Malcolm would have said he was prepared for surprises from Lord Glenister. But a plea for help still caught him off balance. "I don't know what I can do for you, sir, but I'm happy to talk."
"We'll go up," Mélanie said. "We should check on the children, in any case."
Malcolm met his wife's gaze for a moment, about to protest. But Glenister, despite or because of his reputation as a roué, was less likely to talk in front of ladies. And, as Alistair's friend, he would naturally have issues with Raoul.
Malcolm took a step towards the library. Glenister moved to follow him, but as the others moved to the stairs, he said, "O'Roarke?"
Raoul paused on the bottom step, brows raised.
"I don't believe I've offered you my felicitations. Or you, Mrs. O'Roarke. I trust you'll both be very happy."
"Thank you," Raoul said. Oddly, for all the history, for all they knew about Glenister, it was one of those moments when Raoul seemed quite open.
"We are," Laura said, one hand curled round Raoul's arm, Clara cradled in her other arm.
Glenister gave a smile that also seemed quite open, his gaze going to the baby. "Your daughter is beautiful. Enjoy her. I find my grandson changes every time I see him."
"Thank you," Raoul said again. "And we do."
Glenister met his gaze for a moment and nodded, then followed Malcolm into the library.
"Odd to see O'Roarke looking so domestic," Glenister said.
"I've heard that a lot in the past few days." Malcolm struck a flint to kindle the brace of candles on the library table. "I wouldn't exactly say he's domestic. But he has changed."
"Good to remember people can change. Even when they seem quite settled." Glenister set his hat on the library table. "He looks happy."
"I'm quite sure he is."
Glenister nodded, brows drawn together. "Funny, I don't tend to think about people being happy. People like O'Roarke, in particular. She's a lovely woman, of course, but—"
"It's more than that." Malcolm moved to light the lamps as well.
"Yes, I can see that," Glenister said. And to Malcolm's surprise, it really sounded as though he could.
The second lamp flared to life. Malcolm studied his godfather. Glenister's hair, gray-streaked now, gleamed in the lamplight. It was as smooth and glossy as Malcolm remembered from boyhood. It had always seemed to him to be part of Glenister's imperturbable presence. A sang-froid nothing could shake. Even Alistair hadn't had quite that air.
"What is it, sir?"
Glenister began to remove his gloves, finger by finger. "It's good of you to see me, Malcolm."
"When have I ever refused to see you, sir?"
"You know what I mean." Glenister pulled the second glove from his hand. The fine leather gleamed in the lamplight as well.
Malcolm raised a brow. "So now we're admitting the existence of the Elsinore League?"
Glenister met Malcolm's gaze in the flickering light. "Let's just say we haven't been allies."
"You and I haven't crossed swords directly. And you're still my godfather."
"Can't recall that I've ever done very much for you."
"You sent a very handsome writing case when I finished at Harrow. And a chess set when I came down from Oxford."
"Did I?" Glenister set the gloves on the library table beside his hat. "I confess I don't remember."
"You probably had a secretary pick them out. But at least you were aware of the occasion." Malcolm moved to the drinks trolley. "You still appreciate Islay malt, as I recall."
"I may have an English surname but I have a Scots title. And two Scots grandmothers." Glenister gave a faint smile and dropped into one of the Queen Anne chairs.
Malcolm splashed whisky into two glasses. "We saw Quen and Aspasia last week." Malcolm had grown up with Glenister's sons, who were slightly younger than he was himself. "And your grandson."
For an instant the smile deepened. "Yes, Quen seems to be settling into fatherhood remarkably well. A former governess fifteen years his senior isn't the bride I'd have chosen for him, but she seems to be having a good influence. Sensible woman. And quite lovely."
Malcolm raised a brow as he crossed to give Glenister one of the whiskies.
"Good God, no," Glenister said. "I have no thoughts in that direction. I'm not as bad as you think me. Not quite. I'm glad to see Quen happy. And, as I said to the O'Roarkes, my grandson is a delight." Glenister took a sip of whisky. "No judge of it, but I think Quen's poems are rather good, too."
"So do I." Malcolm moved to a chair opposite Glenister. Talking of people changing, Viscount Quentin, Glenister's heir, who had once looked to be following in his father's footsteps as a libertine dilettante, seemed to have settled into life as a husband, father, and serious poet. "And yes, your grandson is a charmer."
Glenister took a sip of whisky. For a moment, his smile was that of an indulgent grandfather. "Odd how these things work out. I once despaired of Quen. But he seems to be turning out quite well. Val, on the other hand, is entirely too much like me."
"You sound rather proud." Malcolm settled back in his chair.
"Suppose I am, in a way. More than I should be." Glenister took another drink of whisky. "Alistair never appreciated you enough."
"Yes, well, Alistair had an unaccountable difficulty with the fact that I wasn't his biological son."
Glenister met his gaze. "If he had a scrap of sense, he'd have been pleased by what he had. I don't think you'd have held it against him."
"No, I wouldn't." Though, would he still have seen Raoul as his father? Or would Raoul never have let himself grow close to Malcolm if Alistair had given any hint of wanting a father-son relationship?
Glenister took another drink of whisky. "I wish you'd married Honoria."
For a moment, Malcolm pictured Honoria Talbot, smooth pale blonde hair, brilliant blue eyes, finely arced brows, elusive smile. The idea of a future with Glenister's brilliant but quite conventional niece seemed as out of reach as the plot of an improbable novel, for all Malcolm knew many, including Honoria herself, had once expected something of the sort. "Honoria seems quite happy as she is. And I know I am."
"Yes. I suppose so. That is, I suppose Honoria is, and I know you are. Mélanie is something quite out of the common way."
Glenister was a roué of more than three decades' standing, but somehow the comment seemed to be about more than that. "Yes, she is." Malcolm regarded his godfather for a moment, then took a sip from his own glass. Alistair had liked whisky. One of the few things he and Malcolm had had in common. Though Alistair had preferred Highland malts. "What do you want, sir?"
"I suppose it was obvious I wanted something, wasn't it?"
"Given what you yourself noted about our recent relationship? Yes. Not to mention that you said you needed my help."
"I did, didn't I? I didn't mean to admit it quite so readily." Glenister shifted in his chair. "Someone's trying to blackmail me."
The words were spoken quickly and almost without inflection, almost as though Glenister thought he could reduce their power by not making too much of them.
"Who—?" Malcolm asked.
"I'm not sure."
"Surely the League—"
Glenister drew a breath. "I think the League are behind it."
Malcolm stared at his godfather. "You think—"
Glenister tossed down half his whisky. "Surely you've learned enough about us to realize we don't always work in concert."
"Quite." Malcolm studied Glenister. For as long as he remembered, the marquis had seemed self-assured. Not as hard as Alistair, not as much of a schemer, but perhaps even more adept at letting life's troubles roll off his back. "Are you saying a faction of the League are working against you?"
Glenister sat forwards in his chair, glass cradled in his hands. "I'm saying I'm the faction. The League have turned on me. Is that so hard to believe?"
"In a word? Yes. You're one of the founders."
"And founders can be turned on. I never had a taste for the complexities of the games your father—Alistair—and some others indulged in."
Malcolm took a sip from his own glass. The story fit with Archie's account of his talk with Reggie Pomfret at Vauxhall. And with Gisèle's update on the League. But though Glenister might not have Alistair's subtlety, Malcolm wasn't ready to take him at his word. "Is Beverston behind it?"
"No. I don't think so. He's part of it, but someone else is pulling the strings."
"What do they want?"
"They haven't made any demands yet. But I'd suspect my removal from power. Just like they tried to get rid of Weston. And Carfax."
"Weston and Carfax are members of the government, not founding members of the League."
"You don't believe me?" Glenister clunked his glass down on the table beside his chair. "Why in God's name would I make such a story up?"
"To trick me into sharing information. To distract me. As cover for something else."
"I don't play those sorts of games."
"You play all sorts of games."
"Not that sort." Glenister's fingers whitened on the chair arms. "For God's sake, do you think I'd come to you if the situation weren't desperate? I have no one else to turn to."
"My dear sir. You're one of the most powerful men in London."
"And all my friends are in the League."
Malcolm set his own glass on the table beside his chair. "What do you want me to do?"
"You saved Weston."
Lord Weston's plight five months ago was one of the reasons Malcolm was wary of trusting Glenister. "How much do you know about Weston?"
Glenister shifted in his chair. "I wasn't behind the attempt to blackmail him, if that's what you mean."
"But you knew about it. And you didn't try to stop it."
"We don't try to stop each other's ventures."
"Until you became the target of one yourself." Malcolm reached for his whisky. "You said they haven't made a blackmail demand yet. How do you know they're trying to blackmail you?"
"Because I can't imagine why else they'd have taken what they did."
"Which is what?"
Glenister shifted in his chair again. "A painting disappeared after a party at Glenister House three days ago. A small piece. A minor oil landscape by Mazo. Pretty, but not one of my finer pieces. Nothing else was taken. So I can only assume whoever took it knew what I'd concealed inside the matting."
"Which is what?"
"Papers."
"What sort of papers?"
Glenister snatched up his glass took a drink of whisky. "Does that matter? Surely, with my life, it doesn't take a lot of imagination to think of papers I'd find embarrassing."
"With your life, things that would embarrass other men would be blinked aside by the beau monde. In truth, my mind rather boggles at what secrets might embarrass you."
Glenister took another quick drink. "There are love affairs and love affairs. I presume I don't need to point out to you that one result of the sort of games our set has played for over a quarter century is that, despite the supposed rules about ladies not indulging in such games before they've provided their husband with an heir, not all heirs were sired by their supposed fathers."
"With my own history, I could hardly fail to realize that." There was Sandy Trenor, as he'd had to explain to Edgar—God, was it only that afternoon? Malcolm almost mentioned Sandy, but he wasn't sure if Glenister knew, and if he didn't, Malcolm had no right to betray Sandy's confidence. "Are you saying the papers concern a child you fathered?"
"Do you find that so surprising?"
"That you fathered a child with someone else's wife? No. That it would be a subject of blackmail, rather than boasting? A bit."
"I think perhaps you overrate my heartlessness when it comes to the women in my life."
"Do I?" Malcolm took a drink of whisky. "I take rather a lot of stock of empirical evidence."
Glenister didn't flinch from Malcolm's gaze, but for a moment Malcolm would have said what washed over the other man's face was shame. "It might depend on the woman. And her situation. And her family. Suffice it to say, I need to recover these papers. I am hoping you will assist me."
"I don't see how I can without more information." Especially given the investigation into the attack on Annabel Larimer.
Glenister tossed down the last of his whisky and stared into the empty glass for a moment. "I was fond of the woman in question. I could say I've been fond of every woman I've been involved with. I wouldn't precisely be lying, but I imagine you'd laugh. And, in truth, I confess I often haven't always—often—considered my mistresses as much as I should have done. Neither their feelings nor their reputations. But in this case—my feelings were engaged. More than they had been for some time. More perhaps than they've been since." He turned the glass in his hand. "It was over three decades ago. I wasn't yet married. When she told me she was pregnant, I confess I had mad thoughts about running off with her."
As Raoul had had with Malcolm's mother. And with Mélanie. As Malcolm had had with Kitty. "You changed your mind? Or she wouldn't go with you?"
"She thought about it. But she already had three children with her husband. She wasn't prepared to leave them. I make no pretenses about my own parenting skills, but I understood her response better when I had children of my own."
"So she passed the child off as her husband's."
"No." Glenister held his empty glass out to Malcolm. "Do you mind?"
Malcolm took the glass and refilled it. Glenister took a deep drink, knuckles white round the etched crystal. It had the Rannoch crest. Alistair's crest. Much as Malcolm was tempted to try to erase all trace of him from the house, there was no doing so. He'd admitted at last it was folly to try.
"Her husband had been away," Glenister said. "The timing wouldn't allow for him to be the father."
For a moment, Kitty's voice eight years ago echoed in Malcolm's head. "You must have felt terrible."
Glenister met his gaze. "You wonder how I could, in good conscience, get a woman in such a situation?"
Malcolm took a drink of whisky. It burned his throat. "I understand anyone can find themselves in an uncomfortable situation."
"She went away to have the child." Glenister's voice was flat, all feeling suppressed. "Her cousin agreed to raise it."
"The cousin's husband knew?"
"Yes. At least that's what my mistress told me. She and her cousin were close. And I promised money to provide for the child. Though I don't believe that's why they agreed. My mistress assured me they'd be good parents. I never met them. She told me it was better that way. They never knew my identity." Glenister took a drink of whisky. "She died having the baby."
Impossible to be impervious to the raw sorrow that shook Glenister's voice, whatever the man's crimes. "I'm sorry," Malcolm said.
"Her maid wrote to me." Glenister's knuckles whitened round the glass. "The maid was the only one who knew about me. The family gave it out that she'd died of a fever. The child survived. The cousin raised it, as agreed."
"And the papers—"
"Love letters she wrote to me. Foolish to have kept them, as I imagine Lord Weston and Lady Darlington would agree. And, given how the pair of them are smelling of April and May, I imagine they'd also understand how I couldn't bear to destroy the letters."
Malcolm turned his glass in his hand. It was a compelling story, and Glenister told it with seemingly genuine pain. But the pieces didn't quite add up. "It's a sad story, sir. But also, sadly, not uncommon. As we discussed, you have a certain reputation, and no government career to be damaged like Weston or Carfax. While these letters might cause embarrassment and rouse unfortunate memories, I fail to see why they represent such a threat."
Glenister drew in and released his breath. "Because my mistress's husband was a fellow Elsinore League member."
Which perhaps explained why he hadn't yet used her name. "I see. But, given the games the Elsinore League played, the games they still play, surely not the first time that had happened, either."
"No. But not all husbands have the same attitude to these things. There are men who would have accepted the baby as their own."
"Alistair did, to his credit. Though I think it was largely to avoid the embarrassment the truth would have brought."
"Most likely. And perhaps because, appearances to the contrary, I don't think he wanted to give your mother up."
Malcolm met Glenister's gaze. His seemingly self-absorbed godfather had hit on something Malcolm was only just beginning to suspect himself. "Possibly."
For a moment, Malcolm thought Glenister meant to say more. Then, instead, Glenister said, "At any event, in this case the truth probably would have meant a duel. Scandal for the woman I loved. Scandal can't touch her now, but it could still tarnish her memory. The duel could still happen. I suppose you could say that's no more than I deserve, but it's not something I welcome. And I have a case in the common pleas that could go badly. That would probably be doomed. Considering her husband is lord chief justice of the common pleas."
Malcolm nearly dropped his whisky glass. "Your mistress was Lady Collingwood?"
Glenister nodded. "His first wife. Cathy."
The blood pounded in Malcolm's head. "And the child she bore—"
"Cathy's cousin raised her." Glenister stared at the glass in his hands, "She was married to a Shropshire attorney. I was able to get reports from time to time, thanks to Cathy's maid. The girl seems to have had a happy childhood. She married an army officer. He died two years ago—"
"And she's living in London with their three children. Her name is Annabel Larimer."
Glenister's head shot up. "How the devil—"
"I saw your daughter today, sir. I knew her in the Peninsula. I'm afraid she was attacked this afternoon."
"Attacked—"
Malcolm told Glenister briefly, omitting all reference to the Goshawk and merely saying he and Mélanie had gone with Kitty Ashford because Kitty had known Annabel in Lisbon and wanted to see her.
The color drained from Glenister's face. In light of the connection to Annabel, Malcolm was questioning everything his godfather had said to him, but Glenister's shock certainly appeared genuine. "She'll recover?"
"We hope so. The children are safe."
"Who in God's name—"
"We don't know. Her sister, who arrived just after, said Mrs. Larimer had seemed troubled recently. Perhaps fearful for her life. We thought it was most likely something to do with her time in Spain, but in light of what you've told me—who in the League knew of the affair?"
"Alistair. No one living."
"And whoever took the papers. If not before, they certainly know now."
Glenister's brows drew together. "Even if Collingwood had learned the truth, I can't see him moving against Annabel."
"No? Some men can't bear the evidence of their wives' infidelity. You yourself pointed out how Alistair felt about me."
"But you were Alistair's heir, whom he had to acknowledge as his son. Annabel was raised with no connection to Collingwood. Collingwood has two sons and a daughter from his marriage to Cathy, and more children with his second wife."
"I agree Mrs. Larimer's being raised by others makes it less likely. Though not impossible. You say you think the League are behind the theft of the papers. Do you think Collingwood orchestrated it?"
Glenister ran a hand over his dark hair. "If Collingwood knew, surely he'd have moved against me. The whole threat of the letters is what might happen if he did learn the truth. Besides, though he's a League member, he's never been one of the most powerful. Not the sort to orchestrate something like this."
There was also Gisèle's account of the League's interest in Annabel's parentage. This could account for that interest. But Malcolm couldn't mention it without exposing Gelly. Malcolm set his glass down and turned it on the satinwood of the table. "Tell me more about this party where the painting disappeared. Was it a League party?"
"There are League members at just about every party in Mayfair. You must know that, by now."
"You know what I mean. Was it a reception or musicale at which your nieces would be present, or the sort of gathering that gives the League their cover as a hellfire club?"
Glenister gave a half smile. "No sense in prevaricating, I suppose. It wasn't strictly a League party, but it was a gentleman's gathering. By which I mean there were females present, but they would not be considered ladies. There was rather a lot of drinking. It made for a good amount of chaos, which makes it difficult to determine precisely what may have happened."
Malcolm nodded. "Who do you think stole the papers?"
"I haven't the least idea."
"My dear sir. You're a number of things, but you're no fool. Did you have enemies there?"
Glenister shrugged. "I imagine I have enemies everywhere. But nowhere near as many as your fath—Alistair did."
"Which isn't saying a lot, considering Alistair was murdered."
Glenister frowned, in a seemingly genuine effort of memory. "Beverston was there. Others in the League as well. But since I'm not quite sure of the current factions, I can't be certain of who is an enemy. I'm hoping you can discover that. I'm hoping, as I'm sure you realized, that you'll agree to recover the papers."
"Because you're my godfather?"
"I would hardly presume upon that, as I said on my arrival. Because you want to stop the Elsinore League as much as I do."
"More, I would say. It's news to me that you want to stop them at all."
"It changed when they moved against me."
"Funny how that happens." Malcolm swallowed the last of his whisky. "I'll need a list of the guests. And access to your house."
Something like hope leapt in Glenister's eyes. "So, you'll help?"
"It may be connected to the attack on Annabel. And you're right. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. At least temporarily."
"So we're friends now?" Glenister said.
Malcolm regarded his godfather with a steady gaze. "It seems we are."