Authors: Imperial Scandal

Teresa Grant (20 page)

BOOK: Teresa Grant

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“And hopefully the dancing will distract our troops and the Dutch-Belgians from quarreling.” Malcolm took a sip from Suzanne’s champagne glass. “If you’ll excuse me, I must speak to Stuart.”

Malcolm slipped out of the salon. Suzanne asked how Fitzroy’s wife was getting on with her new baby daughter. A murmur from the crowd caught their attention. Fitzroy let out a low whistle. “One can’t but sympathize, but it would have been so much easier if she’d remained in London.”

Cordelia Davenport and Caroline Lamb had come into the salon. Half the crowd appeared to be looking at them, the other half at Harry Davenport, flicking a bit of lint from his lapel, and at George Chase, who was standing with three of his fellow cavalry officers.

“Poor Davenport,” Lord March muttered. “Sharp tongue, but not a bad fellow. He certainly didn’t deserve this.”

Suzanne nodded. She had noticed something else that turned her blood colder than her expertly iced champagne. A sandy-haired man she recognized as Captain Dumont had come into the room and was making his way toward the waiter with the pox scars. No sign of Malcolm. No way to exchange the dummy note for the original.

“Evening, Chase.” Davenport took a step toward George Chase. His voice rang out, slightly slurred. “A bit awkward, but I suppose there’s a certain drama in our meeting at the opera.”

The crowd froze with equal parts awkwardness and interest. Dumont couldn’t move without drawing attention to himself.

A host of emotions flickered through George Chase’s eyes. Surprise. Embarrassment. Guilt. Quickly as they had appeared they vanished beneath an easy smile. “Davenport.” He moved toward the other man, his hand extended. “It’s good to see you in Brussels. It looks like we’re in for a bit of a hard run. I’m glad we’ll have you with us.”

Davenport stared down at George Chase’s hand as though it were some unknown substance he’d stumbled over in the street. “Doing it much too brown, Chase. I doubt my presence brings you any comfort. In fact, I rather think you wouldn’t care to find me at your back.”

“Ancient history, Davenport.”

“Is it? We could fight that duel we never fought and rival the opera. Though I must say I think Orfeo’s carrying on a bit much about his wife being dragged off to the underworld. He might be better off without her. Oh, look.” He cast a glance to the side. “There’s my wife.”

Cordelia Davenport stepped forward with a shrug of her shoulders that made her jet-beaded shawl flash in the candlelight. “Don’t be tiresome, Harry. You can’t possibly take it seriously after all these years. No one’s interested in yesterday’s scandal. At least”—she cast a glance round the company—“I wouldn’t think they were.”

Her words broke the crowd’s stillness, like the crack of ice. Nervous laughter ran through the room, a way of asserting that they were not so ill-bred as to have been observing the domestic drama that had been played out before them. Gowns rustled. Glasses clinked. Dumont took a step forward.

Davenport swung back his fist and hit George Chase in the jaw. Or tried to. His blow glanced off Chase’s chin. Davenport lost his balance and tumbled to the carpet. In the process he bumped into the pox-scarred waiter. The waiter’s tray went flying. The crowd jumped back as champagne spattered and crystal cracked. The cream-colored note card landed by a gilded chair leg. Suzanne could see Dumont looking at it.

Fitzroy drew in his breath. March bit back an exclamation. Raoul O’Roarke, an expert at breaking up fights, started forward, then checked himself at a look from Suzanne.

“For God’s sake, Harry,” Cordelia said.

“Sorry.” Davenport rubbed his hand. “Wanted to do that for years.”

Dumont moved again. The door from the anteroom opened, and Malcolm stepped through.

“Easy, Davenport.” Malcolm bent over the fallen Davenport and pulled him to his feet. “Let’s get you some coffee.”

The fallen note card now lay at a slightly different angle. Hopefully not different enough for Dumont to notice. The pox-scarred waiter bent to retrieve the broken glasses and blot up the spilled champagne. Cordelia looked from her husband to George Chase, eyes dark with a guilt Suzanne recognized all too well.

Malcolm helped Davenport to the door to the corridor. Cordelia cast a quick glance at George, then turned to go after her husband and Malcolm. As Suzanne moved to follow them, she saw Dumont out of the corner of her eye, bending down by the fallen note card as though to pick up a dropped programme.

Suzanne stepped into the corridor in time to see Cordelia run to Davenport’s side and grip his arm. “Harry.”

Davenport was still leaning against Malcolm as though suffering from the effects of drink. “Sorry, Cordy. Seem to have had a bit of a relapse. Thought I was over such idiocy years ago.”

Lady Cordelia’s finely plucked brows drew together. “I never thought—”

“That I still had feelings? Messy things, feelings.” He glanced down at his wife’s fingers, curled round his arm.

Cordelia dropped her hand to her side. “If you feel like hitting someone, it would make far more sense for it to be me.”

“Never knew you to be a martyr, old girl. Much better not to hit anyone, don’t you think? Though if we’re parceling out blame, I’d say George had plenty to do with our sorry little drama.”

Cordelia frowned at him. Then her gaze flickered down the passage to Suzanne. “I’m sorry you had to witness this, Suzanne. And you, Mr. Rannoch.”

“It’s already calming down in the salon,” Suzanne said, walking down the corridor toward them. “Goodness knows everyone has enough other things to gossip about.”

“Like my sister.” Cordelia stepped back. Her gaze flickered from Suzanne to Malcolm and then rested on Davenport for a moment. “Harry. Are you—”

“What?” Davenport inquired, voice carefully slurred.

Cordelia regarded him a moment longer. “You’re very good at what you do, aren’t you?”

“Not at the moment. Spies are supposed to be above feelings.”

“My point precisely.” Cordelia touched his arm again with light fingers, then stepped back and looked from him to Malcolm to Suzanne. “You must have things to discuss. I’ll go back to the salon and give them more reason to gossip. I daresay you could do with the distraction.”

Davenport’s gaze lingered on his wife as she vanished down the corridor. Then he turned, still leaning against Malcolm in case any more footmen passed by, and the two men and Suzanne moved toward an antechamber.

“Good show,” Malcolm said when they were in the small white and gold room.

“Who says it was a show?” Davenport rubbed his hand, posture straight, gaze alert and focused. “I’ve wanted to hit Chase for years.”

“If it wasn’t a show you’d have actually hit him,” Malcolm said.

Davenport gave a reluctant grin. “Possibly.”

“Your wife’s a discerning woman,” Malcolm said.

“Yes.” Davenport flexed his fingers. “I’m afraid she saw all too much.”

“She’ll keep quiet,” Suzanne said.

Davenport’s mouth twisted. “You sound very sure, Mrs. Rannoch. You only met her last night.”

“I’ve seen enough of her in the past twenty-four hours to be sure of that.”

“Odd. I’ve known Cordelia for five years, and I’m not sure of anything when it comes to her. Did you get a look at the note, Rannoch?”

Malcolm nodded. “ ‘The north salon, eleven o’clock.’ Dumont has a rendezvous tonight. If it proves to be of the amorous variety, I shall feel a colossal fool.”

“Dangerous to hope it will be with the Silver Hawk,” Davenport said.

“Stranger things have happened.”

Suzanne leaned against a chairback. “The north salon has tall windows with velvet curtains. Good for concealment.”

“If Dumont and his friend are halfway good at their job they’ll have someone keeping an eye on the corridor before the meeting,” Davenport said.

“Yes, I was thinking of that.” Suzanne moved to the antechamber’s one window and drew aside the gold damask curtains. She pushed up the sash window and glanced out at the façade of the building. “Nice decorative detailing with footholds. We can go out the window here. It overlooks a side street. We shouldn’t be seen.”

Davenport gave a rare smile that was free of irony. “You’re a remarkable woman, Mrs. Rannoch.”

“A devious mind has its uses, Colonel Davenport.”

B
rittle conversation filled the air again when Cordelia stepped back into the salon. Glasses clinked, fans stirred the candle-warmed air. The fallen champagne glasses had been tidied away. Only a faint damp mark on the red and gold carpet showed where the contretemps had occurred.

Cordelia felt several gazes darted in her direction. She ignored them with the ease of long practice. George was across the room in a corner, talking to three fellow officers. She moved toward him, aware of a sharp look from Caro.

George turned as though aware of her approach. He froze for a moment, then murmured something to his companions and came toward her. “Cordy.” He reached out as though he would take her hands but stopped a few feet off. “I heard about Julia this morning. I’m so sorry.”

She nodded. For a moment she didn’t trust herself to speak. Julia’s death was a constant, gnawing ache in her chest. And then sometimes the reality of it would slam into her all over again, leaving her scarcely able to breathe.

He stretched out a hand again, then let it fall to his side without touching her. “If there’s anything I can do—”

“There is actually.” She looked directly into his eyes. People were watching of course, but they’d gossip regardless. “I need to talk to you, George. Alone.”

“I’m not—”

“There’s a reason. Beyond foolishness.”

“Cordy—”

“Wait ten minutes into the next act and meet me in the antechamber. Through that door.”

“Cordy, I can’t possibly—”

“You owe me this much.”

He drew a breath. “Yes. Of course.”

As they resumed their seats for the opera, Caro leaned toward Cordelia under cover of settling her lavender gauze skirts. “Are you crazy?”

“Probably,” Cordelia said, fingers not quite steady as she lifted her opera glasses. “But I need to talk to him.”

“You needing him has always been the problem.”

“Not in that way.” Cordelia squeezed her friend’s hand. “I’ll explain later, dearest.”

Caro’s snort and concerned gaze followed her as she slipped from the box.

She would have given only slightly more than even odds on George actually meeting her, but before she had paced the length of the antechamber the door opened with a quiet click. “I don’t know that this is a good idea, Cordy.”

She turned and looked at him. The candlelight fell across his face, shadowing bones and hollows she could trace from memory. He didn’t move a muscle, but she could feel his gaze shifting over her face.

“Probably not,” she agreed. “But when has that ever stopped us?”

A smile shot across his face, then faded abruptly. He pushed the door to with a firm click. “It’s not a joke, Cordy. It never was. We were just too young and foolish to see it.”

“And now we’re wise?”

“Hardly.” George leaned against the door, his gaze trained on her face. “At least speaking for myself. I have barely enough wit to recognize a mistake seconds before I make it.”

“I think we’ve already made all the mistakes possible, don’t you?”

“Oh, don’t you believe it for a moment.”

She took a step toward him, to prove that she could do so. “I’m sorry about Harry just now.”

George grimaced. “It was no more than I deserved. Save that I deserved to have him actually plant me a facer.”

Harry’s bleak gaze flickered in her memory. She’d been shocked at how much the wounds of their sorry past still lingered for him. And then she’d realized that it had all been an act, part of whatever intrigue he and the Rannochs were involved in. And yet—“Harry should be on my conscience, not yours.”

“Are you saying you don’t feel guilty about Annabel?”

Annabel. Cordelia had caught a glimpse of her tonight across the theatre, her white-gloved fingers curled round George’s arm. Blond, sweet, in love with George. A much better wife than Cordelia was herself. “I know I have a reputation for heartlessness,” she said, “but I’m not quite that bad. Of course I feel guilty about Annabel.”

“I hurt people.” George’s fingers tightened against the door panels. “I hurt you.”

“I did plenty of that myself. It’s over and done with.”

“It will never be done with.” George’s gaze moved back to her face. She could feel its pressure against her skin. “Not completely. If we had any doubts about that, Harry put them to rest tonight.”

“I’m sorry, George.” She folded her arms, fingers digging into her elbows, as though she could anchor herself. “But we need to talk about this.”

“Talk about what?”

She drew a breath. Her throat was raw. “You must have heard the rumors today. They’re all over Brussels. That Julia was the Prince of Orange’s mistress.”

George’s gaze slid away. “I couldn’t believe—Julia, of all people.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, George.” Cordelia moved toward him, heedless of the risks. “You knew her. Julia wouldn’t let morality stand in the way of something she wanted.”

“Cordy, she was—”

“My sister. So I knew her.”

“You’re saying that Julia—”

“Was having an affair with the Prince of Orange. But that isn’t the part I wanted to talk to you about. Did you know?”

“About Julia and the Prince of Orange?” George ran a hand over his hair. “Of course not.”

“About my sister and your brother.”

George stared at her, fingers dug into his hair. He’d looked at her in much the same way when she’d announced at the age of twelve that being a mistress sounded much more interesting than being a wife. “Oh, dear God.”

“You
did
know?”

“Cordy—”

She grabbed his shoulders. “Damn it, George, how could you?”

“How could
I
—”

“How could you have let them be so stupid? How could you stand by and watch them make the same mistakes we did?”

George caught her wrists and detached her grip on his shoulders with gentle fingers. “I’m not Tony’s keeper. Nor Julia’s if it comes to that.”

His skin still smelled faintly of citrus and cloves. His breath was warm and held a hint of red wine. “So you did nothing?”

“What would you have had me do?” George retained his grip on her hands, holding them in front of him. “Order Tony to stop? I haven’t had any control over him since he was out of leading strings. If then.”

Traces of a shaving cut showed on his jaw. She wondered if Annabel daubed the cuts the way she once had done. “You could have warned him of what he was risking.”

His mouth tightened. “You think I didn’t? Not that it did any more good this time than—”

“With his prior indiscretions?”

“I never said—”

“Jane admitted it.”

George blinked in confusion. “Jane—”

“She knew about Julia. She said it wasn’t Tony’s first liaison since their marriage.”

George glanced to the side.

“You knew that.”

He grimaced. “I think Tony genuinely loves Jane. Or did when they married. But fidelity doesn’t come easily to him.”

“We both have cause to know about that.”

George’s fingers tightened over her own. Beneath his gloves, she could feel the calluses on his fingers and a rough spot where a bone had broken and not mended properly. “Tony threw my own past in my face when I tried to have a brotherly talk with him. He said—” George bit back the words, a pulse beating fast in his jaw.

“What?” Cordelia demanded.

George drew a rough breath, looked away, looked back at her. “He asked if I was really happy with the choice I’d made four years ago.”

Cordelia jerked her hands out of her former lover’s clasp. “Well, that should have been easy to answer.”

“Should have been.”

She folded her arms across her chest, her fingers digging into the silk of her gloves. “You could have written to me.”

“What the devil would you have done?”

“Talked some sense into Julia.”

“Told her you’d be happier if you were still living with Davenport?”

His words slapped against her skin. “Damn it, George—”

“I’m sorry. That was unpardonable.”

“Johnny isn’t Harry.” Cordelia tightened her grip on her arms. “Julia was happy with him.”

“Sweetheart—” George bit the word back before it was fully formed. “Can you really know what they were? You haven’t seen much of Julia in recent years.”

“All the more reason for her to know the consequences of playing with fire. I don’t think she’d have fared as well as I’ve done as a social exile.”

“Which is exactly why I thought the less said about the affair the better.” George moved away from the door with sudden force, paced halfway across the room, turned back to her. “I thought they’d get over it. God knows Tony has tired of all the others.”

“George—”

“Damn it—” He drew a rough breath. “Cordy, you have every right to be angry at me,” he said in a more temperate voice. “But not about this. Don’t let’s waste time—”

“I’m not angry. I need to understand. Julia was afraid, George. She didn’t write to me about her affair with Tony, but she wrote to me about that.”

“What the devil did Julia have to be afraid of?”

“I don’t know. Yet.” She rested her hands on a gilded chairback. “Violet knew.”

“That Julia was afraid?”

“About Julia’s affair with Tony. She found a letter Tony wrote to Julia. She didn’t confront Tony, but she did confront Julia.”

The fear of an elder brother filled George’s eyes. “Oh God.”

“Yes, I can’t imagine it was a very comfortable conversation.”

George ran a hand over his hair. “I know how prickly Vi can be. But she was genuinely brokenhearted when Ashton married Julia. I don’t think she ever properly got over it.”

“Nor do I.”

His eyes widened. “You can’t think Julia was afraid of Violet—”

“Violet can be rather terrifying in a temper.”

“Not to you. Not to Julia. You’re both made of sterner stuff.”

“I’m trying very hard not to let my thoughts run away with me. But someone was behind Julia’s death.” Cordelia studied her former lover. She’d once thought she knew him better than anyone in the world, but now she understood how impossible it was to ever really know another person. “How would Tony have reacted if he’d learned Julia was the Prince of Orange’s mistress as well as his own?”

“He’d have been jealous, Tony has never been good at sharing.” George’s gaze froze on her face. “Oh no, Cordy.”

“Don’t say you can’t imagine him doing it, George. We both know all too well just what depths people are capable of sinking to.”

“It’s a far cry from—”

“Adultery to murder?”

“We’re talking about my brother.”

“And my sister.”

“Cordy.” He closed the distance between them and reached for her hands again. “I know this must be unbearable. I know how desperate you must be to make sense of it—”

She pulled her hands away. “Don’t you dare try to humor me.”

“Perish the thought.” He frowned. “A few days ago, Tony asked me if I’d look after Jane if anything happened to him. I said of course and I assumed he’d do the same for Annabel if I didn’t survive the coming battle. He shot me the oddest look, as though he’d meant something else entirely. It was only later that I wondered—”

Cordelia stared at her former lover, chilled to the bone. “You think Tony was planning to
run off
with Julia?”

“You can hardly deny it’s possible.”

Her sister’s face hung before Cordelia’s eyes. Pale blond hair swept smooth, mouth curved in a decorous smile, cheeks tinged with the faintest hint of rouge, eyes bright but carefully veiled. “I can’t imagine—”

“What?” George scanned her face.

“Julia throwing everything over. Giving up her husband, her child, her position—”

“You were willing to do it once.”

“I’m not Julia.” She folded her arms across her chest. “And I didn’t have a child then.”

She saw the flinch in George’s gaze at the mention of Livia. “You didn’t think Julia would take a lover, either, did you? Let alone two.”

Cordelia stared at him, seeing the unlined face and clear, unshadowed eyes of the man she’d been ready to throw everything over for four years ago. “You suspected this, and you let them—”

“For God’s sake, Cordy, it wasn’t a question of letting. I told you, I couldn’t control either of them.”

“You said you were hoping it would end quietly. But once you realized they were going to ruin their lives—”

BOOK: Teresa Grant

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