The Mask of Night (13 page)

Charles’s gaze took in the scratch on her cheek, the scrapes on her hands, the set of her arms that betrayed no broken bones. He had a red mark on his jaw that was going to turn in to a bruise, his hair was dripping rain onto his forehead, the shoulder seam of his coat was torn, his once biscuit-colored pantaloons were gray with rainwater and filth. On the whole he looked to his wife as though he’d been enjoying himself.

Sam was in similar condition, save that he had a cut on his cheek, a split lip, and the beginnings of a black eye. His gaze swept the company. “Glad to see everyone’s still alive. Kind of you to have us all, Bet.”

“Didn’t have much choice about it, did I?”

Sam grinned and then frowned at Mr. Trenor, who was standing by in breeches and untucked shirt, teapot in hand. “Who the devil are you?”

“The Hon. Alexander Trenor,” Charles said. “Sam Lucan. Bit of luck running in to you like this, Trenor.”

Mr. Trenor, whose elder brother sat in the House of Commons with Charles, inclined his head. His pale face was now tinged slightly green, but he met Charles’s gaze. “Er—quite, sir. Tea?”

“Tea?” Sam said. “Good God, woman, surely you’ve got some brandy hidden about here somewhere?”

Bet regarded him, arms folded across her chest. “You haven’t brought the constables down on me, have you?”

“The constables? No.”

“Or anyone else?”

“Shouldn’t think so. We managed to give them the slip. Fraser’s a dab hand at making an escape.”

Charles grinned. “I’ve always found running more handy than fighting.”

“You’re an unusual man then.” Bet went to a dresser in the corner, a water-stained but once-handsome piece, and took a bottle from inside. “Good stuff from France, fresh off a smuggler’s boat. You can thank Sandy for it. He brought it me on his last visit.”

The oddly assorted company sat down on an odd assortment of furnishings—a frayed damask settee with stuffing poking through the arms, two straight-backed chairs with cracked slats, a settle draped with a flowered silk shawl. Mr. Trenor finished pouring out the tea into a mismatched set of cups, chipped but clean and carefully dusted with his pocket handkerchief. Bet passed round the brandy bottle. She cast a glance at Charles, the only one still standing. “Oh, bloody hell, you are a gentleman.” She dropped down on the settle beside Mr. Trenor.

Charles sat beside Mélanie and squeezed her hand.

“You’re enjoying this,” she said.

“Aren’t you?” he said.

Bet looked from Nan to Sam. “Well?”

Sam took a long swallow of brandy-laced tea. “Had a bit of a run-in with Eckert’s men.”

“Eckert’s?” Bet shivered. “Why?”

“Thinks I peached on him.”

“Jesus bloody Christ. Did you?”

“Do I look the suicidal type? Bloody well would have been the end of me, if it wasn’t for—” Sam looked at Charles. “You just may be enough of a madman for your wife, Fraser.”

“One can only hope,” Charles said.

“You saved Sam and Nan?” Bet looked from Charles to Mélanie. “Not that on the whole I’m not glad they’re still alive, but why? And what were you doing in Seven Dials in the first place?”

Charles took a sip of tea, to which he’d added a modest splash of brandy. “Looking for Lucan.”

“Why?”

“We thought he might have useful information.”

Mr. Trenor had returned the teapot to the spirit lamp and was staring at Charles. “Good God, it’s something to do with that dead chap, isn’t it? The one at the Lydgates’.”

“I didn’t know you were there last night,” Charles said.

“Lord, yes. Wouldn’t miss a masquerade. But—“

“What were you doing near a dead body?” Bet asked him.

“Turned up in the fountain during the Lydgates’ masquerade last night. The dead man, that is. Someone stabbed him.”

“And they say we lead wild lives.” Bet shook her head.

Mr. Trenor got to his feet and tugged at her hand. “Let’s go to the Pig & Whistle and bring back some food.”

“Why?”

“Because this’ll be private business. They won’t talk if we’re about.”

“But— Oh, very well. I don’t know why Nannie always gets all the luck.”

“We’ll find some of those pies you like,” Mr. Trenor promised, grabbing a blue velvet cloak from a hook on the wall and wrapping it round her shoulders.

“Before we speak further,” Charles said when the door had closed, “there’s something we have to sort out. We seem to have exchanged a lot of information in the past hour.”

Nan looked up at him. She had unpinned her hair and was leaning forward to let it dry before the fire. “You mean because I know your wife worked with Sam?”

“I don’t think,” Charles said, in a gentle, inexorable voice, “that you know anything at all.”

“I don’t peach on my friends, Mr. Fraser. Or do you think a St. Giles mort takes her word less seriously than a gentleman?”

“On the contrary. But I’ve learned anyone’s word can at times give way to circumstance and exigency.”

Nan tossed back her hair. “I doubt anyone who’d matter would believe me if I
did
try to peach. But anyways, you could ruin Sam and even if I didn’t care what became of Sam, Sam could ruin me, so I’d say we’ve all got jolly self-interested reasons to hold our tongues.”

Charles nodded.

Sam was staring at Charles. “Speaking of self-interest, you could have let Eckert’s men take me. They’d have let you and Mélanie leave.”

“Probably.” Charles turned his mug between his hands. “I didn’t much fancy their methods. And I did give my wife my word I wouldn’t let any ill come to you from our visit.”

Lucan laughed. “A besotted madman. But this is one ill you couldn’t blame on your visit.”

“I’m not so sure.
Did
you peach on Mr. Eckert?”

“What the devil business is it of yours?”

“Your denials seemed singularly vehement. And if you really didn’t peach on him, it looks to me as though someone set you up for the little scene that was enacted just now.”

“And you think that has to do with St. Juste?”

“I think it’s possible. But then you know more about your dealings with St. Juste than I do.”

Sam struck his palm against his knee. “That bastard.” He took a swallow of tea and brandy. “I suppose now you expect me to tell you the truth in recompense.”

“I doubt you ever do anything merely in recompense, Lucan.”

Sam punched his fist into the chair arm. “I should have bloody well shown him the door the minute he showed up.”

“When?” Mélanie said. “When did he?”

Sam stared at her.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Sam,” Nan said.

He wiped his hand across his face. His lip was still bleeding. “A month since.”

“What did he want?”

“Help is hiring a staff.”

“What sort of staff?”

“He wanted someone who knew the ropes of a break in and could read and write. And who’d know where to hire on others if needed.”

Nan was staring at Sam with smoldering eyes. “You slimy bastard. What have you got Billy into?”

“Billy can take care of himself,” Sam said.

“Billy?” Mélanie asked.

“My brother.”

“You’re an enterprising family,” Charles said.

“We know how to look out for ourselves. But,” she added, swinging her gaze back to Sam, “that doesn’t mean we can walk out of any danger unscathed.”

Sam grabbed the brandy bottle from the floor and splashed more brandy into his tea. “He was eager enough for the rhino, wasn’t he?”

“Of course he was. He’s eighteen and he thinks he’s as immortal as one of those Greek gods there’re all the statues of in the British Museum. What good’s that going to do him if he gets a knife in his chest?”

“He didn’t. St. Juste did.”

“Exactly. If this St. Juste of yours couldn’t take care of himself, you think Billy can?”

“Nannie, I told you—“

“I know what you told me.” She turned away from him, arms folded across her lace-vandyked bodice.

“What did St. Juste want Billy for?” Mélanie said.

“He didn’t say,” Sam muttered.

“When did you last see St. Juste?” Charles asked.

Sam took a swig from his mug, as though too tired to prevaricate further. “When he came to me a month ago. We haven’t spoken since.”

“And Billy?”

Nan chewed her nail. “He was here Monday last. Flashing his blunt and talking about his secret work.”

“Did he tell you what it was?”

“No. I was tired of him putting on airs, truth to tell.” She rubbed her forehead, eyes stricken.

Charles leaned forward. “What was St. Juste planning?”

“I tell you, I don’t know.” Sam stared into his mug. “But it wasn’t an isolated job. He was setting up an operation here.” He frowned for a moment. “You think someone connected to St. Juste set Eckert’s men on me? To shut me up? Who?”

“St. Juste himself before he was killed, if he thought he’d revealed too much to you. Whoever killed St. Juste if they were trying to tidy away lose ends. Or whomever St. Juste was working for.”

“I didn’t say—“

“But you had to have known he was working for someone,” Mélanie said. She looked at Nan. “Why are you still so worried about your brother now St. Juste is gone?”

Nan started to speak, then bit her lip and looked at her lover.

“Why were you so afraid to tell us the truth, Sam?” Mélanie said. “Who could threaten you now?”

Sam looked up at her. “Mélanie—“

“Surely after today you trust us.”

Sam stared at her for a long moment. She remembered much the same look in his eyes once in Spain when he’d been trying to decide how to tell her that the barn they were hiding in was surrounded by British soldiers. At last he set his mug down and turned to Charles. “Fraser, could you leave the room for a minute?”

“Certainly, if you wish it.”

“For God’s sake, Sam,” Mélanie said. “Haven’t we established that Charles is to be trusted?”

“It’s not that.” Sam drew a long breath, gaze fixed on the cracked floorboards. “It’s—“

“If you tell me alone, I’ll just turn round and tell Charles.”

“But that’s a decision you can take for yourself.” Charles started to get up.

Mélanie gripped her husband’s arm. “Better for us both to hear it at once. Who was St. Juste working for, Sam?”

“Christ. Have it your own way.” Sam snatched up his mug, took a long swig, and stared at her over the chipped enamel rim. “St. Juste was working for the man we all used to work for. The man you used to sleep with. Raoul O’Roarke.”

Chapter 10

I thought you might enjoy Figaro's adventures. Perhaps we can talk about it and have a game of chess when next I'm in Scotland. I fully expect the chance for redemption after your victory in our last game
.

Raoul O'Roarke to Charles Fraser

5 February 1796

Charles bit back a desperate laugh, but he heard the raw sound echo in his head. How sick, how absurd, how damnably inevitable. Beside him, Mélanie was still as ice. “Did St. Juste tell you he was working for Raoul?” she asked.

“Course not. Since when does that bastard tell anyone anything?” Lucan cast a sidelong glance at Charles. “I said I hadn’t spoken with St. Juste since he came to see me a month since. Which is true. But I caught a glimpse of him in the Pig & Whistle a week or so ago. Sitting at a table toward the back. With O’Roarke.”

“Did you speak with them?” Mélanie said.

“What kind of a fool do you take me for? If there was any profit in it, they’d come to me. Otherwise I give them a wide berth, same as I did in Spain.”

“So you don’t know for a certainty that they’re working together.”

“What the devil in this life is a certainty? St. Juste is working for someone. He used to work for O’Roarke—“

“Among others,” Mélanie said.

“—and now here they both are in London, conferring together. I didn’t think O’Roarke was supposed to be in London.”

“Nor did I.” Mélanie smoothed her hands over her cherry-striped skirt. “He went to Ireland before Christmas.”

“You see?” Lucan said, with the air of a don writing Q.E.D. on a proof. “He’s here on secret business. Before St. Juste got there, O'Roarke had been talking to another man—younger, longish dark hair and spectacles. No one I recognized. But I'll lay you odds O'Roarke's setting up a network.”

Nan was looking back and forth between her lover and Mélanie, a gathering frown on her face. “Who the devil is O’Roarke?”

“Cove I—we—used to work for in Spain,” Lucan said.

“And you were his mistress?” Nan asked Mélanie.

“A long time ago.”

“And you were worried I’d peach about your past. No bleeding fear of that. No one would believe me if I did.” Nan took the teapot from the spirit lamp and refilled her cup. “What would this O’Roarke be wanting with St. Juste now? Last I checked, the war was over.”

“Not for everyone.” Charles scrubbed his hands over his face. “O’Roarke’s half-Irish and half-Spanish and a revolutionary on general principles. A William Godwin/Tom Paine sort of Radical.” Who had once given Charles a copy of
Rights of Man
, but that was another story. “He sided with the French in Spain because he thought Bonaparte’s regime offered the quickest route to reform. Now he’s allied with the Spanish Liberals—many of whom fought against the French but oppose the restored Spanish monarchy.”

“A monarchy which hasn’t exactly proven itself friendly to the rights of anyone,” Mélanie said.

“Quite,” Charles said. “O’Roarke would like support from the British for a Liberal rebellion in Spain.”

“I don’t see why he’d need St. Juste for that,” Nan said.

“No,” Charles agreed. “But God knows what intrigues he may have become involved in in Spain. And his involvement in Irish protests goes back to the uprising of ’98.”

Nan added milk to her tea, then splashed in some brandy. “You know a lot about O’Roarke.”

“He’s an old friend of my family’s,” Charles said.

Which was true, though it didn’t begin to explain the complex web of ties between him and the man who had been his wife’s lover and spymaster.

Nan took a sip of tea. “So you think O’Roarke set Eckert’s men on us?”