Mélanie slid her hand into her husband's own, picturing Sandy and Bet at the wedding the previous day. From the look she caught in Bet's eyes watching Sandy in unguarded moments, Mélanie was sure Bet was all too well aware of the world's complexities. And of what they meant for her own and Sandy's future.

  "Don’t underestimate Sandy," Malcolm said, as though he read her thoughts. "Even if he is Alistair's son. Perhaps especially because he is Alistair's son. Alistair was a lot of things, but he certainly was brilliant and an astute judge of people. Though Sandy has a sensitivity Alistair quite lacked."

  Mélanie studied her husband. A breeze rustled through the tree branches and cast shifting shadows over Malcolm's face. To the outside world, Alistair Rannoch was his father, and by his own account there was a time he himself hadn't been sure. For all he might claim to be relieved Alistair wasn't his parent, what did it mean to him that Alistair's illegitimate son was such a focus of the League to this day, whereas Alistair had displayed no interest in Malcolm himself? "I know this doesn't make Sandy your brother," she said, choosing her words carefully. Sometimes, the better one knew someone, the more difficult it was to speak, because one knew just what traps one was stepping round.

  "But it's a tie between us. I'm not sorry for that. Well done, Jessica," Malcolm called, as their daughter tagged Colin. He looked back at Mélanie. "Oh, did you mean am I bothered that Alistair and the League seem more interested in Sandy than they ever were in me? On the contrary. I couldn't be more relieved not to be a focus of the League's interest."

  Mélanie tightened her fingers round Malcolm's own. "I wouldn't entirely say you weren't. They set Laura to spy on us. I don't think even the League do that with that many people."

  "No." Malcolm's gaze settled for a moment on Laura's daughter, titian plaits flapping in the breeze as she ran after Colin. "But I actually prefer that to being the subject of their scheming." His brows drew together. "The League haven't shown much interest in Edgar. Which I suppose isn't surprising, as Alistair never showed much interest in him."

  Even now, Mélanie didn't fully understand Malcolm's relationship with his brother save that they were no longer as close as they had once been. She sensed Malcolm himself wasn't sure why they had drifted apart. "You're wondering if you should tell Edgar about Sandy?" she asked.

  "I think I'm going to have to, the next time he's back from France. And warn him about the League. Just because they haven't targeted him doesn't mean they won't. Alistair's legacy is difficult to contend with." Malcolm turned his head as Laura and Raoul emerged from the Berkeley Square house, and lifted his hand in a wave. "For any number of reasons, I'm very glad O'Roarke is my father."

  Epilogue

  One month later

  The night Malcolm was born he'd paced the floor of his London hotel. Frances, only fifteen, had sent him updates, and at last the news that he and Bella had a son. Relief that Bella and the baby were all right had washed over him in a deluge. He couldn't say how long he'd stood staring down at the paper, but it had been minutes together before it fully dawned on him that he was a father.

  It had been two days before he'd seen Malcolm. Fanny had smuggled him into Bella's house, and Fanny had put Malcolm in his arms. He could still remember the weight of his infant son, so insubstantial, yet heavy with responsibility. A responsibility he could well be said not to have lived up to.

  But that night, all the awareness of parenthood had been there, trembling along his nerve endings. A joy and fear that he had had to keep bottled up inside, because the truth of Malcolm's parentage had to remain secret.

  He hadn't known the precise night Colin was born. Not until after the fact. He'd known he'd abrogated the right to more than the interest of a friend long before Colin's birth. But he'd been keenly aware of the timeframe, concerned about what might be happening. Relieved, as he had been at the news of Malcolm's birth, when Mélanie sent him a brief note that the baby had been born and they were both well. Relieved, but aware he had no claim to either the joy or fear of new parenthood.

  This was different. It wasn't waiting for news of a mission, it was taking part in the mission. Albeit in a very limited way, the sort of role that left one feeling helpless while a comrade ran unthinkable risks. Save that he couldn't remember a mission where he'd been anything like as unable to offer practical aid as he was now.

  Laura's fingers tightened round his own. "Talk nonsense. Anything. I could drown in trivialities."

  "You look beautiful."

  "That is nonsense."

  "No." He pushed the sweat-dampened hair off her forehead and kissed her temple.

  Laura's hand tightened round his own. He slid his arm round her until the spasm ended.

  "Splendid," Geoffrey Blackwell said. "Shouldn't be long now."

  Mélanie put a glass of chipped ice in his hand. "Give her a piece at a time. It can help."

  Laura looked past him at Mélanie. "When you did this the second time you could remember the first. I wonder if that makes it easier or harder?" She took a piece of ice, then gasped as another contraction hit.

  "Capital," Blackwell said. "I can see the head. You can start pushing, Laura."

  Raoul slid his arm beneath his wife's shoulders. Laura looked up at him and for a moment he'd swear what he saw in her gaze shot straight through to his soul.

  It was a blur after that. Laura's muscles straining beneath his arm, her fingers clenching his hand, deep breaths, and then suddenly a small cry, and a small, squirming human on Laura's chest.

  "Sweetheart." Laura's fingers curved round the baby's head.

  Raoul touched the child's small hand and kissed Laura's hair. It was some moments later before he realized they had a daughter.

  Malcolm looked up at the opening of the study door, aware his fingers were not quite steady. Mélanie leaned against the doorjamb. She was smiling. "You have a little sister. Laura's well."

  Malcolm released a breath he hadn't known he was holding. "How's O'Roarke?"

  "He looks a bit green, but he managed very well. Almost as well as you. He's waking the children up. Do you want to come meet your sister?"

  * * *

  Malcolm followed Mélanie to Laura and Raoul's room to see Emily sitting in the bed, holding her baby sister in her arms, between her mother and Raoul, who was perched on the edge. Colin was curled up at the foot of the bed holding onto Jessica, who was studying the baby with wide eyes. "Baby."

  It had been Jessica's first word, and babies continued to intrigue her.

  "Just so." Raoul smiled at her.

  "What are you going to call her?" Colin asked.

  Raoul raised a brow at Laura. Laura looked between him and Emily. "Clara?"

  "That's pretty," Emily said.

  "Clara." Raoul curved his fingers round his daughter's head.

  Malcolm watched them for a moment, then walked to the bed and stroked a finger along his little sister's knuckles as he once had with Colin and Jessica. Clara's small hand closed round his finger. Malcolm smiled down at her. "Welcome to the family, little one."

  Historical Notes

  The events of the United Irish Uprising were very real, but the Craanford incident, Algernon Weston, Anne Somercote Darlington, and their letters are entirely fictional. The actual Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster in 1819 was Charles Bathurst.

  The Glenister Papers

  Malcolm and Mélanie Suzanne Rannoch's adventures in espionage and investigation continue in Tracy Grant's new historical mystery.

  On sale May, 2019.

  London,

  September, 1819

  "Remind me again what we're doing here?" Malcolm Rannoch murmured, casting a glance round the ballroom.

  Mélanie curled her gloved fingers round his arm. "You need Sir Winston for your anti-enclosure bill."

  Malcolm looked down into his wife's sea-green eyes. "And we were going to stop playing these games."

  "We can't entirely stop playing them."

  Malcolm glanced at Laura and Raoul O'Roarke. "And somehow you got pulled into it."

  "There are a number of Spaniards here," Raoul said.

  "And James and Hetty," Laura said.

  "Besides it was an excuse to order a new gown," Mélanie said.

  "Oh, well." Malcolm smiled at his wife. "Why didn't you say so to begin with? Such a charming gown certainly deserves an outing."

  "Confess it, Malcolm. You didn't realize it was new until just now."

  Malcolm took in the silver gauze over azure satin. "But I did notice you were looking particularly lovely."

  "The perfect answer." Laura looked at Raoul. "I hope you're taking notes."

  "He'd have noticed it was a new gown," Malcolm said. "O'Roarke's attention to detail is flawless."

  "Laura's is new too," Mélanie said.

  "Of course it is," Raoul said. "And stunning."

  "Liar." Laura smiled at her husband.

  "I'm not lying about your being stunning."

  "Heavens, only a few months, and I seem to have forgot how crowded Mayfair ballrooms get." Cordelia Davenport joined them, her arm linked through her husband Harry's.

  "Let me guess," Malcolm said. "You have a new gown."

  "How very perceptive of you, Malcolm." Cordelia smiled at him. "Harry didn't notice."

  "Deduction. I didn't notice Mel's or Laura's, but it finally occurred to me the three of you went shopping together."

  "One would almost think you were a spy," Harry said. "But then I'd never think you all bought new gowns simply to intrigue your husbands. If so you'd know you have no need of gowns to do so."

  "You're brilliant, Harry." Mélanie smiled at him.

  Harry stopped a waiter and procured glasses of champagne to hand round. "Remind me why we're here. Besides the gowns."

  "Politics," Mélanie said.

  "Spain," Raoul said.

  "Family," Laura said.

  "And tracking the League," Malcolm added. "If—"

  He broke off, because a flash a movement across the room caught his eye, an echo of memory that sent him spinning back eight years, before the rich gold of the hair and the swirling green of the gown registered. Candlelight shimmered off damask wallhangings and gilded paint. Champagne glasses clinked. Voices pinged off the coffered ceiling. The sights and sounds he had known all his life, here and abroad. People he had known all his life were all round him. And for a moment, like a trick of theatrical illusion, it was all gone and he was rooted to the ground, staring across the ballroom at a ghost.

  "Darling?" His wife's familiar voice cut the stillness.

  "Sorry. Someone I haven't seen for a long time. I had no notion she was back in London."

  Raoul and Laura had gone completely still. Mélanie's gaze was a little questioning. He'd seen their friends in similar situations. He should warn Mélanie. But how to do it so quickly? He and Mel had always been quick to communicate, but this was something he scarcely even had the language for.

  He met her gaze for a moment and saw a glimmering of understanding flash in her eyes. And then it was too late, because his ghost was no longer across the room but standing before them.

  "Mr. Rannoch. It's been a long time."

  "Mrs. Ashford. I had no notion you were in Britain."

  "We've only just arrived from the Argentine."

  "May I present my wife Mélanie?" The familiar social ritual came to his rescue like lines from a well-rehearsed play. "Darling, Katelina Ashford. I knew her in Lisbon, but she and her husband left for the Argentine before I met you."

  "Mrs. Ashford." Mélanie's smile was faultless.

  "Mrs. Rannoch." So was Kitty's.

  "I believe you met Colonel Davenport in Lisbon," Malcolm said. "Though not Lady Cordelia. And of course you know O'Roarke," he added, wondering just how much Raoul knew about Kitty and her activities, and Malcolm's own involvement with her. "But I don't believe you've met his wife, Laura."

  Kitty shook hands with Laura and Cordelia. Was it his imagination, Malcolm wondered, that their interaction was subtly different from the same one between Kitty and Mélanie?

  "I heard Malcolm had married," Kitty said. "I didn't realize you had as well, Mr. O'Roarke. My felicitations."

  "Thank you. It was very recent," Raoul said.

  "A number of things have changed for all of us. But then I imagine the end of the war shifted things for everyone. Especially those of you who remained in Britain. We felt very far from things in Argentina, though we did get news from home, of course." Kitty smiled at Mélanie. "I was so pleased to hear Malcolm had found happiness. Your brilliance is talked of even in South America."

  "You're very kind, Mrs. Ashford, though I know exaggeration is part of the language of diplomacy." Mélanie said.

  "But not among friends. I confess it is quite a relief to meet old friends from the Peninsula."

  "Are you in Britain long?" Malcolm asked.

  "I'm not quite sure yet," Kitty said. "I decided to bring my children back to Europe rather suddenly. My husband died nine months ago."

  At this point, her being a widow could hardly matter. Not to him. Not except that it might give Kit a chance for a happier life. But the news still hit him like a shock of rainwater.

  "I'm sorry," Malcolm said, also using the language of diplomacy. "My condolences."

  "Thank you." Kitty's voice was steady, her gaze composed. However she may have changed, she hadn't lost her ability to dissimulate. "It was a shock. Though when one is married to a soldier, one is always prepared to some degree."

  "I'm very so sorry," Laura said. "My father is a former soldier. And my late husband was one as well, though he didn't die in battle. Much as one knows the risks I don't think one is ever quite prepared for it."

  Laura almost never talked about her first husband. Malcolm had the oddest sense she was attempting to come to everyone's conversational rescue.

  "We saw so many of our friends fall in the Peninsula and at Waterloo." Mélanie's voice was warm with sympathy. Malcolm thought only he would have caught the slight tremor that ran through her. "It's such a difficult life being a soldier's wife. I'm so very sorry. It must be particularly hard for your children."

  "Yes," Kitty said, "though they are also a great comfort. I'm sure having been married to Malcolm for almost seven years you aren't a stranger to fearing for your husband. Lady Cordelia can't be. I imagine Mrs O'Roarke isn't either though she's been married for a shorter time."

  "I would almost say the fears are commonplace," Laura said. "Except that they never could be."

  "I greatly relieved when Harry sold out," Cordelia said.

  "I confess I was terrified for Malcolm, particularly at Waterloo, for all he wasn't a soldier," Mélanie said.

  "Malcolm always ran his own risks," Kitty said.

  "Not so much anymore." Malcolm pressed Mélanie's arm closer to his side.

  Kitty gave a lopsided smile that had the familiarity of a favorite book suddenly falling open to a wellborn page. "But then you never would admit to them, would you?"

  "If you mean I always avoided exaggeration, then you are perfectly correct."

  "My point precisely. I imagine Mrs. Rannoch is quite familiar with your habit of understatement."

  "Perfectly." Mélanie smiled at Kitty.

  "Whereas Mr. O'Roarke never made a secret of the dangers he ran," Kitty said. "Merely the details of those dangers."

  "My work is much less dangerous these days," Raoul said.

  "Which doesn't mean not dangerous." Laura smiled up at him with ironic affection. "All things are relative."

  "Or perhaps the dangers we all face are simply different these days," Kitty said.

  "Well put, Mrs. Ashford," Harry said.

  "You must call on us while you are in London, Mrs Ashford," Mélanie said. "And bring your children. Our son and daughter would love to meet them. The O'Roarkes and their daughters live with us as well, and the Davenports and their daughters are frequently at our house."

  "That would be delightful. Oh, I see my late husband's godmother beckoning to me from across the room. Do pray excuse me. I look forward to talking later."

  Kitty was gone in a swirl of silk and diamonds, leaving silence in her wake.

  "I hadn't heard about Ashford." Harry stepped into the conversational void with his usual acuity. "But we were in different regiments. I didn't know him well."

  Malcolm also hadn't known Harry all that well at that time. There was no reason Harry should know about Malcolm's relationship with Kitty. None except that he was Harry.

  "I had no notion she was back," Malcolm said, aware of the need to fill the void with something approaching normality. He glanced at Raoul. "Did you?"

  "No," Raoul said in a low voice that gave little away. "Like you I hadn't even heard Ashford had died."

  And there was no particular reason Raoul should know. None except that he was Raoul.

  "Has she ever been to England before?" Laura asked.

  "I don't think so," Malcolm said. "She married Ashford in the Peninsula."

  "Rannoch." Henry Brougham clapped Malcolm on the shoulder. "Thank you for being here. Or perhaps I should thank Mélanie." He shot a smile at her. "Come with me. Sir Winston is in the card room and he's just won a hand so he's in an agreeable mood. Forgive us, Mélanie. Lady Cordelia. Mrs. O'Roarke. Davenport. O'Roarke."

  "Of course." Mélanie gave a smile from her days as a political wife. "It's why we're here after all."

  Mélanie watched her husband cross the ballroom with Henry Brougham. Without turning her head, she was aware of Katelina Ashford on the other side of the room. Funny. She'd always known there must be a woman like this. No, not like this. The woman had remained tantalizingly out of focus in all her imaginings. But she'd always known he must have former lovers. He might not have her level of experience, but he was no novice in the bedchamber. And knowing Malcolm, whatever his romantic past, it involved not transitory relationships but women he'd cared about. Meeting Katelina Ashford she'd known it was more than that. This woman wasn't just a former lover but a former love.

 

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