The Westminster Intrigue, page 33
"This shouldn't take long," she murmured. They had just returned for clean clothes, as they were all wearing the change of clothes they'd brought to Harry and Cordy's.
Then, as they took another step, she sensed it. Not a specific sound or sight or smell so much as a general feeling. The house was not as they had left it. Surely the library door hadn't been ajar.
Without looking at them, she knew Malcolm and Raoul had sensed it too. Someone else was in the house. She cast a glance at the stairs to the first floor and then the second floor and the nursery. No sign anyone had gone up. And the children weren't there. Still.
She and Raoul flattened themselves against the wall on either side of the library doorway. Malcolm flung open the door. He took a step forwards and went absolutely still.
"We need to talk," said a voice from deep within the library.
Mélanie went still herself. Because she knew that voice, though less well than Malcolm or Raoul. It belonged to a man reputed to have been dead for over three years. Malcolm's putative father, Alistair Rannoch.
Chapter 40
For an interval they could not have counted, they all stood completely immobile.
"I apologize for breaking in," Alistair said. "But in the circumstances, I couldn't precisely call in the conventional way. I'm rather relieved that evidently neither Gisèle nor Julien has told you the truth. At least, not unless you're all even better actors than I know you to be. I thought I could trust them both, but one can never be sure. Especially with Julien. Do you mind if we sit down?"
"By all means." Malcolm's voice was rough but even. "This is your house, after all."
"Not precisely, but that's something we can discuss." Alistair dropped into one of the Queen Anne chairs.
Malcolm lit the tapers on the mantel, the brace of candles on the library table, and two lamps.
Mélanie moved into the room. Raoul lingered by the doorway.
"Don't play coy, O'Roarke," Alistair said. "We can hardly pretend you aren't part of this family at this point." He settled back in his chair. "Pour us some whisky, Malcolm. I assume you still have the Rannoch malt. You always had the sense to appreciate it. One of the few things we agreed on."
"Quite." Malcolm moved to the decanters. "The odd thing is," he said, putting a glass in Alistair's hand, "I've always wondered about your death. I was questioning how it could have happened only today. How you could have been surprised. But it never occurred to me that the answer was that you weren't dead at all."
Alistair turned his glass in his hand and took an appreciative sip. "Death can be a convenient way to escape a situation. Supposed death, that is. As Julien should appreciate."
"Yes, there is a certain sense of a repeat about this." Malcolm sat beside Mélanie.
"Though I imagine it's not quite as happy an experience as learning the truth about Julien."
"Knowing me, can you imagine I'd think learning anyone was alive rather than dead would be an unhappy experience?"
"Really? Not even Trenchard?"
"I'd be quite satisfied if Trenchard were alive." Raoul spoke for the first time. "It would allow me to throttle him."
Alistair turned an impassive gaze on Raoul. "Amazing how much has changed since my—disappearance. So many things are out in the open that we once only alluded to. Better, perhaps." His gaze shifted to Mélanie. "I assume everyone knows about you."
"Surely you know that, sir." Mélanie kept her gaze steady on Alistair's own. "It sounds as though you have excellent sources of information."
"Perhaps." Alistair sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. "There's no reason we can't all be civilized about this. Really, Arabella was at the heart of so much of this, and what's the point in wasting time discussing a woman who after all was little more than a common—"
Malcolm was on his feet, fist drawn back, but Raoul sprang to his feet and slammed his fist into Alistair's jaw first.
"Sorry," he said to Malcolm as Alistair's chair tipped over and Alistair thudded to the carpet. "Prior claim."
"Stop it, both of you," Mélanie said. "No one is going to turn my library into a battlefield." She knelt down and extended a hand to Alistair. "Sit down, Mr. Rannoch." She gave him her handkerchief. "Hold this to your nose and lean your head forwards. That actually stops a nosebleed faster. Yes, I know it seems contradictory, but trust me, I know. I have two children. That teaches one more about nosebleeds and assorted damage than being a field agent." She looked up at Malcolm and Raoul. "Pick up, Mr. Rannoch's chair."
"I suppose you'd like us all to leave," Malcolm said, as he and Raoul righted the chair. "If you'll give us until the morning to pack up the children, it would be much appreciated."
"Don't be foolish, Malcolm." Alistair settled back in his chair, the handkerchief held to his nose. "Do I look as though I were in a position to retake my properties? That's not the goal I have in mind. Thank you, Mélanie."
Mélanie regarded her father-in-law. Her titular father-in-law. "I don't care to see anyone needlessly hurt."
"No?" Alistair looked up at her round the handkerchief. "I'd have thought otherwise."
"I was always opposed to needless violence. But my husband has certainly taught me more compassion."
"An interesting way of putting it."
Malcolm hooked a chair with his foot and dropped into it, at eye level with Alistair. "What do you want, Alistair?"
Alistair pulled the handkerchief from his face and regarded his putative son. "I think that's the first time you've called me that."
"What else am I supposed to call you? 'Sir' seems rather inappropriate now, and I won't make us both laugh with 'Father.'"
"I suppose you call him that." Alistair shot a glance at Raoul.
"Sometimes," Malcolm said in an equable voice.
"I used to wonder if you knew."
"I think I did on some level. Though I didn't acknowledge it until much later."
A drop of blood fell on the handkerchief. Alistair pressed it back to his nose. "I can understand. I didn't much want to acknowledge it either."
"For what it’s worth, I'm sorry," Raoul said in a quiet voice.
Alistair stared at him over the blood-flecked handkerchief.
"Not sorry for what happened, but for what it put you through." Raoul perched on the edge of the table.
"Changed your mind now you have a wife of your own?" Alistair asked. "No, I forget you've had a wife for a couple of decades, one way and another. Changed your mind now you have a new wife?"
"It always bothered me, to a degree. But one could say time has given me more appreciation of the feelings involved. On all sides."
Alistair held Raoul's gaze for a moment, then gave a light laugh. "What have we come to, talking about personal reactions when we should be dealing in cold facts?"
"Emotions can be a fact," Raoul said.
Alistair gave a short laugh. "My God, what's happened to you?"
"I could ask you the same thing. I don't imagine you left Britain lightly."
Alistair twisted his glass, watching the play of the candlelight off the cut glass. "It has its compensations, as I'm sure all of you have discovered. But then, one does find oneself wanting to come back. As I suspect you'll all appreciate. Even you, O'Roarke, who did your best to bring the country down."
"I'll own to having a number of goals, most of which I've failed at, but bringing Britain down was never one of them."
"You underrate yourself, O'Roarke. I always thought I was the one who did that. I made the mistake at the start of thinking Arabella would tire of you, as she did of all her other lovers."
"One could make a good case that she did."
"No." Alistair's gaze fastened on Raoul's own. "Infidelity isn't the same as growing tired. I think we both know that by now, even if the younger generation don't." His gaze dragged briefly to Malcolm and Mélanie before settling back on Raoul.
"The past doesn't seem particularly important now beside the present," Raoul said. "Perhaps—"
"What do you want, Alistair?" Malcolm asked.
Alistair sat back in his chair and took a drink of whisky. "Surely that's obvious. I want the memoirs."
"You and half of London. We don't have them."
"But in all London, you're the likeliest to recover them. I've learned not to discount your abilities."
Malcolm kept his gaze steady on Alistair's face. "What on earth makes you think we'd give them to you of all people?"
"Because I've come to offer a deal. You give me the memoirs. I leave you with this house—which Mélanie has redone with, I admit, exquisite taste—and Dunmykel, which I know you love, and the rest of what one might—rather inaccurately—call your inheritance."
For a moment, Malcolm regarded his putative father in complete silence, while Mélanie and Malcolm's actual father looked on without betraying a response by so much as an obvious breath. "I realize we don't know each other well," Malcolm said at last. "But do you seriously imagine that would matter to me?"
Alistair raised a brow. "As you say, we don't know each other well. But I don't think I've failed to understand what Dunmykel means to you. And I imagine this house, at least, means a great deal to your wife. And your wife means a great deal to you. So does O'Roarke, apparently. And I don't think he wants his charming new family threatened by scandal."
"And do you seriously imagine any of that would cause me to make a deal with you?"
"You're a politician, Malcolm. A quite able one, from what I hear. We all make deals, for all sort of reasons."
"And we all have our limits. If mine weren't clear before, they should be now."
"Fair enough. But what if it were a question of protecting your wife?"
Mélanie drew in her breath but held herself immobile. She could feel Raoul's tension, but also his stillness. Malcolm's hands curved round the arms of his chair. "Mélanie has been pardoned by the regent. The king now."
"So I understand. But though I may not move in society, I understand that her past is not generally known. Nor is O'Roarke's. It would be quite a change in all your lives should they become public knowledge."
"I don't know what Malcolm will say," Mélanie said, "but for myself, I've been quite prepared to face the truth since we returned to Britain."
"As have I," Raoul said.
"You'll need to discuss it," Alistair said. "I understand. You'll be searching for the memoirs regardless. When you find them, I ask you to remember my offer."
Chapter 41
Mélanie stared at her husband. "Darling—"
Malcolm closed the library door. "No sense in giving him an ultimatum before we have to. This buys us some time. I'm more eager than ever to find the memoirs. To find out why the devil they matter so much to Alistair."
He paused a moment after he said the name. It hung in the air, reverberating among the three of them.
"I still can't quite believe it," Mélanie said.
"I don't think any of us can." Malcolm dropped a hand on her shoulder. "No doubt with a bit of time we'll get used to it."
"Malcolm—"
"We'll have to." Malcolm's gaze shifted to Raoul.
Mélanie squeezed Malcolm's hand and got to her feet. "I'll get clothes for all of us. We have to get back to Cordy and Harry's for the children, and we all still need clean clothes for tomorrow. Which we're going to have to face, somehow."
Malcolm caught her hand and kissed it. "Have I mentioned I love you?"
"I think the subject's come up." Mélanie looked between her husband and Raoul. She couldn't read exactly what they had to say to each other. But she knew they had to talk. And that it would not be a comfortable conversation.
Malcolm looked at his father as the door clicked shut behind Mélanie. "You knew."
"No."
"You suspected."
Raoul drew a breath. "Yes."
"For how long?"
Raoul hesitated. "I think I started wondering when we first heard about Antonio Barosa."
"Nine months ago. When you asked Hubert if Barosa could have been in disguise." Malcolm returned to his chair. He was shaking. "You were wondering then?"
"In a sense. I couldn't quite admit it to myself. And when I first considered it, it was only an impossible theory that I was sure couldn't be true. It was only recently that I faced the fact I had to investigate further. When I went away a few days ago, I went to see Dewhurst. After I talked to him, it didn't seem so odd that Alistair had faked his death. I talked to Rupert tonight. You know how he feels about his father, but what he said supports Dewhurst's claims of innocence."
Malcolm sat, every muscle armored against collapse. "Were you going to tell me?"
"I was trying to work out how. And when."
"You must have known you didn't have unlimited time."
"And obviously I waited too long. I wanted more information first."
"Christ, O'Roarke." Malcolm's voice came out raw and uneven. "I wasn't asking you to fix it, I was asking you to trust me."
"You know damn well I trust you, Malcolm. But I'm always going to want to protect you. Can you tell me you ever won't want to protect Colin or Jessica, no matter what accomplished agents they may become?"
"That's a rather terrifying thought. And a fair point." Malcolm scraped a hand over his hair. "All right. But in all fairness—and I respect you more than almost anyone I could name—I don't see how you can protect me from this, Father. Or that I even want to be protected. Alistair is alive. We have to accept that."
"We also have to confront him."
"Obviously. Though if he wants his property back, he can just take it."
"If that was all it was, he'd have taken it long since. There's more that made him go away, and more he wants. More the League want."
"We've known we had to fight the League for years."
"But Alistair complicates it." Raoul watched him for a moment. "You know I wasn't close to my father. That I rebelled against him. And I'd say by now I consider myself more or less free of him. But if he walked back through the door, I can't deny it would shake me. And I imagine all sorts of issues and feelings I thought long settled would come welling to the fore."
"Alistair's not my father. You are."
Raoul gave a faint smile, but his gaze remained serious. "You grew up calling him father. Thinking of him as your father."
"By the time I was twelve I was fairly sure he wasn't. I think I suspected long before. Just as I think on some level, I knew you were."
"For which I'm grateful. But you know it can't be reduced to that. Anyone who occupies such a position in our lives growing up, in whose home we grow up—however absent he may have been—is going to have a certain place in our minds. Simply telling oneself he isn't one's father doesn't make that go away. Not entirely."
"He never acted like a father either. To any of us. Except maybe Gisèle. I'll be all right, O'Roarke. I'll admit Alistair used to be able to slice under my guard far better than most opponents, but I'm a better fencer than I was. And while I agree one can't simply ignore the past, he doesn't have the power over me he once did. I'm rather annoyed with myself for letting him have such power at all."
"He's still bound up in your past. Our past."
Malcolm shot a look at his father.
"He was Arabella's husband. He was the injured party in one of the most important relationships in my life. I'll admit at the time, given the state of their marriage, I didn't let it trouble me much. I've come lately to have more appreciation of what Bella meant to him. Which rather changes things."
"You're saying you feel guilty when it comes to Alistair?"
Raoul hesitated. "I don't regret what I shared with your mother. I can't imagine my life without it. Without her. She brought me an immeasurable amount of joy. And difficult as I find it to understand Arabella, I think perhaps at times I brought her a certain amount of happiness as well."
"I know damn well you did. I could see that even as a child. Even before I understood the rest of it."
Raoul gave a faint smile again. "Arabella and Alistair's relationship was in ruins before I met her. If there ever was a relationship on Bella's side. She married him because of the League."
"Sometimes it works out."
Raoul met Malcolm's gaze. "As you say. But not in their case. At the time, I thought Arabella had been simply a prize Alistair wanted to win. That he didn't care, either. But it was far more complicated than that. So I suppose, given what I shared with her—I do feel a certain amount of guilt. Not that it changes the fact that he's a formidable enemy, opposed to everything we stand for, and also a direct threat to all the people I love."
"And trying to kill you."
"Yes, I may understand his reasons better, but I can hardly be in charity with him on that score."
Malcolm frowned. "I'm not sure it does explain his reasons better. I mean"—he dug a hand into his hair—"his jealousy may be part of it. But he could have tried to have you killed anytime these past thirty years."
"He did at Dunboyne."
"But then he didn't try again, as far as we know. The first glimmering we got of it was in Italy. After Alistair disappeared. When Julien told us the League were trying to hire him to kill you."
"That was partly an attempt to draw out Julien."
"But they really were trying to have you killed. Have tried. Something shifted."
Raoul took a sip of whisky. "Are you suggesting Alistair wants me out of the way because of something I know? The same thing that made him stage his death and disappear?"
"It's one explanation. He might think Arabella told you about Marie Antoinette's diamonds."
Raoul frowned. Alistair and Dewhurst had used the diamond necklace to bring down Cardinal de Rohan and had inadvertently helped bring about the French Revolution. Arabella had used the information to blackmail Alistair into helping Raoul escape Ireland after the United Irish Uprising. "He might. But if she had, it probably would have been right after I left Ireland. Over twenty years ago. He made no effort to kill me at the time—despite having tried just before at Dunboyne."
