The Mask of Night

Sometimes I don’t think I was cut out to be an earl.

David Mallinson to Charles Fraser

10 June, 1799

Isobel stared at the portrait. “But he’s dead. Arthur’s dead. We’ve all been to his grave.”

Mélanie studied the miniature again. “How did he die?”

“A sailing accident,” David said. “Off the Kent coast, near our house there. Mélanie—“

“Did any of you see his body?”

David and Isobel exchanged glances. “We weren’t at the funeral,” David admitted. “We were in Dorset when it happened.”

“Who was at the funeral?”

“My father. My uncle—Arthur’s father. For God’s sake, Mélanie, this is crazy.”

Charles moved to her side. “I only saw him dead, but the bones look right. O’Roarke?”

Raoul took the miniature from Mélanie’s hand and stared at it for a long moment. “Good God. I can’t swear to it, but he certainly has the look of the man I met in Paris twenty-five years ago.”

“Have you all gone mad?” Isobel demanded. “I knew him. In every sense of the word. Don’t you think I’d have realized if he was my cousin?”

“You were only six when he died, Bel,” Charles said. “And you aren’t trained to see through disguises. Mélanie is.”

“Mélanie wasn’t his mistress.”

Mélanie kept her gaze on the miniature. One night didn’t really make one a mistress anyway.

“Tell us about him,” Raoul said. “Your cousin Arthur.”David and Isobel looked at each other again. “Things came easily to him,” David said. “Riding. Sailing. Languages, mathematics. His tutor used to say if he’d actually apply himself he’d be brilliant.

You knew him, Charles.”

“I met him a handful of times. But I do remember your telling me you got your taste for theatricals from him.”

“He was always organizing something and getting Bel and me to play pages or spear-carriers or peasant girls. I remember seeing him as Joseph Surface in School for Scandal. I’d have sworn he was a different—“ Uncertainty wavered across David’s face.

“Was he alone when he met with the sailing accident?” Charles asked.

“No. Edward—St. Ives—was with him. So if there was anything havey-cavey St. Ives would have had to be in on it, and he’s never been able to keep secrets. It doesn’t make sense, Charles. Why would Arthur disappear from England for twenty-five years? He was the heir to an earldom.”

Mélanie frowned down at the picture. The brush strokes could only hint at the truth. “Did Arthur’s father have any other children?”

“No, Arthur’s mother died when we were all still in the nursery. My uncle never remarried.”

“That doesn’t mean he didn’t have other children.”

“You’re suggesting we have an illegitimate cousin who went abroad to seek his fortune and came back a quarter century years later to destroy us?” Isobel said.

“Isn’t that a play?” Simon murmured. “If not it should be.”

Isobel looked up at David. “Mrs. Robinson.”

“Who?” Oliver asked.

“Louisa Robinson. An actress. She was—everyone said she was our Uncle Carfax’s mistress. I never heard they had a child. But—“

“A lot of actresses raise children at rehearsals and in dressing rooms,” Simon said. “But I’ve known more than one to foster her children out.”

David looked from Simon to his sister. “If St. Juste was the child of our uncle and Mrs. Robinson, he’d have been born before we were. Perhaps even before Arthur. Perhaps raised abroad. But if he knew he was a Mallinson…or later discovered it…“

“He might have resented us,” Isobel said. She was gripping her elbows again. “So he sought out someone else who had cause to act against Father.”

“It’s plausible,” Charles said. “The next person to talk to is Carfax.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more,” David said.

“David—“

“Oh, no, Charles. You aren’t keeping me out of this.”

“I have to get your father to talk. He won’t if—“

“This is my family we’re talking about. It looks as though the victim may be my cousin, and for all we know the killer could prove to be my father. I have a right to question him.”

“It’s not a question of rights,” Charles said. “It’s a question of practicalities.”

“Practicalities be damned.”

“Worsley.“ Raoul moved toward him.

“Stay out of this, O’Roarke,” David said.

“I’m afraid we can none of us do that now. There’s a father-son scene to be played, but this isn’t the time for it.”

“You can’t—“

“Understand? Not entirely, that’s true. But I know that preventing further damage comes before personal feelings. Charles is more likely to get the truth from your father if you aren’t there.”

“I wouldn’t—“

“But your father would. He’d hold back admitting the truth because you’re his son.”

David stared at him. Raoul stared back, steady-eyed but not without understanding. He made a better father than Mélanie ever would have expected.

“You— May have a point.“ David turned to Charles. “Talk to him. Be as damned ruthless as you can.”

Charles inclined his head. “You might have a word with St. Ives. It would help if we could verify that your cousin Arthur really did meet his death in that sailing accident.”

“Trying to keep me out of mischief?”

“No, to make use of your talents.”

Something in the words or Charles’s expression drew a faint smile from David. “Don’t keep me in the dark after you talk to Father.”

“No longer than strictly necessary.”

“That’s a Charles Fraser promise if I ever heard one. It sounds like an agreement without committing yourself to anything at all.”

“Simon, could you talk to Pendarves?” Mélanie said. “If he’ll discuss his brother’s death with any of us, you’re the best candidate.”

Simon grimaced. “I can try.”

“He’ll be at the opera,” Isobel said as though she’d only just remembered it. “Father,” she added, as they all looked at her. “Lucy told me when she called this afternoon.”

“What the devil’s he doing at the opera in the midst of all this?” David asked.

“I know, I thought it odd. Lucy said he suddenly emerged from his study and told Mama they were going. It’s a premiere. At the King’s Theatre.”

“The new Rossini piece,” Mélanie said. “The Cinderella one. We were supposed to be there ourselves.”

Charles glanced at the clock. “Nearly six. He’ll be at the theatre soon.”

“So you’ll wait?” Isobel said.

“Oh, no. We haven’t time for it. And I want to know why your father suddenly found it so important to be at the King’s Theatre.”

“Pendarves will probably be there as well,” Simon said. “As will St. Ives.”

The little gathering broke up soon after. Mélanie, Charles, and Raoul left the house together. The sky had turned to black, overlaid with a film of clouds. The lamplighters had lit the street lamps, pools of glass-encased warmth in the gathering darkness.

“We’ll walk back to Berkeley Square with you then go on to the King’s Theatre,” Charles said.

Raoul raised his brows. “I’m not as familiar with London as some cities, but I think I can make my way to Berkeley Square without getting lost.”

“Provided you don’t encounter any assassins.”

“My dear Charles. Any sensible assassin would wait until at least ten before he tried an attack.”

“Never make the mistake of thinking assassins are sensible.“ Charles offered Mélanie his arm.

“Besides,” Mélanie said, tucking her hand through the crook of Charles’s elbow, “we need to make ourselves presentable or we’ll draw comment.”Raoul gave a reluctant smile but didn’t attempt to argue the matter. He’d grown more sensible in the years since Mélanie had first met him. The three of them turned up St. James’s Street and then along Piccadilly, past Green Park.

As they fell in step on a broad expanse of pavement Mélanie and Raoul explained about the musical code Hortense had asked Mélanie to search for proving to be the letter from Renaux.

When they reached Berkeley Square, Charles glanced through the other coded documents. “It would take too long to decode the rest of these. And we don’t know that they have anything to do with St. Juste. We’ll have to get a verbal confession from Carfax. Not the world’s easiest task.”

“Do you want to talk to him alone?’ Mélanie asked. “He might break more easily.”

“No, I need you there. You’re the only one of us who really knew St. Juste. Except for O’Roarke, and Carfax is more likely to talk in front of you than O’Roarke. He tends to underestimate women.”

“I’m sorry,” Raoul said. He was standing on the far side of the library table, a little apart from her and Charles. “I know you were close to him.”

Charles set the papers down on the table. “He’s my best friend’s father. I worked for him for seven years. But it’s not nearly as difficult for me as for David.”

“No. But Carfax once came to your rescue. You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t feel indebted.”

Charles’s hands stilled on the brown-veined marble. “How the devil do you know—?”

“Your Aunt Frances wrote to me at the time. That you were having difficulties.”

“That I tried to slash my wrists and was on the verge of a collapse?”

“She phrased it more tactfully.”

“She didn’t know,” Charles said. “I didn’t think she knew.”

“I suspect Lord Carfax confided in her.”

Charles closed his eyes for a moment. “Sometimes I dream about going very far away, where no one would know anything of my past or Mélanie’s past or my damned family.”

“I don’t think you could get that far, darling,” Mélanie said. “At least not without the aid of the supernatural.”

“For what’s it’s worth,” Raoul said, “I’ve always held myself in Lord Carfax’s debt. For coming to your rescue.”

“So have I. But current events appear to have canceled the debt. Stay in tonight, won’t you, O’Roarke? We can’t afford any more unexpected developments. Mel?”

They looked into the nursery, where Colin and Jessica were having supper with Laura, Bet, and Trenor, then went to their bedchamber. She scrambled into a gown of sheer black crêpe over sarcenet that Charles could easily help her into and threw their silver box token into a jet-beaded reticule.

“Carriage or walk?” Charles asked, tying a fresh neckcloth with a speed that would horrify arbiters of fashion.

“Walk.“ Mélanie realized she had taken the token for Drury Lane by mistake and snatched up the one for the King’s Theatre. ‘It’s much the fastest.”

It was just past seven when they reached the King’s Theatre. There was a crush at the doors and in the entry way and no doubt there would be still more patrons to come as the evening progressed. The notes of the overture, so much more vibrant than when she’d picked them out on the piano, sounded from the house, bursting with expectation. Orange sellers and programme hawkers cried their wares. Scent and toilet waiter and the aroma of ripe oranges hung in the air.

The overture built and spilled over in a riot of sound as they climbed the stairs. Charles wrapped once on the door of the Carfax box and turned the handle without waiting for a summons.

They stepped through the velvet curtains from the anteroom to the box itself to the sound of a warm, plaintive voice from the stage. Teresa Belloti was in fine form. Lucinda was leaning forward, her gilded opera glasses trained on the stage. Lady Carfax also had her glasses raised, but she was studying the boxes opposite. Carfax appeared to be frowning at the box railing. All three looked round at Charles and Mélanie’s entrance. Lucinda smiled. Lady Carfax raised her brows. Carfax scowled and half-rose from his chair.

Charles moved round the empty back row of chairs. “I need to speak with your, sir,” he said in a low voice.

‘Your sense of timing has been better, Charles.’

“You decide whether it’s in the box or somewhere more private.”

In the shadowy light Carfax’s face was like lit gunpowder. For a moment, Mélanie thought he meant to brazen it out. But perhaps he was aware of the stares from the boxes on either side. He gave a curt nod, and the three of them moved into the anteroom. On stage, Angelina’s stepsisters hurled abuse at her to an ever-quickening tempo.

“There’s an empty salon at the end of the corridor,” Charles said. “We can be private.”

“By God—“

“Unless you’d prefer to play the scene out within hearing distance of the audience.”

Once again, Mélanie wasn’t sure Carfax would give way. Once again, he did. They went down the corridor, past silent footmen in snowy wigs and red livery, past the blur of tapers in wall sconces and candelabra on console tables.

“You’re fortunate I don’t like scenes,” Carfax said when they’d reached the empty salon. “What the devil—“

“Was Julien St. Juste your nephew?” Charles asked.

In the blue shadows, all the blood seemed to drain from Carfax’s face. “What in God’s name do you know?” he said in a hoarse whisper.