The Mayfair Mistletoe Plot, page 16
The play’s the thing. He knew the barkeep was looking at him, but he didn’t stop to make eye contact. His summons had been quite clear on where he should go.
A red-haired woman in a clinging green gown brushed against him as he moved to the stairs. "I’m available, guv’nor."
"Sorry." Malcolm paused and smiled at her. "I have business to see to."
He climbed the stairs, aware of more gazes on him. Though not surprised gazes. They assumed, like the disappointed woman in the green dress, that he was on his way upstairs to visit one of the women who worked the tavern. Who a decade or so ago might have been the remarkable woman who was now his wife. Which somehow made the thought of being taken for that man more discomfiting. He wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or not that Mélanie wasn’t with him.
At the top of the stairs, he went to the door his note had indicated, the third one. He rapped once, then opened it without waiting for a response.
The smell swamped him at once. Sweet, cloying.
A woman was stretched out on the floorboards, fair hair spread round her, the pale folds of her gown and black velvet of her cloak tangled round her legs, as though she had fallen in a sudden tumble.
A man was bending over her. Tall, wrapped in a loose greatcoat, brown hair ruffled. That was not surprising either. Jeremy Roth had summoned Malcolm, and Malcolm had been quite sure when he received the cryptic missive that it was because of an investigation, probably a murder. Roth was a skilled Bow Street runner, but he was quick to employ Malcolm and his friends’ assistance when it suited a case.
Malcolm pushed the door to as Roth’s head jerked up from contemplation of the victim. "Mel’s at the Tavistock. But I came as soon as I could."
"Thank you." Roth’s voice was unusually husky, his gaze opaque in the greasy light of the tallow candle on the gateleg table by the window.
Malcolm moved forwards. A spreading red stain showed on the woman’s chest through the white muslin of her gown. The blood had congealed. Her eyes were glazed. He didn’t need to feel for a pulse to know she was dead. "How long do you think?" he asked Roth.
"An hour perhaps. Not much more."
Malcolm had spent enough hours cooling his heels at his wife’s modiste’s to recognize the quality of the muslin and velvet, the elegance of the cut of the clothes. And her earrings and necklace had the gleam of real gold despite the poor light. "She doesn’t look like a woman one would expect to find in Seven Dials." Which would explain why Roth had summoned him. He often wanted Malcolm and Mélanie’s and their friends’ assistance with cases involving the beau monde. "You’d like us to assist on the case?"
"No," Roth said. His gaze jerked to Malcolm’s own. His hands were lose at his sides. He wasn’t, Malcolm realized, holding his notebook, which was usually ever-present in investigations. "That is, your assistance would be invaluable. But I won’t be able to oversee this case myself."
Malcolm took another step forwards. The Bow Street Public Office was under the auspices of the home office, which meant cases that involved anything to do with the government, espionage, or the royal family were particularly fraught. He didn’t recognize the woman as someone connected to the government or royal family or as an agent, but he might not know. "Why not?"
Roth looked down at the dead woman again, But though his gaze was fixed on her tangled limbs and still features, for a moment it was as though he was looking not at her in the present but into some hell of his own making. "Because this is my wife."
Malcolm stared at his friend. He had first met Roth in the Peninsula, during the war against Napoleon Bonaparte’s forces, when Roth had been a soldier assigned to intelligence missions and Malcolm a diplomatic attaché and agent. They hadn’t talked much about their personal lives, but Roth had mentioned a wife at home and children. Later when Malcolm, settled in London as an MP and seemingly free of the intelligence game (which now seemed a joke), had encountered Roth again as a Bow Street runner, Roth had referred to his wife as "gone." He hadn’t offered further details and Malcolm hadn’t felt the right to pry for them. He knew Roth lived with his his sister, who was helping him raise his two sons. Despite Roth’s reticence about the beau monde, they had all frequently been guests in Malcolm and Mélanie’s home.
"I didn’t know she was back in England," Malcolm said.
Roth met Malcolm’s gaze, his own suddenly focused. "And you’re wondering if I found her like this or if she was alive when I came into the room."
Once Malcolm had confronted a similar question about a dead woman he had been found bending over. The person who had found him was his wife Mélanie. And the dead woman was a lady many—including his wife—assumed to be his mistress, though in fact she was his half-sister. He still remembered the doubt in Mélanie’s eyes, how it had cut him in two, and how he had known he had no right to question her questions.
"I’d never ask that of a friend."
"But as an investigator you’re too good not to ask that of a suspect. Which is what I am."
"For God’s sake, Jeremy." Malcolm caught Roth’s arm. "Before everything else, my deepest sympathies."
Roth stared up at him, eyes glazed with confusion.
"Your wife just died." Malcolm pressed Roth into a chair. He looked round. There was a bottle of wine on the gateleg table, but he didn’t want to disturb anything. Not yet. He strode out the door, called for a glass of gin, brought it back and put it in Roth’s hand.
Roth took a gulp and spoke quickly. "I hadn’t heard from Allegra in years. Not since she left. Then I received a note from her this evening, not two hours since, asking me to come here and meet her. I would have thought it was a set-up save that I’d know her hand anywhere. I found her like this. She was beyond help, though I did everything I could for her." His voice caught. He took another swallow of gin and pushed on. "I realize how improbable that sounds."
"Far too improbable to be anything a man with your skills would have invented," Malcolm said.
"That’s one way of looking at it." Roth stared down into the glass. "Allegra never seemed satisfied. Our life wasn’t easy. I knew it wasn’t the life she had dreamed of. She could get caught up in moments of fun with the boys, but a part of me always knew she was dissatisfied. Shocking as it was that she disappeared, a part of me wasn’t surprised. After all, what else is a woman to do when she’s unhappy with her life? Divorce was far out of our reach."
"Did she leave a note?"
Roth shook his head. He was determinedly not looking away from his wife’s body. "She went out to do some shopping one afternoon and never returned. I scoured the streets. I used every source I could find. Shamelessly. I’d have asked you for help if we’d been better friends then."
"I’m sorry we weren’t."
"I was able to trace her as far as the Red Lion on the Dover Road. I couldn’t find anyone who’d actually seen her on the stage. I had a vague description that might mean she’d got into a private carriage. And another vague description in an inn at Dover."
"She never wrote?"
"Not until today."
"Do you have reason to think she went off with a lover?"
"It seems an obvious assumption," Roth said, as though discussing a victim to whom he had no connection. "I had no evidence she had a lover before she left. Except the growing distance between us. And her increasing absences."
Malcolm looked down at Allegra Roth’s body. He noted again the lines of her gown and cloak, the gleam of her jewelry. "A fashionable modiste made this gown. And that’s real gold."
"Yes. All far finer than anything she had when she was married to me." Roth’s eyes narrowed, the gaze of an investigator. "I can’t imagine she was staying here."
"Have you questioned the tavern staff?"
"Briefly, when I paid the pot boy to bring you the letter. I didn’t want to rouse their suspicions, but apparently Allegra arrived veiled and engaged a private room. They made the obvious assumptions about why she was expecting a gentleman. She wasn’t dressed for Seven Dials, but I doubt she’s the only fashionable lady to engage a private room here." Roth got to his feet but didn’t move closer to his wife’s body. "She was stabbed. One cut, expertly done or a lucky hit. No sign of the weapon."
Malcolm looked round. "Did you—?"
"Search? Yes. So there’s no way to prove I didn’t take anything. But you’d best look as well in case I missed anything."
A reticule lay beside her, velvet with a steel clasp, like many Mélanie had. An enamel tin of lip rouge, a crystal atomizer of scent, a light gardenia. A silk coin purse. An ivory comb. A stray button.
"Does any of this mean anything to you?" Malcolm asked.
"Only the button. It’s from our eldest son’s first shirt. I didn’t even know she’d taken it. It makes me wonder—" His face twisted. "I’m going to have to send for Bow Street. They’ll turn the investigation over to someone and keep me out of it. I may well be arrested, if not tonight, then soon. No." He put up a hand as Malcolm started to protest. "You know a husband or wife would be the first suspect, especially if they’re found with the body. It won’t play well that I summoned you first, but that’s why I had to. I need you to promise you’ll look into this. Whatever you can learn. I know I may be putting you against the home office—"
"Hardly for the first time."
Roth’s gaze locked on his own. "I know what I’m asking."
"You can’t imagine I wouldn’t help."
"No." Roth held his gaze for a long moment that spoke volumes about where their friendship had come. He reached in his greatcoat pocket and pulled out two pieces of paper torn from his notebook. "If I’m arrested before I can go home this is for Harriet. And this is for the boys."
Malcolm took the papers. "Mélanie once found me over the dead body of the woman she believed to be my mistress. She helped me in the investigation."
"Did she suspect you?"
"She tried not to let me see it."
"You’re doing a good job of that yourself."
Malcolm looked levelly into Roth’s gaze. "One can never be sure of what anyone might do. But I know you. Better perhaps than Mélanie knew me at that time. I can’t imagine your doing this."
"That may be a failure of your imagination."
"Always possible. But I choose to think otherwise."
"You need to keep an open mind. Because more than anything, I want to know what happened. Allegra deserves that. My sons need to know what happened to their mother. Promise you’ll learn the truth, Malcolm. Wherever it takes you."
Malcolm looked into the eyes of the man who was one of his closest friends, for all the secrets on both sides. "I promise."
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
THE WHITEHALL CONSPIRACY
Forthcoming May 2023—THE SEVEN DIALS AFFAIR
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Every book in this series starts with a huge thanks to the amazing team at Nancy Yost Literary Agency who help bring the series to life. To my fabulous agent, Nancy Yost, for her insights from the start of the series, her steadfast support, and her brilliant eye for editing cover copy. To Natanya Wheeler for her keen insights, for once again shepherding the book expertly through the publication process and getting it out into the world, and creating another fabulous cover that brings to life both Mélanie Rannoch and the holiday ball that is the setting for the story. To Sarah Younger for superlative social media support and for helping the book along through production and publication. To Fiona O’Flynn for a great set of quote cards. And to the entire team at Nancy Yost Literary Agency for their fabulous work. Their creativity and dedication make all of them a dream to work with. Malcolm, Mélanie, and I are all very fortunate to have their support.
Thank you to Eve Lynch for the meticulous and thoughtful copyediting. I love sharing the Rannochs with you and so appreciate your care for getting their story right when it comes to everything from historical usage to series continuity. Already excited for our next collaboration.
Thank you to Kristen Loken for a magical new author photo taken on one of my and my daughter Mélanie’s favorite occasions of the year, the Merola Grand Finale. We are so excited to have had this event again this year, and it was great moment to capture a new photo. Your brilliance never fails to amaze me, Kristen!
I am very fortunate to have a wonderful group of writer friends near and far who make being a writer less solitary. Thanks in particular to Lauren Willig 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 from Shakespeare to Scandal, and being a wonderful honorary aunt to my daughter. So glad we are able to travel together again. 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, and for fabulous Zoom writing sprints—during one of which much of the teaser to The Seven Dials Affair was written.
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 website that chronicles Malcolm and Mélanie's adventures.
And thank you to my daughter Mélanie, who helped me brainstorm The Mayfair Mistletoe Plot, came up with one of the major plot twists, suggested some perfect details for the epilogue, and proofread. You were an amazing support, sweetheart, and I am so proud that my website now includes "Mélanie's Corner" for your stories, starting with your wonderful series Talea's Mysteries.
From the time she could touch the keys, Mélanie has contributed something to each of my books. This is Mélanie's contribution to this story –"I could not be prouder of Mummy for the amazing stories she writes! I am so happy I got to help with this book! But am even happier to be the daughter of such an amazing writer, person, and mummy! I was inspired to start writing because of my mummy, and I get inspiration for my stories from Mummy!"
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo by Kristen Loken, https://kristenloken.com
* * *
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 four 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 and is starting to write herself. 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.
Tracy Grant, The Mayfair Mistletoe Plot
