"I don't know Annabel well," Mélanie said. "She certainly never said anything about the Goshawk to me, but then I very much doubt she would have done, even if she had information."
Kitty nodded with professional aplomb, and reached for her teacup as though it were a purely social call. Malcolm had arranged for Kitty to call in Berkeley Square and the two of them to then call on Annabel Larimer. It might raise brows for him to call for Kitty at her hotel. And it seemed important, in ways he couldn't articulate, that Mélanie see Kitty before they left, even if she wasn't part of this piece of the investigation.
They were in the small salon. Kitty, Mélanie, himself, Laura, with little Clara in her lap. Thank God for babies. They eased the most awkward social situations. Raoul had left early to talk to a contact from Spain himself. Malcolm hadn't told him about Kitty's search for the Goshawk or about Annabel Larimer yet. He couldn't keep them apart, as he'd told Mel last night, but he also saw no need to hurry their speaking to each other and drawing Kitty's attention to Raoul's work in Spain.
"Thank you, Mrs. Rannoch," Kitty said. "I wonder if—"
She broke off as the door opened, and Blanca, Mélanie's companion, and her husband, Addison, Malcolm's valet, came into the room with Colin, Emily, Jessica, and their own baby son Pedro. Malcolm had asked Blanca and Addison to bring them in. "The children wanted to meet you," he said to Kitty.
"I'm so glad." Kitty got to her feet and shook hands as Malcolm introduced her. "My own oldest two are six and five," she said to Colin and Emily. "Though my baby is just one, not a young lady like you." She smiled at Jessica.
Jessica grinned. "I like your dress."
"Thank you. It's one of my favorites." Kitty had always claimed to have little interest in children. It was a shock seeing her so at ease. Remembering that she was now a mother herself, and seemingly a very adept one.
"You look very like your father," Kitty said to Colin.
People were always saying that. Partly because it was the sort of thing one said to parents and children, partly because it was in fact true. But with Kitty it might mean more. Everything might mean more. Had Kitty heard the rumors and wondered at Colin's parentage? Was she now relieved to see the resemblance? Surely even Kit couldn't have guessed at the truth.
Kitty smiled at Addison. "It's good to see you again."
"You as well, Mrs. Ashford." Addison inclined his head, his face a study in good manners. He was one of Malcolm's best friends and knew many of the secrets of his life, but they weren't great ones for confidences even now and certainly hadn't been in the days of Malcolm's affair with Kitty. Yet surely Addison had known. If Malcolm had had any illusions at the time that he could keep the affair secret from his valet, in hindsight he knew how foolish that had been.
Emily set Berowne, the family cat, down on the floor. Berowne ran over to investigate the rouleaux on Kitty's skirt. Mélanie scooped him up. Kitty said she didn't mind and helped Emily and Colin attach Berowne's lead, which he kept trying to bat at. Shortly after, Blanca and Addison left with the children and Berowne to go to the square garden, joined by Laura and Clara.
"We should be on our way," Malcolm said.
"I wonder—" Kitty hesitated as she pulled on her gloves. "Might I beg a favor of you, Mrs. Rannoch? Would you consider coming with us?"
"Certainly," Mélanie said, with a pause of scarcely a quarter note. "Though Malcolm knows Mrs. Larimer better than I do."
"Yes, but it occurs to me another woman might be effective at getting her to confide. And I'm not sure I'm the right woman. Though I moved in British society for a couple of years, I remained something of an outsider."
"I know the feeling."
"But you've become the toast of the beau monde."
"Hardly. I may have become something of a novelty for a time. We're very much on the edge of society now. But I'm happy to offer whatever assistance I can. As Malcolm has probably told you, I relish being involved in any sort of investigation."
Kitty smiled. "That's the other reason I thought you'd be of admirable assistance."
Annabel Larimer lived in Conduit Street, in a neat house with a shiny red door and roses in the window boxes. Malcolm and Mélanie had called on her to pay their condolences after Philip died and had attended a musical evening she gave a year later.
"I'll let you both take the lead," Kitty said as they approached the house. "In truth, it might have been better if I hadn't come at all."
"You have the information about the Goshawk," Malcolm said.
"If Annabel Larimer is an agent, she's very adept at surfaces," Mélanie said. "And even if she's not, she's the sort who seeks refuge behind the minutia of social life. It will be challenging to get her to talk. We can try to ease into it and draw her out, but you may need to shock her with a direct reference to the Goshawk."
Kitty turned her head to meet Mélanie's gaze beneath the brim of her bonnet. "My thoughts exactly."
Strategizing a mission. So part of the fabric of his life with Mel. And once so part of the fabric of his life with Kitty. Perhaps the most bizarre thing about the whole exchange among the three of them was how normal it seemed.
They stopped before the house. Malcolm moved to ring the bell and saw that the red-painted door was slightly ajar.
"How odd," Kitty said.
Malcolm rang the bell, then rapped on the cherry-red panels. There was no response. He exchanged a look with Mélanie and Kitty, knowing all their senses were keyed to danger, and pushed the door open. A marble tiled hall stretched before them. Like their own in Berkeley Square, though a bit narrower. A console table with the requisite basket for calling cards. Two straight-backed chairs. A child's red ball resting beneath one of them. He called out again and heard no response.
A faint creak sounded from the first floor. Malcolm started up the mahogany-railed stairs. Mélanie and Kitty followed. A woman's scream sounded from above when he was halfway to the first floor. Malcolm bounded up the last of the curving stairs to meet the horrified gaze of a young woman with curly red hair.
"It’s all right." Malcolm said. Vaguely, he recognized her as Annabel's housemaid from his last visit. "I'm a friend. Where's your mistress?"
As though robbed of speech, the girl stared through an open door across the landing. Malcolm saw two men, silhouetted against the light from a window. Bent over a figure on the floor. He ran forwards. Annabel Larimer lay on the Turkey rug, brown hair spread about her, blue-sprigged muslin skirts tangled about her legs. One of the men had his fingers against her neck. "I think there's a pulse."
Mélanie pushed past Malcolm and knelt beside Annabel. "There is," she said after a moment. "Faint but steady."
Malcolm looked at the two men. One of them, not the one who'd been checking for a pulse, was plainly a manservant. "Dr. Blackwell in Hill Street," he said. "Tell him the Rannochs sent you."
The young man had clear, steady dark eyes. He nodded and took off like an undergraduate running a foot race at Oxford.
"We should keep her warm," Mélanie said.
Malcolm grabbed a blanket from the back of a small settee and laid it over Annabel. Only then did he properly note the blood matting her hair at her right temple.
"We found her like this." The other man spoke in a rough voice. "We heard the maid scream as the footman was showing me in." He glanced round for the maidservant. Kitty had pressed her into a chair. "We both ran in." He looked down at Annabel. "What else can we do for her?"
"The bleeding's stopped," Mélanie said. "We shouldn't move her until Dr. Blackwell arrives."
The man nodded. He looked to be about Malcolm's own age, with dark hair, tawny skin, and clear blue eyes. He spoke with a faint accent that might be Spanish, though his English was very good.
"You're a friend of Mrs. Larimer's?" Malcolm asked.
"I imagine they knew each other in the Peninsula." Kitty had poured a glass of wine from a set of decanters by the window and was pressing it into the maid's hand.
The dark-haired man pushed his hair out of his eyes, gaze fastened on Kitty. "K—Mrs. Ashford?" he said on a note of shock.
"I'm sorry," Kitty said. "I hoped I'd see you in London, but this isn't the meeting I'd expected. Here, my dear." She curved the maid's fingers round the glass. "Drink some of this. It will help steady you." She looked back at the dark-haired man. "I don't believe you know Mr. and Mrs. Rannoch. Raimundo O'Roarke."
It was a moment before the name registered with Malcolm. Kitty gave nothing away. Being Kitty, of course she wouldn't reveal that she was introducing Malcolm to his own cousin.
"Rannoch." Raimundo's voice shook. "Of course I've heard of you."
"And I of you." Malcolm surveyed his newfound relation, trying to sort through the details of exactly what he had heard.
Raimundo's gaze shifted as though to acknowledge Mélanie, then froze on Annabel. "My God, who could have done this—"
"You didn't see anything?" Malcolm asked.
"No. Everything seemed perfectly normal in the street. As I said, I'd just given my card to the footman when we heard the maid scream."
Malcolm looked at the maid. She had taken a sip of wine and a little color had returned to her face. "Bridget, isn't it?"
Her eyes widened. "You have a good memory, sir."
"How did you find Mrs. Larimer?"
Bridget pushed a lock of copper-colored hair behind her ear and scrubbed at her cheek. "I'd just gone in to ask if she wanted tea. She usually had a cup about this time of day."
"You didn't hear anything?" Malcolm asked.
"No. I'd been in the kitchen."
"The children?" Mélanie asked.
"They're at the park with Miss Bentley. The governess." Bridget cast a quick glance over her shoulder as though fearing their return. "It's Cook's day off. It was only Gregory and me in the house with Mrs. Larimer. Jeanie, the other maid, went to the park with Miss Bentley and the children."
"Could she have fallen?" Raimundo said. "Hit her head?"
Malcolm's gaze moved over the room. "I don't think so. She appears to have been hit over the head with that bronze paperweight."
The paperweight now lay on the Turkey rug, not far from Annabel's head. He didn't want to touch it before they had someone official examine the scene, but in the light from the windows he could see blood glistening on the corner of the bronze.
He went to the windows. One of the sashes wasn't latched. A few threads of dark cloth were caught on the sill. In the flower bed below, several stalks were broken. "I think whoever attacked her jumped."
"Good God," Raimundo said.
"When did you last see her?" Kitty asked him.
"In the Peninsula. I got to know Philip Larimer through his work with the guerrilleros. He and Mrs. Larimer had me to dine several times. I wrote to her after Larimer died. She said she hoped I would call if I ever was in London. So I did today." He glanced round as though realizing none of the others would be aware of his reasons for being in the city. "I'm here to talk with some in Britain about the situation in Spain. I arrived last week. This was the first free afternoon I'd had. I had no idea—"
Malcolm tried to recall what he knew about his father's Spanish relations. Close as he and Raoul were, Malcolm knew very little about his Spanish family. Raoul had an older brother who had the family property. Presumably Raimundo was his son. And somehow he knew Kitty. Malcolm cast a glance at his former lover. She had an arm round Bridget and was coaxing her to take another sip of wine.
"I think I know one of your relatives," Malcolm said to Raimundo. It would be odd not to say as much, given that Raoul lived with them. "Your uncle perhaps? Raoul O'Roarke."
Raimundo O'Roarke met Malcolm's gaze, his own, which had been quite open, now curiously blank, as though kept so with an effort. "Yes. He's my uncle. My father's brother. We haven't—I don't know him well."
"Family can be complicated," Malcolm said. Which, given his own relationship with Raoul, ought to be funny.
Raimundo gave a quick nod, his gaze back on Annabel. "Can we put a pillow under her head?"
"I don't think we should move her at all until Dr. Blackwell sees her," Mélanie said. "Even the smallest motion can be dangerous for a head injury." She looked at Malcolm. "He'll want hot water. If we could have it ready—"
"Quite." Malcolm moved to the door.
Bridget pushed herself to her feet. "I can—"
"No," Malcolm said. "You've had a shock, and you should be here if the governess and the children return." Which was all perfectly true. It was also true he needed to talk to Kitty. "Perhaps Mrs. Ashford can help me?"
"Of course." Kitty got to her feet and gently pushed Bridget back into her chair. She and Malcolm found their way to the baize door to the servants’ stairs without speaking. The kitchen was tidy and smelled of lavender and lemon oil. Copper pans gleamed on the walls and coals glowed in the range. Malcolm checked that there was water in the kettle and poked up the coals. "I didn't know you knew my cousin," he said, his back to Kitty.
"I didn't know he was your cousin. At least not until last night."
The coals sparked to life. Malcolm turned round to see Kitty taking a stack of snowy towels from a cupboard. "I'm not the nurse your wife seems to be, but I imagine these will be helpful." She set them on the deal table in the center of the kitchen. "I don't know how much you know about the O'Roarke family. Raimundo's father, Patrico, tried to stay out of the war, but Raimundo fought with a guerrillero band. I met him when I was carrying messages between him and Victor. For a time we were rather close."
"Oh." Malcolm said it before he could formulate anything more sensible.
Kitty raised a brow. "It was before I married Edward. Well before I met you. Even after I met you, even knowing you were close to Raimundo's estranged uncle, I had no idea you and Raimundo were related."
"No, I can quite see that. I don't suppose it matters that much. I've always maintained simple biology doesn't make for family."
"It matters now." Kitty was kneeling down, rummaging in another cupboard. "Given that you say it's an open secret that Raoul is your father, Raimundo is going to learn you're cousins."
"To the point, as always, Kit. He will. What it will mean to him is another question. You didn't know Raimundo knew Annabel?"
"No." She turned back to the table, holding a blue and white basin and ewer. "I didn't see him after I married Edward and came to Lisbon, and Victor didn't talk about him much. Perhaps because of what he suspected about us. I liked Raimundo. He was a kind man. Too decent for the games we were all playing." Her brows drew into a taut line.
The kettle whistled. Malcolm filled the ewer with boiling water. "You think he knows something about the Goshawk?"
"I wouldn't have thought so," Kitty said. "Now I'm not sure of anything."