A Midwinter's Masquerade Read online

  "Or rather, Manon hid me and probably saved my life," Mélanie said. "We must have a costume the right size somewhere."

  "It's a lot of fuss for nothing," Nerezza said, arms still folded across her chest. "If you just left me alone I could get to the lodgings. I've got round worse streets than that for ten years and more."

  Ten years ago she couldn't have been more than six or seven. Mélanie looked into that armored face and felt as though she were talking to her daughter, though at the same age she'd already been a seasoned agent herself. "It's not the streets, it's who's on them."

  Nerezza's full lower lip jutted out. "Can't be worse than Naples or Milan."

  "It can always be worse," Manon said. "Don't refuse help when it's offered."

  Nerezza's green gaze raked over Manon. "You've got a nice life married to your baron. Why should you help me?"

  "Because we share the same enemies," Mélanie said. "Because Sofia's a friend."

  Nerezza's arms tightened over the lacy salt-stained sarcenet of her gown. "I've seen what friends do to friends. I've tangled with difficult men before. That's part of being on the game."

  "These men go beyond difficult," Mélanie said.

  "I've seen—"

  "Because there are men looking for you who wouldn't hesitate to put you in irons or do things you haven't even dreamt of to get you to talk," Manon said. "I don't like to take help either. But I know when I need it."

  Nerezza tilted her shoulders to one side. "I'm listening. How are you going to protect me if they've followed us here?"

  Manon exchanged a look with Mélanie. "By not letting them find you." She ran a gaze over Nerezza. "A fairy princess, I think."

  Nerezza gave a harsh laugh. "Me? A fairy princess?"

  "Precisely. It will never occur to them. And we should cover up that brilliant hair." Manon tugged a dress of frothy white tulle off one of the clotheslines strung overhead laden with costumes and reached for a blonde wig.

  "No." Nerezza said.

  "Trust us," Mélanie said.

  "I don't trust anyone."

  "A good maxim for an agent." Manon gave the costume a brisk shake. "But sometimes there's no alternative."

  Chapter 2

  "Mummy!" Jessica Rannoch bounced on her father's lap.

  "Soon," Malcolm said.

  "Remember you have to be quiet when it starts." Colin Rannoch turned from his seat in the front row of the box to address his little sister.

  "I will," Jessica said. "I'm not a baby." She looked over at baby Clara O'Roarke asleep in her mother Laura's lap.

  Malcolm shifted Jessica on his knee. Almost exactly a year ago, he and his family had been in self-imposed exile in Italy and had risked a secret trip to Scotland in response to the news that his grandfather was desperately ill. A summons that had proved as duplicitous as most of the intrigues in a family in which those who weren't agents stood out as anomalies. Though they'd been deep in the snowy Highlands that holiday season, Malcolm had been terrified of anyone's learning they were in Britain. Anyone who knew his wife had once been a Bonapartist agent. He'd been focused, perhaps more single-mindedly than he ever had been in his complex life, on keeping her safe. Which was funny, because Mélanie could take better care of herself than just about anyone he knew.

  And he could hear her say, with affectionate mockery, Darling, don't you know that that safety is an illusion? At least for agents?

  We aren't agents anymore, he'd say.

  At which point she'd reach up and kiss him. We'll always be agents, Malcolm.

  Which was probably true. Though he'd never quite admitted it. And he certainly wouldn't admit that a part of him wouldn't be happy if they could stop.

  But now here he was, back in England, back in London, in the theatre no less, with his daughter on his knee, his son in front of him, his friends all round, about to watch the woman he had thought to disappear with step onto the stage of the Tavistock Theatre in the glare of hundreds of recently installed gas lamps.

  Life could take strange turns. But then he'd known that since about the age of five.

  Their friend Cordelia Davenport leaned over the rail from the adjoining box. "I quite envy Mélanie. It seems so long since I've done anything really scandalous." She cast a quick look at Malcolm. "Not that—"

  "Oh, I do hope it's a scandal." Malcolm steadied Jessica as she leaned towards the older children peering over the gilded rail. "At least, enough of one that we truly stop being invited to Mayfair parties."

  "Dream on, Malcolm." Cordelia's husband Harry flashed an ironic smile at Malcolm. "You're a duke's grandson. Even if they don't invite Mélanie they'll invite you."

  "Oh, well. If they don't invite Mel, I have the perfect excuse not to go."

  "It can be dangerous to completely ignore society, Malcolm." Malcolm's aunt, Lady Frances Davenport, turned from the rail, where she had been bending over her own and Harry and Cordelia's daughters. "You should know better than most the risks of turning one's back on a fickle ally."

  "I can't say I've thought of society as an ally, Aunt Frances," Malcolm said.

  "Perhaps all the more reason to watch your back, lad." Frances's husband, Archibald Davenport, who was also Harry's uncle, turned from pouring Frances a glass of champagne.

  "Point taken," Malcolm said. Archie, a formidable agent, should certainly know. "Though I don't think society has much interest in me."

  "Take it from one who's tried, Malcolm." Manon's husband, Crispin Harleton, turned from his seat in the box on the opposite side of the Rannoch box, his one-year-old son in his arms. "One can't extricate oneself if one tries."

  "It's a charity performance." David Mallinson, Viscount Worsley, Malcolm's childhood friend, moved to stand beside Crispin. "That makes a difference. Or Simon wouldn't have asked her."

  "Simon asked her because Mélanie made it clear she doesn't care for convention anymore." Blanca, Mélanie's companion, looked up from the rail where she was holding her toddler son as he peered over. She and her husband Miles Addison were sharing the box with David and Crispin and their children.

  "Thank goodness," Malcolm said.

  "And I think he realized how much Mrs. Rannoch loves the theatre," Addison said. He was Malcolm's valet and still more conscious of roles than Blanca was.

  David's brows drew together. Like Addison, he had unbent amazingly, but he was also still more conscious of the forms than most of their close friends. He cast a glance at the older children clustered at the rail. Crispin's two stepdaughters and David's niece and three nephews, whom he and his lover Simon Tanner were raising. Being a parent had made David unbend in many ways, but it had also made him more aware of the repercussions of scandal.

  "Mel's more free to be herself these days," Malcolm said.

  David flashed an unexpected grin that took Malcolm straight back to Harrow. "I understand the advantages of that full well." He reached forwards to touch three-year-old Jamie's hair. Jamie turned round with a grin that echoed David's own.

  Laura looked up from distracting small Clara. "Creating a scandal has certain advantages. It can make for wonderful cover. And Mélanie's fortunate to have found something that engages her besides being an agent. I think a number of us envy that. Though she'd probably be the first to say she'll always be an agent. And that she wouldn't want it any other way."

  Frances's and Cordelia's attention was claimed by acquaintances in the next box over. Addison joined Blanca and their small son. Crispin and David began answering questions from the children about the theatre. Colin and Laura's daughter Emily joined in from their box and drew Laura into the conversation.

  The curtains at the back of the box stirred. A dark-coated man slipped between the gilded chairs and dropped into the seat behind Malcolm as though he were merely visiting from the next box. Colin looked over his shoulder, opened his mouth to greet the new arrival, then closed it with the wisdom of one raised in a family of spies.

  Jessica wasn't quite at that point. "Un
cle Bertrand."

  "Princess Jessica." Bertrand kissed her hand, which made her giggle. He relaxed negligently into his gilt and velvet chair, champagne glass in hand. So negligently that if one didn't look closely one would assume his dark coat and trousers were faultless evening dress and quite mistake the salt stains and tears. Not the first time Malcolm had seen Bertrand employ this trick.

  "Spot of trouble," he said, leaning forwards with casual ease so he could speak in Malcolm's ear. "Glad not to miss Mélanie's performance, but I'm afraid I've had to bring some refugees."

  "Outside?" Malcolm said, not taking his gaze from the stage.

  "Backstage."

  "Anyone we know?"

  "Sofia Vincenzo's one of them."

  "Good God." Sofia was due to visit Britain in another month, but despite her involvement with the Carbonari Malcolm would not have expected her to travel in secret.

  "She has a friend with her we need to hide. Do you know where Carfax is sitting?"

  "Box N," Harry said, leaning over the rail from his own box. "The footman pouring champagne just delivered a note to him."

  Malcolm stared at his friend. "How did you know to watch Carfax?"

  "It's always worth it to watch Carfax," Harry said.

  "Probably his agent reporting that he lost us," Bertrand said. "At least I hope it's that, and not that he trailed us here. Probably best we don't try to move her for the time being."

  "Where is she?" Malcolm asked.

  "Backstage with Mélanie and Manon."

  "All ready?" Simon Tanner poked his head into Mélanie and Manon's dressing room. His voice was cool and professional, but his gaze was alight. Theatre was magic, whether one was treading the boards for the first time or was one of London's most successful—if scandalous—playwrights and a part owner of the theatre.

  "Right as rain," Manon said.

  Simon stepped all the way into the dressing room and pushed the door to. "What's going on?"

  "What makes you think something is going on?" Melanie said.

  "Manon saying 'right as rain' is hardly normal."

  "I've picked all sorts of things up from Crispin," Manon said.

  "Nevertheless." Simon leaned against the door panels. "Out with it."

  Simon was one of Mélanie's closest friends and she trusted him implicitly. Had done so even before he knew the truth of her past. And in truth, a part of her knew he had guessed some of it before he had officially learned. But for all the risks they had run and were running together, for all she had seen him prove himself in more danger than she had ever wanted him to face, he was still a civilian. An agent's instincts were always to trust no one. And particularly not to trust a non-agent. For the non-agent's own sake. And for one's own and that of anyone else involved.

  Simon held her gaze and gave a sudden grin. "Or am I better off not knowing?"

  For some reason that decided her. She released her breath. "Sofia Vincenzo's here. With a young woman who needs hiding. Bertrand brought them. We have it under control."

  "Sofia—Kit Montagu's betrothed?"

  "Yes. I thought of reaching out to Kit in the audience, but for the moment he really is better off not knowing about it. It's a bit complicated with Carfax here tonight, but I'm hoping we can brush through without complications."

  Simon's brows knotted. "You think the theatre may be searched?" he said in a tight voice.

  "It's a possibility, but—"

  "What don't you want found?" Manon asked.

  She should have seen it, Melanie thought. She looked at Simon, her friend and confidant, supposedly the one of the three of them not mired in intrigue. "Simon? What's going on? And I think you'd better not say we're better off not knowing about it."

  "At this point I wouldn't dare." Simon scraped a hand through his hair. The dark strands fell across his forehead like a schoolboy's, but his face had gone unexpectedly hard. "We'd never have planned it for tonight. In fact, I didn't know until they were already here."

  "Who?"

  He released his breath. It was like the breaking of glass round a secret treasure. "Some of the Levellers are meeting in the basement. I think Kit's gone down to join them."

  Mélanie stared at him. The Levellers were a group of young Radicals, working for change and enough outside the system that though Malcolm was in sympathy with them and friends with many of them, there was tacit agreement that as a Member of Parliament he was better off not knowing the ins and outs of their work. As was Simon's lover, David Mallinson, who was also an MP. Kit Montagu, Sofia's betrothed, was part of the Levellers, which had led to his contact with the Carbonari in Italy and to his working with Sofia.

  "Well, there's one comfort," Manon said in the tight silence. "I suppose one secret intrigue can serve a distraction from the other."

  "Why?" Mélanie asked, holding Simon with her gaze. "Why the emergency meeting?"

  Simon's gaze shifted from side to side. Mélanie knew that look. Even with friends, one hesitated about just how much to reveal. She was used to that with most of those she was close to. Not with Simon. "They suspect there may be a mole in the group," he said at last.

  "Not, presumably, in this meeting?" Manon said.

  "No." Simon dragged his gaze back to meet Manon's and then Mélanie's. "That's why they called it suddenly and held it here. It's only those we're sure are in the clear who are at the meeting."

  "Simon," Mélanie said. "Do they think this mole is reporting to Carfax?"

  Simon met her gaze, his own taut with anxiety. He was good at this, but it was not his natural element. At least not yet. "We don't know," he said. "But we can't but wonder." He hesitated a fraction of a second. Carfax was not only the opponent of any sort of political change, he was the father of David, the man Simon loved. "This may sound mad, but it seemed safer in a way, knowing Carfax was here."

  "No, it's not mad. It's good thinking," Mélanie said. "It's much the same reason Bertrand brought Sofia and Nerezza here."

  "I didn't want you to know," Simon said. "I wanted you to have—"

  "Deniability. I do understand and I appreciate it. But that won't solve things now. Everything's shifted. Can those at the meeting be counted on not to panic and to do what they're told?"

  "They're not agents," Simon said, "but they're sensible lads. And they know the stakes. What can I do?"

  "Technically, if they stay down there and Nerezza stays hidden onstage and Carfax doesn't get on to either we should be fine. Best they stay where they are for the present. If Carfax has men looking for Nerezza they might notice a group joining the audience. But let's get a warning to them so they're on alert for sudden changes."

  "Right. I'll go down. No one should question my going into the basement."

  "Simon." Mélanie put a hand on his arm. "Could whoever this mole may be, be in the audience tonight?"

  He drew a breath like a knife on bare boards. "A lot of the Levellers are in the audience."

  "Right. So if everyone in the meeting is in the clear, we can't trust any of the Levellers that are in the audience," Manon said.

  "In a nutshell."

  "Good to be clear about that."

  Simon looked between them. "Are you both all right to go on?"

  "Of course." Mélanie smiled at him. "What's an opening without a bit of improvisation?"

  Simon smiled back, pressed her hand, and slipped from the dressing room.

  Mélanie watched the door close behind him.

  "Complicated," Manon said. "But we've faced worse."

  "Without a doubt." Melanie picked up her silver-edged fan, gaze still on the door. Simon was one of her dearest friends. She'd trust him with her life, and she had no doubt he was an ally.

  But she was also quite sure there was something he wasn't telling her.

  Chapter 3

  Kitty Ashford slipped into the box with her two sons beside her and her baby daughter in her arms as Bertrand slipped out to look for his lover, Rupert. Kitty smiled at Bertrand with
perfect ease, which wasn’t surprising. They knew each other quite well. But Malcolm didn’t for a moment think she hadn’t seen more.

  Colin and Emily turned eagerly to the Ashford boys as they settled beside them. Kitty sat beside Malcolm, holding small Genny, who stretched her arms out to Jessica. "I take it I should pretend we all expected to see Bertrand all along and that I didn’t notice he’s not in evening dress. Which I very nearly didn’t, by the way—he carries it off superbly."

  Malcolm met Kitty’s sharp green gaze. Once they had been partners on missions. In the midst of the first of those missions they had become lovers. But that had been eight years ago in the Peninsula at the height of the war, before he had so much as glimpsed the woman who was now his wife. When he and Kitty met again in London this past September, he hadn’t been sure he could trust her. But a lot had changed in four months. Ironically, they now knew more of each other’s secrets than they had in the days when they had been lovers. And perhaps they were more closely allied.

  "Bertrand brought someone back from the Continent with him," Malcolm said. "They needed a bolt-hole."

  "And where better to lose oneself than a crowded theatre."

  "Quite. A bit tricky with Carfax."

  Kitty glanced down the curve of boxes at their former spymaster. "So far he seems to be looking at the stage."

  "With Carfax that’s no guarantee of anything."

  "Curtain!" Jessica bounced on Malcolm’s lap as the red velvet curtain rose on a world of spectacle and fantasy and his wife transformed into Viola.

  He was used to seeing her play roles, often at his side. For that matter, he had learned she had played a role with him for years. He’d come to understand that she’d been more herself while playing that role than one might have thought. Yet he knew how she could transform herself into another person during a mission. But it was different somehow, looking across the footlights at this woman who spoke with Mélanie’s voice and had Mélanie’s hair and yet was so believably someone else. He was well aware of his wife’s talents. But she had abilities as an actress that hinted at a life she might have had, had she never become an agent. Had she never met him.