The O'Roarke Affair, page 33
Hubert looked at his nephew. "We have a minimal amount in common, Julien. But I'd agree with you there."
Julien stared at Hubert.
"Don't look so shocked, Julien. Just because I don't always act on my feelings—"
"Always?"
"—often—doesn't mean I don't have them. How much risk is Malcolm at?"
"We aren't sure," Mélanie said. "We aren't sure of anything."
Julien moved to her side and put an arm round her.
"Did the same person who attacked O'Roarke kill Bamford?" Hubert asked.
Mélanie looked at Hubert from the circle of Julien's arm. "The same person tried to kill both of them. Sit down, Hubert. We have a lot to tell you. And it may help us get through the waiting."
They were halfway through the story when the door opened again to admit Harry and Cordy and Frances and Archie and Judith and Jeremy. Cordy went right to Mélanie and hugged her. Over Cordy's shoulder, Mélanie saw Harry, face set with fear, Frances, hands gripped together, Archie, arm round Frances, face drawn. Judith and Jeremy hovered a little behind, but Jeremy met Mélanie's gaze and gave a quick smile.
"We didn't want to make things worse by descending on you," Frances said.
"Nonsense." Mélanie moved from Cordelia to hug Frances. "It helps so much that you're all here."
"Sit down and listen to the story we've been telling Hubert," Julien said. "It's a good distraction."
A little of the pallor left Fanny's face when they got to the news that Bamford was alive. "I always liked Tony Bamford. And the League were behind the attacks?"
"According to Beverston, Lord Thirleton wants to push Castlereagh—and Bamford—out and become foreign secretary."
"That fits what I've seen and heard in Westminster," Hubert said. "But it doesn't explain targeting O'Roarke."
"Someone in the League has something personal against him," Julien said. "At least according to Sylvie. Someone other than Alistair. And whatever it is, apparently it connects to Bamford as well."
"And to the past," Kitty said. "My source told me that. Someone with powerful friends wouldn't be safe while Bamford was alive."
"And Beverston said Alistair told him the most dangerous thing Raoul had done wasn't a betrayal," Mélanie said. "It was a collaboration. Presumably with Bamford."
"Damn it—" Hubert said.
"That doesn't mean either was a double agent," Harry said. "Agents find reasons to collaborate with other agents."
"Was the person who shot Lord Rothermere trying to kill him or Bamford?" Judith asked.
"Difficult to know," Julien said. "It's possible the League thought Rothermere knew too much and decided to get rid of him. But Rothermere was fair-haired and of the same height and much the same age as Bamford. The idea could have been to make sure Bamford was dead before the explosion went off. If Rothermere went on the ship—he may not have known about the explosion, perhaps he went to leave a bottle of wine for the guests—the assassin could have mistaken him for Bamford."
"That was my thought," Jeremy said. "They couldn't have counted on the explosion killing anyone for a certainty. And we did find a decanter and glass."
"And then the killer hid Rothermere in a cupboard?" Cordelia asked.
"If the killer realized they'd got the wrong person they may have been scrambling to cover things up at that point," Kitty said.
"Or if they were hired for the job, they might not have known they had the wrong person," Julien said. "They could have always planned to hide the body so Stroheim wouldn't run the moment he stepped onto the ship. They needed Stroheim to create an international incident, but killing him doesn't seem to have mattered as much."
"So we're looking for someone with a grudge against both Raoul and Tony Bamford," Fanny said.
Mélanie looked at Malcolm's aunt. "You've known them for years."
"Yes, but I didn't know of their association. I could scarcely tell you acquaintances they had in common, much less enemies."
Archie stretched out his bad leg. "The only person I can think of is Reynald St. Pierre."
"What on earth does he have to do with Raoul or Tony?" Fanny asked her husband. "He went back to France decades ago. And never made much of himself, from anything I heard."
"He was selling information to the British," Archie said. "I suspect Hubert knows."
Hubert grunted. "He wasn't much of a help."
"In fact, he was such a problem that Bamford convinced Raoul to turn him into a double agent," Archie said.
Hubert's brows snapped together.
"Even you don't know everything, Uncle Hubert," Julien said.
"I know that. But what the hell did Bamford think—"
"That he could watch what St. Pierre did and that he'd have a hold over St. Pierre if ever he tried to curry favor," Archie said. "He never forgave St. Pierre for his role in the rue Saint-Nicaise affair."
"That was bungled," Hubert said.
"That was an attempt to take out a foreign leader that killed a shocking number of civilians," Julien said in precise tones.
"So St. Pierre was reporting to O'Roarke all these years?" Hubert demanded, gaze on Archie.
"Apparently St. Pierre would try to play O'Roarke and Bamford off against each other, and instead they controlled him. A couple of years ago, St. Pierre asked for Bamford's help getting preferment with the Bourbon government in light of his supposed service to Britain. Bamford pulled out evidence of St. Pierre's duplicity and threatened to expose St. Pierre if he dared raise his head."
"I have to admit that was cleverly done." Hubert pushed his spectacles up. "Bamford told you all this?"
Archie met his gaze. "How else would I know it? I'm more concerned with getting at the truth than with other niceties."
Mélanie tensed. Because unlike her and Raoul, Archie didn't have a pardon, and at least in theory, Hubert didn't know Archie had been working with Raoul. She saw a wary flash in Harry's eyes at the risk to his uncle.
Hubert grunted. "As you say."
Fanny was frowning. At first Mélanie thought it was over the risk to Archie, but then she said, "It's odd, because she and Hetty Bamford were such good friends."
"Who and Hetty Bamford?" Mélanie asked. Frances's mind could make quick leaps, but normally Mélanie could follow them.
"Helen Tarleton. She and Reynald St. Pierre were madly in love, only he was an emigré without a portion and her father forbade the match. Reynald ended up going back to France. And Helen married Lord Marchmain."
A dozen fragments of information shifted in Mélanie's head. Into a chilling pattern.
CHAPTER 56
Before Mélanie could put her thoughts into words, the door swung open. She looked round, expecting Geoffrey, every nerve stretched taut. Instead, Valentin stepped into the room. "Lord Marchmain has called." He cast a concerned glance at Mélanie. "I would have told him you weren't at home. But—"
"Quite." Mélanie got to her feet. "Please show him in."
She took a step forwards, aware of the others ranged behind her. Even Hubert.
Lord Marchmain came quickly into the room, then hesitated on the threshold at the sight of the company.
"Come in," Mélanie said. "I'm afraid you find our household somewhat disrupted. Sandy is upstairs with the children."
"I'd like to see him. But I've come to see you. How is O'Roarke?"
"You know?" Mélanie folded her arms over her chest. Both Julien and Harry took a step closer to her.
"Yes. That's why I've come."
"Do you want to talk to me alone?" Mélanie asked.
Marchmain's gaze swept the room again. "No. If I'm right, this will impact all of you."
Mélanie nodded. "Then please sit down."
Marchmain moved to a chair by the fire as they all returned to their seats. "I suspect you've already guessed that the same person was behind the explosion on the ship and the Duke of Bamford's murder and the attack on O'Roarke tonight."
Mélanie jabbed her hair behind her ears. She'd completely pulled out the pins that usually held it back at the sides. She had her voice under control, but her fingers were shaking. "We have," she said. Without adding the new theory they had just developed that cut close to Marchmain.
Marchmain nodded. "As perhaps you know, Bamford and O'Roarke had been acquainted for some years. And had worked together."
Mélanie tensed. Marchmain wasn't a powerful politician, but he sat in the House of Lords with the Tories. If he knew about Tony Bamford and Raoul—
"We know," Hubert said. "The question is how do you?"
Marchmain returned Hubert's gaze. Few people could stand up to Hubert Mallinson so directly. Mélanie revised her opinion of Sandy's father. "They both had a man named Reynald St. Pierre reporting to them."
"We know that as well," Hubert said. "St. Pierre was a traitor to England and France."
"He had also once wanted to marry Helen. Who is now Lady Marchmain. And Helen wanted to marry him. Very much." Marchmain's fingers stilled on the arms of his chair. "I always knew she never got over him. Though it was a long time before I realized how much he meant to her." Marchmain passed a hand over his face. "I never wanted anything to do with the Elsinore League. But after Helen's affair with Alistair Rannoch, I realized she was entangled in something very dangerous. I made it my business to know more." He flushed, though his gaze remained steady. "Reading one's wife's letters sounds like the act of a jealous husband. And perhaps I was cloaking my jealousy in concern over international intrigue. Suffice it to say, for many years I had made it a habit to examine my wife's papers. I'd seen enough that I had horrible suspicions when Bamford was killed."
"Are you saying you knew—" Fanny, usually so direct, couldn't put it into words.
"No. Not last night. Not for a certainty. But when Lord Thirleton called today, I contrived to overhear him and Helen. Just after Thirleton left, our footman returned from an errand with the news about O'Roarke. I'd overhead enough from Thirleton and Helen to guess what must have happened." He looked at Mélanie and then at Laura. "If I'd had any suspicion before, I'd have done everything I could to stop it."
Laura nodded, gaze dark and steady, hands clasped tight in her lap. Kitty, who was sitting beside her, put an arm round her.
Marchmain shifted in his chair. "I confronted Helen this evening. Perhaps the most honest conversation we've had in the thirty-some years of our marriage. I didn't think she'd admit as much as she did." His face twisted for a moment. Mélanie suspected he hadn't fully accepted it himself until his wife's admission. "In truth, I think she couldn't bring herself to deny her feeling for Vincent St. Pierre."
"She arranged the explosion on the ship, the man who shot the Duke of Bamford, and the attack on Raoul," Mélanie said.
Marchmain gave a quick nod. "In concert with Thirleton, who had his own reasons for wishing to get rid of Bamford and cause chaos in foreign policy." He passed a hand over his face again. "I would scarcely have believed such things were possible until now."
"One doesn't," Julien said. "Until they occur. Well, not unless one lives the life most of us do."
Marchmain spared him a brief look.
"Where is Lady Marchmain now?" Hubert asked.
Marchmain turned his gaze back to Hubert. Mélanie could see the palpable weight of the consequences in his gaze. "On the way to the coast. To go to France and join St. Pierre. I realize you could still catch her. In truth, I'm telling you so that you have the chance to. But I ask you not to. Do what you will with Thirleton and the others. But let Helen go off in obscurity. For the sake of what is left of my family. And because I don't think any of us wants the situation that would result from Helen's crimes being exposed."
"You're right," Hubert said. "We don't. But Lady Marchmain was very determined to get rid of Bamford and O'Roarke. What makes you think she'll stop now? Especially if she's gone to join St. Pierre."
"Because I got her to write out a confession," Marchmain said. "It was the price of my helping her to flee. I promised to keep it hidden. But I told her it would be made public if anything further happened to O'Roarke. Or to me."
"Ingenious," Hubert acknowledged.
"I was improvising the best I could."
Hubert shot a look at Mélanie. Mélanie started, realizing Hubert, of all people, was asking her permission. She inclined her head.
Hubert pushed his spectacles up on his nose. And then turned to Jeremy Roth.
"Why are you looking at me?" Jeremy asked.
"Because you're the representative of British justice in the room," Hubert said.
Jeremy choked. He cast a quick look at Judith, who gripped his hand, then said, "As you say, detaining Lady Marchmain would lead to a number of complications. I can't imagine anyone in this room would wish that. Or anyone in the British government. Not that I would necessarily put the government's wishes first. But in this case, I think we are in rare alignment."
"Provided O'Roarke recovers," Julien said, a dagger's edge to his voice.
"Provided that," Jeremy agreed.
"And you?" Marchmain looked at Hubert.
Hubert folded his arms across his chest. "You've heard them. I'm merely a private citizen who dabbles in intelligence, after all."
The door opened on the silence that followed his words. Mélanie looked round, fear thrumming through her again, and met Geoffrey's steady gaze. "O'Roarke is awake. It's too early to be certain, but it's a good sign. He's asking for Laura."
CHAPTER 57
Raoul turned his head on the pillow. His mouth tasted like cotton wool. His head throbbed as though he'd been dealt a blow with the flat of a sword. Even shifting his head a fraction of an inch felt a huge effort. Yet he was alive. Breathing, even if his chest hurt.
His wife moved into focus. Strands of coppery hair escaped round her face. Blue-black smudges showed beneath her eyes. She had never looked more beautiful.
He managed to slide a hand out from beneath the covers. Laura's fingers closed round his own, tangible and reassuring. "I thought I was done for." His voice came out hoarse and cracked to his own ears.
For a moment, Laura didn't seem able to speak. "You lost a lot of blood. Fortunately Malcolm was able to give you some of his."
Raoul blinked. His brain still felt fuzzy, so it wasn't surprising Laura's words didn't make sense.
"Geoffrey was brilliant," Laura added.
Geoffrey Blackwell was standing at the foot of the bed, face contained as ever, gaze alight and focused. "I would thank you for letting me try a new technique, but I was too damned afraid I'd botch it. Your family and friends were eager to help. And in the end, your son saved you."
Raoul turned his head to the other side. Malcolm was sitting up on the sofa, a bandage wound round his arm. He'd spoken when Raoul first woke up, but Raoul hadn't quite made sense of what his son was doing there or properly taken in the bandage. Mélanie, who had come into the room with Laura, was beside him.
Malcolm gave a faint smile. "I've always been afraid every goodbye we say will be the last. And felt powerless to stop it. Today, there was something I could do."
Sandy Trenor looked at his father—or his legal father, which was part of the problem—across the small salon. He'd come to talk to Marchmain while Bet stayed with the children. He hadn't wanted to inflict his father on Bet. And now, given what Marchmain had just told Sandy about his mother, Sandy could only be relieved Bet wasn't here. To the extent he could think at all.
"You just let her go?" Sandy demanded.
"There were few other options. That is, there were a number, but they all seemed worse." Marchmain hesitated. "I'm sure she'll write to you."
"Why would she?" Sandy's voice cut with a force he hadn't intended. Not that he could really intend anything at all. That would require rational thought and rational thought seemed to have quite deserted him. "She hasn't spoken to me in months. Why should it be any different now she's fled as a murderer?"
"Alexander—" Marchmain put out a hand, hesitated, touched Sandy's shoulder. "She's your mother."
"She gave birth to me. She never—She wasn't the sort of parent the Rannochs are. The sort I hope to be. The sort I know Bet will be." He almost added "the sort you were," but he wasn't sure he had the right to say that.
"How is Miss Simcox?" Marchmain asked. "That is, Mrs. Trenor. Elizabeth."
"She's well, thank you." Sandy passed a hand over his face. "It's been—she's been concerned. About what lies ahead. But we're settling in. The Rannochs have been very kind to us."
"I trust you're both happy."
"We're together. That's what we want." Sandy swallowed. "I suppose it's what Mama wanted with Reynald St. Pierre. Or, no. She wanted him back in power. Even if it meant killing the people in his way. If she'd just run off with him in the first place, she could have saved a lot of grief."
"I don't pretend to understand her," Marchmain said.
"God knows I don't. She was so determined to keep me away from Bet. But if she loved Reynald St. Pierre so much, surely she'd have understood what it means not to marry the person of one's choice."
"St. Pierre was—"
"An aristocrat? That's it, isn't it? Bet didn't count because she's from St. Giles."
Marchmain shifted, the lamplight falling over his shoulder but leaving his face in shadow. "When you told me of your betrothal last autumn—I spoke out of shock. Normally I pride myself on thinking things through better."
"I doubt thinking this through would have helped."
"I'm not sure about that." Marchmain's fingers flexed, as though with a gesture he couldn't quite permit himself to make. "Your mother and I have known each other since we were children. The family properties adjoin. You know that. I wouldn't quite say the marriage was arranged, but it was certainly pointed out to us both that it would be an advantageous match. I was at an age where all my friends were beginning to marry. I never expected anything different. " He looked at Sandy, as though reading his discomfort. "I know, not the sort of things one wants to hear about one's parents. But it's past time for some plain speaking in our family. I liked your mother. She was a pretty girl. I was proud of having won her. She seemed happy at the prospect of being my wife. Or perhaps of being the future Lady Marchmain. But even then I knew she wasn't over St. Pierre. It would be absurd to claim we were deeply in love. I'm not sure either of us would have said so, even in the haze of our wedding journey. Certainly we'd have never risked giving anything up for each other. On the contrary, securing the estates was part of the allure."
