The Westminster Intrigue, page 41
"I believe you. It's probably tucked at the back of a drawer somewhere."
"I don't think it's that. We have reason to believe the Russians had a highly placed British agent at the time. Which raises the question—who else might have had access to the papers?"
The Thistle coffeehouse was tucked away on a small court. The sort of respectable yet anonymous place a man might choose to meet a lady with a reputation to protect. Long ago, before she'd married Malcolm, Mélanie had gone to similar places on missions where spycraft had crossed into amorous encounters.
She and Malcolm had come alone to investigate. Julien and Kitty had gone to talk to Pendarves, and Roth and Harry had gone to Jamie Blayney's lodgings to see if Mrs. Blayney was there. A handsome but tarnished brass chandelier swayed from the ceiling as Malcolm opened the door to let her in. A collection of tradesmen and clerks and dark-coated men who might be bankers or attorneys were gathered at the tables. Mélanie saw more than a few white cockades and a variety of scurrilous cartoons, mostly mocking the king and cabinet, in the newspapers spread on tables as she and Malcolm threaded their way to the bar. A woman stood behind it, tall, probably in her mid-thirties, with stylishly dressed dark hair. She wore a well-cut gray gown and a white muslin tippet.
"What can I get you?" Her tone was polite but guarded.
"Information," Malcolm said. "We understand James Blayney frequented your establishment."
Her eyes narrowed. "Come out of curiosity about a murdered man? Or—" Her gaze shot between them. "Are you the gentry that work with Bow Street?"
"We're assisting them," Mélanie said. "We understand there was a room Captain Blayney often engaged here. When he was entertaining a guest privately."
"I'm sure I don't—"
"You needn't worry about protecting reputations. One of the ladies Captain Blayney brought here told us."
"I run a respectable establishment—"
"I'm sure you do," Malcolm said. "We just need to see the room." He set a purse on the bar.
"It's the third door at the top of the stairs. But someone else just went in there."
Mélanie and Malcolm didn't even look at each other before they made for the stairs.
Malcolm flung open the door. A woman stood in the corner, next to an oak bed that took up most of the room. A piece of paneling was dangling from the wall and she was reaching behind it. "Here now, I've taken this room."
"Mrs. Blayney," Malcolm said. "Perhaps I shouldn't be surprised to find you here."
She spun round, clutching an armful of papers she'd snatched from the compartment she'd uncovered in the paneling. "These are mine. They were my husband's. I'm his heir."
"So you are. But they were only his by theft."
"You don't even know what they are."
"It's over, Mrs. Blayney. You aren't going to leave the room with them."
A door at the back of the room opened. "Step aside, Rannoch. Give me the papers, Mrs. Blayney." Lord Prescott leveled a pistol at Malcolm and Mélanie.
Mrs. Blayney gave a squeak of alarm, but her fingers tightened on the papers. "They're mine."
"They're valuable. I can pay you well for them."
Malcolm edged in front of Mélanie. "You'd best give them to him, Mrs. Blayney."
Mrs. Blayney stared at Malcolm. "You want me to give up the papers?"
"That seems the prudent course of action, though I'd suggest you insist he give payment first."
Prescott shot a glance at Malcolm. "What game are you playing at, Rannoch?"
"You seem to care about the papers rather more than I do." Malcolm folded his arms, which made more of a shield for Mélanie. Unfortunately, it also made it harder for her to see. "I hope you have a purse on you."
With the look of one who fears he is being duped but can't see how, Prescott drew a purse from inside his coat and tossed it over the floorboards to Mrs. Blayney. Mrs. Blayney snatched it up and pushed the papers across the floor. Prescott bent to retrieve them. He tried to hold the pistol steady, but his arm wavered. Malcolm sprang across the room and knocked Prescott to the ground. The pistol went off. The ball buried itself in the paneling. Mrs. Blayney screamed. Prescott hit Malcolm in the head with the pistol. Malcolm grabbed Prescott's hand and forced it to the floor. The pistol skittered away. Mélanie snatched it up. Prescott kneed Malcolm in the groin, stumbled to his feet, grabbed the papers, and ran out the door he had come through.
Malcolm pushed himself to his feet and ran after. Mélanie followed, down a twisting staircase and out into a yard overhung by close-set buildings. Prescott was halfway across the yard. Malcolm snatched up a rock and threw it at Prescott. It caught him in the shoulder. He stumbled. Two men ran into the yard. One grabbed Prescott as he stumbled. The other snatched the papers clutched in his arms.
Malcolm hurled himself on the man who'd grabbed Prescott. The three of them fell to the cobblestones. Mélanie sent the spent pistol hurling end over end at the man with the papers. It caught his knee, not hard, but enough to slow him. She grabbed a piece of wood from the ground, wishing she had the umbrella from when she and Harry were attacked.
Footsteps pounded and shadows shifted. Two figures ran into the courtyard. A fair-haired figured slammed a fist into the jaw of the man with the papers. A cloaked figure grabbed the papers as the man fell. Mélanie took two steps before her mind registered that it was Julien and Kitty.
"Catch." Kitty threw her the papers.
Mélanie caught them and turned to see a knife flash in the hand of the man who was grappling with Malcolm and Prescott on the ground. Malcolm grabbed the man's knife wrist. Prescott was pinned beneath him. Mélanie ran to them and stepped hard on Malcolm's opponent's shoulder. The man screamed. Malcolm wrested the knife from him. It was smeared with blood, but Malcolm appeared unhurt. Malcolm pushed himself up on his knees, the knife now at the throat of his opponent. "No sudden moves."
Kitty had another knife, probably her own, at the throat of the man Julien had hit. Julien ran over and held the recovered knife on Malcolm's opponent while Malcolm got to his feet. Then they both hauled Malcolm's opponent up. Prescott had gone silent. It was only when they had Malcolm's opponent on his feet that they saw why. Blood was seeping from his chest and his eyes had the fixed stillness of death.
Chapter 53
"They've given a very vague description of the man who hired them." Roth scrubbed at his face with tired hands and accepted a cup of coffee from Mélanie in the Berkeley Square library, where they were all gathered. All except Raoul, who was still with Frances and Archie, and Laura, who had left to join him.
"Whoever hired them was probably an agent," Malcolm said.
"For the League?" Cordelia asked. "I mean, for your—for Alistair?"
"Probably. But it's possible the various people who've attacked us in the last two days are working for different people. All after the memoirs."
"The two men are in Newgate," Roth said. "As often happens, I have no very great faith we'll be able to keep them there once official pressure comes to bear."
"And Mrs. Blayney?" Cordelia asked.
"She's gone home under a Bow Street escort." Mélanie set down the coffeepot. "She says she decided if whatever papers her husband had were so valuable, she wasn't going to lose out, so she went to London to look for them. James Blayney had taken her to the Thistle once early in their marriage and engaged the same room where he took Pippa Haworth later. She remembered a spot that would make a good hiding place. She doesn't seem to have had anything to do with Prescott."
"How did Prescott end up there at the same time?" Harry asked.
"I'm not sure," Malcolm said. "But I suspect he had someone watching Mrs. Blayney's house in Chelsea in case she made a move. That person followed her to London and alerted Prescott to her whereabouts."
"And Prescott was a Russian agent?" Cordelia blew on her coffee.
"At least in 1814," Julien said. "And for who knows how long after. The irony is he doesn't seem to have been Danielle's lover."
"Molyneux told me he found Prescott in the Prussian delegation's retiring room at Oxford six years ago," Malcolm said. "Supposedly being sick, but I suspect actually looking for information. Mademoiselle Darnault doesn't even seem to have known he was a Russian agent. But there was enough in the memoirs for Blayney to piece together that Prescott was a spy. He wanted Pen's notes from six years ago for more proof. But he tried to blackmail Prescott with what he had. And Prescott wasn't prepared to pay Blayney forever over something that was far more damaging than a love affair. I also think Grace Arbuthnot is the golden-haired woman Pippa Haworth saw with Prescott. She seems to have transferred her attentions to Prescott before or after Blayney was killed. If it was before, she may have told Prescott that Blayney would be at the Chat Gris."
"Have you told Sophia Prescott?" Cordelia asked.
"Mélanie and I went with Jeremy," Kitty said. "She was as self-contained as when we spoke with her yesterday. I have a feeling Sophia rarely lets herself appear uncontained. And yet I also suspect she grieved more for Captain Blayney than she will for her husband."
"What did you do with the memoirs?" Harry asked.
"Returned them to Danielle on our way here," Malcolm said. "She burned them. Pippa Haworth was there as well, with her daughters. And Edmund Blayney was smiling in a way I wouldn't have thought possible when I met him two days since. Pippa left to go to her sister when we told her about Prescott. But you could tell how happy she and Blayney are."
"Some good has come out of this," Cordelia said. Then she bit her lip, and Mélanie felt the cloud of Alistair's return descend over the room.
Mélanie got up to refill the coffee, mostly as a distraction seemed needed. While she was pouring, Raoul, Laura, Archie, and Frances came into the room.
"You've missed the excitement," Malcolm said. "Though from your faces you've had excitement yourselves."
They exchanged glances. Laura pulled a packet of papers from inside the bodice of her pelisse. "I believe these are the papers Henry Brougham bought from James Blayney."
Relief shot across Malcolm's face. Along with myriad questions.
"Alistair gave me a way to contact him last night," Frances said, sinking into a chair and accepting a cup of coffee. "I sent word to him this afternoon. The message went through a tavern and then a haberdasher's but Raoul and Archie were able to trace it back to where Alistair is staying. I met Alistair in a quiet part of Green Park an hour since."
"Don't tell me he actually gave you the papers," Cordelia said. "I know he wanted you to make an arrangement with the king—"
"No." Frances took a sip of coffee. "Alistair trusts me more than he should, but not that much. But our meeting got him out of his lodgings."
"And you were able to take the papers?" Roth looked between Raoul and Archie.
"No, Archie and I distracted the people Alistair had watching his lodgings." Raoul sat on the settee beside Laura. "Laura got in disguised as a laundry maid and managed to steal the papers."
Malcolm grinned at Laura. "First Carfax and now Alistair. You're quite brilliant at this."
"They both underestimated me. Neither was as on their guard as they should have been."
"More fool they." Raoul kissed her hand.
"So it seems the case is more or less resolved," Roth said. "At least—"
"Alistair isn't resolved at all," Malcolm said. "But that's our problem."
"It's all your friends' problem," Roth said. "And I suspect it will lead to more issues for Bow Street, one way or another. In any case, I'm here to help."
Malcolm met Roth's gaze for a moment. "Thank you. For now, we have to wait to see what his next move will be. I suspect we won't have long to wait. And meanwhile, the trial's about to resume."
"Don't remind me." Julien stretched out an arm along the back of the sofa, fingers brushing Kitty's shoulder. "I'm not looking forwards to all the days of hearing intimate details bandied about. If we have to discuss bedsheets and which positions are most compromising, I'd much rather hear from novelists than lawyers. Though I imagine Brougham will be more entertaining than the prosecution." He looked at Malcolm. "Whatever the state of the trial, I'm here when needed."
"Thank you." Malcolm picked up the coffeepot and refilled Julien's cup. He cast a quick glance round the library, and Mélanie could tell he was wondering how long it would be theirs. "I am quite sure you are going to be. All of you."
"We've never ended an investigation with so much not ended at all." Kitty closed the nursery door on the sleeping boys.
"No." Julien straightened up from settling Genny, also sound asleep, in her cradle. "I'm well-served for bemoaning the lack of a challenge. I wouldn't have wished this on Malcolm and Mélanie for anything."
Kitty went to her husband and slid her arms round him. "At least neither of your friends proved guilty. Danielle and Pierre Ducroix seem to be headed for happiness. I hope Lord Pendarves and Mr. Tarrington can get past Mr. Tarrington's giving the papers to Captain Blayney."
"So do I. Pen's proud. But he's learned tolerance, I think, since I first knew him. Of himself and of others." Julien put up a hand and toyed with one of her ringlets. "Kitkat—"
"Yes?"
"I don't want to be with anyone else. I can't really imagine it."
"Yes, you said as much, right before you asked me to marry you. I suppose you could have changed your mind since, but I flatter myself I'd have noticed something of the sort."
"Witch." He tilted her chin up. "It doesn't matter if it's a man or a woman. It's that it wouldn't be you."
Kitty smiled, gaze on his own. "That's rather lovely, Julien. I'm not worried about your past. And I'm not worried about anyone else in your future, man or woman."
"If David married a woman, he'd be denying who he is. At least, he would be if he tried to have a real marriage with her. I'm not."
"I can't imagine your denying who you are, Julien. You have too much sense of yourself." Kitty slid her fingers into his own. "We were going to confront this at some point. With one of our pasts or the other. We'll no doubt have to confront it again."
"Probably." He drew their linked hands to his mouth and kissed her fingers. "I'm not concerned about your past either. If I was going to be jealous of anyone, it would be of one of my best friends."
Kitty felt herself go still. Odd for all they'd been through, they'd never talked about Malcolm directly. "You don't have to worry about Malcolm."
"I'm not." He gave a crooked smile. "Not now, anyway. I'll own when you first came to London, I was conscious of some feelings I wouldn't quite admit to, which should have been a massive clue to my feelings for you. I even warned Mélanie against you."
"I doubt Mélanie needed the warning."
"Mélanie was rather more sensible than I was."
Kitty hesitated, but even though they rarely put such things into words, more needed to be said. "If I hadn't contemplated a life with Malcolm, I might not have been able to imagine one with you. But that doesn't mean I have any doubts about where I'm happiest. Or where I belong."
"Yes, well, there was a lot we both didn't know at that point." He hesitated himself. "I'll admit to being a bit hurt you hadn't contacted me, now we were both in the same country again."
Kitty ran her free hand over his hair. "Darling idiot. Didn't it occur to you that I was afraid of seeming as though I was making demands?"
"Since when have you been afraid of anything?"
"I was a widow with three children. I thought you'd run a mile."
He held her gaze in the flickering candlelight. His blue eyes had turned to onyx. "One of those children was mine."
"I suppose that was part of it. I was a bit afraid of your learning the truth about Genny."
Julien's gaze shot to the cradle, then back to her. "You wanted to keep me away from her? I could see that. I hardly seemed a likely father."
"No, not that. I'd seen you a bit with the boys in Argentina. You were good with them. Amazingly so. But if you'd known about Genny and hadn't wanted to be her father—that would have been the end. I couldn't have dallied with you." She looked at him, her voice rough against her throat as she framed the words. "The children are the center of my life. It wouldn't have worked if you hadn't been all in. And I didn't think you could be."
"And so you pushed me away."
"Easier than having you push me away."
"As if I would have done."
"Julien, you have to admit you aren't the easiest person to read."
"Fair enough. Especially considering I couldn't articulate my feelings to myself."
Kitty looked down at their still-clasped hands. "But I knew."
"What?"
"To reach out to you when I needed you."
"You needed my fighting skills," he said in an even voice that accepted the memory of that terrible night.
"That's true. But I needed more than that. And I think I knew I'd get more than that. I needed someone I trusted." Her fingers tightened involuntarily over his own. "And though I wouldn't admit it, a part of me already trusted you."
A quick spark lit his gaze. "Yes, I still can't get over that."
"Didn't you trust me?"
"That's different. You're you."
"I'm hardly the most trustworthy person."
"Or you don't admit you are."
"Pot calling the kettle. Though it was easier, in a way, before we were married."
"Easier?"
Kitty studied their threaded fingers. "There was nothing holding us together. So if we stayed, it was because we wanted to."
He released her hand so he could slide his hands up her shoulders and link them behind her back. "You can't imagine I don't want to stay with you."
"No. But sometimes I'm aware of the pressures of the roles we've assumed. And I know you. You take our commitment seriously."
