Secrets of a Lady (aka Daughter of the Game)

The sound of wood splintering and metal snapping and bodies slamming into carpeted stairs echoed up to the gilded ceiling. Ralph Seton ran down the stairs, with Mélanie at his heels. Edgar and Morningham were sprawled on the steps, the wreckage of the balustrade strewn about them. Edgar had his hands round Morningham’s throat. Morningham wrenched his elbow free and jabbed Edgar in the eye. Seton grasped the combatants by the backs of their coats and hauled them to their feet. The broken balustrade tumbled end over end to the floor below.

“You seem to have forgotten you’re in a lady’s house. No, don’t try to run.” Seton tightened his grip on Morningham. “If any accusations are going to be made, we want the air cleared here.”

“Oh, please, Mr. Seton.” Mélanie ran down the stairs. “I’m afraid I was the cause of the argument. Oh, Mr. Morningham, you’re hurt.” She flung her arms round him. The force of her action jerked him out of Seton’s grip. He fell against the stair wall, held there by the press of her body. “I wouldn’t try to leave, Mr. Moore,” she murmured, her lips against his ear. “I have a pistol in my reticule and I never miss at this range.”

The sound of a walking stick came from the landing above, followed by Charles’s voice. “Edgar, what the devil are you—Mr. Seton, you must allow me to apologize for my brother. He’s always been hotheaded.” Charles walked down six steps to stand just above them and surveyed his brother with weary disgust.

“I’m not hotheaded.” Edgar spoke in the aggrieved tone of a man who has downed one too many brandies. Mélanie had never realized how much he shared Charles’s talent for playacting. He gestured toward Morningham. “He started it.”

“I—” Morningham opened his mouth, then glanced at Mélanie and closed it.

“What’s the trouble?” Julia Mannerling appeared at the head of the stairs, green velvet gown falling in regal folds round her, green eyes calm and serene.

“I’m sorry, Ju.” Seton cast a wary glance from Morningham to Edgar. “I wish I could have stopped it before the damage to the stairs.” He wiped at the blood that had spattered onto his own coat.

“Mrs. Mannerling, I take it?” Charles inclined his head. “I’m afraid my brother and his friend have had an unfortunate altercation. I will of course compensate you for the damage. I have some words to say to both of them. Perhaps there is someplace we could be private?”

Julia Mannerling ran her gaze over Charles. “I don’t believe I—”

Charles smiled, the sort of melting smile he rarely employed but that invariably got results. “My name is Fraser. Charles Fraser.”

“Ah, yes. And your brother is Captain Fraser, though he looks a bit worse for wear at the moment. Could someone give both those gentlemen handkerchiefs before we have blood all over the carpet?”

Edgar pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to his bleeding nose. Mélanie tugged her handkerchief from her reticule and gave it to Morningham, keeping his body blocked with her own.

Julia Mannerling turned her gaze back to Charles. “Mr. Fraser, you look like a sensible man, but I have strict rules against brawling. Pray remove your brother and his friend.”

Morningham edged his foot down the stairs. Mélanie flung her arms round him and cracked open the clasp on her reticule.

“I’ll vouch for Fraser, Mrs. Mannerling.” An untidy nut-brown head peered down from where the balustrade had been. Mélanie found herself looking into a familiar pair of hazel eyes. Lord Tilbury. She turned her face away, but there was nowhere to hide. He hadn’t recognized her. Yet. “There’s not a more honorable man in London,” Tilbury said. “If he says he needs to talk to them here, he must have his reasons.”

Mrs. Mannerling hesitated. Seton stepped forward, ready to push Edgar and Morningham down the stairs. Mélanie tightened her grip on Morningham. She could almost feel him debating the wisdom of making a run for it.

The silence was broken by Tilbury’s quick intake of breath. “I say—Mrs. Fraser?”

“Hullo, Lord Tilbury.” Still clinging to Morningham, Mélanie looked up and gave him the most ladylike smile she could muster.

“But—” Tilbury stared at her, then cast a glance round the room, as though trying to reconcile her with the setting.

“Don’t ask,” Mélanie told him. “You’d never believe the lengths Charles will go to for a wager.”

“I say.” Tilbury turned to Charles.

“Shocking, isn’t it,” Charles said.

Mrs. Mannerling burst into laughter. “Mr. Fraser, I believe you are the first gentleman ever to have brought his wife to my establishment.” She looked from Charles to Mélanie for a moment. “Very well. If you are willing to break the rules of your world, I will break mine. There’s a sitting room at the back of the hall. You may have the use of it for half an hour. If there is any more hint of disturbance, Ralph and Simpson will throw the lot of you from the house.”

Mélanie turned to Mrs. Mannerling, still keeping her hold on Morningham. “Perhaps we could have some ice and towels? And a bottle of your best brandy?”

Mrs. Mannerling looked at her for a moment, woman to woman, a smile playing about her lips. “Very wise, Mrs. Fraser. I’ll see to it. Ralph, could you show them to the sitting room? It’s all right,” she said to the crowd of spectators who had gathered on the landing. “The misunderstanding has been cleared up.”

When Mélanie shifted her weight, Morningham gathered himself, as though to bolt, but Mélanie had eased her pistol out of her reticule. It was a small gun, which she could nearly hide within the palm of her hand. She pressed it against Morningham’s side under cover of taking his arm. “Mr. Morningham? Shall we?”

Tilbury was lingering on the landing when they reached it. Charles clapped him on the shoulder. “Thank you, Bertie. I’ll explain later, I really will.” He hesitated a moment, then added, “It’s more important than you can guess.”

Tilbury nodded, with the air of one let in on a state secret. He suddenly looked less awkward and untidy than usual.

Ralph Seton led them down the hall, past a number of open doorways and interested gazes. Mélanie kept her arm tucked through Morningham’s and the pistol pressed against his side. Edgar and Charles walked behind, guarding against flight.

Seton opened the door onto a small, surprisingly cheerful room hung with cherry-striped paper. There was a fire burning in the grate and a lamp lit on the Pembroke table. “Make yourselves comfortable,” he said. He regarded them for a moment, as though he more than a little regretted not being in on the coming scene. Then he inclined his head and left the room.

Mélanie took a step away from Morningham as the door closed. Edgar released his breath. “Glad you finally saw sense, Moore. I half expected you to try to bolt again—Oh, I see.” He noted the pistol in Mélanie’s hand. “Wise man. She’s a capital shot.”

James Morningham—or, rather, Jemmy Moore—stood stock-still in the middle of the room, Mélanie’s handkerchief pressed to his bleeding nose. His gaze darted from Edgar to Mélanie to Charles, who was leaning against the door panels. “Who the hell are you working for?” he said in a hoarse voice.

Mélanie lowered the pistol. “Mr. Morningham—Mr. Moore—we owe you an apology. Had I realized how my question would distress you I’d have phrased it differently and we all might have been spared a great deal of bother. Please sit down.”

When he continued to stand motionless, she took him by the arm and steered him to a chintz-covered armchair. “No, don’t tilt your head back, lean it forward, that stops a nose-bleed faster.” She set the pistol down on the table. “Trust me, I have cause to know, I have two children.”

Jemmy Moore dropped his head in his hands, then winced as he touched his forehead. “Which one of you hit me? With what?”

“I did.” Charles moved away from the door. “With a dice box. It was the nearest thing to hand. Sorry for the bruises. We weren’t prepared for you to run.” He walked to the table, leaned his hand on it, and stood looking down at Moore in the glow of the single lamp. “Miss Trevennen told you she’d be in danger if anyone knew where she was. Caring for her as you do, you took that very seriously.”

“Yes, I—” Moore dropped his head forward as his nose started to drip blood again. “Don’t suppose it would do much good now to say I’ve never heard of a Helen Trevennen?”

“None at all.” Charles walked to the fireplace, took a brimstone match from a jasperware jar on the mantel, and held it to the fire. “I don’t know what this lady told you, but her name is Mélanie Fraser, and she’s my wife.” He lit the tapers in the brass candlesticks on the mantel. “Our six-year-old son was taken from our house last night and we think Miss Trevennen may—quite unwittingly—hold the key to getting him back.”

Moore gave a bark of laughter. “You expect me to believe a story like that?”

“Not really,” Mélanie said. “That’s why I didn’t try it to begin with. But it happens to be the truth.”

Moore looked at her for a moment, from an awkward angle, his head still tilted down. “It’s mad.”

“It most certainly is.” Charles tossed the match into the fire and turned to face Moore. “And this madness could cost our son’s life.”

Moore swallowed. “But—”

He was interrupted by a scratching at the door, followed by the entrance of one of the waiters with a decanter of brandy, glasses, a champagne bucket full of ice, and plentiful towels. Charles poured the brandy. Mélanie supplied Edgar and Moore with ice wrapped in towels to apply to their various bruises.

“How do you know my name?” Moore asked, as Mélanie handed him the towel.

“Helen’s sister Susan told us.”

His mouth quirked. “Susy. I haven’t seen her in years.” He pressed the ice-filled towel to his forehead. “What do you really want with Nelly?”

Mélanie sank into one of the painted beech chairs clustered round the table. “What we’ve told you is true. We’d never invent something so fantastic.” As quickly as possible, she sketched the story of the ring and why they believed it was in Helen Trevennen’s possession.

Moore listened in patent disbelief, which changed to amazement and then, just possibly, to the faintest stirrings of acceptance. By the time she finished, he was slumped back in his chair. His nose had stopped bleeding, but he looked as if he had just received another blow to the face. “If that’s true,” he said at last, “it’s monstrous. But—”

Mélanie leaned forward, hands spread palms-down on the table to still their trembling. “Mr. Moore, you’re our last hope.”

Moore sloshed the brandy in his glass. “I knew when I brought Nelly to London that I wouldn’t be able to keep her to myself for long. Still, I thought there’d always be something between us…”

Charles had moved to a chair beside Mélanie. “Susan said her sister kept coming back to you.”

“Every now and again.”

“I can’t believe she’d have left London without saying good-bye to you.”

“Oh, she said good-bye. Nelly was good at saying good-bye. She came to see me the night before she left London. She said she had to go away, she was going to be all right—more than all right—but she couldn’t come back. It wouldn’t be safe. I didn’t really believe her.” He shook his head. “She’d always come back before.”

“Did she say why she had to go away?” Charles asked.

“I assumed she was going off with a man. I didn’t want to humiliate myself by asking. I half thought the secrecy was just Nelly giving herself airs. But there was a note in her voice—She was afraid of something, and Nelly didn’t frighten easily. When the months went by and I didn’t hear a word from her, I—I worried. It would take a lot to keep Nelly away from London.”

Charles held Moore with the steadiness of his gaze. “And then you did hear?”

Moore released his breath in a long sigh of capitulation. “Four years ago. I had a letter. She said she was well and I mustn’t worry about her, but that it still wasn’t safe to tell me more.”

Mélanie heard a gasp of relief and realized it came from Edgar. She drew a breath. Her necklace felt cold and hard round her throat. “Did she say where she was?”

“No. Nothing so specific.”

“Did she mention friends?” Charles asked. “Landlords, employers?”

Moore shook his head. “She didn’t mention anyone, by name or by implication.”

“Activities?” Charles drilled him with his gaze. “The climate, the surroundings—”

Something flashed in Moore’s eyes. He hesitated, then spoke in a rush. “She said she was growing to like the sea air. And then she added that the Prince Regent’s taste in architecture was as garish as one heard.”

Mélanie looked at Charles. She felt as though a crushing weight had just been lifted from her chest. “The Pavilion. Brighton.”

“Very likely.” Moore took another swallow of brandy. “If Nelly did leave London, it’s like her to pick somewhere stylish.”

Mélanie took a piece of paper and a pencil from her reticule and began to sketch in quick, broad strokes. “Did she say anything else?”

Moore screwed up his face as though in an effort to remember. “That she might not be able to write again, but I should know she’d be thinking of me. That she”—he turned his head toward the fire—“that she treasured her memories of our time together.” This last seemed to be a quote committed to memory. “Damned sentimental language for Nelly.”

Charles picked up the decanter and refilled the glasses. “What sort of paper was the letter written on?”

“Paper?”

“Was it foolscap, pressed paper, scented—”

“Oh, I see what you mean.” Moore closed his eyes. “Nice cream laid paper. Smelled like lavender. Not the sort of scent Nelly wore when I knew her. I suppose—that sounds as though she’s doing rather well for herself, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” Charles said. “It does.”

Mélanie set down her pencil and pushed her sketch across the table to him. “Does that resemble Miss Trevennen at all?”

“Good lord.” Moore stared at the sketch. “I thought you said you’d never met Nelly.”

“I haven’t. I based it on Susan Trevennen. Does it look like her?”

“Quite a bit. Her eyes are a trifle wider set and her mouth curls up a bit more. And—” His fingers drifted over the drawing. “Her brows arch more,” he said, as though only just realizing it.

Mélanie pulled the paper back, smudged out some lines, redrew them, and returned the sketch to Moore.

He studied it for a long moment. “Yes, that’s Nelly. To the life.” His eyes misted. He put an impatient hand to his face. “Sorry. But it’s rather nice to look upon her face again.”

Edgar rested his head against the greasy squabs of the hackney. “Christ.” His voice trembled, roughly equivalent to the way Mélanie’s insides were behaving. “I didn’t think we’d pull it off. I forgot you could throw like that, Charles.”

“I’ve had a fair amount of practice of late.” Tossing a ball to Colin, but Charles didn’t add this last.

The cracked leather of the squabs creaked as Edgar turned his head. “I had no idea you had a talent for portraits of people you’d never met, Mélanie.”

“Parlor tricks.” Mélanie folded her hands round her reticule. The drawing was tucked safely inside along with her pistol. “Someone showed me once, a long time ago.” She felt Charles looking at her. He would realize, as clearly as if she had said the name, that she was referring to Raoul O’Roarke.

“So we go to Brighton,” Edgar said into the silence.

“As soon as we can pack.” Charles’s voice was matter-of-fact, conversational even, as though they hadn’t just been pulled back from the yawning precipice of failure.

“Four years since Miss Trevennen wrote the letter to Moore.” Edgar drew a breath. “You sound so confident.”

Charles turned his head. “My dear Edgar.” Mélanie could feel the force of the gaze her husband turned on his brother. “We can’t afford to be anything else.”

“I’m coming to Brighton with you. You need at least one person who isn’t a member of the walking wounded.”

Charles was silent for a moment. “You certainly won your spurs in that brawl tonight.”

“Look, Charles, if you don’t want me—”

“On the contrary.” Charles’s tone was warmer, the vocal equivalent of a hand clapped on the shoulder. “We’ll be glad of your help. Addison can go to Surrey and talk to Mrs. Jennings.”

They pulled up in Berkeley Square, paid off the hackney, and climbed the steps. “Nothing definite,” Mélanie told Michael, who greeted them at the door, “but we have a promising lead. We’re leaving for Brighton as soon as possible.” She unfastened her cloak. “Ask Randall to ready the traveling chaise.”

“I’ll send word to the stable at once, madam.” Michael lifted her cloak from her shoulders. “There’s a parcel on the table that came for you while you were out.” He gestured toward the console table beneath the hall mirror. A paper-wrapped parcel lay on its polished surface, beside the silver filigree basket for calling cards.

“Who brought it?” Charles asked.

“Scruffy-looking lad of no more than ten.” Michael took Charles’s hat and greatcoat. “He said a gentleman paid him a shilling to deliver it.”

Mélanie walked to the table. Nothing was written on the parcel. It looked innocuous enough, yet she hesitated. Charles moved to her side, leaning on his stick. “Want me to open it?”

“No, I will.” She tugged at the string wrapping. It got tangled, perhaps because her fingers weren’t steady. Edgar gave her his penknife. She sliced through the string and it fell away. The paper rustled as she unwrapped it. Inside was a box, a plain wooden box, about four inches high and six deep.

A chill seemed to rise up from the marble floor and seep beneath the folds of her gown. She was vaguely conscious that Charles had moved closer to her. She opened the lid of the box, hands trembling.

Inside was her son’s severed finger.