The Mask of Night

You will always have my gratitude, Mlle. Lescaut. A poor thing, but I hope you realize how heartfelt it is.

Comte de Flahaut to Mélanie Lescaut

3 November, 1811

Flahaut inclined his head with just the right degree of formality. Charles had to admit that for a man not trained as an agent, the comte did a very creditable job of concealing that the Frasers were anything more than casual acquaintances to him.

‘Charles has been investigating St. Juste’s death,’ Carfax said. ‘I’ve told him of my suspicions regarding the Wanderer. In the circumstances, I think you’d best tell the Frasers what you told me earlier this evening.’

Flahaut’s gaze flickered to Charles and Mélanie then back to Carfax. ‘Are you sure—’

‘Given what they already know, we don’t have a choice.’

The comte advanced into the room, hands clasped behind his back. ‘As you no doubt know my friendship with Hortense Bonaparte is of some years standing. Though we have not been in communication much since I came to England. Since I married.’ He paused and looked from Charles, leaning against the table, to Mélanie, now seated in the chair Carfax had abandoned.

‘But you still have ties,’ Mélanie said. ‘Naturally.’

‘Just so. I received a communication from Queen Hortense earlier today. It was brief to the point of curtness, but it was undeniably Hortense’s hand. She asked me to go to Lord Carfax and tell him she had information about the Wanderer which it was vital he hear. I asked Lord Carfax to meet me here this evening. I didn’t know what the Wanderer referred to until he told me.’

Charles looked at Carfax. ‘If Queen Hortense was involved in a plot with O’Roarke and St. Juste concerning the Dauphin, why would she want you to know about it?’

‘Because I suspect Queen Hortense was an unwilling participant in the plot,’ Carfax said. ‘I think St. Juste and O’Roarke used some means to compel her to help them. They must have needed assistance only she could provide. Perhaps ultimately they wanted to use her to give Bonapartist legitimacy to a restored Dauphin.’

‘Hortense hates intrigue,’ Flahaut said. ‘Even when Bonaparte was Emperor, she’d have been happier if she could have retired to the country. She’s had Bonapartists plots swirling round her since her stepfather was exiled, but she just wants to keep her children safe.’

‘And so after St. Juste died, her qualms got the better of her, and she decided to contact me,’ Carfax said.

Charles continued to stare at his former spymaster. ‘You think O’Roarke—’

‘O’Roarke hates the current French monarchy.’

‘O’Roarke hates all monarchies. He’s never made a secret of that.’

‘But he was willing to work with Bonaparte, even after he made himself Emperor. If the Dauphin is alive, if O’Roarke could find him and be the power behind putting him on the throne of France— Far easier than getting Bonaparte off St. Helena. And far easier to control the Dauphin than a former Emperor.’

‘Where’s Queen Hortense now?’ Mélanie asked Flahaut, for all the world as if she hadn’t seen Hortense Bonaparte for years.

‘She didn’t say. But she wrote that after I’d spoken with Lord Carfax, she’d contact me to arrange a meeting. So she must be in England.’

‘You’ll tell us when you hear from her?’ Charles said.

‘We’ll pass on information that seems relevant,’ Carfax replied in the crisp tone he used to indicate a briefing was at an end. ‘Now I suggest we get back to the theatre before our combined absence is commented upon. You go first, Flahaut.’

Flahaut moved to the door. ‘It goes without saying that all of this is in confidence.’

‘Naturally,’ Charles said.

When the door had closed behind the comte, Carfax fixed Charles with a hard stare. ‘I know you’re second guessing everything I’ve told you. You wouldn’t be doing your job if you didn’t. I only ask that you don’t discount my theory out of hand.

‘You should know me well enough to know I never discount a likely scenario.’

‘I’m relieved to hear you’ve still got your wits about you.“ Carfax nodded to Mélanie and moved to the door. ‘Enjoy the rest of the opera.’

Mélanie stayed stock still until thirty seconds after the door closed behind Carfax. ‘What in God’s name—’

‘Not here. I don’t trust Carfax not to be listening.’

‘Do you believe him?’

‘I’m not sure.’

The corridor was empty save for the footmen, but when they were halfway down it, Flahaut emerged from an alcove and fell in step beside them. ‘What the devil was that about?“ His voice was fierce but pitched to their ears alone, and he spoke in French.

‘You know as much as we do,’ Charles said in the same language.

‘Somehow I doubt that. I’m not going to stand by if Hortense is in trouble.’

Mélanie shot a look at him.

‘Surely I don’t have to tell you what she still means to me. Political realities don’t change that.’

‘I’m supposed to see her tomorrow morning,’ Mélanie said. ‘No don’t ask me where. But I’ll tell you what I learn. If she contacts you, come to us before you go to Carfax.’

Flahaut flicked a glance at Charles. ‘You don’t trust Carfax?’

‘These days I don’t trust anyone,’ Charles said.

Laura Dudley smoothed the covers over the sleeping Jessica, then touched her fingers Berowne’s head. Berowne rolled on his back to have his stomach scratched, blinked up at her, stretched, and then burrowed more deeply into the covers.

Laura went through the connecting door to Colin’s room and froze on the threshold. A tall figure stood beside the bed, staring down at Colin’s still form.

Raoul O’Roarke turned his head and met her gaze across the shadowy room. His eyes were dark and unreadable but his mouth lifted in a smile. Laura pulled the door to, and glanced at Colin, then moved to the door to the passage. O’Roarke followed her out of the room.

“I just wanted to make sure he was all right,” O’Roarke said. “He’s had a difficult time of it.”

Laura looked up into his deep-set eyes, myriad suspicions and surmises and fragments of information tumbling in her head. “You’re very fond of him.”

“He’s a remarkable little boy. He reminds me of his father at the same age.”

“I forget,” she said. “You knew Mr. Fraser when he was young.”

Veiled memories shot through O’Roarke’s gaze. “He had Colin’s inquisitiveness and sensitivity. Though he wasn’t as fortunate in his parents.” O’Roarke hesitated, as though perhaps about to say more, but instead he turned down the passage toward his own bedchamber. “Good evening, Miss Dudley.”

Laura watched him, throat tight with something that was absurdly like sympathy. “Good evening, Mr. O’Roarke.”

Simon dropped into a fragile, gilded chair beside Pendarves while on stage Don Ramiro, disguised as his own valet, stumbled across the unsuspecting Angelina. Pendarves was staring at the stage with a rapt expression Simon remembered from choir at Winchester. It was a moment or two before he turned and took in that it was Simon sitting beside him.

“No one else seemed interested in the opera,” Simon murmured.

Pendarves’s expression relaxed a trifle. An empty champagne glass stood beside his chair. Simon was aware of the unworthy thought that drink had always loosened Pendarves’s tongue.

Pendarves turned his gaze back to the stage. So did Simon. A short while later, the curtains stirred at their back, and the ladies stepped into the box, drawing a ripple of attention from the boxes about them. Simon and Pendarves moved to the back row, giving the women the three seats at the rail. Lady St. Ives spared a brief, dazzling smile for the crowd. Lady Pendarves nodded and smiled at several acquaintances and fixed her gaze on the stage. Isobel sat with her hands locked tightly together. Simon wondered if she was hearing a note of the music.

When the curtain came down, Lady Pendarves turned round to look at her husband. She must be more than a decade Mélanie’s senior, Simon realized, yet she retained a wide-eyed ingénue quality he doubted Mélanie had possessed since childhood. Her careful pink-and-white prettiness always put him in mind of one of Jessica Fraser’s china dolls, but now her eyes were alight, lending her face an unusual animation. “It is quite splendid, isn’t it? Far better than the piano score.”

Pendarves’s face softened. “Yes, quite. Do you want a lemonade, Caroline?”

“Oh, no. But thank you, my love.”

The box swiftly filled with guests. Simon and Pendarves got to their feet to make way for the throng, most of whom had come to see Lady St. Ives.

“A lot of humanity in the music,’ Simon said as they moved into the anteroom. ‘And a surprising amount in the story. One can’t help but feel for Don Ramiro, obliged to take a bride without love.”

“But in the end he does find love.”

“Where he doesn’t expect it.”

Pendarves drew a breath. ‘I love Caroline. I always have. I just— What did you want to talk to me about?”

“Did I say I wanted to talk to you?”

“God, Simon, I can still read you that well. Did Mrs. Fraser send you with more questions? I fear I was less than polite to her last night.”

“You’re always faultlessly polite. And I sought you out because I was worried about you.”

Lord Tilbury came through the door with his widowed sister whose name Simon could never remember. Simon exchanged greetings, then touched Pendarves on the shoulder when Tilbury and his sister had gone through the curtains into the box. “Let’s go somewhere we can have a conversation.”

He half expected Pendarves to object, but he merely nodded and followed Simon from the box. He was a man who desperately needed to talk. What he didn’t need was his friend and former lover trying to pry information out of him.

An alcove round a bend at the end of the corridor was comfortingly empty yet not so secluded that they would raise eyebrows. Simon leaned against the alcove wall. “Have you seen Will Gordon since last night?”

Pendarves cast a swift glance about, but the nearest people were a lady and gentleman several feet off, busily engaged in their own conversation. “Briefly. He dressed me down for interfering. Said he could take care of himself. But so help me, Simon, at your age you should know better than to lead him into trouble.”

“At the moment, I’m trying to keep everyone out of trouble. But perhaps Gordon hadn’t explained matters to you thoroughly.”

“There are things best not put into words.”

“That can lead to misunderstandings. You and I used to be able to talk more freely.“ Simon hesitated, then decided to risk it. “I remember the night you told me how it had felt to lose your brother—“

“Why the devil bring that up now?”

“Perhaps because it’s one of the few times we spoke freely,” Simon said. It was perfectly true. He could see Pendarves, head sunk on his folded arms, shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs. Simon would have said he loved him then.

For a moment he thought he had pushed it too far. Then Pendarves’s shoulders relaxed a fraction against the gilded plaster wall. “You were a good friend to me, Simon. You’re the only one I was ever able to talk to about losing Christopher.”

“I never had a brother or a sister. I can scarcely imagine that sort of bond or what it would be like to lose the person.”

“I used to envy Christopher how easily he took things. That’s the devil of it. He should have lived. He’d have made a better Viscount Pendarves than I do.”

“I doubt it. Part of your talent for the role is your ability to take things seriously.”

“If I hadn’t—“

“If you hadn’t become the heir you wouldn’t have had to marry?”

Pendarves frowned at the molding on the wall opposite. “Caroline’s my mother’s god-daughter. Christopher was fond of her. Everyone expected— I think they’d have been happy together.”

“One can never be sure any two people will be happy together.”

“No. But when I offered for her, Caroline as good as admitted that she’d already given her heart away. I suppose that made it easier for me not to be able to offer her more myself.”

Simon sought clues in the once familiar features. Had he been better at reading Pendarves when they were younger? Or simply more arrogantly sure he knew what he was seeing. “I don’t think I realized then the scope of the tragedy at Skælskør. Or what lay behind it.”

Pendarves grimaced. “No one knows what lay behind it to this day. If I did— I’d give a great deal to see those responsible brought to justice. But then justice is hard to come by, as you’ve always tried to tell me.”

Simon didn’t get the chance to frame an answer, because the man with whom he presently shared his life strode into the alcove, face white, gaze hard. “Pendarves, I need to talk to you,” David said.

A chill closed over Pendarves’s face. He cast a quick glance to either side. The interval had ended and the corridor was emptying.

“St. Ives says you were with them when my cousin Arthur drowned,” David said.

Whatever Pendarves had feared or expected it was not this. “Good God,” he said.

“Do you deny it?”

“It seems pointless to deny the truth.”

“What happened?”

“You know what happened.”

“I want your version of it,” David said. “For God’s sake, Pendarves, you can’t get in trouble for running away from your books now.”

“Arthur and St Ives told me the day before they were taking the yacht out. I said I had to stay in, I was supposed to be working at a Cato translation. I’d come home from Winchester when Christopher died, and I needed to cram before the autumn term began. Arthur rolled his eyes, as if to say no one should actually have to work at a Cato translation. St. Ives tried to smooth things over, the way he always does. And of course the next day dawned clear and fair and the worst sort of weather for studying. So I slipped out of the library and met them down by the cove. Odd, the places the most casual decision leads one.”

“Where did this one lead you?”

“To always wonder if I could have prevented the accident. I was on deck when it happened, but at the other side of the boat. It was a fair day, but rougher than we were used to. I heard the splash. I wasn’t sure what it was at first. I shouted to St. Ives. We both dived in the water, but we couldn’t find anything.”

“And then?”

“We went ashore. St. Ives told me there was no point in letting on I’d been there—I’d only get a birching to no purpose. He kept saying perhaps Arthur had swum ashore and would be waiting for us. But somehow I knew even then. Perhaps it was having lost my brother so recently. I no longer believed people our age were immortal.”

Sylvie St. Ives surveyed the crowd in the anteroom for the interval. “I don’t know what’s more a fairytale. That goodness and moral courage shine through any mask or that a handsome prince with a golden palace could bring everlasting happiness.”

She was sitting on the chaise-longue again, white net and apricot satin skirts spread about her, as golden and lovely as she must have been when she captured Oliver’s heart. Isobel straightened the ruby links of her necklace. For all Oliver’s talk of his ambition, she was convinced it was the woman sitting opposite her who had caused him to sacrifice his principles and the trust of his friends. The question was how much was he still willing to sacrifice for her.

“I think it’s a nice story,” said Caroline Pendarves. “Everything turns out just as one could wish.”

“She’ll be bored with him within a year,” Sylvie said. “I wonder which of them will take a lover first.”

“You’re a cynic, Lady St. Ives.“ Neil Vickers, who Isobel had always thought stiff and humorless, gave an unexpectedly charming smile and handed Lady St. Ives a glass of champagne.

“Oh, no, Neil. True cynics are disappointed romantics. I don’t think I ever was romantic enough. Perhaps that was my problem.”

Because if she’d been romantic enough she’d have thrown caution to the winds and married Oliver? Isobel studied Sylvie’s restless gaze. She’d always thought that Sylvie and Oliver would have made each other miserable. But was Sylvie happier married to Lord St. Ives? Would she have made Oliver unhappier than Isobel herself had done?

“Bel.“ Lucinda pushed her way through the crowd to her sister’s side. “What on earth is going on?”

“Lucy. Are you enjoying the opera?”

“Don’t talk to me like a child, Bel. First Papa decides he has to attend the opera. Then Charles and Mélanie come into our box and Papa goes off to talk to them for nearly the whole of the first act. And now Papa’s back insisting everything’s fine but all the time looking as though he just saw Frankenstein’s monster.”

Isobel dropped her arm round Lucinda. “Charles had to ask to him some questions.”

“About the murder.”

“Yes.”

“And I don’t suppose you can tell me anything more.”

“Not now. No.”

Lucinda scoured her face. “Oliver was at Carfax House earlier today. I ran down to see him but he slammed out before I could stop him. I know Papa’s sometimes hard on him, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen them actually quarrel.”

“Lucy.“ Caroline Pendarves moved toward them. “You get prettier every day. Would you like a glass of champagne? Or shall I ask Mr. Vickers to procure some lemonade?”

Lucinda stared at Caroline for a moment, then smiled. “Champagne’s lovely. Mama’s not here to frown.”

Caroline handed Lucinda the glass Mr. Vickers had poured. “I won’t tell if you won’t. To be seventeen again. It seems so long ago, doesn’t it, Bel?”

“Centuries and centuries.”

The sound of the orchestra came from the theater. The gathering began to break up, but a new couple slipped past the departing guests and stepped into the box. It was Charles and Mélanie.

“Where’s St. Ives?“ Mélanie asked Isobel.

“He went off to talk to David.”

“He’s gone home or to his club or something.“ Sylvie glanced over her shoulder and nodded at Charles and Mélanie. “He sent me a note by one of the footmen. I like your hair, Mrs. Fraser. Is it a new style?”

“It’s the result of not having time to heat the curling tongs.”

“Well, I daresay it will be all the rage by morning. Speaking of which, I suppose we should put in another appearance.“ She stepped through the velvet curtains which Mr. Vickers was holding open. Caroline Pendarves followed.

Isobel looked from Charles and Mélanie to her sister. “Lucy—“

“I have to talk to you.” Lucinda’s eyes were like hard glass.

“Yes, love, but not—“

“Not you. I mean not just you. I have to talk to Charles and Mélanie.“ Lucinda glanced toward the velvet curtains. The orchestra had struck up, drowning trivial chatter, but she still took a step closer to the door to the corridor. “Lady Pendarves. Her dress. The rose-colored satin bodice with the slashed sleeves like an Elizabethan lady. I remember the last time I saw her wearing it. At Lady Jersey’s, just before Christmas. She’s wearing pearls tonight, but at Lady Jersey’s she had on a diamond necklace and matching earrings. Set with a star pattern. Just like the earring you found in Bel and Oliver’s garden.”

“Are you sure?” Mélanie said.

“Positive. As soon as I saw her in the gown tonight I remembered. I think it was made to go with that jewelry—it has that v neck with crystal beads to set off the necklace.”

“Lucy, you’d make a good Bow Street Runner.” Charles squeezed her shoulder. “When this is over, I promise I’ll explain as much as possible.”

Lucinda gave a smile, the sort of whole-hearted smile Charles Fraser could draw from people when he put his mind to it, and left the box.

“Caroline Pendarves was probably in the garden for reasons that have nothing to do with the murder,” Charles said. “But she may have seen something.”

“We can’t question her here,” Mélanie said.

“Charles.“ Isobel gripped his arm. “Did Father—“

But as she spoke, her brother and Simon came into the anteroom, followed by Pendarves. Pendarves drew up for a moment, nodded at the company, and strode through the curtains to the box.

“Do you know where St. Ives went?” Charles asked David.

David shook his head. “He isn’t here?”

“He left. Was he upset by your talk?”

“He spoke readily enough. He was in cabin when Arthur drowned. Pendarves was with them on the yacht as well. He ducked away from his studies so they kept quiet about it to spare him a birching. He was on deck but on the other side of the boat. Charles—“

“St. Juste was Arthur. Your father just confirmed it.”

“Good God. But why—“

“Because Arthur was the one selling secrets to the French.”

Isobel released her breath and heard her brother do so at the same moment.

“My word,” Simon said. “Talk about being precocious.”

David put a hand to his throat. “So Father—“

“Was paying the blackmail to protect the family from scandal. There’s a great deal to be said, but not here. Can you stay and keep eye on your father? Watch anyone he talks to?”

“Where are you going?”

“To hunt down St. Ives.”

“I’ll go sit in my parents’ box,” Isobel said. “You and Simon can keep an eye on Pendarves and watch from here.”

She went into the corridor with Charles and Mélanie. Her hands were shaking. She tightened her grip on her reticule and fan. “Thank you, Charles. At least one thing isn’t as bad as we feared.”

They reached the stair head and she was about to turn down the corridor toward her parents’ box when she saw a young man hurrying up the stairs. Alexander Trenor, she realized, whose brother was a colleague of Oliver’s.

“Thank God you’re still here,” Trenor said. “It’s O’Roarke. He’s gone missing.”