The Mask of Night
: Chapter 19

I think you’ll like the new actor I’ve engaged. He can think for himself, which some playwrights might consider a drawback, but I find quite refreshing.

Simon Tanner to Charles Fraser,

5 December, 1816

Charles felt Will Gordon’s gaze on him as they settled themselves on the sofa in the Bartletts’ parlor. Will had crisply-cut features, intelligent dark eyes presently hidden by his spectacles, and dark hair worn fashionably long. It hung about his face in Corsair-like disorder in many performances but was combed severely back tonight. “I’m happy to be of help,” he said. “But I wasn’t at the Lydgates’. A bit above my touch.”

“Hardly that, Gordon. You have a knack for fitting in to most society.” Charles returned Will’s frank regard. The young actor was almost as much of an enigma as Julien St. Juste. He had appeared one day at the Tavistock and asked for an audition. The doorman had laughed in his face, as had the stage manager. But then Simon had strolled in and agreed to hear him. An hour later, Will had a role in Simon’s next play. A year later, he was on his way to becoming one of the most talked about young actors in London. He was clearly educated, but whether the education was self-acquired or university taught remained unclear. Charles had never heard him mention his family, his childhood, or any other detail of his life prior to the moment he had walked through the door of the Tavistock. Nor, until Mélanie had touched his arm just now at the sight of Will and Pendarves, had Charles seen or heard the least hint of Will’s being involved with anyone of either sex.

“Perhaps,” Will said. “But I wasn’t invited to the Lydgates’. More’s the pity as things turned out, though in general society balls aren’t to my taste.”

“How did you fit in at the jail in Lancaster?”

Will’s back stiffened. Then he relaxed against the sofa cushions. “What does that have to do with what happened last night at the Lydgates’?”

“Why don’t you tell me?”

“Do you want me to make up a story? I could come up with a damned good one if I put my mind to it, but I don’t see how a farago of lies would be of much help to either of us.”

Charles dived a hand into his pocket and pulled out the list he and Roth had found in St. Juste’s rooms. “Do these dates mean anything to you?”

Will scanned the list. “They’re dates of Radical disturbances. I was involved in several. On one occasion, as you alluded, I spent a few nights in jail in Lancaster. I owe my release to the kind offices of your friend Worsley. Don’t think I’m not grateful. But what the hell does that list have to do with last night’s murder? Don’t tell me you believe the idiots who say the man was killed by bloody-thirsty Jacobins.”

The puzzlement in Will’s face appeared utterly genuine, but Charles was not sure. In a lot of ways, Will reminded him of himself at two-and-twenty. And Will was an actor. A very, very good actor.

“We found the list in the rooms in which the dead man had been staying,” Charles said.

“So you think he was one of us?”

“One of whom?”

“Radicals, Jacobins, Sans-Coulottes—“

“Those names are a bit French Revolution, aren’t they?”

“A lot of people can’t get past the French Revolution. Who is the dead man?”

“I’m not sure,” Charles said. That was the truth. No one appeared to know who Julien St. Juste really was or where he had come from.

“But you think he may have been working with my friends.”

“I think there’s an explanation for what he was doing with that list. I’m not in the least sure what the explanation is.”

“You’re starting to talk like someone at the Home Office, Fraser. Seeing conspiracies everywhere. Imagining we’re all connected. Look about you.” His gaze swept the parlor and the open doors to the drawing room. “Do you see ten people who could find a half-dozen topics to agree on, let alone plan a conspiracy? Lack of agreement has been the curse of Radicals back to the United Irish Uprising.”

“Why the United Irish Uprising in particular?”

“Because it seems less obvious than saying the French Revolution.” Will regarded him for a moment. “Aren’t you going to give me the lecture?”

“What lecture?”

“About how you were just like me when you were my age, but now you see the dangers of too much agitation, and if I were sensible I’d stand for Parliament like you and work for reform through legal channels.”

Someone was singing Dove Sono in the drawing room. Whoever it was had a pretty voice, but lacked the passion Mélanie brought to the aria. “When I was your age,” Charles said, “I spoke and wrote a bit, largely for an audience who already shared my beliefs. I hardly think I had your flair.”

“That’s not the way I hear it. You and your friends—Tanner and Worsley and Lydgate—caused quite a bit of consternation among Government types like Carfax and Castlereagh and Sidmouth.”

“I’d take that as proof of their paranoia rather than of any power on our side.”

“And then when your reckless undergraduate days were behind you—“

“I ran off to the Continent, mostly because I couldn’t face the demons at home. I met my wife and got quite good at picking locks and decoding documents. But as far as living up to the ideals I’d espoused in my undergraduate days, I can’t claim I made a very wise choice. For what it’s worth I do think you’d be quite effective in Parliament.”

“Yes, well we can’t all afford to buy our way in. Sorry, that was a low blow.”

“No,” Charles said, “I’d call that above the belt.”

“I like you, Fraser. More important, I admire you. But you’re never going to get Parliament to reform a system that favors its own members to so great a degree.”

“So what’s your alternative?”

“I don’t know. At this point, I wouldn’t rule anything out, though.”

“On a number of issues of the day—capital punishment, abolition, suffrage—the official positions of the Whigs and Tories are so close as to be almost indistinguishable. Yet the fact that we have two parties gives us the illusion of debate, while neatly excluding from the discussion any opinions that fall outside that narrow spectrum.”

“That’s quite well put. Are you trying to mimic something I’d write?”

“No, I’m quoting something I wrote myself.”

“When you were a heedless undergraduate?”

“Last week.”

“One can argue that anyone who doesn’t actively oppose an unjust system is complicit in the tyranny,” Will said.

“So one can. Have you read Cagano?”

“A former slave. He claimed every man in Great Britain was responsible in some degree for slavery. I wonder what Hetty Bartlett would say.”

“You’ll have to ask her. I certainly wouldn’t disagree with him.”

“So what’s your solution?”

“I don’t know,” Charles said. “I haven’t ruled anything out either. But as a former diplomat I incline to compromise rather than confrontation.”

“Diplomacy can become a quagmire.”

“So can war.”

“But it offers the possibility of victory.”

“Violence can have unintended consequences.”

“In other words if you let the ends justify the means the ends become warped?”

“Whom do you identify with in Julius Caesar?” Charles asked.

“The plebians. They’re pawns whoever’s in power. But I feel a certain sympathy for Brutus’s fear of tyranny.”

“And yet in the end Brutus and his companions assassinate Caesar and Rome still ends up with an emperor. A colder, more calculating emperor as Shakespeare portrays him. Morality aside, violence tends to convince those in the middle that any sort of reform will lead to blood in the streets. Which in turns lends support to tyranny.”

“Very well done, Fraser. That’s one of the best arguments for inactivity I’ve heard in an age.”

Charles regarded Will. Even were it not for the spectacle lenses, his eyes would be difficult to read. “So you don’t know of any connections among these events?” he asked, gesturing toward the list.

“They all caused a lot of consternation at Whitehall and in Mayfair drawing rooms. A lot of the same people were present at all of them. None was as well organized as it should have been. Other than that— No.”

Charles folded the paper. “Does the name Julien St. Juste mean anything to you?”

“It sounds French. In fact it sounds like a French alias. Is that the name of the dead man?”

“I was hoping you could tell me. What about Raoul O’Roarke?’

‘I’ve read a number of his pamphlets, both in French and Spanish and some from his days in Ireland. We’ve never met more’s the pity.’

Charles returned the folded paper to his pocket. Despite Will’s skills as an actor, he was quite sure that last had been a lie.

Mélanie accepted a glass of sherry from Lord Pendarves and sank down on a petit-point settee. “Sit down, my lord.”

Pendarves hesitated, but once again inbred good manners won out. He dropped down beside her.

Mélanie smoothed her skirt. “I didn’t realize you were acquainted with Mr. Gordon.”

“We met in the Tavistock’s Green Room after a performance.”

“You’re fond of the theatre?”

“I find it amusing from time to time.”

Mélanie smiled across the room at Cecily Summers, now in conversation with the publisher John Murray. “Did you see Mr. Gordon and Mrs. Summers in The Unlikely Marriage? It’s one of my favorites of Simon’s plays.”

“Tanner’s always had a way with words.”

“And Mr. Gordon brought the hero to life quite splendidly.” Mélanie took a sip of sherry. “So it was Mr. Gordon who brought you to the Bartletts’ tonight?”

“Not at all. I simply ran across him in the parlor and stopped to exchange a few words.”

“I didn’t realize you were acquainted with the Bartletts.”

“One may be friends with people without sharing their politics, Mrs. Fraser.”

“Thank goodness or I fear my husband and I would have a sadly restricted social circle.” She set her glass down. “Lady St. Ives overheard you and Simon quarreling on the terrace last night.” She waited for a moment, but his gaze remained a cold blank. “She said you were insisting Simon tell you the truth. You were talking about Will, weren’t you? You were worried about what Simon was leading him into.”

“You presume too much, Mrs. Fraser.”

She laid a hand on his arm. He stiffened but did not pull away. “Lord Pendarves. Simon is one of the people I love best in the world. I’m very fond of Will. I want to help.”

“Help who?” The words were a harsh rasp.

“Simon. Will. You, if you’ll let me.”

“Tanner’s been beyond help for a long time.”

“No one is beyond help or life would be pointless.”

“My dear Mrs. Fraser—“

“Believe me, Lord Pendarves, I speak from experience, not naiveté.”

He stared down at her fingers resting on the midnight blue cassimere of his sleeve then lifted his gaze to her face. “Simon’s always thought he could turn rules upside down. He doesn’t consider what else he may turn upside down with them.”

“What were you afraid of last night?”

“How the devil should I know? How can I know when Will won’t even tell me—?”

“Tell you what?”

Pendarves detached her hand from his arm with the careful formality of a gentleman executing a dance step. “Forgive me, Mrs. Fraser. I fear I’ve lingered too long.” He got to his feet. “May I escort you to join some of your friends before I take my leave?”

“Thank you, Lord Pendarves. I’m well able to look after myself.”

He gave a stiff nod and moved away. Through the open doors to the parlor, Mélanie could glimpse Charles still in conversation with Will. She could only hope her husband was managing his interrogation more adroitly than she had her own.

“Mrs. Fraser?” Clara Bartlett materialized beside the settee, holding a decanter. “Would you like some more sherry?”

“No. Yes. It can’t hurt at this point.”

Clara refilled her glass and perched on the settee. “Your dress is pretty. I saw a picture of one like it in the La Belle Assemblée you gave me the last time you visited. Dress in a peculiar shade of lavender. It had a pelisse that went with it and a bonnet with blond lace and silk roses. With a brim in the capu-something style.”

“Capuchin,” Mélanie said.

“That’s it. I looked it up in the dictionary and it said it was a hood for monks, but I think the bonnet was prettier.”

Mélanie smiled at the girl. “I’ll send a new La Belle Assemblée round for you.”

“Thanks.” Clara ran a practiced gaze over Mélanie’s gown. “That dress goes with a walking costume, doesn’t it?”

“So it does.”

“You probably didn’t have time to change for the evening since you and Mr. Fraser are investigating the murder that happened last night.”

“Clara. Who’s been talking to you?”

“Oh, everyone’s been talking about the murder. Well, almost everyone. I don’t think it’s what Lord Pendarves and Mr. Gordon were arguing about.”

Mélanie looked into Clara’s hazel eyes, every bit as sharp as either of her parents’. “Lord Pendarves and Mr. Gordon were arguing?”

Clara glanced at Pendarves’s abandoned sherry glass. “I heard them when I went to refill their drinks earlier. They didn’t realize I was there at first. Mr. Gordon was annoyed because Lord Pendarves had followed him here, and Lord Pendarves was upset because Mr. Gordon wouldn’t tell him where he was going tonight.”

“You mean Mr. Gordon hadn’t told Lord Pendarves he was coming here tonight?”

“No, Lord Pendarves knew about that. Mr. Gordon’s here just about every Friday. He was trying to get Mr. Gordon to tell him where he was going after he left here.’

“Mr. Gordon’s going somewhere special?”

“Lord Pendarves thought so. He seemed angry— No, not angry exactly. He seemed scared.”

Jeremy Roth stared at the notes spread on the splintery tabletop. The coal oil lamp emitted flickering light and puffs of smoke from its blackened chimney. Usually he found it easier to think through the details of a case here, in an upper room of the Brown Bear Tavern, adjacent to Bow Street. But the scribbled papers before him seemed more disconnected ramblings than the beginnings of a coherent theory. He feared they might have to locate Raoul O’Roarke to to get at the heart of the matter.

And if the Frasers found O’Roarke, Roth was not at all certain they’d share the information with him. Or with each other. He had a clear memory of O’Roarke meeting Mélanie Fraser’s gaze over Colin’s head in the torchlit alley just after they had recovered the boy from his captors. That look had spoken of ties that went deeper than the comradeship of fellow spies. Suppose Mrs. Fraser had known O’Roarke was at the ball? Suppose she’d known St. Juste was there? Suppose she’d spoken with them…

Roth threw down his pencil. Dawkins had had no luck in tracing the owner of the diamond earring. Roth’s own visit to the Three Kings had yielded only a vague acknowledgement that someone resembling Billy Simcox might have had a drink there in the last fortnight.

The creak of the door cut in on his thoughts. He looked up to see the silhouetted figure of a woman in a dark cloak, with a man behind her. He assumed it was the Frasers, but as he got to his feet, the woman walked forward and pushed back her hood to reveal hair that gleamed like copper.

“I apologize for the disturbance, Mr. Roth,” Laura Dudley said.

“Is it Mr. and Mrs. Fraser?” Roth said, aware of an unaccustomed bite of alarm.

“No. They haven’t returned.” Miss Dudley turned to the man who had accompanied her. “Allow me to present Mr. Trenor. His friend Miss Simcox is sister to a man apparently employed by the unfortunate gentleman who met his death at the Lydgates’ last night. Miss Simcox has disappeared and Mr. Trenor fears she’s gone to meet her brother.”

Her gaze held a faint question as to his understanding of the names and situations. Roth nodded, the Frasers’ story of this afternoon fresh in his mind. “Do you know where Miss Simcox has gone?” he asked Trenor.

“No.” Trenor’s voice was sharp with self-reproach. He held out a creased paper. “Can you make sense of this?”

Roth scanned the note. “I think Billy Simcox was asking his sister to meet him at the Running Hare. It’s a gin mill in Mercer Street.” He lifted his coat from the chairback.

“I’m coming with you.” Trenor looked him square in the eye. “If you say no, I’ll follow.” S~ᴇaʀᴄh the ꜰindNʘvel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

Roth slipped the note into his pocket. “Then you’d best accompany me. It seems to me you’ve earned the right.”

“Good,” Miss Dudley said. “We have a carriage waiting down stairs.”

“Thank you. I’ll arrange for a hackney to take you back to Berkeley Square.”

“Don’t be absurd, Mr. Roth.” Miss Dudley moved to the door. “Naturally I’m coming with you as well.”

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