Authors: Imperial Scandal
Teresa Grant (17 page)
“I don’t know.” Malcolm cast a glance at Davenport. “But I’m quite sure Suzanne can.”
Wellington’s thin mouth curved in a smile. “Yes, I imagine she can. Keep me informed—”
A rap at the door interrupted his words. “Yes?” Wellington said with a frown.
“It’s Uxbridge.”
Wellington stared at the door for a moment from beneath drawn brows. “Come in,” he said at last.
The Earl of Uxbridge, commander of the cavalry and the man who had eloped with Wellington’s brother’s wife seven years ago, strolled into the room. He wore hussar dress, brightly polished orders pinned to his frogged coat, his fur-trimmed pelisse hanging over one shoulder with a casual elegance no other officer could quite equal.
“Uxbridge.” Wellington inclined his head. “No more news from Mauberge. I don’t know that we’ll hear more before morning.”
“Nor do I. As it happens it’s Rannoch and Davenport I’ve come to talk to. I heard they were here with you.”
Wellington’s brows lifted. “Unless this is an extreme coincidence, I take it this has to do with the events of last night?”
Uxbridge returned Wellington’s gaze coolly. “It does.”
“Were you planning to speak with them in private or am I to be in on this discussion?” Wellington inquired.
Uxbridge moved to a chair but did not sit. “If I’d wished to speak to them alone, I hope I’d have had enough wit to seek them out other than at Headquarters.”
Wellington gave a reluctant smile and inclined his head for Uxbridge to be seated. The two men regarded each other for a moment. They were always perfectly civil, but there was a faint tug of distance between them. Malcolm was never sure if it was the legacy of Uxbridge’s elopement with Charlotte Wellesley or simply the strong and differing personalities of the two men.
Uxbridge sank into the chair and crossed his legs. “The story that Julia Ashton was the Prince of Orange’s mistress is running through town like wildfire. Is it true?”
Wellington gave a brief nod. “I’m afraid so.”
Uxbridge’s mouth tightened. “Was the prince there last night when she died? You can lie to me of course, but I think it will be easier if we tell each other the truth.”
“God help me if I have to lie to my cavalry commander.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’re capable of it if required,” Uxbridge said. “But in this case—”
Wellington nodded at Malcolm.
“The prince had an assignation with Lady Julia at the Château de Vere,” Malcolm said. “But he received a note canceling the rendezvous. A note supposedly from Lady Julia, but in fact forged. Lady Julia went to the rendezvous. She was caught in the fire when we were ambushed.”
“Good God.” Uxbridge smoothed a crease from his sleeve. “John Ashton is one of my abler officers. I believe he adores his wife. And of course the prince is my fellow commander. A sad business.”
Wellington leaned back in his chair. “If all you had to contribute was the observation that it’s a sad business you’d be on your way to the opera now.”
“True.” Uxbridge adjusted the folds of his black cravat. Malcolm had never before seen the self-confident, sartorially splendid earl make such a nervous gesture. “In the general run of things, I’d think it the gentlemanly thing to keep it to myself. But under the circumstances—” He twitched one of the orders pinned to his tightly fitting coat. “It was just after I came to Brussels. At your concert ball, Wellington. I came upon Lady Julia crying in an antechamber.”
“Had she been playing cards?” Davenport asked. His voice was level, but Malcolm could feel his quickening attention.
“What? I’m not sure.” Uxbridge drew a breath. “I’ve known the Brooke sisters since they were children. Their late father was ahead of me at Oxford. I poured her a glass of wine, asked her what was the matter.” He gave a wry smile. “Told her that when she was my age ten to one she’d realize whatever it was wasn’t of such very great importance. The next thing I knew she was crying on my shoulder. Rather made a mess of my coat, but one makes allowances for pretty women.” He shifted in his chair. “Then she lifted her lips to mine and pulled my head down to her own.”
18
D
avenport stared at the cavalry commander. “Are you saying Julia tried to kiss you?”
avenport stared at the cavalry commander. “Are you saying Julia tried to kiss you?”
“I’m saying she did kiss me.” Uxbridge met Davenport’s gaze.
“I sprang to my feet. I’m afraid I managed to spill the wine all over the floorboards.”
“Interesting reaction,” Wellington said.
“Julia was young enough to be my daughter.”
“Many men don’t find that a deterrent.”
Uxbridge answered the challenge in Wellington’s gaze. “I ran off with Charlotte. That doesn’t mean I run off with everyone I get the chance to. Contrary to rumors.”
“What did Lady Julia do?” Malcolm asked.
“Said she was sorry but that she’d wanted to do that ever since she was a girl. That I was her first love and perhaps her only love.” Uxbridge’s brows drew together.
“And what did you do?” Davenport asked.
“Told her I had a wife I loved in England. Reminded her she had a husband who was one of my officers. She got an odd look on her face, but she asked me to forgive her foolishness. Which I was only too ready to do. Until this.”
“Dear God,” Wellington said.
“This would have been before her affair with the Prince of Orange began,” Malcolm said.
“Julia was always such a well-mannered little thing,” Uxbridge said. “If it had been her sister, I’d have understood it better.”
“People can surprise you,” Davenport said.
“Oh, devil take it. I keep forgetting she’s your wife. No offense meant, Davenport.”
Davenport’s gaze was steady and stripped of feeling. “None taken, sir.”
Uxbridge’s eyes narrowed. “Given my history, I don’t suppose you think very well of me.”
“On the contrary,” Davenport said. “I take no responsibility for anyone else’s marriage. I didn’t even take much responsibility for my own.”
Uxbridge’s full-lipped mouth curved in a wry smile. “I’ve always been fond of Cordelia. But I’d never claim she was sensible. Particularly when it comes to men. I don’t expect you’ve had an easy time of it. Which I’m sure sounds ironic coming from me.”
“A great deal of truth can hide in irony, sir.”
Uxbridge’s smile deepened. “Quite.”
“What happened next?” Wellington demanded, a note of impatience in his voice. “With Lady Julia?”
“Nothing.” Uxbridge leaned back, elbows resting comfortably on the chair arms. “We’ve only met since in company. Naturally I had no desire to find myself alone with her, and she seemed to steer well clear of me. I thought it no more than an unfortunate incident, thankfully forgot. Until I heard rumors of Julia’s affair with the Prince of Orange.”
“The woman seems to have had an interest in men in positions of power,” Wellington said. “Damned awkward.”
“It’s odd,” Uxbridge said, “I never had the sense Julia took any particular interest in me in the past, even in a schoolgirl’s infatuation sort of way.”
Wellington looked at Uxbridge from beneath lowered brows. “You didn’t say anything to Ashton?”
“What kind of fool do you take me for?”
“One might take the view that Ashton deserves to know of his wife’s indiscretions.”
“I wouldn’t have done that to Julia. Besides, the last thing I need is one of my officers distracted.”
“Which is precisely the situation we now have. And the rest of the army along with him.” Wellington picked up a pen from his desktop and frowned at the nib. “Does this tell you anything?” He looked from Malcolm to Davenport. “Aside from the fact that there may be other men Lady Julia was involved with.”
“Nothing beyond that.” Malcolm didn’t so much as glance at Davenport. By tacit agreement they said nothing of Lady Julia’s affair with Anthony Chase.
Wellington tossed the pen down with decision. “Then your investigation continues. And I suggest you consider that Lady Julia may have been involved with other men. Which means there may have been others with reason to want her dead.”
“Is it true?” Anthony Chase ran up to Malcolm and Davenport as they stepped into the outer office. He was neatly shaved, his dress uniform immaculate, his hair combed smooth, but his gaze was more wild-eyed than it had been in the beer garden that afternoon.
“Captain Chase.” Malcolm put a hand on Tony’s shoulder. “Perhaps we could talk in private.”
Fitzroy Somerset, working his way through a pile of correspondence, glanced up briefly, then returned to his work with typical tact.
Tony held his tongue as they moved into an adjoining sitting room, still filled with a jumble of papers left by the officers who’d been working there that afternoon. But the moment the door was closed he said again in a hoarse voice, “Is it true?”
“Is what true?” Malcolm asked, voice carefully neutral.
“You know damned well.” Tony’s gaze shot from Malcolm to Davenport. “The talk was all over every tavern and café and brothel in Brussels by this afternoon. Julia and His Royal bloody Highness the Prince of Orange.”
Davenport leaned against the wall, arms folded, legs crossed at the ankles. “You didn’t know?”
“So it’s true?” Tony’s voice fairly shook with desperation.
“What do you think?” Davenport asked.
“Damn you—” Tony hurled himself at Davenport. Malcolm caught him by the shoulders.
“We were in love,” Tony said, breathing hard. “She wouldn’t have—”
“Then there’s no need to ask us, is there?” Davenport smoothed his sleeve where Tony had gripped it.
“Lady Julia gave you no hint?” Malcolm asked.
“Of course not.” Tony jerked out of Malcolm’s grip and whirled to face him. The smell of cognac hung on his breath. “I told you—”
“Betrayal’s not so amusing when the shoe’s on the other foot, is it?” Davenport remarked.
“You don’t understand.” Tony pushed his fingers into his hair. “What we had wasn’t like an ordinary affair. God knows I’ve had plenty of those. We had something in an entirely different key, something extraordinary—”
“Extraordinariness doesn’t necessarily rule out betrayal,” Davenport remarked.
Tony spun toward him. “What the hell do you know about love?”
“Nothing at all,” Davenport conceded. “But it’s often easier to judge from the outside.”
“Just because you couldn’t hold on to your own wife—”
“That assumes I wanted to keep her.” Davenport crossed the room and stood regarding a print of a country farmhouse that hung on the wall. “But it’s an erroneous comparison.” He glanced over his shoulder at Tony. “We aren’t talking about your wife, we’re talking about John Ashton’s.”
Tony spun away, his hands balled into fists, then turned back to them. “It’s true, isn’t it?”
“We don’t know what’s true,” Malcolm said. The news was out, the damage was done. There was nothing to be gained from denying it, and they needed to get whatever information Tony possessed. “But the Prince of Orange does claim to have had a rendezvous with Lady Julia at the Château de Vere the night she was killed.”
Tony stared at him for a long moment, face drained of color. “So the prince was there? He was with her when she was killed?”
“No. He received a letter canceling the rendezvous. Supposedly from Lady Julia, but in fact a forgery.”
Tony dropped into a ladder-back chair. “She said—She said she’d never really understood what love meant until—Why would she—”
“People have any number of reasons for entering into love affairs,” Malcolm said. “You really didn’t suspect?”
“Of course not. I can’t believe she was pretending the whole time—”
Tony looked like such a woebegone schoolboy that for a moment Malcolm felt a tug of sympathy. “Love and fidelity don’t necessarily go hand in hand.”
“Spoken by a man who’s never had cause to doubt his wife,” Davenport murmured.
Tony stared up at Malcolm, eyes glazed with confusion. “You said someone sent a forged letter to the prince. So this person wanted Julia to be at the château alone? Why?”
“Possibly to confront her or to convince her to break off her affair with the prince.” Malcolm studied Tony. The light from a brace of candles on the desk fell full on his face. The confusion in those wide blue eyes appeared as genuine as if it bore a sterling hallmark. “Or—”
“To kill her?” Anger shot through Tony’s posture. “Is that what all this was about? Someone lured Julia to her death?”
“You have reason to think someone might have wished to do so?” Davenport moved toward Tony’s chair.
“What? No. Julia didn’t have an enemy in the world.”
“She had a husband and two lovers.” Davenport leaned against the desk. “Unless you’re all remarkably compliant, that could create all sorts of enemies.”
“You think Ashton killed her? Because he learned about us? By God—”
“Do you think your wife knew?” Malcolm asked.
Tony sprang to his feet, knocking his chair over. “How dare you insult Jane.”
“I rather think it’s you who did that,” Davenport observed. “Rannoch just asked if your wife could have known you were betraying her.”
“I know her. She’s my wife. I’d have realized—”
“I know my wife,” Malcolm said. “At least I think I do, as well as one can know anyone. I’ve trusted her with my life on more than one occasion. But I’d never claim to be privy to her every thought.”
Tony spun away and stared at the papers that littered the desk. “Don’t you think I haven’t been tormented by the thought of what Jane will think when she finds out? She trusts me. She always has. And I know bloody well that I don’t deserve it. I’d have noticed if there’d been any change in her. She’s too honest for deception.”
“She’s better at it than you think,” Davenport said. “She told Mrs. Rannoch and Cordelia she’d known about you and Julia almost from the first.”
“She—” Tony whirled on Malcolm. “How dare you question my wife?”
“It’s an investigation, Chase,” Malcolm said. “Into why the woman you claim to have loved lost her life. Your sister knew as well.”
“Violet—” Tony’s face drained of color. “Oh God, that damned letter.”
“Apparently.”
“What are you suggesting?” Tony demanded. “That Jane sent that note to the Prince of Orange so she could confront Julia at the château? That she had something to do with her death—I could call you out for such a suggestion.”
“Don’t,” Davenport said. “I doubt he’d agree to meet you, and Wellington will have our hides if you do anything to get yourself cashiered from the army. He’s short of soldiers as it is.”
Tony straightened his shoulders. “Are you so sure you can trust the prince?”
“We aren’t sure we can trust anyone,” Malcolm said.
“Well then. You claim I’d have been jealous if I’d known Julia had another lover. What if Slender Billy knew? I doubt he’d take kindly to it, either. Suppose he forged that note from Julia to give himself an alibi.”
Davenport stared straight ahead as he and Malcolm left Headquarters, his gaze narrowed against the glare of the setting sun against the cobblestones. “It’s all right,” he said, without looking round. “I’m not going to waste time defending the honor of the sister of the woman to whom I happen to be married. But you have to admit it’s odd.”
“It keeps getting odder and odder.” Malcolm kept pace beside Davenport, his own gaze fixed ahead. Two young officers strolled down the street ahead of them, arm in arm with Brussels girls wearing white lace mantillas. “Lady Julia made overtures to Lord Uxbridge. Not long after that she began a liaison with the Prince of Orange. While at the same time conducting an affair with Anthony Chase, who claims they were desperately in love and she was going to run off with him.”
“A love affair that seems less and less probable. At least on Julia’s side.”
The officers and the girls in the mantillas stepped into a café down the street. Malcolm glanced at Davenport, then returned his gaze to the street ahead. “My mother flitted from one lover to another. She wasn’t a very happy woman.” Arabella Rannoch’s restless blue eyes and discontented mouth flickered in his memory, as sharp and vivid as the Brussels street before him. “Though she’d have claimed she took them all lightly, I think she kept hoping the right man would make sense of her life.”
Davenport turned to look at him for a moment. “That can’t have been easy for you.”
The events of the past autumn and the new things he had learned about his mother bit Malcolm in the throat. “No. Nor for my brother and sister.”
“Your brother’s a light dragoon, isn’t he?”
“Yes. He’s stationed near Ninove, so I haven’t seen much of him in Brussels.” Though in truth that was only half the story. Malcolm and Edgar weren’t the friends they once had been, for reasons Malcolm didn’t entirely understand, though the estrangement was rooted in their mother’s death. “One’s relationships with one’s parents are always complicated.”
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