The Mask of Night

If I live to be one hundred, I will never make sense of my father.

David Mallinson to Charles Fraser

10 June 1806

“I believe the assignment is well within your capabilities, Oliver.” Carfax’s voice sounded through the door panels, cool and crisp as pressed paper. “I want you to keep track of Charles. He’s gone to Chelsea now, but I want to know where he goes when he comes back.’

‘Why don’t you trust Charles?’

‘I didn’t say I don’t trust him. I said I want reports on what he does. It’s not the first time I’ve asked you to keep track of him.’

‘This is different. He’s working for you.’

Carfax drew an exasperated breath. Mélanie and Raoul darted across the room and slipped behind the velvet drapes seconds before the door from the library to the study was flung open.

The door clicked shut. Carfax’s voice came from the center of the room, as though he’d taken up a stance in front of his desk. “This is no time for an attack of conscience, Oliver. There are Government issues at stake.”

“You’re saying the dead man—St. Juste—worked for the Government?”

“No.”

“You’re saying he didn’t?”

“St. Juste was involved in something very complicated which wiser men than you will resolve.”

“Don’t claim you want to keep track of Charles because he lacks sufficient understanding. Quite the reverse, I imagine.”

A paper rustled. Mélanie drew a breath. One could never put everything back precisely as it had been.

“May I remind you that there are a number of things which I think you would not care for Charles to know,’ Carfax said in a quiet voice that could have cut glass. ‘Not to mention my son and daughter.”

“Is that at threat?”

“It’s a statement of fact.”

“I’m not happy about the things I’ve done. But I’m not going to make it worse—“

“Worse—“

“I’m not going to tell more lies.”

“My dear boy, your life is so mired in lies you’d hardly know how to get free. I gave you an order.“

“And if I refuse you’ll tell my friends about our past dealings? Go ahead. We’ll see if my friendship with Charles and David can withstand it. Not to mention your relationship with your son. Good day, sir.”

The door slammed shut. A choking breath filled the room. Mélanie shifted her position against the molding, which seemed to be carved with something prickly. Raoul was motionless at her side. Oliver’s words echoed in her head. She felt cold. And sick.

Footsteps pounded the length of the room. A chair scraped against the carpet. A pen scratched against paper.

Carfax was the sort of man who might take refuge in his study for hours. Once she and Raoul had been trapped in the upper reaches of a barn for the better part of a night while a party of English soldiers bivouacked below. They’d ended up making love in the straw.

After what might have only been a quarter hour, though it felt like four times as long, the chair scraped against the carpet again. Footsteps sounded in the direction of the door. A stir that might be the door handle, and then the definitive scrape and thud of the door opening and closing.

They stayed still for another minute, a habit ingrained from inconvenient experiences with people coming back into the room for something they’d forgot. Then without looking at each other they darted across the room, through the study, and out the window and dropped over the balustrade to the lawn. Mélanie landed off balance, caught herself on one hand against the wall of the house, and bit back a cry at the stab of pain through her wrist. Raoul steadied her.

She glanced up at the house. It was only to be hoped Lady Carfax still had the curtains drawn and none of the servants happened to be at the windows. Through the gate, along the mews, and round two corners. She’d sent Randall home for fear the waiting carriage would draw comment. They stopped and exchanged glances.

“Home?” Raoul said.

“Home,” she agreed.

Mrs. Harris looked from Charles to Roth and tossed down half her glass of sherry. “I shouldn’t be speaking to you as I have. I’m scarcely myself.”

Charles inclined his head and made a lightning decision. “Mrs. Harris, I confess that we are here under somewhat false pretenses.“

“I knew it.” She slammed her glass down. “If you tell me what he owed you, I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise—”

“Your husband owed us nothing, I assure you. But I confess I was not merely looking up an old friend. We are investigating a murder that took place in London two days ago.”

“A murder?” Her eyes widened. “Good heavens, you don’t mean the dead man at the masquerade.”

“Quite. Roth and I both undertake such jobs for the Government from time to time.”

“But what does this have to do with—“

“We have reason to believe your husband may have been connected to the dead man.”

Her hand went to the jet brooch at her throat. “Connected how?”

“We aren’t entirely sure ourselves at present. Had your husband been in communication with Lord Carfax in recent years?”

She inched back against the chintz upholstery. “What sort of communication?”

“Had he been to see Carfax? Or received letters from him?”

She fingered her skirt. “Frederick had an inheritance. That’s what we lived on.”

Charles kept his gaze steady on her face. This was a hitherto unsuspected line of inquiry. “But you think it might have been supplemented it by Lord Carfax?”

“I don’t—“

“Mrs. Harris, the sooner we can get to the bottom of this, the sooner we can ensure that there is no danger to you and your children.”

Her head snapped up. “Why should we be in danger?”

“Because one man has been murdered,” Roth said. “And your husband met his death by violent means at a suspiciously coincidental time.”

“Good God, you can’t mean—“

“Meanwhile,” Charles said, “I would like to give you a sum to see to your family’s protection.”

Her eyes, blue with a violet undertone, widened and then narrowed. “Oh. Well, in that case, I suppose—” She got to her feet, walked to the cabinet, and refilled her sherry glass. Action as prevarication. Charles admired the tactic.

She lifted the glass to her lips and took a sip, but the action was more thoughtful and less desperate than before. “Sums would come in. From a veiled comment he made, I suspected some connection to Lord Carfax, but I never asked. Best not to talk about money, I always thought. Are you married, Mr. Fraser?”

“Yes.”

“Do you discuss finances with your wife?”

“There isn’t a great deal I don’t discuss with my wife.”

She surveyed him for a moment, her gaze unexpectedly clear and sharp. “I don’t know whether to envy or pity you. What about you, Mr. Roth?”

“I don’t discuss anything at all with my wife. We haven’t lived under the same roof for over two years.”

“For which you are perhaps to be congratulated.” Mrs. Harris returned to her chair. “Frederick and I were a watering place romance. Bath. We met at an assembly at the Pump Room and were married a fortnight later. We each thought the other had more than we really did. It didn’t make for an easy first few years. It didn’t make for an easy much of anything. But I confess I— I’m sorry he’s gone. As for any payments he may have received— I can’t answer for a certainty.”

“If we could have a look at his account books?” Charles said.

She took another sip of sherry, barely a flick of her tongue. “I have five children.”

“And I give you my word that I’ll ensure none of you suffers from this.”

Mrs. Harris set her glass down with a careful precision that indicated a clearing head. “I’ll show you my husband’s papers. But there is one thing—“

“Yes?”

She drew a breath. One could see the pretty, prattling girl who had captivated Captain Harris at Bath, overlaid by the more wary woman she’d become. “A gentleman called on him once— About two years ago. A well-dressed gentleman, obviously from London.”

“Yes?”

“They had words. I don’t know what about. Only that their voices were raised. I didn’t connect him with Lord Carfax at the time. But I heard my husband call him ‘Lydgate.’ Afterwards, when I was reading the accounts of the Mayfair entertainments I wondered— I think it may have been Mr. Oliver Lydgate. The one who’s married to Lord Carfax’s daughter.”

“Mummy!” Colin and Jessica tumbled into the hall as Mélanie and Raoul stepped into the Berkeley Square house.

“Miss Simcox was telling us a story. About a milkmaid and shepherd, only he’s not a shepherd he’s really a prince, but the milkmaid doesn’t know that yet.“ Jessica glanced toward the library doors through which Bet, Trenor, and Laura had emerged. “But everyone was worried. About you. They wouldn’t say so, but they were.”

“And that was silly. You see.” Mélanie scooped her daughter up and bit back a cry at the stab of pain through her wrist.

“Is Daddy all right?” Colin asked.

“I’m sure he is. He’s with Mr. Roth.” Mélanie smiled at her son and rubbed noses with Jessica. “I daresay they’ll be back presently.”

“Are you all right, Mr. O’Roarke?” Colin took a step toward Raoul. “You were hurt last night.”

“I’m doing very well, thanks to your mother.”

“Mummy knows how to fix people,” Jessica said, hooking her arm round Mélanie’s neck.

“We were telling Colin and Jessica that the best thing we could do is keep watch from the schoolroom windows,” Laura said. “Miss Simcox and Mr. Trenor have promised to help. Mrs. Erskine is sending up some jam tarts.”

“What a splendid idea.”

Jessica scrambled out of Mélanie’s arms and caught Bet’s hand. “Will you finish the story? Is the milkmaid cross when she finds out the shepherd lied to her?”

“We’ll have to see.” Bet had brightened a trifle, her cheeks lightly flushed with color.

Colin cast a sharp look over his shoulder as he followed the others upstairs. I’ll tell you when he’s home safe. Promise, Mélanie mouthed. Colin gave a solemn nod.

She and Raoul went into the library where the lamps were still lit and a fire burned in the grate.

“It must be a constant challenge,” he said. “Caring for the children and—everything else.”

“Quite. Sometimes I think if I were a really good parent I’d find a way to give up everything else. But for one reason and another I can’t. Or won’t.”

“I’m not sure they’d be the better for it if you did. Colin told me this morning that he has nightmares sometimes. I took it as a good sign that he volunteered the information.”

“Because I never did?”

“The circumstances weren’t precisely the same. They’re remarkable children, Mélanie. You and Charles should be very proud.”

She felt herself smile, then wondered why the devil his approval still meant so much to her.

“I asked Michael to send in some ice,” Raoul continued. “You need to treat your wrist.”

“Oh, for God’s—“

“Before it swells up like a grapefruit.”

She regarded him for a moment in the warm lamplight. “Now I know where I learned how to fuss.”

A rap sounded at the door. Raoul answered it and returned with a towel full of ice.

She pressed it over her wrist. The cold was a blast of comfort. “How’s your wound?”

“Tolerable. You can look at it when you’ve seen to yourself. Are you all right?”

“It’s a sprain at most.”

“I was thinking of Oliver Lydgate. I take it you didn’t know he’d been working for Carfax?”

“No.” Her fingers dug into the towel. ‘Oliver’s one of Charles’s oldest friends. He’s my friend.”

Raoul raised his brows.

“I’ve got in the habit of trusting my friends in recent years.”

“That habit can be fatal, querida.”

“I know.”

“It’s not an easy thing, learning someone you care about has been duplicitous.”

“I’ve grown soft. As you said.”

“I said such reactions could be fatal. I didn’t say they were avoidable. I’ve had to face similar revelations and it’s not pretty. I don’t think I’d have born up as well as Charles has done if I’d ever had to face betrayal from you. You have my thanks for never putting me through that.”

“That you know of.”

“Quite.”

She stared down at the snowy towel against the black velvet of her pelisse. “Oliver and Charles and David and Simon—they’ve been close since they were scarcely more than children.”

“You haven’t heard Lydgate’s side of it.”

“And I of all people should wait to do so?” The ice bit into her skin under unconscious pressure from her fingers. “You’re right. Let’s decode Hortense’s papers.”

Raoul took the papers from her reticule and spread the ones with the sheet music out on the library table. ‘I recognize the code. It was in fairly common use in French Intelligence in the nineties. First we convert the notes to numbers—no, I’ll write, you keep the ice on your wrist.’

By the time Raoul had the musical notes converted into a series of numbers, Mélanie was able to put aside the towel-wrapped ice without comment from him and sketch a table. In a little over an hour, they had enough to break the code, and then she read while he wrote out the decoded text.

After a couple of lines, she broke off. ‘Good God. What—’

‘Questions later. Let’s get the rest of it down.’

She went on reading in a careful monotone. When they were finished, she stared down at the decoded text in Raoul’s slanted writing. ‘Hortense lied to me.’

‘Or St. Juste lied to her about what the paper contained. And it looks as very much as though Lord Carfax was committing treason.”

The decoded text was nothing to do with Hortense and Flahaut’s child or with Hortense at all. It was a letter from a French Intelligence agent named Renaux. Mélanie remembered him as a Colonel in Salamanca. Sandy hair, mid-forties, fond of puns. But at the time of the letter he’d been a lieutenant. This letter was in regard to information he had received—information he had paid for—about the disposition of British troops in the Baltic.

‘Good God, why?’ Mélanie said.

‘Didn’t you learn anything working for me, querida? There are as many different reasons for committing treason as there are traitors.’

“Did you know?”

“About Carfax? Of course not. I’d have told you.”

“Would you?”

“At this point.”

“But if Carfax was being paid by French Intelligence—“

“I wasn’t formally in French Intelligence when this occurred. It’s not surprising I didn’t know of it.”

“But St. Juste worked for French Intelligence at this time.”

“Yes. That could be how St. Juste knew about Carfax’s past.’

‘I can’t imagine Hortense wanting these on her own. St. Juste must have been using her to get them. Though if she believed they were to do with her child, surely she’d have burned them, not given them to him.’

‘He may have told her he’d decode them for her, with the idea that they’d destroy them together. Or he may have blackmailed her into getting them for him.’

‘Why?’

‘Because Hortense could go to you and you could get into Carfax House.’

‘So he knows I’m living in England as Charles’s wife.’

‘It looks that way.’

‘Then he could have gone straight to me and threatened to reveal the truth of my past.’

‘But you might have defied him. Hortense is far easier to manipulate.”

Mélanie looked sideways at him. A mere morning. It was amazing how quickly hidden clusters of memories sprang to life. “I’ve missed you,” she said before she could think better of it. “No, not in that way. Mostly not in that way. I’ve missed being able to talk to you. There are some things—“

“What?” he said.

She drew a breath. Even indoors, the air was heavy with the promise of rain. “I can exchange a glance with Charles and we each know what the other is thinking. I can look into his eyes and swear he can see straight through to my soul. Or nearly so. Because there are parts of me Charles will never understand. I don’t want him to. I don’t want him ever to see the world in that way. But you do.”

“And so I understand?”

“Yes.”

He nodded slowly.

Michael rapped at the door and stepped into the room. “This was just brought round, madam.”

Mélanie stared down at Oliver Lydgate’s handwriting. The note was addressed to Charles and her. She slit it open with her nail, too impatient to go to the desk for a letter opener.

Come to St. James Place as soon as you. I have something I must relate to you.

O.L.

She looked up at Raoul. “Oliver wants to see us.”

“Us?”

“Charles and me. But we don’t know when Charles will be back, and you already know enough to be asking questions. You’d best come with me.”