The Glenister Papers, page 34
"One can only hope."
With his usual impeccable timing, Valentin poked his head out of the baize door from the service stairs. "Tea, Mr. O'Roarke?" he asked with a cheerful smile and a gaze that said he was quite alert to the investigative undercurrents in the household.
"Capital." Raoul took Lisette into the library. He put his hat and gloves on the library table, then set his hands on her shoulders and surveyed her. "This isn't a social visit, is it?"
"No." Lisette's gaze went wide and candid. "Not entirely. Though I did want to see little Clara. She changes so much in even a few days."
Raoul drew Lisette over to the chairs by the fireplace.
Lisette settled into one of the Queen Anne chairs but hesitated, fingering a fold of her gown. "Raoul." Her brows drew together. "How well do you know your nephew?"
"Raimundo?" Raoul went still for a fraction of a second as he settled himself opposite her. "Not well at all. Though rather better after the past few days than I did in all the years before." He leaned back in his chair and studied his former agent, who had spent relatively little time in the Peninsula. "But what surprises me is that you know him at all."
"I met him once when I was in the Peninsula. At a ball in Lisbon. I was in disguise. I don't think he'd recognize me if he saw me now. Not because I don't think he's clever enough—because I think he's a great deal cleverer than he seems—but because we didn't really interact. I noted him because I knew he was your nephew. It wasn't surprising he was there. It was a ball given by the British, and he was their ally. But then I saw him last week. Talking with Guillaume Foret."
Raoul's hands closed on the arms of his chair. "My nephew was talking with a French agent?"
"You sound surprised." Lisette's gaze darted over his face. "I thought perhaps he was secretly working for you in Spain."
"No. I didn't know he was an agent of any sort until today." Raoul smiled at Lisette's startled gaze. "You have rather more faith in me than I have in myself. But yes, I'm surprised and disappointed in myself as well. Not for the first time, I should add."
"I wasn't sure what to make of it." Lisette tugged at the cuff of her spencer. "I thought about telling Mélanie and Malcolm, but I decided it would be better to tell you first."
Raoul settled back in his chair. "Very wise. We're allies and a family, but loyalties can still be a complicated thing. Especially when it comes to a past where we were on opposite sides. As both Malcolm and Mélanie would be the first to say. As well as my wife, I think. Though in this case it may involve an investigation we're all working on."
"The attack on the woman called Mrs. Larimer yesterday?"
"Yes."
"Raimundo is involved in that?"
"He arrived just after it happened. And he admits to a past connection to Annabel Larimer."
Lisette's eyes widened. "His talking to Guillaume Foret doesn't necessarily prove he was working for the French."
"No, but it's suggestive. My nephew is a man of many surprises. And he seems to be tangled up in a number of crimes."
"But—" Cordelia stared at Raoul. "You were a French spymaster."
"So I was." Raoul smiled. They were all gathered at one end of the library with the children playing at the other end. Despite Lisette's admirable discretion, he had thought it best to ask her to share her information with all of them as soon as possible. "As Sam pointed out to Mélanie, different intelligence branches don't always speak to each other. I ran my own network, which gave me a lot of welcome independence. But it also meant I didn't always know what was happening with other intelligences sources." He crossed his legs and stared at his toes for a moment. "Though I flattered myself I was a bit better than this." He looked at Mélanie. "You didn't know, did you, querida?"
Mélanie stared at him. "You think I knew your nephew was a French agent when you didn't?"
"No, but it's a possibility."
"And you think I wouldn't have told you?"
He settled back in his chair. "You might have had your reasons."
Mélanie's brows drew together. He suspected she had realized he was wondering if she could have had a liaison with Raimundo. Which had occurred to him, though it wasn't the only reason she might have kept quiet. "No," she said. "And even if I had, surely I'd have told you now, when he's tangled up in the investigation."
"Yes, I would think so," Raoul said. "But you'd ask me the same, were the situations reversed."
Mélanie smiled. "Touché. And no, I didn't know."
"Whether or not Kitty knew is an interesting question," Malcolm said. "One would think not, though after today nothing would surprise me."
"So is whether or not Annabel Larimer knew," Harry said.
Laura looked at Raoul. "Does Raimundo know you were a French agent"?"
"An excellent question." Raoul touched his wife's hand, then looked at Malcolm. "We need to have another talk with your cousin without further delay."
Chapter 35
Raimundo O'Roarke stared from Malcolm to Raoul. They had found him at Mivart's, finishing dressing for a dinner at the Spanish embassy. He had dismissed his valet on their arrival, and sat facing them on the same striped satin chairs they had occupied earlier in the day, claret now before them instead of coffee.
Raimundo's face had gone as pale as his snowy shirt and cravat. But his gaze remained level. "I should deny it, I suppose. Make up some story about why I was meeting with a former French agent. There could be a number of reasons."
"There could," Raoul said in an even voice.
"But I think we all know that would only be one more step in a game that would end with me in check." Raimundo reached for his glass, his fingers white round the stem. "I knew. On some level I knew it was only a matter of time before one or both of you worked it out."
Malcolm regarded his cousin. "My compliments."
Raimundo took a sip of claret, his fingers almost steady. "I suppose it's inexplicable to someone British. But then, you were using our country just as the French were. It was your private battleground to fight your war. Neither army had much care for the Spaniards in their wake. But I knew the answer wasn't staying out of the conflict, as my father tried to do." He glanced at Raoul. "Of course, unlike my father, I had interests beyond protecting the fortunes of the O'Roarke family."
"For which you're to be commended," Raoul said.
Raimundo shrugged. "One could say, what's the point of protecting one's family's interests while the country is falling apart round you? Even before the French moved into Spain, I knew we were going to have to make a choice. That was clear to me after Trafalgar. Joseph Bonaparte was at least trying to change Spain for the better."
"He had a number of admirable ideas," Raoul agreed.
"God, you must have felt what it meant," Raimundo said. "To get rid of the Inquisition? To abolish feudal rights? To limit the power of the church?" He swung his gaze to Malcolm. "You live in Britain, Rannoch. I know you're a reformer, but you have basic rights here we could only dream of. And under Joseph, we had our best chance at getting them. Of course, he was French, but so were the Bourbons when they took over a hundred years before."
"A good point," Malcolm said. "A number of Spaniards agreed with you."
"And some didn't." Raimundo turned his gaze back to Raoul. "You didn't."
Malcolm could feel Raoul's hesitation. A part of him, Malcolm was sure, wanted to drop the charade that he hadn't been an afrancesado himself. But for all Raimundo's secrets, he didn't know that Raoul had been working for the French. And presumably, therefore didn't know about Mel. "I'd be the first to acknowledge the complexities of the situation," Raoul said.
Raimundo leaned forwards and fixed his uncle with a hard stare. "You chose the rebels. I understand that. The rebels didn't go far enough, in my estimation. But more than that, I could tell what would happen if the French lost. The British—your people"—his gaze shot to Malcolm—"would put their support behind the Bourbons. Just as they in fact did."
"You're an insightful man," Malcolm said. "I'll own I didn't see myself how bad it would be. For what it's worth, I'm not proud of what my people did in Spain. Or what I did."
Raimundo sat back and regarded Malcolm for a moment. "You're an honest man, Rannoch. It's not easy to learn one has been betrayed."
"All spies are betraying someone, one way or another."
"In which case, one might say a double agent doubles the betrayal." Raimundo looked from Malcolm to Raoul. "I'm not proud of everything I've done either. But I have no regrets about the side I chose. In fact, as time's gone by, I'm more and more convinced I did the right thing. But despite the remarkable understanding the two of you have shown, I have no illusions that others on the opposite side will feel the same." He paused and drew a breath that seemed to cut through him like broken glass. "I certainly have no illusions Annabel would understand. That's why I didn't hurry back to London the moment I heard Larimer was dead, truth to tell. I knew I couldn't marry her without her knowing the truth, and I knew the truth would stand between us."
Malcolm took a drink of claret, seeking refuge behind the glass. He didn't dare meet Raoul's gaze. "You may be doing her a disservice. I think perhaps it's easier for an agent to understand than for a civilian."
"I was working for the people her husband was fighting on the battlefield."
"And she was betraying her husband in several ways," Raoul said. "As he was betraying her, apparently. As Malcolm said, spies tend to be familiar with betrayal."
Raimundo gave a twisted smile and turned the stem of his glass between his fingers. "Malcolm is a rather remarkable man. As are you, Uncle Raoul. The more I talk to you both, the more aware I am of it. You're also both particularly remarkable agents. Far more so than I. Annabel is quite remarkable herself. But like most agents—and unlike you both, it seems—she values winning."
"The question, then, is how do you define winning?" Raoul said. "From what I've heard, Annabel became an agent more for the challenge, and to best Diego Martinez, than out of deep-seated loyalty to the Royalists. Or even to the British."
Raimundo ran his fingers over the arm of his chair, tracing a line in the carved wood like a map of the past. "There's truth in that. But I imagine she'd think I began our affair to gather information."
"Did you?" Raoul asked.
Raimundo met his gaze without flinching. "I wanted Annabel. I was more than half in love with her before anything passed between us. But she was an agent for the opposite side. I can't say I forgot that. How can I possibly say what was foremost in my mind?"
"Loyalty is often a matter of choices, as my father has pointed out to me," Malcolm said. "Did you steal information from her?"
Raimundo shifted his gaze to Malcolm, a faint twist to his lips. "We were at a crucial juncture in the war, Rannoch. Any scrap of advantage was priceless. What would you have done?"
"The more pertinent question may be what would Annabel have done?" Raoul said.
Raimundo took a deep drink of claret and stared into his glass. "Annabel was furious that Martinez began their affair to extract information. I can only imagine what she'd think of me."
"She might respect you for it," Malcolm suggested.
"Could you? Broad-minded as you are, Rannoch, could you respect, let alone love, someone who spied on you?"
Malcolm leaned back in his chair, ruthlessly keeping his voice, gaze, and hands steady. "I think it would depend on the person. And what else had passed between us. But I think it would help if her own convictions in what she was doing were stronger than mine. I'm not sure I'd respect an agent who went so far and then abandoned their cause simply because they fell in love."
Raimundo gave a short laugh. "That's a novel way of looking at it."
"Is it?" Malcolm didn't risk a glance at Raoul, but he was keenly aware of his father beside him. And rather glad he was hearing this. "If someone was going to betray me, I'd want to be damn sure they were committed to their cause for doing so."
Raimundo's brows drew together. "Annabel might agree with that. But I'm not sure the corollary is that she'd forgive the betrayal. I'm not sure I could, to be honest."
"The only way to find out, at least in Mrs. Larimer's case, is to tell her the truth," Raoul said.
Raimundo went still for a moment, then inclined his head, a soldier accepting a perilous mission. "I'll tell her, of course. Before I ask her to marry me. I can't not ask her. And God knows I couldn't marry her without her knowing the truth. Not that I have much hope of her marrying me knowing the truth. But even that shred of hope is enough to keep me going."
"What did you learn from her?" Malcolm asked.
"I beg your pardon?"
"You said you took information from her. Could any of it shed light on why she was attacked? Was there anything to do with the Goshawk?"
Raimundo hesitated.
"For God's sake. You can't betray Annabel or yourself more now than you've already done. And her life may be at stake."
"I found one reference that I think may have been to the Goshawk. If I'm right, it confirms that Annabel knew who he was."
"Whom was the letter to?"
"It wasn't a letter. It was notes. Notes I'm sure she never shared with her spymaster." He hesitated. "You already knew she might know about the Goshawk."
Malcolm leaned forwards and fixed his cousin with a hard stare. "I've said it before. Every detail matters."
"I suppose—I was terrified of the thought of your telling her the truth."
"I won't. So long as you do so first."
Raimundo nodded again and tossed down the last of his claret. "I owe her that. It may the last time I talk to her. I only hope I get the chance. I wish to God—" He broke off as a rap fell on the door. "Oh, Christ. I forgot I asked Palmerston to stop by before the dinner. We were going to walk round to the embassy together. I thought he could help me with my mission. Seems a bit futile now." Raimundo went to the door and opened it.
"Evening, O'Roarke." Palmerston strolled into the room, then stopped short at the sight of Malcolm and Raoul. "And not just one O'Roarke. Quite a family gathering." His tone left it open to interpretation whether he meant to include Malcolm in the gathering. Knowing Harry Palmerston's keen understanding, Malcolm was quite sure he did.
"We were just on our way out," Malcolm said. "I know you have a dinner to get to."
"No need to rush off on my account." Palmerston set his gloves and hat on a console table by the door. "Never in a hurry to get to an embassy dinner. Any embassy dinner. There's something stultifying about them in general. Don't you find, Rannoch? You've been to enough of them."
"Protocol," Malcolm said.
"Yes, I suppose that's it. The institution, not the particular ambassador." Palmerston strolled into the room.
"Care for a glass of claret?" Raimundo picked up the decanter, refilled the glasses, and poured one for Palmerston. Given the nature of the conversation, Malcolm suspected Raimundo wanted another glass himself.
Palmerston dropped into a chair, stretched out his legs, and took an appreciative sip. "At least your friend Mrs. Ashford is on the guest list tonight. That should liven things up. You must agree, Rannoch. You were good friends."
"I knew her a bit in my days in Lisbon." Malcolm took a drink of claret. Palmerston shouldn't know about his relationship with Kitty. Except for gossip. His mistress Emily Cowper was certainly aware of a great deal in British society at home and abroad. "Raoul knew her too."
"Lovely woman," Palmerston said. "And damned clever, from what I can tell. I happened upon her walking in the park again this afternoon, this time with her children. Obviously a clever family. I suppose you know them, Rannoch."
"No, I haven't met the children yet. I hadn't seen Mrs. Ashford in years before Emily's ball."
Palmerston's gaze settled on Malcolm, and for a moment Malcolm had the oddest sense Palmerston was weighing revealing something. There was a strange calculation in his gaze, a mix of speculation and concern. "The boy gave me a vivid account of the Argentine revolution," Palmerston said. "Quite impressive for a lad of seven."
"I believe he's six," Malcolm said, and then realized he had spoken a bit too quickly.
"Really?" Palmerston frowned. "Even more impressive, then, but I could have sworn he told me he'd just celebrated his seventh birthday."
"Yes, he's seven." Raimundo looked up from his drink as though relieved to have something straightforward to discuss. "He was born not long after Kitty and Ashford got to Argentina."
Malcolm's glass tilted in his hand. Somehow he righted it without spilling claret all over the Turkey rug. "Are you sure?"
"Oh yes," Raimundo said. "I remember Kitty writing to tell me of his birth."
The world as Malcolm knew it fell apart and shattered round him. Much as it had on another occasion when he'd also been surrounded by the striped upholstery and gleaming wood of Mivart's.
"Ah," Palmerston said. "Thought I was right. You'll want to meet him while they're in London, Rannoch. Quite an exceptional boy."
"I look forward to doing so." Malcolm heard his voice. It sounded ordinary enough, though he was not sure how he managed to form the words.
Crystal clinked on wood as Raoul set down his glass. "You gentlemen may wish to delay getting to your dinner, but Malcolm and I have our wives waiting for us, and a convivial evening at home is much more enticing than diplomatic protocol."
"It certainly would be with Mélanie and Mrs. O'Roarke," Palmerston said with a laugh. "To own the truth, I'd far rather join you. Oh, the call of duty."
They picked up hats and gloves and said their goodbyes. It wasn't the first time Malcolm had gone through social niceties in a fog. There were advantages to an upbringing that allowed one to get through such moments without thinking. He and Raoul walked down the passage and down the stairs in silence. Raoul paused on the steps of the hotel, ostensibly to draw on his gloves.
"I need hardly say that Raimundo could be mistaken."
"He could." Malcolm stared at a crested phaeton rolling down the street.
