"A point," Malcolm acknowledged.

  Laura reached over to tuck the blanket round Clara, whom Raoul was still holding. "And then there's the fact that someone was plotting to have the Goshawk assassinated six years ago. And apparently didn't succeed."

  "At least, not then," Mélanie said. "I suppose that could be the reason the Goshawk dropped from view a year later. Though it seems odd for anyone to have assassinated him or her just as the war was leaving Spain."

  "I wonder—" Laura stroked her fingers against Clara's cheek. "When someone has a secret identity, it's relatively easy for more than one person to act under that name. Suppose the Goshawk was killed not long after Raoul overheard the plot. Someone else could have started operating in the Goshawk's name."

  "Suppose that was the point of the assassination," Mélanie said. "To put someone new in as the Goshawk. Although it's difficult to see why. The Goshawk's actions and goals don't seem to have shifted."

  "It's an intriguing thought either way," Malcolm said. "It opens up options on who the Goshawk may have been. And it certainly doesn't preclude its having been Raimundo."

  "I'll try to find him this afternoon," Raoul said. "He needs to learn about Malcolm's place in the family, and I'll see if I can detect any secrets he may be keeping. Though given that the two of you aren't sure, I don't hold out high hopes."

  "False modesty doesn't become you," Malcolm said.

  Raoul put Clara in Laura's arms, touched his fingers to his daughter's cheek and then his wife's, and pushed himself to his feet. "It's not false modesty in the least. It shows how very highly I think of you and Mélanie."

  As Raoul stood, the door opened yet again. This time, Valentin came into the room. "Forgive me, but you've had a caller. One I think you'd want to see. It's Captain Rannoch."

  "Good God." Malcolm got to his feet as his brother came into the library.

  Chapter 15

  Edgar bounded forwards with his usual quick good humor. "Good to see I can take you by surprise sometimes, brother mine." He clasped Malcolm's hand as Malcolm moved towards him, then turned to Mélanie. "Sorry for barging in, Suzanne—Mélanie, that is. I keep forgetting you've gone back to your childhood name."

  Mélanie laughed. She had, in fact, gone back to her true name, though the story was that her parents had called her Mélanie as a child. And, in fact, Suzanne was her actual middle name. "I answer to both. In truth, I often don't notice the difference, I'm just aware that someone is talking to me."

  Edgar grinned. "I'll try to catch up. Not always good with change. We caught a good wind across the Channel and decided to come straight to London instead of spending a night in Dover. Lydia's putting the house to rights and driving the staff mad, and she suggested I walk round and pay my respects at once. Mostly to get me out of her hair, I think."

  "Of course you aren't barging in." Mélanie took Edgar's hands and lifted her face for his kiss on her cheek. "You know Raoul O'Roarke, of course. And you knew Laura in Paris before she was Mrs. O'Roarke."

  Edgar bowed to Laura and shook Raoul's hand. "My felicitations to you both. Wonderful news."

  His voice was still easy, but not entirely without strain. Edgar had never been an actor. He, too, had known Raoul from boyhood, though he'd never been as close to him as Malcolm. How much he'd guessed about Raoul's relationship to Malcolm was something Malcolm wasn't sure of. They hadn't talked about it as boys—Malcolm hadn't properly admitted it to himself at that point. And Malcolm hadn't had a chance to tell Edgar since he'd learned the truth. There was a great deal he hadn't a chance to tell Edgar. That he hadn't wanted to put in writing. That, truth be told, he'd wanted to put off discussing.

  "Thank you." Raoul's response as he clasped Edgar's hand was far easier than Edgar's, but probably had even more layers.

  "It's wonderful to see you, Captain Rannoch," Laura said, cheerfully looking past the fact that she'd been a governess when he last saw her, which was how they all had decided to play it.

  "And," Mélanie said, "in Laura's arms is Miss Clara O'Roarke."

  "Good God, one forgets how small they are." Edgar smiled down at Clara.

  Malcolm watched his brother looking down at his sister and realized how very much there was he had to try to say to Edgar, as soon as possible, and how very ill equipped he was to say it.

  "I'm just on my way out, as it happens," Raoul said. "It seems to be a time for family reunions. I need to go see my nephew. I'm sure we'll see you again soon, Captain Rannoch."

  Edgar laughed. "When did I stop being Edgar?"

  "You're quite grown up now. Hard to call you 'Rannoch' when that's what I call your brother."

  Actually, it was a long time since Raoul had called Malcolm anything but Malcolm, but saying so would also complicate the picture.

  "I think Edgar will do," Edgar said. "In any case, I look forward to seeing you as well."

  "And Laura and I were just about to go up to the children," Mélanie said. "I know they'll want to see you, but we'll let you and Malcolm catch up first."

  Mélanie exchanged a look with Malcolm before she and Laura left the room. Partly an expression of solidarity but also a reminder that there were issues he had to address. Mélanie could be ruthless with herself. She was much easier on him, but there were things she didn't let him forget. Which was a very good thing, though it could also be damnably uncomfortable.

  Malcolm regarded his brother as the door clicked shut behind Mélanie and Laura. He and Edgar were much the same height, but otherwise not much alike. Edgar had thick fair hair, a sunny expression, and an easy grin. Malcolm's first friend. A bulwark in early boyhood against the oddness of their family. Who was now almost a stranger. "It's good to see you, Edgar."

  "Seems an age, doesn't it?" Edgar's voice was light again, but with the same sense of strain tugging beneath. "But then, we've both changed. Living abroad, both of us, but in different places. Seems damned odd to be back in London, I can tell you." Edgar looked out the window at the Berkeley Square plane trees they'd once climbed as boys, just beginning to turn an autumn gold. "You seem to have settled in very well."

  "It's taken time."

  "Still can't get over how you've taken to living in this house. Of course Suz—Mélanie quite transformed it." Edgar tossed his gloves down beside his hat and flung himself into one of the Queen Anne chairs. Thank God he still had the ease of one who had grown up in the house. "Talking of changes, can't get over seeing O'Roarke as a husband and father. And looking so comfortable with the role. I knew he'd married, of course, and about the baby, but you still could have knocked me over with a feather when I came in and saw him looking so domestic."

  "He's certainly changed. Though not in essentials, I think." Malcolm moved to the other Queen Anne chair. It was tempting to start with Raoul, because in some ways that seemed easiest. But there was something else that needed to be addressed first. "There's a lot I need to tell you, Edgar. A lot that's happened since I last saw you. A lot that I couldn't put in writing."

  Edgar raised a brow. "You haven't been able to put half your life in writing since you went to work for Carfax. Though I assume you can't put it into words, either."

  "This isn't about espionage. Not directly." Malcolm regarded his brother. "I've become quite good friends with Sandy Trenor."

  "Marchmain's second? I saw him the last time we were in London, at some party or other. He seems a likable lad."

  "Remarkably decent. And with a good head on his shoulders. We were already friends when I learned his mother had been close to Alistair."

  "She—" Edgar stared at Malcolm. "Oh. God. Another. But what does that—"

  "About the time Sandy was conceived."

  Edgar continued to stare at him. "Good God. Are you saying Sandy Trenor is our brother?"

  "Your brother," Malcolm said gently.

  Edgar returned his gaze. They had never, Malcolm realized, quite verbalized it between them. "You have to have known," Malcolm said. "Or at least guessed. I did from an early age. I almost told you more than once. But I don't think I ever really put it into words with anyone. Not until I told Mel."

  Edgar flinched. "Suspecting isn't the same as—"

  "No, I suppose not. But for me, suspicion became reality." Malcolm watched his brother for an interval longer. As boys they'd been close, at least as playmates. Now there was so much of the fabric of his life Edgar didn't know. But somehow Malcolm had sensed that the truth about Sandy led into the truth about Raoul. "O'Roarke's my father."

  Edgar glanced away for a moment, looked back and met Malcolm's gaze. "I wondered—That is, I can't say I ever guessed, ever let myself fully put it into words, either. But I know how close you were to him growing up. He was always kind to me, but it was different with you. And now, with his living with you—"

  "Yes. I've known for almost two years now." Malcolm hesitated. "I'm sorry."

  "Sorry you didn't tell me sooner?"

  "As I said, I didn't want to put it into writing. And the last time you were in Britain I had only just learned and was still adjusting to it myself." Not to mention adjusting to the fact that his wife had been a French agent, and Raoul's lover. "But I meant sorry about Berkeley Square. Dunmykel. My inheritance. Rightfully, it would be yours."

  Edgar gave a sudden grin. "You don't believe in all that, in any case."

  "Which gives me even less right to the inheritance."

  "That's not—" Edgar sat forwards in his chair. "Damn it, Malcolm, you can't have thought I'd be so poor-spirited as to hold it against you. In any case, when it came to Alistair, we were always allies. He can't really be said to have favored me." Edgar frowned. "I wonder what he thought of Trenor."

  "It's difficult to tell. Or even if he knew."

  Edgar kicked his booted foot against the chair leg. "Does Gelly know?"

  "About Sandy? Yes."

  "And about O'Roarke?"

  "I told her when she was in Italy for Aunt Frances's wedding."

  Edgar scraped his boot toe over the carpet.

  "She saw in Italy how close O'Roarke and I've become. Aunt Frances knows. There was no way I couldn't tell Gelly."

  "Aunt Frances knows?" Edgar shook his head. "She's known from the first, I suppose."

  "Mama told her. Before I was born. Apparently Fanny used to write to O'Roarke about me."

  "You've learned a lot."

  "Once I had the basic truth, the questions followed."

  "And most of the family know."

  "I wouldn't say most."

  "Allie and Geoff?"

  "They were in Italy too."

  "Judith?"

  "She was in Italy as well. It would have raised more questions—"

  "Yes, I quite see." Edgar settled back against the high back of the chair. "You've seen them all more than you've seen me in recent months. Years."

  "You and Lydia have been away."

  "So have you and Mélanie, if it comes to that." Edgar scraped his toe over the carpet again. "The truth is we're not as close as we used to be. No sense in denying it."

  That was unusually blunt for Edgar. Malcolm shifted his position from one side of the chair to the other. "Our lives have gone in quite different directions. That doesn't change the fact that we're brothers and love each other."

  Edgar shifted his shoulders against the chair's high back. He'd always been slower to use words like "love." "I forget sometimes how far apart we've grown."

  "I wouldn't say—"

  "For God's sake, Malcolm. You were always the one to confront hard truths. I'm sure it happens to others. Growing apart, I mean."

  Malcolm drew a breath. "I went away."

  "To Italy?"

  "No, to the Peninsula, ten years ago. I know that didn't help."

  "I was in the Peninsula myself."

  "But I cut myself off. I was miserable and sick with myself and thought I was no good for anyone I cared about, but it didn't solve anything. And it made things worse for the people I'm close to. I'm sorrier than I can say."

  "You didn't—" Edgar looked into Malcolm's eyes, his own very open yet at the same time unusually hard. "It started before, Malcolm. I have a share in that."

  That brought up a tangle Malcolm had never fully understood. Shifts in their relationship that were wrapped up in their mother's death, though he couldn't directly tie Arabella to them.

  "In any case, I'm glad to know the truth," Edgar said. "I'm pleased you're happy with it. As you said, I don't know that it changes anything. Alistair's still the man we thought he was. As to Sandy Trenor—you'll always be my brother. Far more than I can imagine his ever being. But I'd like to get to know him."

  "You'll like him. He has an open temperament like you. Odd in two sons of Alistair's. But then, I've always refused to believe bloodlines determine who we are."

  "It always comes back to politics with you, doesn't it? No, you make a good point." Edgar waved a hand. "Given our bloodlines, it's probably a good thing for both of us and Gisèle that we don't think they define us."

  The angle of Raimundo's head and the set of his shoulders were familiar even several paces down Rotten Row. Familiar from their few meetings during the war, but also from his resemblance to his father. Patrico held his shoulders in that same slightly stiff way, as though a sword rested across them. Raoul watched his nephew a moment longer, then touched his heels to his horse and cantered forwards. A fair number of riders were out and a few carriages and pedestrians on the walkways, but nothing like the press that would be found a bit later in the afternoon at the fashionable promenade hour.

  "I trust you'll forgive the intrusion." He reined in beside Raimundo. "I called at your hotel and they said you'd hired a horse and gone riding."

  "Sir." Raimundo's hands closed on the reins, but he kept his grip steady. "I knew I might encounter you in London. Under the circumstances, it didn't seem appropriate to call."

  "You are clearly a diplomat, my boy."

  Raimundo met Raoul's gaze, his own direct. "I'm not my father. Whatever people's differences, it makes no sense to me for them not to speak to each other. Particularly when they share ties of blood. I told my father I had no intention of avoiding you when I left Spain."

  "And no doubt received a stern warning."

  Raimundo gave a faint smile. "Let’s say we let the matter drop rather than coming to any sort of agreement." He relaxed his hands on the reins. "I must offer you my felicitations. I hope to pay my respects to the new Mrs. O'Roarke while I'm in London."

  "Thank you. Laura would be pleased to meet you."

  "And I understand I have a new cousin."

  Raoul felt himself smile despite the ground he was navigating. "Clara will be delighted to meet you as well. Though you'll have to interpret based on her smiles. I have a stepdaughter Emily who is my daughter in all the ways that matter. She is also very intrigued at the idea of having a cousin." Raoul hesitated, gaze on the shade-dappled path before them. "You have another cousin as well, who is already known to you. That's partly why I wanted to speak with you without delay. Malcolm Rannoch is my son."

  Raimundo's hands jerked on the reins. "I beg your pardon?"

  "You may have heard rumors about Arabella Rannoch and me."

  "I—" Raimundo swallowed. "On occasion. But—"

  "My relationship to Malcolm wasn't as generally known as my relationship with his mother was. I'm not sure your father knows. But it's more or less an open secret now. Certainly not anything Malcolm or I try to hide. Malcolm didn't feel it was his place to tell you, though. Especially given today's events."

  "I can quite see that." Raimundo adjusted his grip on the reins. "From what I saw of Rannoch today, I'm proud to call him cousin. I'm glad you're on such good terms."

  "We live with the Rannochs, actually. That is, Laura and the children do, and I do when I'm not in Spain conducting activities that must continue to drive your father mad."

  "I'm no revolutionary, but I'm far from being in total agreement with Father about Spain." Raimundo hesitated. "If you've just seen him, Rannoch must have told you about the attack on Mrs. Larimer today."

  "I was shocked."

  Raimundo nodded, jaw tight. "I couldn't settle to anything when I went back to my hotel. The Rannochs and the man from Bow Street—Inspector Roth—assured me there was nothing more I could do, but I couldn't go on as though it were a normal day. So I went riding. I hoped it would clear my head. But now that I'm here, it seems rather heartless." He glanced round at the riders in glossy beavers and velvet habits, the lacquered curricles and phaetons, the pedestrians with parasols and walking sticks.

  "It's difficult to escape horror. But not wrong to feel the impulse to do so. And you'd be of no help to Mrs. Larimer sitting brooding in your hotel room. You're more likely to remember something of use if you clear your head, as you say." Raoul adjusted his hands on the reins. "As you must know, Malcolm and Mélanie investigate crimes of this sort. I help them at times, as does Laura. I gather Mrs. Larimer was a friend of yours."

  "I can't claim to have known her well, but, yes, we were acquainted. That's why I had called on her. To offer my greetings and my condolences on her husband's death. I still can't believe what I discovered."

  Raoul watched his nephew's seemingly open face, dappled by shadows from the branches above. Mélanie had said she thought there was more to Raimundo than there appeared to be, and Mélanie had excellent instincts. "Did you know she was working as an agent for the British?"

  Raimundo's eyes widened. "Good God. No." He hesitated. "I know that's your business, but she seemed the last person to be involved in deceit. That is—"

  "Spying is deceit. No sense in denying it. And the people who are best at it seem the most unlikely to deceive."

  "Did you work with her in Spain?"

 

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