The Darlington Letters Page 2

  "Is that what we are?" Weston gave a wintry smile.

  "It's what we were. I don't know that anything’s changed." Raoul advanced into the room, drawing Laura with him. "Anything you have to say to me you can say in front of everyone here. Laura is my wife to all intents and purposes and soon will be so legally. Mélanie is Malcolm's wife. And Malcolm's my son."

  Again, to Malcolm's surprise, Weston smiled. "I always thought so. Though I wasn't sure you'd ever admit it."

  "A number of things have changed. If you need my help, you're going to need all of them."

  Mélanie squeezed Malcolm's arm, a warning to be quiet and let the scene play out. Which he had every intention of doing, despite his curiosity. Or because of it.

  Raoul and Laura moved to the sofa. Raoul helped Laura sit, keeping a protective hand on her arm as she lowered her eight-months-pregnant self, then eased down himself to the sofa with, Malcolm noted, the well-disguised care of one whose bones ached. Mélanie poured coffee from the silver pot on the sofa table, gave cups to Raoul and Malcolm, refilled Laura's, Weston's, and her own.

  Weston turned his cup in his hand. "It's been a long time."

  Raoul took a sip of coffee. "We don't precisely move in the same circles any longer." He looked from Laura to Malcolm and Mélanie. "Lord Weston and I knew each other many years ago, in Ireland."

  Malcolm stared at the Tory politician. He'd have thought Weston would have opposed Raoul in Ireland save for the obvious friendship between the men. "You were one of the United Irishmen?"

  Weston drew in and released his breath. "Not officially. But yes, I worked with them."

  It was a shocking admission from one of Britain's senior politicians. An admission that could end his career. But then, Raoul already knew and could tell any of the people in this room.

  "I nearly turned myself in when it all fell apart," Weston said. "It seemed I should share my comrades' fate. O'Roarke was the one who persuaded me not to."

  Raoul leaned back on the sofa, his arm round Laura. "I saw no reason for you to needlessly throw your life away. There was a great deal you could make of it."

  "I don't imagine you approve of what I have made of it."

  "I'd hardly blame anyone for following their conscience, though I might not agree with where it took them. And in your case, I assume it was conscience."

  Weston's fingers tightened on the handle of his cup. "Our ideas were dangerous."

  "If you mean by that that they might change the world if put into practice, I trust to God they would."

  Weston gave a faint smile. "You're still a madman."

  "Hardly."

  "Yes." Laura squeezed Raoul's fingers. "And I love you for it."

  "From the look of it, you had adventures only tonight," Weston said.

  "A minor skirmish," Raoul said. "Nothing like Ireland."

  Weston turned to Malcolm. "I expect you're shocked."

  "In this family? You can't expect me to be shocked by anyone's being a spy."

  "It could ruin me. That goes without saying. One could argue that I deserve it—"

  "Please let’s not talk of what anyone deserves," Raoul said. "I'd come out worse than anyone in this room. What you deserve is to live the life you've built for yourself. And someone's trying to blackmail you?"

  Weston's brows snapped together. "How did you guess?"

  "Something sent you to seek me out now. Something brought up the past. And you were so quick to share it, I suspect you knew you'd have to do so the moment you called on us."

  Weston gave a sigh that seemed to weigh his shoulders beneath the glossy fabric of his coat. "I received a blackmail letter."

  "Do they have proof?" Raoul asked in a level voice.

  Weston nodded. "Letters. I wrote to Anne that year." He looked at the others. "Anne Somercote. Lady Darlington now. We were—in '98 we hoped to marry one day. I didn't guard my tongue when I wrote to her."

  "And she kept the letters," Raoul said.

  "She says she had them in a safe place. In a compartment in her dressing table. They disappeared a fortnight ago. She told me at once." He looked among them. "You investigate things. I thought—"

  "Yes," Raoul said. "You were right to come to us. And I was right to think we'd need Malcolm and Mélanie and Laura. The Rannochs are the real investigators. Though Laura and I aren't bad at it."

  "Spare us the protestations, O'Roarke." Malcolm said. "Did Lady Darlington say who had access to her room, Lord Weston?"

  Weston turned his coffee cup on the saucer, knuckles white as he gripped the gilded handle. "She gave a ball the night before she discovered they were missing. She can't be sure, but that seems the likeliest time."

  "What do the blackmailers want?" Raoul asked.

  "My resignation."

  Malcolm drew a sharp breath. "Do you have any idea who they are?"

  Weston shook his head. "Of course anyone in a position of power has enemies. But I always thought myself one of the duller sorts of government type. I never thought to find myself the target of a plot." He stared at his hands, then raised his gaze to Raoul. "I'm responsible for my past. One could make a case that I should own it—"

  "It would curtail what you can do now."

  "Which you might think is a very good thing."

  "I don't think it's a good thing for anyone to be silenced, whatever their ideas."

  Weston held his gaze. "You've already paid for Ireland. And the past puts you at risk again as well."

  "Not so much as you, as it happens." Raoul took another sip of coffee. "I've—rather remarkably—received a pardon from the prince regent."

  Weston's eyes widened.

  "You didn't know?" Raoul said.

  "No. But I'm hardly in intelligence circles. All the more reason to credit your investigative work."

  "It was unexpected. But it may put me in a good position to help you."

  "All of us," Malcolm said. "Do you have the blackmail letter? It might help us narrow things down."

  Weston gave a curt nod and reached into his pocket. He drew out a plain sheet of heavy paper, the shade of table linens at Mayfair parties.

  Weston,

  If you don't wish your letters to the present Lady Darlington, and your actions in Ireland twenty years ago, to come to light, you will resign your position at once. We can give you until Thursday next."

  Malcolm glanced at Raoul. "Do you recognize the hand?"

  "No, but it may mean something to Archie."

  "We'll also need a list of the guests at Lady Darlington's ball," Mélanie said.

  Weston's gaze widened, in a way Malcolm had seen the gazes of many members of the beau monde do at the realization that their own were going to have to be questioned. But he nodded. "I'll talk to her. But perhaps it would be best if you called on her, Mrs. Rannoch. She might be more comfortable talking to another woman."

  "We don't have the entrée in London society that we once did," Mélanie said. "We've been living more quietly since our return from the Continent."

  "And Raoul's and my scandal has rather cast a pall over the family's social position," Laura said. Her voiced was composed but Malcolm caught the concern underneath.

  "Thank God for it," he said with a grin. "It's a relief not to be dining out every night of the week. I'm not sure I'd have consented to return to London society otherwise."

  "But we still have a number of connections," Mélanie said. "We can make inquiries. We'll do everything in our power to get the papers back. I beg you, Lord Weston, don't give way to blackmail. For your own sake and for the sake of others. It will only embolden the blackmailers to go further, and others will be hurt."

  Weston inclined his head. "I take your point, Mrs. Rannoch. I acknowledge my sins, but I have no desire to put my family through scandal. I lost my wife two years ago, but our daughters are on the verge of society. They would find my disgrace difficult. And I confess I have no wish to leave my position. However, if the news becomes public, I will have t
o leave it regardless."

  "We all know something about secrets," Mélanie said. "They're currency in the life of a spy. But secrets can be protected more often than you'd think. Give us time."

  "Time is what I don't have, Mrs. Rannoch."

  "We'll use it wisely," Malcolm said.

  "I know how damnable waiting is," Raoul said. "Believe me, I loathe it myself. But right now, waiting is what you need to do."

  Weston nodded again. "Point taken." He got to his feet. "Thank you. All of you."

  Raoul stood and held out his hand. "It's good to see you again."

  "You as well." Weston clasped his hand and regarded him for a long moment. "I know I've changed. I hope you'll take it as a compliment when I say I also find you quite transformed."

  "I'm still the man I was. But my life has taken some fortunate turns."

  Weston looked from Raoul to Laura. "My felicitations to you both."

  "Thank you," Laura said. "We're very fortunate. In a number of ways."

  Weston smiled. "Happiness is to be savored. I’m more aware of that than ever, these days." He regarded Raoul for another moment. "I imagine as a husband and father you'll moderate the risks you run."

  Raoul dropped an arm round Laura's shoulders. "Meaning a spy shouldn't have a family? I've said so myself. I've said so to Laura. I'm very aware of the potential consequences of the risks I run these days. But, as I said, I'm still the man I was."

  Weston's gaze flickered over Raoul's face. "Go carefully, my friend. You have a great deal to lose."

  Raoul's arm tightened round Laura. "I'm very much aware of it."

  Chapter 2

  Mélanie took a sip of coffee. Quiet had descended over the library when Malcolm left to see Weston from the house. Raoul had got to his feet to say goodbye to his friend and was still standing, frowning at a glass-fronted bookcase, as though the gilded book spines held answers that were tantalizingly out of reach. Laura watched him with concern for a moment, then met Mélanie's gaze. Mélanie saw the relief in her friend's eyes. Relief at having him safely back. And perhaps at having something to investigate. Mélanie felt both herself.

  Malcolm came back into the room, closed the door, and turned to Raoul. "Your friends never fail to surprise me."

  Raoul turned from the bookcase. "We certainly went in different directions. But he's a decent man. I hate to see the past used against him."

  Malcolm gave a faint smile. "You're a fraud, O'Roarke."

  Raoul raised a brow. "Of all the names I've been called in my varied career, I think that's a new one."

  "For years you claimed to put the cause before all else."

  In the candlelight, Mélanie thought Raoul colored slightly. "Weston and I may disagree politically, but helping him or not hardly aids or hinders any cause of mine."

  "Precisely. It's a personal choice." Malcolm returned to the settee beside Mélanie. "I hate to see his past used against him too. I hate to see that done to anyone." He leaned forwards to refill the coffee cups. "Blackmail can't but make me think of the Elsinore League."

  Raoul shot a look at him. The Elsinore League were the shadowy organization begun by Malcolm's putative father, the late Alistair Rannoch. Malcolm's mother, Arabella, had fought the League for years, along with Raoul, and recently Malcolm and Mélanie had been drawn into the fight. "There's no reason to think Weston's a target of the League's. But—yes. My thoughts went there as well."

  "We should look into what Weston's working on at present." Mélanie said. She took a sip of coffee, sifting through pieces of information filed away at the back of her mind from the days when all too much of her life had been taken up with the minutia of the beau monde. Fragments of conversations exchanged over teacups, across carriages in Rotten Row, in the ladies' retiring room at a ball. "Isn't Lady Darlington connected to Lady Marchmain?"

  "Good God." Malcolm set down the coffeepot. "Yes, I think they're cousins."

  Lord Marchmain was a powerful nobleman on the fringe of Tory politics. None of them was much connected with the family, but three months ago the Marchmains' elder son, Matthew Trenor, had proved guilty of the murder of a young woman named Miranda Dormer and also of selling foreign office secrets to the Elsinore League. Despite his father's influence, he had been deported to Australia—more, they all suspected, because of the treason than because of smothering a young woman who had worked in a brothel.

  "We never connected Marchmain to the League," Malcolm said. "He isn't on the list of members we have, and though Matthew Trenor was selling information to Beverston, Matthew didn't seem to know Beverston was part of the League or even know the League existed."

  "But he might have told Beverston that Lady Darlington had once been involved with Weston," Raoul said.

  "That wouldn't have meant anything to Beverston if he didn't know Weston had worked with the United Irishmen," Laura pointed out.

  "No, but it might have started Beverston looking into Lady Darlington if he wanted a hold on Weston," Raoul said. "If he had someone search her things, that would have led the League to the papers."

  "Or perhaps Matt Trenor even found the papers and told Beverston about them," Mélanie said. "Given his other actions, I doubt he'd have caviled at turning on his mother's cousin. Although that doesn't account for why the League waited three months to take the papers and make use of the information."

  "The League often bide their time," Malcolm said. "Perhaps whatever's making them move against Weston didn't become pertinent until now. In any case, it's a connection we should pursue. I'll talk to Sandy."

  Alexander Trenor, Mathew Trenor's younger brother, had become a friend in the course of the investigation three months ago, despite his brother's downfall, or perhaps at least in part because of it, as Matt's exposure had also saved the girl Sandy loved.

  Malcolm looked at Raoul. "I'll try to be discreet. But I may need to trust Sandy with some of Weston's story."

  Raoul nodded. "Young Trenor struck me as quite sensible beneath the naiveté. More to the point, as a fundamentally decent human being."

  Malcolm nodded but continued watching Raoul. "Speaking of the League, I don't like that fight you were in tonight."

  "As I told you, that was a side effect of needing to work with smugglers."

  "And, as I told you, maybe it was."

  "You've said often enough you're wary of coincidence," Laura reminded Raoul.

  "So I am. But being attacked when one gets off a smugglers' boat is hardly coincidental."

  "But suspicious when a group like the Elsinore League are trying to kill one," Malcolm said.

  "They were trying to kill me eight months ago." Raoul said. They'd been in Italy when they'd uncovered that information. "They haven't been doing a very good job of it."

  "As I said, the League often bide their time." Malcolm set down his coffee cup. "For God's sake, Father, be careful."

  Malcolm called Raoul "Father" rarely enough that the word hung in the air, creating an island of stillness. Raoul's gaze locked on Malcolm's own. "I always am." The words might have been a deflection, but the look in his eyes was not. "Now, more than ever. For any number of reasons." His arm tightened round Laura. "But if we go into hiding, we let the League win. And none of us wants to do that."

  Raoul looked over his shoulder as he closed the door to the night nursery. "Remember, it's our secret," he said before he pulled the door to.

  "Colin?" Laura asked.

  Raoul smiled. "He woke up when I went in, but he promises he won't tell Emily he saw me first. I swear they've both grown since I last saw them."

  "You haven't been gone that long. Though they are both eating rather ferociously. Wait until you see Emily in her dress for the wedding. She looks very grown up."

  He gave a bemused smile. "It's hard to credit."

  "How fast the children grow?"

  "That too. I meant having a family." He shrugged out of his coat. "I think Weston was shocked at the changes in me."

  Laura wa
tched her lover for a moment. As well as she knew him, there was still much of his past she didn't know. "You haven't seen him for a number of years."

  "True enough. But the changes are more recent." He set the coat over a chair back. "I'm surprised at them myself."

  Laura turned and stepped into his arms. "Sometimes I can still hardly believe it's real."

  "Us?" He brushed his lips across her forehead. "We may not either of us be much for conventional phrases, but I thought what we felt for each other was a fairly open secret."

  "Mmm." She pressed her head against his shoulder. "I had begun to have a glimmering. I didn't mean that; I meant getting married."

  He lifted his head to look down at her, and in his gaze she saw something of the same wonder. It had seemed out of reach for so long. Something they had to make their relationship work despite not being able to have. "It's not anything —"

  "You ever thought to find yourself doing. Again?"

  "That's not what I—"

  "I know. You never expected a happy ending. Not for yourself. I didn't either. Not for years. Not ever, I think."

  He took her face between his hands. "Marriage is anything but an ending. Not that I really believe in endings, in any case. Not while one has life and breath."

  "Nor do I. But I do believe in happiness, which I didn't for a long time. I don't think I thought I deserved it."

  "That's nonsense, sweetheart."

  She kissed him. "Says one guilty of precisely the same thing." And he was letting himself reach for it because he thought she deserved it. She still wasn't sure he thought he deserved happiness himself.

  "If you mean I have far more good fortune than I deserve, then you're entirely right, my darling."

  She drew back a little, her hands against his chest. "I once said I never wanted to marry again. That's not true anymore."

  He smiled. "I'm exceedingly relieved to hear it." He put his hands over her own. "I told you if I'd been free I'd have asked you that first night in Maidstone, for all I should have given you time."

  "Yes. I know. It sounded very gallant. I think you were trying to reassure me that you hadn't rushed into anything because of the baby."