Chapter 13

Suzanne froze in the midst of fastening her garnet pendant round her throat, gaze fixed on her husband's own in the looking glass. "Oh, darling."

Malcolm pulled his razor along his jaw. He'd moved his shaving things into the bedroom so they could talk while they prepared for the opening night of Measure for Measure at the Tavistock. "It's hardly the first time I've crossed swords with one of my friends in the course of an investigation."

"No, but Fitzroy is—" Suzanne hesitated. Difficult to put into words the bonds forged at Waterloo. She would never fully know what Malcolm had gone through that day, but she knew the bonds she had forged sharing it with David, Simon, Cordelia, Blanca, Addison, and Rachel Garnier nursing the wounded in Brussels. And Fitzroy's steady temper and a sense of honor in its own way as strong as Malcolm's own made them particular friends.

Malcolm stared into the looking glass he'd propped atop the chest of drawers. "Fitzroy and I disagree about a number of things. And I know how loyal he is to Wellington." He dipped the razor in a bowl of water.

"You think Wellington ordered him to orchestrate the break-in at Whateley & Company?"

"Possibly. Or Fitzroy's trying to protect the duke on his own." Malcolm angled his face to the light and drew the razor along his jaw on the opposite side. "The more interesting question is what was concealed at Whateley & Company that the duke or Fitzroy or both of them is so determined to uncover. Fitzroy bridled at the suggestion that it was a love letter, but he would have done whether it is or not. Though you'd think the duke would have learned his lesson."

"That's a lesson men find it difficult to learn. Some men."

Malcolm shot a smile at her over his shoulder. "Thank you."

Suzanne reached for her pearls and fastened them over the pendant. "Do you think Craven had papers that contained a secret about Wellington?"

Malcolm set down the razor and picked up a towel. "That's the likeliest explanation for how such papers could have come to be in the warehouse, though it's still difficult to see how he came by them. Easier to see Carfax having such papers in his possession. And I suppose it's barely possible he could have had Craven hide them for him, but I'd be surprised Carfax trusted Craven that much."

Suzanne smoothed the sea-green tulle of her gown. "If the papers are a love letter or letters—It's possible Craven got them from the lady in question. Or Eustace Whateley did."

Malcolm emerged from scrubbing his face with the snowy towel. "You think one of them shared a mistress with Wellington?"

"Is that so surprising?"

"Given that we know Wellington was involved in some fashion with Lady Frances Webster who's also been linked to Byron—If that's the case, I wonder if Carfax suspects."

"It's only a theory, darling." Suzanne got to her feet and went to her husband's side. A trace of shaving lather clung to the corner of his mouth. She wiped it away.

Malcolm caught her hand and drew it across his mouth. "It's a good theory."

"It doesn't explain Ennis's claim that Coventry said Whateley & Company were shipping guns."

"No." Malcolm's gaze grew serious. "God knows there was profiteering during the war, but more likely from contracts being steered one way or another than actual gunrunning."

"Suppose someone in the military had got hold of excess weapons and was selling them under the table and paying Whateley & Company to do the shipping?"

Malcolm frowned. "Possible. But while I can see Fitzroy covering up a love affair of Wellington's, I can't see him involved in gunrunning."

"Nor can I." Suzanne tightened her black satin sash. "But he could have engaged Ennis as a favor for a friend without knowing the specifics. Men can be very loyal to those they've fought with. And Fitzroy is the sort who might trust a comrade's word of honor."

"In which case it could have nothing to do with Wellington. But if Whateley & Company were shipping the weapons why break in and steal papers? Presumably whoever was behind the gunrunning was in league with Eustace Whateley."

"Perhaps that's it." Suzanne shifted the puzzle pieces in her mind. "If Fitzroy was investigating possible gunrunning and looking for proof—"

"Why in God's name wouldn't he have told me?"

"You aren't a diplomat anymore, darling. Or an official agent. If Fitzroy suspected a fellow officer but wasn't certain—"

"He might have hesitated to tarnish someone's reputation, especially to one outside the family."

Malcolm had been almost, but not quite, one of the "family" of Wellington's aides-de-camp in the Peninsula and at Waterloo. But a lot had changed since then. "That could fit Fitzroy. So could protecting Wellington. I need to talk to Eustace Whateley." He looked down at Suzanne for a moment. "I don't think Fitzroy would have hired people to attack us. At least not to attack you. But depending on who else is involved in this—"

"We're taking precautions," Suzanne said. "That's all we can do at this point."

"That, and learn what was in the papers," Malcolm said.

Suzanne glanced round the grand salon of the Tavistock as theatregoers thronged it for the interval, then turned to smile at Laura. "I'm glad you came with us."

"So am I. It's a brilliant play, and Manon is brilliant in it. I'm less sure about the show here. Or at least, I might not mind watching it, but I don't know how I feel about being part of it."

Laura's, or rather Jane Tarrington's, return from the dead had caused a good deal of talk, and Laura still went out in society little enough to attract a good deal of interest when she did venture out. "You're a rarity," Suzanne said. "Some people would play upon that to hold society's attention."

Laura shook her head as David's sister, Isobel Lydgate, came up to join them. "Simon looks rather the way I feel when I'm giving a ball," Isobel said. "Though I suppose that's a frivolous comparison."

"I'd say it's very apt," Suzanne said. "How are the preparations for tomorrow night?" A few weeks ago, Suzanne had helped Isobel write out the cards of invitation for her ball, but in the press of the past few days, she'd almost forgot that the ball was the following evening.

Isobel gave a wry smile. She was impeccably gowned in pale blue crêpe, her thick fair hair swept into a smooth knot, but strain showed between her brows and about her eyes. "Oliver says I worry too much. I haven't got your wonderful sangfroid when it comes to entertaining, Suzanne."

Suzanne put an arm round her friend. "Meaning you still have illusions that perfection is possible, whereas I've long since accepted that it isn't. The trick is not minding when something goes wrong."

Isobel shook her head, dislodging a strand of her straight hair. "So says the woman who gives the most exquisite parties in Mayfair. But as Oliver said to me when we left for the theatre, we're as ready as we're going to be, so there's no sense in staying home and being nervous. Not that we'd miss Simon's opening." She turned her gaze to Laura. "You are coming tomorrow, aren't you, Laura?"

"I promised Ellie and Billy and Rose I would, so I can't very well back out now."

"Thank goodness for my children's powers of persuasion. You know Billy still tells everyone who'll listen that he's going to marry you."

Laura laughed. Isobel had always treated her more like a friend than a governess, and Laura seemed more at ease with her than with many of the mothers she'd known in her governess days. "I thought Billy had transferred his attentions to Emily."

"He'll probably have to fight Colin for her if he does," Suzanne murmured.

Laura shook her head. "Amazing what—Simon." Her face broke into a smile as Simon approached them. "The production is quite splendid. I'm intrigued to see how you handle the ending."

Simon grinned. "Brandon accused me of going soft in rehearsals."

"So you see Isabella accepting the duke's proposal?" Suzanne asked. At one time she'd have disagreed with that ending. Now she found she rather hoped for it.

"I think so. On her own terms."

"She's a fortunate woman if she can dictate them," Isobel said.

"I think the events of the play teach her that she can't hide from the world," Laura said. "And—Oh, there are James and Hetty. I should speak with them."

Laura moved off, head held high, to speak with her brother-in-law and sister-in-law. Isobel's attention was claimed by Emily Cowper. Suzanne turned back to Simon, who had retrieved two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter. "Isabella will be able to do a lot as a duchess," Suzanne said, accepting one of the glasses. "And I've always thought—well, since I had Colin—that seeing her brother and Julietta's baby makes her want children."

Simon gave a wry smile. "There is that. I suppose children are on my mind these days."

Suzanne studied him. They'd had less chance for private conversation in the months since he and David had taken the children. Usually both their children were with them, even when other adults weren't. "It's quite an adjustment, adding children to a relationship. And you and David have started with four."

Simon dug his shoulder into the gilded paneling of the wall behind them. "In some ways we're closer than ever. In others it seems we barely talk anymore."

"Parenthood can do that to you. You exchange greetings over the nursery breakfast or pass a crying child back and forth."

"Yes. But—" Simon drew a breath.

Suzanne searched her friend's face. "It's different because they don't seem like your children?"

Simon lifted his glass and contemplated the bubbles. "In some ways I'm amazed at how much they do. How naturally Jamie snuggles in. How I find myself thinking about them during rehearsal. How hard it is to remember a time when we didn't have them. But—" He hesitated again. "David can be clear about his commitment to them. Can say they have a home with him forever. All I can say is that I'm their uncle's friend."

"Your commitment to David gives you a commitment to them."

"Difficult to articulate that to the children when I can't articulate my relationship to David to them. And—" His eyes darkened. As steadfast as his commitment to David and David's to him—Suzanne knew few married couples with relationships as deep and enduring—Suzanne knew that Simon worried what the pressures of David's role as future Earl Carfax would do to the bond between them. She'd never heard him quite articulate it—as though he feared to put it into words. That he'd come close as he had to doing so was a sign, she thought, of the level of trust between them.

"I can't tell you how often I've envied how at ease you and David are with each other," Suzanne said. A truth she wouldn't speak to many.

Simon's mouth twisted. "That's the years."

"Those years are what go to make up a marriage. Because that's what you have, you know."

"Not in the eyes of the world. Or David's family. Or most of our acquaintance."

"Surely it's what it means in your and David's eyes that matters."

Simon met her gaze. It was one of those moments when she was sure he saw more about her than she'd confessed to him. More perhaps than was safe for either of them. "You can't really believe that, Suzie mine. You can't really believe two lovers can exist in a soap bubble. Or even if lovers could, parents certainly can't."

She laid a hand on his arm. "Of course the world touches all of us. But it doesn't have to define us or our options."

"It's not my options I'm thinking about. It's David's." Simon drew a breath. "Having children brought you and Malcolm together. I saw that. Much as I love them, the children remind David of all the reasons we can't be together."

"They'll sort it out for themselves. They'll understand."

"You think so? Why on earth should they be different from so much of the rest of the world?'

"Because the two of you are raising them."

Simon gave a faint smile. "A good answer. Though you may be putting too much faith in our childrearing skills. Not but what getting Teddy out of Harrow would be a step in the right direction."

Bertrand joined them to offer his congratulations to Simon with every appearance of being no more than an enthusiastic theatregoer. But when Simon moved off to speak to Sir Horace Smytheton, one of the Tavistock's chief patrons, Bertrand turned to Suzanne, his posture still easy but his gaze gone serious. "I haven't been able to find a trace of Germont. He's vanished with the skill of a more seasoned agent than he appeared to be."

"Do you think he could have met with foul play?" Suzanne remembered the fear and urgency in Louis Germont's fever-wracked voice.

"Only if whoever attacked him covered their tracks exceedingly well."

Suzanne bit back a cry of frustration. A visit today to Sancho had merely given her a vague description of an anonymous-sounding man, fairly obviously in disguise, who had sought Sancho out with news of the Phoenix plot.

Bertrand took a sip of champagne and gave a smile intended for the benefit of anyone observing him. "I did talk to someone who knew him in France. Apparently Germont's mother was the daughter of a minor French aristocrat who married into the bourgeoisie. My contact couldn't remember the family name, but he thought Germont had an uncle or aunt who might have escaped France during the Terror and settled in Austria or possibly England."

"He didn't mention them to you?"

"No, but there's obviously a great deal he didn't mention to me."

"So he could have sought refuge with his family in Britain."

"Potentially, though it sounds as though he hadn't been in contact with them for years. I'll make inquiries in the émigré community."

Suzanne drew a breath. "If only we'd—"

Bertrand gripped her wrist. "I know. But it does no good to refine upon it. And whatever's driving Germont, he made his own choice to leave."