The Mask of Night
: Chapter 12

I understand Mrs. Charles Fraser is the toast of the diplomatic corps and Wellington’s aides-de-camp. My compliments. I knew you perfectly suited to the role.

Raoul O’Roarke to Mélanie Fraser,

21 March 1813

Mélanie stared across the expanse of Grosvenor Square. On the far side stood Glenister House, the scene of the opening gambit in the adventure she and Charles had been embroiled in two and a half years ago. Another life, in which secrets had still hung between them. In which Charles had had no notion that Raoul O’Roarke was more than an old friend of his family’s.

She shivered and gripped her arms, for reasons that had nothing to do with the chill air cutting through her pelisse. Damn Raoul.

She turned her back on the square and climbed the steps of the St. Ives house, a coolly elegant building of cream-dressed stone. A footman in buff-and-blue livery admitted her to an entry hall tiled with Siena marble. He informed her that Lady St. Ives was at home and conducted her up a curving staircase lined with family portraits, including one of an auburn-haired beauty with a discontented mouth and another of a fair-haired gentleman with Gallic features. The gilt nameplates identified them as the Vicomte and Vicomtesse de Fancot, Sylvie St. Ives’s émigré parents.

The footmen opened the door of a first-floor salon. The smell of potpourri, exquisitely blended of pine and cinnamon, filled the air. “Mrs. Fraser,” he announced, in resonant tones which made Mélanie wish she could see him as Figaro.

“Mrs. Fraser.” A well-modulated voice with the faintest of French accents sounded from the room beyond.

Mélanie stepped forward to greet Lady St. Ives. She had not been in this chamber of the house before. It was smaller than the more public rooms, with walls painted a bold turquoise that just matched Lady St. Ives’s eyes. Reliefs of classical cameos adorned the moldings and the ormolu fireplace bore the stamp of Robert Adam. The perfect setting for its mistress, a tall, slender woman with golden hair arranged in Grecian ringlets and delicate features that might have adorned one of the cameos.

“I trust you are well, Mrs. Fraser,” Lady St. Ives said. “I was sorry not to have a chance to speak with you last night. What a sad end to the evening.”

“Very.”

Lady St. Ives gestured Mélanie to a chair covered in cream satin. “Shall I ring for tea? Or would you prefer a glass of rataffia? Do say yes. I’m quite longing for one myself.”

“Then how can I refuse?”

Lady St. Ives moved to a gilt pier table that held a blue glass decanter and glasses. Mélanie watched the other woman as she poured. She was a study in perfection, from the fall of her ringlets to the delicate curve of her wrist as she lifted the decanter. And yet her knuckles were white, and the film of liquid in one of the glasses implied that this was not the first drink she had consumed this afternoon.

“There were a host of rumors circulating in the Lydgates’ ballroom last night,” Lady St. Ives said, carrying a glass over to Mélanie. ‘One of the few I suspect is true is that you and Mr. Fraser are assisting Bow Street with the investigation into the unfortunate man’s death.”

“My husband has undertaken such investigations before.”

“With your help.” Lady St. Ives sank down on a Grecian sofa. “I may be sadly frivolous myself, but I quite admire your initiative. I’m afraid I can’t be of much help with your investigation however.”

Mélanie took a sip of the sweet, almond-flavored wine. “On the contrary. I have it on good authority that you were on the terrace not long before the murder took place.”

Lady St. Ives’s fingers clenched round the cerulean blue stem of her glass. “Whose authority?”

“I prefer to keep names out of it.” Mélanie leaned forward. “It is not my wish to pry into anyone’s life. The only information that interests me is what may pertain to the victim and his killer. But I should tell you that you and Oliver were overheard on the terrace last night.”

Lady St. Ives’s delicate shoulders jerked straight. “Oliver and I have been friends for years.”

“According to Charles, at one time you hoped to be more.’

Lady St. Ives gave a harsh laugh. “Who doesn’t hope for more at that time of life. Didn’t you, at seventeen? Or were you waiting chastely in your Spanish castle for Charles to sweep you off your feet?”

At seventeen, Mélanie had been an ex-whore spying for the French and sharing Raoul O’Rourke’s bed. She’d have laughed in disbelief at the thought that she’d ever be married, let alone in love with her husband. By all rights she still should laugh. “I’m sure we’ve all done our share of dreaming. But neither you nor Mr. Lydgate had the good fortune to persuade your parents to agree to the match.”

“Or the initiative to run off to Gretna Green. Though Oliver wanted to.” Lady St. Ives took a quick sip of rataffia. “I was too much of a coward.”

“Or too prudent.”

“Perhaps. That’s what Caroline told me at the time.”

“Caroline?”

“Lady Pendarves now. We’ve been friends since we were in the schoolroom, though she’s never known what to make of my fits and starts. Caro wouldn’t dream of straying beyond the line. I used to think that made her life sadly dull, but as time goes by I’ve come to believe she’s the happier for it. The night I told her I was thinking of running off with Oliver, she said nothing but misery could come of a secret marriage made on impulse. I daresay she was right. You seem to love your husband, Mrs. Fraser. Would you claim love is any guarantee of happiness?”

“I don’t think anything is a guarantee of happiness.”

“Quite. I expect Oliver and I would have driven each other to insanity or infidelity. Or both. Neither of us was meant to be poor.”

“Yet your attachment continued beyond your respective marriages. It’s understandable.”

“I may be a shallow creature, but I’m not the sort to turn my back on my friends.”

“Oliver was overheard telling you it had to end. And you were overheard saying you couldn’t bear for it do so.”

“And you thought— You’re a clever woman, Mrs. Fraser, but not so clever as to rise above the conventional interpretation.” Lady St. Ives fingered the stem of her glass. “Do you remember living in Paris? As a child I mean.”

“Before the Revolution?” Mélanie said. The cover story of her growing up was very close to Sylvie St. Ives’s actual childhood. “No, I was only a baby when we left.”

“I confess I’m a few years your senior. My memories are fragmented, but still vivid. The orange trees in the Tuileries. My mother’s salon. A mob smashing one of our windows. I’d been playing on the carpet and suddenly there was broken glass all about me. My mother snatched me up and told my father this settled it. We had to leave. Your family escaped to Spain. Mine came here. But even growing up in England, I never really belonged. Not the way my husband and yours and the Mallinsons do.”

“To really belong to that world, one has to be born to it.”

“Marrying into it was the closest I could come. In that sense, Oliver and I are very much alike. Even then I wonder if I’ve really escaped my past.” Lady St. Ives took another sip of rataffia. “Both my parents are inveterate gamesters. They gambled away half their fortune before the Jacobins took the rest. When we came to England, they had delusions that they could recoup our fortunes through the turn of a card or a throw of dice or a lucky horse. Instead, we drifted ever deeper into debt. You’d think I’d have profited from their example. Instead, I seem to have inherited the weakness.”

“You’ve run up gambling debts.”

“To put it mildly. My husband has settled some of them, but I’ve never been able to confess the full extent of my weakness to him.”

“But you could to Oliver?”

“Oliver’s always understood. Perhaps because I know his own weaknesses.”

“You’ve stayed very close.”

“A first love is always a first love, don’t you think?”

Mélanie, thinking of her own first love, who had apparently employed Julien St. Juste to do God knew what, could only nod.

Lady St. Ives set her glass down on a porcelain-inlaid side table. “I don’t see that my fidelity or lack of it is any concern of yours, Mrs. Fraser. But Oliver has never been my lover in the carnal sense, before or after my marriage.”

“Then last night—?”

Lady St. Ives adjusted on the gold clasps that held her gown closed at one side. “I was obliged to pawn some of my jewelry to dispose of a debt. Oliver undertook the commission for me. Last night, he was telling me he’d been successful.” She reached for her glass and tossed back another swallow. “I don’t know how much your informant overheard, but Oliver went on to tell me that my gambling had to stop. And I told him I told him that I wasn’t sure I could bear to stop.”

“And then?”

“We spoke a trifle longer.”

“By any chance did you lose an earring in the garden?”

“No, thank God. I can’t afford to lose any of the jewelry I have left.”

“Did you see anyone else in the garden?”

“I didn’t see anyone. But I overheard two gentlemen. One of whom, I assume, is your informant.”

“Who were they?”

“Don’t you know?”

“I’d like to hear it from you.”

“Lord Pendarves and Simon Tanner. They were only there for a minute or so. I think they became aware of our presence at about the moment we became aware of theirs. They beat a hasty retreat. I was afraid we’d been overheard, but at the time I comforted myself that they’d been arguing too vehemently themselves to take heed of our words.”

The rataffia turned to bitter almonds in Mélanie’s mouth. “They were arguing?”

“I didn’t hear much, but Pendarves said something like ‘For God’s sake tell me the truth.’”

“The truth about what?”

“I don’t know. I’d have been curious if I hadn’t had more pressing matters to concern me. We should have returned to the ballroom ourselves once they left the terrace, but the damage had been done, and we still had matters to discuss.”

“Your gambling?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“Isn’t that enough?”

“Oliver was remonstrating with you when Pendarves and Mr. Tanner overheard you. The conversation must have been advanced. If you still had matters to discuss, I can only assume there was more.”

Lady St. Ives tossed off the last of her rataffia and went back to the table that held the decanter. “Oliver was distressed. Mrs. Fraser, I know Isobel is a friend of yours, but perhaps you are not aware of the extent of her behavior.”

“Oliver confides to you about Isobel?”

Lady St. Ives splashed more rataffia into her glass. “He needed someone to talk to. I’ve tried not to be jealous. I’ve tried to look the other way. But to see him in such pain—“

“Over—“

Lady St. Ives turned to face Mélanie. The fitful light from the window behind her burnished her hair. Her face was in shadow, but her eyes sparked with anger. “Your dear friend Isobel has a lover.”

Mélanie just managed not to snap the stem of her glass. “Oliver told you that?”

“He had to tell someone.” Lady St. Ives returned to the sofa and dropped down without her usual grace. “I always thought Isobel was a much better person than I am. So endlessly patient with her children. So cheerful about visiting the sick and needy. So zealous about looking after Oliver’s political fortunes. She has a talent for goodness, the way I have a talented for playing the harp. I used to comfort myself by thinking that Oliver was a thousand times better off with her than he would have been with me.”

“What leads Oliver to suspect Isobel has been unfaithful?”

“He said it was obvious something was wrong when she returned from France before Christmas. She wouldn’t talk to him about it. So he hired someone to follow her.”

“Oliver told you this last night?”

“He told me over a week ago when he engaged the man.”

Mélanie tightened her grip on the stem of her glass. “Who is he? This man who was following Isobel.”

“A Bow Street Runner, I believe. They often undertake private work to supplement their income. I don’t know the man’s name. Last night Oliver told me that the runner had reported seeing Isobel have a rendezvous with a man.”

“Who?’

“Oliver didn’t tell me the man’s name. Perhaps he doesn’t know himself.” Lady St. Ives twirled the stem of her glass between her fingers.

Mélanie hesitated. It was an intolerable invasion of privacy and probably nothing to do with the murder. Still— She leaned forward. ‘But?’ she said gently.

Lady St. Ives’s gaze flew to her face, torn with conflicting impulses. ‘Later that evening after—After the dead man was discovered. After Oliver made his announcement to the guests. Oliver did it very well—like any politician, he’s brilliant at putting a good face on things—but it was plain something dreadful had happened. I couldn’t see him in the ballroom, so I went to look for him in his study. The door of Isobel’s writing room was open as I passed by. I heard a sound from within. I confess to not feeling particularly charitable toward Isobel just now, but it was the cry of a despair I’d never wish on any fellow human.’

Mélanie swallowed, her mouth bone dry. ‘You’re sure it was Isobel?’

‘I went to the door to see if I could help. Isobel said she was overset by what had happened, and she’d be herself in a moment.” Lady St. Ives regarded Mélanie. ‘There’s no denying the strains of the evening. There could be a number of explanations for her distress. But putting it together with what Oliver had told me, it was difficult not to reach certain conclusions.’

“I don’t imagine it’s easy,” Roth said as he and Charles turned into Rosemary Lane. They’d left their hackney a couple of streets over.

Charles scanned the street ahead. Patches of rainwater were still drying on the cobblestones, and the wooden shop signs swung in the wind, their chains rattling like something out of the ghost stories his sister had devoured in the nursery. “No. The more we learn the murkier the investigation grows.”

“Quite. But I was thinking of O’Roarke’s involvement. Difficult for you what with him being a friend of the family.”

Charles met Roth’s gaze. “I’ve never been sure what Raoul O’Roarke is thinking or what motivates him.”

“He went to great lengths to help at the time of Colin’s abduction.”

Behind the friendly interest, something in Roth’s gaze asked for confidences. A dozen different thoughts about Raoul O’Roarke tumbled through Charles’s head. Thoughts he couldn’t voice to anyone, not even Mélanie. Especially not Mélanie. And certainly not a Bow Street Runner. “He’s always been fond of Colin. He’s a powerful ally when one finds oneself on the same side. But he can be just as formidable an opponent.”

“What does Mrs. Fraser think of him?”

Charles forced himself not to breathe, because any breath he might draw would have grated. “She doesn’t trust him any more than I do. There’s Number 9.”

Roth ran his gaze over the sign that hung over the narrow building. A scarlet-bound volume and the faded words Hapgood’s Novels and Books of Interest. “Why give young Simcox the address of a book store? Because they’re using it to pass messages?”

“Perhaps Hapgood is another former Bonapartist spy?” Charles said, wondering if there was a chance in hell he could prevail upon his wife to write a list of all such she knew of. Even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew the answer. “Or perhaps—” His gaze moved to the floor above the shop. Narrow sash windows, a table visible behind one, a chairback at another. “It looks as though there are lodgers above.”

“You think St. Juste might have stayed here?”

“Easier to find anonymity in small lodgings than in a hired house in a fashionable part of town. Which doesn’t answer the question of whether or not Mr. Hapgood is someone in St. Juste’s confidence.”

Roth nodded. “For that matter, I suppose O’Roarke could be the one staying here. He likes books, doesn’t he?”

“Yes,” Charles said. “So he does.”

Without further speech they crossed the street and opened the door of Hapgood’s shop. The musty, leathery smell of old books greeted them. The smell of Charles’s favorite rooms since childhood. Including the one Raoul O’Roarke had occupied on visits to his grandfather’s house.

The only sources of illumination were whatever wintry light the windows let in and two oil lamps, one set on a table in the center of the room, the other on a counter at the back. A man sat behind the counter, but at first all Charles could make out was the dark blur of a figure.

“May I help you gentlemen?” the man asked in a deep voice.

Charles threaded his way between bookcases and tables, wondering how anyone managed to see enough to examine the books that were offered for sale. “Do I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Hapgood?”

“I don’t know if it’s a pleasure, but I’m Hapgood.” He was a wiry, compact man, with thick, close cut salt-and-pepper hair and a strong, blunt-featured face. He was seated on a high stool behind the counter, turning the pages of a book set directly beneath the lamp. He did not close the book as Charles and Roth approached.

“We’re looking for this gentleman. We thought perhaps you might know him.” Charles pulled out a sketch Mélanie had done of St. Juste.

Hapgood pulled the sketch into the lamplight. “What’s he done?”

“What makes you think he’s done anything?” Roth asked.

“You gentlemen look as though you have more important things to do with your time than to go about asking questions without good cause.”

“He was murdered last night,” Charles said.

“Good Lord. ” Hapgood’s brows shot up. “And the two of you—“

“Are trying to find out why he was killed and by whom,” Roth said.

Hapgood looked from Roth to Charles. “And you are—?”

“This is Inspector Roth of Bow Street. My name is Fraser. Charles Fraser. Lord Carfax and Lord Castlereagh asked me to assist in the investigation. I’m—“

“I know who you. I’ve read your speeches. There was one a couple of months back against suspension of Habeas Corpus that I particularly admired. Not that you had a prayer of stopping its suspension.”

“Thank you,” Charles said. “And yes, I knew I didn’t.”

Hapgood closed the book he had been reading. ‘It must be difficult, all that work and passion only to see your ideas voted down.”

“My wife would tell you I have a fondness for taking a lance to windmills.”

Hapgood gave an unexpected smile. “My character reading may not be the most acute, Mr. Fraser, but I’d imagine you’re the sort who can tell a windmill from a dragon.”

“When the wind is southerly.”

“Where have you seen the victim?” Roth asked.

“In my shop. And above it. Mr. Montford has rented a room from for the past month.”

“That’s his name? Montford?”

“That’s the name he gave me. What name do you know him by?”

“None,” Charles said, employing his own talents for deception.

“May I ask how he died?”

“He was knifed during a masquerade ball.”

“My word. I saw the story in the Chronicle this morning. But it never occurred to me— I begin to see why you were asked to assist with the investigation, Mr. Fraser.“

“When did you last see Mr. Montford?” Roth asked.

Hapgood scratched his head. “Three or four days since. He’s out a good deal.”

Charles felt something soft brush his leg. He glanced down to see a tabby cat winding itself against his boots. He bent down to stroke the animal. “Did Mr. Montford have a profession?”

“He’d been abroad for several years as a private tutor. His charge having gone off to university, Montford had returned to England to look for work. Or so he said.”

“You had reason to doubt him?” Roth said.

The cat jumped onto the counter. Hapgood scratched her ears. “Not at the time. But you gentlemen obviously have questions about him and it occurs to me that I have no proof of any of the things he told me.” He regarded Charles and Roth with an unblinking gaze, seemingly more intrigued than alarmed. “I must say I’m surprised to hear he met his death in the manner you describe. He struck me as a man who was well able to take care of himself.”

“Why?” Charles said.

Hapgood frowned. The cat lay down on her side and began to wash. “He was well-versed in classical literature and his stories about the peccadilloes of his young charge had the ring of truth. But— I had the sense he was constantly aware of where everyone stood in the room and knew all the possible exits. A man keeping an escape plan in mind. Or guarding against an attack.”

“Did Montford ever receive visitors?” Roth asked.

“Young man came round a couple of times. Tall. Curly dark hair. Montford said the young man was the son of a woman who’d worked for his family when he was a boy.”

“Where?”

“Where did he grow up? Shropshire. Though I doubt that was any more the truth than his other stories.”

Roth took a step closer to the counter. The cat batted at a fold of his greatcoat. “What else can you tell us about Montford?” Roth asked, petting the cat.

“Very little, I’m afraid. He kept to himself and as I prefer to do likewise we didn’t converse much.” Hapgood rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I suppose you think I should display more grief at his death, but truth to tell, while I knew nothing ill of him, we weren’t well acquainted.”

“Did he ever have ladies visit him?”

“Not to my knowledge. Though he looked to be the sort of man who’d know how to be discreet.”

“What about this man?” Charles held out a sketch Mélanie had drawn of Raoul O’Roarke.

Hapgood examined it and shook his head. “No. But as I said, whatever Montford’s business, he conducted most of it elsewhere.”

Yet there was something guarded in Hapgood’s expression. Charles couldn’t swear he was lying, but nor could he be confident the bookseller was telling the truth.

“We’ll have to see his room,” Roth said.

“I assumed you’d wish to.” Hapgood pulled open a drawer beneath the counter and produced a tarnished brass key. “Third door at the top of the stairs. They’re at the back of the shop. The stairs, that is.”

Charles and Roth made their way past ranks of books and up the narrow stairs. The corridor at the stairhead held no illumination save the light from a window that faced the next house over. The window had been left half open, perhaps in an attempt to drive out the damp that pervaded the house and threatened the books below stairs. A gust of cold air greeted them.

They walked down the corridor to the third door. Charles reached for the knob. Before he could turn it, the door swung open, and a dark figure hurtled through and knocked him to the floor.

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