth.” She shook her head, smiled at Jessica again, looked back at Suzanne. “I offered to help. If he was going to do it, I wanted to make sure he didn’t get himself killed. But he refused to let me. Men can be tiresomely protective.”
“I call those Malcolm’s Hotspur moments.” Suzanne caught Jessica’s hands in both her own. “Fortunately, he doesn’t have many of them.”
“Yes, your husband seems to be free of Horace’s more antiquated ideals about chivalry.” Jennifer smiled in affectionate mockery. “For the next fortnight I lived in terror of Horace being arrested as a conspirator to treason for helping a traitor leave the country. I was ready to throw myself on Dewhurst’s mercy, though I wasn’t sure it would have worked. You can imagine my relief when Horace returned unhurt.” She frowned as she reached for her teacup. “He never would tell me precisely what had happened, save that they got Alistair’s friend safely to France.”
Suzanne bent forwards to let Jessica drop to her knees, then pulled her up. Jessica gave a squeal of delight. “Did you ever learn the name of Alistair’s friend?”
“Oh yes.” Jennifer took a sip of tea. “It was Raoul O’Roarke.”
CHAPTER 16
“Jen.” Sir Horace looked up as Jennifer and Suzanne, cradling a now sleeping Jessica, stepped into the Green Room. “What on earth—There’s no need—”
“There’s every need.” Jennifer closed the door and nodded to Suzanne. “I’ve spoken with Mrs. Rannoch, and we agreed Mr. Rannoch should hear this at once.”
Sir Horace drew a breath and puffed out his cheeks. “I told you I’d handle it—”
“Which means you’d only tell Mr. Rannoch things in bits and pieces as he discovered them himself. As Mr. Rannoch is an exceedingly clever man—and Mrs. Rannoch is quite as clever—I have no doubt they would discover them. You’d only muddy the waters by making yourself look guilty when you aren’t. Besides, I like the Rannochs, and I have no desire to slow their investigation.”
“If you—”
“Horace, dear, I do adore it when you try to protect me, but in this case I assure you it is entirely misguided.” Jennifer sat down beside Sir Horace and laid her hand over his own. Suzanne moved to a chair beside Malcolm, holding Jessica against her. Her mouth was dry, her brain whirling in a dozen directions. But what mattered now was Malcolm and how he reacted to the news.
Jennifer recounted the story she had given Suzanne about Alistair Rannoch’s work in France with the Royalists and the mission in ’98 to rescue Raoul O’Roarke.
Malcolm took it without obvious reaction until the mention of O’Roarke’s name. His stifled “Good God” nearly woke Jessica. She buried her head in Suzanne’s arm and subsided.
“Did my father say why he was helping O’Roarke?” Malcolm asked Sir Horace.
“No, and believe me I wondered as well.” Now that the story was out, Sir Horace was matter-of-fact. “When I asked him why he wanted to help a man and a cause he’d always professed to detest, he merely said he had his reasons. Alistair wasn’t a man one questioned. I went to Ireland and made the travel arrangements with a smuggler Alistair had found. It’s an advantage to be thought something of a buffoon. People are always underestimating one. Alistair met us with O’Roarke.”
“How did they seem?”
“About like Wellington and Napoleon might if one had helped the other. Save that I think the duke and Bonaparte had rather more respect for each other.”
“This was after the Dunboyne papers disappeared.”
“About six months.” Sir Horace met Malcolm’s gaze.
“Why did you help my father?”
“As I said to Jennifer at the time, the reprisals in Ireland went beyond the pale as it were. Didn’t support the rebellion, but didn’t hold with vengeance, either.” He sat back on the sofa, arms folded across his chest. “If that makes me a suspect in the Dunboyne business, so be it. That’s all there is to it.”
It was said with bluster. And Suzanne was quite sure it was a lie.
Malcolm stared across the Green Room at Suzanne. Sir Horace had followed Jennifer back to the rehearsal, clearly eager to escape further discussion. “It doesn’t make any sense. Every other piece of information has pointed to Alistair blackmailing and manipulating people. And yet here he is helping a man and a cause he detested.”
Suzanne shifted the sleeping Jessica in her arms. For all the truths about Raoul she couldn’t share with Malcolm, she had much the same questions. “The French were helping the United Irishmen. Perhaps your father was acting under orders from Paris.”
“And his dislike of O’Roarke was all a pose?”
“Or his masters forced him to help a man he disliked. We don’t know why he was working for the French—If he believed in the Republican cause or he was doing it for the money or for some other reason.”
“In death as in life my father remains an enigma.” Malcolm took a turn about the Green Room, frustration in the sound of his footfalls.
Suzanne shifted her arm beneath Jessica’s legs. “Jennifer thinks Sir Horace didn’t tell her the real reason he helped Alistair. Having watched his response, I agree.”
Malcolm nodded. “There’s one person who may be able to shed light on this. O’Roarke himself.”
Suzanne quite agreed. She just had to speak to Raoul first. “Darling, Jennifer told me more. Apparently your father worked with Sir Horace and Lord Dewhurst and her helping the Royalists in the nineties.” She recounted the rest of her conversation with Jennifer.
“With Royalist agent friends, it isn’t surprising Alistair was acting as a double agent,” Malcolm said.
“If Dewhurst or Smytheton was a double, two of the three of them were.”
“Quite.” Malcolm perched on the sofa beside her. “Smytheton was Alistair’s second in the duel over Aunt Frances. Which he also thought was about more than the affair.”
Jessica opened her eyes and stretched her arms over her head, arching her back. Malcolm held out a finger for her to grasp. “I have to meet David and Oliver at Brooks’s about the machine-breaking bill. Then I’ll see if I can track down O’Roarke. I’d like you with me when I talk to him.”
Suzanne gathered her daughter up in her lap and looked steadily into her husband’s eyes. “I’d be happy to do so, darling.”
Suzanne slid into the chair Raoul was holding out for her as if this were a perfectly amicable meeting. Then, her back to the coffeehouse, she slapped her gray doeskin gloves down on the table. “I know you don’t tell me everything. I realize that now that I’m no longer your agent you tell me even less than you used to. But for God’s sake, didn’t it occur to you that it was relevant that Alistair Rannoch helped you escape Ireland after the Uprising?”
Raoul went still, his fingers curled round the back of his own chair. “Who told you?”
“Jennifer Mansfield. She had it from Sir Horace.”
“Ah.” Raoul let himself into his chair in one controlled motion. “I should have realized the risk when I heard Smytheton was part of this investigation.”
“You still haven’t said why you didn’t tell me. Was Alistair Rannoch your agent?”
“My dear girl.” Raoul poured a glass of wine and pushed it across the table to her. “No. I told you, I didn’t have any notion Alistair Rannoch was a French agent.”
She pushed the wine aside. “Then why on earth did you think he was helping you?”
Raoul filled a second glass, fingers steady on the bottle. In those few seconds, she saw a host of considerations race through his mind. One of those innocuous moments that contain the weight of a revelation that can change everything. “Because Arabella asked him to.”
Suzanne’s fingers curled about the stem of her glass. “Alistair’s wife. Whom, according to Malcolm, Alistair disliked as much as she disliked him.”
Raoul tossed down a sip of wine. “Malcolm was a boy at the time.”
“His memories seem very distinct.” Suzanne kept her gaze on Raoul’s face. “You’re saying that’s not the truth about Alistair Rannoch and Lady Arabella’s marriage?”
Raoul snatched up his glass and took a long swallow. “I’m saying that to explain the rest of this properly, I don’t just need to talk to you. I need to talk to Malcolm.”
“I left the children off at home and went to Hookham’s, where I happened upon Mr. O’Roarke, so I thought I would ask him.” Suzanne paused, aware that her voice sounded a trifle too breathless. She and Malcolm were walking along Piccadilly on the edge of Green Park. She had sent word to him at Brooks’s, and he had met her at the corner of the park, since ladies were not to be seen on the stretch of St. James’s Street that contained the gentlemen’s clubs. Another of those absurd rules of the beau monde that were so hard to keep straight.
“And O’Roarke said he needed to speak with me when you asked him about Alistair and his escape from Ireland in ’98?” Malcolm was frowning, but he didn’t appear to question her story. She was overthinking things. Raoul had worked with them two years ago to rescue the St. Gilles family from Paris. Since then, she as well as Malcolm could reasonably consider him a friend and ally. Someone she might very well speak to on her own.
Suzanne nodded. She had to keep her persona straight without muddying it with details from her real life. “I don’t understand his connection to your father, but it makes sense that whatever it is, he’d want to explain it to you instead of having me pass the information along.”
Malcolm nodded. “He said Alistair assisted him at my mother’s request?”
“Yes. Given everything you’ve told me about your parents, I was as surprised as you.”
“ ‘Surprised’ is scarcely a strong enough word.” Malcolm was still frowning. She knew that look. It meant he was puzzling something out but wasn’t ready to share it with her yet. “Where did you say we’d meet him?”
“At home.” Still odd to be calling the Berkeley Square house “home.” Still odd to have a home. “At four o’clock.” She hesitated, aware of the tension in his arm beneath her gloved fingers. “Do you want to speak to him alone? I know you said you wanted me there, but if this changes things—” Given Malcolm’s sensitivity about his mother, it seemed the obvious thing to say, though if he agreed she wondered how on earth she would ever get the truth from either him or Raoul.
He looked down at her with surprise. “Why? I don’t have any secrets from you.” A smile tugged at his mouth. “Well, at least I’m trying not to have any more than I already do.”
She permitted herself a tiny sigh of relief, while the coming scene still tugged at her nerve endings.
They reached Berkeley Square to find the children in the square garden with Laura Dudley. Jessica was standing up, holding on to the edge of a bench, bouncing on the black kid–slippered soles of her feet. Colin was following Berowne, who was walking along the flagstones in a zigzag pattern. The cat was getting remarkably comfortable with his lead, though he didn’t precisely walk like a dog.
Suzanne and Malcolm stopped and leaned over the gate to wave to the children. Colin scooped up Berowne and ran over to them. “He hardly ever just lies down and won’t walk anymore.”
Suzanne leaned over the gate to stroke the cat’s head. “You’re doing splendidly with him, Colin.”
“Mamama,” Jessica said. Suzanne still wasn’t sure Jessica identified the sound with her mother, but Laura picked her up and carried her over to Suzanne and Malcolm. Suzanne took Jessica in her arms and kissed her.
“Do you want to come in?” Colin asked.
“For a few minutes,” Malcolm said. “We have a visitor coming.”
“Who?”
“Mr. O’Roarke.”
“Perhaps he’ll come to the park, too. I like him.”
Suzanne touched her fingers to her son’s head and willed them to remain steady.
For a quarter hour, Malcolm and Colin walked Berowne and rolled a ball while Suzanne nursed Jessica. Laura pulled out a book and pretended to be invisible, as she so often did. Suzanne was just doing up her gown, one-handed, while holding Jessica in her other arm, when Raoul strolled into the square.
“Mr. O’Roarke!” Colin sprang up from the pavement where he’d been playing with Berowne. “Do you want to play catch with Daddy and me?”
Raoul’s smile gave no sign of being anything out of the ordinary, Suzanne noted, past the catch in her own breathing. After four years one would think she’d be used to such moments.
“Perhaps later, Colin. I need to speak with your parents. But I saw the throw you just made. You have a capital arm. As your father did as a boy. You also clearly have a knack with animals.”
Colin grinned and dropped down beside Berowne, who had rolled onto his back and was expecting pets. Suzanne gave Jessica back to Laura and got to her feet. Malcolm was holding open the garden gate. “O’Roarke,” he said. “It’s good of you to come.”
“Of course,” Raoul returned.
The three of them crossed to the Rannoch house, where Valentin admitted them and they went through the maddeningly slow business of divesting themselves of their outer garments. Malcolm led the way to the library without further speech. The shadows slanting through the windows were deepening, so Malcolm lit the brace of candles on the library table. Suzanne realized belatedly that neither of the men could sit until she did so. She dropped down on the sofa. Malcolm sat beside her and gestured Raoul to one of the Queen Anne chairs.
Silence stretched through the room. Malcolm met Raoul’s gaze. “Suzanne says Alistair helped you escape Ireland in ’98.”
“Yes.” Raoul crossed his legs. “You’re understandably surprised. Alistair hardly seemed a supporter of Irish independence.”
“No. But then I didn’t know he was a French agent, either.”
“Good lord,” Raoul said on a perfectly calibrated note of surprise.
“You didn’t know?”
“Certainly not.” Which was true, if one went back to before her own talk with him two days ago.
Malcolm rested one arm along the sofa back, not quite touching Suzanne’s shoulder. “However, I’m more surprised by your assertion that he assisted you at my mother’s request. Unless my mother’s means of persuasion was to tell Alistair she’d like nothing better than to see you arrested.”
Raoul gave a faint smile. “Yes, that might well have done the trick. But I don’t believe it’s the means Arabella used.”
Malcolm’s gaze locked on Raoul’s own, gray eyes meeting gray. “What means did she use?”
Raoul leaned back against the red velvet of the chair and crossed his legs. “I wasn’t privy to their conversation. But my impression is that your mother had some leverage on Alistair that she employed to persuade him.”
“Do you think she knew he was a French spy?” Malcolm asked.
“I didn’t at the time. But given what you’ve told me—It’s possible.” Raoul leaned forwards. “Most of the leaders of the United Irishmen had been arrested in March when Thomas Reynolds betrayed us. Edward Fitzgerald and I escaped arrest—for some reason, Reynolds chose to warn us.”
“And you were urged to leave the country.”
“Government sources as good as told Fitzgerald they’d turn a blind eye,” Raoul said. “They didn’t want to arrest an Anglo-Irish aristocrat whose great-great-grandfather was Charles the Second. But Fitzgerald wouldn’t use his position to escape when his comrades were under arrest.” Raoul’s mouth twisted. “He was a romantic idealist to the point of foolhardiness, but a good man. My own reaction was more tactical. I wasn’t going to leave before the Uprising occurred.”