Frances looked up from her writing desk. Francesca and Philip were in baskets beside her. "Malcolm. I thought you were busy investigating."
Malcolm closed the door of his aunt's sitting room and leaned against it. "I am."
Frances's finely arced brows drew together. "You think I can help you? I admit I quite enjoyed Vauxhall last night, and I wish I could do more, but I didn't know Annabel Larimer."
"It's not about Annabel."
"What, then?" Frances regarded him. "Don't look so grave, Malcolm. Surely at this point you realize there's very little you can't ask me. And certainly very little that would disturb me."
Malcolm moved to a chair beside his aunt. "I've never liked to ask you about Alistair. Never felt the need to, for that matter. It's your past, and I have no particular interest in him."
"Good heavens." Frances set down her pen. "What has Alistair got to do with this?"
"I'm not entirely sure, but possibly a great deal. He did found the Elsinore League, which seem to be behind much of what is happening, even as they are tearing each other apart." Malcolm swallowed. He was treading on delicate ground. Ground he had treaded before with his aunt, but that didn't make it easier. Especially given the change in her circumstances. "I'm sorry. I don't imagine it's easy for you, either."
"My dear Malcolm." Frances's faint smile appeared genuine and held a touch of mischief. "I've always found such matters easier to speak of than you do. Aside from the fact that it's much easier to discuss sordid details about oneself than to discuss them about the parental generation."
"Now, of all times—"
"You mean because of Archie?" Frances leaned down to rock Francesca's basket. "Actually, being with Archie allows me to look back on Alistair with rather more equanimity. I think he may have been the only man I loved before Archie, you know."
"Yes." Malcolm said. "I thought as much." Odd to speak of such things with Frances. Odder still to do so so easily. He looked at the babies for a moment, then back at his aunt. "Do you have any memory of Alistair giving Glenister a painting in '97? A Spanish landscape."
"I imagine Alistair gave Glenister paintings more than once. They could both go on and on about paintings. And sculptures and caskets and tapestries and lord knows what. Not that I don't enjoy art, and I can certainly appreciate it on my own walls as well as in a museum, but I can't imagine having this obsession with owning a particular piece. More of an obsession than I ever saw either of them show over a particular mistress."
"It was a way of making a place for himself, I think, in Alistair's case. Though he did genuinely appreciate art, I'll give him that. I'm less sure about what drove Glenister. But according to Glenister, this painting wasn't a particularly fine one. He says he's not sure why Alistair gave it to him. Glenister hid papers in it." Malcolm went on to tell his aunt about Annabel Larimer's being Glenister's daughter.
"Good God," Frances said. "I'm prepared for any scandal with Frederick Glenister, but not so much for his being at the heart of what sounds like a tragic romantic drama. Though, if his heart really was engaged, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Most people's are, at least once."
"You didn't know?"
Frances shook her head. "I barely remember Catherine Collingwood, I confess. A pretty thing. Danced and enjoyed herself, but I never heard any gossip. Not even when she died. The family covered it up well." She shook her head. "It's dreadful what an inconvenient pregnancy does to a woman. And to her children." Her brows drew together. "I had to very careful, you know, after George died. And I was, until Archie. Being in love made me careless. That and that I thought I was getting too old for the risk." She reached down to rock Philip. "More fool me. Two of them."
"They're very fortunate in their parents," Malcolm said.
"Archie and I are fortunate to have them. For that matter, I'm fortunate to have Archie."
"I found Glenister at Quen and Aspasia's today and saw him with his grandson. He seems surprisingly besotted."
"We can all adjust our priorities later in life. Probably a very good thing for him not to be under Alistair's influence. Frederick always had his moral lapses, but he was hardly Alistair's equal. Unaccountable that it was Alistair I fell in love with."
Malcolm shifted in his chair. This was uncomfortable ground, but also ground he'd had time to think about. "I suspect Alistair was a different man with you."
Her mouth curved in a faint smile that hinted at memories Malcolm didn't want to probe. "Perhaps. He wasn't as disagreeable as with some people, though God knows we quarreled."
"Did he ever talk about getting art from Patrico O'Roarke?"
"Good heavens, no. I'd have remembered that." Frances frowned for a moment in an effort of memory. "But he did once say—perhaps ten years ago, it was not long before Chloe was born—that Spain was proving surprisingly useful."
Sam Lucan settled back on one of the spindle-legged chairs in the small salon and took an appreciative sip of the brandy Mélanie had given him. "Well, this certainly beats meeting in a mud hut. Or even a wine cave."
Sam, who had formerly gone by the name Sancho, had dealt in weapons in the Peninsular War where Mélanie had first met him. She had helped Raoul settle Sancho in London after the war. Sancho—Sam—now dealt in other goods, the details of which Mélanie thought she was better off not knowing, particularly for the sake of her MP husband. But Sam had proved an ally on more than one adventure recently. And his lover Nan was the sister of Bet Simcox, Sandy Trenor's mistress. Mélanie had contacted Sam through Bet, who had brought him to Berkeley Square.
"We're here to help," Bet now reminded Sam. She was sipping tea and looked quite at home perched on another of the fragile chairs, her gloves and reticule in her lap. It had taken some months to convince Bet she was always welcome in Berkeley Square, but she could now settle in with the ease of a friend.
"Of course." Sam stretched his legs out. "Just can't get over thinking how well you've done for yourself, Mélanie, every time I come here."
Mélanie took a sip of tea. "Believe me, so do I."
"Well, if anyone deserves it, you do."
"That's arrant nonsense and you know it."
"After what you went through in Spain, and what you accomplished, and what you did for your friends? Name me another agent who deserves it more. Mind you, I haven't done badly myself. Especially with the new lodgings Rannoch helped us find. Nan says it feels positively respectable to be out of St. Giles. I told her we'll never be respectable so she needn't worry about it, and anyway, you're living in Mayfair and it hasn't changed you. Or Rannoch, from what I can tell. Decent man, your husband. Probably far too decent for the games we're all still playing."
"Much too decent."
Sam grinned. "He can take care of himself." He took another appreciative drink of brandy. "This is about Spain, isn't it? Everyone seems to be talking about Spain these days. Personally I'm glad to be out of it, though God knows it would be a good thing if someone could clean up the mess the war left. O'Roarke's still messing about there, isn't he, for all he's been playing domestic lately?"
Mélanie stirred milk into her tea. "You know Raoul. I can't imagine he'd stay away from a revolution."
"No. Hope that pretty wife of his understands who her real rival is."
Laura had gone out to the garden with the picnic hamper, but following their talk about a partner's past it was an apropos comment. "I don't think Laura has any doubts about where Raoul's affections lie," Mélanie said. "And she's far too wise a woman to try to change him."
"She's a bloody genius if she's worked out it's never a good idea to try to change a lover." Sam sat back in his chair. "What do you need me for?"
"What do you know about the Goshawk?" Mélanie asked.
"The Goshawk? Christ, that's going back. The Goshawk hasn't been active for years."
"Some people would like to change that."
Sam sat forwards. "Are you saying you know who he is?"
"No. We're trying to find out."
"For O'Roarke."
"As part of an investigation. Raoul agrees the Goshawk's an overblown legend. But a legend that could prove useful."
"Hmm." Sam turned his glass between his hands. "Always thought the Goshawk caused too much trouble. Dashing in and out, getting in the way of those of us trying to get on with the business of fighting the war. Or arming others so they could."
"I don't entirely disagree. But there's something to be said for inspiration."
"I'll take superior numbers or a good battle plan any day. Or, better yet, intercepted codes so you can avoid the battle entirely. But I suppose I can see how the Goshawk could be helpful. Funny though, your coming to me. I'd have thought you'd know. Or your husband would."
"Why?" Mélanie set down her tea. "Sam, do you know who the Goshawk was?"
"No. Not precisely." Sam took another drink of brandy.
"Sam!" Bet said. "This isn't a time to draw out the drama. Tell Mélanie what you know."
Sam frowned into his glass. "It was in late '12. I had a request for a shipment of guns. Not from one of my usual customers. A group of guerrilleros I worked with brought this man to me. Vouched for him but wouldn't say exactly who he was working for. He wanted a small shipment. Promised an exorbitant amount of gold. I met him in a tavern to make the delivery. He could pass for a Spaniard superficially, but I know an Englishman when I see one. At least, by that point in the war I did. Never occurred to me I would live here at the time, but—"
"Sam," Bet said.
"Yes, yes, I know, I'm getting to it. When I told him I could tell he was English, he didn't even try to deny it. I asked him why the devil he wanted the guns, wasn't their government keeping them supplied, he said these weren't for the army. I asked who the hell they were for, then. I mean, I may not have been as particular as I should, but I did like to know where my weapons ended up. He said not to worry, they were going to a village that needed to protect themselves. That sounded rum to me. First time I'd heard of anyone on any of the damned many sides we had in the war trying to protect anyone. I said as much. He said his master wasn't working for any of the sides, well, not precisely. We were deep into our second bottle of Rioja by then, and he got expansive. Said his master was clever, that the generals thought they could control him, but he ran rings round all of them. Kept dropping hints until I asked him straight out if his master was the Goshawk. Of course, then he denied it. But the denial as good as confirmed it in my mind. His master was the Goshawk. And he was a British officer."
Mélanie stared at her former comrade. "You're sure?"
"Why would I make this up? The man was English. He let slip he was a sergeant. His master reported to generals. I assumed Rannoch knew. Though I suppose British intelligence was as disorganized as French."
"From everything I've learned from Malcolm, I have no doubt of it." Mélanie took a drink of tea. "Did you ever hear any rumors about Diego Martinez's death?"
"Martinez? Thought he was killed by brigands."
"People went to considerable lengths to make it look that way."
"Interesting. I never heard any talk about Martinez. But then, I wasn't in Lisbon much. Hope you have better luck with other sources." Sam regarded her for a moment over the rim of his brandy glass. "When did you last see Julien St. Juste?"
"Not long ago," Mélanie said. Sam was a friend, but she wasn't ready to share that she'd seen Julien at Vauxhall the night before.
Sam held her gaze. "I always knew you liked to play with fire. Never believed marrying a gentleman and living in Mayfair changed that. But you could have knocked me down with a feather when we got here for O'Roarke's wedding to see St. Juste sitting among the guests. I can only assume you invited him to keep an eye on him."
"Actually, Raoul invited him."
"Never thought I'd say this, but I thought O'Roarke had more sense."
Only last winter, Sam had been convinced Raoul had engaged Julien to undertake a covert operation against the British government, and Mélanie and Malcolm had both half believed him for a time. "A lot's changed," she said. "Julien's got tangled in our investigations and he's—"
She almost said "a friend," except that was a laughable term to use for Julien. Wasn't it?
"He was very polite at the wedding," Bet said. "Kind."
"He talked to you?" Sam demanded.
"Oh, yes. I dropped my reticule and he picked it up. Then he complimented me on how pretty it was, not in an insinuating sort of way but very kindly. And he told me not to be intimidated by the beau monde. That they were more approachable than they looked, or else too dull to matter. Then he looked over at Raoul and Laura—" She hesitated.
"What?" Sam asked.
"He asked if I thought it would work."
"What did you say?" Mélanie said.
"That they loved each other and of course it would. He smiled and said I was a romantic and it took more than love. Which of course it does, but not in Raoul and Laura's case, I don't think. I mean, they know each other, and they're from the same world, really." She hesitated again. "He looked over at you, Mélanie. He—"
"Oh, lord, yes," Sam said. "St. Juste's been barmy about Mélanie for years."
"Doing it much too brown, Sam." Mélanie took a sip of tea. "Julien St. Juste has never been barmy about anyone in his life."
"Everyone has their own version of it. You mean something to St. Juste. Not sure what I'd call it. Not sure what he'd call it. But it's something I've never seen a hint of his feeling for anyone else. Doesn't make him any less dangerous. The man's a killer."
Mélanie stirred more milk into her tea. "So are any number of other people we work with."
"St. Juste's just better at it than most. And he has no loyalties."
"I'm well aware of that."
"Even to you."
"I'm completely aware of that. More than most people about me, it seems."
Sam shook his head. "You can take care of yourself, thank God. You're going to need to."
"When has that not been true?" Mélanie said.
They finished their drinks and talked a bit more about Spain, but Sam, to his own regret, had no more information to impart. When he and Bet rose to leave, Mélanie kissed his cheek. "We'd like to have you bring Nan next time. And Sarah."
"We'd like that. Nan says thank you for looking after Bet."
"Sam!" Bet said.
"You're still her little sister," Sam said. "And Mayfair has its own dangers. As I'm sure Mélanie would be the first to tell you."
Bet pulled on her gloves. "If you mean, I could get my heart broken, I'm too sensible for that."
"No one's too sensible for that," Sam said.