"Sometimes I think I'm a horrible person," Cordelia said, her arm linked through Mélanie's own. "I feel dreadful about what's happened to Annabel Larimer. But there's something about tonight that makes me feel quite alive."
"The contradictions of an investigation," Mélanie said. "And it's some time since we've had an adventure quite like this. I'm not sure what's more novel, being out in this society or being attacked."
Cordelia paused and looked up at her. "Not a bad night for you and Malcolm to have an adventure together."
Mélanie met her friend's gaze. "No. Though I'm not sure I'd admit it to anyone but you."
"We all have different ways of reclaiming our partners when we feel the past intruding," Cordelia said. "I think going to a secret meeting and fending off an attack is healthier than most."
"You're a wonder, Cordy."
"I just have a lot of experience with complicated relationships." Cordelia looked at Mélanie a moment longer, her gaze wide and candid. "I don't imagine everything was easy this afternoon, having to cope with the results of the attack on Annabel Larimer with Malcolm and Kitty Ashford. To own the truth, I don't know how you did it. I'm in awe."
"Much easier, in some ways, to investigate a crime scene with one's husband and his former lover than to sit down to tea and try to make conversation." Though, even to Cordy, Mélanie wasn't going to admit just how hard it had been to watch Malcolm leave the room with Kitty when they went to investigate Annabel Larimer's things.
"Easier, but not easy," Cordy said.
"She's quite brilliant," Mélanie said. "I like her."
"Which can make it harder."
"Yes, I suppose it can." Because she could imagine Malcolm being happy with Kitty Ashford. Certainly in the moment, and maybe for longer. "On the whole, though, I prefer it to disliking her," she said, as they continued down the avenue. "Then I should have to be constantly holding my tongue round Malcolm. And I should be convinced there was something wrong with me, because I can't imagine Malcolm loving someone disagreeable."
"You're very sure he loved her."
"Cordy, darling. Can you imagine Malcolm with a woman he didn't love?"
Cordy's brows drew together, dark lines against her pale skin in the blue light of the lantern above. "No. You're right. More so even than Harry. Not that—" She shook her head.
"I very much doubt Harry's ever loved any woman but you."
"I can't be sure of that. I've never asked him. It would seem terribly intrusive, somehow. And I don't suppose it matters. What matters is what we have here and now, not how we got here." She cast a glance about. A throaty laugh came from another of the pavilions off to the side. "Even if at a place like Vauxhall, it seems particularly challenging to forget the past."
"Perhaps it's more important to make peace with it than to forget it."
"You're brilliantly sensible as always, Mellie."
"Easy enough to say it. More complicated, as I'm finding, to put it into practice. But honestly, given what Malcolm puts up with, I haven't any right to complain."
"I certainly don't, given what Harry put up with only tonight."
They turned round a bend in the allée to be greeted by a cry of surprise.
"Mélanie. Cordelia. I can't believe we're seeing you two nights in a row."
Emily Cowper stood before them, her white-gloved hand curled round Lord Palmerston's arm, her dark head pressed close to his shoulder.
"It was Lady Frances's idea," Mélanie said. "Or rather, Archie's, because he thought Frances was feeling too cooped up at home and Vauxhall would remind her of her salad days."
"It is fun, for a lark," Emily said. "Especially with the right company. Harry thought it would help me recover from a night of hosting a ball, and he was quite right. Though I'm at the point with this pregnancy where I feel quite indecently well." Her hand curved round her stomach for a moment and she smiled up at Palmerston.
Palmerston returned the smile. Mélanie was quite sure he was the father of the baby Emily was carryng and very likely of two of her other children as well. His fingers tightened round Emily's with easy intimacy. A moment such as married couples often shared, but more challenging for those not officially a couple, even when their affair was an open secret. There was something to be said for the privacy of Vauxhall.
Palmerston turned back to Mélanie. "I met a friend of yours today. Or, I should say, a relation of a friend. A Raimundo O'Roarke, who I believe is Raoul O'Roarke's nephew. In fact, he got his uncle to introduce us in the park this afternoon. Wanted to discuss the situation in Spain. Like the charming Mrs. Ashford. People don't seem to quite grasp that the Secretary at War is burdened with administrative duties, not foreign policy decisions."
"But perhaps they've grasped that you take a keen interest in foreign policy," Mélanie said.
Palmerston shot a smile at her. "Perhaps."
"I know as a Whig it really isn't any business of mine how the Tories arrange their offices," Emily said, "but Harry really ought to be foreign secretary."
Palmerston laughed. "Tell that to Castlereagh."
Emily shook her head. "If I weren't in the Opposition, I could work behind the scenes for you." She looked at Mélanie and Cordelia. "It's such an odd thing, being on opposite sides from a man one is attached to."
"Yes," Mélanie said, "I would think it would be." She turned to Palmerston. "What did you make of Raimundo?" She was genuinely curious. Palmerston was a good judge of people.
Palmerston's eyes narrowed. "An interesting man, your friend's cousin. He came across as having a good understanding, but perhaps slightly naive. But I had a sense there was more to him that I couldn't quite discern. Perhaps the naiveté was a skillful pose to get me to talk. He was at pains to make it clear that while he believes in change in Spain, he's no Radical like his uncle. He asked me what I thought of the Spanish ambassador. Then your friend Mrs. Ashford joined us."
"Kitty Ashford joined you in the park today?" Mélanie tried to keep the surprise from her voice.
Palmerston hesitated.
"Oh, don't be silly, Harry," Emily said. "It's quite understandable if a pretty woman sought you out in Hyde Park."
Palmerston caught her free hand in his own and lifted it to his lips. "Actually, it was Raimundo O'Roarke she sought out. Apparently, they're old friends."
"Yes, we saw them both today as well," Mélanie said. "I didn't want to disrupt a pleasant evening with disturbing news, but we discovered that Annabel Larimer, a friend from the Peninsula, had been attacked in her home."
"Good God!" Emily said. "Is she going to be all right?"
"She's unconscious. Geoffrey Blackwell isn't sure if she'll wake up."
"How dreadful," Emily looked up at Palmerston. "I don't believe I know an Annabel Larimer. But you look as though you do, Harry."
Palmerston gave a faint smile, though his brows were knotted. "Spare your suspicions, my own darling. She's a war widow. One of my duties is to handle pensions. I've met her, but I don't know her well. A terrible tragedy. And, I must say it's odd that neither Mrs. Ashford nor O'Roarke mentioned it today."
"Yes," Mélanie said, "it is."
Emily looked from Mélanie to Cordelia. "That's why you're really here. You're investigating."
"We're here because of Frances and Archie," Cordelia said. "They're wandering about the gardens themselves."
"Don't worry," Emily said, "your secret is safe with us, isn't it, Harry?"
"Safe as the Bank of England," Palmerston assured her. But he continued to frown and Mélanie couldn't shake the sense that the news about Annabel Larimer had shaken him for reasons she couldn't yet articulate.
After Emily and Palmerston moved off, Cordelia was claimed by childhood friends. Mélanie, who wanted to see whom else they might encounter, followed another twisting path. Her senses were even more keyed to the smallest rustle or shift of the shadows in the colored light. Once she stopped, sure another attack was coming, only to realize she was working out a strategy to use against a squirrel. She moved on and saw a faint shift in the purple-tinged light. Faint enough to be caused by the wind. She almost believed it was, until—
"Fancy meeting you here."
The mocking voice echoed softly through the darkness. She could make out a dark figure on the path before her, where she'd swear there had been no one a few moments before. Something about the angle of the way he held himself betrayed his identity long before she could make out his features.
"Julien. It's rather endearing—if wholly out of what I would have called your character—that you're so concerned about Gisèle, but doesn't Gelly get annoyed by your tagging along?"
"Who said I was here because of Gisèle?" Julien St. Juste detached himself from the shadows and moved to where the spill of lamplight turned his pale gold hair purple. "I don't like to miss out on the fun. I like seeing you in action. You handled those ruffians quite handily, by the way. As did your husband, I must confess."
"Who were they?"
"I don't know." Julien glanced towards a grotto to one side, "I wish I'd been here with you in other circumstances. We could have quite amused ourselves."
"Dream on, Julien. What do you know about Annabel Larimer?"
"I danced with her once at a ball in Lisbon. I was disguised as a rifleman. She was a good dancer. And her husband didn't appreciate her nearly as much as he should have done."
"She was attacked today."
Julien's gaze flickered. "I hadn't heard."
"The League are interested in her."
"Yes, I know, thanks to Gisèle. Something about her parentage, which made me think it's another tiresome scandal they want to blackmail someone with."
"Would it really be such a scandal? Someone having an illegitimate daughter raised as someone else's child? It sounds rather commonplace for the League."
"Yes, I did wonder about that. The father must be someone who doesn't want his marriage disrupted. There are people who are particular about that sort of thing. Perhaps his wife holds the purse strings. The only other explanation I can think of is that her father is someone particularly powerful. Royalty or the equivalent. But in either case, if she doesn't know the truth herself, I fail to see why the League would attack her."
"Precisely."
"Which leaves you with a would-be killer who's someone other than a League member. And the League still in the midst of things. Good thing you and Rannoch and the others like complicated puzzles."
Mélanie moved sideways, trying to get a better view of his face in the shifting purple light. It made him look rather royal, which was an annoying image for Julien. Especially because, at times, she had wondered if it might be true. "What are you doing here, Julien?"
"I told you. I enjoy seeing you in action. I like to keep track of the unfolding drama. Dramas." He examined his nails. "I flatter myself that sometimes I've been able to help."
"False modesty doesn't become you, Julien. You know perfectly well you've been able to help. It doesn't move me any closer to trusting you."
"A sad thing that, cara. We used to work together so well."
"That's a matter of definition. But, however we worked together, I never trusted you. I can't believe you ever trusted me."
"That, again, is a matter is definition, cara. I trust you more than most people I could name. For that matter, I trust your husband more. I'm less sure about O'Roarke, but even he outranks a number of others." Julien tilted his head to one side. "Speaking of trust, how are you coping with Kitty Ashford?"
Mélanie resisted the impulse to pull her satin cloak round her. "What do you know about Kitty Ashford?"
"That she's in London." Julien smoothed a crease from his own domino. "That she was seen going into your house today, and leaving it with you and Malcolm. I assume, now, to visit Annabel Larimer, though I didn't know that before. Oh, you mean, what do I know about her and Malcolm? What I can infer from events and gossip in Lisbon eight years ago."
"I suppose I should have known." She kept her voice easy. Somehow, the fact that Julien had known about her husband's first love before she did stung more than it should have done.
"Yes, you probably should, or at least should have guessed. But I imagine you have a lot on your mind." Julien watched her for a long moment, while the purple shadows shifted over him like the folds of an imperial cloak. "I don't suppose it's easy. However sure you are of him now."
"You, of all people, should realize everyone has a past, Julien. I certainly do."
"Yes, but it's easier to acknowledge the concept than to sit down and drink tea with the past. Not to mention being involved in an investigation with them. You are, aren't you? I assume Malcolm's told you Kitty was an agent."
Yet one more thing Julien had known before her.
She felt Julien's gaze on her face. It had an odd quality that might almost have been called kindness. "She's a quite brilliant woman," he said. "But I can't imagine, even if it had lasted, that she'd ever have been to Rannoch what you are."
"Thank you, Julien. I'm well aware of what my husband and I share."
"But a bit inclined to overcompensate because you can't but feel guilty about the reasons you married him."
"I don't indulge in guilt, Julien."
"I've seen your conscience at work, my sweet."
"Julien." Mélanie opened her eyes very wide. "I didn't know you knew what a conscience was."
"Intellectual curiosity, cara." He stepped across the distance between them and touched her cheek in a way that was oddly unlike his usual flirtation. "From what I've seen of Kitty Ashford, she's more ruthless than Malcolm, and perhaps more than you. Maybe even more than O'Roarke. Have a care."
"I always do, Julien."
"But don't be so busy trying not to resent your husband's former lover that you forget she's also a very formidable agent. I don't think she's any threat to your marriage. What else she may be a threat to is an open question."
He was a hand's breadth away from her. Almost as close as he'd been in the brief time they'd been lovers. She knew him so well in some ways, ways that went far beyond the carnal. Yet so many of the basic facts of his life remained shrouded in mystery. "What do you know about Kitty Ashford, Julien?"
Julien took a step back. "Let's say I've crossed paths with her."
"In the Peninsula?"
An ironic mask closed fover his face. "We were both there."
"Are you saying there's more to the reasons she's in Britain than she's confided in Malcolm?"
"I don't know what she's confided in Malcolm." Julien examined his nails again, though surely the light was too dim for him to see anything. "But I do know she called on Carfax two days ago. Did she tell Malcolm that?"
Mélanie met Julien's gaze. She'd told Cordy that she liked Kitty. She'd almost added that she wasn't quite sure she trusted Kitty, but that had seemed too negative. Now she had proof that Kitty was apparently not to be trusted. And she was going to have to tell her husband. Who, whatever he might say, she was sure trusted Kitty far more than he'd admit. Or at least wanted to do so.
"I'll have to ask him," she said.
"Do," Julien replied.