Mélanie shoved the last box back in place. Malcolm grabbed her hand and they dove under the bed of one accord.

  "Seems a bit cloak and dagger," a voice said. "We used to just be able to duck into the library and talk over a glass of port."

  The door banged shut. "It's not the world it once was. In any number of ways." She couldn't be sure, but it sounded like Lord Beverston. "We never know who might be listening. More difficult to tell our enemies than in the old days."

  "It's always difficult to tell an enemy. That's part of what makes this fun." That was the first voice. And it was a voice Mélanie knew very well. She'd heard it in the dining room less than two hours ago. It belonged to Julien St. Juste.

  Chapter 11

  "It's not a game."

  "No?" Julien said. "I beg to differ. But perhaps we define games differently."

  "You're not taking this work seriously enough, St. Juste." That definitely was Beverston. Mélanie could picture him standing with his arms folded across his chest, impatience in his posture even in ball clothes.

  "I don't believe I've actually agreed to work for you." A thud sounded. Mélanie could see Julien, perched on the dressing table, swinging one foot against its fluted leg.

  "You're a fool."

  "I'm a number of things," Julien said. "But I'm quite sure I'm not a fool."

  "We could be the making of you."

  "That assumes I'm not content with what I have now."

  The other man gave a rough laugh. "You can't tell me you don't want more. Everyone does."

  "Not everyone. Some seem strangely contented with their lot. Mélanie Rannoch seems oddly content. So does her husband. Though I suppose they still want to change the world, so one can't really say they're satisfied with how things are."

  "You aren't the sort to be satisfied either."

  "I don't want to change the world, if that's what you mean. I quite see the problems, but as far as I'm concerned the world can take care of itself. But I do admit I tend to find the status quo boring. The question, though, is what do I want?"

  "Precisely what we've been asking you." Exasperation tinged Beverston's voice. "You could have a great deal of power. You could play a deciding role in Britain."

  "That sounds deadly dull. I've never been in the least interested in Britain. Or any country."

  "I've seen you look at Mélanie Rannoch."

  "My dear Beverston. I'm not sure what's more amusing. The idea that I could be bought with Mélanie Rannoch as an incentive or the idea that you could deliver her. If you think so, the League are guilty of grave delusions."

  Mélanie felt Malcolm's taut stillness beside her.

  "Everyone has a price, St. Juste."

  "I doubt you could possibly determine mine. Or afford it if you could. By the way, why do you care so much about him?"

  "Whom?"

  "Alexander Trenor. Did you really think my sources of information were so poor?"

  "There's no need for you to know. Though perhaps that's your weakness. Love of information."

  "That sounds a bit more accurate than your other guesses." Julien's foot thudded against the dressing table leg. "Interesting that you care so much about young Trenor when you seem to have little enough interest in your own son."

  Beverston gave a short laugh. "My son and I are hardly in agreement. Little enough reason for me to help him to any sort of preferment. Unless I fancied stabbing myself in the back."

  "You're a realist, Beverston. Always liked that about you. Like to think I'd be, if I were a father, though it does seem to play havoc with the common sense of the most seemingly hardheaded people. By the way, I didn't realize Cresswell was so high in your inner circle."

  "I don't believe I said he was."

  "No, but you're appropriating his bedchamber as a meeting place."

  "My dear St. Juste." Mélanie could almost see Beverston raise a brow. "Surely you, of all people, don't cavil at appropriating other people's private apartments for meetings. Where better to know one will be undisturbed than someone's private apartments when they are busy hosting a large entertainment?"

  "A point. But obviously you aren't worried about Cresswell."

  "Perhaps because I discount him." Beverston's feet thudded across the floor with a measured tread. "Our offer still stands, St. Juste. I think with time you'll see it's a far more interesting one than you're likely to receive from anyone else."

  The door opened and closed. Mélanie was debating getting out and confronting Julien when the door opened again.

  "I thought you'd never get rid of him." It was Sylvie St. Ives. Which was interesting, though also a complication. Mélanie felt the quickening interest radiating off Malcolm. "Does this mean you're working for the League?" Sylvie asked.

  "My dear Sylvie. Do you take me for a fool?"

  "You've worked for more objectionable people."

  "Define objectionable." Julien paused for a moment, during which Mélanie could imagine him scanning Sylvie's features. "What do you want, chérie?"

  "The Rannochs are looking for something."

  "It wouldn't surprise me. They're usually involved in some intrigue or other. But they aren't here tonight."

  "No, but Harry and Cordelia Davenport are. I imagine Malcolm and Mélanie sent them."

  "Why don't you ask them?"

  "Don't play games, Julien. The Rannochs are looking for letters that could be damaging to a certain member of the government."

  "That could be any one of a dozen political scandals."

  "To Lord Weston."

  "Well, that's interesting. And Fouché wants these letters too?"

  "I didn't say I was working for Fouché."

  "Now you have me intrigued."

  "You, of all people, know about serving different masters."

  "So I do. At the moment I'm attempting to serve no one."

  "You'll get bored without an assignment."

  "We're talking about Weston."

  "You can't tell me you feel any particular loyalty to Lord Weston."

  "You could say I'm inclined to support anyone the League are targeting, on general principles."

  "Since when you do have principles of any sort?"

  "I don't like being used. I don't like my talents being taken advantage of."

  "And you're helping the Rannochs."

  "My dear Sylvie. What on earth gave you that idea?"

  "I know you, Julien."

  "I don't know that anyone knows me. You may have greater insights than some, I confess."

  "Mélanie Rannoch is your weakness."

  "My dear Sylvie. That sounds like something out of a play."

  "I wouldn't have thought it at first, given her own past, but I think she means to you what Oliver does to me. A promise of a life we never had. That we know we wouldn't be suited for. But we can't quite stop imagining what it might have been like. I didn't realize you had those thoughts until recently."

  "I didn't realize it at all. Do go on. This is most intriguing. Even if it's entirely without basis in reality."

  Beside Mélanie, Malcolm remained completely still. She could feel him taking the information in like a professional. She couldn't have said whether or how he was evaluating it on any other level. "I don't think you've ever forgiven me for telling Carfax about Mélanie," Sylvie said.

  "That was stupid. I was stupid for giving you information that let you piece together the truth."

  "Even you are prone to careless confidences."

  "So it would seem." Julien's voice had taken on a harder edge.

  "You're a bit sympathetic to Malcolm Rannoch as well."

  "My dear girl. Whatever experiments I may indulge in, I assure you I have no interest in Malcolm Rannoch."

  "I didn't mean that sort of interest. You like him."

  "I don't 'like' anyone."

  "Call it what you will. Are you working with Carfax?"

  "Am I what?" Julien demanded.

  "Don't deny you've talked to him."

  "It's difficult to entirely avoid talking to him."

  "You haven't entirely broken ties with him."

  "Despite our successes a year ago, you can't be so naïve as to think either of us will ever entirely break ties with him. And you can't deny that he's useful."

  "I can't believe you could forget what he's done to us."

  "My dear Sylvie." Julien's voice was suddenly and unexpectedly hard. "I haven't forgot anything."

  "Well, then. He'll always be a threat."

  "And better to know what he's doing."

  "Is that it? Or are you afraid of what would happen if Carfax was suddenly out of the way?"

  "That would be interesting. But seems so unlikely that I scarcely waste time on it."

  "You may ignore it, but I rather think that's because it terrifies you."

  "And if you're suggesting we get rid of him, need I remind you that he still has some information he can use to control us?"

  "As if I could forget."

  A faint stir indicated Julien had got to his feet. "You must want to get back to the ballroom if you think something's afoot there. I'll be the gentleman and let you leave first. If anyone notices, there'll be a quite obvious explanation for our seeking refuge in a bedchamber."

  Sylvie gave a dry laugh. "There was a time when that wouldn't have been so funny about us."

  "There was a time when we were a lot of things."

  The door clicked open and shut.

  * * *

  "You can come out, Mélanie. Rannoch. Sorry about Sylvie. She can be hard to get rid of." Julien's face came into view beneath the velvet counterpane on Cresswell's bed. He held out his hand to help Mélanie get to her feet.

  "Did you know we were here when you brought Beverston in?" she asked.

  "I did not bring Beverston in. I was surprised and not happy when he insisted on talking here. Because having seen you both leave the ballroom—with your usual discretion—I suspected you were here. But I also knew if I made too much of a fuss I'd rouse his suspicions. Did you find the papers?"

  "One's missing."

  "Damnation."

  "What do you know about the letters?" Malcolm asked, springing to his feet beside Mélanie.

  "What I learned from your sister."

  "And you want to help Weston?"

  "I want to check the League. As I told you yesterday. As you heard me tell Sylvie just now."

  Malcolm held Julien with a gaze like the flat of a sword blade. "Why do you think the League are interested in Sandy Trenor?"

  "I'm as mystified as you are."

  "What about Sylvie?" Mélanie asked.

  Julien frowned. "I don't know whom she's working for. Or why the interest in Weston and young Trenor. Which seems somewhat out of proportion to the degree of power Weston wields or the talents of the agreeable Mr. Trenor." Julien twitched a shirt cuff straight. "Sorry you overheard her overdramatic speculation."

  "Nothing I didn't already suspect myself," Malcolm said.

  Julien shot a look at him. "More fool you, then."

  "I may well be fortune's fool, but I think I have as much insight as Sylvie St. Ives when it comes to your feelings towards Mélanie. When it comes to me, you scarcely know me."

  "Quite so." Julien smoothed the other shirt cuff. "It seems we're in agreement about one thing, at least. Hadn't we best think about how we're going to get the missing letter back?"

  "I don't think there's any 'we' about it, Julien," Mélanie said.

  "Oh, well, if you don't want my help—"

  "Actually we could probably use it," Malcolm said.

  "Darling," Mélanie said.

  "Always knew you were a pragmatist, Rannoch," Julien said.

  "Between being in disguise and being objects of suspicion if we leave off our disguise, we're at a disadvantage," Malcolm said.

  "Oh, all right," Mélanie conceded. "I suppose it wouldn't come amiss. But you're running backup on this mission, Julien."

  "I'm perfectly capable of running backup. It's a positive relief at times."

  "Ha. We'd better find Harry and Cordy."

  Malcolm found Harry on the edge of the dance floor. Harry snagged a glass of champagne from the tray Malcolm had retrieved when he came back downstairs. "Complications?"

  "Cresswell seems to have one of the letters on him. We're going to need both of you." Malcolm scanned the ballroom for Cordelia.

  "She's dancing with Gui." Harry jerked his head towards the country dance that was in progress. Cordelia, the cherry ribbons on her gown swirling round her, twirled beneath Gui Laclos's arm. The lack of concern in Harry's voice said wonders about where he and his wife had arrived.

  Harry caught Cordelia's eye and raised his glass in what might have been an inconsequential gesture. Cordy inclined her head in a way that might have been equally inconsequential to one not trained to notice such things. When the dance came to an end, she moved to Harry's and Malcolm's side. St. Juste joined them as well.

  "Am I heartless to confess I'm glad the two of you didn't get to have all the fun?" Cordelia said, when Malcolm explained the situation.

  "Spoken like a true agent, Lady Cordelia," St. Juste murmured. "Which could also mean heartless."

  Cordelia spared him a smile. "Can I take it while dancing with Cresswell?" she asked.

  "That was my first thought," Malcolm said. "But we don't know where he has it. It may not be conveniently tucked into his coat. We're going to need to get him alone and disable him. And he's not going to leave the room with a hired footman, and he'll likely be on his guard with you and Harry. We need reinforcements."

  A slow smile crossed Cordelia's face. "What a lucky thing we're all friends. And she is a spymaster's daughter, after all."

  Chapter 12

  Cordelia and Mary Laclos approached Hugh Cresswell where he stood talking with the Duke of Wellington and Lord Sidmouth. Mary's reticule slipped from her fingers just as they passed the men and tumbled to the polished floorboards right by Cresswell's feet. "Permit me, Duchess. Mrs. Laclos, that is." He bent to retrieve the reticule and handed it back to her.

  "Thank you. So silly of me," said Mary, who never used words like 'silly,' especially about herself. She leaned forwards to take the reticule, then stumbled and fell against Cresswell. "Oh, dear."

  "Mary," Cordelia reached for her friend.

  "The silliest thing." Mary clung to Cresswell. "But I'm afraid I feel quite light-headed."

  "It's no wonder, you've just had a baby," Cordelia said.

  "Perhaps you could sit on one of the sofas?" Cresswell suggested.

  "Oh, no, Gui will fuss and I'll have all the dowagers gossip about me. If you could just help me into one of the anterooms. I believe that door leads to one."

  "I'll bring your reticule." Cordelia took the reticule from Cresswell, then moved ahead and opened the anteroom door. Cresswell helped Mary into the room. Mary collapsed on a sofa not far from the door. "Oh, dear, I've turned into such a poor creature. Perhaps you could pour me a glass of that sherry?"

  Cresswell moved to a table with decanters that stood before a window veiled in green velvet. As he turned to pick up the decanter, Malcolm emerged from behind the curtains and hit him over the head with the flat of his hand. Cresswell crumpled to the ground, spilling the contents of the decanter over himself.

  "Neatly done." Mélanie emerged from another set of curtains.

  "Not so neatly." Malcolm flexed his fingers. "I used to be able to do that without feeling as though I'd broken every bone in my hand. And I was trying to get him before he picked up the decanter."

  "The spilled sherry will explain why he's lying on the floor if anyone happens upon him." Mélanie was already on her knees beside Cresswell, pushing back his coat.

  "Good heavens, Malcolm," Mary said from the sofa. She hadn't, Cordelia realized, seen Malcolm in action as much as Cordelia had herself. "Where did you learn to do that?"

  "O'Roarke taught me. When I was about twelve. At the time, I took it for granted that he knew how to do such things." Malcolm knelt opposite Mélanie. "Anything, Mel?"

  "Not yet." Mélanie unbuttoned Cresswell's waistcoat.

  Cordelia knelt beside her. "It's a good thing we didn't try to pick his pockets on the dance floor." She tugged Cresswell's shirt free from his breeches and reached under the linen. Something crackled beneath her fingers. She drew out a single sheet of paper, covered with crossed lines. She handed it to Mélanie.

  "It’s Weston's hand," Mélanie said with a sigh of relief. "The inscription and signature are both there. We have it. The whole letter." She sat back on her heels.

  "What an adventure," Mary said. "I feel like a girl again instead of a twice-married mother of four. Not that I did this sort of thing when I was a girl. I suppose it's the sort of thing you do all the time?"

  "Hardly," Malcolm said.

  Mélanie checked Cresswell's pulse. "Regular. He should come to shortly. Best make ourselves scarce."

  Malcolm pushed himself to his feet and reached out a hand to Mélanie and Cordelia. As he helped them to their feet, three quick raps sounded on the connecting door from the salon. Harry's signal. Cordelia ran to open the door to let him in.

  Harry cast a quick glance at Cresswell. "Got the letter?"

  "All accounted for," Mélanie said.

  "That's good. We've had some complications. Apparently they've tumbled to there being interlopers among the footmen. I overheard the butler talking to one of the regular footmen."

  Mélanie exchanged a look with Malcolm. "Fortunately, we're prepared," Mélanie said. She ducked down and retrieved a canvas bag she'd stashed beneath the sofa earlier in the evening. "Give us two minutes and we can turn back into ourselves."

  "But won't they know why you're here?" Mary asked.

  "Cresswell's the one who would have been likeliest to put it together, and he's out of commission." Malcolm shrugged out of his footman's coat. "Beverston or someone else in the League might be on the look-out, but now we have the letters they can't do much. Except try to do to us what we did to Cresswell, I suppose, but we're prepared and we have backup."

 

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