The Paris Plot (3 page)

“In an odd way it was easier. One simply had to make things work with the baby, in and about everything else.”

“I suppose it was like that for me as well in a way.” Cordelia picked up the milk jug and stirred more milk into her tea. “Not the war, of course, because we were safe in London, but the general chaos of my life.”

Cordelia, Suzanne knew, had been estranged from Harry when she learned she was pregnant with Livia. In fact, Cordelia freely admitted she hadn’t been certain if the father was Harry or her first love and later lover who had disrupted her marriage. A situation far closer to Suzanne’s pregnancy with Colin than Suzanne could admit to Cordelia.

“It’s different this time,” Cordelia continued, taking a sip of tea. “Livia wasn’t planned. You know that. In a way the chaos did make it easier. I simply muddled through from moment to moment. I felt an odd sort of terror when I was pregnant with Drusilla. Harry and I had chosen, actively chosen, to bring her into the world, and I was terrified of making a mull of it.”

Suzanne looked at Drusilla, face relaxed in sleep, hands curled at her sides. “And now?”

Cordelia set down her teacup and reached into the cradle to touch her fingers to her baby’s hair. “I know it sounds the most idiotic twaddle, but it’s quite miraculous when they’re born, isn’t it? It’s a dreadful cliché, but there’s no other way to describe it. Even if I may have forgot the more gruesome details from Livia’s birth, I remember that feeling. And I could tell Harry felt it as well. In that rush of euphoria, one feels as though one could do anything. Only—” Her fingers stilled against Drusilla’s temple. “I feel as though we have more to lose this time.”

“More?”

“Because we’re a happy family. I’m not sure quite how we got to be one. And at times it does feel rather precariously fragile.”

Suzanne swallowed against a constriction in her chest. Colin’s and Livia’s excited voices carried across the room. Livia was steadying the tower while Colin added a block to the top.

“There are whole days at a time when I feel more secure than I’d have thought possible,” Cordelia said. “And then something happens—” She hunched her shoulders, pulling the twilled turquoise sarcenet of her gown. “Last night I saw Teddy Jeffries at Talleyrand’s ball.”

“And he’s—”

“Brighton. The summer after Harry and I separated.” Cordelia twisted a lace-edged cuff smooth. “All the beau monde continues to flock to Paris, but it does seem a higher percentage of my former lovers are in their number than one would expect based on the law of averages.” She jabbed a blond ringlet into its pins. “Harry took it in stride when I told him about Teddy. He always does. As he says, what else can we do? But sometimes I do feel as though I’ll never escape my past.”

Suzanne’s fingers froze on the handle of her teacup. “I don’t know that anyone ever does.”

It seemed odd to find the very English Earl Dewhurst in a Parisian café. He belonged in a world of port and snuff and foxhunting, not dry red wine, pens scratching, and games of backgammon. One forgot sometimes that Dewhurst had spent much of the 1790s in France, working with Royalist groups in the wake of the Revolution.

Malcolm threaded his way between the tables in the café. He wasn’t sure at what point Dewhurst spotted him. Dewhurst didn’t dignify Malcolm by glancing up from his newspaper until Malcolm was standing beside his table. “Rannoch. The last man I wanted to see just now. What have you come to accuse me of this time?”

“I confess I’m surprised to see you back in Paris, Dewhurst.”

“Why?” Dewhurst folded his copy of
Le Moniteur
. The smell of an excellent Bordeaux wafted from the glass beside him. “You ruined England for me.”

“I’m not the one who framed Bertrand Laclos.”

“Nor am I, if you’ll recall.”

“All I recall is that you were too clever to admit to anything.”

Dewhurst reached for the glass and took a sip of Bordeaux. “Precisely.”

Malcolm dropped into a chair across from the earl. “I understand Rupert is considering standing for Parliament.”

Dewhurst’s fingers whitened round the stem of the glass. “Of all the damned foolish—”

“Isn’t standing for Parliament the sort of thing you expect your son to do?”

“He’s standing as a Whig.”

Malcolm leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “Plenty of aristocratic Whigs.”

“Rupert has lost all sense of what is owing to his position. Which you never seemed to have had in the first place. Your father must be horrified.”

“My father doesn’t concern himself enough with me to care. I confess there are advantages.”

Dewhurst gave a short laugh. “If you were my son—What are you doing here, Rannoch?”

“Someone threw a rock into Suzanne’s and my carriage last night.”

Dewhurst’s sandy brows drew together. “Is Suzanne all right? I understand she’s expecting a child.”

“She’s unhurt. But she was nearly struck. There was a note wrapped round the rock. ‘You’ll pay for your crimes.’ ”

“And you think—” Dewhurst clunked his glass down, spattering drops of Bordeaux on the table. “I’m not sure I would dignify your actions by calling them crimes, Malcolm. But more to the point, I would never attack a woman, let alone a pregnant woman, in pursuit of any quarrel I have with you.”

“It might have been collateral damage.”

Dewhurst slammed a hand down on the newspaper. “Whatever you think of me, Malcolm, can you really suspect me of such sloppiness?”

“You’ve already shown yourself capable of accepting a great deal of collateral damage.”

Dewhurst’s ruddy face turned redder. “If you choose to waste time suspecting me that’s quite your own affair. But if someone is threatening your family, I’d advise you to look to your own actual crimes, not my imagined ones.”

Malcolm met Dewhurst’s gaze. The rattle of dice from a nearby table filled the taut silence between them. Dewhurst’s crimes were very real. But as to the rest, Malcolm had a gnawing fear that for once the earl spoke the truth.

M
alcolm did up the last string on the gauze overdress with deft fingers. He and Suzanne had dismissed Blanca and Addison, Malcolm’s valet, so they could talk while they dressed for an evening at the Comédie-Française. “We could stay home.”

Suzanne cast a look over her shoulder at her husband. “Since when have we hidden away?”

“The last time you were about to give birth to a baby I don’t recall anyone trying to kill us.”

“The last time I was about to give birth we were in the middle of a war. And no one tried to kill us last night. They just sent a warning. One can’t give in to that sort of threat.”

“Suzette—”

She touched her fingers to her stomach and felt a reassuring kick. “I know I don’t like to be held back from any risk, Malcolm. And I know I like to tease you about your Hotspur moments. But I’m not insensible of the risk to our little one. Believe me.” She turned round, took Malcolm’s hand, and put it over her stomach. “I think the safest course for all of us, including the baby, is to learn what’s going on. And we won’t discover that hiding at home. Which is where we were when the attack happened.”

His fingers curved over the child. Malcolm’s eyes still lit with wonder whenever he felt the baby move. Sometimes she thought the wonder extended beyond the baby to the fact that they had built a family at all. She shared that wonder. She was just more aware of the shifting sands beneath what they had built. “A good point,” Malcolm said. “Though I can’t stop thinking of taking us all off to somewhere safe.”

Suzanne reached for her gloves. “Oh, darling, that would never work. It wouldn’t be at all good for the children for us to go mad.”

Malcolm gave a wry grimace and they went next door to the nursery to say good night to Colin.

Their son stared up at them from the chintz cushions of the window seat. “Is it safe?”

“Of course,” Malcolm said, crouching down before the window seat. “Remember how we talked about the war being over?”

Colin looked from his father to his mother with wide, steady eyes. “Someone threw a rock at you last night.”

“How do you know, darling?” Suzanne lowered herself, carefully, to the window seat and put her arm round her son.

“I heard Valentin and Jean talking when Blanca took me for a walk this morning.”

Suzanne exchanged a look with Malcolm. The real drawback to spies having children wasn’t the danger; it was the burgeoning investigative abilities of spy offspring.

“That was just a silly angry person wanting to send a message,” Suzanne said.

“A message about what?” Colin asked.

“We aren’t sure.” Malcolm ran his fingers through Colin’s hair.

“But you’ll find out,” Colin said with confidence. “You and Mummy can find out anything.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, old chap.” Malcolm got to his feet and bent to kiss Colin.

“ ’Bye, Daddy.” Colin put his arms round Malcolm’s neck and hugged him. “ ’Bye, Mummy.” He hugged Suzanne and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “ ’Bye, baby.” He patted Suzanne’s stomach.

“He’s going to be a good big brother,” Suzanne said as she and Malcolm descended the stairs to their carriage.

Malcolm took her velvet evening cloak from Valentin and set it about her shoulders. “And we can only hope it will distract him for a bit from what his parents are getting up to.”

 

 

Malcolm surveyed the lobby of the Comédie-Française as he would enemy terrain beset with snipers. The heat of candles and close-pressed bodies contrasted with the December chill outside. The damp wool of outer garments steamed in the sudden warmth.

“The sort of person who throws rocks in the dark isn’t going to try anything in this blaze of candlelight,” Suzanne said.

“Since we don’t know whom we’re up against, it’s difficult to be sure of anything.” Malcolm drew her gloved hand tighter through the crook of his arm.

“Suzanne. Malcolm. I must say I’m glad the baby’s held off through tonight. I’m quite looking forwards to the performance. Always liked
As You Like It
in whatever language.” Geoffrey Blackwell emerged through the crowd accompanied by his wife, Aline, Malcolm’s cousin. Geoffrey, a military doctor, had stood up with Malcolm at their wedding and had delivered Colin. Knowing she’d have his brisk competence to rely on made Suzanne much more sanguine about the impending delivery.

“With Claudia I remember feeling the oddest combination of constantly being on tenterhooks and at the same time feeling as though she’d never arrive,” Aline said. “But I suppose it’s easier with a second one.”

“One knows what to expect,” Suzanne said. “Though it’s all a bit of a blur.”

“As perhaps we’ll find out one day. For the moment Claudia’s enough to keep us busy. Though I must say I never thought motherhood would be so much fun.” Aline smiled up at Geoffrey. They were some thirty years apart in age, but it was difficult to imagine either of them married to anyone else.

“I don’t know if it reassures you to have Geoff attending you,” Malcolm murmured to Suzanne as they moved off, “but I think it’s saving my sanity.”

“Suzanne, my dear. You look radiant.” The Duchess of Richmond paused to embrace Suzanne by the base of the stairs to the boxes. “I’m glad to see you’re made of too strong stuff to sit home waiting for the baby to make an appearance.”

“Thank you, Duchess,” Suzanne said. The duchess was a woman of strong opinions. Suzanne was never sure on which side of those opinions she would fall at any given moment.

“I shall enjoy Sarah making me a grandmother.” The duchess cast a glance about the theatre. “Paris is so festive at Christmas. I’m so glad we came in from Cambrai.” She inclined her head to Malcolm and moved on in a stir of aubergine silk and cream-colored ostrich feathers.

“I’m glad to see all is forgiven,” Suzanne murmured to Malcolm as they started up the stairs. Lady Sarah Lennox, the Richmonds’ daughter, had eloped with General Maitland a year since, leading to considerable family drama.

“The duchess has pride and a temper, but at least she gets over things.”

“So I suppose she’s one person we can rule out.” Suzanne met Malcolm’s gaze. “Well, we did help Sarah and Maitland.”

“A point. Though I would have thought the duchess was subtler than thrown rocks.”

“One never knows—”

Something jerked Suzanne backwards down the steps. She fell against the man behind her, who staggered himself. Malcolm spun round and grabbed her, before she and the man could both go tumbling down the stairs.

“A thousand pardons, madame. I fear I trod on the train of your gown.”

“It’s quite all right, monsieur. The draperies are ridiculously long.” Suzanne turned round to meet a pair of anxious dark eyes and felt the blood freeze in her veins. She knew that flushed, handsome face set beneath a disordered crop of dark hair. She had last seen him a year and a half ago, the night she helped Manon Caret escape Paris one step ahead of Fouché’s agents. The man she now faced on the stairs was Manon’s brokenhearted lover who had appeared later that night, the same man she had described to Raoul only a few hours before.

The man’s gaze locked on her for a moment. With recognition? Or the acknowledgment of something he had already known?

“And in your condition, madame,” he said. “I am doubly sorry. Are you quite sure you are all right?”

“Quite sure.” Suzanne summoned up her brightest smile.

“Monsieur.” The man inclined his head to Malcolm. “A thousand apologies.”

“Do you know who he is?” Suzanne asked as the man moved off up the stairs and they followed at a slower pace.

“No. But the fellow is wretchedly clumsy.” Malcolm again tightened his grip on her arm.

“This train is too long.” Suzanne gathered up the folds of crystal-beaded black gauze. Manon’s former lover had vanished into the crowd. He might not have placed Suzanne, but she was quite sure he had realized he’d seen her before.

Or just possibly he had already known who she was and had trod on her gown deliberately.