The Westminster Intrigue, page 29
"Assuming I was in their confidence, I would scarcely betray it."
"Because you thought I'd protest? I should have pushed for it sooner. Ben's feelings are remarkably steady. As are Nerezza's, which is a bit more surprising. But she seems to be genuinely fond of my son."
"She does. I think just now she was trying to tell me she feels she should give him up, for his own good."
"Damnation. I thought she was more hard-headed."
"So did I. It's a sign though of how deeply she cares."
"Yes." Beverston's brows knotted. "I trust Ben will be able to talk her out of it."
"The fact that marriage won't mean he'll be cut off from his family should certainly help. And I'd say Ben has more than proven himself worthy of her regard. He's grown up amazingly in the past year."
Beverston's mouth twisted in a wry smile. "Children have a way of doing that when one isn't looking, as no doubt you will see. Benedict's priorities seem clearly fixed, and I imagine he'll continue to grow, especially as circumstances demand it. And Nerezza is certainly well able to take care of herself. But I'd like your word you'll protect them."
"They're my friends," Malcolm said. "Of course I will."
"Roger will stand up for his brother, but he doesn't have your skills. Though he isn't doing badly for himself. And it seems it was a good thing for him to marry Dorinda."
"Yes, I would say very much so."
Beverston frowned at a framed watercolor of Lake Como that Cordelia had done in Italy, as though deciphering secrets in the washes of blue and green. "Odd to find oneself wanting one's children to be happy with their marriage partners. It was never much of a concern for me. But perhaps it should have been. It seems to have worked well for you."
"You can't tell me you take me as an example to follow in anything, sir."
Beverston looked up with a brief smile. "We may not agree, but I have a lot of respect for you, Malcolm. I don't doubt your father is very proud of you."
"My father is very different from you, sir."
"Undoubtedly. But there's a certain commonality in being a parent. God knows Roger and Benedict haven't followed the path I'd have chosen for them. But I'm rather proud of both of them. And I'd like to see them settled as comfortably as possible." He held Malcolm's gaze for a moment.
Malcolm studied Beverston. He was used to seeing the other man as unassailable. A force to be worked round, if anything. Certainly not a subject of concern. And yet— "Sir—"
"We don't know where we're headed, Malcolm. But we're clearly in a crisis, and a crisis has a way of crystalizing the mind. As I said, I find certain things matter to me far more than I thought. What's clear to me is that my children's happiness matters rather more than anything else I can think of at present."
"If there are things you know, that you haven't told me—"
"I've told you what I can, Malcolm." Beverston's moved to the door. His signet ring caught the flare of the candlelight as he reached for the handle. "I have no doubt you'll do the best possible. There are parts of this I need to handle on my own."
Mélanie found Julien in one of the side salons talking to Emily Cowper and Granville and Harriet Leveson-Gower.
"All of this endless talk about how far apart the queen’s and Bergami's beds were and whether or not they slept in the beds," Emily was saying. Her color was high and her voice a shade more brittle than usual. "As if they couldn’t contrive to do whatever they liked in or out of bed and actually sleeping has nothing to do with it. To be sure, the queen has shown a sad want of discretion—"
“Oh, if she wanted to be really discreet she should have chosen a lover who was absent—or better yet dead,” Harriet said. She turned to smile at her husband. “If I didn’t adore Granville so much, I’d adopt a dead lover at once. There’s nothing like absence and death to make a romance really respectable.”
"If rather dull," Mélanie said.
"Which is why a sensible man knows the best love affair is with his own wife. Or learns it eventually." Granville kissed his wife's hand, then looked at Mélanie. "And no, I never saw Danielle Darnault except on stage. I was married to Harriet by then."
Granville had had a very active romantic career before his marriage, including a long affair with Harriet's aunt. The affair had produced two children whom Granville and Harriet were now raising. Not to mention that "Caro George" was Harriet's illegitimate half-sister. As Malcolm had pointed out to Mélanie, their own situation was far from the most unusual in Mayfair. "I never thought you had," she said.
"I wonder how many men in the ballroom can say as much." Emily wielded her fan. From the look in her eyes, Mélanie suspected she was quite aware of Palmerston's involvement with Danielle.
"I imagine even a number who can are not unaware of the meaning of loyalty." Julien said. "It comes in different forms."
"Well said." Emily gave a smile that was less arch. "You have the makings of a diplomat."
"But he's quite forgot he promised me a waltz." Mélanie slid her arm through Julien's own.
"Then by all means, you mustn't disappoint her, Carfax," Granville said.
"Do you really want to dance?" Julien asked Mélanie as they moved off.
"It's always agreeable to dance with you, Julien. But I have information about your friend Pendarves."
Julien's brows drew together.
"It doesn't necessarily mean anything." Mélanie drew him to the side as they stepped into the ballroom. "But it seems he's involved with Jack Tarrington. He's—"
"A very talented young actor. I know."
"Letty heard Jack quarreling with James Blayney five nights ago. She didn't hear what about. I'll talk to Jack."
"And I obviously need to talk to Pendarves again. I suspected there might be someone now. But Pen's lover's quarreling with Blayney is certainly a wrinkle."
That note of worry in Julien's voice was something new. Or perhaps she simply hadn't been keyed to notice it before. "You couldn't have guessed this, Julien."
"I don't make guesses. But you're right, I couldn't have deduced it. I still feel I missed things."
Mélanie hesitated, then decided to venture it. "It's not surprising there are echoes. When you talk to Pendarves. I feel that with—people I've got information from."
He gave a quick smile. "Including me."
"I failed woefully with you, Julien." It had been her first mission, and it still rankled.
"Not really. I almost didn't wake up." This time he watched her for a moment. "It's different," he said. "When you've used intimacy for information, it means something else. Even when you aren't using it for anything."
"We aren't the only ones who've done that," Mélanie said.
"No. But we've done it more than anyone in our group. I'm not sure the others can quite understand the echoes. Not even Kitty. And I'm quite sure Malcolm can't, remarkable as he is."
"God, I hope not. I wouldn't want him to."
A faint smile pulled at Julien's mouth. "I used to think everything could be sold. But intimacy—real intimacy—can't be. It's difficult, drawing the line." He squeezed her hand. "Save a dance for me later. I need to talk to Pendarves."
Frances stepped out into the cool air of Cordelia and Harry's garden. Cordy's parties were always diverting, and certainly the trial made for refreshing gossip instead of the usual on-dits. But she found herself wanting to escape the crowds more than she once had. A little of this life went a long way. Odd to think it had once been the hub of her existence. But then, she hadn't had other things to fill her days. And she was at an age where the heat was likely to overwhelm her more. She stepped further into the garden, wielding her fan.
A few others were wandering along the garden paths, beneath the dancing light from the colored glass lanterns. There was a time when she'd have escaped into the garden at a ball in a gentleman's company for something more than fresh air. Though amorous encounters in the shrubbery were generally more alluring in theory than in fact. Cold stones and prickly shrubbery were no match for a featherbed. And none of the men she'd dallied with then was a match for Archie.
"Fanny."
She gripped the stone wall behind her, scrabbling to hold on to her sanity. The disembodied voice deluged her senses with memory. Surely she was dreaming?
"I'm quite real," he said. "I never knew you to believe in ghosts."
"Not in the literal sense."
"Surely you've wondered, through the years."
"No. Yes. Sometimes."
"I sent you violets. More than once."
"I couldn't be sure that was you."
"Well, no, I couldn't be more explicit. But I'm being so now. I'm very real. And I need your help."
Myriad conflicting emotions tore at her throat. "I'm not the same woman I was."
"You'll always be the same woman, Fanny. We both know that."
She gave a low laugh, though her pulse was hammering in her throat. "When it comes to me, I wouldn't assume you know anything at all. I love my husband."
"Love's a complicated thing, Fanny. We've both always known that too."
"I never thought you knew the meaning of the word."
"One can know the meaning of a word without using that word. We both always knew what was between us."
"Yes. And the word for it isn't love."
"Fanny, I need your help." His voice was low and oddly serious.
"Why in God's name would I help you?"
"Because whatever you feel for Davenport, I don't think you want to see me destroyed."
Her nails dug into the stone through the kid of her gloves. "You must know I'll never forgive you."
"My love." His voice stroked over her nerve endings. "When has forgiveness had anything to do with it?"
Chapter 36
Julien found Pendarves in the room that was given over to cards, not sitting at one of the baize-covered tables but standing to the side, an almost-empty glass of port in one hand. He didn't drink much in general. At least, he hadn't when Julien had known him. Julien moved to stand beside him. "Davenport has some excellent whisky in the adjoining room. If you're not in the mood for a game of cards, I'll pour you a glass."
Pendarves met Julien's gaze for a moment. Julien could see the calculation. Further talk was unlikely to be comfortable. On the other hand, if Julien wanted to talk, Pen would know he'd seek him out sooner or later, perhaps in more challenging surroundings. Pendarves inclined his head and they opened the door in the bookshelves onto the adjoining sitting room. They'd been known to slip into anterooms in the past. Julien would have taken more care that no one was watching in those days. Perhaps he ought to be more concerned now, although he didn't think there was gossip about either of them.
The sitting room was where Harry or Cordelia sometimes worked upstairs. It had a bust of the Emperor Claudius and shelves of well-born books, an overflow from the library and study downstairs, very much Harry's mark. But the mahogany desk set with a gilded blotter, a silver pen set, a bronze paperweight, crested stationery, and gilt-embossed ledgers were the accoutrements of an English gentleman. Of the world both he and Pen had grown up in. Into which neither of them quite fit. The decanters on a tray beside the desk did indeed hold some excellent whisky from near Dunmykel, the Rannochs' Scottish estate. Julien poured two glasses.
"You're better at deception than I credited," Julien said, as he put a glass in Pendarves's hand. "I knew you were hiding something the first time we spoke. Oddly, I didn't think it was a lover."
Pendarves's fingers tightened round the cut glass. "You must see why I kept quiet."
Julien took a sip from his own glass. "Odd world we live in. Keeping a pretty actress who's the toast of the London stage is the sort of thing a gentleman would boast about at his club. And it would probably lend her credit as well and draw crowds to the theatre. Having a liaison with one of London's most admired young actors is instead something for both to keep secret."
"I'm not—I'm not keeping him," Pendarves said, gaze on the glass in his hand.
"No. It wouldn't be that way with you." Julien surveyed his former lover. "I'm glad."
Pendarves's gaze flew to his face. "About what, for God's sake? What is there in this sorry mess to be glad of?"
"That you've found someone to care for."
"How can you possibly know this—liaison—is that?"
Julien dug his shoulder into the paneling. "Because I think I know you that well. I don't think you do anything lightly. You aren't the sort to keep an actress. You take vows seriously. You're not going to be intimate with someone you don't care for. You even cared for me, I flatter myself, though I gave you little enough reason to. But I think this is more."
"It—" Pendarves's gaze fastened on the depths of his glass. "He means a great deal to me."
"It's damnable," Julien said. "To have found someone, even if you have to keep it secret, only to have it caught up in this whole sordid business. It should just be between the two of you. You shouldn't have to answer questions from me or anyone. Perhaps particularly not from me. I'm the man who got you into bed and took information from you."
Pendarves's gaze clashed with Julien's own. "And information is what you want now."
"We need to learn who killed Jamie Blayney. Because everyone deserves justice, as Malcolm Rannoch would say, and as I am coming to find I agree. And because Blayney's death is part of something larger, and information he had is being used against a number of people."
Pendarves's gaze remained trained on Julien's face. Odd how different such focus could be. There was a time when it would have indicated romantic intensity. There was nothing soft or romantic about it now. "You said 'we' need to learn who killed Jamie. You mean Carfax. Hubert Mallinson, that is. Your uncle."
Julien swallowed. His work for Uncle Hubert had been convenient cover when he last spoke to Pendarves. Now it was in the way. Pendarves was astute enough to know Hubert Mallinson for the man he was. Or close to it. "I don't work for my uncle any longer. Though we're allies on occasion, I disagree with him about a number of things." He bit back the impulse to tell Pendarves precisely whom he'd been working for six years ago. Where did this damnable impulse to tell the truth come from? How did Malcolm, with his infernally fine-tuned conscience, survive for five minutes in intelligence?
Julien bit back the words he knew he couldn't say. Out of loyalty to all sorts of other people. Loyalty was another damnable thing. So much easier, in so many ways, not to give a damn about anyone or anything. "I'm working with the Rannochs." He chose his words with care. "And Jeremy Roth from Bow Street. We're trying to discover who killed Blayney and what use they are trying to make of the information he had."
"And Rannoch works with your uncle."
"Like me, Rannoch used to work with my uncle. We both make our own choices now about where our loyalties lie." Julien hesitated, weighing what he could and couldn't say. "I wouldn't tell Uncle Hubert about you. And us. About you and Jack."
"You can't promise that. I understand intelligence enough to realize that. Louis. Or whatever I'm supposed to call you. Carfax? Arthur?"
"I still cringe at Carfax, and Arthur seems like another person." He hesitated a moment. "The people who know me—the people who love me—call me Julien."
"Julien, then."
Julien took a step forwards. "I know you want to protect Jack. As I'd want to protect Kitty—little though she'd thank me. But knowing the truth gives us our best chance of resolving things and making everyone safer."
"And that's why you want to resolve things?"
"That's part of it."
Pendarves gave a wry smile. "You're honest, I'll give you that." He glanced to the side. "I hadn't—there hadn't been anyone in some time. I thought I could live without that part of my life. I appreciate my work. I appreciate my children. Then one night I saw Jack onstage. I was struck. He's a remarkable actor. And yes, I felt more, but I didn't expect it to lead to anything. But I was at the Tavistock with Tinsbury, with whom I was working on a debt relief bill, and he wanted to go to the green room to see Letty Blanchard, so I went along with him. And I found myself standing beside Jack. So I complimented him on his performance. Simple enough to do. I was sure everyone he met said the same, but he seemed genuinely happy to hear it."
"I don't know that one can ever hear it too much."
"Perhaps. Yes." Pendarves scraped a hand over his hair. "In any case, we began to talk. I ended up going along to a coffeehouse with Tinsbury and Miss Blanchard and some others of the company, and Jack and I sat beside each other. We talked. We share an interest in politics." Pendarves drew a breath, as though not sure how much more to say.
"He's one of the Levellers," Julien said. "I know. You must realize I'm in sympathy with them. More than you are, I would have said from what I know of your positions."
Pendarves's brows drew together. "I certainly recognize the ills the Levellers point out. I fear some of their solutions might cause more harm than good. But there are many of their proposals I agree with too. I'm not always sure about their tactics for getting there."
"A discussion I hear a great deal of with my new-found friends." Julien almost referred to David and Simon, but then, though surely Pendarves understood their relationship, it wasn't something to put into words outside their immediate circle. What a damnable world they lived in. "A discussion I join in, I should say."
Pendarves regarded him. "I never thought of you as political. I suppose as an agent, you can't be."
"You can, to a degree, if you pick and choose the assignments you'll undertake, and for whom." It was the closest he'd come to admitting to Pendarves he'd worked for anyone other than the British. "But it's true, I'm freer now." What an odd thought, that his new life was freer than his old one. He was used to thinking of it as happier, but mostly he thought he was happy despite being Lord Carfax, rather than because of his new position.
