The Tavistock Plot Read online

  "Mmm…I confess to thinking the same thing. We could be looking at intersecting plots. Or another enemy entirely. Though, if Carfax isn't behind the plot, I can't see his staying out of it now."

  "Which will pull David Worsley in. And be challenging for you."

  Far more challenging than he was going to admit to anyone. Even himself. "I manage well enough round David. I've even dined with him."

  "Taking care to turn in the other direction as much as possible."

  "Never let it be said I'm entirely lacking in prudence."

  "Time to stop talking, I think." She reached up to kiss the side of his jaw. "My day was long. Yours seems to have been worse."

  Julien set his glass down, settled his arms round her, and let his mouth find her own. However independent he'd prided himself on being, he'd never been averse to the idea of comfort after a long day. And he could hardly claim to be independent anymore. No sense in dwelling on that now. The risks were already run, the dangers accepted. When had he been one to shy from danger, after all?

  He scooped her into his arms and carried her to the bed that had somehow, unaccountably, become theirs. A night of solace counted for a lot. A night with Kitty was always more than solace. And if a small part of him wished she'd told him the truth, he had enough self-knowledge to see that for the folly it was. They'd made no commitments or promises to each other. He was keeping enough things from her, after all. Secrets were inevitable between two spies. He couldn't very well complain that she was keeping something from him.

  Even if it did put her at the scene of a murder.

  Kitty lay with her head on Julien's chest, his arm flung hard about her. From the even rise and fall of his breathing, she thought he was asleep, though with Julien one could never be sure. The night they had—reunited, for want of a better word—the night Julien had shot and killed Malcolm's brother, Edgar Rannoch, to save Malcolm, Julien had carried her to bed and held her, both of them fully clothed, the entire night. There'd been something raw that night that neither of them had put into words, and probably never would. He'd left before dawn to talk to Malcolm and Edgar's sister, Gisèle. But he'd come back the next night. And most nights after, barring some absences she wouldn't, of course, ask him about. And they'd done more than hold each other, though despite their past he'd been careful to let her make the first move. Julien had witchcraft in his touch that could unknot the most intense stresses and send her tumbling into happy oblivion. He also had the ability to make her feel safe, in a way she hadn't felt in a long time. Perhaps not ever.

  She had been asleep herself tonight, though she'd have sworn it would be beyond her when she'd returned home. But now tension thrummed through her. Secrets had always been part of her relationship with Julien. Even when it began, when they were theoretically allies. Because, of course, agents often had as many secrets from allies as from opponents. And certainly they'd both known secrets were inevitable when they became—whatever they were now.

  But tonight had catapulted those secrets into a whole new realm. A part of her wanted to tell him the whole. A part of her, she confessed to herself, wanted to bury herself in his arms and find an anchor in the midst of the turmoil she had unleashed. But the practical part of her mind knew that was no answer. She couldn't risk getting Julien involved, for the sake of her allies. For Julien's own sake. She'd got herself into this, she was going to have to get herself out.

  Even if it meant imperiling a relationship that meant far more to her than she'd ever intended.

  Chapter 7

  Malcolm tied his cravat with a haste that would have earned a weary sigh from Addison. For once Mélanie, who usually slept late, was out of the house before him. She had already gone to the theatre to talk to her friend Manon. Odd not to be doing this with her. Mel, as the playwright, was part of the Tavistock company. Malcolm was one of the investigators. They'd had different roles in an investigation before, but never this starkly.

  Raoul had left early to make inquiries among his shadowy network in London. Laura had taken the children to the square garden. Cordelia Davenport would bring her daughters round in a bit for lessons, and Malcolm knew Laura planned to talk to her about the Thornsby family. Malcolm needed to find time to talk to Cordelia's husband, Harry, about Lewis Thornsby's elder brother before he and Roth went to the Tavistock.

  Malcolm was on the stairs when he heard Kitty Ashford's voice in the hall below. He went quickly down the remainder of the stairs to find Kitty talking to Valentin. "Malcolm." Kitty came forwards as Malcolm reached the bottom of the stairs. She was wearing a moss green pelisse with a high-standing collar and rows of braid that gave it the military look that seemed to be so popular. "Julien told me last night. About Lewis Thornsby. I thought you might need help."

  Her gaze held seemingly genuine concern and perhaps a hint of excitement at the prospect of intrigue. No sign that she knew more or had come for any other reason. But then, he'd never been adept at reading Kitty, even when they’d been partners and lovers. Perhaps especially then.

  "Let's go into the breakfast parlor," he said. "There's still coffee."

  "I saw the children in the park with Laura," Kitty said, as Malcolm held the door open for her. "They were disappointed I didn't bring Genny and the boys, but it didn't seem the day for it. It must have been so horrible last night for all of you."

  "Not the night we were anticipating." Malcolm followed her into the peach-walled breakfast parlor, where they had shared many family meals since Kitty and her children—and Julien—had come into their lives.

  "I can imagine." Kitty untied the strings on her bonnet. "And it's especially beastly that Mélanie found him. I know she's seen all sorts of horrors, but one doesn't expect to stumble across them in the middle of a London theatre. And with the children, which must have made it so much worse."

  "Yes, though I think we're both inured to the fact that they're going to become entangled in our adventures." Malcolm moved to the table to pour coffee. "Mel was very grateful St. Juste showed up last night. As am I."

  Kitty smiled, an ironic curve of her mouth that held unvoiced affection. "Julien has a way of being in the right place at the right time." She moved to one of the chairs and set her bonnet and reticule on the chair beside her. "He's remarkably good with children in a crisis."

  "He's remarkably good with children most of the time, from what I've seen." Malcolm reached for a second coffee cup. "I've heard Genny call him 'dada.'"

  "Genny uses all sorts of sounds for everything. Mélanie told me Jessica called lights 'ma' for years."

  Malcolm smiled despite everything. "True enough." He watched Kitty for a moment, giving her time to volunteer more about Lewis Thornsby. Instead, she began to draw off her gloves. With typical grace, but also with the sense of one prevaricating. "I didn't realize you knew Thornsby," Malcolm said as she tugged the last of the lemon kid fingers free.

  Kitty unclasped her pelisse and slipped it from her shoulders. "I'd met him." She took the cup of coffee Malcolm was holding out. "One of the nights we were at the theatre and at least one of the times I took the children round to watch a rehearsal. Enough that I could put a face with the name. I'd hardly say I knew him. But I assume you and Mélanie are investigating, and I'm happy to do anything I can to help. Tragic as it is, I quite relish your investigations."

  Malcolm splashed some more coffee into his own cup. Odd as it once would have been to imagine, drinking coffee with Kitty in the Berkeley Square breakfast parlor was now a commonplace occurrence. She was more or less one of the family. Which, in this family, didn't necessarily imply any sort of trust.

  "Kit." Malcolm took a sip of coffee. "I found this in Lewis Thornsby's rooms." He reached inside his coat and held out the note in Kitty's hand.

  Kitty stared down at it.

  "Don't say it isn't your hand," Malcolm said.

  "Oh, poison." Kitty clunked her cup down, spattering coffee in the gilded saucer. "I know what you're going to say. That one can't w
ithhold any detail in an investigation, however seemingly trivial, however seemingly unconnected. However embarrassing. Because one never knows what else it might be connected to. And I know you're right. So I'll tell you. Though I don't think it has anything to do with Lewis's murder. And it's certainly embarrassing."

  "Lewis?" Malcolm said in a neutral voice. He was watching her closely.

  Kitty drew in and released her breath. "It was one of the times Julien was away. I went to a play without the children, and then I went round to the green room and Manon invited me to a coffeehouse with some of the actors after the performance. Thornsby and some other young men who hang about the theatre were there."

  "You wanted information about the Levellers."

  She gave a lopsided smile. "I thought it might prove useful. Those committed to change here might be persuaded to work for change in Spain. And Thornsby was from a well-connected family with influence. He was sulking that night over the young actress—Letty?—who's been leading him a dance. He wanted someone to confide in. There's nothing like thwarted love for confidences. I sat listening to a catalogue of Miss Blanchard's perfections intermixed with his utter despair at her ever taking him seriously and his conviction that he had a rival. I listened, of course, because that's what one does when one's hoping to get to the important information. And because I felt sorry for him. It's been so long, but I remember young love is beastly. It got late and he offered to walk me home, and I agreed because it prolonged the conversation." She took a sip of coffee, returned her cup to its saucer, tucked her gloves into her reticule. Hesitating, which was uncharacteristic for Kitty. "We'd had rather a lot of wine. The children were sound asleep. One thing led to another." She turned the handle of her cup, angling it precisely on the saucer. "I was distinctly annoyed to wake up and realize what I'd done. Not that there'd have been that much harm in it, if we could have both agreed it was a mistake best left in the past. I think Thornsby was horrified too. But because he was horrified, he decided he had a passion for me, to keep the night from being a mere sordid interlude. A lot of rather bad poetry followed. I don't know if you found any of it in his things. I burnt what he sent to me. I knew better than to put anything in writing myself, but I realized we had to talk. Hence the rather vague note you found."

  Malcolm sat back in his chair, trying to force the unlikely pieces into a pattern.

  Kitty regarded him with raised brows and a lopsided smile. "Shocked, Malcolm? Julien and I've never made any sort of promises to each other. In fact, I've rather come to depend too much upon him, which may be another reason I did what I did with Lewis. To prove my independence. But of course, no matter how open an arrangement one has, one never really likes to hear these details, so I'd just as soon Julien never learned about Lewis. Though I know you can't promise he won't. And I realize that's my lookout."

  Malcolm watched his former lover in the cool morning sunlight and the flickering warmth of the fire that burned in the grate. "Damn it, Kitty," he said. "You can lie better than that."

  "Malcolm!"

  "Not that you can't run rings round me, but surely you knew I'd see through that farrago."

  Kitty reached for her cup and tossed down a swallow of coffee. "If I had made it up, I'd have come up with something a deal more imaginative. Not to mention something that portrayed me in a more positive light. Which should support the fact that I'm telling the truth."

  Malcolm shook his head. "A good try. But even that won't convince me."

  "Why?" She opened her eyes very wide.

  "Among other things, because of how you feel about St. Juste."

  "Oh, darling." Kitty steadied her cup as her shoulders convulsed with laughter. "Now you're seeing everything through your own lens. I'll admit I'm fond of Julien. Fonder than I ever meant to be. But I'm not you. I'm not even Mélanie."

  "No. You're yourself, with your own code. I don't pretend to understand what's between you and St. Juste. But I do know there are lines neither of you would cross. Not without a better reason than this, at any rate."

  She shook her head, her gaze warm with rueful affection. "You always want to tie things up with a neat bow."

  "On the contrary. I love the delightful messiness of life. Which means that even if two people haven't made conventional vows, they still can find a way to be true to each other."

  "That sounds gag-inducing." Kitty slumped in her chair. "Oh, all right. Julien and I haven't made any promises to each other but I do feel a sort of fidelity—God, I can't believe I'm saying that word—to what we have. Enough that I wouldn't have done what I did with Lewis if I'd been thinking clearly. If I hadn't drunk too much wine and been just a bit afraid of how strongly I was coming to feel for my exasperating lover. Enough, as I said, that I'd rather Julien didn't know now."

  Malcolm held her with his gaze. "I don't believe you, Kit."

  "Oh, Malcolm." She reached out across the table, between the toast crumbs and marmalade pots, and touched his hand. "You're a good judge of people. You're brilliant at it. But you always want to see the best in them. You're right that you know me. And you know I'm capable of compromise."

  "We all are."

  "And that I'm capable of hurting those I care about. I hurt you."

  "That was completely different." Malcolm folded his arms across his chest. "What are you hiding, Kit?"

  "Nothing, in this case. When you think about it, you'll realize that. Which makes me rather sad. I'll own I like having you think well of me. But love doesn't always mean happily ever after. Or even fidelity."

  "You'll never convince me."

  "That's the wonderful thing about you, darling. Your belief in people." Kitty reached for her coffee and took a sip. "But don't let it get in the way of finding the truth."

  "Auntie Kitty." Jessica waved to Kitty as she emerged from the Berkeley Square house. Malcolm had left a quarter hour before, but had told her to stay and finish her coffee. Kitty had done so, thinking it best to avoid further conversation for both their sakes. Not that she didn't have experience sharing both hard truths and well-constructed lies with Malcolm, but this conversation sat particularly bitter in her throat. She'd forced down the last of the coffee, put on her pelisse and bonnet, fingers less steady on the clasps and strings than she'd have liked, and then at last left the house.

  Jessica's cheerful greeting was a welcome distraction. Kitty went over to the garden, hugged the children, and greeted Laura, who was sitting on a bench nursing Clara. Kitty liked Raoul's wife a great deal, but Laura was entirely too likely to see that something was wrong. Still, she'd be even more likely to do so if Kitty made a hasty exit, and Kitty needed some time to consider her next move, so she sat beside Laura on one of the benches and watched the game of tag that was in progress.

  "I wanted to offer my help to Malcolm." Kitty decided it was best to confront the situation head on. "I was horrified by the news about Thornsby, but I confess the idea of being part of the investigation intrigues me."

  "I feel precisely the same," Laura said. "Even with a baby. Perhaps especially with a baby." She looked down at Clara, who had one hand fisted round the edge of her mother's nursing bodice.

  Colin came running over, as though aware of their conversation. "Are you going to help with the Investigation, Auntie Kitty?" he asked.

  "I told your father I'd do anything I could to help," Kitty said. "Julien says you were very brave last night."

  "I was scared," Colin said. He cast a quick glance at Jessica to make sure she hadn't heard. "But not so much, because Mummy was there. And Uncle Julien. I mean, I can't imagine any villain outwitting one of them, let alone both of them together, can you?"

  "No," Kitty said honestly.

  "And then I was curious," Colin said. "I told Mummy I'd help. She said I could distract Jessica. I said I didn't mean that, and she said she'd try to find more I could do. I think I'm old enough, don't you?"

  "I think you're a very grown-up six and a half," Kitty said.

  "Thanks.
" Colin grinned. "I'd like to Investigate when I grow up. And be a spy. And a politician. And maybe an archaeologist. And write plays. Oh, there's Uncle Raoul." He waved to Raoul, who was approaching the garden.

  Kitty wasn't looking forwards to facing Raoul either, though his arrival might give her a good excuse to depart. But when he joined them in the garden and greeted everyone, Colin said, "Aunt Kitty's going to help with the Investigation. And I am too."

  "I imagine you will both be invaluable assets," Raoul said.

  "Daddy." Emily joined them. "You're back early. But then, nothing is quite ordinary when there's an Investigation going on."

  "Which your father is bound to be pulled into as well," Kitty said.

  "Everyone Investigates in this family," Emily said.

  "Very true." Raoul grinned at her. "Speaking of which, I'm glad I found you here, Kitty. Could I have a word with you?"

  She could hardly say no. And in truth, if he wanted to talk to her, she wanted to know what he had to say.

  "Of course." She gave him a friendly, level smile as they crossed the street back to the house. "I made sure you'd have been off on adventures long since."

  He returned the smile with one equally friendly. And, she suspected, equally artful. "I'm much more domestic these days."

  "Ha."

  "At least when I'm in London." He opened the door himself and stepped aside to allow her to precede him into the house.

  "Much of the conflict in Spain is being played out in London," Kitty said as they climbed the stairs, aware that she was prevaricating. "Or, at least, the search for support for the conflict."

  "But more in clubs and council chambers and drawing rooms."

  "And you're in the midst of an investigation."

  "There is that." He opened the door onto a small salon with airy sea-green walls. Mélanie's touch was palpable, but then it was in every part of the house. Kitty advanced into the room and took off her bonnet again, remembering one of the first times she had been in this room, waiting for Malcolm. That had been an uncomfortable conversation too. It was also the room where they often sat with the children in the evenings after she and Julien had been to dine. She wondered if that was why Raoul had chosen it, harkening to the family ties between them instead of their relationship as agents,