The seven dials affair, p.12
The Seven Dials Affair, page 12
Rowley nodded. "Can't imagine what she's been going through. I should perhaps have reached out more." He picked up his glass and frowned at it. "A lot of tragedy to have befallen our Cambridge group. Unconnected, of course. But it makes one think."
CHAPTER 15
Once Mivart's had been the closest Raoul had to a home in London. Perhaps anywhere. Malcolm had confronted him in his room at Mivart's after he learned the truth of Mélanie's spying. Later—remarkably, less than a month later—Raoul had hosted the first of his Boxing Day dinners in a private room at the hotel. Laura had sat next to him that night, by his own design. Partly because he'd wanted to learn more about her. Partly because—well, Laura had intrigued him from the moment he met her.
Laura was presently somewhere in the service passages of the hotel in the dark dress and starched apron of a maid. They had ascertained that Allegra Roth's lady's maid and Esquivel's valet were both downstairs speaking with a Bow Street patrol. So provided Raoul could keep Esquivel engaged, Laura should have ample opportunity to search Allegra Roth's things. There was a time Raoul would have been worried about his wife on a mission such as this. But though she might not have as much experience as the rest of them, her instincts were impeccable. And she had spent years on a mission as a governess spying on her employers.
Raoul rapped at the door. Esquivel opened it, wrapped in a dressing gown over his shirt and trousers, much as Raoul had once been when he greeted visitors in the hotel.
"O'Roarke." Esquivel extended his hand. "It's been a long time." His face was haggard but he gave a smile of recognition.
"So long, you'd be pardoned for not remembering." Raoul shook Esquivel's hand.
"On the contrary. You made a great impression. You talked about ideas I'd been exposed to, but I'd never heard them pulled together in such a way or to reach such conclusions. You left me more determined than ever to be part of changing my country. It was a timely lesson just before I left for the Argentine."
"I'm flattered if I played any part in shaping your ideas."
"I've followed you," Esquivel said. "We may have been in different countries, but we were fighting the same fight."
Which was true, if one thought in terms of ideas. But ten years ago, Raoul had been working for the French, whom Esquivel had opposed in Spain.
Esquivel waved a hand towards the striped satin chairs by the sitting room's fire. "You made me believe one could change the world."
Raoul settled back in a chair with the same striped satin upholstery as those on which Malcolm had confronted him. For a moment he had a clear image of the book he'd been reading that day draped over the chair arm. It was burned in his memory. "These days I often struggle to convince myself of as much. But I'm pleased if I played any role in convincing you of it."
Esquivel reached for the decanter on the table by the chairs and poured two glasses of port. "You're working in Spain now."
"When I can. I have a family in Britain, which complicates things."
Esquivel handed Raoul a glass. "I remember you had a wife in Ireland."
"So I did." Raoul took the glass. He remembered mentioning Margaret on that long-ago night at the Lodge of the Rational Knights, picking his way carefully round the tangle of his personal life. "We're divorced. I remarried two years ago and have two young children. I'm away from them too much as it is."
Esquivel took a drink of port and grimaced as though he found it bitter. "I've been away from my own children much of their lives. Difficult to imagine ever living with my wife again. Divorce isn't an option for us—but I can imagine how a person could love again. Though that doesn't seem an option for me now either."
"My commiserations." Raoul had no need to be anything but genuine when he said it. "I can scarcely imagine what you are going through."
"Thank you." Esquivel's mouth twisted. "Alejandra was—I'd never met anyone like her." He shot a look at Raoul. "I took my marriage seriously. I fancied myself in love when we married, though it's also true our families wanted the marriage. It was clear not long after we returned from the wedding journey that we did not have a great deal in common. I won't claim I was faithful all the years we were apart, even before Alejandra. We were separated for years at a time. One doesn't expect—But I wasn't looking for a mistress when I met Alejandra. I didn't think I had the time for a permanent entanglement."
"Is that what Allegra Roth was? An entanglement?"
Esquivel dragged a hand over his face. "God, no. The word is far too simple. Far too transitory. I met her at a lecture on Paine. Not so many streets from here. It was raining and I offered her my umbrella. We ducked into a coffeehouse to avoid the rain. Her suggestion. Most ladies I know wouldn't be seen in a coffeehouse. But Allegra was different. In so many ways. I'd never met a woman with such keen insights into politics."
Raoul settled back in his chair and crossed his legs. "You'd be shocked by most of the women I know, in that case."
"Of course I know there are women who are different. But my mother, my sisters, my wife—they all seemed to inhabit a different sphere. I'd never met anyone like Allegra, as I called her then. I knew I had to see her again. I wasn't even thinking of—well, I was, but I didn't necessarily expect it to go where it did. She was a married woman. Her husband had fought in a war I'd fought in. We met at another lecture, then at a bookseller's. We met to talk. And then we met to do other things." The words tumbled out, as though the story was a way to hold onto his memories of Allegra. "I wouldn't say I anticipated it. But when it happened, it seemed inevitable. I shut my mind to the fact that it had to end when I returned to the Argentine. And then I realized I couldn't bear for it to end. Couldn't imagine going on without her. And Allegra told me that with me she hadn't just found love, she'd found a purpose. After that, we both knew there was no option but for her to leave with me." Esquivel met Raoul's gaze squarely. "I won't pretend I wasn't running off with another man's wife, with the mother of two children. I'd also never claim that the decision was mine and not Allegra's. She controlled her own life. Made her own decisions. She was wilting in England. As I would have, if I'd stayed here. I'd never imagined what it would be like to share my life with someone who thought so like I did. Who shared my ideas and dreams. Whom I could plan with. I couldn't imagine my life without her." He drew a raw breath. "I still can't."
"It's an amazing thing," Raoul said. "To find someone with whom one can share so much." Which didn't mean it justified the damage to those who could be hurt in the process.
"You can't have our goals for the world and live a conventional family life," Esquivel said. "I think you must have realized that before I did. That night at the Lodge meeting, I sensed that you were pitying me for attempting matrimony."
"I'd never presume to pity anyone else's choices. I've made too many bad ones myself. But at that time, I might have agreed with you. Now I'm inclined to wonder if one can fight to change the world without first being loyal to those one is closest to. My son taught me that."
Esquivel's brows drew together. "Your son?"
"Malcolm Rannoch is my son. We don't make a secret of it any longer. I once shared a cause of sorts with his mother. So I can imagine a bit what you found with Allegra." And he'd asked Arabella to run off with him. Though in that case, it had been so they could keep Malcolm with them. He couldn't imagine having gone off with Arabella and leaving Malcolm behind. In fact, one of the reasons he hadn't asked Mélanie to go to South America with him years later was it would have meant leaving Malcolm behind. Well, that and the fact that he'd realized she was already falling in love with Malcolm. And a few other things, like a war that had mattered intensely to him.
"So you were away from him growing up," Esquivel said.
"More than I'd have liked. More than I should have been. Though I managed to see him a fair amount. I was in Britain a good deal, and Spain is closer than the Argentine."
"I think"—Esquivel stared into his glass. "My children will understand when they're grown. Where I was most needed."
"I expect they will, " Raoul said.
Though it might mean they'd decide he'd been most needed at home.
Laura slipped down the passage at Mivart's. She was wearing a dark wig and a starched cap over her telltale titian hair, and a dark dress and apron that matched the clothing worn by the maids at Mivart's. This was not the first time an investigation had taken them to Mivart's, and they'd found it helpful to have the ensemble on hand.
A lady and gentleman left one of the rooms. Laura moved to the side, as a maid would. The lady was wearing a deep-brimmed bonnet, but Laura thought she recognized the sister of Mrs. Rattisford, who lived on Charles Street off Berkeley Square and occasionally walked her pug in the garden. Laura had met Mrs. Rattisford's sister once or twice. She kept her gaze discreetly averted. Thank goodness for the wig.
The couple moved down the stairs at the end of the passage. Laura continued to the door of the bedroom in the suite Marco Esquivel and Allegra Roth occupied. Fortunately, her husband had taught her to use picklocks and the lock was not a complicated one. After a quick glance up and down the passage, she got the door open and slipped into the room.
It was furnished with the anonymous good taste one expected in an elegant hotel. One trunk stood at the foot of the bed, another beneath the windows on the side of the room. A silver-backed brush and mirror, a crystal scent bottle, tins of rouge and blacking, and a jewel case were arranged on the dressing table, a bit askew, as though Allegra had completed her toilette in a hurry when she left the night before. An adjoining door led to the sitting room. Laura could hear the faint murmur of her husband's flexible tones and an answering deeper voice. Raoul was pitching his voice loud, probably to cover any telltale sound she made.
Laura turned back the lid of the trunk at the foot of the bed, careful not to creak the hinges. Shirts and waistcoats. Esquivel's possessions might yield clues, but time was limited and she needed to focus on Allegra's. She went to the trunk beneath the windows. Shawls and scarves in brilliant cashmere and gauzy silk, and tippets and chemises of fine pin-tucked linen, threaded with ribbon, neatly folded. Out of habit, Laura felt along the inside of the trunk for concealed papers and tapped for a false bottom, though there was no reason to think Allegra would have concealed papers. Still, she'd led a life of mystery.
The wardrobe had an array of gowns, well cut by a Parisian modiste, as Kitty had said of the gown Allegra had been found in last night. The scent of jasmine wafted from them. Allegra's presence remained so vivid when she was gone. It must be unbearable for Esquivel. Whose voice Laura could still hear from next door.
She moved to the dressing table. Strands of fair hair were caught in the silver-backed brush. The jewels in the jewel case were not the most expensive, but good quality—pearls, moonstones, diamond earrings. Nothing appeared to be paste. The drawer held handkerchiefs embroidered with flowers or her initials (A.V., not A.R.) and another jewel case that had bracelets and rings. Laura ran her fingers over the white silk lining on a whim, and felt something. A telltale crinkle. The back of the lid coming loose or—
The silk lining was loose in one corner. It looked like wear. But—
Laura tugged gently at the loose white silk. It peeled back. To reveal papers tucked inside the lining.
A woman like Allegra Roth/Alejandra Vargas would have all sorts of reasons to hide letters. Love letters from a man other than Esquivel, news from home, perhaps mementos of her children. Perhaps a communication with whomever she had been meeting last night.
Laura unfolded the papers. And stood frozen for several seconds staring down at them. Not because of the contents, but because of the form.
They were in code.
By prior arrangement, Laura met her husband in a bookseller's two streets over from Mivart's. She'd removed her wig, cap, and apron, and looked more or less herself in her dark dress.
"Nothing unexpected?" Raoul asked, as he met her before a shelf of political philosophy in a back corner.
"Not getting in and out of the hotel." Laura pushed back the volume of John Locke she'd been pretending to examine. "But I found this hidden in one of Allegra's jewel cases." She held out the coded papers.
Raoul stared down at them. "I've never known anyone to use a code for a simple love letter—not unless they were an agent. A lot of intrigues in the Argentine. We know Allegra and Esquivel were deeply involved in politics. And the fact she hid this could suggest it was hidden from Esquivel as well. Poor devil. I'm not sure he was truthful with me about everything, but I don't doubt he's broken up about her death."
"And he may be more broken up when we decode this." Laura tucked her arm through her husband's. Relationships could be fragile. She was aware every day of the wonder of what they had. And of how easily it could be smashed to bits.
CHAPTER 16
Mélanie set down her pen. She'd promised to take a new draft of the scene between Fiona and Gideon to Simon at the Tavistock this afternoon. They were going to go through it with Brandon and Manon. If she could get it done in the next hour, she might have time for a council with Malcolm and any of the others who returned before she had to leave for the theatre.
And of course, just as it was hard to sleep when one knew one had to be awake early, it was hard to write when one knew one needed to produce the words quickly. She could grasp the shape of what she wanted with the scene. The details of how to get there eluded her. Gideon and Fiona were both being much too literal. She struck a line through the speech she had just written. It didn't help that she had a gnawing sense that she should be doing something about the investigation. Perhaps—
A rap sounded at the door of her study, and Valentin entered with a look of apology. He knew she was working. He also knew about the investigation. "Forgive me, madam. But Miss Roth has called."
She jumped to her feet far too readily, but really, time away from the scene might help. And she'd been wanting to talk to Harriet Roth.
Valentin had shown Jeremy's sister into the small salon. She was sitting bold upright on one of the chairs wearing a slate-colored gown and bonnet that could pass for mourning, and her chestnut hair was gathered into a simple knot, but as always she radiated quiet, effortless elegance. She sprang to her feet at Mélanie's entrance. "I'm sorry, I know you must be busy—"
"Of course not." Mélanie closed the door. For all Jeremy and Harriet and the boys were frequent guests in Berkeley Square, it was, she realized, the first time Harriet had called alone. "I'm so sorry. I know Allegra had been your friend as well as your sister-in-law."
Harriet's mouth twisted with familiar irony. "There were times when friend was the last thing I'd have called Allegra," she said when they were seated. "And probably the last thing she'd have called me. She thought I was rather dull. But she also liked an audience and we all played her audience at various times. She could be charming. I wasn't as much prey to it as Jeremy, but even I felt her charm. She could charm the boys, when she focused on them. Those are the memories I'm trying to help them hold on to." She shook her head. "I've just been to see Cressida—Allegra's stepsister. Like me, I don't think she'll ever quite forgive Allegra. And like me, I don't think she can fully comprehend that she's gone."
"I know she hadn't written to Jeremy," Mélanie said. "I assume she hadn't written to you either?"
"To ask for news of the boys? That would be a nice thought. But no. Although Jeremy says she'd kept a button from Samuel's baby shirt. That surprised me. Allegra was never given to sentimentality."
"Everyone can have moments of it."
Valentin returned with a tea tray. Mélanie sensed that Harriet had come to say or ask something specific and couldn't quite come to the point. After all, it was an investigation, and though they were Jeremy's friends, they were also the investigators.
Harriet stirred her tea carefully, took a sip, and set the cup down with a decisive click. "I left the house partly to give Jeremy time with the boys. And because I wanted to see Cressy. But I also wanted to see you. When I came back from my outing with the boys this morning, Jeremy told me that Malcolm had learnt he'd gone out last night."
Mélanie hadn't seen Malcolm since he'd left the house this morning to call on Roth, but if Harriet knew, there was no point in denying it. "Yes."
Harriet took another drink of tea. "I knew. When you called on us last night, and Jeremy said he and I had been talking all evening, I knew he'd gone out."
"He's your brother," Mélanie said. "No one would expect you to call him a liar."
"I told him it was stupid after you left. That you were bound to learn the truth. He said, probably, but he needed to try. Malcolm may not have had a chance to tell you yet, but I know Jeremy told him he went out to send a letter to his mistress. And I can tell you that's true. At least, I know Jeremy does have a mistress. And he was most concerned for her. He wanted her to know what happened to Allegra, and he wanted to keep her out of it. I know there's no reason to believe me when I lied last night, but I wanted to tell you."
"You didn't lie last night," Mélanie said. "You were quiet about Jeremy's lie."
"I hardly think Jeremy would let a witness get away with that. And I did nod agreement."
"Jeremy would understand the impulse to protect family. And for what it's worth, I do believe you." Mélanie reached for her own tea. She shouldn't be surprised that Jeremy had a mistress. There was no reason to expect him to confide in them. And no reason to feel unsettled. She took a sip of tea and wished she'd added honey. "Do you—"
"I don't know her name. I probably wouldn't tell you if I did, that would be Jeremy's choice, but I wouldn't pretend not to know. I wish to god I did know her name so I could ask her to back up Jeremy's story if need be. I wouldn't know about her at all if I hadn't found a note in his coat pocket. Just a scrap of paper setting up a meeting, but it was clear it was a love note. I handed it back to him and he acknowledged the affair but asked me not to ask more." Harriet hesitated. "I can't swear I'd have known if there'd been others. But I can read my brother well. I know the difference between an absence for an investigation and for other reasons. I think she's his first mistress since Allegra." She picked up the milk jug and added more to her tea. "Actually, these past weeks he's seemed the happiest I've seen him in years. That's the terrible thing about this."
