The Darlington Letters Read online

  The Darlington Letters

  Tracy Grant

  Copyright

  This book is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only.

  This book may not be sold, shared, or given away.

  * * *

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  * * *

  The Darlington Letters

  Copyright © 2018 by Tracy Grant

  Ebook ISBN: 9781641970600

  * * *

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  * * *

  NYLA Publishing

  121 W 27th St., Suite 1201, New York, NY 10001

  http://www.nyliterary.com

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Dramatis Personae

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

  Historical Notes

  The Glenister Papers

  Also by Tracy Grant

  About the Author

  For Suzette

  Acknowledgments

  As always, huge thanks to my wonderful agent, Nancy Yost, for her support and insights. Thanks to Natanya Wheeler for once again working her magic to create a beautiful cover and for shepherding the book expertly through the publication process, to Sarah Younger for superlative social media support and for helping the book along through production and publication, and to Amy Rosenbaum and the entire team at Nancy Yost Literary Agency for their fabulous work. Malcolm, Mélanie, and I are all very fortunate to have their support.

  Thanks to Eve Lynch for the meticulous and thoughtful copyediting and to Raphael Coffey for magical author photos.

  I am very fortunate to have a wonderful group of writer friends near and far who make being a writer less solitary. Thanks to Veronica Wolff and Lauren Willig, who both understand the challenges of being a writer and a mom. To Penelope Williamson, for sharing adventures, analyzing plots, and being a wonderful honorary aunt to my daughter. To Jami Alden, Tasha Alexander, Bella Andre, Allison Brennan, Josie Brown, Isobel Carr, Catherine Deborah Coonts, Coulter, Deborah Crombie, Carol Culver/Grace, Catherine Duthie, Alexandra Elliott, J.T. Ellison, Barbara Freethy, C.S. Harris, Candice Hern, Anne Mallory, Monica McCarty, Brenda Novak, Poppy Reifiin, Deanna Raybourn, and Jacqueline Yau.

  Thank you to the readers who support Malcolm and Suzanne and their friends and provide wonderful insights on my Web site and social media.

  Thanks to Gregory Paris and jim saliba for creating and updating a fabulous Web site that chronicles Malcolm and Suzanne's adventures. To Suzi Shoemake and Betty Strohecker for managing a wonderful Google+ Discussion Group for readers of the series. Thanks to my colleagues at the Merola Opera Program who help me keep my life in balance. Thanks to Peet's Coffee & Tea at The Village, Corte Madera, for welcoming me and my daughter Mélanie and giving me some of my best writing time. And thanks to Mélanie herself, for inspiring my writing, being patient with Mummy's "work time", and offering her own insights at the keyboard. This is her contribution to this story – eyhheeiftfgvfdgdcfgdgdhdyte – in Mélanie language that means, "this book was written by Tracy Grant, my mom."

  Dramatis Personae

  *indicates real historical figures

  The Rannoch Family & Household

  * * *

  Malcolm Rannoch, former Member of Parliament and British intelligence agent

  Mélanie Suzanne Rannoch, his wife, former French intelligence agent

  Colin Rannoch, their son

  Jessica Rannoch, their daughter

  * * *

  Laura Fitzwalter, Marchioness of Tarrington, Colin and Jessica's former governess

  Lady Emily Fitzwalter, her daughter

  Raoul O'Roarke, Laura's fiancé, Mélanie's former spymaster, and Malcolm's father

  * * *

  Miles Addison, Malcolm's valet

  Blanca Mendoza Addison, his wife, Mélanie's companion

  Pedro Addison, their son

  Valentin, footman

  * * *

  Gisèle Thirle, Malcolm's sister

  Andrew Thirle, her husband

  Ian Thirle, their son

  * * *

  The Davenport Family

  Lady Cordelia Davenport

  Colonel Harry Davenport, her husband, classical scholar and former British intelligence agent

  Livia Davenport, their daughter

  Drusilla Davenport, their daughter

  * * *

  Archibald (Archie) Davenport, Harry's uncle

  Lady Frances Davenport, his wife, Malcolm's aunt

  Francesca Davenport, their daughter

  Philip Davenport, their son

  Chloe Dacre-Hammond, Frances's daughter

  * * *

  Aline Blackwell, Frances's daughter

  Geoffrey Blackwell, her husband

  Claudia Blackwell, their daughter

  * * *

  Others

  * * *

  Algernon, Lord Weston, Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster

  Anne, Lady Darlington, his former love

  * * *

  Helen Trenor, Lady Marchmain, Lady Darlington's cousin

  Lord Marchmain, her husband

  Alexander (Sandy) Trenor, their son

  Elizabeth (Bet) Simcox, his mistress

  * * *

  Hubert Mallinson, Earl Carfax, Malcolm's former spymaster

  Amelia, Countess Carfax, his wife

  Mary Laclos, their eldest daughter

  Gui Laclos, her husband

  * * *

  Sir Hugh Cresswell

  Lady Cresswell, his wife

  * * *

  Lord Beverston

  Roger Smythe, his son

  Dorinda Smythe, Roger's wife

  Marina Smythe, their daughter

  * * *

  *Emily, Countess Cowper, patroness of Almack's

  * * *

  Sylvie, Lady St. Ives, French émigrée and agent

  * * *

  Julien St. Juste, agent for hire

  There's beggary in the love that can be reckon'd.

  —Shakespeare, Antony and Cleopatra, Act I, scene i

  Chapter 1

  London

  April, 1819

  Mist swirled through the thick dark of the London night. Malcolm Rannoch shrank back against the rough boards of the dockside warehouse. Old instincts surfaced like hairs rising to an electric current. A spy's instincts never left him. Or was he a fool to find adventure in what was probably a perfectly commonplace outing? He could hear his wife's affectionate mockery. You can't leave it behind any more than I can, darling.

  The river was a shadowy line, mist clinging to the water. The grease and grime so obvious by daylight blended into the shadows, but the smell choked the air, sharp and sour, worse because the night was unusually warm for April. Coal smoke, human waste, sweat, rotting slops. London. So different from standing on th
e shores of Lake Como. Or in the wind on the Scottish coast, the salt scent sharp in the air. But he was home. The thought, still a novelty after more than three months back from exile, washed over him, bringing a warmth and comfort he hadn't admitted to anyone. Not even his wife. Especially not his wife.

  Yellow pools of lamplight glowed against the cracked cobblestones to either side of him. He had deliberately taken up this position, in a gap between two warehouses, because it was also in the shadows between the lamps. The boat had pulled up before he arrived, at the base of the stairs that led down from the terrace across from him. But they'd wait until it was a bit later, and ideally until the moon was obscured, before unloading their cargo—or letting their passengers debark.

  The wind picked up, bringing the damp of the water and pushing the clouds over the moon. Malcolm moved from his hiding place to the crumbling stone terrace overlooking the river. He could make out the outline of the boat below. A dark figure detached itself from the shadows and made its way to the stairs leading to the terrace, moving with an economy that somehow made it blend into the night.

  Malcolm felt himself smile. Tempting to run down the stairs, but probably foolish given the company in which Raoul O'Roarke had slipped back into Britain. Malcolm melted back towards the gap between the buildings on the far side of the terrace where he had sheltered before. Less than half a minute later, Raoul appeared at the top of the stairs. Malcolm took a step out of the shadows, just as three figures from the right hurled themselves on O'Roarke.

  Raoul whirled round, knocked one of the men backwards, and kicked a second even as the third jumped on his back. Malcolm ran forwards, grabbed the two on the ground by their shoulders as they scrambled to their feet, and knocked their heads together. Raoul had shaken off the third man. As Malcolm turned round, the man launched a blow at Raoul's jaw. Raoul caught the man's wrist and used his momentum to hurl him to the pavement.

  Of one accord, Malcolm and Raoul ran through the alley where Malcolm had been concealed, darted into a dockside tavern, slipped through the crowd of sailors and dockworkers and women with bright hair and overly rouged cheeks, lost themselves long enough to order pints, slap down coins, and swallow a third of the contents, then went out a back door into another alley, round the corner, across two more streets, and at last paused in the doorway of a shuttered used-clothes dealer, both breathing hard. "Damn it, O'Roarke," Malcolm said, "you can't get yourself killed. You're getting married in a week."

  Raoul gave the sort of grin with which he'd been defying danger for as long as Malcolm could remember. "And I have every intention of being at my wedding."

  "Laura's the calmest bride-to-be imaginable, but she'll never forgive me if anything happens to you."

  For a moment, in Raoul's gaze Malcolm saw the unreality of the situation. Raoul was a man who had lived his life not believing in happy endings, at least not for himself. He lived in the murky world of a spy, devoted to causes he believed would make the world a better place, but with little time to focus on himself. And the choices he'd made in the service of that cause made him unsure he deserved happiness. Malcolm understood, because he was a bit like that himself. More than a bit. After all, Raoul O'Roarke was his father.

  But Raoul, recently divorced from his estranged wife, was about to marry Laura Tarrington, the woman he loved far more than he'd probably ever let himself put into words. And Laura was about to have their child. A positively domestic outcome. Save that O'Roarke, leaning against the cracked boards, a scratch on his cheek and a bruise beginning to form round his eye, didn't look in the least domestic.

  "How is she?" Raoul asked. "I can never be sure she's putting the truth in her letters."

  "Glowing. Telling everyone who fusses that's she's not ill, she's having a baby." Malcolm pushed his hair out of his eyes. "And no, there's no sign she's going to have the child before the wedding."

  Relief shot through Raoul's gaze. Much as he, like Malcolm, might fight against the rules of society, in the world in which they lived, legal legitimacy mattered. Of course, Malcolm himself was illegitimate, but he had all the advantages of legally having been born within a marriage, which was all that counted, however many people knew to the contrary.

  "What are you doing here, Malcolm?" Raoul asked.

  "Meeting you. Rupert told us you were coming in tonight. What happened to Bertrand and the friend you were helping out of Spain?" Their friend Bertrand Laclos helped Bonapartists escape the reprisals of the restored Bourbon regimes in France and Spain.

  "We let them off outside London without incident. I stayed on the boat to get home faster. Not that I'm not delighted to see you, but what made you anticipate trouble?"

  "You're slipping into London. Need you ask more?"

  "My dear Malcolm. I've been slipping in and out of London since before you were born. Including when I was a wanted man."

  Malcolm stared at his father in the shifting light of the moon. After all this time, Raoul could still surprise him. "You came into London after the Irish Uprising? When there was still a warrant for your arrest?"

  "You don't really think I'd have gone a year without seeing you, do you?"

  Malcolm studied the man who had been there for him since his birth in ways he was only beginning to understand. Or at least to consciously acknowledge. "No. I don't think so. Not now. You never did go that long. But the risk—"

  "Life's a risk." Raoul touched his arm. "I'm distinctly grateful for your help tonight. I don't know that I could have managed three on my own. But I think they were just rival smugglers. Or possibly Preventive Waterguard men, though then I think they'd have announced themselves."

  "Maybe. That is, maybe they were rival smugglers."

  Raoul's hand tightened on his arm. "You worry too much, Malcolm. Let's go home."

  Malcolm's wife answered the door in Berkeley Square. Another change since he and Mélanie had returned to Britain. They had their full staff back, but at a certain point in the evening they now sent everyone to bed and answered the door themselves. When they returned home from late nights, they used a key. Unheard of, in Mayfair.

  Mélanie's gaze darted over Raoul with relief. She gave him a quick hug, then drew back and looked from him to Malcolm, taking in the bruises on their faces and the dust on their coats. "You had trouble."

  "Just a brush with a few men from a rival gang," Raoul said. "Smugglers are undeniably useful, but have their challenges as traveling companions."

  Mélanie slid her arm round Malcolm and pressed her head against his shoulder.

  "I've only been gone a matter of hours," he said, his lips against her walnut-brown ringlets .

  "I'm still relieved to have you back in one piece." She looked at Raoul. "You have a visitor. I wasn't sure—but your being here isn't secret. And it seemed important. When he learned we were expecting you tonight, he said he wanted to wait. It's Lord Weston. He's in the library."

  Malcolm frowned. Weston was Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster, a respected Tory politician. A decent man, but not someone he'd have expected to find connected to Raoul, an avowed Radical who had worked against the British government in France, Spain, and Ireland.

  Raoul's brows drew together, but he nodded without the surprise Malcolm would have expected. "I should talk to him."

  They moved into the hall. Laura appeared in the library doorway as they crossed the black and white marble tiles. Raoul's gaze lightened. He went to her side, kissed her, and held her against him for a moment. "Children well?"

  "Emily's asleep. And the baby as well, I think." She put her hand on her stomach. "No kicks at present."

  Raoul put his hand over her own where it rested on her stomach for a moment. Laura's gaze flickered over his face. She reached up with her free hand to touch the bruise forming round his eye, a question in her gaze.

  "Just a bit of excitement at the docks." He took her hand, laced his fingers through her own, and stepped into the library, drawing her with him.

  Weston
had been sitting in one of the Queen Anne chairs by the fire, but he stood as Raoul moved into the room. He was a tall man whose fair hair showed a touch of gray in the candlelight. Probably a few years younger than Raoul, who was one-and-fifty. To Malcolm's surprise, as he observed the scene standing behind Raoul and Laura, Raoul’s and Weston's gazes met in a moment of recognition.

  "I'm sorry," Weston said. "I wouldn't have disturbed you. But as I explained to Mrs. Rannoch and Lady Tarrington, this is rather urgent."

  Raoul nodded, as though it was perfectly natural for a member of the British establishment to need to see an avowed revolutionary who had just slipped back into the country. "No need to apologize for calling on an old friend."