Secrets of a Lady (aka Daughter of the Game)

A spasm of fear gripped Charles’s heart, a fear he hadn’t known existed until he had children. He dropped an arm round Mélanie’s shoulders. “Right.” He took the candle from Laura before her long titian plait could catch on fire. “He probably couldn’t sleep—qualms of conscience—so he went down to the kitchen to scrounge up something to eat. Guilt has a way of bringing on hunger pangs, at least in the Fraser family.”

“I thought of that.” Laura gripped her hands together. “I checked. He’s not in the kitchen.”

Bloody hell. Of course she would have looked everywhere she could think of before knocking on the door of their bedchamber at this hour. He squeezed Mélanie’s shoulders. “Where haven’t you looked?”

“The servants’ rooms. The other bedchambers.” Laura pushed her plait back over her shoulder. “I heard Jessica cry out but she must have been talking in her sleep, because she was fast asleep when I went in. I looked in on Colin before I went back to bed. He wasn’t in his room. I checked the schoolroom and the kitchen and the reception rooms downstairs. I didn’t look in all the cupboards and under the furniture, though.”

“It’s all right, Laura.” Mélanie put a hand on Laura’s arm. “Colin’s probably hiding somewhere to give us a good fright. We’ll have to wake the servants and organize a search.”

Charles had already crossed the room and was tugging the bell pull. Mélanie pulled on her dressing gown, and brought Charles his own. They were both decently covered by the time his valet, Addison, and her maid, Blanca, hurried into the room. Addison and Blanca had been with them since their days in the Peninsula and were well used to times of crisis. Neither fussed nor asked unnecessary questions.

The rest of the staff were soon assembled in the ground-floor hall. Higgins, the butler, and Mrs. Erskine, the cook; Morag and Lucy, the housemaids; William and Michael, the footmen; Polly, the laundry maid; Jeanie, the kitchen maid; and Kip, the boot boy. Charles apologized for waking them, explained the problem, and divided them into teams assigned to various parts of the house.

“Don’t worry, Master Charles.” Higgins, who had been a footman in the Fraser household in Charles’s youth, patted his arm with the familiarity of an old friend. “We’ll find the little devil. I hope you won’t be too hard on him. You and Master Edgar got up to a lot worse in your day, as I recall.”

It was perfectly true. It did nothing to quench the queasy feeling in Charles’s stomach.

He and Mélanie searched the second floor. Mélanie went through the guest suite while Charles examined the nursery and schoolroom more thoroughly than Laura had done. He looked under desks and tables, inside cupboards, and behind chests of drawers, moving cautiously because despite the lamps, he still needed his candle to see into the dark corners. His throat grew hoarse from calling his son’s name. He would never feel the same about the smell of chalk and beeswax again.

He found a sapphire earring Mélanie had been missing for weeks, a crumpled Latin exercise in Colin’s round, careful hand, a yellow silk tassel that looked as if it had come from a Hessian boot, and something that seemed to be an ear torn from a stuffed toy. There was no sign of his son. The embers of alarm smoldered and sparked and finally, as the minutes ticked by with no shout of discovery from the rest of the house, flared into a raging blaze that tightened his chest and drove the breath from his lungs. He emerged from the schoolroom to find Mélanie closing the door to the dressing room of the guest suite.

“Nothing.” She came down the corridor toward him with a shake of her head. “Charles, do you think he could have run away?”

He set his candle, now sputtering, on a demi-lune side table and gripped her hands. “It’s beginning to look that way. Christ, I’ll wring the little blighter’s neck.” Except that I’ll be too busy hugging him to do so. “Damn it, he should have known we weren’t that angry.”

Mélanie squeezed his fingers. “You can kick yourself later, Charles. The question is, where would he have gone?”

“To the stables to visit the horses. Or out into the square. Possibly to Edgar’s or the Lydgates’—he’s walked there often enough in daylight. But let’s not jump to conclusions. We don’t know he has run off.” He took her hand and drew her down the corridor. Someone had lit the candles in the gilt sconces on the landing and the curving stair wall. He leaned over the mahogany rail to call down two flights to Michael, the second footman, in the hall below. “Anything?”

Michael shook his head. He was a carefree young man, recently come from Charles’s grandfather’s property in Ireland and a great favorite with the children. Like Charles, he was wrapped in a dressing gown, his dark hair standing on end. There was a concern in his eyes that Charles had never seen before. “No sign of him on the ground floor or the first. We’re still having a go at the third floor and the attics. Addison’s gone out back to the stables.” He flashed a smile at Mélanie. “We’ll find him, Mrs. Fraser, don’t worry.”

“Mummy!” Jessica’s voice carried across the landing. Laura came down the corridor, Jessica in her arms. Jessica’s hair was tousled and her face sleep-flushed, but she stared about her with eyes that were all too alert.

Laura gave a smile that did not quite reach her eyes. “I’m afraid all the excitement woke someone up.”

“It’s all right, querida.” Mélanie took her daughter from Laura and stroked Jessica’s golden brown hair. “Colin’s just being silly.”

Jessica twisted her fingers in the blue satin ribbon at the neck of Mélanie’s dressing gown. “I didn’t want him to go ’way. He didn’t hit me that hard.”

“No, of course you didn’t.” Mélanie’s voice was bright. Charles suspected only he could see the effort it cost her. “And Colin hasn’t gone away. He’s just…hiding.”

Charles cupped his hand round his daughter’s head. “I’ll have a look at Colin’s room, Mel. See if we missed anything.”

The night-light was still burning in Colin’s bedchamber. Charles lit the lamp on the chest of drawers as well. The light spilled over the green-sprigged curtains, the wallpaper border painted with scenes from Robin Hood, the green and blue quilt. Charles looked under the pillows, smoothed out the covers, picked up the quilt and shook it, so hard the fabric snapped like a banner in the wind.

“What are you looking for?” Mélanie appeared in the doorway behind him.

“A note. If he did run away, I thought he might have left one. Is Jessica all right?”

“Laura’s telling her a story in our room.” Mélanie crossed to the bed and picked up Colin’s stuffed bear. “I can’t believe he’d run away without taking Figaro.” She hugged the bear to her chest, smoothing its fur. “Charles—”

He looked into her eyes. “No.” The word came out more harshly than he intended. “There’s a simple explanation, Mel. There has to be.”

Mélanie moved to the writing desk they had given Colin just last year, picked up his Latin primer, glanced in the drawers, riffled through the sheets of drawing paper.

Charles was looking through the wardrobe. “None of his clothes seem to be missing.”

“That’s not surprising. Colin’s far less interested in his clothes than he is in his bear.”

The door creaked softly. Berowne, the cat, pushed his way into the room and wound against Mélanie’s legs. Mélanie scooped him into her arms. “Did you see anything, Berowne?” She pressed her face against the cat’s fur and moved to the window. “It’s started to rain.”

Charles closed the wardrobe. He realized he had been aware of the patter on the roof and the creak of branches for some time, without registering what they meant.

Mélanie pushed up the sash with her left hand, while she held Berowne against her shoulder with her right. A blast of wind blew the hair back from her face and ruffled the papers on the desk. Berowne yowled. Mélanie started to close the window, then went still. “Charles.”

He was at her side in an instant. “What?”

She plucked something from the ivory-painted sash and held it out to him. It was a scrap of linen, almost indistinguishable against the paint. “It looks like a bit of Colin’s nightshirt,” she said.

Charles let out a low whistle. “Christ, I am going to wring his neck. He must have climbed down the side of the house.” Yet he was relieved to have found tangible proof of Colin’s flight. Surely Colin himself could not be far behind.

Mélanie stared at him. “Why, for heaven’s sake? He can unbolt the doors. If he wanted to slip out, he had his choice of the hall or the garden or the kitchen—Oh, of course, I’m being silly. Going out tamely through the door wouldn’t be nearly as much of an adventure.”

“Precisely. This explains why he didn’t take Figaro. Edgar and I climbed out the nursery window more than once. Only our nursery was in the attic, so it was a longer way down.” He didn’t add that he’d turned his ankle more than once and Edgar had broken his arm. He’d be more alarmed about Colin, save that they’d know by now if he’d fallen and hurt himself. He picked up the lamp from the chest of drawers, pushed the sash higher, and leaned out the window. The wind drove the rain against his face and whipped the branches of the apple tree by the garden wall. A light flickered across the mews in the stable, where Addison was searching. Charles studied the wall below, seeking signs of Colin’s descent. The stone was smooth, but there were possible footholds and handholds in the grouting.

Mélanie leaned out the window beside him, holding the cat against her shoulder with one hand and pushing her wind-spattered hair back from her face with the other. “He probably doubled a rope up over something at the window level.” She gestured to a corner of the window ledge, which protruded from the wall. “Then he could climb down maneuvering with both ends and pull the whole thing down after him when he reached the ground.”

“Quite,” Charles said. They had done the same themselves in Spain on more than one occasion. “I was telling Colin about the time we got out of Salamanca only a few days ago. It never occurred to me he’d actually try it himself.”

“Charles.” Mélanie shifted the compliant cat against her shoulder. “Our son climbed down two stories using a rope that was only draped over a bit of wood and is now hiding outside somewhere in the midst of a rainstorm. And we’re talking as if we’re proud of him.”

“Well, I am. Concerned but proud. Aren’t you?”

“That’s not the point. As I remember, by the time we got out of Salamanca you had a cracked rib and my hands were torn to ribbons.”

“That was a medieval fortress and we had French snipers to worry about. A London town house is a lot tamer.” Charles tilted the lamp so the light fell flush against the wall. No telltale strands of rope were caught against the stone in the part he could see. But something caught his eye just above the peaked pediment of the first-floor window, something showing dark against the pale gray stone. He tilted the lamp further, anchoring the glass chimney with his hand. A chill that had nothing to do with the night air ran along his nerves.

“What is it?” Mélanie said.

“Dirt. On the wall.” He kept his voice conversational.

There was a brief pause. When Mélanie spoke, her voice was equally conversational. “You mean Colin didn’t climb down. Somebody else climbed up.”

“Possibly.” He saw torchlight crossing the mews and heard the creak of the garden gate. “Addison,” he called.

“Sir?” His valet disengaged himself from the shadows of the garden wall, one hand raised to shield his face from the rain. “He’s not in the stable, I’m afraid.”

“Come over here,” Charles said. “Take care to stay on the flagstones. Tell me if there are any footprints beneath the window.”

The moonlight picked out Addison’s pale hair as he crossed the garden. Charles took Mélanie’s hand and gripped it. Her fingers closed hard round his own. Otherwise she was absolutely still. The cat gave a distressed mew that echoed out into the night.

“Blimey.” Addison looked up at them, his face a white blur. “Sorry, sir. But it looks as if someone’s been tramping about in the primrose beds.”

A lead weight settled in Charles’s chest, equal parts inevitability and disbelief. Mélanie clenched his hand, so tight he could feel the scrape of bone against bone. “Look at the wall,” Charles said. “Do you see any dirt? As though someone’s been climbing it?”

“Yes.” The word was clipped, but the edge of fear in Addison’s voice said that he too realized the significance. “Especially near the bottom. Looks as though it scraped off someone’s shoe.”

Charles drew a long, uneven breath. Mélanie’s hand was ice cold in his own. “All right, we’d better call off the search. Thank everyone for their hard work and send one of the footmen round to Bow Street. It looks as though someone’s taken Colin.”

Colin’s head felt as though someone had been jumping on it. He opened his eyes, but all he could see was blackness, which was funny, because Laura always made sure the night-light was lit.

He turned his head. Something wet and scratchy rubbed against his face. It seemed to be draped over him or wrapped round him. It didn’t feel like a bedsheet or even a blanket. The floor beneath him seemed to keep shifting and jolting, only it was hard to tell because his head was spinning so badly.

Memory jabbed at him, sharp as the pain in his head. Rough hands, harsh voices, a fist smashing into his face. He tried to sit up and found he couldn’t. His feet and hands were tied. He let out a scream into the rough stuff that covered his face.

“Oh, Christ.” A voice cut through the blackness. “He’s awake. Pull over, Jack.”

Colin heard a muffled curse, felt a quick, sideways jerk, and then all of a sudden the floor beneath him stopped moving. He heard a horse whicker. He wasn’t in a room, he must be in a carriage or cart or something.

He drew a deep breath. Daddy always told him to breathe when he was frightened.

The boards creaked as though someone had climbed into the back of the cart. “Don’t scream, lad, or we’ll have to clout you again.” It was a woman’s voice. There’d been a woman before, in the kitchen. He remembered now.

The scratchy stuff was jerked off his head. He didn’t scream, not because of the warning so much as because his throat had gone tight and all his fear seemed to be bottled up inside him. Raindrops spattered against his face. He found himself staring at a triangular face set beneath a dark felt cap. It was a man’s cap, but it was a woman’s face. Long strands of hair hung from beneath the cap, glinting red in the faint glow of the moon. Her eyes were dark and set wide apart. Her mouth was full and looked as if it could smile. It wasn’t the sort of face that went with hitting.

“That’s more like it.” The woman pulled a flask from her pocket and unscrewed the top. “Drink this down, there’s a good boy.”

The flask had a funny, sickly smell. Colin stared at it. He wasn’t sure he could have managed to drink it if he wanted to, and he knew he didn’t want to.

“Don’t be balky, boy. There’s no time for it.” She grabbed him by the shoulders and tilted his head back. Pain lanced through his temples. He gave a cry that got clogged in his throat.

“Drink it,” the woman said again. She put the flask to his lips. “It won’t hurt, it’ll just make you fall asleep. Better than Jack hitting you again.”

The memory of Jack hitting him was enough. She tipped the flask, and Colin tried to swallow. The stuff tasted even more sickly than it smelled. He gagged, but he managed to choke some of it down.

“All right, that should do it.” The lady took the flask away. She laid him back down in the cart and pushed something under his head that felt like straw.

“Not a peep out of you, mind.” She laid the rough stuff—a burlap bag—on top of him but didn’t pull it over his face. “You’ll soon be asleep.”

He looked up at her. “Couldn’t I go home, please? I won’t tell anyone I saw you.”

The woman got to her feet and shook her head. “Sorry, lad. That would make a right mess of everything.”

The boards creaked. The lady must have climbed back onto the box.

“All right?” A man’s voice, low and rough, rose above the stillness. It had a funny lilt to it, sort of like Daddy’s but not quite.

“He’s had enough laudanum to put him out till we’re safe settled. I couldn’t risk you hitting him again or our job’d have been over before it was begun.”

“You told me to keep him quiet. What the hell’d you expect?” The cart lurched forward. “Anyway, what’s it matter if we get our money? You really think his high and mightiness means to hand the whelp back alive?”

“That’s his business.” The woman’s voice got louder, as though she’d turned her head. “But I’m not throwing away our prize chip just as the cards are dealt.”

“We’ve made our bargain. Five hundred pounds.”

“Why settle for five hundred when we could have two or three times that?”

The man gave a low chuckle. “Christ, Meg. You can still surprise me.”

“Why not? We’ve got the boy. We keep him till we get what we want. Then his lordship can do what he wants with the brat.”

Colin’s head was beginning to feel as though it were filled with cotton wool, but he tried to think past the fuzziness. They had meant to take him. It hadn’t been an accident. Someone called his lordship had paid them to take him. Mummy and Daddy knew lots of lordships. Some of them let him ride their horses and even sneaked him ices when he peered over the stair rail during parties. Some frowned when he made too much noise in the drawing room. Some ignored him. But he couldn’t think of a reason why any of them would want to steal him away from home. There was Great-Grandpapa, of course. But he would never do something so mean and anyway people called him “Your Grace” or sometimes “Duke.”

“You always know just how to handle a man, Meggie,” the man said after a moment. “One way or another.”

“Handle him?” The woman’s laugh was like the scrape of nails on a writing slate. “I’d sooner handle a snake. He’s the most dangerous man we’ve ever had dealings with, and don’t you forget it.”

“Don’t exaggerate, girl.”

“I’m not.”

“What makes him so dangerous, then?”

The lady was silent for so long that Colin didn’t think he’d be able to keep from falling asleep. When she finally spoke, it sounded as though the words were drifting down a tunnel. “Because he has nothing left to lose.”

Mélanie murmured the words of a Spanish lullaby. Jessica snuggled against her, as though she could burrow into safety. Her hand was fisted round the falling collar of Mélanie’s gown, but she was losing the fight against sleep. Berowne sat washing himself on the bed beside them. The harmless, necessary cat. Perhaps he knew that the sight of him smoothing his soft gray fur and rubbing his ears was the best comfort he could offer.

Mélanie’s gaze drifted over the room. Her lip-rouge-stained glass of whisky stood abandoned on the dressing table beside the rouge pots and perfume flasks and jewel boxes. Her throat closed at the sight. Little more than an hour ago, she and Charles had been laughing in this room in blithe unconcern. Little more than an hour before that she had been fending off the Marqués de Carevalo’s attentions and eating overrich lobster patties, as though this night were no different from any other.

Colin, her son, was missing, taken from his bedchamber and spirited into the dark London night. The knowledge reverberated through her with a force that bone and muscle could scarcely contain.

Logic said that whoever had taken Colin was long gone and the best way to help him was to wait for the Bow Street officers, but her body screamed with the impulse to run from the house and scour the streets of Mayfair shouting her son’s name.

Yet beneath the fear and disbelief, guilt twisted her guts. She had thought she was safe in this beautiful house, with her beautiful children and her brilliant if self-contained husband. She had thought she had put the past behind her. There were moments when she had feared otherwise, when she had known that one couldn’t separate what one had been from what one was now and what one would become. But never, sacrebleu, never, had she thought her children would pay for her crimes.

Jessica made a protesting sound. Mélanie willed the tension from her arms. Was that why Colin had been taken? Because of who his mother was? She could not make sense of it, yet the fear that it was true gnawed at her insides.

The knife’s edge on which she had balanced for so many years turned inward, slashing through elaborate layers of defense and pretense, laying bare the cold, hard fear that had always lurked at the heart of her marriage. Should she tell Charles the whole? Would the truth serve any purpose? Or would it merely smash their marriage to bits without doing Colin any good?

“Mel.” Her husband’s voice came from the doorway.

She jerked her head up. She looked into the deep-set gray eyes that could see so much and yet from which she had kept her deepest secrets hidden for seven years. For a moment, she doubted her own ability to dissemble.

“The Bow Street officers are here,” Charles said. “They’ve gone outside to look at the garden. They made it clear I wasn’t to get in the way. Since I’d already drawn my own conclusions, I left them to see if they come up with anything different.” His mouth hardened, and she could feel the need for action rippling through him. He walked toward the bed. “Jessica asleep?”

She was, Mélanie realized. Her head had flopped against Mélanie’s arm, and her breathing was deep and even. “At last. I think she should stay in here. The Bow Street men will want to go through the nursery rooms.”

Charles turned back the covers. Mélanie uncurled Jessica’s fingers from the collar of her gown and laid her on the Irish linen sheet. Jessica stirred but didn’t open her eyes.

Mélanie straightened up to find Charles looking down at their daughter, his face knit in a fierce combination of love and fear and rage. She touched his arm. “She was asking for Colin. She knows something’s wrong. We’ll have to find a way to explain.”

He nodded, the muscles in his arm bunched tight beneath her fingers. She studied his face. His hair was damp and he had got a smudge of soot on his cheek, marks of the investigating he had done himself while they waited for Bow Street. “What conclusions did you draw?” she said.

He lifted his gaze to her. “I couldn’t find anything outside, except the footprints in the primrose bed. There were two of them. One man’s feet are longer by a good two inches. Inside—they definitely climbed in through the window, but it looks as though they left by way of the kitchen.”

Mélanie started. “But the scrap of fabric on the windowsill—”

“Doesn’t match Colin’s nightshirts. I compared it to one in his wardrobe. The scrap must have come from one of the thieves’ shirts. I found a faint scrape of dirt on the carpet in the corridor and more on the back stairs.”

“You mean they climbed in through Colin’s window and then carried him down to the kitchen?”

“I think it’s more likely Colin went downstairs on his own.”

“Of course,” she said. “Midnight hunger pangs.”

“Quite. When the thieves didn’t find him in his room, they guessed the kitchen was the likeliest place to look. They found him there and went out through the kitchen door into the garden.”

The image flickered before Mélanie’s eyes with the blinding pain of sunlight striking snow-covered ground.

Berowne stirred on the coverlet, stretching a paw toward them. Charles reached down to give the cat an absent pet. “I told the Bow Street Runner—Roth is his name—that we’d be in the small salon.”

“Then we should go down.” Mélanie rubbed at the smudge on his face. “I’ll ask Laura to sit with Jessica.”

He caught her hand and pressed it to his lips. Mélanie took a deep breath, gathering her forces for the interview with the Bow Street Runner. Questions had to be asked. God knew questions needed to be asked.

How they were to be answered was another matter entirely.