The Mask of Night

I can’t face another day in London. Lets go down to Spendlove Manor on Saturday.

David Mallinson to Charles Fraser,

10 December, 1805

Mélanie took Charles’s hand and stepped down from the carriage. Her half-booted-foot hit a puddle and sent a spray of water up from the inn-yard cobblestones. After toying with them for the last few days, the rain was coming down in a full-scale deluge.

Roth swung down from the carriage after her, and the three of them hurried into the entry hall of the White Hart. A scribbled message from Addison in Tilbury had directed them to Spenden, and the White Hart was the only inn in the village. A village which happened to be less than a mile from Spendlove Manor.

It was just past four, but the stormy sky made it seem like twilight. A smoking lamp on a rectangular oak table illumined age-darkened oak paneling and an uneven slate floor. A girl in a white apron and ruffled cap emerged from a door at the back, carrying a stack of linen.

“Sorry,” she said, “I’m afraid there’s only me today.“ Her gaze flickered from Charles to Roth. “Is one of you gentleman Mr. Fraser?”

“Yes,” Charles said. “A friend may have left a message for me.”

The girl set the linen down on the table, reached into her pocket, and held out a sealed paper. “Here you are. He’s out now, but I expect he’ll be back by nightfall. He took a room.”

Charles slit open the missive and held it out to Mélanie and Roth in the light from the smoky lamp.

Following W.G. He’s taken a room here, so I assume he’ll be back. Taken room too.

A.

Charles looked up at the maid. “What time did the man who gave you this leave the inn?”

The girl frowned. She had light brown curls, a dusting of freckles across her nose, and clear, direct brown eyes. “About two hours since. Perhaps a bit more. It was just after the mail came through. We’ve had a powerful lot of company today, and it would be the day we’re short-handed, what with Jem Whitecastle turning his ankle and Molly Tompkins having to tend to her ailing mum.”

Mélanie opened her reticule and took out a series of quick sketches she’d made in the carriage. “Do you recognize any of these men?”

The maid studied the portraits. They were of Will, Vickers, and Julien St. Juste, whom Mélanie still couldn’t think of as Arthur Mallinson.

“This gentleman took a room here. He arrived just before your friend.“ The girl indicated Will. “And this gentleman stopped in to refresh his horses an hour or so before that.“ She indicated Vickers.

“Did he say where he was bound?” Charles asked.

She shook her head. “But Tom—our ostler—commented that his horses were tired and the gentleman said they hadn’t far to go before they stopped for the night.”

“He was alone?”

“Yes, though he looked the sort who usually travels with a valet or groom.”

“What about the third man?” Mélanie asked.

The girl held the picture to the light and turned up the lamp, which let off a puff of smoke. She blew the smoke away and frowned at the picture. “A fortnight since. He stopped in for a pint and some bread and meat. His hair seemed darker though.”

“That must be the picture,” Mélanie said, though it was more likely a temporary dye St. Juste had employed. “Was he alone?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember the actual day?”

“I’m not— yes, it was Tuesday last. The day Mr. Ratley’s pigs got into the garden. It was the talk of the village. The pigs I mean.’

“Do you have a private parlor available?” Charles asked.

“Of course. We’re quiet as a church now, and isn’t that the way of it? First door on your right. There’s a nice fire. I daresay you’d like a spot of tea.”

They went into the parlor, which had scuffed joinery and faded curtains but a cheerful fire burning in the grate. Mélanie stripped off her gloves and began lighting extra candles. “The day she remembers seeing St. Juste here would have been the day after his tryst with Isobel,” she said. “He must have come back.’

‘To meet with Carfax?’ Roth said. ‘They were working together?’

‘Possibly.“ Charles frowned. ‘Or St. Juste is making use of Carfax’s house.’

‘And now Will and Vickers are meeting with Carfax?’ Mélanie said. ‘It fits. Though it’s far to come from London just for a meeting—“ She stared at the rain-splashed black kid of her boots, then looked up at Charles and saw the same idea click into place in his eyes. “Do you think they’d dare-?”

“Keep O’Roarke prisoner in Carfax’s house? It’s a damned risk whether Carfax is involved or not but so audacious they just might have tried it. Assuming they’re the ones who have O’Roarke. Assuming they’re working together at all.“

Mélanie set down the tinderbox. “If Raoul’s behind the whole thing and faked his own abduction, it would be just like him to pick Spendlove Manor to hide.”

“You don’t think O’Roarke could be working with Vickers, do you?” Roth said.

“I never put it past Raoul to be working with anyone. Perhaps Charles is right, and it’s not Will who’s betraying his comrades. Perhaps Vickers is selling Raoul information about Carfax’s intelligence operations.“ Her nails scraped against the tinderbox. “Either way, it’s worth checking Spendlove Manor.”

Charles looked at Roth. “Someone has to stay here. Addison or Gordon could come back at any moment.”

“You don’t think a mere Bow Street Runner is up to the challenges of skulking about?”

“No, I think you’re the least likely to tear your hair out or rip off the paneling if you’re confined here for a bit. See if the home brew’s decent and order some dinner. We’re only going to reconnoiter. Come looking for us if we’re not back in three hours.”

“Four,” Mélanie said. “It’s raining.”

Roth stared at them a moment. “You’re both quite mad. You’re also better able to take care of yourself than just about anyone I know. But if you find O’Roarke, have the sense to send for me before you try any heroics.”

“We never try heroics,” Mélanie said, picking up her gloves. “We just calculate the odds and proceed accordingly.”

They had Randall let them off at the gates of Spendlove Manor. The rain had not let up, so Mélanie insisted Randall wait inside the carriage and partake of the flask of tea and hamper of food she had procured from the helpful maidservant at the White Hart.

“It’s relief, isn’t it?” Charles said as they started down the drive.

“What?“ Mélanie was concentrating on her footing. The wind drove the rain against them in icy spikes and the beech trees that lined the drive provided only meager shelter.

“The opportunity for uncomplicated action.”

“We can’t be at all sure it will be uncomplicated, but at least it’s action. And a chance to—“

Charles gripped her wrist. “If O’Roarke’s here, we’ll get him out. No calculating the odds and deciding they favor solo action, Mel.”

“Don’t worry, I’m a pragmatist. Raoul trained me well.”

“Pragmatic doesn’t fit your description of his rescue of you.”

“Yes, but I was never very good at following his example.”

“I’d say you learned a remarkable amount from him.“ Charles paused, staring off to the left. A slate roof was visible above the thicket of trees and hedges. Too close and too small to be the main house. “According to Bel, there’s a caretaker at the lodge,” he said. “We should find out—“

“If he knows anything.”

“And he’s more likely to spill any information he has to you. A lady alone who’s suffered an accident to her carriage.”

“While you—?”

“Have a look at the main house. We haven’t got much time before it’s completely dark.”

She put her hand on his arm. “Those lovely words about unnecessary risk apply to both of us.”

“I’m only going to have a look about.”

“I’ve heard that before. If you think they have Raoul—if you see anything that needs responding to—come and get me.”

“What did I just say myself?”

“Yes, but your advice for others doesn’t necessarily fit your own actions. In that you’re remarkably like me.”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “Be careful of the lodge-keeper. We can’t be sure anyone is what they seem.”

“Darling. I’m the last person on earth you need to say that to.“ A gust of wind blew the rain in their faces. She touched her fingers to her husband’s damp cheek.

“If I don’t find you at the lodge, meet me back at the carriage in half an hour.“ He pulled her hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss against her gloved palm.

She nodded and started for the lodge. It was a slate roofed brick building set in a tangle of larches that were probably lovely in spring but now, bare limbed and wind-tossed, lent the building a gothic aspect. Despite the lengthening shadows, no smoke issued from the neat chimney stacks and no lamps showed behind the sash windows. She paused for a moment to get her story in order and make sure her pistol was still dry in its oil skin wrapping in her reticule. Then, prepared to tell of the shocking accident to her carriage and how her coachman had walked back to the village, she rang the bell.

No footfalls sounded in response. She wiped the rain-streaked window with her handkerchief and pressed her face to the glass. She could make out a table and what looked to be stairs. No sign of the lodge keeper or anyone else.

She debated going to catch up with Charles or returning to the carriage to wait for him. But as long as she had the time, it was tempting to reconnoiter a bit herself. She went round the side of the building and knocked at another door and then at a third at the back of the house. When she touched the handle, the door eased inward with a gentle creak.

She hesitated again, but the quiet and the unlocked door could mean some mischief had been done to the lodge-keeper. Or that Raoul was being kept in the house, though if so it was shockingly careless not to have locked the door.

She cracked her reticule so she could grip her pistol and stepped into the house.

The air was sour after the freshness of rain and wind. It was dark inside, what light there was filtered by thick, centuries-old glass. She seemed to be in a sitting room. She could make out the curved back of an old-fashioned sofa, a couple of high-backed armchairs, a thick-legged table. Eyes adjusting to the light, she crossed to the door. It opened onto a passage. More closed doors and at one end a staircase and the entry hall. She closed her eyes and drew a breath. Beneath the pervasive damp, a whiff of burning beeswax, so faint she could not be sure she hadn’t imagined it.

“Is anyone there?“ She made her voice quaver, while her fingers closed round her pistol. “The door was open, so I came in. I’m afraid I suffered an accident to my carriage.“

No reply, but a perceptible stir of movement from the second door on the left. Tightening her grip on the pistol, she went down the passage and opened the door.

The smell of recently-extinguished candles drifted in the air. The lingering light from the two windows showed an uncovered dining table and chairs. The curtains—heavy worsted by the look of it—were drawn back. The far curtain on the left stirred slightly.

‘I have a pistol,’ Mélanie said. ‘It would be simplest if you just came out.’

A few seconds of silence, and then a woman stepped from behind the curtain and stood outlined against the glow from the windows. The hood of her cloak was pushed back, and the light picked out strands of gold in her hair.

‘I should have know it was a waste of time trying to hide from you,’ said Hortense Bonaparte.

Charles hadn’t visited Spendlove Manor since an expedition with David when they were undergraduates. But he remembered enough to cut away from the drive, through a stand of sycamore and across a small brick footbridge. A sodden meadow stretched before him and then, above a hawthorn hedge, a flash of crow-stepped gabled roof and a cluster of chimney stacks. He could see smoke puffing from the chimneys. Which did not fit with Isobel’s description of the house being shut up.

He moved to the shelter of a stand of oak and approached the house that way. At last he emerged from the trees. Through the rain, he had a view of rosy Elizabethan brick and mullioned windows. He was at the back of the house. No light shone behind these windows and the cluster of chimneys directly above were not smoking.

The smoke seemed to be coming from the front of the house. Lighting a fire would be stupid if they were holding O’Roarke prisoner. It fit more with Vickers and Gordon holding a meeting. With Carfax? With a member of the Elsinore League? Le Faucon de Maulévrier? Or perhaps O’Roarke wasn’t a prisoner at all. Perhaps he was lying low here as Mélanie had speculated, and Vickers and Gordon had come to see him.

Charles moved out of the trees, receiving a peppering of rain on his face, and started round the side of the house.

“Hold there. Come out slowly. Hands in the air.”

He found himself staring at a stout man in the unmistakable uniform of the British Army. His ill-fitting red coat identified him as belonging to the 6^th Foot. He held a musket leveled at Charles. “What do you think you’re doing here?” he demanded.

“My name’s Fraser. Charles Fraser. I was at school with Lord Carfax’s son. If you let me reach into my coat, I can show you my card.”

“Never mind about that. No one’s supposed to come near the house. Orders.”

“Whose orders?”

“Lord Carfax’s.”

“Lord Carfax sent you here? Did he actually speak to you?”

“Not half an hour since.”

“He’s in the house?”

“For a friend of the family, you don’t know very much, do you?”

“If you take me to Lord Carfax, I think we can clear this whole matter up.“ And hopefully the question of what the devil the earl was doing here. Why would he need British soldiers for a meeting with Vickers and Gordon?

The soldier stared at Charles for a long moment, while the rain hammered down between them. Then he gave a grunt of acknowledgement and jerked his head toward the house.

They went through a side door into a narrow passage. No candles burned in the wall sconces, but two more soldiers stood at the end of the passage. Charles could see the red gleam of their coats in the shadows.

“Says his name’s Charles Fraser,” the soldier who had found him said, closing the door. “We’re to take him to Lord Carfax.”

The other soldiers nodded. Something in those nods prickled Charles’s senses. He eased his hand into his greatcoat pocket for his pistol. As he did so, he caught a rush of movement out of the corner of his eye. He spun round, the pistol in his hand, just as a heavy weight crashed into his skull.