The Mask of Night
: Chapter 23

I spent an informative half hour engaged in flirtation with one of Talleyrand’s attachés at Count Nesselrode’s last night (see attached notes). Charles spent most of the evening in the library. He’s the least jealous man I’ve ever known. It’s delightfully refreshing—though I confess at times my vanity feels a twinge of pique.

Mélanie Fraser to Raoul O’Roarke,

5 May, 1814

The embers were still banked in the library fireplace. Which was a good thing, Mélanie decided, for the room sorely lacked any other sort of warmth. Bet Simcox stood alone by the fireplace, gripping her elbows. The flare of firelight as Charles stirred the embers showed splotches of drying blood on the white sarcenet of her dress.

Alexander Trenor hovered a few feet away. Roth leaned against the library table. He had removed his greatcoat and his neckcloth was askew and stained with a variety of substances. His face sagged with self-recrimination.

It was a moment or two before he seemed to notice that Raoul had followed Charles, Mélanie, and Laura into the room. He lifted his head and stared at Raoul through the shadows. “O’Roarke. I didn’t realize. But perhaps it’s as well.”

“O’Roarke? Raoul O’Roarke?” Bet Simcox hurled herself across the room and grabbed Raoul by the lapels of his silk dressing gown. “Did you order him killed?”

Raoul drew a sharp breath, but he caught Bet by the shoulders in a gentle grip. “I think there must be some mistake, madam. I own to my share of sins, but none so recent as your brother’s death.”

“How do you know Billy’s dead?” Sᴇaʀch Thᴇ FindNʘᴠᴇl.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

“Miss Dudley told us on the way downstairs.”

“He was working for you.” She tightened her grip on him. “Him and that man St. Juste.”

“I haven’t worked with Julien St. Juste since the war, and I never worked with your brother.”

He looked down at her, his gaze soft. He had the damnable ability to seem to understand the innermost workings of one’s mind and soul. And most of the time he did understand. It was the uses to which he put that understanding that could be terrifying.

Bet’s shoulders relaxed. At last, she released her grip.

Charles set down the poker and stepped away from the now blazing fire. “Miss Simcox, I’m sorrier for your loss than I can express. But it seems we were wrong about O’Roarke’s involvement in the matter. There was an attempt on his life tonight. Very likely orchestrated by the same person who was behind your brother’s murder.”

She turned round. “But—“

“I think we’d best all sit down,” Charles said. “We have a number of things to discuss.”

He went to the drinks trolley and passed round glasses of whisky and brandy. Bet sat on the sofa. Trenor dropped down beside her but took care that his trouser leg didn’t brush against the folds of her skirt. Roth and Laura sat on the settee. Raoul moved to one of the high-backed chairs by the fireplace. Charles sat in the other. Mélanie perched on the chair arm. Given the dynamics of the evening it seemed a good idea to stay close to her husband.

Bet clutched the glass of brandy Charles had given her. “Billy sent me a message—at Sandy’s lodgings. He wanted to me to meet him at the Running Hare.”

Trenor stared at her across two feet of coffee velvet upholstery that might as well have been stone ramparts. “You could have told me.”

“I couldn’t, Sandy. He sent word in the strictest confidence.”

“But I’m’—” Trenor fell silent. Your lover. It’s supposed to be different. Which, Mélanie supposed, it was. If one played by a certain set of rules.

“I slipped out and went to see Billy. He was—” Bet’s smooth brow creased. “He was frightened. I don’t think I’ve seen him truly frightened since he was five years old and afraid the Ransom twins were lying in wait for him in the alley behind our lodgings. He told me—” She put her fist to her mouth. “He said he’d never have got involved if he’d known what it meant.”

“What?” Roth was leaning forward, his notebook open on his lap, his pencil in his hand. “What did it mean?”

“He didn’t say. But he kept saying he wasn’t a killer. And I must have looked like I didn’t believe him because— What the bleeding hell, you can’t arrest him now. It wasn’t as though he’d never killed before, see, though always in a fair fight. Well, a fight anyway. But when I pointed that out, he muttered something like ‘Those weren’t innocents.’”

Roth scribbled in his notebook. “Did your brother say whom he was working for?”

“No. Only that he’d do his best to stop this person, but he wasn’t sure he’d succeed and meanwhile it might not be safe for me and Nannie. That no matter what I should be sure he’d tried—“

Her face crumpled. Trenor dropped his arm round her. She sat perfectly still, as though unaware of his existence.

“Did your brother say anything specific about what he had done, Miss Simcox?” Roth asked.

She frowned. “He said he’d thought it was a lark at first. That he hadn’t realized how much was at stake. Not until Chelsea and Harris.’

‘Harris?’ Charles said. ‘Captain Harris?’

‘You know who he was talking about?’

‘I know a Captain Harris who retired to Chelsea.’

‘From the Peninsula?’ Mélanie asked. It wasn’t a name she was familiar with.

‘From when I was a boy. Captain Harris was attached to the Ordnance Office,” Charles said, his voice carefully level. “He was an aide to Lord Carfax.’

Mélanie controlled her breathing.

‘Did your brother say anything else about Harris and Chelsea?’ Charles asked Bet.

She shook her head. ‘Just that that was when he began to understand whom he was really working for.”

“St. Juste?”

“No. Someone else. Someone who’d been to see him today. It was his visit had really scared Billy. That must be who the note was from.” She glanced at Mélanie and Charles. “Mr. Roth searched Billy’s pockets before we left the Running Hare. He found a note setting up a meeting for tonight. I didn’t recognize the hand.”

“Billy said nothing about this person he met with today?” Charles asked.

“Only that he was dangerous. I want to help stop whatever it is, Mr. Roth. That was Billy’s last wish.”

“You have helped, Miss Simcox. At least we know what we’re up against.”

She ran her finger over the rim of her brandy glass. “My brother wasn’t a bad person. But for him to turn on his employer—it had to be mortal bad.”

Roth nodded. “What do you think might have been bad enough?”

“Something that might catch up innocent bystanders. He turned down a breakin at a jeweler’s once because he found out two apprentices slept behind the shop.” She stared at a rust-colored patch on her sarcenet skirt. “Who are these people? What do they want?”

“That’s what we’re endeavoring to discover.” Roth was silent a moment. “I’m sorry I wasn’t quicker. Your brother shouldn’t have died.”

She gave a jerky nod and took a swallow of brandy. The dusting of freckles on her nose stood out against her pale skin.

Raoul’s chair creaked as he leaned back. “Someone’s tidying away the evidence. Simcox who worked with St. Juste. Me, perhaps because I spoke with St. Juste recently, and they weren’t sure how much he told me.”

“Quite,” Charles agreed. “The question is whether it’s St. Juste’s killer or his employer doing the tidying or if they’re one and the same.”

“Bet’s in danger,” Trenor said. “The man who killed Billy will have seen her. Whoever hired him may be afraid Billy told Bet something before he was killed.”

“Yes.” Roth looked from Trenor to Bet. “And even without that, the killer may be worried about what Mr. Simcox said to his family previously. Miss Simcox, can your sister be relied upon to stay safely hidden?”

“Nannie can’t be relied upon for much of anything, but she and Sam have an instinct for self-preservation.” Bet bit her lip. “Oh, God. If anything happens to her or Sarah—“

“For what it’s worth, Miss Simcox,” Raoul said, “the man you call Sam Lucan has survived more than one threat to his life with surprising agility.”

Bet nodded, though her eyes were shadowed.

“As for you, Miss Simcox—“ Roth said.

“I can look after her,” Trenor said.

Bet shook her head but laid her hand over his own.

Trenor gripped her fingers. “You won’t run away again.”

“I won’t run away again. But I don’t want to just hide. I want to do something, Mr. Roth. Tell me what.”

“For now you need to get some rest. Hopefully we’ll know more in the morning.”

Mélanie got to her feet. “You must stay here. Both of you. I’ll see you settled. Laura, could you help me?” She looked at Charles, Raoul, and Roth. “Start catching up on stories. It’s all right if I miss that.”

In the event, it was well over a quarter hour before she returned to the library. She had been unsure if Bet would prefer to be with Trenor or on her own, but by the time they reached the second floor landing, Bet was clinging to Trenor’s arm. Mélanie left it to Laura to finish up the sleeping arrangements and returned downstairs just as Blanca and Addison were stepping into the entry hall.

“There wasn’t a sign of Mr. O’Roarke at the Crystal Heart.” Blanca tugged loose the ties on her cloak. “He’s been there—we spoke to the barkeep—but he didn’t appear tonight, though we waited for hours.”

“And drank a lot of quite appalling burgundy,” Addison added.

“Never mind,” Mélanie said. “As it happens we’ve found him ourselves. He’s in the library.”

Blanca dropped her cloak on the settle. “What?”

“Along with Charles and Mr. Roth. Addison, why don’t you join them?” Mélanie met Blanca’s stormy gaze. “Let’s go into the study.”

“You’re insane,” Blanca said as the study door clicked shut. “Completemente loco. You know that, don’t you?”

“I’ve known it for years.” Mélanie struck a spark to a lamp. “So have you.”

“Mélanie.” Blanca seized her by the arms. “Somehow Mr. Fraser understands. Addison understands. I never thought it would come true, but we’re happy. You can’t throw happiness away like old shoes.”

“I’m not throwing anything away.”

“You can’t have him in the house. Not him of all people. Especially when he was working with St. Juste—“

“We’re not sure whom he was working with.”

“You never think clearly where he’s concerned.”

“If I couldn’t think clearly where Raoul was concerned I’d have been dead long since.” Mélanie detached herself from Blanca’s grip. “He was a great help last autumn.”

“Because he cares about Colin. You don’t know which side he’s on now. You can never tell which side he’s on, that one.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Do you want to drive Mr. Fraser mad? How much patience do you think he has?”

“Charles will be all right.” Though there were a few details, such as the fact that Raoul was Charles’s father, that Mélanie hadn’t shared even with Blanca.

“If a woman Addison used to sleep with was sitting in the library I’d box her ears.”

“I don’t doubt it. But Charles isn’t you. He doesn’t have any illusions about me.”

“He’s already had to face the fact that the dead man was your lover.”

“One night doesn’t make someone a lover.”

“One night can do a lot.” Blanca regarded her for a moment. ‘I don’t think M. St. Juste forgot you, anymore than you forgot him.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, I never—“

“I can see the memories in your face.”

“Of course. I could hardly forget my first mission. Or one of my few failures.” Mélanie moved to the door. “I think we’d better join the men.”

“Mélanie—“

“This won’t cause trouble between you and Addison.”

“That’s not the sort of trouble I’m worried about. I know how Raoul feels about you, Mélanie. Better than you do yourself, I think. And I also know he won’t let that stand in his way. Dios, if he could tell you to marry Mr. Fraser to serve his own ends, he’s capable of anything.”

“Not quite anything I think. But he’s capable of a great deal. I’ll watch him carefully.”

“It’ll end in tears.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“And I’m usually right.”

On the whole, Melanie decided, it would be best not to calculate how often this had been true. She led the way back to the library to find that Charles had supplied everyone with more whisky, which at this point probably couldn’t do any harm lack of sleep wasn’t doing already. Raoul was talking, but he broke off when she opened the door.

“Laura’s finishing up the sleeping arrangements,” she said. “Have you caught up on the events of the night?”

“Very nearly,” Raoul said. “Roth is kindly turning a blind eye to some of the revelations.”

“I could hardly arrest you for printing pamphlets I haven’t seen,” Roth said.

Charles handed whiskies to Mélanie and Blanca. “Speaking of which, I want to have a look at those pamphlets, O’Roarke.’

Raoul inclined his head. “I’d appreciate it. Perhaps you’ll notice some significance I’ve missed. Though I suspect the person behind the attack on me tonight was the same person who had Billy Simcox killed. In which case, the pamphlets are probably irrelevant.”

Roth pressed his fingers into his scalp. “If I’d had any brains at all I’d have got Simcox out of the Running Hare at once.”

“The assassin would have fired as you left,” Charles said.

“If I’d been a half-second quicker—“

Mélanie moved to Roth’s side and touched his shoulder. “Everyone in this room is more adept at self-flagellation than followers of the Marquis de Sade, but I think we all know how singularly pointless an exercise it is.”

“Which doesn’t stop us from engaging in it. A bit like falling in love.”

Charles turned his glass in his hand. “Miss Simcox said something about a note you found on her brother?”

“God, I’m sorry. My brain’s not working properly.” Roth dug a hand into his pocket and held out a slip of paper.

Charles read it through without surprise, then folded the paper and stared as though someone had stuck a knife in his ribs. “God in heaven.”

“Darling?” Mélanie went to his side.

He held the note out without speaking. It was simple enough.

The Running Hare. Seven o’clock.

But when she folded the paper as Charles had done, she saw that it had been sealed with red sealing wax that bore a small imprint of a castle. “Sacrebleu. I suppose we should have guessed.”

Roth glanced between them. “Guessed what?”

“Have you ever heard of the Elsinore League?” Charles asked.

Addison drew a sharp breath.

“Bloody hell.” Blanca’s eyes went wide.

“No,” Roth said. “What the devil are they?”

“That’s still open to question.” Charles returned to his chair. “Mélanie and I learned about them when we were investigating Honoria Talbot’s murder two and a half years ago. They were an organization my father—Kenneth Fraser—and his friend Lord Glenister began when they were at Oxford. The members were wellborn, wealthy young men both from Britain and abroad. They drank, whored, and generally indulged their appetites. Glenister would no doubt insist that’s all there was to it.”

“But you think they had a purpose beyond that?” Roth said.

“We know one of the league’s members was involved in atrocities during the French Revolution. He went by the name Le Faucon de Maulévrier, but his actual identity and nationality remain unclear. After Waterloo, families of his victims—some of them powerfully situated in the restored monarchy—tried to uncover his identity to exact retribution. Le Faucon escaped France with the help of my father and other members of the Elsinore League. Once he was safely in Britain, Le Faucon had my father killed.”

Roth frowned. “After your father had helped him escape? Why?”

“Perhaps because Father was the only one who knew where he’d gone to earth. Or perhaps because my father was in possession of papers which may have held the secret to his identity or more information about the Elsinore League. Le Faucon had his agent retrieve them after Father’s death.”

“His agent?”

“Tommy Belmont.”

“Belmont?” Raoul said. “Lord Lovel’s son? Your friend from Lisbon?”

“My fellow diplomat and spy,” Charles said. “Tommy was restless in the aftermath of the war and Le Faucon recruited him. I’m quite sure it was Tommy who killed my father—Kenneth Fraser.”

“Where’s Tommy Belmont now?” Raoul asked.

“His family say he’s visiting their interests in India. But I don’t think even they know where he’s really gone to earth.”

“You said you thought the Elsinore League had a purpose beyond debauchery,” Roth said.

“I can’t prove anything, but I’ve always suspected there’s more to them than we learned two and a half years ago.”

“Do you think they were actually French Revolutionaries?”

“I have a difficult time seeing my father as a revolutionary of any sort. Glenister claims the French members of the league ended up on both sides in the Revolution. O’Roarke? Have you ever heard of the Elsinore League?”

Mélanie turned to look at Raoul, part of her expecting a denial, part of her already braced against an admission that he too had been a member.

“Yes, I’ve heard of them.” Raoul frowned into the depths of his whisky glass. “A few vague references that don’t go beyond what you’ve described.”

“From?” Charles said.

“Your mother.”

Charles’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t realize she knew about them.”

“She knew of their existence but had as little interest as she had in most matters involving your father.”

“But?” Charles said.

“Years later in Lisbon—before you were posted there—I was at a reception at the British Embassy. I came across Colonel Cathcart in conversation with Juan Sanchez, a Spanish envoy. I caught the word ‘Elsinore’, so I made some comment about discussing Hamlet at a party. They both looked at me as if they hadn’t the faintest idea Elsinore had anything to do with Hamlet. Then Cathcart said something about Shakespearean characters, for all the world as if Elsinore was a person, not a place. I’d have thought it a good joke except—”

‘What?’ Mélanie said.

‘Cathcart and Sanchez both had a lot of bravado. I saw them display it on more than one occasion during the war. But Sanchez went ghost white and Cathcart broke out in a sweat.” Raoul glanced at Charles. “They were of an age to have known your father and Glenister as young men.”

“Cathcart was in Father’s set at Oxford,” Charles said. “I don’t know about Sanchez.”

“And Le Faucon?” Mélanie asked. “What do you know about him?

Raoul grimaced. “I’ve heard of his exploits if one can call them that. I’ve heard the speculation about his identity, including the possibility that he was English. But I know no more of who he was—is—than you do.”

“Is there any possibility he and Julien St. Juste are one and the same?” Addison asked.

“St. Juste would only have been fourteen or fifteen at the time of Le Faucon’s exploits,’ O’Roarke said. ‘Knowing St. Juste I suppose it’s vaguely possible he was that precocious, but I doubt it. It’s more likely Le Faucon engaged St. Juste’s services in the past few months.’

“To destroy Lord Carfax?” Blanca asked. “Could Carfax have been a member of the Elsinore League?”

‘He claimed not to be two and half years ago,’ Charles said. ‘I told him what I’d learned about the league in the aftermath of Honoria’s death. Carfax said his only knowledge of them had been as an undergraduate club. He didn’t move in my father and Glenister’s set.’

“But he was connected to Glenister by marriage,” Mélanie said. “Perhaps he knows something to Le Faucon’s detriment and Le Faucon wants to get rid of him.”

“Why now?” said Charles. “And why not simply have him killed, like my father? Why all the business about seducing Bel?’

“And the list of Radical disturbances,” Addison pointed out.

Raoul leaned forward. ‘Miss Simcox said her brother realized what he’d really got into when he went to Chelsea and that he mentioned the name Harris. You said you knew a Captain Harris who used to work for Lord Carfax?’

Charles scrubbed his hands over his face. ‘I met him several times when I visited David on school holidays.’

‘Did Captain Harris work in intelligence?’ Raoul asked.

‘Probably. For a few years, Harris always seemed to be in and out of Carfax’s house. Then I heard he’d sold out of the army and married and retired to Chelsea.’

‘So Billy Simcox’s work for St. Juste involved someone who used to work for Lord Carfax.” Mélanie perched on the arm of Charles’s chair. “Suppose Will’s right. Suppose the violence at all those incidents on the list you found in St. Juste’s rooms was the work of agents provocateurs employed by someone in the Government. St. Juste appeared to have been decoding it. St. Juste appears to have had an interest in Lord Carfax.’

Charles twisted round in his chair to look up at her. ‘You’re suggesting Carfax is behind those incidents?’

‘What do you think?’

He was silent for a moment. ‘That it’s possible. None of which answers the question of what this plot was that didn’t end with St. Juste’s death and that so horrified Billy Simcox he was ready to turn on his employer.’

“Assassination was St. Juste’s forte,’ Raoul said.

Mélanie looked from Raoul to her husband. They hadn’t told Roth, Addison, and Blanca about the Dauphin. But the possibility that St. Juste had come to England not to extract the Dauphin but to eliminate him hung in the air.

‘You think it’s Le Faucon still trying to cover up his past?’ Roth said.

“It’s difficult to imagine who could have managed to kill St. Juste,’ Raoul said. ‘But if the stories about Le Faucon are true, he might have been able to pull it off.”

“He employed St. Juste and then turned on him?” Addison said.

“He might have done. If St. Juste learned who he really was,” Mélanie said. “We know Le Faucon will kill to protect his identity.”

“Do you know anyone you can ask about the Elsinore League?” Roth asked.

“The only person living who I know for a certainty was a member is Glenister and he’s up in Argyllshire,” Charles said. “Colonel Cathcart died at Waterloo. Tommy Belmont’s family are at their country seat, and I don’t think we can get anything out of them. Carfax is going to want a report from me. I’ll sound him out as best as I can.”

Roth nodded and got to his feet. “I should go. I have to make arrangements for Simcox’s body and write up a report for the Chief Magistrate. We’ll talk tomorrow. Or later this morning, rather. We should visit this Captain Harris and see if we can learn what so turned Billy Simcox’s stomach in Chelsea.”

Randall, who had returned from conveying Simon to the Albany, drove Roth to Bow Street. Raoul was persuaded to return to the dressing room of the guest suite, which he’d been sharing with Simon. “It will be clearer in the morning,” Mélanie said to Charles when they were alone again in their bedchamber.

“Will it?”

“There’s always the hope. Charles—” She studied his haggard face and deep-set eyes in the lamplight. “I know it’s not easy, having to confront matters about your father again.”

“Which father?”

“I was thinking of Kenneth Fraser, but both of them actually.”

He pulled his shirt over his head. “Whatever the Elsinore League were, they went beyond Kenneth Fraser. This is hardly the first time I’ve had to hear Father’s name in the past two and a half years. And while I confess I’m not thrilled by O’Roarke’s presence under our roof, in the circumstances I think I’m managing pretty well.”

They finished undressing in silence and stumbled into their bed. The sheets were cold, but the feather bed felt like heaven.

“You’re going to see Carfax in the morning?” Mélanie asked, pulling the covers closer against the chill.

‘I can’t put it off much longer.’

‘We could turn it to our advantage. If you could distract him or get him out of Carfax House—’

“No.” Charles blew out the candle and lay back against the pillows.

“You don’t know—“

His fingers closed round her wrist. ‘Mélanie, so help me God if you break into the Carfax House without telling me—“

‘I wouldn’t.’

He released her. ‘Wouldn’t you?’

‘Not now.’

Several seconds of silence followed. She could hear the wind lashing tree branches against the house and smell the smoke from the recently extinguished candle. “What are you going to tell Carfax?” she asked at last.

‘I’m not sure. If he’s been having me followed, he already knows some of what we know. I’ll have to sound him out, see how much he’s uncovered. When I told you I wouldn’t expose any of your former comrades, I didn’t realize that nearly everything we’d discover would involve someone you’d worked with one way or another.’

She rolled onto her side toward him and curled her feet up for warmth. ‘Would it help if we went over—’

‘Thanks. I need to work this out for myself.’

‘I used to be rather good at helping you figure out how to approach Carfax.’

‘Thank you, my dear. I’m all too well aware that we’ve had entirely too many conversations about Carfax.’

She pushed herself up on one elbow. She could see the the line of his nose and jaw, but she couldn’t read his eyes. ‘Charles. It’s different now.’

‘Is it?” The pillow rustled as he turned his head. ‘Our divided loyalties are in the open. But they’re still divided.’

‘Fair enough. But—’

“You’re on very thin ice here, Mel.”

‘I can take it if you’re angry.’

‘I’m not angry. I’m working through options.’

‘You have a right to be angry.’

‘I did that two months ago. All it got us was a hole in the salon wall.’

‘It isn’t funny.’

‘I expect some people would find it hilarious. Go to sleep, Mel.’

‘I’m beyond being sleepy.’

“So am I, but—“

“Good.” She leaned over and pressed her lips against his bare chest.

He caught her by the shoulders and held her away from him. “We’re done with that.”

“What?”

“Intercourse to defuse the situation, to distract me, to placate me—“

“Charles—“

“I’m not Julien St. Juste.”

She sat up, the air cold against her bare skin. “What the devil’s that supposed to mean?”

“That I know sex can be a very effective weapon but it’s not one I care to have turned on me.”

“Darling, I wouldn’t—“

“Oh, yes, you would. You’ve done it ever since our wedding night. But I didn’t know you were doing it. I do now. The rules have changed.”

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