The Glenister Papers, page 38
"That's not what I meant. But when we're undercover and you're supposed to be my lover, you can interfere without breaking character if other men get too close. In fact, it gives you the perfect cover for letting loose your protective impulses."
"As I recall, when we've been undercover, we've more often ended up fighting side by side. If I did anything but assume you could hold your own, we'd probably both get killed."
"Well, yes, that's true, love. But I think you've always worried more about my being subjected to pawing hands than to fists and knives and pistols. I agree pawing hands are disagreeable, but I'm quite capable of dodging them. It's a long time since I've put up with anything I wasn't willing to."
"I know."
She turned to kneel on the bench facing him and smoothed his hair off his forehead. "Just because you're a man doesn't mean you're responsible for all men, you know, darling. You're you. And you couldn't be more different from the sort of men who'll be at tonight's party." Or his brother. "Which hopefully you're a good enough actor to disguise."
"I wish—"
"I know. You wish you could have stopped the things that happened to me. You wish you could have stopped what happened to Kitty. But all we can do is move forwards from where we are now. And given both our pasts, where we are now is rather amazing."
"I just hate to think that what's between us has anything to do with—"
"What men at the party want from girls from the Barque of Frailty? What we share couldn't be further from a transaction. But at its heart, desire is desire, darling."
"That reduces us to rutting animals."
"On a crude level, that's what we all are." She slid her hand behind his neck and looked into his familiar, incredibly tender gray eyes. "It doesn't mean there aren't layers about it. Incredibly complicated layers. Incredibly delightful layers." She reached up and kissed him, lightly, but as a reminder of all that was between them. "Nothing's like what we share, darling."
His fingers closed on her elbows. For a moment, she felt he wanted nothing more than to lose himself in what was between them, blotting out past and future.
A rap on the door broke the moment. "I'm, sorry," Valentin said, when they bade him come in, "but Lord Palmerston is below. In the circumstances, I thought you'd want to see him."
Valentin had shown Palmerston into the small salon. He was standing by the fireplace but turned and came forwards when Malcolm and Mélanie came into the room. "I'm sorry. I know it's well into the evening, and I seem to have interrupted you on the point of going out."
"A masquerade friends got up," Mélanie said. Her makeup was done and her gown of black net over claret satin was not beyond the realm of what she'd wear to a party herself. Thankfully, she hadn't yet put her wig on. "We're not in a hurry." That wasn't entirely true, but they needed to learn whatever Palmerston had to say.
Palmerston nodded. "I'm on my way to dine myself, but in the circumstances, I thought this shouldn't wait. As I suspect you guessed, I wasn't entirely forthcoming when you came to see me yesterday."
"I had an inkling." Mélanie moved to one of the chairs by the fireplace. Malcolm and Palmerston sat as well.
Palmerston settled back in his chair and crossed his legs. "I have to answer for the army's accounts in Parliament. I get no end of questions from my own colleagues, and out-and-out attacks from the Opposition." He looked at Malcolm. "Yours are particularly effective."
"Thank you," Malcolm said.
"So when someone comes asking questions about the accounts, my first instinct is that they're looking for information to use against the war office."
"Harry," Mélanie said, "are you saying that Annabel Larimer came to see you about war office accounts?"
Palmerston met her gaze with none of the artifice of the ballroom. "She wanted to know how unofficial military intelligence operations were funded."
"Did she say more?" Malcolm asked.
"Yes." Palmerston tapped his fingers on the chair arm. "She wanted to know if I'd heard of an operative called the Goshawk during the war. Which I had, a bit, in the foreign papers. I thought he was Spanish. Mrs. Larimer said he was British, that he'd worked for British intelligence, and wouldn't the funds he'd used for his missions, and to distribute to the Spanish, have had to be accounted for somewhere in war office records? I said theoretically, yes, but with the tangle of war office records it would be damned hard to trace. All of which is perfectly true. It's also true that Mrs. Larimer didn't tell me why she wanted information about the Goshawk and in fact resisted my efforts to draw her out on her motivation. So I was inclined to think it might all be some effort to embarrass the war office. I said I'd look into the matter and get back to her. I did start to do so, but other matters intervened, and I confess I wasn't in a great hurry." He looked from Mélanie to Malcolm. "I had no notion the matter might be urgent."
"You wouldn't have done," Malcolm said.
"Yes, well, I can't but keep refining upon it, but that's folly, I suppose. When Mélanie came to see me yesterday my first instinct was still to be careful what fodder I gave for your excellent questions before the House. But I started digging through the papers in earnest last night and today. I think I've found what Mrs. Larimer was looking for. There are large amounts that I'm quite sure were being diverted to the Goshawk operation, particularly in late '12 and early '13. When one of my clerks learned what I was looking for, he was quite helpful. The odd thing is, he said he pulled the same information for Lord Carfax seven years ago."
"In the autumn of '12?" Malcolm asked.
"Early '13, I think." Palmerston met Malcolm's gaze for a moment. "Odd, I thought, Carfax asking for the records of expenses for his own mission."
"Yes," Malcolm said. "It is indeed."
Palmerston nodded. "I have my clerk combing the records further. I've told him the results are only to come to me, for now." He pushed himself to his feet. "I'll give you an update as soon as I know more."
Malcolm stood as well. "Talking of awkward questions, I assume it's occurred to you that Carfax may not want you talking to us."
"It could hardly fail to do so. I don't know if it's the Whiggish influence of the woman I love or just my general quixoticness, but between Carfax and the two of you, I really find no contest. Just be a good fellow and spare me the questions in the House this time, Rannoch. Don't worry, I'll see myself out. I know you have a great deal you're juggling. Mélanie, you look stunning." He kissed her hand. "I'd give a great deal to know where you're actually going tonight."
Mélanie looked at her husband as the door shut behind Palmerston. "Was Edgar—"
"Diverting funds intended for the Goshawk operation? Carfax's interest in early '13 suggests that. At least it suggests that Carfax wanted some account of the funds being used for a mission he'd set up himself. And at the moment, I'm certainly ready to imagine Edgar guilty of just about anything." His gaze clouded for a moment with questions he perhaps wasn't prepared to face yet. "A lot of questions to consider tomorrow." He squeezed her shoulders. "But meanwhile, we have a mission to prepare for."
Chapter 41
"I can't imagine choosing to come here." Saslly, one of the girls from the Barque of Frailty, ran a gaze over Mélanie, Cordelia, and Laura in the soft glow of the hired carriage's interior lamps. She had thick hair and world-weary green eyes and was probably five years Mélanie's junior.
"Oh, I don't know." Dolly, another of the girls, adjusted her spangled scarf. "The champagne's good. And the food. And the gentlemen aren't any worse than at the Barque of Frailty."
"But they don't work at the Barque of Frailty," Sally said.
"I think what you're doing is very brave." Daisy Singleton, the third girl, a petite, elfin-faced brunette, had met them during their January investigation of her friend Miranda Dormer's murder.
"Brave or foolhardy," Sally said.
"It can amount to the same thing," Mélanie said. "And sometimes in retrospect the outcome defines the difference."
The carriage rattled to a stop. Torchlight flashed into view, but they were not at the front portico. "We go in a side entrance," Daisy explained.
The coachman let down the steps and handed them down from the carriage. A side door opened. Two footmen emerged, shepherded them inside, and took their cloaks. In many ways it was like arriving at any Mayfair ball, save that they entered a narrow passage, not a marble-tiled hall. The footmen were courteous yet there was a certain matter-of-factness about them that a footman wouldn't show to a lady arriving as a guest. Mélanie caught one running a quick gaze over her as though toting up her value. Footmen might very well have similar thoughts about ladies, but they kept them better hidden. On the other hand, she'd seen gentlemen at Almack's run a similar gaze over young women on the Marriage Mart, save that in that case the calculation would include a dowry as well as physical charms.
One of the footmen conducted them up narrow carpeted stairs and through a baize door to the reception rooms, an enfiladed suite done in blue and gold. A number of other women were already present, disposed about the rooms, sipping champagne, chatting with each other, checking their hair in the heavy gilt-framed mirrors.
"First time here?" a fair-haired young woman in red asked Mélanie. She and Cordy and Laura had moved a little apart from each other so as not to attract too much attention.
Mélanie accepted a glass of champagne from a passing footman. "Yes."
"It's quite grand," the girl said. "But no need to be intimidated. Just be careful who you go off alone with. And whatever you do, don't let Billy Repton make you an offer. He talks as though he has a fortune, but he's completely washed up. Could scarcely afford a night at the Barque of Frailty, let alone keeping a mistress."
A stir in the next room announced a new arrival. Sir Gerald Winsley wandered through the rooms accompanied by two other men. Sir Humphrey Bergot, Mélanie thought. Or was it Bermot? It always made her think of Bergamot. And a younger man who looked vaguely familiar but whom she couldn't place. They wandered through the rooms, glancing over the women, stopping to speak with them now and then, but for the most part it was more an inspection than a conversation. Which was probably just as well. Again there was a certain uncomfortable parallel to Almack's. Mélanie felt more inclined than ever not to take Jessica to Almack's when she was old enough.
Winsley turned, looked straight at her, and walked over. He bowed, quite politely. "Don't think I've seen you before. New, are you?"
"To here." Mélanie made her voice more throaty than usual and made the words almost a double-entendre, with a suggestion that she was far from new to other things.
Winsley laughed with appreciation. "What's your name?"
Mélanie smiled at Winsley. She didn't know him well, but she had once been seated beside him at dinner. He'd talked about fishing the entire time. "Marguerite," she said.
"Charming." Winsley's gaze ran from the curls of her red wig to the beading at the hem of her gown and the satin ribbons on her slippers—she was standing to allow her ankles to peep out from beneath her skirt. He cast a glance at Bergamot. "Quite out of the common way."
"You said it, old boy."
Which might mean she wasn't doing her job well. She was supposed to look more common. On the other hand, neither Winsley nor Bergamot had given the least sign of recognizing her, so, thus far the masquerade was succeeding.
The men wandered on. The doors opened again and the first of the guests arrived. A stream of gentlemen in evening dress, many of whom she knew, none of whom gave the least sign of recognizing her. She took a sip of champagne and moved into the crowd. The way to blend in was not to be a wallflower.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Malcolm, Harry, and Raoul come into the room in the midst of a large crowd. Malcolm had his hair grayed. Harry had a padded stomach. Raoul was leaning on a walking stick and had a false set of side-whiskers.
"Here, now." A portly man blocked her path. "Your glass is almost empty. Can't have that."
Mélanie smiled up at him. Theodore Braswell. She had once sat across the table from him at a dinner given by his sister, who was married to a Whig MP. "Oh, if you could refill it, I'd be so grateful," she said, in the tone of one asking a knight to go off on a perilous mission.
"Gladly."
Really, in many ways, this wasn't so very different from being a political wife.
Mélanie was smiling up at a man. Theodore Braswell. Whose sister was married to John Ponsford, who was just enough of a reformer to be an ally of Malcolm's on occasion. Braswell was leaning over Mel at an angle that gave him a view of her décolletage. His hand came up to tuck an errant strand of hair behind her ear, and then slid down to where her gauze gown dipped off her shoulder. He slid her sleeve lower. Mélanie playfully swatted his hand away and laughed up at him.
"Steady, old fellow." Harry's hand closed on Malcolm's arm, in a way that would look like an inebriated man trying to steady himself to anyone who didn't know Harry. "They can handle this. Nothing to actually worry about."
They'd make a scene. Break their own cover, and Mel and Cordy and Laura's. And expose everyone to more danger. "I hate—"
"So do I, old man. But no one would thank you for intervening. Especially your wife."
He'd fought beside Mel often enough and could focus on his own share in the fight, secure in the knowledge that she could protect herself. This was different. And yet, as Harry had said, there was no doubt she could protect herself here as well as in a fight. It was hardly novel to see another man showing an interest in his wife. To be honest, he'd seen political colleagues go almost as far as Braswell in crude attempts at flirtation. But seeing her like that was a reminder that his very self-possessed wife had once been powerless. And he felt a rage that made him want to smash things.
"You two look lonely." A young woman with elaborately dressed hair, tired eyes, and a remarkably sweet smile appeared before them.
"Only trying to work out the best approach." Harry gave a lazy smile that made him look quite unlike himself, and snagged three glasses of champagne from a passing footman. "Now you just have to decide which of us is more to your taste."
Mélanie caught Cordelia's eye across the room for the briefest moment, and then Daisy Singleton's. "Oh, dear, it's so dreadfully hot in here." She wielded her fan, sending a waft of air into Braswell's face, which was perhaps not sensible but was very satisfying.
Braswell's brows rose with appreciation at the idea of going somewhere more intimate. He gave her his arm and they moved through the crowd quite as they might at a Mayfair ball. In fact, it was only slightly less crowded and slightly more raucous than Emily Cowper's.
The passage was crowded with new arrivals and ladies who had taken up a position there as the best place to meet someone. "Not a lot of privacy here." Braswell glanced round.
"Mr. Braswell." Daisy ran up to them. "You promised to show me the naughty engravings in the room at the end of the passage. I've been wanting to see them for an age, but Sir Gerald doesn't like the girls to wander in there on our own."
"Hrmph." Braswell hesitated, clearly torn. Mélanie took advantage of the moment to disentangle her arm from his.
"Oh, do come. No time like the present." Daisy caught Braswell's hand.
While Braswell was turned away, Mélanie slipped into the crowd. It took no more than five seconds for her to lose herself entirely, making strategic use of other guests for cover. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Malcolm and Harry stagger through the archway from the main room. Cordelia fell into place beside her without speaking. They threaded their way through the crowd. At the head of the stairs, Raoul was smiling flirtatiously at a woman with luxuriant dark hair. As they slipped past, he and his companion turned, her trailing green gown caught round his walking stick so it made a curtain that disguised the sight of Mélanie and Cordelia slipping down the stairs.
A trio of gentlemen were coming through the front door. Two couples stood in the shadows further down the hall, heads close together. As Mélanie and Cordelia neared the base of the stairs, Malcolm and Harry pushed past them.
"Steady on, old fellow." Harry made a grab for Malcolm, who was in the lead. "You've had too much to drink."
"Speak for yourself." Malcolm lurched forwards, narrowly avoiding one of the new arrivals as the man gave the footman his hat. Another footman appeared from the back of the hall with a tray of champagne glasses.
"I'm perfectly well." Harry staggered into Malcolm. Malcolm spun round and launched a blow at Harry, and the two of them careered into the footman with the champagne glasses, sending the three of them to the ground in a hail of broken crystal.
One of the women screamed. One of the new arrivals skidded on the champagne-soaked tiles, possibly helped by Malcolm's foot, and went down as well. Mélanie and Cordelia dodged past into the far reaches of the hall.
Third door on the left, per Blanca's instructions. Mélanie tugged it open and they slipped inside. The smells of ink, leather, and tobacco in the darkened room suggested they had found the study. The flare of light when Mélanie found a brace of candles and struck a flint she had in her reticule confirmed it.
It was a room furnished with opulence, if without particular style. Though an oil on the wall looked like a Canaletto. Like most of the League, Winsley had quite an art collection.
The bronze-inlaid cabinet was against the right wall. Cordelia held the brace of candles while Mélanie knelt on the Turkey rug, took her picklocks from her beaded reticule, and pressed her ear against the polished panels to listen for clicks. Within a few minutes the lock clicked open. She reached inside. There, on the top shelf, was a framed picture, still wrapped in brown paper. She took it out and unwrapped it enough to see that the picture matched Malcolm's sketch. Resisting the urge to further examine the cabinet—each moment was precious—she wrapped the picture in her Zephyr scarf, tucked it under her arm, and relocked the cabinet.
