The Mask of Night

I knew Laura Dudley was the ideal governess. She didn’t bat an eyelash when the cat jumped up on the sofa table and started lapping cream from the tea service.

Mélanie Fraser to Lady Isobel Lydgate,

29 March 1816

Charles collapsed in his corner of the carriage and let out a whoop of laughter that rebounded off watered silk and polished mahogany.

“Darling?” Mélanie tried to read her husband’s face in the flashes of lamplight.

“Sorry.” He wiped his eyes. “But surely you must see the humorous side.”

“Of—?”

“My father, who happens to be your former spymaster, may have hired St. Juste to seduce one my closest friends and gain a hold over her father, who happens to be my former spymaster. I don’t see what response there is to that other than laughter. Save tears.”

She regarded him for a moment through the gloom. His face was a mask of shadows. “That’s the second time today you’ve referred to Raoul as your father.”

“Is it? Well, it would ruin the joke if I called him anything else.”

She continued to watch him while they rattled over a half dozen more yards of cobblestones. The rain had started up again, pounding on the hackney roof, sloshing beneath the wheels. ‘You think Raoul told St. Juste to seduce Bel?’

‘If St. Juste is working for O’Roarke that’s the obvious assumption. Carfax and O’Roarke have been antagonists since long before the Peninsula. Carfax was running intelligence for the English army in Ireland in ’98 when O’Roarke was involved in the uprising.’

‘So now you think Raoul is orchestrating Radical activity in England rather than plotting to extract Bonaparte from St. Helena?’

‘Perhaps. Though O’Roarke has certainly proved himself capable of running two operations at once.’

‘His operations have never been centered in England.’

‘But he’s nothing if not flexible. We’re back to the question of what he’d do and why.’

She gripped the carriage strap as they rounded a corner. ‘Raoul used to talk to me a lot about the Irish uprising. Especially when he’d had a few glasses of wine. I think he kept trying to make sense of what had gone wrong.” She could see him, wine glass in hand, leaning toward her across a table or sprawled on the floor by the fire. “It wasn’t the fact that it turned violent that infuriated him. Difficult for an uprising not to be violent, he’d argue. It was the disorganization, the lack of communication between the factions, the wanton destruction that served no purpose—“

“You think he’d claim the acts on that list we found in St. Juste’s room served a purpose?”

“I’m not sure. But I don’t know that he’d have shrunk from them if he thought they’d achieve the ends he wanted.” Mélanie smoothed her hands over the skirt of her pelisse. “Whom do you identify with in Julius Caesar?”

“Portia,” he said without hesitation. “I never know what my spouse is plotting.”

“Then we’re consistent at least. I’ve always felt an affinity for Brutus.”

“So when Napoleon Bonaparte made himself Emperor you thought about assassinating him?”

“That’s my Charles. No fancy footwork, just a nice, clean thrust to the heart. No, obviously. But I can imagine—“

“Killing someone for a good cause?”

Her fingers clenched on the smooth folds of her pelisse. “What else is war?”

“Except that in a war, someone else is trying to kill you.”

“Someone has to start the killing. Raoul would say that we’ve been at war against poverty and injustice for years.”

The leather creaked as Charles shifted his position on the seat. “Antony thinks that Brutus’s motives set him apart from the other conspirators. But it doesn’t change his thinking Brutus was wrong.”

“And yet in the end he calls Brutus the noblest Roman. Brutus put his cause above the life of his friend.”

“Most causes come down to people in the end. If you overlook the people for the cause, then how do you warp the cause?”

“But how can you change anything by playing by the rules when the rules are being set by the people running the system you’re trying to change?”

For a moment she had a clear memory of sitting round her dining table in Berkeley Square one evening the previous autumn. David and Simon and Oliver and Isobel had come to dine. The port had long since been brought, but she and Isobel had not retired to the drawing room. David had been discussing a speech he planned to make in support of Lord Althrop’s motion for an inquiry over the Peterloo carnage. Simon had clunked down the decanter and said, Where the hell is that going to get you? Even if it passes, do you think it will change anything? The usual irony had been quite gone from his face and voice.

David had taken out his handkerchief and blotted up the port that had splashed from the decanter. It’s a start, he’d said, in a hard, even voice.

That’s brilliant, David. Simon had stared at David with the full force of the caustic wit Mélanie had never seen him turn on his lover. The Government used troops to break up a peaceful meeting. Women and children were trampled in the streets. And you’re going to make a speech saying they shouldn’t have done it.

A few weeks later when the bill had failed to pass, Simon hadn’t said anything. He hadn’t needed to.

Mélanie turned her head against the squabs to look at her husband. ‘Sometimes I think I’ve become the most shocking coward.’

He stretched out a hand and laid it over her own. “My darling, you’re a lot of things, but you’re no coward.”

‘I just enjoy living a life of luxury in a system I claim to disapprove of.’

‘The sacrifices one makes for marriage.’

‘I’m not sure how funny that is.’

‘I’m not sure how funny I meant it to be.’

Before she could reply, the hackney came to a stop. They had pulled up in front of the Bartletts’ red brick terrace house in Sloane Street. A sedate, uniform house, but its orderly sash windows, neat chimneys, and wrought iron railings contained a family that were decidedly unorthodox.

Godfrey, the family manservant, who had joined the household after George Bartlett got him acquitted on charges of thievery three years before, ushered them into the slate-flagged entry hall, took their dripping umbrella, and helped them out of their outer garments.

“They’re all in the drawing room, he said, nodding toward the stairs. “You know the way.”

The strains of a song by their Viennese friend Schubert, which Mélanie had given Hetty Bartlett the music for, drifted from the drawing room. The air smelled of colza oil from the urn-shaped hanging lamps, drying wool garments, Cotswolds cheese, and sherry.

“Charles. Mélanie.” George Bartlett swept up to them, as though propelled by a strong gust of wind. He was a broad-shouldered man with a shock of thinning hair the color of damp birch leaves, a sharp-featured face, and hazel eyes that burned with intensity. By profession he was a barrister, known for the erudition of his arguments as well as the inflammatory nature of the cases he chose to take on. “Charles, here’s a new one for you. ‘The good of the people is the chief law.’”

“Cicero.”

“Damn it, boy, you’re too well read. You take all the fun out of things. Wonderful quote, must use it in a closing. It’s good to see you both. We’ve missed you. Haven’t turned too Whigish, have you?”

“Perish the thought,” Charles said. “You’d never say so if you heard the talk in the coffee room at Brooks’s.”

“I was in the coffee room at Brooks’s once. Damned stuffy. That was a good speech on the evils of the corn laws, though it didn’t go far enough.”

Mélanie, who had argued as much with her husband, held her tongue.

“You on the other hand,” Bartlett continued, turning to Mélanie, “didn’t hold back a bit in the article on capital punishment. Took even me by surprise.”

“Yes, well I’m a woman. I can afford to be more extreme because no one takes me seriously. And the Political Register is a bit different from the House of Commons.”

“Shouldn’t be, m’dear, shouldn’t be. In a just world it wouldn’t be.“

“The troublesome question of course is how to bring that just world about.”

“Without resorting to unjust means? Question for the ages. Plato would say—“

“Do stop pontificating, George. You’ll scare them off.” Hetty Bartlett slipped her hand through the crook of her husband’s arm. She was gowned in dark gold lustring cut to show her figure to advantage. Her thick ebony hair was dressed in a style that looked as if it might have been copied from a Renaissance oil, and her dark eyes sparkled brighter than the topaz ring that gleamed on her hand. The daughter of a forward-thinking engineer and an East Indian former slave, she had grown up in Jamaica and Italy, performed as a singer, and then turned novelist.

Hetty turned to Mélanie. “How’s your little boy?”

“Much better, thank you.”

“Devil take it,” George said. “My apologies to you both. I wasn’t thinking. Of course you’ve had more pressing matters to deal with.”

“And no doubt it’s the last thing you wish to discuss tonight.” Hetty squeezed her husband’s arm. Her gaze skimmed over them, taking in, Mélanie was sure, the scrape on her cheek, the bruise on Charles’s jaw. “Do come in and make yourselves comfortable.”

The company were ranged about the drawing room with the ease of familiarity. The intense, fair-haired young man at the piano played for rehearsals at the King’s Theatre. The Bartletts’s daughter Eliza, a seventeen-year-old copy of her mother, was turning the pages of his music. Henry Brougham, lounging against the wall on the opposite side of the room, was exchanging flirtatious banter with Cecily Summers, the charming (and very happily married) leading lady at the Tavistock. He looked up, nodded at Charles, and blew a kiss to Mélanie. The Bartletts’ youngest child, ten-year-old Clara, moved about the room, replenishing drinks with aplomb.

They found Will Gordon perched on an age-mellowed crimson velvet sofa in a corner of the small parlor. He was laughing at something the man beside him had said. A tall, straight-backed man with curling brown hair, who wore an immaculate dark blue coat and held himself with stiff correctness. It was Lord Pendarves, Mélanie realized. The Bartletts had a wide acquaintance, but she’d never thought to find Pendarves among their number.

Her gaze skimmed between Pendarves and Will Gordon. They were sitting a few feet apart, not even touching, and yet there was something in the way Will’s gaze was fastened on Pendarves’s face and the way Pendarves’s hand was clenched on the red velvet of the sofa…

Mélanie gripped her husband’s arm. “You take Will. Let me have a word with Pendarves.”

Charles looked down at her for a moment, then flicked a glance at Pendarves and Will. He nodded.

When they approached the sofa, Will looked up with a grin that almost masked the flash of concern in his eyes. “Mrs. Fraser. Mr. Fraser. Didn’t expect to see you here tonight. I thought you were busy assisting Bow Street.”

Charles smiled. “It’s been a long day. As a matter of fact, I could use a word with you, Gordon. Pendarves, will you excuse us?”

“Lord Pendarves, might I prevail upon you to procure me a glass of sherry?” Mélanie asked. “I confess I’m feeling the chill more than I’d like to admit. To think I could once weather a Spanish winter and not think twice about it.

Chivalry and upbringing won out over qualms. Pendarves inclined his head and offered her his arm.

Jessica Fraser’s brows drew together in a scowl that rivaled her father’s. “Daddy’s supposed to read me a story.”

“You’ve had two stories.” Laura Dudley smoothed the pink-flowered quilt.

”Daddy didn’t read them.”

“I’m sure he’ll make it up to you. And your parents will come in and kiss you when they get home.”

Jessica caught at Laura’s sleeve. “Will they be all right?”

Laura leaned in and touched her fingers to Jessica’s cheek. “Your parents can take very good care of the themselves.” She bent to kiss her young charge and patted Berowne, who was kneading the quilt by Jessica’s feet.

Jessica gave a sigh that was almost capitulation. Laura went through the connecting door to Colin’s room. Colin was flopped on his stomach, reading a book, the covers bunched up about him. He looked over his shoulder at her. His gray eyes were slate dark and seemed to belong to someone far older than a six. “Tell them to wake me when they come in.”

“I promise.” Laura adjusted the tin shade of the night light. “Your parents are very good at this, Colin.”

“Everyone makes mistakes sometimes. Daddy told me that.”

Laura smoothed his hair. “Read until you get sleepy. Ring if you need me. For any reason.”

She stepped out into the corridor. The sound of voices from the ground floor hall stopped her in her tracks. At first she thought the Frasers had returned, but the tone and cadence were wrong. One of the first rules for a successful governess was to turn a blind eye to anything that was potentially dangerous or inflammatory. In her years in the Fraser household, she had found a great deal to which to turn a blind eye. But she had also not done as good a job as she might of keeping her life neatly compartmentalized. Sometimes, her care for the children and the friendship she had come to feel for their parents (always dangerous to feel friendship for one’s employers) had led her into the Frasers’ adventures.

The voices, the words indistinguishable but the tone sharp with concern, tugged at her conscience and her curiosity. If only Addison or Blanca were here—

She drew a breath, aware of a prickle along her nerves that might have been anticipation, smoothed her hands over her gray poplin skirt, and walked down the corridor to the landing.

“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know when Mr. and Mrs. Fraser will return. Is there a message I can give them?” That was Michael.

“Do you know where I can find them?” It was a gentleman’s voice Laura did not recognize. She leaned over the oiled mahogany stair rail. The chandelier and wallsconce tapers revealed a man speaking with Michael. From this angle she could see little more of him than rain-slick dark hair and the three damp capes on his olive drab greatcoat.

“No, sir,” Michael said. “That is—“

“Perhaps I can be of help.” Laura ran down the two flights of stairs.

“Miss Dudley.” Michael met her gaze with obvious relief.

Laura held out her hand to the young man. “I’m Laura Dudley, governess to the Fraser children.”

“Alexander Trenor.” The young man shook her hand. He could be little past his majority, but his jaw was set with determination and his eyes dark with fear. “I think we’ve met. My brother sits in the House with Fraser. Sorry to call so late, but it’s important. Do you know where I can find the Frasers?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know where the Frasers have gone,” Laura said, “or when to expect them back. But you’re welcome to wait for them. Perhaps if you explain the matter to me we could decide if some action should be taken first? Why don’t you come into the library. There’s a fire laid.”

She was prepared for further protests, but the young man followed her, apparently eager to grasp at the prospect of any information at all. He was right, they had met, she realized as she closed the library doors. But it was difficult to reconcile the haggard man before her with the young gallant she had been introduced to when she brought Colin and Jessica into the drawing room at one of the Frasers’ evening parties. She remembered him sitting by the piano, flirting with a girl in sprigged muslin. His shoulders looked broader now and his face seemed to have hardened, the schoolboy softness forming into sharp planes and angles.

“Do you know about Mr. and Mrs. Fraser’s investigation of the murder at the Lydgates’ last night?” he asked.

Laura picked up a tinderbox and lit the candelabrum on the library table. “I know something of the matter.”

“This morning, their investigation took them to a young lady of my acquaintance. Apparently her brother had been employed by the murdered man. Bet—Miss Simcox was very much concerned for her brother’s safety but did not know where to find him. As there was reason to believe she might be in danger herself owing to her relationship with her brother, I insisted that she come home with me. But this evening she disappeared after receiving a mysterious message. I suspect the message was from her brother. I fear she may be walking into great danger.”

“But you aren’t sure where to look for her?”

He shook his head. “The devil of it is, she left the message behind. It must have been smuggled in with the laundry or the order from my bootmaker. But I can’t make head or tail of it. I hoped the Frasers—“

“May I see?”

“What? Oh, yes. Of course.” He reached into his greatcoat pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. Laura held it to the candlelight. The note was brief, written in a scrawled hand with a smeary pencil.

Betty—

Cunning Dare.

B.

“I think it’s in rhyming slang,” Laura said. “Unfortunately, I can’t make sense of the rhyme. But I think I know someone who might be able to help.”

“Fraser? You said he won’t be back—“

“No, not Mr. Fraser, someone else. Someone we should be able to find at Bow Street.”

Trenor took the note from her fingers, his gaze wary.

“Jeremy Roth is a friend of the Frasers,” Laura said. “You can trust him.” Odd how to find herself using the word “trust” so glibly, considering what cause she had to know how hollow it was.

Trenor folded the paper and gave a slow nod.

“You brought your carriage?” Laura asked. “Good. Let me get a cloak and we can be on our way.”