The Whitehall Conspiracy, page 35
"She's going to marry Sandy Trenor," Leo said. "Do you know?"
"I had heard."
"I don't believe we've met," Edith said. "I know it's a scandal to introduce myself, but if I cared a rap for scandal, I'd live my life very differently. I'm Edith Simmons."
The man called Radford inclined his head. "Alexander Radford. As Leo said, I know his stepfather. In fact, I have past connections to a number of members of the extended family. As well as to Miss Simcox."
"What do you want?" Bet asked.
"Merely to offer my greetings," Radford said. He tipped his hat again. "You have a good arm, Leo. You just need to learn more control."
"My father throws well," Leo said.
"Indeed."
Leo looked at Bet as the gentleman walked away. "Ought I not to have talked to him?"
"You couldn't have known," Bet said. "But we need to talk to your parents."
Colin ran up to join them, holding Berowne against his shoulder. "Who was that?"
"He said he knew my parents," Leo said. "But I'm not sure he does. Or not sure he's a friend."
"I wouldn't call him a friend," Bet said.
"Should we report it?" Timothy asked. He and Emily and Livia had run after Colin.
"Our parents will know what to do," Livia said.
"Quite right," Edith agreed.
"Oh look," Timothy said. "There's Daddy!"
Julien strolled up to the gate. Timothy ran over to meet him with Genny toddling after. "Is the investigation solved?" Timothy asked.
"Not yet, I'm afraid. I was out making inquiries, and since I was near I thought I'd see how you all were doing." Julien stepped through the gate and scanned the group. "Everything all right?"
"A man stopped by," Leo said. "He said he knows you. But I'm not sure—"
"It was the man who calls himself Alexander Radford," Bet said.
Julien scarcely moved, but Edith saw the realization shoot through him. "Was it? It seems I have some long overdue business with him."
"Daddy," Leo said. "Did I—"
Julien touched Leo's shoulder. "You didn't do anything wrong at all, Leo. In fact, it's perhaps as well this happened when it did." He smiled at Edith and Bet. "If you don't mind staying with the children, I have something to take care of that should have been handled long since."
It was twilight when Kitty turned into Berkeley Square, planning to check on the children and see if the others had learned anything before she made more inquiries. She neared the house to see Edith and Bet shepherding the children out of the garden.
"Mummy!" Timothy ran over to her. "Daddy was just here."
"And he left again?" Kitty asked as Genny hugged her legs . They had all agreed to meet in Berkeley Square to exchange news, but perhaps Julien had gone in pursuit of a new lead.
"A man stopped by the garden," Leo said. The gathering shadows fell across his face and settled in his eyes. "He said his name was Alexander Radford. I think Daddy went after him."
Cold that had nothing to do with the cooling evening air cut through Kitty's spencer and gown. "Which way did he go?"
"There." Timothy, Colin, and Livia all pointed to the left in the same moment, towards a narrow alley that led to the mews.
Kitty looked from Edith to Bet. "I need to find Julien." Her fingers tightened on Genny's hair for an instant. "I'll be back as soon as I can."
She ran down the alley the children had indicated, reached to the mews, and turned, heart pounding. The shadows were thickening, but she could see her husband. He had his hands at Alistair Rannoch's neck. And he was tightening a length of twine round Alistair's throat.
"Julien. No."
Julien's fingers stilled on the twine, but he didn't glance round at her. "This has to end, Kitty." He tightened the twine. Alistair was limp against him.
"Not like this."
"Kitkat." He stared into her eyes over his shoulder. "You know who I am."
"But this isn't who you want to be now."
His fingers stilled on the twine again. But he didn't release Alistair.
Kitty ran up to her husband and jabbed a knife into his arm.
CHAPTER 41
Mélanie ran down the mews to see Alistair Rannoch on the ground, clutching his throat, and Kitty tying a cloth round Julien's arm. Seconds later, Malcolm ran into the mews from the opposite direction.
Mélanie scrambled to Alistair's side, half boots skidding over the cobblestones. "You'd best come inside, Mr. Rannoch."
Alistair jerked away from her hand.
"Julien won't attack you again," Kitty said, knotting off the bandage round Julien's arm. "You have my word."
Alistair stared at her. Kitty returned the stare. Julien, white-faced, put his hand to the bandage on his arm. "You should listen to my wife. I should do so myself."
Mélanie put out a hand to help Alistair to his feet but also gripped his arm to prevent his bolting. Malcolm moved to Alistair's other side. Mélanie looked at Julien as they helped Alistair to his feet.
"I don't need stitches," he said. "Kitty is very precise in her work. Let's go inside."
They went through the gate from the mews to the garden and through the garden to the house that had been Alistair Rannoch's and had become Malcolm's, and now might be Alistair's again. The house that Mélanie had thought could never be her home and that now was more of a home than any other place she had ever known.
A few minutes later they were settled in the library. Alistair, a towel full of ice pressed to his throat and a whisky in his hand, was seated on the sofa. Julien was on the settee, his jacket removed. Mélanie sat beside him, her medical supply box open, dressing his wound. Malcolm and Kitty flanked Alistair.
"I wouldn't run, Alistair," Malcolm said, as Alistair's gaze flickered towards the door. "Not unless you want us sharing the information we have with the world."
Alistair took a drink of whisky. "I can't imagine what you know."
"That rings hollow, considering you admit to wanting a royal pardon."
Alistair went still, whisky in one hand, ice pack in the other, uncertainty writ in the lines of his body.
"It makes sense," Malcolm said. "You and Trenchard were scheming to get him made prime minister. You were looking for whatever leverage you could find. Perhaps not surprising you thought the prince regent's estranged wife could be of use. Perhaps by making an alliance with her. Perhaps you hoped to get information against her you could give to the regent and then he'd support Trenchard's moves against Liverpool. Perhaps either. It was before you faked your death, but you used the name Alexander Radford with the princess, so you clearly wanted your dealings with her to remain secret. And given your general technique in most things, I don't suppose it's surprising that your efforts to get close to Princess Caroline led to your ending up in bed with her."
Alistair's gaze clashed with Malcolm's own like crossed swords. "You can't possibly have proof of that."
"I have the word of the one other person who was involved."
Alistair went still.
"But I think someone else knew," Mélanie said. "There was evidence about you and Princess Caroline in the papers Sidney Newland was bringing back to London. You hadn't counted on there being anything in writing. Perhaps it was worse. Perhaps you had said things to the princess about your plot with Trenchard that could be damaging. So you had to stop Mr. Newland. And, as Malcolm said, given other things you had done, perhaps it's not surprising that you hired an assassin to eliminate the evidence."
Alistair lifted his chin. "I can see you are a former actress. Your delivery is superb. But you can't prove that."
"That depends on what you mean by prove. A plausible case would get you in trouble. Especially since your fellow Elsinore League members got wind of what you did, and Mr. Newland's brother has come into the title and is now asking questions. And because Mr. Newland's dispatch box disappeared and has never been recovered."
Alistair tossed down another drink of whisky. "If—"
He broke off as the door opened. "We have visitors," Laura said. "They all arrived at once."
Harry and Cordy followed her into the room, the supposed Contessa Montalto between them. Raoul and Sofia were just behind with a slight, fair-haired woman in a lavender gown.
Sofia glanced round the room. "This is a bit awkward. May I present Anna Vaselli, the Contessa Montalto?"
Mélanie got to her feet. "You are very welcome, Contessa. As are the rest of you."
Sofia stared at Alistair. "I suppose you are—"
"Alistair Rannoch," Malcolm said.
The contessa—the real contessa—flew across the room and dropped down on the sofa beside Alistair. "Caro! You are injured."
"Anna, my dear." Alistair set the icepack on the sofa table. "I am unhurt, I assure you."
One had to give Alistair credit for sangfroid. He had nearly been strangled and he must be wondering how much Sofia and Raoul had told the real contessa, but his gaze could not have appeared more sincere.
"This," Harry said, turning to the woman who had come into the room with him and Cordelia, "is Signora Falconetti. Some of us formerly met her as the Contessa Montalto."
The real contessa's gaze shot to Signora Falconetti. "You were impersonating me?"
The woman now called Signora Falconetti lifted her chin. Whatever had transpired when Harry and Cordy found her, her allegiance had apparently shifted. "I was. On the orders of the gentleman beside whom you are now sitting with such an appearance of intimacy."
The contessa turned to look at Alistair, the look of a woman regarding a man she loves and trusts. "Nonsense. Alexander would not do anything of the sort."
"I assure you, madam," Malcolm said, "a number of us met Signora Falconetti presenting herself as the Contessa Montalto."
"That makes no sense," the contessa said. But in the angle of her head and the faint lilt of her voice, Mélanie caught the first hint of uncertainty.
"He had you staying secretly in London," Sofia said.
"Yes, because he didn't want anyone to disturb me before my testimony. Alexander, tell them these are all lies."
"My dear Anna," Alistair said. "I assure you, I don't trust anyone in this room."
"And yet it's our word against his," Sofia said. "My word, and the word of my closest friends. You know me, Anna. You knew me long before you knew him."
Alistair set down his whisky glass. "Anna. I think we should take our leave."
"Anna," Sofia said, "surely you aren't going to leave without answers."
The contessa drew back slightly against the sofa cushions. She might believe herself in love with Alistair, but she had known Sofia longer. She looked at Signora Falconetti. "These people say you were impersonating me. But I see no proof that it was on Alexander's orders. When do you claim he hired you?"
"Four years ago," Signora Falconetti said.
"Four years ago? That proves it. I did not even meet Alexander until last spring."
"I believe that's because the man you call Alexander originally hired Signora Falconetti for a different purpose," Mélanie said.
"You're very clever, Mrs. Rannoch," Signora Falconetti said. "You are quite right. Mr. Rannoch—not your husband, Alistair Rannoch—first engaged my services to secure Mr. Brougham's trust. I do not know his full motives at the time, but I do know the situation changed. Indeed, I heard Mr. Rannoch had died."
"So had a number of us," Julien said. "Heard that is. Though some of us were already presumed dead."
"You intrigue me. But in any case, I had been living quietly. I am a former actress, but I gave up the stage some time ago. Which was perhaps a mistake. But I was at loose ends in the spring when I heard from Mr. Rannoch wanting to engage my services again. Asking me to reach out to Mr. Brougham and offer to testify."
"But that is an absurd story," the contessa said. "I was going to testify. There would be no need for an imposter."
"I believe," Malcolm said, "that Mr. Rannoch's plan was to have Mr. Brougham call a supposed Contessa Montalto to testify in the queen's defense and then have you step forwards to expose her as an imposter."
"But—" The contessa spun towards Alistair. Mélanie saw the doubt in her eyes.
The door opened. "Forgive me," Valentin said. "But you have a caller. Lady Shroppington."
Lady Shroppington swept into the room in a stir of vermilion taffeta and surveyed the group in the Berkeley Square library. Her gaze went to Alistair and settled on him for a moment. His collar and cravat were damp and there was still a red mark round his throat. Something shifted in her eyes. It was subtle, but it might have been fear.
Mélanie got to her feet. "Lady Shroppington. I think you know most of those present. Though I'm not sure if you've met the Contessa Montalto or Signora Falconetti."
Lady Shroppington inclined her head, though her gaze narrowed and her lips thinned. "I won't pretend this is a social call, Mrs. Rannoch. Needless to say, there are distinctions that would prevent my calling in this house in the normal run of things."
"Being known to be a murderer might be considered one," Harry said.
"I won't bother to refute your nonsense, Colonel Davenport." Her gaze swept the room. "There's been a great deal of nonsense talked in the past few days. I came to insist you all put an end to it."
Alistair got to his feet, swaying slightly. "I believe there has already been enough said tonight. I suggest you allow me to escort you home, Lady Shroppington."
"No!" The contessa seized his hand. "You are not leaving until things are settled between us."
Alistair looked down at her. "Anna, my dear—"
"Do not speak to me like that. Who is this lady? What is she to you?"
"She's his mother," Julien said.
The words, though they expressed a truth known by almost all those present, acted like an incantation that breaks a spell. For a moment, everyone in the library went still.
Lady Shroppington took a step forwards. "That's a preposterous accusation and, needless to say, quite untrue."
Julien tilted his head back. "Come, Lady Shroppington, there's no need for prevarication. We are practically family, after all. Your son is my uncle, and my grandfather was your lover."
"Damn it, Julien—" Alistair said.
"I really don't think you want to challenge him, Mr. Rannoch," Kitty said. "I can't promise to stab him again. In fact, I don't think I would."
"I feel as though I've stumbled into a play," Signora Falconetti said.
"I know the feeling," Harry told her.
The contessa pushed herself to her feet and moved to Sofia's side. "I considered myself betrothed to Mr. Radford—Mr. Rannoch," she said.
"Nonsense," Lady Shroppington said. "He already has a wife. You're standing in her drawing room."
"Not Mr. Malcolm Rannoch, Mr. Alistair Rannoch. Whom I met as Alexander Radford. Who they say is your son. Which I suppose makes you Mr. Malcolm Rannoch's grandmother."
"No," Malcolm said. "It doesn't. Alistair is not my father."
"More and more like a play," Signora Falconetti murmured.
"I do not care about that," the contessa said. "I came here to speak at this trial before your House of Lords. But it now appears Mr. Rannoch has been using me to embarrass the queen."
"He's been using you to get himself a royal pardon," Julien said.
"Nome di dio, why would he want a pardon?"
"That's something we would all like to know," Raoul said.
"Fascinating as this is," Alistair said, "I should have taken my leave long since. If—"
The door burst open. Mélanie looked round in surprise, for Valentin was not usually so abrupt. But it was not Valentin. Nerezza and Ben ran into the room.
Nerezza stopped abruptly, staring at Alistair. Then her back straightened. She was clutching a sheaf of papers. "It's probably as well you're here." She looked at Malcolm and Mélanie. "Mr. Rannoch asked me to take some papers from Lord Beverston last night. He promised me his support if I complied. But all he managed to convince me of was the importance of looking at those papers. So I found them. It wasn't easy, but I managed it this afternoon. Then I told Ben." She glanced over her shoulder at her fiancé. Ben met her gaze and smiled. Nerezza smiled back, then held the papers out to Malcolm.
Alistair tensed as though to lunge forwards. Julien got to his feet and moved to stand between Alistair and Malcolm. Mélanie wondered if their library was going to become a scene of violence again, but really there were enough of them to overpower Alistair. And Lady Shroppington, if it came to that. Not to mention the Contessa Montalto, whichever side she ended up on.
Malcolm looked down at the papers. "Beverston always tended to play both sides. You had Sidney Newland killed, but Beverston managed to get the papers Newland had been carrying that reported on your and Trenchard's activities with the queen."
The reality settled in Alistair's eyes. He hadn't been fully sure that Beverston had Sidney Newland's papers until now. And that realization was a cut that struck to the bone.
"So now we have the papers. And you've lost your chance of a pardon," Julien said.
Alistair surveyed the group for the length of several heartbeats. He gave a faint smile. "One expects such things to end with a grand struggle. But perhaps Julien and I have already had that. Though when one man jumps another it can hardly be said to be a struggle. It's surprising how often these things end in council chambers or drawing rooms." His gaze went to Raoul. "Don't you find that, O'Roarke, for all your high-flown adventures?"
"Very true," Raoul said. "I'm sure Malcolm could tell you that from Vienna."
Alistair turned to Malcolm. His gaze was steady and opaque but held a weight of history. "It seems this house will continue to be yours."
"Alistair—" Lady Shroppington said.
Alistair raised a brow. "Mother."
For a moment, Lady Shroppington turned to a creature carved from ice. It occurred to Mélanie that this was perhaps the first time Alistair had ever called her that.
Alistair took a step towards the woman he had just publicly acknowledged as his mother. "Signora Falconetti said this seemed to be a play. And I think we can all tell when the curtain has come down."
