Beneath a Silent Moon

Charles scarcely moved a muscle, but Mélanie read a host of emotions in the tightening of his jaw and the widening of his eyes. Relief that Giles McGann was alive. Surprise at his reappearance. Fear of what was to come. Bitterness at the bite of betrayal.

McGann regarded Charles in silence. He had piercing blue eyes set in a lined face that retained a hint of boyish mischief. ‘I heard about your father,’ he said at last in a rough, musical voice. ‘And Miss Honoria.’ He drew a sharp breath, his gaze clouded with grief. ‘I’m sorry.’

Charles swallowed. Mélanie suspected he was struggling to find his voice, though when he spoke, he sounded normal enough. ‘Did you know we were looking for you?’

‘Not for a certainty. But I guessed.’

Charles sucked in a breath and released it. ‘You bastard. I was afraid you were dead.’

‘Yes, I’m sorry about that. I couldn’t—’

‘Take the risk? Or my father couldn’t?’

McGann’s eyes darkened to cobalt. ‘Charlie—’

Tommy sprang off the desk. ‘Loath as I am to interrupt this touching reunion, would you mind telling us where the devil you’ve been, McGann? You are Giles McGann, aren’t you?’

‘Thomas Belmont,’ Charles said. ‘A diplomatic colleague. And this is my wife, Mélanie.’

‘Mr. Belmont.’ McGann nodded at Tommy and then turned to Mélanie with the same appraising gaze she received from everyone in Britain from London duchesses to the Dunmykel grooms. On the whole, though, the servants and tenants were friendlier than the duchesses, and McGann was friendlier than most. ‘Mrs. Fraser. I’m pleased to meet you at last. Charlie wrote that you were beautiful, but I see he understated the matter.’

‘You’re a very kind man and a charming liar, Mr. McGann.’ Mélanie tried not to stress the word liar, but it seemed to linger in the air. ‘Knowing Charles, I’m sure he didn’t write anything of the sort.’ And yet it seemed he had written to McGann after they were married. Still without making any mention of his old friend to his wife.

McGann’s eyes glinted. ‘Let’s say I’ve learned to read between the lines when it comes to Charlie.’

Tommy coughed. ‘As I said, I’m loath to interrupt—’

‘You want to know where I was. Or rather, you want to know why I disappeared.’

‘Because Father asked you to, I presume,’ Charles said.

McGann raised his untidy brows.

‘Why else would you return now that he’s dead?’ Charles’s gaze hardened. ‘I wasn’t aware you and my father were on such close terms.’

‘There’s a lot you don’t know, Charlie.’

‘So I’ve come to realize in the last few days.’ Charles regarded McGann with the wariness he would accord an enemy agent.

McGann took a turn about the hearthrug. His gaze lingered on the Fragonard oil, luminous in the shadowy light from the window. ‘Your father always did have a fondness for beautiful things. Like me and my books. It was the one way I ever felt any sort of kinship with him. Only your father has—had—more blunt to spend. If it wasn’t for that—well, let’s say the last thirty years might have been very different.’

Charles leaned against the wall and tracked McGann’s every movement with his eyes. ‘Different how?’

McGann tugged at his frayed coat. ‘A lot of his friends like to collect as well. Picked up a taste for it on the Grand Tour, I dare swear.’

‘We already know about Wheaton and the smuggling ring,’ Charles said. ‘You worked with them.’

McGann flushed but did not shy away from Charles’s gaze. ‘So I did. You’ve been gone from Dunmykel for a long time, Charlie. You were a clever lad, but even as a boy I don’t think you quite realized—times have been difficult for a long while now, long before your father’s Clearances.’

‘Smuggling was a way to hold off starvation.’

‘For some. I can make no such claim. For me it was a way to buy a few more books, an extra bottle of whisky. And perhaps to have a bit of adventure.’

‘The lure of danger?’ Tommy cast a sidelong glance at Charles. ‘We wouldn’t know anything about that, would we?’

‘What did you do for the smugglers?’ Charles said.

‘Nip down to the cove every now and again and pick up a parcel from a fishing boat and keep it for a week or so.’

‘Who came to collect them from you?’

‘Your father himself, more often than not. Lord Glenister once or twice. Occasionally some other of their friends. I didn’t know them all by name. We’d have a code word for the exchange. Characters from Shakespeare usually. Funny, a grown man knocking on one’s door in the dark of night and muttering ‘Peaseblossom’ or ‘Bardolph.’ ‘

‘How do you know the parcels contained works of art?’ Tommy asked.

‘For a certainty? I suppose I don’t. The parcels were the right size and shape and once or twice the wrapping slipped and I got a glimpse of a bit of bronze or the corner of a frame.’

‘Which doesn’t preclude other things being hidden in the pictures or the statues,’ Tommy said.

‘I suppose not, but why the devil would anyone—’

‘You didn’t just collect parcels.’ Charles watched McGann with a stillness that gripped like a vise. ‘You traveled to the south recently. To escort someone to Dunmykel.’

McGann’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’ve learned a great deal.’

‘Not nearly enough. Who was he?’

‘I don’t know. He called himself Jean Lameau. The only thing I’m certain of is that that wasn’t his real name.’

‘Had you seen him before?’

‘Oh, yes. He’d been a guest at house parties your father gave at Dunmykel. Back in the early days. I hadn’t seen him for close on twenty years. But he had the sort of eyes one doesn’t forget. The sort that seem to be able to see into any dark corner he chooses.’

Tommy took a step toward the door, probably to block the exit in case McGann had any thoughts of bolting. ‘Tell us everything you can about him.’

‘I very nearly have, Mr. Belmont.’

‘Was he French?’ Charles asked.

‘He wanted us to believe so. Wanted us to believe it a bit too badly, I’d say. Either that or he was trying too hard to put on a gentleman’s accent. I don’t think the voice he spoke in came naturally to him. But I couldn’t guess what his true voice would sound like, or what it would reveal about his origins.’

‘What did you talk about?’ Charles said.

‘Books, oddly enough.’ McGann touched his fingers to the leather binding of a volume on the card table. ‘At first he tended to look at me as though he was more interested in the view past my shoulder. But then he came down into the cabin and found me reading and we struck up a conversation. He wasn’t averse to talking, provided it was impersonal.’

‘What sort of books did you discuss?’ Charles asked.

‘Oh, for God’s sake—’ Tommy said.

Charles flashed a look at him. ‘It might be important.’

‘Shakespeare,’ McGann said. ‘The Greeks. Dante. A few seventeenth-century poets. He avoided anything overtly political.’

‘You think that’s why he was leaving France?’ Charles asked. ‘Because of politics?’

‘Isn’t that why most people have left France in the past three decades, one way or another? But exactly what Lameau’s politics were or why he was forced to flee France or what he’d been doing in London before I picked him up, I couldn’t tell you.’

‘Did he ever say anything at all that stood out to you?’ Charles said.

‘No, he—’ McGann frowned. ‘There was something, though I never could make head nor tail of what it meant. Just before we disembarked, apropos of nothing at all, he said, ‘Do you think it really is possible to pawn a heart, Mr. McGann?”

‘ ‘Pawn a heart’?’ Charles repeated.

‘Those were the words. I said it was difficult enough to give a heart in my experience. I’d never thought much about pawning one. Lameau smiled and said giving might be simpler. Pawning could create debts that came back to haunt one.’

‘What do you think he meant?’

‘I assume it was a quote. I thought it might be from Shakespeare, but I’m damned if I can say where.’ McGann shook his head. ‘I enjoyed talking with him. But I wouldn’t care to meet him on a dark street with a knife in his hand.’

‘What happened when you reached Dunmykel Bay?’

‘He thanked me, said he’d like to disembark first, and asked me to give him a half hour before I left the boat. I did as he asked. I returned home, but a few hours later your father called at my cottage and told me to make myself scarce.’

‘Why?’

‘He said you were likely to come asking questions and it would be easier for everyone if I wasn’t there to give the answers.’

‘Have you heard of the Elsinore League?’ Tommy asked.

McGann nodded. ‘I suppose you’d call them a club. Something Mr. Fraser and Lord Glenister and their friends started up at Oxford.’

‘To do what?’ Charles said.

‘You’d know the sorts of things young men get up to at Oxford better than I would. Drinking, gaming, wenching—’ He coughed. ‘Your pardon, Mrs. Fraser.’

‘Believe me, Mr. McGann, you haven’t said anything one doesn’t hear stories about in Mayfair drawing rooms. Was Mr. Lameau a member of the Elsinore League?’

‘I assume so. He was a guest at Dunmykel on more than one occasion, though not for close on twenty years, as I said. I’d caught glimpses of him, but I hadn’t heard him called by name until I was asked to escort him to Scotland.’

Charles’s gaze moved over McGann’s face. ‘What was your connection to the League?’

‘I didn’t have any connection to speak of. I knew about them, that’s all. A lot of the members were the men I retrieved parcels for.’

Charles began to pace up and down the end of the room, his gaze intent. ‘Why would anyone be afraid of the Elsinore League now? Why would they be a source of danger?’

‘Who says they are?’

‘A friend of mine who was shot to death in London two weeks ago.’

‘Good God. By whom?’

‘We aren’t sure. But his last words were a warning about the Elsinore League.’

Tommy tugged something from his coat pocket and strode forward, holding it out. Mélanie recognized the paper with the falcon stamp that Tommy had taken from McGann’s desk. ‘What about this?’

McGann glanced down at the paper. ‘Unless I’m very much mistaken, that came from my desk, Mr. Belmont.’

‘You were missing. I had reason to believe you might have information of vital importance to the Foreign Office. What is this?’

‘What it looks like. Instructions about a delivery.’

‘From?’

‘One of the Elsinore League members. He used that signet stamp to sign his papers.’

‘What was his name?’

‘I don’t know. He always used the stamp instead of a signature.’

‘Who collected his parcels?’

‘Mr. Fraser.’

‘Could the man who used this signet have been Jean Lameau?’ Charles asked.

‘Possibly. As I said, I couldn’t put any of their faces with that mark.’

‘Could the Elsinore League have been more than a club of debauches?’ Tommy said.

‘What are you suggesting, Mr. Belmont?’

‘I’m not suggesting, I’m asking.’

McGann was silent for a long moment. ‘I told you, they were secretive. I never actually attended meetings. I could only guess at the membership based on who used the Elsinore League seal and who was about Dunmykel when they were having their gatherings. I could only guess at what they did based on rumors of debauchery.’

‘Did you ever hear mention of a man named Coroux?’ Charles asked.

‘Oh, yes. He was one of the members. One whose name I did know. Frenchman. He visited quite often in the early days, before the war. Later his visits were more scarce, and he’d use an English name, but there’s no doubt it was the same man. It must be close on twenty years since I’ve seen him, too.’

‘What about Honoria Talbot’s father?’ Charles said. ‘Was he part of the Elsinore League?’

McGann was silent for a fraction of a second. ‘I assume so. Like Lameau and Coroux, he was at a number of their gatherings.’

‘Was he friendly with Lameau and Coroux?’

‘Not particularly more than any of the others.’

Charles folded his arms over his chest. ‘Andrew said you were fond of Cyril’s wife. I hadn’t realized.’

Memories glinted in McGann’s eyes. ‘One doesn’t confide such things in children. I suppose Andrew heard it from his mother. Catherine Thirle always had sharp eyes.’ He passed a hand over his hair. ‘She was a lovely girl. Susan—Lady Cyril as she later was. I never—we came from different worlds, of course. But she deserved better than Cyril Talbot.’

‘In what way?’

‘She deserved a man who loved her. From aught I could make out, Lord Cyril never did. When they’d been married less than a year, he brought his light-o’-love with him to one of the Elsinore League gatherings.’

‘Who was she?’ Charles asked. ‘This mistress of Cyril Talbot’s?’

‘Opera dancer by the look of it. Skinny, brown-haired creature. Not near as pretty as Susan.’

‘Did the liaison last a long time?’

‘Not so far as I could tell. He brought three or four different birds of paradise to Elsinore League gatherings through the years.’

‘Did he have a lady with him at the shooting party where he died?’

‘Not that I saw. I believe any women at that gathering were smuggled in from the village.’

‘Were Lameau and Coroux at that house party?’

‘Yes.’ McGann’s voice had the cautious note of admitting no more than was strictly necessary. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘It was the last time I saw Lameau until I brought him up the coast. I saw Coroux once or twice more.’

‘Did the Elsinore League have anything to do with Cyril Talbot’s death?’ Charles said.

McGann turned to the fireplace and stood still for a long moment, his shoulders slumped as though beneath the weight of a burden. ‘How much do you know?’

‘His death wasn’t simply a drunken accident with a gun.’ Charles’s tone made the words half statement, half question.

McGann gave a grunt of acknowledgment. ‘Your father was right. You’re too damned good at putting the pieces together.’

‘You were present when Cyril Talbot was shot,’ Charles said.

‘That’s a clever guess, Charlie. You can’t possibly know for a certainty.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I’m quite sure none of the others who were present would have admitted it to you.’

‘Who were they?’

McGann sighed, as though even now weighing the wisdom of saying more. ‘Me. Cyril Talbot himself. Your father. And Lord Glenister.’

‘But not the rest of the house party?’

‘No. He died away from the house. On the beach.’

‘What were the Talbot brothers, my father, and you doing on the beach in the middle of the night?’

‘I’d come to the house to deliver a parcel for your father. A drawing, I think. Your father grabbed me and insisted I accompany them. He said I was sober and wouldn’t talk and they needed another man present if the thing was to have any semblance of honor.’

Tommy let out a low whistle. ‘Four men. Good God, it was a duel.’

McGann flicked a glance at him. ‘You think quickly, Mr. Belmont.’

‘My father shot Cyril Talbot in a drunken parody of a duel?’ Charles said.

McGann shook his head. ‘Your father was one of the seconds. I was the other. The duel was between Lord Glenister and Cyril Talbot.’

It took a great deal to shock Charles, Tommy, and Mélanie herself into silence, but for a moment they all stared at McGann.

‘What the devil was the duel about?’ Charles said.

‘I don’t know. The challenge had been issued and accepted long before I came on the scene.’

‘But it was serious? It wasn’t some sort of game gone awry?’

‘Oh, no. Glenister looked—’ McGann shook his head. ‘Glenister looked ready to murder his brother. Which I suppose one could argue he did.’

‘Did they both fire?’ Mélanie asked.

‘Lord Cyril’s shot went wide. Difficult to say if it was drink or deliberate, though I’d guess it was deliberate. Glenister aimed straight for his heart The fact that he didn’t kill him outright I attribute to the amount he’d had to drink.’

‘Christ.’ Tommy shook his head. ‘Your families just keep getting odder and odder.’

‘What happened after the shots were exchanged?’ Charles said.

McGann closed his eyes for an instant, as though picturing the scene. ‘Your father and I ran over to Lord Cyril. Glenister remained where he was. When I looked up he was just standing there with the pistol dangling from his fingers. He said, ‘Is he dead?’ He sounded as though it wasn’t a matter of very great moment whether his brother lived or died.’

‘He was in shock,’ Mélanie said.

‘Very likely. He turned and walked back to the house without us. Mr. Fraser and I carried Lord Cyril through the passage into the library. The others were there—Lameau or whatever his name really is and Coroux and Sir William Cathcart and Mr. Gordon and Mr. Craven and another Frenchman whose name I’ve never been sure of. Mr. Fraser told them that there’d been an accident. Glenister stumbled over to the sofa where we’d laid out his brother. It was as though he’d suddenly realized what had happened. Tears were streaming down his face. He said, ‘I’m sorry.’ Lord Cyril said, ‘Take care of her.’ ‘

‘Her?’

‘Miss Honoria, I assume.’

‘What did Glenister say?’

‘ ‘I will. I swear it.’ ‘

‘And then?’

‘Your father told me to make myself scarce. I think he was afraid I’d reveal the truth of what had happened to the other guests.’

Charles walked forward and rested his hands on the desk. ‘What was the duel about?’

‘I told you, I don’t know.’

‘I know what you told me. I’m not asking what you know. I’m asking for your best guess.’

‘All I can say is that it must have come about quickly. I’d seen the two brothers out riding earlier in the day and they appeared to be on perfectly good terms.’

‘Then I’ll ask you again—what do you think the Elsinore League had to do with Cyril Talbot’s death?’

‘As far as I know, only that the duel took place during one of the Elsinore League’s parties. The quarrel between the brothers seemed to be personal.’

‘But you can’t be sure it was?’

‘I can’t be sure of anything. Save that Glenister fired the shot that killed his brother. And that he meant to do so.’

Charles held McGann’s gaze with his own, as though searching out whether or not this was the extent of the truth.

Tommy drew a swift, frustrated breath, but before he could speak, another knock sounded on the door. ‘Yes?’ Charles called.

‘Sorry to interrupt.’ Lord Quentin stepped into the room. His face was pale, his gaze focused and intense. ‘But I thought you should know at once. It’s Father. He’s left Dunmkyel.’