Secrets of a Lady (aka Daughter of the Game)

Colin took a sip of milk. His fingers were curled tight round the blue-flowered mug, as though he was afraid to let go of it. Charles felt much the same about his son. He sat back and studied his children across the nursery breakfast table. The toast crumbs on the white cloth, the steam curling above the porridge bowls, the silver gleam of the butter knife. Hallmarks of normality in a world that had not yet returned to normal. He glanced sideways at Mélanie. Her gaze was fastened on Colin as though making up for lost time.

Too much had happened in the past three days for Charles to begin to comprehend it. He knew better than to try. Every so often, the pain or fear or sorrow would break through, like glass slicing into his brain. For a moment, he would be unable to think or even breathe. And then everyday life would close the wound over and the feeling would recede to a dull ache on the edge of his consciousness.

Laura Dudley was sewing by the window. Berowne, the cat, was curled up on the hearth rug, as though this was a normal morning. But of course it wasn’t anything of the kind. The children didn’t know about Edgar yet. He and Mélanie would have to find a way to tell them. Roth would call soon, wanting answers. Blanca was closeted with Addison in one of the parlors, telling him she had been in the employ of a French agent. It would not be easy for them, but Charles had great faith in his valet’s innate good sense winning the day.

Jessica pushed her spoon through her porridge and looked at her brother. “Will your finger grow back?”

Charles’s breath caught in his throat. He sensed Mélanie’s do the same.

A shadow crossed Colin’s face. He shifted his mug in his hands. “No,” he said. “Fingers aren’t like hair and nails.”

“Oh.” Jessica regarded him with wide, appraising eyes. “So you’ll be a hero like Uncle Fitzroy.”

Jessica was very fond of Fitzroy Somerset, who had lost his arm at Waterloo. Colin took another sip of milk. To Charles’s intense relief, his son’s face lightened a trifle. “Not quite,” Colin said. “A finger isn’t nearly as bad as an arm.”

Jessica added another spoonful of sugar to her porridge. “I think you’re a hero.”

Colin looked from Charles to Mélanie. “What’s going to happen to Meg?”

It was a shock to hear Colin use her name, a shock to realize she and Evans were people to him, however monstrous their actions. “She’s being held at Bow Street,” Charles said. “She’s going to go to prison for a long time. You don’t ever have to see her again.”

He expected to see relief or the remnants of fear on Colin’s face, but instead Colin frowned, the way he did when he was puzzling through a problem in the schoolroom. “She was beastly,” he said. “But not all the time. She brought me food and made sure I had enough blankets.”

Charles heard Mélanie draw in her breath, as though to say Meg was the lowest form of humanity possible. Then she checked herself, her gaze on Colin.

Colin bent down to pet Berowne. “Meg had a little boy who died. She missed him.” His scowl deepened. “I don’t understand her.”

Mélanie reached across the table and touched their son’s hand. “It’s never easy to understand another person, Colin. But it’s important to try, even when the people are beastly. Maybe especially then.”

Jessica, who hated to be ignored for more than a minute or two, tugged at Colin’s sleeve. “Can we play knights later? With the sword and battle-ax?”

Colin set down the mug of milk. A genuine smile broke across his face. “All right. But we have to be careful.”

“I won’t cry if you hit me this time. Well, not unless it really hurts.”

Charles’s shoulders relaxed, as though a weight had been lifted from them. He heard Mélanie release her breath.

The door eased open. “I’m sorry, sir, madam.” Michael stepped into the room. “Mr. Roth and Mr. O’Roarke have called. Shall I—”

“No, we should see them.” Charles got to his feet.

“We’ll be back.” Mélanie knelt between the children’s chairs. “As soon as possible.” She kissed both of them. Charles ruffled their hair. Laura moved to the table.

Michael had shown Roth and O’Roarke into the small salon. A wash of sunlight lent warmth to the cool sea green of the walls. Or perhaps the warmth came from the circumstances rather than the light. Roth walked forward as they entered the room. His face had the gray, worn quality that comes from a string of sleepless nights, though he had shaved and changed his linen in the few hours since they had seen him. “How’s the boy?” he said without preamble.

“Remarkable, all things considered.” Charles closed the door. “It will take time, but he’s going to be all right.”

Relief showed in Roth’s eyes. “Children are remarkably resilient. When my wife left, I thought it would take my boys years to grow accustomed to it, but they seem to have adjusted far more quickly than I have.”

It was a surprising personal admission, and in its own way an offer of friendship. Charles held Roth’s gaze for a moment, acknowledging the offer and responding with a like one.

“I asked Mr. O’Roarke to come with me,” Roth continued. “I thought it would be simplest if I talked to all three of you at once, since you were all bound up in the events of last night.”

“Of course,” Charles said.

O’Roarke had waited by the fireplace throughout this exchange. They joined him and seated themselves round the warmth of the fire.

Roth settled himself in a chair and crossed his legs. He looked far more at ease in the room than he had a mere three days before. “Margaret Simmons has made a full confession. Carevalo hired her and Evans a fortnight ago. He promised them five hundred pounds to take Master Fraser and keep him until the matter was resolved. Meg Simmons thought the job was worth four times that. She figured once they had the boy in their hands they could extract the money from Carevalo.”

“Did she know about the ring?” Mélanie asked.

“She doesn’t seem to have done.” Roth frowned. “She asked if Master Fraser was all right. She sounded as though she meant it.”

Mélanie tugged at the ruffle on her sleeve. “That didn’t stop them from cutting off Colin’s finger.”

“No.” Roth pulled out his notebook, opened the cover, flipped through the pages, then closed it again. “Victor Velasquez turned himself in at Bow Street in the early hours of the morning. He made a full confession to the murder of Elinor Constable, also known as Helen Trevennen, though it sounds as if it was more accident than murder.” He took his pencil from his pocket and chewed the tip. “So that would seem to tie up all the loose ends.” He looked up at Charles. “Except for your brother’s death.”

“Yes.” Charles leaned forward and drew a breath. He was prepared, but the words still stuck in his throat for a moment. Such revelations seemed to belong to the cloaking, whisky-scented shadows of night, not the clear, revealing light of morning. Mélanie reached out and took his hand. Her presence beside him on the sofa was like a touchstone. He let himself meet her steadying gaze for a moment. Then he recounted his surmises about Edgar in as straightforward a manner as possible, neither dwelling on unnecessary detail nor shirking what needed to be said.

When he finished, silence hung over the room, punctuated by the reassuring crackle of the fire. O’Roarke sat very still, his gaze intent. Roth sucked in his breath and released it in a long sigh. His shoulders slumped against the chair back.

“There’s no way to prove any of it, of course,” Charles said. “But it’s the only way I can make sense of my brother’s actions.”

Roth nodded and stared down at his notebook. He smoothed his fingers over the worn brown leather of the cover. He had made no notes during the story. “I asked Velasquez about the ring this morning. I said we had reason to suspect it had been in his cousin Kitty’s possession.”

“And?” Charles said.

“He was surprised. But not as surprised as I would have expected. He said his great-grandfather must have decided the ring was more a curse than a blessing. The great-grandfather’s two sons were fighting over it, and there was a history of duels and even murder in the Carevalo family to gain possession of it.”

“Not to mention its role in the Crusades,” Mélanie murmured.

“Quite,” Roth said. “Velasquez said his great-grandfather must have decided the family would be better off if the ring disappeared, but he couldn’t bring himself to destroy it. So he gave it to his daughter, Kitty Ashford’s grandmother, and charged her to watch over it but to tell no one she had it.”

“And she gave it to her daughter, Kitty’s mother,” Charles said. “I suspect Kitty’s mother gave it to her when Kitty married or when she turned twenty-one or perhaps on the mother’s deathbed. I remember Kitty saying that it was when her mother died that she understood just how much she owed to her family.”

Roth leaned back in his chair, frowning. “I can see how that could have gone on for years. Generations. But if the ring could have meant what you say to the war—”

“Politics mattered a lot less to Kit than family loyalties,” Charles said. “She told me once that a vow to a blood relative came before all else. If she’d promised her mother to keep the ring for”—his voice went unexpectedly tight; Mélanie’s fingers tightened round his own—“for her daughter, she wouldn’t have gone back on her word.”

Roth shook his head, as though he would never understand the inner workings of such a code. “If this whole story comes out, it can only tarnish your brother’s memory and hurt his widow and the rest of your family. Not to mention embarrassing the army and government.”

“Very true,” Charles said.

Roth looked up at him. “There was a lot of confusion last night. Who’s to say the exact sequence of events? The only people who were actually present at the shooting were you and Mrs. Fraser and the boy and Evans.”

“Evans was dead.”

“Was he? Or did that happen later?” Roth spun his pencil between his fingers. “Perhaps Evans had a gun.”

“Your men know otherwise,” Charles said.

Roth gave a half smile. “That won’t be a problem.”

Mélanie pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “From the angle of the shot that killed Edgar it’s plain it didn’t come from the roof.”

“I think we can account for that.” Roth turned his head. “Mr. O’Roarke? Do you have any objections?”

“Certainly not. I saw none of it, after all.”

“Good.” Roth inclined his head. “What do you mean to do with the ring?”

Charles looked at O’Roarke. “I assume I can count on you to convey it to Carevalo’s heir?”

“Who is his heir?” Roth asked.

O’Roarke smiled for the first time since Charles and Mélanie had come into the room. “A first cousin. Not as active as Carevalo, but with similar political ideals. And a much less volatile personality.”

Roth returned the smile. “I’m glad to hear it, Mr. O’Roarke. It seems neither Spain’s government nor our own need be troubled with the ring’s discovery.” He sat forward in his chair as though to rise, then tapped his pencil against his notebook. “Oh, there is one more thing. Meg Simmons gave me this.” He drew a sealed paper out of his coat. “Apparently Carevalo left it with her to give to Bow Street if anything happened to him.”

It was as though the fire had been extinguished and the lamps turned down. Charles felt Mélanie go still beside him. “How interesting,” he said. The red seal on the letter appeared unbroken. He stared for a moment at the impression of the Carevalo crest. “A confession?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t read it.” Roth leaned forward in his chair, the letter dangling from his fingertips. His gaze moved from Charles to Mélanie to O’Roarke. “I can’t imagine what a twisted mind like Carevalo’s could have to say that’s worth my time. Perhaps you have more use for the letter than I would.” He got to his feet, held out the letter, and placed it in Mélanie’s hand.

The vellum trembled between her fingers. She looked down at it, then raised her gaze to Roth. “Thank you, Mr. Roth.” She drew a breath. She was nearer to tears than most people could have guessed. “Thank you for everything.”

Roth looked into her eyes. Charles thought perhaps he could tell how fragile her control was. “It’s been a pleasure, Mrs. Fraser. Though I fear this was not one of my more brilliant cases. I did little more than follow your lead and your husband’s.” He coughed and glanced at the mantel clock. “I’d best be on my way. I have to meet with the chief magistrate about this Velasquez business.”

Mélanie and Charles walked to the door with him. They both shook his hand. “I hope you will dine with us one day soon, Mr. Roth,” Mélanie said. “And bring your sister. And perhaps your sons could visit Colin and Jessica.”

Roth looked down into her eyes, a friend addressing a friend. “I’d like that, Mrs. Fraser. We all would.”

The door closed behind him. Mélanie leaned against the door panels and put her hand to her mouth. Hysterical laughter burst between her fingers. “Dear God, what have I done to deserve such generosity?”

“Don’t question it, querida,” O’Roarke said. “Just be grateful.” He picked up Carevalo’s letter from the sofa where she had left it and held it to the light. “Steamed open. Crafty devil, Roth. Crafty and damnably generous.”

Charles crossed the room and took the letter. He glanced down at it for a moment, then looked at Mélanie. At her nod, he held the letter to the fire.

He felt O’Roarke’s gaze upon him. “I’m sorry about your brother, Charles. That can’t have been easy.”

“None of this has been easy on any of us.” Charles dropped the burning missive into the flames.

“No. But some things are more easily mended than others.” O’Roarke’s gaze was understanding without being intrusive. “I didn’t know Edgar well, even as a boy. But—He was your brother. And he was Elizabeth’s son.”

Charles said nothing. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

O’Roarke regarded Charles in silence for a moment. “Do you think that was why Captain Fraser told you the truth of your parentage last night? To distract you?”

“I suspect so.” Charles watched the flames lick at the cream-colored paper. “We’d just found Helen Trevennen’s body. He was probably desperate for anything to buy himself time.”

O’Roarke nodded. “I must confess, I’m not entirely sorry for it.”

Charles looked into the gray eyes of the man who was his father. Who had lied to him and used him but perhaps had had more of an impact on him than Charles had ever guessed. Certainly far more than Kenneth Fraser had had. “You gave me a copy of Rights of Man once, O’Roarke. I don’t know if I ever properly thanked you for it.”

O’Roarke returned his gaze. “I’ve read your speeches, Charles. That’s thanks enough.” He turned, a little too quickly perhaps, and picked up his gloves from the sofa table. “I’m sure you’re eager to get back to your children. I’ll see myself out.”

Mélanie was still standing by the door. She hesitated, then went to O’Roarke and pressed his hand. “Thank you, Raoul. We wouldn’t have got him back without you.”

O’Roarke looked down at her. “It was, to put it mildly, the least I could do.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her fingertips with a formality that could not be mistaken for flirtation. “Take care of yourself, querida.”

Charles crushed the ashes of Carevalo’s letter with the poker, then crossed the room to stand beside his father. He took out his watch chain, unhooked the Carevalo Ring from it, and held it out to O’Roarke. “I trust you’ll do what’s best with it, O’Roarke.”

O’Roarke looked down at the dull gold and gleaming rubies. “I’m flattered that you trust me in any way at all, Fraser.” He took the ring and pocketed it. “We’ll see if it means as much to the people of Spain as it has meant to us.” He met Charles’s gaze but did not attempt to offer his hand. “You’ve been a much tried man these past days. Don’t think your forbearance has gone unnoticed.”

Charles swallowed, aware of Mélanie’s gaze on the two of them. “O’Roarke?”

“Yes?”

Charles stretched out his hand. “Thank you.”

O’Roarke clasped his hand, inclined his head, and moved to the door. But he turned back at the last minute, gripping the brass doorknob. His gaze moved from Charles to Mélanie. “I only spent a few minutes with him last night, but he’s a remarkable little boy. He couldn’t have better parents.”

He opened the door without waiting for a reply and strode from the room. Charles released his breath, though he hadn’t known he’d been holding it. He stood still for a moment, listening to the retreating click of booted feet in the hall, the murmur of Michael’s voice, the muffled thud of the front door.

Charles turned to his wife. She looked more or less herself, the cinnamon-striped stuff of her gown falling gracefully about her, her hair looped and curled and pinned, her pearl earrings gleaming beside her face. But her face itself was marked by indelible shadows.

She rubbed her arms. As usual, she knew what he was thinking without him putting it into words. “It’s one of those clichés of life that it’s hellishly easy to make promises in a darkened bedchamber. And then one wakes up and has to put them into practice.”

His gaze flickered to the hole in the plaster where he had smashed his fist a scant seventy-two hours ago. “Constructing a thesis is often easier than testing it.”

She stared at the rumpled sofa cushions, and then at the painting of her and the children on the overmantel. “It’s never going to be the same.”

“No.” He watched her. The sunlight shot through the stiff lace of her high-standing collar and dappled her collarbone. A loose ringlet fell against her cheek. A scrape showed on the back of her left hand, a relic of one of their brushes with danger. In seven years, there was not a moment when he had felt he knew her so completely.

“It might be better,” he said.

She looked at him, her eyes wide and bruised and tinged with something desperate—hope, relief, fear perhaps. “Oh, darling. I don’t even know where to begin.”

“One step at a time.” He closed the distance between them and held out his hand. “‘What’s past is prologue.’”

“Yes, but prologue to what?”

“What we make of it.”

She hesitated a moment, then she gave a smile that drove the shadows from her eyes. She reached out and put her hand into his own.