Beneath a Silent Moon

According to Alec, the footman on duty in the hall, Lord Quentin had gone outside half an hour since, accompanied by Miss Mortimer. Alec believed he’d heard them say something about walking to the lake.

Mélanie followed her husband’s swift strides from the hall to the drawing room and through the French windows onto the granite terrace. The air had a chill bite, but there was no immediate promise of more rain. The sky was a smudge of slate and indigo. Below the terrace, greenery and stonework and well-cut granite steps tamed the cliff. At the base of the steps, the gardens stretched in a riot of color. And beyond them, the restless blue expanse of the sea.

Charles took the steps two at a time. Mélanie tried to match her pace to his, but her skirt, a fashionably narrow column, caught about her ankles.

Charles stopped. ‘Sorry. I didn’t realize I was walking so fast. A craven attempt to run away.’ His gaze moved over the garden below, the knotted parterre in the shape of the griffin and dragon of the Fraser arms, the hedged walkways, the reflecting pool, the sunken sundial surrounded by a tumble of roses. ‘I taught Quen to hold a cricket bat on that bit of lawn by the parterre when I was ten and he was five. He managed to knock the ball into the center of the sundial. It was a capital hit.’

Mélanie, focused on the thought of Lord Quentin as Honoria Talbot’s lover, was brought up short by this image of him as a child.

Charles started back down the steps at a more temperate pace. ‘He was an engaging little boy. Restless, but not hard to entertain if you could find something that interested him.’

‘And Lord Valentine?’ Mélanie asked.

‘Val was determined to outshine his elder brother. When Quen was about eight he decided cricket was too tame and he tried to scale the Old Tower.’ Charles glanced over his shoulder at the thirteenth-century keep, which jutted out of the north wing. ‘Val followed him. Quen actually made it to the top. Val nearly did as well before he turned his ankle and got stuck. I had to go up after him.’

Mélanie stared at the steep walls, with few handholds besides chinks in the mortar and an occasional arrow slit. ‘Somehow I doubt Lord Valentine thanked you.’

‘He gave me a bloody nose while I was bundling him onto the battlements. As soon as his ankle healed, he snuck out of the nursery at dawn and climbed the tower all over again. It’s a wonder he and Quen survived to their majority without breaking their necks.’

‘What did Glenister think of the rivalry between his sons?’

‘He encouraged it. Though he always tended to be harder on Quen and indulge Val more. Just as he prefers Val’s more stylish brand of rakishness to Quen’s out-and-out debauchery.’

They reached the bottom of the steps and turned down a walkway bordered by a yew hedge on one side and a line of purple hollyhocks on the other. The damp grass squelched beneath their feet. The air smelled of rain-drenched leaves and freshly turned earth.

Images ran through Mélanie’s mind. Lord Quentin sick with drink at Miss Talbot’s betrothal ball. Lord Quentin slumped in the corner of the drawing room last night. Lord Quentin staring down at Miss Talbot’s body this morning, his face set with cold rage. ‘In the letter Lord Quentin accuses Miss Talbot of letting society’s opinion stand in the way of their being together,’ she said. ‘But surely whatever his reputation, a marriage between them would have been seen as eligible. If she loved Lord Quentin and was carrying his child, why insist on marrying your father?’

‘Why indeed? Of course Quen might not have been talking about marriage, though, it’s hard to imagine he’d have believed she’d run off with him without it.’

‘Perhaps she was convinced he’d make an unreliable husband.’

‘And so she decided she’d rather marry my father?’

‘It fits the facts as we know them.’

‘It doesn’t fit Honoria.’

‘It doesn’t fit the Honoria you thought you knew. But then, neither does the fact that she was pregnant.’

Charles swung round to stare at her. ‘Damn it, Mel, don’t. Not you of all people. Don’t use the fact that she wasn’t a virgin to drag her into the gutter.’

‘You know me better than that.’

‘Then what are you suggesting?’

‘That Miss Talbot had secrets. You have to face the fact that she may not be the woman you thought she was.’

‘Just what is that supposed to mean?’

She stared at the raindrops glistening on the petals of the hollyhocks. ‘No one is truly who we think they are. Not exclusively, not entirely. There are always corners we don’t see into. In most cases we’d be better off not knowing what lurks in those corners, but in this case you have to know. You have to pick through her past and uncover all the messy bits.’

‘And you think I’m afraid to do that?’

‘I think it’s hellishly difficult to dig into anyone’s past, especially the past of someone you cared for, most especially someone you cared for and lost.’

He drew a breath and released it. ‘I’d be a fool to claim I’m entirely objective when it comes to Honoria or Father or any of the people here. But you have to allow that I’m rational enough to tell a hawk from a handsaw, at least when the wind is southerly. Or I assume you’d have objected to the idea of my investigating Honoria’s death in the first place.’ He resumed walking. ‘I’m not going to assume Honoria is guilty of every conceivable infamy simply because she happens to have been with child. I don’t think you want to assume that, either.’

‘Of course not. But—’

His gaze moved over her face, slate dark and unyielding. ‘What?’

She looked back at him without blinking. ‘Miss Talbot struck me as a woman who liked to be in control—of situations, of people, of her own life. She knew exactly the right words to pick to drive her point across.’ Such as the point that she knew Charles far better than Mélanie did herself. ‘One doesn’t present an image as flawless as hers without a great deal of thought and effort. And that thought and effort usually mean that flawless image masks something a great deal more complicated.’

‘You scarcely knew her.’

‘She called on me shortly before we left London. One can learn a lot in half an hour over a tea table. I doubt she so much as unbuttoned her gloves without thinking through the consequences of the action.’

‘You’ve spent too much time round diplomats and agents, Mel. Not everyone is a master schemer. For God’s sake, you’re usually so good at seeing beyond the obvious. Looking at the facts from every angle. Not judging people or jumping to conclusions.’

‘Damn it, Charles, I am looking at the facts. And before you go into your litany about knowing her better than I did—’

‘Obviously I didn’t know her as well as I thought. If I’d understood her better, I’d never have—I’d have known what to do or what to say to her and perhaps this wouldn’t have happened.’

She put a hand on his arm. ‘Charles. You couldn’t have prevented this.’

‘You can’t possibly know that.’

‘I know you. I know you’re thinking you should have been able to protect her, the same way you wanted to protect me. But you can’t always fix everything.’

‘Stop it.’ He jerked away from her with a force like the recoil of a gun. ‘Stop being so bloody sure you know what I’m thinking better than I do myself. Jesus, in some ways you don’t know me at all.’

Four and half years of marriage. Uncounted nights spent in his arms, uncounted meals eaten together, uncounted moments of shared danger. Uncounted chambers in his mind she knew she’d never glimpsed. ‘That’s just the point.’

‘That you don’t know me?’

‘That you can’t expect me to carry on this investigation without knowing all the facts you do about Miss Talbot.’

His gaze cut against her own like the press of cold steel. ‘What are you asking? If I was her lover? You should know me well enough to know that I wouldn’t—’

‘Seduce a virgin?’ She parried his glance like a rapier thrust. ‘I wouldn’t think so. But I can’t be certain of what you might do under every possible set of circumstances. As you just pointed out, in some ways I don’t know you at all.’

He continued to look at her in a silence heavy with words they’d never spoken to each other, pieces of their lives they’d left shrouded in mystery. ‘I wasn’t her lover. Ever.’

He turned on his heel and strode forward without waiting for her. For a moment Mélanie stood rooted to the damp ground, watching her husband retreat down the line of hollyhocks, each step tearing at the half-improvised, half-compromised bond between them.

When Francisco Soro sought them out in London, she’d been relieved at the call to adventure. Danger had always been the common ground in their marriage. But that was before she knew how close this particular danger cut to the most guarded recesses of her husband’s mind and heart. Unraveling the truth about the Elsinore League and Honoria Talbot threatened to turn any common ground between them into a wasteland.

With a muttered curse that would have been more appropriate on the battlefield, she tugged up her narrow skirt, revealing an amount of calf and ankle that would have scandalized the patronesses of Almack’s, and hurried after her husband.

She caught up with him on a rise of ground that overlooked Dunmykel’s ornamental lake. A white marble folly gleamed beside the water, its columns artfully crumbled in imitation of a Roman ruin Charles’s mother had sketched on her honeymoon. Charles didn’t turn his head in her direction, but he slowed his stride to match hers as they descended the slope to the folly.

Lord Quentin and Miss Mortimer were sitting side by side on the circular marble bench. Lord Quentin’s arm was draped across Miss Mortimer’s paisley shawl, and Miss Mortimer’s hand rested on the rumpled superfine of his coat. They weren’t talking, but they must have been lost in thought, for they both started at the approach of footsteps.

‘I’m sorry.’ Charles stopped on the first of the marble steps. ‘I know the last thing you feel like doing is answering questions.’

‘On the contrary.’ Lord Quentin pushed himself to his feet. He still hadn’t shaved, and if anything his cravat was more rumpled than before, as though he had bunched it in his fist. ‘If answering questions is the only way I can help—well, it’s a damned sight better than doing nothing.’

Miss Mortimer smoothed her hands over her sprigged muslin skirt. ‘We’re going to feel beastly no matter what. We might as well be useful.’ She hesitated for a moment, looking out over the water. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her lashes spiky with tears. She was a bewitchingly pretty girl, with clear skin and vivid features, yet she must have been cast into the shade by Miss Talbot since childhood. ‘Honoria and I quarreled last night. She wanted to borrow my coral earrings for the next day, even though she has—had—twice as many pairs of earrings as I do, and she had a tiresome habit of losing the things she borrowed. I decided for once I’d put my foot down. Now it seems childish that I cared.’ She turned to Charles. ‘Were you looking for me or Quen or both of us?’

‘For Quen, actually.’ Charles climbed to the top of the steps. ‘But there’s no hurry.’

‘No, I’d best go back to the house in any case. I should see how Uncle Frederick and Val are bearing up.’ Miss Mortimer squeezed Lord Quentin’s hand. For an instant, as her gaze rested on his dark head, Mélanie caught a spark of tenderness in her eyes, sharper than cousinly affection. Poor girl. Mélanie wondered if she’d known about Lord Quentin and Miss Talbot. Bad enough to go through life in Miss Talbot’s shadow. Worse to see her take the man one wanted for oneself.

Lord Quentin watched his cousin as she walked up the slope of the hill. ‘Typical Evie,’ he said, seemingly oblivious to the nuances in her gaze. ‘She thinks the family’s her responsibility. I’m afraid she’s got herself half convinced she should have known what was going to happen to Honoria and prevented it somehow.’ He put his hand over his eyes. His fingers shook. ‘I’m sorry. I still can’t quite believe it happened.’

‘It’s only been a matter of hours.’ Charles watched him for a moment. ‘There’s no way to make this sound like anything but a platitude, but it does get easier. At least that’s how it was for me when my mother died.’

Lord Quentin returned Charles’s gaze for a moment, his bleary eyes suddenly focused. ‘I don’t remember my own mother’s death—I was scarcely out of leading strings. Some of my school friends died in battle, but they were across an ocean. I’ve never—do you mind if we walk? It gives me the illusion that I’m doing something.’

They descended the steps and set out along the gravel path that wound round the edge of the lake. ‘I keep remembering how I used to carry Honoria about on my shoulders when she first came to live with us,’ Lord Quentin said.

Charles glanced sideways at the younger man. Concern for the boy he’d taught to play cricket warred in his face with anger at the man who’d probably got Honoria pregnant. ‘I imagine you have more recent memories as well.’

Lord Quentin scraped his uncombed hair back from his face. ‘I haven’t seen much of Honoria lately. Evenings at Almack’s and genteel drives in the park aren’t exactly my style. And God knows Honoria would never be found in a gaming hell or—er’—he glanced at Mélanie—’any of my other usual haunts. When we did meet—Honoria gave up on me as a lost cause years ago. Probably when I brought a lady of uncertain virtue to her come-out ball. Or perhaps the night I burst into an inappropriate song at one of her musicales.’

‘She must have cared for you.’

‘We’re a family. Evie would say that means we can’t help but care for each other. In my more maudlin moments, I might almost agree with her. I might even confess to a passing affection for Val. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t times when we’d all cheerfully—’

He sucked in his breath. ‘I was going to say, ‘wring each other’s necks.’ Which is either an appallingly tactless metaphor or a blunt statement of fact. Or perhaps both.’

They walked in silence for a half-dozen steps. ‘We found your letter to Honoria,’ Charles said.

Lord Quentin stopped and stared at him. ‘You found my what?’

Charles took the letter from his coat and held it out.

Lord Quentin let out a shout of bitter laughter. ‘Oh, Christ.’

‘She was very lovely,’ Mélanie said. ‘It’s understandable—’

The laughter faded from his face. ‘She was practically my sister.’

‘But she wasn’t. And—’

‘Honoria was the kind of a girl I run a mile from, Mrs. Fraser. My women have all been experienced and safely married. Starting with my godmother when I was just short of my sixteenth birthday.’

‘Do you deny this letter is in your hand?’ Charles said.

‘Oh, it’s my hand all right. But—’

‘We found it in her room.’

‘You—’ Lord Quentin’s eyes darkened. ‘The little devil.’

Charles exchanged glances with Mélanie, then regarded Lord Quentin for a moment. ‘The lady to whom the letter is addressed is not Honoria?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Who is the lady you were addressing?’

Lord Quentin drew a breath and started walking again. ‘I can’t answer that.’

Charles strode after him. ‘For God’s sake, Quen. I’m trying to find out who strangled your cousin. I promise I won’t reveal the lady’s name unless it proves to have something to do with the murder.’

‘And if it does?’ Lord Quentin spun round. ‘Her reputation would be ruined all the same. Don’t think I haven’t learned anything from my father. Whomever a gentleman may take to bed, it’s distinctly bad manners to repeat her name in the morning.’

Charles fixed him with a hard gaze. ‘I could show the letter to everyone in the house and ask for an explanation.’

‘Go ahead. Try it.’

Mélanie caught up with the men. ‘I can’t answer for the lady, Lord Quentin, but if that letter had been written to me, I’d like to think I wouldn’t want my lover to protect my reputation at the cost of letting a murderer go free.’

Lord Quentin swung his gaze to her. ‘You can’t know—’

‘If this lady cares for you as much as you care for her, surely she’d want to learn the truth of what happened to your cousin.’

Lord Quentin started to speak, then bit back the words. He scanned her face as though searching for answers. ‘I don’t know that most women would be so brave, Mrs. Fraser. But I expect you would. And—’ He glanced over the water, then back at Mélanie. ‘I think she would as well.’

‘She?’ Mélanie said.

Lord Quentin released his breath in a soft sigh. ‘Aspasia.’

It was the last name Mélanie had expected to hear. ‘Aspasia Newland?’ she said. ‘Chloe’s governess?’

‘And once governess to Honoria and Evie. Given my history, surely you don’t think I’d cavil at debauching my cousins’ governess.’

The lake lapped softly beside them. The scent of roses and lilies drifted through the air. Charles was standing very still, leaving the scene in Mélanie’s hands. Neither of them had ever let a quarrel interfere with the ebb and flow of an interrogation. Mélanie looked at Lord Quentin, dissolute, five-and-twenty, born to power and fortune, and thought of Miss Newland, self-possessed, the daughter of an Oxford tutor, close to forty. Then she thought of the hint of sensuality that Miss Newland’s neat clothes and governess hairstyle could not quite obscure. She thought of Miss Newland’s quick mind and Lord Quentin’s angry intelligence. ‘You must have still been at Harrow when you met her.’

Lord Quentin started walking again. ‘The part of my head that wasn’t addled with drink was stuffed full of ideas. Aspasia could run rings round me with her Latin and Greek. We liked the same books. I don’t think I’ve ever made such a thorough fool of myself.’

‘And then?’

‘I went to Ireland for a month. Some damned riding party. I came back to find she’d left Father’s employ and gone to work for Lady Frances.’

‘You went after her,’ Charles said.

‘I very nearly burst into Lady Frances’s house at an ungodly hour and created a scene, but I still had some vestiges of sense. I met Aspasia walking in the park with Chloe, who was scarcely more than a baby. One of those tiresome scenes ensued that occur when one hasn’t the sense to let a love affair die a natural death.’

He stared at the flickering shadows of the oak branches overhanging the lake. ‘I thought I’d got over it. I had got over it.’

‘Until you came to the house party and saw her again?’ Mélanie said.

‘And realized my love burned stronger than ever?’ His voice was as bitter as the stale dregs of burgundy. ‘It sounds like something out of a bad novel, doesn’t it? Val would say it’s just pique because she turned me down. I daresay he’d be right. But whatever name you give to the feeling, it was still there.’

‘You called it love in the letter,’ Mélanie said.

‘So I did. According to Father, telling a woman you love her is the ultimate card to play in the game of seduction.’

‘Is that what the letter was?’ Mélanie said. ‘A gambit?’

‘Isn’t every step in a love affair, one way or another?’ He gestured toward the letter, which Charles still held. ‘I wrote that in the drawing room last night. Then Evie called me over to turn the pages of her music. I tucked the letter under the ink blotter on the writing desk. When I went back it was gone. Honoria must have taken it.’

‘Did she know about your affair with Miss Newland?’ Charles asked.

‘Oh, yes.’ Lord Quentin continued walking, his gaze fixed straight ahead. ‘It was Honoria who forced Aspasia to leave Glenister House.’

Charles froze for a fraction of a second. ‘When did you discover that?’

‘Only last month. Honoria was upbraiding me with my follies and she let fall a remark about my having debauched her governess. I asked her how the hell she knew and the whole truth came out. She’d learned or guessed about the affair five years ago. Instead of confronting me, she waited until I’d left for Ireland and then went to Aspasia with what she knew. She told her she couldn’t in good conscience—Honoria’s words, not mine—stand by while the affair went on, but that if Aspasia left and found a new position she wouldn’t say anything to Father.’

‘You must have been furious,’ Charles said.

Lord Quentin gave a mirthless laugh. ‘I don’t think I actually smashed anything, though I certainly felt like it. But it made me wonder—’

‘If you could try again with Miss Newland?’ Mélanie said.

‘I should have known five years ago. I should have guessed. Honoria could be a damned interfering—’

He checked himself and looked from Charles to Mélanie. ‘A damned interfering bitch,’ he finished, flinging the words in their faces. ‘And now I suppose you’re wondering if my display of grief has all been an act.’

‘Has it?’ Charles said.

Lord Quentin tugged his ruined cravat loose and wadded it up in his hand. ‘I’m not that good an actor. I loved Honoria, because I’ll never forget the orphaned child who was like a little sister to me. If I knew who murdered her, I’d kill the bastard with my bare hands. But I scarcely knew the woman Honoria had become in recent years. And what I did know, I didn’t much like. If that makes me a suspect, so be it.’ He strode on, grinding the gravel underfoot.

‘Why do you think she took the letter?’ Charles said.

‘God knows. For fear someone else would find it, perhaps. Honoria hated even a whiff of scandal. Once—years ago—I went to leave a birthday gift in her room and I found a whole stack of letters she’d apparently stolen from Val. Written by various ladies with whom he’d been rather closely acquainted. Some married, one or two not. I don’t wonder at Honoria wanting to get them out of Val’s hands, but if you ask me she’d have been wiser to return them to the ladies in question. I daresay she didn’t want to admit she knew what was going on.’

‘You said she was interfering,’ Charles said. ‘Whom else did she interfere with?’

They were halfway round the lake. Lord Quentin turned and looked back at the folly. Rage and grief and regret did battle in his eyes. ‘Just about everyone she thought worth her notice. She liked to arrange people’s lives for them. But people didn’t always obligingly fall in with her plans. Last autumn one of her friends had the ill grace not to fall head over heels in love with the man Honoria had picked out for her. Instead she fancied herself in love with a journalist, of all things. And a friend of mine, to make matters worse. Honoria searched out the man’s former mistress and paid her to confess all his nasty habits to the girl. Of course she probably saved my friend and the girl the disillusionment of falling out of love.’ He glanced at Charles. ‘I know, it’s not the face Honoria showed to the world. It’s not the face she showed to you. She always liked you twice as much as Val or me.’

‘What about Val?’ Charles said. ‘How did he feel about Honoria?’

‘Honoria drove Val mad, but not in the way you’re implying. He called her Princess Icicle. Besides, Honoria wouldn’t have gone beyond mild flirtation with anyone until she was married.’

Charles’s face didn’t betray by so much as a flicker of an eyelid that they knew this not to be the truth. ‘Because she took her virtue too seriously?’

‘Because she was too determined to remain in control.’ Lord Quentin’s gaze moved over the mountains in the distance. ‘Father always indulged her in anything. Evie found it easier to play along with her. Val and I were off at school. I’ve sometimes wondered if I’d been there more—are we finished?’

‘Just one more question,’ Charles said. ‘Were you alone last night?’

‘Aside from a bottle of brandy. Pity. If I’d had the sense to take one of the housemaids to bed, I’d have an alibi.’ He turned to go. Then he looked back and fixed Charles with a hard stare. ‘Aspasia could lose her job. You won’t—’

‘Believe it or not, it’s not my aim to ruin anyone’s life. If for some reason this proves relevant to the investigation and the story gets out, I’ll talk to Aunt Frances. She’s not the sort to be put off by scandal and I know how she values Miss Newland. If worse comes to worst, I’ll find Miss Newland a new position myself.’

Lord Quentin gave a curt nod. ‘Thank you.’

Charles watched him walk off, his own gaze as bleak as salt-scoured granite. Mélanie rubbed her arms. She was cold, and not because the sky was darkening. Her quarrel with her husband stirred between them, like the quickening buffets of wind that sent the clouds scuttering overhead.

‘Charles, I like what I’ve seen of Miss Newland, and Chloe seems to adore her. But if Miss Talbot knew about Miss Newland’s affair with Lord Quentin, Miss Newland has an excellent murder motive. Miss Talbot had the power to ruin her with a well-placed word.’

‘And Quen knew it.’ Charles started walking along the path toward the house. ‘Despite Quen’s words, I suspect he’d do a great deal for Miss Newland.’

Mélanie pulled her shawl about her shoulders. Nothing was to be gained from shying away from the hard questions. They had to play this out to the end game, even if that meant pressing against bruises and ripping the scabs from old wounds. ‘Lord Quentin said Miss Talbot wouldn’t take a lover because she liked control. I think he was right in part. If she wanted to stay in control, she could only safely risk taking a lover who had more to lose from the affair becoming public than she did.’

Charles started to speak, then bit back the words, his gaze going across the lawn. Blanca, Mélanie’s maid, was hurrying toward them in a tumble of muslin and curly black hair come free of its pins.

‘Mélanie. Sir.’ Blanca’s urgent tone betrayed her excitement, as did her use of Mélanie’s given name. ‘I hoped I’d find you.’

‘What is it?’ Mélanie asked.

‘It’s not at all what I expected, but I suppose—Dios, I’d better start at the beginning. Addison would never forgive me for making a muddle of it. I spent a quarter-hour with Miss Talbot’s maid, Mary Fitton. The poor girl is quite desconsolada about Miss Talbot’s death, though I must say she sounds a much more exacting mistress than—’

‘Blanca,’ Mélanie said.

‘Lo siento. Mary had only been in the employ of Miss Talbot for two months. Miss Talbot dismissed her previous maid.’

‘Why?’ Charles asked.

‘I don’t know, sir. I asked Mary three different ways. I’d swear she knows no more of the truth of it than I do. She doesn’t seem to know a great deal else about Miss Talbot, beyond the type of face powder she wore and her favorite way of arranging her hair, which is actually quite—’ Blanca drew a breath. ‘At all events, as Addison would say, I spoke then with Morag, the girl who fainted. You were right, Mel—Mrs. Fraser. She does know something. She was out walking last night with Joseph, one of the grooms. She’s not supposed to be out after ten, so she was afraid to speak of it. I promised to keep it from Mrs. Johnstone,’ Blanca added, with a gaze that threatened defiance if her promise was countermanded.

‘Naturally,’ Charles said. ‘Go on.’

‘Morag slipped back into the house through one of the library windows. It was just past one thirty this morning, as near as I could tell. She’s sure she saw a panel by the fireplace ajar.’

‘That’s hardly surprising,’ Mélanie said. ‘We know the intruder used the secret passage.’

‘Yes. But Morag also caught a glimpse of a man in the library. Not the intruder you spoke of. A man she recognized. The estate agent. Mr. Andrew Thirle.’