Laura had taken up a position not far from one of the archways where there was a constant flow of traffic and a good opportunity to observe—and hopefully catch a whiff of useful conversation. A few gentlemen had stopped by with flirtatious comments and one or two of the girls had offered bits of advice, but no one had engaged her in detailed conversation.
"Can't think why I've never seen you before," a gruff voice said beside her.
Laura turned to find herself regarding a stout man with graying hair and shrewd blue eyes. "I've only recently come to Mrs. Hartley's," she said. And then, because she was old to be beginning such a life, she added, "My husband was killed in the war."
Which was not too far from the truth.
He coughed. "Pity about that. Sympathies."
"Thank you."
Men liked to talk to women to whom they weren't obligated. She'd seen that a bit herself, in her days as a heedless young woman and wife in the confined society of India. And she'd heard it from Rachel Garnier and from Mélanie just today. "You look like a soldier yourself."
"You've a good eye, m'dear. Was some twenty years ago. Then my elder brother took a bad fall putting his hunter over a jump and broke his neck. I came into the title and sold out. Always missed the army. Sir Humphrey Grandison. Mrs.—"
"Fielding." Laura smiled and extended her hand, realizing she wasn't quite sure of the expected courtesies. At least there was no need to wait for an introduction, which was rather refreshing.
Sir Humphrey bowed over her hand with more gallantry than some had shown her as Lady Tarrington.
"Honored to meet you, ma'am. Did your husband fall at Waterloo?"
"No, at Toulouse."
"My younger son fought in Spain. We're fortunate to have him home now."
The "we" presumably meant his wife, which was rather odd, given their circumstances.
"I knew Bonaparte was a threat," Laura said, "but I confess I never could really understand why so many of our men had to fight in Spain. It wasn't our war—not there."
"Not precisely, no. Needed to confront him, though. Oh, here's some champagne. Let me get you a glass." He retrieved two glasses from a passing footman and gave one to her.
Laura took a measured sip. "And now it seems Spain is becoming a tangle all over again. But perhaps you have interests there."
"What? Ah—no. Not precisely." Sir Humphrey leaned a hand against a pillar, which put him a step closer to her and, she suspected, gave him a better view of the beaded neckline of her gown. "Some of the fellows have invested in armaments and that sort of thing. Never did so myself. Never saw much point. Perhaps seemed too close to home, having been a soldier and with my son fighting. And as for creating a hero—"
"Creating a hero?" Laura nearly choked on her champagne. "Do you mean someone in the British army was actually—"
"No, no." Sir Humphrey cast a glance about. "Nothing like that."
"It wasn't someone British then? But that's so intriguing. Do you mean—" Laura pretended to consider while alternative approaches raced through her mind. "You're talking about someone Spanish? It would almost have to be, if it's not someone British. I remember once when my husband was home on leave he told me about this Spaniard who undertook terrifying missions and was a hero to the villagers. He sounded terribly exciting. He had some sort of fanciful name. Hawk or Peregrine or—"
"Goshawk," Grandison said. "But I assure you—"
"Yes, of course, that's it. Do you mean to say he—this Goshawk person—was actually working for your friends? But how fascinating." Laura opened her eyes very wide to indicate a fascination that held no understanding of the wider implications.
"Didn't say anything of the sort, m'dear."
"But if he's the hero you're talking about—"
She saw the conflict in Sir Humphrey's eyes. Wariness because of his role in the League warring with the desire to show his inside knowledge and impress a pretty woman who was leaning towards him with every appearance of interest, indicating how very impressed she might be.
"Can't use names. Not at all the thing. All sorts of intriguing during the war, you know."
"Oh, were your friends agents? How terribly exciting. But surely now the war's over there's no need to be so secretive about it. They were working for their country, after all."
Sir Humphrey coughed and tossed down a drink of champagne. "Complicated business. Spain still a tangle, as you said. Have to be careful what we talk about."
"I quite understand. It's just so exciting."
"Best discuss something else."
Laura saw the flash of a diamond-headed walking stick near the door from the passage and caught her husband's eye. Time to leave.
She smiled at Sir Humphrey. "Of course, I quite understand." She took a step to the side and then let out an exclamation of distress. "Oh, dear, I've torn a flounce. How provoking. Do excuse me. I must run to the ladies' retiring room. I'll be right back."
She gave her champagne glass to Sir Humphrey and slipped off to find Raoul. And deal with the shattering implications of what Sir Humphrey had seemingly just revealed. That as the Goshawk, Edgar Rannoch had been working for the Elsinore League.
"And to think I missed this completely when you broke into the Louvre," Cordelia said. They were all out of Winsley's house, making their way down the street with the giddiness of a successful mission. Mélanie tightened her grip on Malcolm's arm. She had the painting, still wrapped in her scarf, tucked under her other arm. She and Cordelia had got out the side door before the footman recovered consciousness and managed to untie himself. Malcolm and Harry had followed, staggering out the front door, and Raoul and Laura had got out through the mews.
"That was fairly routine," Harry told Cordelia.
"Except for the soldiers who caught us and forced us to pull spy rank," Malcolm said.
"The biggest challenge of that was facing down their seriousness without laughing," Harry said.
"Ho, who goes there?"
Damn. The watch.
Cordelia gave a very effective scream.
"It's all right, Cordy," Harry said, in a realistic slurred voice. "Just the watch."
"Oh, how tiresome."
"Here now." The watchman held up his lantern to peer at them. Its light also showed his face. Square, determined. He was on the young side for a watchman, late twenties, and took his task seriously. "What are you doing? What's that you're carrying?"
"Oh, it's the stupidest thing," Cordelia said. "It took forever to find it, and it's only a boring landscape, and now we've got to go searching for a basin and ewer in crimson, of all things."
"Just the ewer," Mélanie said.
"Told you the Hartleburys have one," Harry said.
"Yes, darling, and as to how on earth you can know what's in Lady Hartlebury's bedchamber—"
"Never mind about that," Malcolm said. "A library was one thing. Going into bedchambers—"
"That's the fun of it, darling," Mélanie said.
The watchman swung his gaze back and forth as though he couldn't work out where to look. "Here now, are you stealing?"
"Oh, it's not stealing," Cordelia said. "We're going to give it all back. And we have a list so everyone's agreed to be part of it. It sounded so diverting. But it's getting fearfully cold. I do begin to think champagne and lobster patties and even ancient music would be preferable. Really, a new gown is quite wasted on this."
"What is it?" the watchman asked.
"It's called a scavenger hunt," Mélanie said.
"A what?"
"We have a whole list of things to look for."
"A tiresome list," Cordelia murmured.
"And whoever finds them all first gets the prize," Mélanie said.
"A hideous vase no one would want," Malcolm said.
"The point isn't that, the point is winning," Mélanie said.
"We'd still have to look at the damn thing."
"So you're taking things," the watchman said in a determined voice. He wasn't a Dogberry or a Verges. Not quite. But somewhere in the vicinity.
"Yes, but we're going to give them back." Cordelia opened her eyes very wide. "You can't think we'd actually want to keep all these things, would you? A red basin and ewer—"
"Just the ewer," Malcolm said.
"Even more useless. And a single Hessian boot with a yellow tassel, and a copper skillet, and goodness know what else—"
"So it's all some sort of game?"
"Of course." Mélanie smiled at him. "You can't think we'd be working at this hour, can you?"
"Work?" Harry yawned. "What's that?"
"Best be on your way, then," the watchman counseled. "But mind you don't wake anyone else who isn't playing this—er—game."
Mélanie unwrapped the painting from the gauzy black folds of her scarf and set it on the library table. The others were all gathered round, including Blanca and Addison, and Frances and Archie, who had been waiting for them in Berkeley Square. Malcolm picked up a letter opener and slit the back, carefully so as not to damage the painting or whatever was hidden inside. Mélanie reached in and felt the crinkle of papers. "So, Glenister was at least telling the truth about that," she said, drawing them out.
"But they're more than love letters from Catherine Collingwood," Malcolm said. "I see two different hands."
Mélanie held the yellowed paper to the light of the branches of candles. "That's definitely a 'Cathy,'" she said, turning it to read the crossed lines. "But the others—"
"Good God." Malcolm was reading. He handed a letter to her.
Mélanie scanned it and met her husband's gaze.
"Yes." He looked at her, then at the others. "Glenister may have been telling the truth about being Annabel's father. But it seems he neglected to tell us that the papers concealed here also reveal that he isn't Quen's biological father. There's a note, a very simple one, signed by Mary Glenister, stating that her eldest son was fathered by Alistair Rannoch."