The Apsley House Incident, page 15
"I think I should be insulted by that."
"Don't be. I don't claim I could be entirely rational if you'd seduced Amelia." Hubert's fingers froze on the frame of his spectacles.
"No," his companion said. "That never occurred to me. Proof perhaps of my own rationality in such matters."
"Or of the fact that you can deceive even yourself." Hubert took a drink of wine, gaze steady on the other man's face. "Take it from one who knows."
"You're talking like a fool, Hubert."
"We're all fools at times." Hubert continued to watch the other man. "For what it's worth. I can imagine Arabella upsetting a man's best laid plans. She'd be worth it."
The other man's fingers tightened round his wine glass.
"That isn't what she meant to me," Hubert said. "Or I to her. But I liked her. And there aren't many people I'd say that about."
His companion tossed down a drink of wine and drummed his fingers on the table. "You're very good at prevaricating. Which I admit can be a useful talent. But this is a business proposition. I wouldn't attack you or O'Roarke or anyone else simply for personal reasons. Do you want what I have to offer? If not, I'll make other arrangements."
Hubert sat back in his chair and took a slow, deliberate drink of wine. Because what he said could change everything.
* * *
CHAPTER ONE
Scandalous. Shocking. Impressive. Remember the evidence about the bedsheets? Non mi ricordo!
The fragments carried through the crowd on the stairs outside the House of Lords chamber, thick as a flurry of autumn leaves.
"What's more exciting?" Cordelia Davenport asked over the patter of voices and footfalls on marble stairs. "Having your words spoken on stage at the Tavistock or in the House of Lords?"
Mélanie Rannoch tightened her grip on her son Colin's hand as they negotiated the crowd on the stairs outside the House of Lords. "Those were hardly my words just now."
"Some of them were," Laura Dudley said. "I can attest that you and Malcolm spent hours editing Brougham's speech."
"We maybe sharpened it a bit." Mélanie righted her bonnet as someone jostled into her. Parliament was as crowded today as the Tavistock or Covent Garden on an opening night. Perhaps not surprising given the drama playing out, though it would be difficult to say it was tragedy or farce. Henry Brougham had just given the opening speech for the defense in the trial before the Lords in which George IV, the new, as yet uncrowned king, was attempting to divorce his long-estranged wife, Caroline.
"Where's Aunt Kitty?" Colin asked.
"We're here." Kitty Mallinson and her elder son Leo slipped between two men earnestly debating the merits of Brougham's speech. The four women had each brought their eldest children to the ladies' gallery to hear the opening. Mad as the events unfolding in London now were, they were shaping history, and it seemed important for the children to see it unfold.
More people were spilling onto the stairs. Mélanie caught Laura's daughter Emily's hand in her free hand while Cordelia and Kitty joined hands, and the four of them and the children tried to stay close together. It was harder than trying to keep a group of fighters together in a skirmish.
They turned a corner and were halfway down the last flight of stairs when the crowd stopped abruptly. A dark-coated man in front of her surged backwards, hurtling into her. Her half boots skidded on the step.
"That man fell!" Colin yelled.
Mélanie could see a man's bootlegs a few steps down. Someone screamed. Mélanie cast a quick glance at Laura. Laura grabbed Colin's hand. Mélanie pushed forwards and dropped down beside the man who had fallen. He was sprawled over the steps at a haphazard angle. His blue eyes were open but already glazed. She put her hand to his chest to feel for his pulse and felt something damp and sticky. Blood was seeping through the side of his waistcoat. She tugged off her spencer and pressed it to the man's chest. "Can you hear me? Try to stay with me."
He shuddered. Someone else screamed. She pressed her hands to his chest, heard him gasp, saw the light go from his eyes. She looked up to see a circle of people gathered round and met Kitty's gaze. "He's dead."
"For someone used to weapons, I'm coming to appreciate the power of the spoken word," Julien Mallinson murmured, leaning close to Malcolm Rannoch to make his voice heard in the crush outside the Lords chamber. "I don't know how it seemed from the gallery, but you could have heard a pin drop on the floor."
"In the gallery as well. But it won't be enough. Not on its own." Malcolm scanned the crowd. Probably fruitless to try to catch sight of Mélanie, Laura, Cordy, and Kitty and the children in the thong. He'd told Mel he'd see her at home, since he'd be caught up in the endless Whig discussions at Brooks's after today's session.
"They're all good at navigating chaos," Harry Davenport said, reading his thoughts. "Better than we are. This is nothing to the crush at a successful ball."
That was true. And no need to worry, Malcolm told himself. London was on edge, but it seemed excessive to fear violence inside the Houses of Parliament. So far the protests had been confined to the streets. And it was the Tory opposition and people like his former spymaster, Julien's uncle Hubert Mallinson, who worried about the protests, while he was inclined to think it was a release of very understandable frustrations. But recent events had left him on edge.
"A lot of long Tory faces." Raoul O'Roarke, Malcolm's father, slid through the crowd to join them. "At the risk of sounding small-minded, I confess it's quite satisfying."
"Nothing wrong with that," Malcolm said. "But however dour they look, we haven't won anything unless they change their votes."
Harry clapped him on the shoulder. "Take your victories while you can. Your side has at least won the day. And you and Mélanie helped hone the winning speech."
"Just round the edges," Malcolm said.
The crowd had eddied enough to allow them to inch forwards. Julien was slightly in the lead. He went still suddenly, nearly making Malcolm stumble. "Did you hear that?"
"What?" Malcolm asked. Julien had catlike senses.
"A scream."
"Probably Tory frustration," Harry said. "Though it's difficult to tell the Tory screams of frustration from Whig shouts of glee."
"No." Julien was frowning with a seriousness he rarely showed. "I don't know if it was a Whig or a Tory, but someone shouted 'murder.'"
"Jeremy. Thank God." Mélanie moved to the door as Jeremy Roth came into the sitting room the House of Lords ushers had shown them into.
"I was in the gallery." Roth crossed to her side and gripped hands. An unusual lack of restraint for him, especially on duty. Roth, a Bow Street Runner, was usually very conscious of his role, for all he had become a personal friend. "We were worried about trouble though this wasn't what we had in mind. I'm sorry you stumbled across this, though also relieved." He glanced at the end of the room where Laura and Cordy were sitting with the children, then looked back at Mélanie. "Do you know who he is?"
"We'd never seen him before he tumbled down dead in front of us," Mélanie said. "He'd been stabbed in the side. Probably with a thin blade."
"It's the sort of thing my husband used to be known to do," Kitty said in a cool voice. "But Julien was still in the chamber. And he wouldn't. Not now. Not without cause anyway. And I don't think he had it."
Roth nodded.
"You don't know who he is?" Mélanie asked.
Roth shook his head. "No one's come forwards to identify him. "His coat is well-tailored but his pockets were bare of identifying information."
"I know," Mélanie said. "I searched them before the ushers hurried us away. He looked to be in late twenties. Maybe early thirties." She had an image of an image of high cheekbones, a smattering of freckles, tousled auburn hair. Details she'd scarcely taken in in her focus on trying to save the victim but had registered at the back of her mind.
"I can get you another look at the body," Roth said. "We need to identify him before we go any further. We thought about closing the doors, but it would only have led to panic, and by then the killer was almost certainly long gone."
"Quite certainly," a familiar voice said from the door.
Julien was standing there. Malcolm pushed past him and came forwards to grip Mélanie by the shoulders.
"We're all right, darling," Mélanie said, closing her fingers on his elbows.
"We were in the wrong place at the wrong time," Cordelia said, looking round to meet Harry's gaze, as he and Raoul followed Julien and Malcolm into the room.
"Or possibly the right place at the right time," Kitty said. "I imagine few other people today would have been as prepared to deal with a murder."
"You'll have to Investigate," Colin said.
"Malcolm and Julien can't," Emily said. "They have to save the queen."
"He didn't say anything?" Roth asked Mélanie.
She shook her head. "He was barely conscious by the time I got to him. And we didn't see anything before he fell. If only—"
She broke off as the door burst open again to admit Hopkins, one of the Bow Street patrols who worked with Roth.
"Have you learned the victim's identity?" Roth asked.
"No." Hopkins pushed his fair hair back from his face. He had always struck Mélanie as quite matter-of-fact, but now his blue eyes were wide with shock. "But there's been an unexpected development. To own the truth, sir, I'm not sure what to make of it. But I think you'll have to send for the prime minister."
Also by Tracy Grant
Traditional Regencies
WIDOW’S GAMBIT
FRIVOLOUS PRETENCE
THE COURTING OF PHILIPPA
* * *
Lescaut Quartet
DARK ANGEL
SHORES OF DESIRE
SHADOWS OF THE HEART
RIGHTFULLY HIS
* * *
The Rannoch Fraser Mysteries
HIS SPANISH BRIDE
LONDON INTERLUDE
VIENNA WALTZ
IMPERIAL SCANDAL
THE PARIS AFFAIR
THE PARIS PLOT
BENEATH A SILENT MOON
THE BERKELEY SQUARE AFFAIR
THE MAYFAIR AFFAIR
INCIDENT IN BERKELEY SQUARE
LONDON GAMBIT
MISSION FOR A QUEEN
GILDED DECEIT
MIDWINTER INTRIGUE
THE DUKE'S GAMBIT
SECRETS OF A LADY
THE MASK OF NIGHT
THE DARLINGTON LETTERS
THE GLENISTER PAPERS
A MIDWINTER’S MASQUERADE
THE TAVISTOCK PLOT
THE CARFAX INTRIGUE
THE WESTMINSTER INTRIGUE
THE APSLEY HOUSE INCIDENT
About the Author
* * *
Tracy Grant studied British history at Stanford University and received the Firestone Award for Excellence in Research for her honors thesis on shifting conceptions of honor in late-fifteenth-century England. She lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her young daughter and three cats. In addition to writing, Tracy works for the Merola Opera Program, a professional training program for opera singers, pianists, and stage directors. Her real life heroine is her daughter Mélanie, who is very cooperative about Mummy's writing time. She is currently at work on her next book chronicling the adventures of Malcolm and Mélanie Suzanne Rannoch. Visit her on the Web at www.tracygrant.org
* * *
Cover photo by Kristen Loken.
Tracy Grant, The Apsley House Incident
