“To Crispin?” Manon settled the cup in its saucer. “I care enough about Crispin not to want either of us to grow bored.”
“Are you so sure you would?”
Manon gave a peal of laughter. “My dear Suzanne. When have I not?”
“People change. I never thought—”
“That one man could hold your interest?”
“That I’d believe in fidelity.”
Manon shook her head. “Crispin claims to be bored by his world, but in truth he’s so entrenched in it he can’t see its limitations. I’m not going to turn him into a social outcast.”
“You wouldn’t necessarily have to. Malcolm and I have a young friend from Brussels—”
“Rachel Garnier. I know her story. Very touching. A whore who was also a spy who married a vicomte and is now accepted into Brussels society. But Mademoiselle Garnier was able to create a new identity for herself. Or rather your husband was able to create one for her.” Manon shot a look at Suzanne.
“It’s true,” Suzanne said. “Malcolm is good at creating cover stories.”
“So Mademoiselle Garnier passes as the daughter of a minor aristocrat. It’s different when one has reigned over the Comédie-Française. I’m never going to blend into a new identity like Rachel or—”
“Me?”
“For example.”
“I’m fortunate.”
Manon pushed her loosely dressed hair back from her shoulders. “I like my life. I like being an actress. I wouldn’t give it up. Another reason marriage to Crispin would be an impossibility. Even if he considered it. Which of course he wouldn’t.”
Suzanne considered the way Crispin looked at Manon and saw him playing with Roxane and Clarisse the day before. “I’m not so sure of that last.”
Manon shook her head. “If he has a moment of madness I shall have to talk him out of it. If he’s too persistent I’ll take another lover.”
“I think that might tear him in two.”
“He’ll recover like Renard. And thank me in the end. Renard married the younger daughter of the Comte de Lisle last month. He wrote to tell me himself. He even seems to consider it a love match.” She reached for the teapot to refill their cups.
“And it cost you a pang.”
“No. Perhaps a bit.” Manon set the teapot down. “It’s another piece of my past gone. Ridiculous how eager I am to hang on to it. Cécile Vérin, one of the opera dancers from the Comédie-Française, was in London last month visiting her sister. She stopped by the Tavistock, and we talked for hours and then met for coffee the next day. I always thought her rather a vapid little thing, but I couldn’t get enough of the news from home.”
“I know the feeling, though I never precisely had a home in the same way.” It was one of the things that would always tie Suzanne to Raoul.
Manon reached for her cup. “And then a fortnight ago it was Claude Lorraine. Do you remember him? He had a wine shop and acted as a courier. He managed to stay on in Paris during the White Terror, but recently he decided to resettle in England. We didn’t work together much, but to be able to discuss missions—” She took a sip of tea. “It never will be the same as coffee. I was quite surprised to realize Claude had worked with—” She broke off in the midst of setting down her cup.
“Manon?” Suzanne leaned towards her friend. “Whom did Claude know?”
“Oh, damn.” Manon returned the teacup to its saucer. “I keep forgetting you aren’t one of us anymore.”
“Not to hear Malcolm tell it.”
“You have conflicted loyalties.”
“Manon, this is important. If it’s to do with France and the Tavistock it could connect to the investigation and that could be important to Crispin. I won’t tell Malcolm unless I have to.”
“Crispin.” Manon’s mouth curled round his name. “You think I have conflicted loyalties as well?”
“Yes.”
“Suzanne—”
“Manon, you know what’s at stake. Who else may have been a French agent?”
Manon sat back on the settee. “Very well. Claude apparently worked with Jennifer Mansfield.”
CHAPTER 33
Malcolm stepped beneath the Doric portico into the solid sandstone environs of Brooks’s. He had joined the club because it was the haunt of Whigs (and a way to refute his Tory father’s membership in White’s). But aside from dining with colleagues or stopping in after the House rose for a drink to postmortem a vote or strategize a new bill, Malcolm wasn’t in the habit of spending much time at the club. There was something damnably odd about an atmosphere with no women. He preferred to be home with Suzanne and the children and to invite David and Oliver Lydgate and William Lamb and other colleagues home where Suzanne could be part of the strategizing. Yet many men spent more time in their clubs than they did at home, and it was almost a cliché that gentlemen sought refuge from domestic disturbances at their clubs. Irony bit him sharp in the throat.
He relinquished his hat and gloves to the footman and climbed the stairs to the Great Subscription Room. The white moldings, pale green walls, and rose-colored curtains had a restrained, slightly worn elegance. As though it would be a bit pretentious for the furnishings to be too new. Even the fire glowing beneath the pristine mantel had a subdued crackle. Groups of men were gathered round baize- or linen-covered tables playing hazard or whist. A murmur of voices, whiffle of cards, and rattle of dice rose to bounce off the barrel ceiling.
“Malcolm.” The voice came from a sofa set to one side. It was William Lamb. He set aside the copy of the
Morning Chronicle
he’d been reading and moved a little to the side to make room for Malcolm. “Meeting someone?”
“Actually, I came in search of your father-in-law.” Malcolm dropped down beside his friend.
“Bessborough?” William’s eyes narrowed. “He’s part of your investigation, isn’t he?”
“Caroline told you?”
“A bit. With Caro it can be hard to pick out truth from hyperbole. But I gather you have questions about some sort of club Bessborough and your father were in and it touches on your current investigation.”
“That’s it in a nutshell.” Malcolm glanced round the Subscription Room. “Is he here?”
“No, but he should be shortly if he holds true to form. My father-in-law is a creature of habit.” William grinned. “Of course you realize if you’re seen sitting here too long, you’ll ruin your reputation as the M.P. most resistant to the charms of life at the club.”
Malcolm managed an answering smile. “Good to keep people on their toes.”
William folded the paper. He had a keen mind and a good eye for detail, but he gave no sign of noticing anything amiss with Malcolm. “How’s Suzanne?”
“Well.” Malcolm settled back on the sofa, one arm draped along its back. To anchor himself. “Busy with preparations for the holidays.”
“It’s your anniversary soon, isn’t it?”
Christ. There was no escaping reminders of his marriage.
“My word. I knew you had a memory for detail, Lamb, but I didn’t know it extended to social events.”
“A friend’s marriage is hardly a mere social event. I remember getting the news just before Christmas.”
“And were as shocked as the rest of my friends that I’d taken a wife?”
“Hardly.” William pressed a crease from the paper. “I wished you”—he hesitated a moment—“every happiness.” The coda
that I didn’t find
lingered in the newsprint-and-claret-scented air.
“It’s December seventh,” Malcolm said. In two days’ time. Her gift was stowed in his chest of drawers. He’d imagined giving it to her when they woke on the morning of their anniversary. Now he hoped it didn’t serve as a reminder of all they had lost. “I still ask myself how I had the temerity to offer for her.” That hadn’t changed.
“Always knew you were a man of sense, Rannoch.”
“We scarcely knew each other.” That was even truer than he’d thought at the time.
“Caroline and I had known each other our whole lives.” William drew a breath and set the paper aside.
“How is Caroline?”
William smoothed his fingers over the newsprint. “Tolerably well, all things considered. Calmer than she’s been. Though she’s got a fixation in her head about this play at the Tavistock. An alternative version of
Hamlet
?”
“That appears to be genuine.” Malcolm retreated into the safer waters of investigation. “It was in the keeping of Lord Harleton. And it seems to be connected to a club he was a member of. The same one Lord Bessborough and my father were involved in. Called the Elsinore League. Ever heard of it?”
William shook his head. “I wouldn’t have thought Bessborough and your father had much in common.”
“Nor would I. There may be connections to their time in Ireland. Cordy and Suzanne”—somehow he couldn’t call her Suzette now—“spoke with Caroline about Bessborough’s involvement. That probably accounts for her interest.”
“Does it?” William’s voice was dry as the best fino. “I thought it was because Caroline hoped she could use it to pique Byron’s interest.”
“I hadn’t heard.”
William shot him a smile. “You’re a good friend, Malcolm.” He glanced down at the folded newspaper. “She says it’s over. I think she protests a bit much.”
“Byron’s in Italy.”
“Oh, I think it’s over as far as Byron’s concerned. But not in Caro’s head.” William smoothed a creased corner of the paper. “Do you have any idea how much I envy you, Malcolm?”
Malcolm’s throat tightened. Was it going to be like this forever? Not being able to discuss his personal relationships with his friends? Not that he’d precisely been eager to discuss such details before, even with his closest friends. But not discussing details was different from keeping the very nature of his marriage a secret. “I think it’s often easy to envy from the outside.”
William gave a twisted smile. “I’ve seen you with Suzanne. That night a fortnight ago when we went to Berkeley Square after the House rose and hammered out the details of the Habeas Corpus argument. It’s as though your minds lock together.” His fingers curled round the sofa arm. “I love Caro. I think she loved me when we married. Perhaps she still does. But our minds couldn’t be more different. I don’t understand her.” He leaned forwards and scrubbed his hands over his face. “God knows I’ve tried.”
It was nothing anyone who had observed the tortured marriage of William and Caroline Lamb didn’t know, but it was the first time Malcolm had ever heard such words from his reserved friend. William didn’t speak about his feelings any more easily than Malcolm did himself. He touched William’s arm. “Caro’s been troubled since childhood.”
William stared at his hands. “Sometimes, more than anything else, I long for peace,” he said in a low voice. “And yet when I think of life without her—It’s like blotting out the sun.”
Malcolm’s fingers tightened. He couldn’t think of a more apt description of life without Suzanne. The Suzanne he thought he’d known. And yet that Suzanne was gone.
“In some ways she’ll always be the girl I married,” William said. “Or at least I’ll always see her that way. And yet—one can’t go back. As much as she swears the past is done, as much as I swear to put it behind us, it’s always there, at the back of one’s mind. Infidelity casts a long shadow.”
“It makes it difficult to trust. And intimacy and trust go hand in hand.”
William shot a look at him. “Well spoken for a man who’s never had to deal with the loss of either.”
Malcolm looked into his friend’s gaze. It would mean a lot to answer William’s honesty with honesty, but he couldn’t do so without risking Suzanne’s safety and his children’s future. “You deserve better, William.”
“In many ways I’m more fortunate than most. If—Oh, here’s Bessborough.” William lifted a hand to signal his wife’s father.
“William.” Bessborough moved towards them and recognized his son-in-law’s companion. “Good lord, Malcolm, what are you doing here? Don’t tell me that pretty wife of yours has given you cause to seek refuge?” He gave the hearty laugh of one who didn’t believe it for a moment.
“Actually, I was hoping for a word with you, sir.”
“With me?” Bessborough’s eyes narrowed. He cast a glance round the room, then dropped down in a chair beside Malcolm and William. “See here, Rannoch, I already told your wife everything I know about the Dunboyne business. Sorry if you don’t believe me—”
“Actually, I wanted to talk to you about the events of a decade or so earlier. You spent time in Paris in the 1780s, didn’t you?”
For a moment, Malcolm would have sworn Bessborough’s impulse was to turn tail and run. Instead the earl settled back in his chair, arms folded in a defensive posture. “Here and there. Pretty much everyone used to pop over to Paris regularly before the Revolution.”
“Did you spend time with my fath—Alistair Rannoch and Dewhurst and Sir Horace Smytheton?”
“Among others. Smytheton and Dewhurst were more or less expatriates in those days. Your father spent a lot of time in Paris as well. Used to take a house and give very agreeable parties. He and Dewhurst rather tended to compete, but they were two peas in a pod politically. Loyal not so much to the king as to what the monarchy stood for. They disliked Necker because he’d supported the American Revolution. And I remember them going on one evening about Cardinal Rohan. Got quite vicious. But then they were both supporters of Marie Antoinette, so Rohan’s opposition to the Austrian alliance had never sat well with them. They were quite smug when he fell from power over the affair of the necklace.”
Malcolm leaned back in his chair. “Were you involved in smuggling works of art?”
Bessborough’s shoulders jerked straight. “What the devil—”
“Would you prefer it if William left?”
Bessborough’s gaze shot to his son-in-law. “No, I think I prefer to have him present.”
“I know about the Elsinore League smuggling art treasures, sir. It seems to be the source of the collection I inherited from my father.”
“Alistair would go on about art, and he couldn’t afford half the things he coveted. Always thought it was dangerous.” Bessborough drew a breath and cast a sidelong glance at his daughter’s husband.
“Sir—” William leaned forwards, hesitated, glanced at Malcolm. “I don’t believe Malcolm will share information on those sorts of details from three decades ago. He’s trying to unravel a larger mystery.”
Bessborough released his breath and leaned back. “Took a few pieces.” He seemed almost relieved to speak. “Harriet liked them. Brightened up the house. Until—”
“Your debts got the better of you,” William said.
“Just so.” Bessborough met his son-in-law’s gaze squarely.
“But you were still involved?” Malcolm asked.
“Helped them out a bit after that.”
“For a share of the profits?” William asked.
Bessborough shifted in his chair. “Er . . . yes.”
“Did they ever smuggle jewels?” Malcolm asked.
“Jewels?” Bessborough coughed. “No, it was art they wanted.”
“They never smuggled diamonds?”
Bessborough gripped the arms of his chair. “What the devil do you know?”
“Not nearly enough. So they did smuggle diamonds?”
Bessborough’s gaze shifted to the side. “I think that may be what gave them the idea for the whole enterprise. It was before the Revolution. Eighty-five or ’86. Dewhurst gave me passage back to England on his yacht. Never one to stint, Dewhurst. Had the devil of a head and went looking for some claret. Opened a crate and picked up a bottle only to hear it rattle and see something sparkling inside. Dewhurst came into the cabin and nearly took my head off. Then later he said he was having a necklace made for his mistress and not to make too much of it. But if that was the case, I don’t know why he acted so concerned in the first place. Later, when the art smuggling began, I decided he must have got his start with diamonds.”
“When was this?” Malcolm asked.
“I told you, ’85 or ’86.”
“Can you remember which?”
Bessborough frowned. “Must have been ’85. Probably October. Harriet was pregnant, and Caro was born not long after I got back. Is that important?”
“It may be very important indeed,” Malcolm said.
“Suzanne, my dear.” Jennifer greeted her with a smile. “Do come in. I’m just having a cup of tea and going over Simon’s notes. I’ve always been good with lines, but I find I have the most dreadful time keeping this version straight from the original. Let me pour you a cup of tea.”
There was something to be said for the British ritual of tea, Suzanne thought as she settled herself on the faded blue-striped chintz of the sofa. It gave one something to do with one’s hands. “I’ve just been talking to Manon,” she said. “I didn’t realize you and Claude Lorraine were acquainted.”
Jennifer went still, the blue-and-white teapot in one hand. Then she filled a cup and set down the teapot without rattling the china. “How foolish. I should have guessed Manon would put the pieces together. I don’t think I realized what good friends you are. You take milk, don’t you?” She added milk to the tea and gave the cup to Suzanne with a steady hand.
Suzanne took a sip of tea. “You must have been surprised to see Claude.”
“Or I’d have been more discreet? You’re quite right, I didn’t handle it at all well. But now what’s done is done and there’s no sense wasting breath denying it.”
“Those old rumors didn’t lie, did they?”
Jennifer studied her own blue transferware teacup. “I never thought of myself as a Revolutionary precisely. Merely a Frenchwoman, who thought conditions in my country were intolerable.” She took a sip of tea and regarded Suzanne with a level gaze over the rim of the cup. “I make no excuses for the excesses of the Revolution. I refuse to take responsibility for such madness. But the excesses didn’t make me want to go back to 1788.”
“I can understand that.”
“Can you? I believe your own family fled France during the Terror.”
Was it Suzanne’s imagination or did Jennifer lay the slightest stress on “believe”? “My parents were far from monarchists,” Suzanne said truthfully.