The Apsley House Incident, page 1
The Apsley House Incident
Tracy Grant
This book is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be sold, shared, or given away.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The Apsley House Incident
Copyright © 2021 by Tracy Grant
Ebook ISBN: 9781641971836
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
NYLA Publishing
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For Deirdre, Chris, Sierra, and Piper
Contents
Acknowledgments
Dramatis Personae
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Historical Notes
The Whitehall Conspiracy Excerpt
Also by Tracy Grant
About the Author
Acknowledgments
The Apsley House Incident is my third work written entirely during the COVID-19 pandemic. I am more grateful than ever for the wonderful people who support me and my daughter and the Rannochs and their world in so many ways. As always, huge thanks to my wonderful agent, Nancy Yost, for her support and insights, and eagle-eye with copy. Thank you to Natanya Wheeler for once again working her magic to create a cover that brings my rough notes to life and beautifully evokes Mélanie Rannoch and for shepherding the book expertly through the publication process, to Sarah Younger for superlative social media support and for helping the book along through production and publication, and to the entire team at Nancy Yost Literary Agency for their fabulous work. Malcolm, Mélanie, and I are all very fortunate to have their support.
Thanks to Eve Lynch for the meticulous and thoughtful copyediting and to Kristen Loken for a magical author photo taken in one of my favorite places, San Francisco's War Memorial Opera House, on one of my favorite occasions of the year, the Merola Grand Finale. Just a few weeks ago, my daughter Mélanie and I went back there for a performance for the first time in almost two years.
I am very fortunate to have a wonderful group of writer friends near and far who make being a writer less solitary, even—or especially—during the pandemic. Thanks to Lauren Willig for guest hosting a wonderful virtual book party and conversation about the series—and for sharing the joys of historical research and the challenges of juggling life as a writer and a mom. To Penelope Williamson, for sharing adventures, analyzing plots, and being a wonderful honorary aunt to my daughter. So glad we were recently able to travel together again. To Jami Alden, Tasha Alexander, Bella Andre, Allison Brennan, Josie Brown, Isobel Carr, Catherine Coulter, Deborah Coonts, Deborah Crombie, Carol Culver/Grace, Catherine Duthie, Alexandra Elliott, J.T. Ellison, Barbara Freethy, Andrew Grant, C.S. Harris, Candice Hern, Anne Mallory, Monica McCarty, Brenda Novak, Poppy Reifiin, Deanna Raybourn, and Veronica Wolff. Thank you to the #momswritersclub on Twitter for bimonthly chats that are energizing and inspiring, and especially to Jessica Payne for starting it and to Jessica and Sara Read for their wonderful #MomsWritersClub YouTube channel on which Mélanie and I had the fun of doing a guest interview.
Thank you to the readers who support Malcolm and Mélanie and their friends and provide wonderful insights on my Web site and social media, and especially on the Goodreads Discussion Group for the series..
Thanks to Gregory Paris and jim saliba for creating and updating a fabulous Web site that chronicles Malcolm and Mélanie's adventures. Thanks to my colleagues at the Merola Opera Program who help me keep my life in balance—even on Zoom, I love spending time with you. And thanks to Mélanie herself, for inspiring my writing, being patient with Mummy's "work time", and offering her own insights at the keyboard. One of my proudest moments was when she said "Can I borrow your computer? I want to type the story I'm writing." I am so proud that my website now includes "Mélanie's Corner" for her stories, starting with her wonderful series Talea's Mysteries. This is Mélanie's contribution to this story – "this is the best day ever and my mom is abugilleean times better!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Dramatis Personae
*indicates real historical figures
* * *
The Rannoch Family & Household
* * *
Mélanie Suzanne Rannoch, playwright and former French intelligence agent
Malcolm Rannoch, her husband, MP and former British intelligence agent
Colin Rannoch, their son
Jessica Rannoch, their daughter
Berowne, their cat
* * *
Laura O'Roarke, Colin and Jessica's former governess, teacher, and writer
Raoul O'Roarke, her husband, Mélanie's former spymaster, and Malcolm's father
Lady Emily Fitzwalter, Laura's daughter from her first marriage
Clara O'Roarke, Laura and Raoul's daughter
* * *
Gisèle Thirle, Malcolm's sister
Andrew Thirle, her husband
Ian Thirle, their son
* * *
Alistair Rannoch (Alexander Radford), Malcolm and Gisèle's supposed father, Elsinore League founder
* * *
The Davenport Family
Lady Cordelia Davenport, classicist
Colonel Harry Davenport, her husband, classicist, former British intelligence agent
Livia Davenport, their daughter
Drusilla Davenport, their daughter
* * *
The Mallinson Family
Arthur (Julien St. Juste) Mallinson, Earl Carfax, former agent for hire
Katelina (Kitty) Velasquez Mallinson, Countess Carfax, his wife, former British and Spanish intelligence agent
Leo Ashford, her son
Timothy Ashford, her son
Guenevere (Genny) Ashford, Kitty and Julien's daughter
* * *
Hubert Mallinson, spymaster, Julien's uncle
Amelia Mallinson, his wife
Lucinda Mallinson, their youngest daughter
* * *
David Mallinson, MP, Hubert and Amelia's son
Simon Tanner, playwright, his lover
Amy Craven, their ward
Jamie Craven, their ward
* * *
Others
* * *
Alexander (Sandy) Trenor
Elizabeth (Bet) Simcox, his mistress
Nan Simcox Lucan, her sister
Sam Lucan, Nan's husband
Robert (Robby) Simcox, Bet and Nan's brother
Lady Marchmain, Sandy's mother
Lord Marchmain, Sandy's father
* * *
Allston, Sandy's friend
Lavering, Sandy's friend
Sallie (or Susie), Lavering's mistress
* * *
George Dawkins
Tom McCandless
* * *
Frederick Talbot, Marquis of Glenister, Malcolm's godfather, Elsinore League member
Lady Shroppington, Elsinore League member
* * *
*Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington
*Emily Harriet Somerset, his niece
*Fitzroy Somerset, her husband, Wellington's secretary
*Charlotte Somerset, their daughter
* * *
*Henry Brougham, MP, Queen Caroline's lawyer
* * *
*Sir Nathaniel Conant, Chief Magistrate of Bow Street
*Lord Sidmouth, Home Secretary
*Lord Castlereagh, Foreign Secretary
*Lord Liverpool, Prime Minister
* * *
John Bennet, hotel proprietor
Anne Elliot, his daughter
* * *
Jeremy Roth, Bow Street runner
What's mine is yours, and what's yours is mine.
—Shakespeare, Measure for Measure, Act V, scene i
Chapter 1
London
October 1820
The smell washed over her as she stepped over the threshold of the Green Dragon. Sour ale. Pungent wine. Gin. Tallow candles. Cheap scent masking stale sweat. The smell of home. Or what had once been home. It was sharper than she remembered. Or perhaps it was her senses that had changed.
The floor seemed to have sagged. The uneven boards poked against her feet. Or perhaps that was the kid soles of her half boots, softer than anything she'd worn in the old days. Bet picked her way through the crowd, looking for familiar faces. Jack Watkins, whom she'd played tagg with when they were five, shared her first kiss with when they were eleven, and more when they were fourteen, glanced right past her. Jenny Green, who had been both a friend and a competitor for clients, stared at her for a moment, opened her mouth as
"Can I get you anything, miss?"
It was a waiter who had started less than a month before Bet left St. Giles to move in with Sandy. Tim, she thought his name was. She smiled in greeting. His gaze flickered over her face, and for a moment she thought he recognized her. Then he shook his head. "Sorry, miss. You remind me of someone I used know. Begging your pardon, but this isn't the best place for a lady. Do you need help finding a hackney?"
"No. Thank you. I'm meeting someone."
Confusion and uncertainty flickered across his gaze, as though he was revising his first impression of her. "If you're in trouble—"
Funny how a well-cut pelisse, an elegant bonnet, and a better accent could bring on protective instincts. No one had ever worried much about her in the old days. Those who paid attention to her at all assumed she could take care of herself. Which she had done. But if anything, she was stronger now.
"I'll be fine," Bet said in a firm voice. Though it was odd to realize the one place that had been home wasn't home anymore. Because Sandy's flat in the Albany could never really be her home.
Another waiter, whom she didn't remember, came over to her. "The gentleman is upstairs."
Tim cast a worried look at her. Bet smiled at him and followed the second waiter from the taproom. She lifted the skirt of her sapphire blue silk pelisse as she reached the stairs. The boards creaked and sagged. When she put a hand on the stair rail, the splintery wood scraped through her doeskin glove. Up the stairs she had often climbed with a gentleman or to meet a gentleman. Funny, she'd been quite matter-of-fact about that sort of encounter. Wary, because one never quite knew what one was getting into, but it had been her life and she'd made the best of it. Until Sandy. After Sandy it had grown difficult to think of anyone else in that way. Though she might have to when—
Bet resolutely shut her mind to the future as the waiter indicated one of the doors off the landing. She nodded and opened the door. With more trepidation than she had felt going to any past encounter here. After all, with those sorts of encounters, at least one knew more or less what to expect. She wasn't even sure quite whom she was meeting, save that the message had made it imperative she keep the appointment.
She opened the door. The room was in shadow, lit only by a single lamp on a table across from the door. The smell of brandy, much finer than that generally served at the Green Dragon, wafted towards her. Until she'd met Sandy, she hadn't known that smell. The man sitting in a chair by the table with the lamp got to his feet at her entrance. That was unexpected.
"Miss Simcox." That was unexpected too. At the Green Dragon, she was Bet, not Miss Simcox. "Thank you for coming."
He spoke in the accents of Sandy's world, Eton or Harrow, Oxford or Cambridge, Brooks's or White's. He wasn't a tall man, but he radiated power. His gray-streaked hair might be brown or dark blond. The lamplight picked out sharp, imperious features. He looked to be in his late fifties.
She closed the door. "From the tone of your letter, I didn't have a great deal of choice."
"One always has a choice, though sometimes one or more of the options seem untenable. May I pour you some brandy? I brought it with me."
"Thank you." Somehow accepting the drink put them on the same level. And she could use it.
She sat in the chair on the other side of the small table with the lamp and the bottle of brandy and pulled off her gloves. The stair rail had left dark smears on them.
He poured a glass of brandy and set it on the table beside her. "I see no sense in prevaricating. Do you know who I am?"
"I don't believe we've ever met." She made it not quite a question. Dear God. He wasn't someone she'd spent the night with, was he? She'd have sworn not. But could she really be sure she'd recognize all of them?
"No, you're quite right. We haven't met. My tastes never ran to St. Giles." He took a deliberate drink of brandy and set his glass beside her own. "But I'm your lover's father."
The world spun, though she hadn't taken a sip of the brandy. Sandy still thought of Lord Marchmain as his father. But Bet knew, because Sandy had told her, that in pure biology Sandy's father was Alistair Rannoch. Who supposedly had died over three years ago, in a carriage accident that may not have been an accident.
"That's generally the response of people I've revealed myself to recently." The gentleman sank back in his chair. "Suffice it to say, I had my reasons for disappearing. And believe me, I don't reveal myself lightly."
Bet pulled her second glove from her fingertips. Her gaze locked on the black stitching on the pale gray. As though somehow the neat stitches held a code that would explain this confusing world she had stumbled into. "So you must have your reasons for wanting to talk to me."
"I generally have reasons for what I do." He took a sip of brandy. "I want to see my son."
Bet's gaze locked on that of the man across the candle from her. His eyes might be blue or green or gray. They were hard as agate. "Sandy doesn't think of himself as your son."
"No, I don't imagine he does. He doesn't know me at all. Which is all the more reason for me to get to know him."
"Why?" Bet asked before she could think better of it. "Why now? You've known you were his father since he was born."
"True enough. But it's not the sort of thing one reveals to a child. At least, not unless one is my putative son, Malcolm Rannoch, who does things in ways few others would. Sandy is no longer a child. And my own circumstances have changed."
"If you want to talk to Sandy, you should reach out to him." That was true, though perhaps a mistake to put into words. "I don't see where I come into it."
Alistair Rannoch twisted the stem of his glass between his fingers. "I think you underrate yourself, Miss Simcox. You obviously mean a great deal to Alexander." He ran his gaze over her. A polite gaze, but it seemed to slice through her silk pelisse and the sarcenet gown beneath and even the laces of her stays and her muslin chemise more effectively than the sharpest knife. "I'm sure you have ways of persuading Sandy. Just as you do other gentlemen."
Bet lifted her chin. "I don't need to try to persuade Sandy of anything. And there haven't been any other gentlemen for a long time."
He sat back in his chair and regarded her, glass held between two fingers. "No, I don't suppose you've needed anyone else since he's been keeping you."
"Sandy and I are—"
"Yes?"
Bet gripped her hands in her lap, fingers tight round her gloves. "It's none of your affair."
Mr. Rannoch inclined his head. "You're fond of him. That helps. I'm sure you want what's best for him."
That was the sort of thing Sandy's parents said. Or at least that she assumed they said. She'd scarcely spoken to either of them except for one disastrous meeting at the Carfax ball last June, which had mostly involved Lady Marchmain's hurling insults while Bet and Lord Marchmain tried to separate Sandy and his mother. "I don't think Sandy's and my relationship is any concern of yours."
"I'll admit I haven't been a conventional father, but a son's domestic arrangements can't but be a father's concern."
