"Danielle Darnault seems to have been singularly adept at getting people to confide. I've heard more than once how easy she was to talk to, how people trusted her," Malcolm said.

  "It's an art." Blanca set the dressing gown down on the bed and held out Mélanie's blush-colored lace overdress. "Not getting someone into bed. That's easy enough, after all. But putting them at ease. Getting them to talk."

  "Yes." Malcolm strolled into the room. "And some of us have been known to reveal all sorts of things. Good thing you never wrote your memoirs, darling."

  "They wouldn't have been nearly as interesting as Danielle Darnault's. Well, not on that account." Mélanie slid her arms into the overdress and did up the silk strings that fastened it on the side.

  Malcolm paused, arms folded across his chest. "You look beautiful. And quite different."

  "I used to dress like this all the time. In Vienna, this would have seemed positively simple."

  "Yes, but it's been a while. It's rather like seeing you in costume."

  Mélanie glanced in the looking glass and adjusted one of her garnet and antique gold earrings. "Oh, going out in the beau monde always means playing a role. We're just more aware of it these days."

  "That's what domesticity does to you." Blanca picked up the curling tongs and moved to the door.

  "Are you accusing us of getting rusty?" Malcolm asked.

  "Heaven forfend. Addison has your things laid out in the dressing room. But you'd best let him help you with your cravat. He still cares about his reputation as valet."

  "Don't worry. I won't let him down." Malcolm grinned and shrugged out of his coat.

  "Go get ready yourself," Mélanie told Blanca.

  "Don’t worry, I have plenty of time. People won't be looking at me nearly as closely as you."

  Malcolm studied Mélanie. "You aren't wearing a corset, are you?"

  "Is it that obvious?"

  "Only to someone who's used to helping you lace it."

  "I need to find some way to be subversive."

  "It's the darts in the dress," Blanca said, at the door. "They do wonders."

  "And I'm much better suited to action this way," Mélanie said. "Yet another difference from Vienna. I rarely went without a corset. I was too worried about fitting in. And probably too afraid you'd notice."

  "Why on earth would I have minded your not wearing a corset?"

  "It might have shaken your opinion of who I was."

  "A sensible woman who isn't afraid to be practical? And comfortable? Or who realizes a woman's natural shape is much more appealing?"

  "I love you, Malcolm."

  Malcolm grinned and strolled across the room, tugging his cravat loose. Mélanie followed him to the dressing room and leaned in the doorway while he whipped the shaving soap into a lather, reached for the razor, and told her about his interviews with Prescott and Glenister.

  "Prescott seems to have lost his temper more over the mention of Sophia than over your suggestion he'd known Danielle Darnault," Mélanie said.

  "Yes." Malcolm angled the razor over a bit he'd missed on his jaw. "But then he could legitimately take offense at the insult to his wife's honor. He couldn't take offense over Danielle Darnault without admitting he'd known her. But I rather had the sense his bluster over Lady Prescott was an attempt to turn my attention away from whatever happened between him and Danielle Darnault."

  "It has to be more than an affair. An affair with a famous courtesan sounds like the sort of thing a man like Prescott would boast about. I doubt he's worried about unsettling his marriage, given what we know about it. Given the way Sophia spoke of him."

  "No." Malcolm set down the razor and wiped his face with the towel Addison had laid out. "With all of them, it doesn't seem to be the fact of the affair they're worried about, but the things Danielle Darnault got them to confide. A far greater talent, as Blanca pointed out."

  "Which she employed as an agent. But then, she was willing to barter those secrets."

  "She wrote them down as insurance."

  Mélanie moved to her husband's side and wiped a bit of lather he'd missed at the corner of his mouth. "She sounds like me."

  "Not really." Malcolm caught her hand and kissed it. "She wasn't loyal to any cause."

  "There is that. And she had a far more exalted string of lovers than I did."

  "You got married young. Not that that stops some people."

  Mélanie pulled a face at him.

  Malcolm began to undo his shirt cuffs. "She sounds more like Tania."

  Mélanie studied her husband. The loss of his sister Tatiana was still a raw wound, she knew. "She sounds intelligent and clever like Tatiana." Funny to be calling her by her given name, which Mélanie would never have done in Tatiana's lifetime—when she had believed the other woman was her husband's mistress. Even now, it didn't seem right to call her Tania. "And as though she was loyal to those she cared about, like Tatiana."

  "Tania was that." Malcolm started on the second cuff. "She was also Napoleon's Bonaparte's mistress at much the same time Danielle Darnault was. Perhaps at the same time. And we know Tania was fully capable of indulging in blackmail. Which was hard for me to face, and which I was therefore slow to admit."

  "And you think Julien's having the same problem?"

  Malcolm gave a wry smile. "A year ago, even nine months ago, if you'd told me I'd be saying Julien could blinded by his feelings—But yes. I think it's possible."

  "And even Julien admits Danielle Darnault might have been capable of having Jamie Blayney killed."

  Malcolm dragged his shirt over his head. "Yes, well, I'd have admitted Tania could be capable of murder in the same circumstances. And I'd have had the devil of a time if I'd been investigating."

  Mélanie handed him the fresh shirt Addison had laid out. "I don't think Danielle Darnault quite means to Julien what Tatiana meant to you."

  "No. But I'm coming more and more to realize that a number of people and things mean far more to Julien than he would ever admit. Even to himself."

  "I think he'd be the first to admit he's biased."

  "Yes, I agree." Malcolm pulled on the fresh shirt. "He's not short on self-knowledge. Poor devil."

  Mélanie looked at her husband in inquiry.

  "He's not close to a lot of people. And two of those he is close to are tangled in this mess."

  "I know. It's still odd to be working with Julien."

  "Is it?" Malcolm asked with a crooked smile.

  Mélanie folded her arms. In their months traveling with Hortense Bonaparte, she had relied on Julien, as he had seemed to rely on her. "Perhaps not entirely. We were allies. Comrades."

  Malcolm began to do up the cuffs on the clean shirt. "When we first met—that is, when I first met him as Julien St. Juste—you talked to him like—"

  "Don't say an ex-lover."

  "Not really. Though I already knew he was that. More like a provoking brother of whom you were fond, despite his challenges."

  Mélanie felt herself frown, then laughed. "Damn it, Malcolm, as usual, you're far too insightful." She adjusted the strings on her gown. "Perhaps I sensed Julien was looking for something, without admitting it. Perhaps because I was looking for it myself, without admitting it. I do think, even then, I realized Julien could be hurt, despite all appearances to the contrary." She met her husband's gaze, countless moments from their eight years together flashing between them. "And yes, I do think both Danielle Darnault and Lord Pendarves could end up hurting Julien."

  Addison made a last adjustment to Malcolm's cravat. "It's rather refreshing to be doing this again, sir."

  "I thought you'd finally got round to calling me Malcolm."

  Addison gave the faintest of smiles and reached for the black cassimere coat he had laid out. "Only on occasion. Sir."

  "So I don't only have to squeeze my arms into a coat that's uncomfortably tight, I have to lose free discourse with one of my best friends."

  "Your coats have never been cut tightly enough to be considered truly fashionable. And you always spoke quite freely with me long before it occurred to either of us to use given names."

  Malcolm grinned as he slid his arms into the coat. "It certainly feels cut tightly enough."

  "That's because half the time at home you don't wear one at all."

  "Mmn. The things I learned in Italy. Speaking of which, I think it would be a good thing if you could strike up an acquaintance with Lord Prescott's valet. Also Lord Danbury's."

  "Gladly, sir." Addison brushed the shoulders of the coat.

  "Thank you. Miles." Malcolm picked up his gloves and moved to the door. Mélanie had already gone into the nursery, and Raoul and Laura would be there as well. They were taking the children with them to Harry and Cordy's to spend the evening with the Davenport girls, and then they were all staying the night.

  "Malcolm," Addison said.

  Malcolm turned back from the door and met his friend's gaze. "Yes?"

  "Alexander Radford sounds like a very dangerous man."

  "I believe he is." Malcolm twitched his shirt cuff straight beneath his coat. "We've dealt with dangerous men before."

  "I know. But there's something different about this one."

  "That sounds unusually dramatic from you."

  Addison frowned into the bowl of shaving water. "You can tell it from the way everyone talks about him. Mostly from what they don't say."

  "I'm always careful."

  "I know." Addison lifted his gaze to Malcolm, his own unusually intent. "But in this case, I'm asking you to be more so. As a friend."

  Malcolm clapped Addison on the shoulder. "I can hardly fail to take a request from a friend seriously. I'll be on my guard. You have my word."

  Chapter 25

  "I like Pippa Haworth," Mélanie said. "But I'm not sure she was telling the truth."

  "About the affair, or about what Captain Blayney asked of her?" Kitty said. They were in Cordy's drawing room, turned into a ballroom for the evening, with Cordy and Laura, making last minute adjustments, though they'd been talking of nothing but the investigation. It was a good thing entertaining was like a memory ingrained in the muscles for all of them now. When she'd first married Malcolm, it had taken all Mélanie's concentration to get through an evening like this.

  "About why she agreed to his blackmail demand," Mélanie said. "I do understand the threat to one's peace can shake a person. But having spoken with her, I can't help but think it would have taken something more to make her succumb to his threats."

  Cordelia adjusted her aquamarine bandeau. "Scandal can sometimes seem more of a threat when one's been born inside society."

  "Yes, I do see that. But what would you do if someone threatened to reveal information about your past?"

  Cordelia frowned. "Tell Harry to be prepared for more scandal. Possibly leave London. No, I don't think I'd leave. I'd brazen it out."

  "Precisely. Pippa reminds me of you. I can see why you're friends. And since I see no reason why she'd lie about agreeing to Captain Blayney's blackmail, I think he was holding something else over her."

  "Perhaps he threatened Sophia Prescott," Laura said. "Sisters can be protective even when they don't get on."

  "Perhaps." Mélanie tugged one of the autumn roses in a vase on a pier table by the door so it showed to better advantage. "I do have the sense she was protecting someone else, rather than herself. But we haven't seen much to indicate either sister would protect the other. Of course, Pippa might feel guilty about having had an affair with Sophia's former lover, for all she denies it. That might make her want to make amends."

  "Pippa has more of a conscience than she lets on." Cordelia inched a chair further back from the space cleared for dancing. "I can't help feeling there's something about her affair with James Blayney that we're not seeing. Or that Pippa isn't telling us." She glanced at the mantelpiece clock, which she had bought in Switzerland on her way to Italy. "Poison, the guests could be here any minute. I should go to the head of the stairs. I know just how you felt at your ball last summer, Kitty. Hostess duty is like being sidelined."

  "Take comfort in the fact that you'll be greeting a number of the suspects," Kitty said. "Goodness knows how many of whom are in Danielle Darnault's memoirs. I can only hope we'll know more at the end of tonight."

  "We'll undoubtedly know more," Mélanie said. "Whether or not it will make sense is another question."

  "It's odd." Cordelia cast another glance round the ballroom and righted a taper tilting in one of the candelabra. "When one is first out, the entire story of a ball seems to be who dances with whom, who might be on the verge of a proposal, who might be going another season without a proposal. People our age seem hopelessly dull. Then a decade later one can scarcely keep track of the doings of the younger set." She pushed the candelabrum to the center of the polished walnut table. "I suppose we'll have to pay attention again when the girls are old enough."

  "The girls are too sensible." Harry appeared in the doorway, followed by Malcolm, Raoul, and Julien. "They'll fall in love with someone entirely unsuitable, like a writer, or a journalist, or a painter, or an actor."

  "Or a classical scholar." Cordelia smiled at her husband. "But if I hadn't gone to the Devonshire House ball, I'd never have met you."

  "For that matter, if I hadn't gone, which is far more surprising, I'd never have met you. Don't imagine I don't thank my lucky stars every night that I let Archie drag me to that party."

  "I met Julien at a ball." Kitty tucked her hand through her husband's arm.

  "On the dance floor?" Laura asked.

  "No, he was masquerading as a woman. He was wearing the most beautiful mantilla and silver comb. I wanted both before I had the wit to want Julien."

  "I gave you the comb and mantilla, as I recall," Julien said.

  "You did, darling. Long before you gave me yourself."

  "Did you see through his disguise?" Malcolm asked.

  "Yes, but only after I spotted him lifting papers and realized he was on a mission."

  "I don't know which part of what you saw through shows a more shocking lapse of judgment on my part," Julien said.

  "Well, in fairness, no one else saw through you that night." Kitty said.

  "Very true." He lifted her gloved hand to his lips. "Your skills caught me. I've been a lost man ever since."

  "How did we ever do this, night after night, when we didn't have an investigation to divert us?" Cordelia asked.

  "Don't ask me," Julien said. "I ran away from home to avoid it. Well that and to avoid being arrested."

  "Take it from one who was once a governess," Laura said. "There's something to be said for not being on the sidelines."

  Mélanie surveyed her friend. Laura's gown of ivory silk net over satin, adorned with blonde lace and gold embroidery that caught the candlelight, was anything but designed to blend into the shadows. Very different from the sober dark blue and gray she'd worn in her days as their governess. "I'm sorry. I don't think I properly appreciated how beastly it must have been."

  "Don't be. You included me far more than most governesses. I'm the one who was trying to hide. And I met Raoul on the sidelines."

  "For which I could not be more grateful," Raoul said.

  Malcolm glanced round the group. "Is everyone clear on the mission?"

  "As clear as can be," Julien said. "I imagine tonight is going to take improvisation. Because just about anyone here could be a subject in the investigation."

  "I've warned the footmen to pay extra attention to the guests, and we have someone watching the garden gate," Harry said. "Just in case whoever was behind the attacks on Mélanie and me and Julien and Raoul tries anything. Though a part of me rather wishes they would. It might give us some answers."

  "And it would certainly ensure the ball was talked of." Cordelia moved to the door to the landing. "Time to go to work."

  As the ballroom filled with guests, Malcolm made his way downstairs, pausing to flash a sympathetic smile at Cordy, who was looking radiant in gauzy azure draperies over white satin at the head of the stairs and giving an excellent impression of thinking of nothing but greeting her guests. He slipped down the stairs, nodding at arriving guests, and made his way to the library. There was a time when he'd escaped to the library whenever he could at balls. He'd met Kitty in the British minister's library in Lisbon, and in the early days of their marriage Mélanie had frequently gone in search of him there and pulled him out into the crowd.

  But now he was bent on investigation, not escape. Not that the library would have been a good place to escape to tonight. It was already quite full, with political groups seeking a quiet place to discuss the trial, and classicists poring over Harry and Cordy's books. Malcolm grinned at Edith Simmons, a young classicist and former governess who now lived with Harry and Cordy, then strolled over to the fireplace where Fitzroy Somerset was talking with the current Duke of Trenchard. They both greeted him as a friend, but Malcolm caught the quick way their talk silenced at his approach.

  "Difficult to share chitchat across party lines these days," Malcolm said.

  "It's always good to see you." Fitzroy, who had excellent diplomatic skills, gave a quick smile. He had been Wellington's secretary in the Peninsula and Waterloo and was now in Wellington's new role as master-general of the ordnance. He had also been elected a Tory MP in 1818 but had lost his seat in the recent general election. "Away from Westminster. Though these days, what's happening in Westminster seems to follow us everywhere."

  Malcolm returned Fitzroy's smile. They had been friends and colleagues since the Peninsula. "Sorry to interrupt your conversation."

  "On the contrary," Trenchard said. Like Fitzroy, he was a Tory, but he could not be more different from his late father, the Elsinore League member who had schemed with Alistair Rannoch to be made prime minister. "We've spent enough time on politics. I promised my wife at least two dances." He touched Malcolm on the arm, nodded to Fitzroy, and made his way off.

 

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