CHAPTER 30
“An aristo and a Radical.” Wilhelmine looked at Malcolm across the antechamber at Madame de Coigny’s to which she, Malcolm, Suzanne, and Dorothée had retired to talk, escaping the press of the political and artistic elite of Paris mingling in her salons. “Even in her fathering her child Princess Tatiana knew how to play both sides.”
“Don’t be horrid, Willie,” Dorothée said.
“No, it’s an apt comparison,” Malcolm said. “I’ve thought much the same myself. And I suspect Tania would appreciate it.”
Wilhelmine got to her feet. “What can we do?”
“My uncle—,” Dorothée said.
“I’ve talked to him,” Malcolm said. “He was not unsympathetic. But he doesn’t think he has the power to get St. Gilles released.”
Dorothée frowned. “But then—”
“So we have to break him out,” Wilhelmine said. “I do hope you aren’t going to try to keep us out of it.”
“On the contrary,” Malcolm said.
Suzanne hesitated outside the door to the card room, weighing risks and consequences, while her heart beat a taut tattoo beneath her corset laces. But sometimes all calculations of risk and reward ceased to matter. Sometimes the stakes were so high one had to roll the dice and take one’s chances. She stepped into the room, strolled to the faro bank, and met Raoul’s gaze.
Ten minutes later he dropped down beside her in the ballroom on a settee half-hidden by a pillar. “Mrs. Rannoch.”
“Mr. O’Roarke. I fear I’m growing old. You find me taking a break from the press of the party.”
“I’d say that’s more a reflection of the life you lead than your age, Mrs. Rannoch.”
“You’re very kind.”
Raoul turned his head and studied her face. “What is it
, querida?
”
Suzanne swallowed hard, aware of just how much she was muddying her two worlds. But then keeping those worlds apart had always been an impossible challenge. “Paul St. Gilles has been arrested,” she said.
“I heard. It’s a pity. A brilliant artist and an equally brilliant thinker. We need more men like him to speak out, not be silenced.”
“Yes. And he’s . . .”
Even now she fumbled for the words, knowing that once they were spoken they could not be taken back. And it wasn’t her secret, it was Malcolm’s.
Raoul watched her with understanding but did not press her.
“He was Tatiana Kirsanova’s lover,” she said.
Raoul raised his brows. “I didn’t realize. Though I can see how he’d have appealed to her. She liked brilliance and challenge.”
“And he may have fathered her child.”
Raoul’s eyes widened. “I didn’t realize—”
“That she had a child? No, she kept it well hidden. Whether or not St. Gilles is the biological father, he’s been raising the boy. He and his wife.”
“The incomparable Juliette Dubretton. The boy is fortunate in his parents.”
“We owe them a great debt.”
“ ‘We’?”
For a moment she felt keenly what Malcolm must have gone through in Vienna before he told her the truth of his relationship to Princess Tatiana. It wasn’t her secret to share. And yet it had to be shared if they were to have a prayer of saving St. Gilles. “Princess Tatiana was Malcolm’s half-sister.”
She expected the rare surprise to show in Raoul’s eyes again. Instead, he inclined his head. “Yes, I know. I presume Malcolm told you in Vienna? I’m glad he did so.”
Pieces of seemingly solid information broke apart and swirled in her mind. All these years, and he could still shock her to the core. “How—”
“Arabella confided in me. Malcolm’s mother,” Raoul said, as though Arabella Rannoch sharing this secret she had guarded so closely was a simple matter. “We were friends, remember. She was young and in distress. I was young myself and a sympathetic listener.”
It made sense on the surface and yet did not begin to explain Raoul’s ties to the Rannoch family. Suzanne stared into his gray eyes with their unfathomable layers. “So all this time—”
“It wasn’t my place to tell you what Malcolm didn’t feel he could share. I did try to tell you I was sure Malcolm’s relationship to Princess Tatiana wasn’t what it appeared on the surface if you’ll recall.”
“Yes, but—” She shook her head, replaying a dozen conversations. “Damn you, do you have to know everything?”
He gave a low laugh. “Every day I’m more and more convinced of how little I know.” He regarded her for a moment with that appraising gaze he’d worn when measuring the extent of her injuries after a mission. “What mattered wasn’t so much that you knew the truth of their relationship as that Malcolm was able to confide the truth to you.”
She drew a breath, memories of those weeks of uncertainty in Vienna like glass in her brain. “You’re right of course. You have a disgusting habit of being right. It’s most provoking.”
He gave an unexpected smile. “Good to know I still have my moments.” His gaze skimmed over her face. “Do you know who Tatiana’s father was?”
“Lady Arabella didn’t confide that to you?”
“No. It was a secret she guarded closely. I don’t think she told her sister, either.”
Suzanne hesitated again, but he was going to have to know about Willie’s and Doro’s involvement. “Peter of Courland.”
This time she did see surprise flare in his eyes followed by a flash of understanding. “I begin to understand Arabella’s secrecy. Almost like giving birth to a royal bastard. Do the duchess—”
“Wilhelmine and Dorothée know. They’ve been helping us locate the child.”
“An interesting alliance. And they too want to help St. Gilles?”
Suzanne nodded. “We owe him a debt for looking after Tatiana’s child. Malcolm will never forgive himself if we don’t come to his aid. I don’t think I’ll forgive myself.”
“Quite.” Raoul inclined his head. “I’d like to help as well. I’d been wondering if I could do something for St. Gilles as it is. You want me to talk to the Kestrel?”
“If anyone can devise an escape plan—”
“Precisely.”
“But I don’t see how the devil we’re to explain it to Malcolm.”
“You aren’t going to explain anything. That would be fatal. I shall have to offer my services—and my connections to the Kestrel—to Malcolm on my own.”
“How will you explain—”
“I’ll need a convenient rumor for how I heard he was looking for aid.” Raoul’s gaze drifted round the ballroom as though they were engaged in idle conversation. “Believe me, I can contrive something.”
She shook her head. “It’s—”
“My dear girl, after everything we’ve been through, don’t tell me it’s dangerous.” Raoul inclined his head to a stout lady with a headdress of purple ostrich feathers who was walking past. “If I cared a scrap for danger, I’d be raising horses in Ireland.”
“But this isn’t—”
“I’m risking myself for people I care about.” He leaned back and watched her for a moment. “Assuming you’re all right with the risk. I can keep you out of it, but it does circle closer to Malcolm learning about your past.”
She gave an impatient shake of her head. “I’d never let that stand in the way of my obligations.”
He smiled. “No, you wouldn’t, would you?” He took a sip of wine. “Have you heard anything more from Fouché?”
“No.” She drew the silk folds of her shawl about her, chilled despite the warmth of the evening.
“Suzanne.”
She shot a look at him. “There’s nothing to be gained from dwelling on it.”
“Fouché told you he didn’t believe my threats, didn’t he? That he’d act against you anyway and if he was wrong, and I brought him down, you’d be responsible for my ruin.”
Suzanne released a breath of fear and frustration. “This is why you’re impossible to defeat at chess.”
“Fouché’s bluffing. Knowing what I can do to him, he wouldn’t dare expose you. Or me.”
“You can’t be sure.”
“No. We can’t be sure of anything.”
Her fingers tightened on the satin and steel of her reticule. Raoul had always protected his people, but it had been in the service of a larger goal. “You’re—”
“Finding a way to go on and make sense of my life. As we all are.”
“You aren’t immune to danger yourself. And don’t you dare say it’s different because you’re a man.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. But I’ve survived the United Irish Uprising and the Reign of Terror. I think I can navigate the waters in Paris.”
“So can I.”
“My dear girl, I wasn’t claiming anything to the contrary. But indulge me by letting me do what I can.”
“I’m—”
“For God’s sake, Suzanne.” His gaze continued to drift round the room, but his voice cut like glass. “You have a son to think of.”
She swallowed hard. “I think of Colin all the time.”
“And he deserves to grow up with both his parents. It doesn’t mean you can’t run risks, but it changes the calculations.”
“Juliette Dubretton is terrified of losing her son. I understand how she feels.”
“Every parent’s fear. But you won’t lose Colin.”
“If Malcolm learns the truth—”
“Even then I can’t see him keeping Colin from you.”
“It’s difficult to know what anyone will do when they’re pushed that far.”
“Which is why we’re going to do everything we can to ensure he never learns the truth.”
“Lying to my husband. Our best hope of happiness. No, it’s all right. I’m used to it. Or at least I damn well should be.”
“Rannoch.”
Malcolm turned at the sound of the voice. “O’Roarke. How do you find Paris?”
“Not as beautiful as I did in my younger years.”
Malcolm studied him, remembering the glow in O’Roarke’s eyes when he talked about Paris on their rambles in his boyhood. It had been the cradle of liberty then. “I suspect the change is in Paris rather than you.”
“Very likely. Victory can take unusual forms.”
Malcolm wondered what it had been like for this man, a committed Republican and revolutionary who had been imprisoned during the Reign of Terror but retained his revolutionary ideals and yet nevertheless had fought against Napoleon Bonaparte’s forces in driving the French out of his native Spain. Only to see the Spanish liberals turned on by the restored monarchy, the constitution revoked, the Inquisition restored.
“I think I may be able to do you a favor, Rannoch.”
“A favor?”
“Perhaps we could step onto the balcony?”
Malcolm inclined his head. They moved through the French windows onto the balcony. O’Roarke turned, his back to the room, and leaned against the balustrade. “I understand you’re looking for help getting someone out of France.”
Malcolm stiffened. “What gave you—”
“Don’t worry, you haven’t been betrayed or given yourself away. I have a number of contacts in various parts of Parisian society. I don’t know the precise reasons you’re eager to help Paul St. Gilles, but I should like to help him myself. Anyone with an interest in freedom would.”
“And?” Malcolm said, willing himself to caution.
“I have a contact who I believe can be of use to us.”
“ ‘Us’?”
“You can hardly expect me to stay out of it. It’s the sort of adventure one needs to temper the climate in France just now.”
“And your contact—”
O’Roarke turned, still leaning against the balustrade, and looked him full in the face. “Have you heard of the Kestrel?”
Suzanne scanned her husband’s face as he crossed the room towards her. His features were composed into his public mask, but his eyes held the light of the chase. “I think we have a way to rescue St. Gilles,” he murmured, bending his head close to her own as he took a sip from her champagne glass.
“You’ve found someone who can help?”
“Raoul O’Roarke just approached me. Apparently he has contacts who’ve helped others get out of France. It’s not surprising. He may have fought against the French in Spain, but that was because they were trying to overrun his country. He’s a Republican at heart. I’m a bit surprised he sought me out, though.”
“He’s close to your family,” Suzanne said, voice carefully calibrated to show only wifely interest. In truth, she had a keen interest in Raoul’s relationship to the Rannoch family.
“Yes, particularly to my mother and grandfather. He was kind to me as a boy. He’d give me books and talk to me about grown-up subjects. I still remember him giving me the Beaumarchais trilogy and encouraging me to analyze the different sides in
Henry IV
. I was sorry when he had to flee Britain after the United Irish Uprising.”
“Did he say how he can help?” Suzanne asked in the same carefully calibrated tone.
“He thinks he can put us in touch with someone called the Kestrel. We’re to meet him tomorrow at Café Saint-Georges.”
Suzanne nodded, prepared for her two worlds to collide.
Wilhelmine came up short at the sight of the figure sprawled in the damask armchair in her dressing room. “I didn’t realize you were here.”
“Where did you go after you left Madame de Coigny’s?” Stewart demanded.
She raised her brows at the peremptory question. “Out. With friends.”
“Who?”
She unwound the folds of her shawl from about her shoulders. She’d gone to the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré to discuss further details about Tatiana’s child and Paul St. Gilles with the Rannochs, but she had no intention of telling Stewart so. “You’re sounding tiresomely like a husband.” Which of course was what she had been hoping he would become. It had been so long since she’d had one she’d forgot how they could interfere. Marriage gave a man entirely too many rights.
He pushed himself to his feet. “You’ve been with the Rannochs, haven’t you?”
She dropped the shawl on her dressing table and tugged at the fingertips of one of her gloves. “I told you I’d been with friends.”
“Damn it, Wilhelmine. I know what you’re up to.”