Chapter 24

Laura wondered if she should release Raoul's arm. But Suzanne was still holding Malcolm's, so perhaps moving away would look more ostentatious. Somehow standing in a crowd, her gloved fingers curved round the black superfine of his sleeve, seemed more intimate, in a way, than the nights they'd spent together.

Laura smoothed a hand over the folds of her skirt. She had a new gown, seafoam silk and ivory gauze with slashed sleeves edged in pearls. It was cut in what was called "the Spanish style" which had amused her greatly, though she doubted Raoul was even vaguely aware of the term. She had, however, caught the glow in his eyes when she came downstairs in the gown. Perhaps it was shallow, but there was no denying clothes could lend one much needed confidence. "Out two nights in a row," she said. "I don't know what I'm turning into."

Raoul cast a glance round the crowded room, gaze lingering on the delicate white-and-gold paneling, the tall French windows, the coffered ceiling. "I don't think I've been here before. It's a beautiful house."

"Like the Berkeley Square house, it looks more like a family home when they aren't entertaining," Suzanne said. "I still remember how kind Bel and Oliver were when Malcolm first brought Colin and me here. It's good there's one Mallinson daughter with a happy marriage."

"They were always kind to me," Laura said. "Even when I was a governess they treated me"—she smiled, not trying to keep the irony from the smile—"like a person."

"It doesn't hurt that I've never seen anyone coax Rose out of her tantrums as well as you do," Malcolm said.

"I saw the small heads peeping over the stair rail when we came in," Raoul said. "You're obviously a favorite."

"I'm a good storyteller," Laura said. "It goes a long way with children." She cast a glance about the room. The candles in the gilt sconces warmed the air and glittered in the tall mirrors hung on all sides. Just in the throng near them, she spotted a royal duke, three patronesses of Almack's, and the Duke of Wellington. "I confess spending the evening in the nursery doesn't seem a bad option now."

"Thank goodness we found you," Cordelia said as she and Harry came up beside them. "It's so crowded one can scarcely see who's in the room, and my gown's been trodden on three times. So Isobel can be sure her party will be deemed a great success."

The words were light, but the way Cordelia was holding her husband's arm and leaning in to him said a great deal about how she felt in the wake of Harry's visit to Maria Monreal. Cordelia met Laura's gaze and gave a faint smile that confirmed her thoughts. And also, Laura realized, said a great deal about how well she'd come to know Cordelia.

"No sign of the Whateleys," Harry said, "though I imagine they've been invited. And Fitzroy and Harriet are here." He met Malcolm's gaze for a moment.

"I doubt I'd get very far talking to him again," Malcolm said. "Not without more information."

"There you are." Isobel Lydgate materialized out of the crowd, elegant if a bit pale in white British net over pale lilac satin. She cast a quick glance round and lowered her voice, though it was scarcely necessary with the buzz of conversation bouncing off the gilded ceiling. "I stopped by Carfax House this afternoon. David had brought the children to see my parents. He told me about the break-in last night. God in heaven—"

"It's concerning," Suzanne said. "But everyone's all right. Whatever the thief's intention, I don't think she meant harm to any of them."

"It was a woman?" Isobel asked in disbelief.

"It seems to have been." Malcolm squeezed her hand. "The children are well protected and Suzette's right. The thief didn't mean them harm. Don't let it spoil tonight, Bel."

Isobel's tight face relaxed into a smile. "Dear Malcolm. You could reassure anyone. Though what really stops me from worrying is that all of you are managing the investigation." Her smile encompassed the whole group, including Laura.

"We'll try not to let you down," Malcolm said, lightly, but Laura caught an undertone of seriousness.

"You couldn't if you tried," Isobel said, then drew a quick breath. Laura wondered if she was remembering the end of the investigation in Trenchard's and Craven's deaths. With the aplomb of an experienced hostess, Isobel forced another smile to her lips. "On a more mundane note, I'm on my way up to say goodnight to the children, and I promised I'd bring Laura and Suzanne up with me. And you, Cordy, if I could find you. Ellie keeps asking about your gown. She says the one you wore last time you were here was her favorite ever. I imagine tonight she'll think you're a fairy princess." Isobel ran an appreciative gaze over Cordelia's silver-embroidered gauze gown and diamond circlet and then smiled at the men. "I promise I'll return them for dancing in a quarter hour."

"Malcolm is longing to find somewhere to talk politics," Suzanne said with a laugh. "Can we take the children some ices?"

Cordelia laughed as well, but as she followed the other three women into the passage, Laura wondered if her sharp-eyed friends had noticed the strain behind Isobel Lydgate's steady blue gaze.

Malcolm took up a position on the edge of the dance floor, scanning the crowd for Eustace Whateley or anyone else it might be good to talk to. He caught a glimpse of his wife across the room with Bertrand, the softly pleated stuff of her gown swirling round her like mist on a dark night. Harry and O'Roarke were dancing with Cordelia and Laura, but when the ladies returned to the ballroom, Suzanne had met Malcolm's gaze with a look that said she intended to circulate. They needed to put their time to use. Time enough for dancing later.

"Malcolm."

Even before Malcolm turned his head, he recognized the familiar, incisive tones of the Duke of Wellington. "What are you doing not dancing with your wife?" Wellington inquired.

"This is Mayfair, sir. Surely I needn't remind you husbands and wives aren't expected to spend the evening dancing together?"

"Since when have you been one to do the expected? Any more than your friend Davenport." Wellington jerked his head towards Harry and Cordelia. Then his gaze moved round the ballroom. "Sensible girl, Isobel. Always does things well. Good to see the family getting on with their lives." He cast a glance at Malcolm. "You've been to see Fitzroy twice."

"You don't miss much, do you, sir?"

"Hope not. Part of your investigation?"

"Fitzroy's a friend. I often go to see him."

"And you're not denying it's part of the investigation, which means it is. Is Fitzroy in trouble?"

For a moment Malcolm could hear the crack of the cannon shot that had taken Fitzroy's arm, a handsbreadth away from Wellington and Malcolm himself, feel the weight of Fitzroy falling against him, hear the sharpness in Wellington's voice. "You know Fitzroy, sir. Can you imagine him doing anything to get himself in trouble?"

"Hmph." Wellington's gaze continued to skim the ballroom. "Only if he thought that was the only honorable way to proceed. Good God, is that Raoul O'Roarke dancing with Lady Tarrington? Thought he was in Spain."

"He's visiting London, like you, sir. He only just arrived." Malcolm hesitated a moment, but there was no reason for Wellington not to know, and it would look odd for Malcolm not to mention it. "O'Roarke is staying with us while he's in London, as it happens."

Wellington frowned, then nodded. "Forgot he was a friend of your family." His gaze continued on Laura and O'Roarke as they circled the floor. O'Roarke was holding her at a very correct distance, but even from the edge of the dance floor the glow in his eyes was unmistakable. "Looks as though Lady Tarrington is a friend of O'Roarke's as well."

"Yes," Malcolm said with an easy smile. "They've got to know each other through the years at our house. O'Roarke is a favorite honorary uncle with our children and Lady Tarrington's daughter." Always good when one could work in the unvarnished truth in the midst of deception.

Wellington's brows drew together. Malcolm remembered the duke's noting William Cuthbertson's interest in Laura at the Tavistock the previous night. "O'Roarke's no Jack Tarrington, but he offers his own risks. Back in '98 I'd have called him one of our greatest enemies, but I can't deny he was useful in the Peninsula. I suppose he's stirring things up in Spain now."

"I'm quite sure he's in sympathy with the Liberals," Malcolm said. There again he could speak the truth.

Wellington gave a brusque nod. "Suppose it was too much to expect he'd remain an ally. Still, if he's staying with you, you should bring him along to the Waterloo dinner tomorrow. He was certainly part of our victory."

Malcolm bit back an ironic laugh and kept his gaze steady. "Thank you, sir. I'm sure he'll be honored."

Wellington waved a hand. "Good to remember the war made strange bedfellows."

"Thank God for parties." Bertrand materialized out of the crowd at Suzanne's side shortly after she returned from her trip to the nursery. "We'd have the devil of a time sharing information otherwise."

"You have information?" Suzanne asked.

"Not as much as I'd like." Bertrand retrieved two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and gave one to her. Of one accord, they moved to a sofa of gold-spotted blue satin set beneath a gilt-framed mirror in an embrasure in the white-and-gold wall. "Louis Germont's mother was a younger daughter of the Baron de Brillac. Her brother, who had the title at the time of the Revolution, sought refuge in Austria, though it seems there may have been a sister who came to Britain. Someone who might be Germont was spotted at a coffeehouse frequented by émigrés yesterday, but I couldn't get enough information to trace him from there."

Suzanne hesitated, but if she told Bertrand about Lisette's sighting of Germont the whole Phoenix plot would unravel, and with it, a host of revelations. "If anyone can find him, you can," she said.

Bertrand gave a faint smile. "These days, I'm used to responding to pleas for help. It's a long time since I've tried to ferret out information." He took a sip of champagne and considered her in silence for a long moment. It was, Suzanne realized, damnably difficult to tell what he was thinking, for all his easy good humor. Despite his words, he was a master agent among master agents. "I didn't think it through much before I went to France the first time. My family had fled France. I'd grown up in England. The Bonapartists were the enemy."

"They'd killed your brother." Étienne Laclos had gone to France in a mad, desperate plot to assassinate Napoleon and had been caught and executed. Odd that others might now be risking arrest and execution in an equally mad, desperate plot to free Napoleon.

Remembered grief shot through Bertrand's eyes. "Yes. I suppose a part of me wanted to avenge Étienne. But I think chiefly I wanted to be out of Britain." He stared down at his hands, a rare sign of unease. "I wanted to leave Rupert before Rupert was compelled to leave me."

For a moment, Simon and David shot into her memory, in the Brook Street library, the children clustered round them. "Are you so sure he would have?"

Bertrand's brows drew together as though he were seeing into the past. Or perhaps into an alternate future. "At the time I thought so. Rupert takes his responsibilities too seriously not to feel compelled to provide an heir for the earldom. Even looking back now—I never stop being sorry for how Gabrielle got caught up in our sorry story. I know Rupert doesn't either. But there's no denying the cold fact that, in some ways, it makes it easier that Rupert has an heir. Aside from the fact that I can't imagine Stephen not being in our lives."

"It's remarkable." Suzanne recalled the three of them, Rupert, Bertrand, and Gabrielle, kneeling on her drawing room carpet last Christmas with Stephen and Colin and Livia, playing with Colin's new castle. "What you've all managed to make of your lives."

Bertrand's smile was sweet and almost wistful. "I hope so." His fingers tightened round his glass. "In any case, fresh from Oxford, escape seemed the best solution. And it let Rupert and me stay connected. Even let us meet in secret. And then there was—"

"The lure of adventure?" After all, Bertrand, more than any of them, had lived a life of adventure for years.

Bertrand met her gaze and grinned. "Quite. Particularly then, when I had no idea what adventure really meant. It was only after I got to France, after I settled in to my mission, that I fully began to appreciate the rest of it."

"The rest?"

"Betrayal." His mouth curled round the word. "Odd it never occurred to me before that that's what it was. I was set on doing my duty for my adopted Crown and country. Avenging my brother's death. Making my—Rupert proud of me." He gave a faint, self-derisive smile. "It was only when I found myself actually living among the French, dining with them, riding in the Bois de Boulogne, that it occurred to me I was betraying practically everyone I saw every day. The waiters in the cafés where I took my morning coffee and had a glass of wine in the evenings. The porter at my lodgings who complained about his rheumatism and boasted about his grandchildren. The baker I bought bread from most days who had almost saved enough to bring his fiancée from Provence and start a family. Even an idiot like Edmond Talleyrand, who did his awkward best to take me under his wing, though I suspect he was doing so on his uncle's orders and reporting back on my activities. They were all people. God, how easy it is to lose sight of that."

"Frighteningly easy. But it sounds as though you didn't lose sight of it at all."

"I did for a time. But it was getting harder and harder for me to swallow the rank taste of it Especially after I met Louise."

Bertrand had acted as a cover for Louise Carnot and her lover to protect them from her jealous husband. "I doubt that which side you fought for matters in the least to Louise," Suzanne said. She could see Bertrand, in Paris after he emerged from hiding, crouched in the garden of Louise's Paris house building a pirate ship out of sheets with her sons and Colin and Stephen while Louise looked on.

"Louise is a generous woman and loyal to her friends. But I was still lying to her. I was lying to everyone, except for the few times Rupert and I met in secret." He swallowed. Suzanne didn't think she'd ever seen such vulnerability in those seemingly open blue eyes. "For all Rupert means to me, sometimes what mattered most about those times was simply being able to tell the truth."

For a moment, Suzanne felt the rush of relief that had always coursed through her when she met Raoul, in a café, a tavern, a garret room. "It means a lot to be able to be one's self."

Bertrand shot a look at her. "Yes. And then I was nearly killed."

"And you learned your own people had betrayed you."

"I learned Rupert's father had."

Suzanne looked at him, fully appreciating for the first time what it must have meant to him, alone in what to all intents and purposes was a foreign country, under deep cover, suddenly no longer able to trust his own people. At least she had had Malcolm. "Lord Dewhurst had made your own people no longer trust you."

Bertrand gave a short laugh. "Branded a traitor when, in fact, I'd been betraying people for the past two years. Just not the people I was accused of betraying."

"One can't be an agent without committing myriad betrayals."

Bertrand met her gaze for a long moment. "I think to be an agent, one has to either believe wholeheartedly in one's cause—or believe in nothing at all save self-preservation and triumphing in the game. Neither of which applied to me. I wouldn't have survived if it weren't for my young friend Inez and her family. In the end, I realized it was the people who mattered. Not taking sides in the game but saving as many as possible from collateral damage."

Suzanne nodded. She suspected Bertrand had not talked this way to many people. "Thank you," she said. "For telling me."

Bertrand gave a quick, flexible smile.

"Why?" Suzanne asked before she could think better of it. "That is, I'm honored and I know we're friends, but—"

"I don't talk this way to all my friends? That's true. But I thought you'd understand." He regarded her for another, silent moment, weighted somehow with both risk and trust. "I didn't choose sides as the Kestrel, but I still heard things. About the Raven, among other things."

Suzanne drew a breath, sharp as glass. And yet, relief shot through her. The relief of being able to talk to someone who was in a unique position to understand. She cast a quick look round, but the buzz of the crowd rendered the embrasure as private as a closed room. "I didn't find betrayal as hard to live with as you did," she said in a steady voice.

"On the contrary." Bertrand's gaze was direct, his defenses down. "I think it very nearly cut you in two. But you believed in what you were doing. I can admire that. I can envy it."

"Are you sure I'm not simply caught up in the love of the game?"

"Not you, though you may enjoy it. Even I enjoyed it at times. Malcolm confessed that even he did."

"Malcolm knows—You've talked to Malcolm about—?"

Bertrand linked his hands round his knees. "Malcolm talked to me. Six months ago. Subtly, trying to sound me out. Establish how much I knew. Without either of us coming right out and saying it, we established that I was the last person to betray either of you. And then he asked for my help."

Suzanne stared at him. "You're the one Malcolm made arrangements with in case we need to leave Britain."

"Arrangements I trust we'll never have to put into effect."

Fear coursed through her in an icy rush. The fear she always felt at the thought of documents in Malcolm's dispatch box that arranged for them to leave Britain. And with that fear came the wonderful, terrible burden of the love that had caused Malcolm to meticulously make plans to abandon everything he knew, should his wife's past compel him to do so. "You let Rupert think you were dead rather than force him to choose between you and his family."

"Yes." Bertrand didn't pretend not to see the parallels she was drawing. "It seemed the right choice at the time."

"And now?"

Bertrand glanced down at his hands and touched the heavy silver ring he wore. It looked like a signet ring, but he hadn't worn it when Suzanne had first met him in France. She suspected Rupert had given it to him. Rupert wore a similar one. "Perhaps I'm a selfish devil. God knows the way things have turned out isn't fair to Gaby—"

"Gaby's happy with Nick Gordon."

"Gaby would have been happier if she could have married Nick Gordon, but, yes. Thank God things have turned out so well for her. Thank God because I love Gaby, and thank God, because it salves Rupert's and my guilt. As for me—guilt or not, I can't imagine my life without him. I can't imagine I was ever mad enough to think that was possible for either of us. I'm grateful every day that he was willing to take me back and that I had the guts to come back." He looked at her for a moment, his gaze at once furtive and oddly open. "I owe part of that to you."

"Me?" Suzanne repeated.

"That day at the inn on the Calais road. Just after my masquerade had broken and Rupert had seen me. After I'd made my speech to Rupert about why I had to disappear and why it wouldn't work between us. You told me you found living with Malcolm in an imperfect world far preferable to being separated from him. At the time, I hadn't put together who you were. Your words still registered, but I couldn't imagine how you could fully understand what it was to fear that simple association with you could destroy the man you loved. It was only on the journey to Britain with the St. Gilles family that I pieced together that you were—"

"The Raven?" Suzanne said. Amazing how easily she put the unspeakable into words with him.

Bertrand nodded. "And so I realized that you knew as much as I did about living with secrets and about your very identity being a risk."

"You're generous, Bertrand. You didn't entrap Rupert. Or lie to him about who you were."

"I lied to him about my very survival. I let him spend four years alone in a harsh world, while I at least had the comfort of knowing how he got on. I've never believed much in convention, but somehow I let myself think Rupert was better off living a conventional life without me than facing the risks we ran together."

Suzanne thought of the life she sometimes pictured for Malcolm, married to a girl from his own world. Someone who understood how to navigate its unwritten rules and unvoiced codes, who might not share his sense of adventure to the degree she did, but who could give him a settled life in a way she'd never be able to, for all her efforts at domesticity. Sometimes, even now, she thought he might have been happier in that life.

Bertrand gripped her hand. "I hope to God we never have to get you to Italy. But I'd take Italy with Rupert over life without him in a heartbeat."

Suzanne swallowed, tasting the embers of fear. "You're a kind man, Bertrand."

"I'm a man who's thrown happiness away and got it back and who knows how important it is to hold on to it." He paused. "When Malcolm came to ask for my help in making arrangements should you need to leave Britain, he didn't seem like a man torn by betrayal. Merely a man desperately concerned for the woman he loves."

"That's Malcolm. If he hated me, he wouldn't even let me see it, let alone anyone else."

"Perhaps not, but I wouldn't have survived if I wasn't more than passably good at reading people. I know what worry looks like. I know what love looks like."

Suzanne drew a breath.

"What?" Bertrand asked.

"I remember Simon saying, back in Paris, that it had been quite obvious to him before you went to France that you and Rupert were madly in love."

Bertrand gave a wry smile. "Simon has his own skills at reading people. Frustrating at times, but also comforting." He paused. "That day Malcolm came to see me. I was concerned for you both. But I was relieved he knew. Relieved it hadn't changed things between you."

"It changed things incalculably," Suzanne said. "But we're still together."

"Malcolm understands betrayal too."

She shook her head. "Malcolm would never do what I did. He's far more like you. I'm more a gameplayer than I care to admit."

"We're all gameplayers to a degree. But I don't think any of us are driven by it."

"Bertrand—" Suzanne drew a breath. Malcolm had trusted Bertrand with their lives. She owed him a trust as great. She put a hand on his own, and told him about the Phoenix plot.