Beneath a Silent Moon

‘Sit down, Charles.’

Charles closed the door of the Foreign Secretary’s office, crossed the worn carpet, and lowered himself into a ladder-back chair. The use of his given name was a reminder that the Foreign Secretary had known him since he was a boy, but he suspected Castlereagh had employed it more to put him in his place than to reassure him.

‘Why am I here, sir?’ he asked.

Castlereagh surveyed him across the surface of his desk, which was uncharacteristically disordered, piled high with papers and sheaves of foolscap, ledgers, and today’s edition of the Morning Post. His brows rose slightly at the picture Charles presented. Charles’s hand was still bandaged, and he had a bruise to the jaw from the fracas in the coffee stall at Covent Garden. He’d taken the time to shave and change before he left South Audley Street, but he’d nicked himself twice with the razor. Haste and lack of sleep. Not to mention nerves.

‘I understand you and your wife were involved in an incident last night,’ Castlereagh said.

Charles tensed. This was quick even for Castlereagh. ‘Where did you hear that?’

‘I’m not at liberty to say. But I am aware that your friend Francisco Soro was shot yesterday evening.’

‘Do you know who shot him?’

‘No. Though I may perhaps know more about the matter than you do.’ Castlereagh aligned the papers on the desk before him so the tops of each stack were level. ‘I don’t think you quite realize what you’ve got involved in, Charles.’

Charles looked from the Foreign Secretary’s aristocratic face to the slender hands creating order out of the chaos on the desktop, much as Castlereagh would like to impose his vision of order on the rest of the world. Charles had worked closely with him at the Congress of Vienna. Castlereagh had been quick to employ Charles’s talents, both official and unofficial, before the peace negotiations had been brought to an abrupt halt by Napoleon’s escape from Elba. But when it came to the course that was best for Britain and Europe, they had sharply divergent views.

Dissatisfaction with a view of the world that placed paramount importance on stifling all dissent for fear of revolution was a large part of why Charles had left the diplomatic service. In fairness, Castlereagh had always listened to Charles’s arguments, though he had never given the least sign of being persuaded by them.

‘Perhaps you’d care to enlighten me about what I’m involved in?’ Charles said.

Castlereagh tightened the buff-colored ribbon that held a sheaf of foolscap closed. ‘You were in Paris until recently. You know the situation there is still anything but calm, for all that the war’s officially over. The Comte d’Artois and his followers have been somewhat—ah—excessive in the zeal with which they’ve sought retribution against members of the former regime.’

‘Revenge might be a more appropriate word.’

‘Perhaps. Semantics aside, it would be foolish to deny that Bonaparte’s followers and Bonaparte himself still constitute a threat.’ Castlereagh replaced the lid on a jar of ink. ‘A few weeks ago, I received reports from Paris concerning a secret organization with the unlikely name of the Elsinore League. An organization of former Bonapartist officers, some in prison, some still free.’

‘Reports from whom?’

‘Agents of mine.’ Castlereagh wiped a trace of ink from the side of the jar. ‘You didn’t know every agent in my employ, Charles.’

‘I never thought I did, sir.’

‘Two of my agents had managed to infiltrate themselves into the fringes of the Elsinore League some months since. It’s risky work, as I’m sure you appreciate based on your own experience.’

Charles nodded. ‘Risky’ was no doubt a massive understatement. ‘Where does Francisco fit into this?’

Castlereagh moved a paper from one stack to another. ‘I know Soro was a friend of yours and mat he was very useful to us in the Peninsula. But since the war he seems to have found himself at loose ends. He went to Paris last autumn and apparently fell in with the Elsinore League. A bit surprising when he’d worked against the French in Spain, but perhaps his quarrel was more with French occupation of his country than with Bonapartist ideals. You’d agree?’

Charles shifted his position in his chair, his gaze on Castlereagh. ‘Yes,’ he said in a guarded voice.

‘According to my agents, Soro was acting as a courier. He probably wasn’t aware of the full extent of what the group was planning.’

‘What were they planning?’

‘We haven’t been able to determine that, not for a certainty. At first we thought it was simply the rescue of former Bonapartist officers from prison, but now we suspect they have something bigger in mind.’ Castlereagh picked up his penknife and picked at a piece of sealing wax on the tooled green leather of the desktop. ‘As you well know, the alliances between the French monarchy and our government and the Russians and the Prussians are not entirely harmonious. We’ve done our best to paper over the cracks, but if something were to happen to disrupt things, the sort of incident that would have everyone blaming everyone else and demanding someone pay—’

Charles straightened his shoulders. ‘An assassination attempt? That’s what you’re afraid of? On whom?’

‘A member of the French royal family. A foreign ambassador. We haven’t been able to determine with certainty.’ Castlereagh pried the wax loose with a vicious twist of the knife. ‘Soro may have learned what the group was planning. He came to England to hand over information on their activities. To you, it seems. One of the group followed him and killed him last night. And very nearly killed you and your wife as well. My God, Charles, what were you thinking?’

Castlereagh fixed him with a firm, parental stare. Either his words were true or he was a very good actor or he believed the lie. His story fit the facts. Almost. It didn’t account for how the devil Honoria Talbot fit in with Francisco’s activities in France.

Charles hesitated, searching for time, answers, a way out. ‘Can you show me evidence of any of this?’

‘My dear Charles. You worked in intelligence. You understand about secrecy. My word as a gentleman will have to suffice.’

‘With all due respect, my lord, without seeing the evidence myself, I can’t be sure that you haven’t been misled.’

‘I’m not misled easily,’ Castlereagh snapped in the tone of one who had faced down monarchs. He gripped his hands together on the desktop. His knuckles were white. He couldn’t abide being out of control, an attitude Charles could sympathize with. ‘Soro must have arrived in Paris when you were still there yourself. He never made any attempt to contact you?’

‘No.’ For some reason, the admission made Charles feel like a traitor.

‘That should at least confirm that he was involved in something he didn’t want you to know about. He didn’t say anything to you before he died? Or give you anything?’

The last question set off signal fires of alarm in Charles’s head. ‘You think he meant to give me something?’

‘Assuming we’re right that he sought you out to give you evidence against the Elsinore League.’

‘He was shot before he could tell me anything,’ Charles said. That much was true. He neglected to add that Francisco hadn’t died immediately upon being shot.

Castlereagh leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingers on the ink blotter. ‘We haven’t always agreed, Charles, but you did us able service during the war. I know you understand what’s due to your country. I know you’ll understand what I mean when I tell you not to pursue Francisco Soro’s death further.’

Charles stared at his former superior. ‘Surely if what you’ve told me is true, there’s every reason to continue to investigate.’

‘But you’re not the man to do it.’

‘Sir—’

‘Soro’s assassin is no doubt halfway back to Paris by now. Where my agents are still in place. That’s how we’ll uncover what the Elsinore League are planning. Any questions we ask here will only reveal that we’re on to them and put our people in Paris at risk.’

‘That assumes we can’t investigate here without them getting wind of it.’

‘You’re a clever man, Charles, but you’re not infallible. Or invulnerable.’ Castlereagh pushed his chair back and got to his feet. He stared down at his desktop for a moment, then wandered over to the window and looked out into Downing Street. He seemed to be seeing something beyond the clutter of midmorning traffic. ‘I know it’s difficult, believe me. Coming home after all these years. Leading a domestic life after living on the edge for so long.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I don’t know the details, but I’m aware that your relationship with your father has not always been what one might wish. You’re living in proximity to him for the first time in nearly ten years, and he’s just announced his intention to marry again.’

Charles stared at the Foreign Secretary’s aristocratic profile, outlined against the light from the window. In all the years he had known and worked with Castlereagh, the Foreign Secretary had never touched so directly on his personal life. ‘I left boyhood behind long ago.’

‘I don’t know that one ever leaves one’s childhood truly behind. But whatever the temptation, this is no time to go tilting at windmills. You have a family of your own now. For God’s sake, you dragged your wife into this.’

‘I didn’t drag her, she insisted on coming with me. Francisco was her friend as well.’

Castlereagh turned to look at Charles. ‘I’m aware that Mrs. Fraser is a woman of somewhat unorthodox talents, but you can’t wish to risk her life. This isn’t your fight. Leave it to us. For her sake. For your children’s sake. We’ll learn the truth, and Francisco Soro’s murderer will be brought to justice. You have a parliamentary career to think about. I can’t say I agree with most of the things you stand for, but you obviously take your beliefs seriously.’

‘I knew Francisco,’ Charles said. ‘I understand the way his mind worked. Surely—’

‘Damn it, Charles.’ Castlereagh strode forward and slammed his hands down on the desk. The ink jar rattled, and a sheaf of foolscap thudded to the floor. ‘This isn’t about your friend or your theories or your damned need to fix everything. If you won’t stay out of it for your family’s sake, then have the goodness not to risk the lives of my agents.’

Charles shifted against the hard wood of his chair. Castlereagh’s words rang (rue and cut close to the bone. And yet—he looked up into Castlereagh’s intent eyes. ‘The Elsinore League is an odd name for a group of French soldiers. Could they have any connection to people here in England?’

Something flickered in Castlereagh’s gaze for an instant. Something Charles would have sworn was fear, a fear he had rarely seen the Foreign Secretary display. Castlereagh drew back and straightened his shoulders. ‘No,’ he said. ‘To my knowledge their activities are confined to France.’

But the fear in Castlereagh’s gaze belied his words. He knew more than he’d admitted. Perhaps he knew what linked the Elsinore League to Honoria Talbot and possibly her father. Charles gripped his hands together, assimilating the fact that the Foreign Secretary of Britain, a man he had worked with, a man he trusted, had just lied to him.

The question was where the truth left off and the lies began.

‘Charles?’ Castlereagh tugged his coat sleeve smooth. ‘Do I have your word that you won’t pursue this matter further?’

Charles looked into the Foreign Secretary’s eyes. ‘You do,’ he said, returning lie for lie.

‘So the question,’ Mélanie said, ‘is whether Castlereagh’s being fed misinformation or whether he’s part of the plot himself.’

‘In a nutshell.’ The chintz cushions creaked as Charles dropped down on the nursery window seat beside her. He closed his eyes for a moment and leaned his head back against the white-painted window frame. He looked like he had after the third day of cannon fire shaking their house in Brussels during Waterloo, his skin ashen, his gaze vacant.

He didn’t agree with Castlereagh’s politics, Mélanie knew, but he had trusted the Foreign Secretary. For all Charles’s skepticism, betrayal hit him hard. He wasn’t as familiar with it as she was herself.

She touched his arm. He jerked and turned back to her, leaving whatever had troubled him in some far-off region of his mind where she couldn’t follow him.

Jessica stirred at Mélanie’s breast and made a protesting sound at the disruption. Charles gave a half smile, his distancing, attempting-to-reassure-her smile, and cupped his hand round Jessica’s head. ‘The story Castlereagh told me was perfectly designed to explain away what we’ve learned,’ he said.

‘Except that whoever designed it didn’t realize how much we know.’

‘Quite. The story doesn’t explain why the Bonapartists would fear for a woman named Honoria, who may be Honoria Talbot.’ Charles frowned at Jessica’s downy head. ‘When I asked if the Elsinore League have connections to Britain, Castlereagh looked frightened. He may not know the whole story. He may believe some of what he told me. But he knows the story he told me isn’t the complete truth.’

Jessica reached up to pat Mélanie’s breast and released her nipple. Mélanie rocked her in her arms. ‘Whether Castlereagh designed the story or someone fed it to him, it was structured to convince you to tell him anything you’d learned from Francisco and to hand over anything Francisco had given you.’

‘And to convince me to stop asking further questions.’ Charles handed her a flannel from the basket on the window seat between them.

Mélanie draped the flannel over her shoulder and lifted Jessica against it. ‘Did he believe you on either count?’ She patted Jessica’s back. ‘That you hadn’t learned anything from Francisco and that you’d stop asking questions?’

‘I’m not sure. I thought so at the time, but I was followed home from the Foreign Office.’

Her arms must have tightened round Jessica, because her daughter made an indignant noise. Mélanie kissed Jessica’s head, breathing in the milky sweetness of baby. ‘Did you get a good look at—him? Was it a man?’

‘I think so. Brown coat, middling height, beaver hat. I could have given him the slip, but that just would have alerted him to the fact that I was on to him. They could find us here easily enough in any case.’

Mélanie smoothed down a wayward curl on Jessica’s forehead. ‘Is he still watching the house?’

‘He was a quarter-hour ago. I glimpsed him across the street from the half-landing window.’

They looked at each other, the extent of what they were involved in hitting both of them like a hammer blow. Of one accord, their gazes went to Jessica. She looked very small nestled in the curve of Mélanie’s arm, her skin soft and translucent against the rose-striped lustring of Mélanie’s dress, her tiny limbs wobbling slightly. Jessica looked from one parent to the other with bright, curious eyes and stretched out a hand. Charles held out a finger, and she clenched it tightly. ‘It’s hardly the first time we’ve faced an unknown enemy,’ he said.

Mélanie nodded. ‘This means we can’t trust anyone connected to the Government, doesn’t it?’

‘Including the Home Office,’ Charles said while Jessica examined each finger of his hand one by one. ‘We were right not to go to Bow Street. Word would be sure to get back to the Home Secretary.’

Mélanie swallowed. Given her background, it was not so strange to think of the British Government as an enemy, but she had never thought to find her husband in this position. ‘Charles, how far do you think this goes?’

Jessica was fidgeting. Charles took her from Mélanie and balanced her on his lap, her fingers curled round his own. ‘Difficult to guess when we don’t even know what it is.’

Mélanie did up the buttons that closed the flap on the nursing bodice of her gown (designed to ‘enable Ladies to nourish their infants in the most delicate manner possible’). ‘Castlereagh wouldn’t lie lightly.’

‘No, if he’s involved he thinks the country’s interests are at stake.’ Charles touched his forehead to Jessica’s. Jessica giggled with glee. ‘The question is, what did the Elsinore League hire Francisco to do, what made Francisco turn against them, and what the devil does it have to do with Honoria?’

Mélanie took the flannel from her shoulder and carefully folded it. ‘Charles, I decoded the papers Manon gave us.’

He swung his head round to look at her. ‘And?’

She put the flannel back in the basket and twitched it smooth. ‘I’m not sure what it means. It’s a list of names with numbers next to each one that I realized were map coordinates. I worked out where each one is.’ She walked to the white-painted writing desk and lifted her notes from its rose-splashed surface. ‘Marseilles, Lyons, Calais. All French. All but the last.’

She held the paper out to Charles. The last name on the list was British. The name of the place that, Mélanie well knew, meant more to her husband than anywhere else on earth.

Dunmykel.