Secrets of a Lady

“Charles,” she said after a long moment, her cheek pillowed on his chest, “do you think they were happy?”

He was twining his fingers in her hair. “Who?”

“Princess Aysha and Ramon de Carevalo. Do you think he abducted her or that they eloped because they’d been lovers all along?”

“Who knows?” He tugged another lock of hair free of its pins. “Perhaps they were soulmates who shared a love of poetry. Perhaps he carried her off for purely political reasons. Perhaps she was an intelligence agent and she arranged the whole thing so she could spy inside his court.”

Melanie reached up and laced her fingers through his own. “Perhaps she told him the truth eventually.”

“Perhaps he believed her.” Charles brought her hand to his lips and kissed her palm. “Perhaps, just possibly, they ended up being happy anyway.”

Melanie curled her fingers against his face. “It may not be the truth,” she said, “but it’s a lovely story.”

Chapter 37

Colin took a sip of milk. His fingers were curled tight round the blue-flowered mug, as though he was afraid to let go of it. Charles felt much the same about his son. He sat back and studied his children across the nursery breakfast table. The toast crumbs on the white cloth, the steam curling above the porridge bowls, the silver gleam of the butter knife. Hallmarks of normality in a world that had not yet returned to normal. He glanced sideways at Melanie. Her gaze was fastened on Colin as though making up for lost time.

Too much had happened in the past three days for Charles to begin to comprehend it. He knew better than to try. Every so often, the pain or fear or sorrow would break through, like glass slicing into his brain. For a moment, he would be unable to think or even breathe. And then everyday life would close the wound over and the feeling would recede to a dull ache on the edge of his consciousness.

Laura Dudley was sewing by the window. Berowne, the cat, was curled up on the hearth rug, as though this was a normal morning. But of course it wasn’t anything of the kind. The children didn’t know about Edgar yet. He and Melanie would have to find a way to tell them. Roth would call soon, wanting answers. Blanca was closeted with Addison in one of the parlors, telling him she had been in the employ of a French agent. It would not be easy for them, but Charles had great faith in his valet’s innate good sense winning the day.

Jessica pushed her spoon through her porridge and looked at her brother. “Will your finger grow back?”

Charles’s breath caught in his throat. He sensed Melanie’s do the same.

A shadow crossed Colin’s face. He shifted his mug in his hands. “No,” he said. “Fingers aren’t like hair and nails.”

“Oh.” Jessica regarded him with wide, appraising eyes. “So you’ll be a hero like Uncle Fitzroy.”

Jessica was very fond of Fitzroy Somerset, who had lost his arm at Waterloo. Colin took another sip of milk. To Charles’s intense relief, his son’s face lightened a trifle. “Not quite,” Colin said. “A finger isn’t nearly as bad as an arm.”

Jessica added another spoonful of sugar to her porridge. “I think you’re a hero.”

Colin looked from Charles to Melanie. “What’s going to happen to Meg?”

It was a shock to hear Colin use her name, a shock to realize she and Evans were people to him, however monstrous their actions. “She’s being held at Bow Street,” Charles said. “She’s going to go to prison for a long time. You don’t ever have to see her again.”

He expected to see relief or the remnants of fear on Colin’s face, but instead Colin frowned, the way he did when he was puzzling through a problem in the schoolroom. “She was beastly,” he said. “But not all the time. She brought me food and made sure I had enough blankets.”

Charles heard Melanie draw in her breath, as though to say Meg was the lowest form of humanity possible. Then she checked herself, her gaze on Colin.

Colin bent down to pet Berowne. “Meg had a little boy who died. She missed him.” His scowl deepened. “I don’t understand her.”

Melanie reached across the table and touched their son’s hand. “It’s never easy to understand another person, Colin. But it’s important to try, even when the people are beastly. Maybe especially then.”

Jessica, who hated to be ignored for more than a minute or two, tugged at Colin’s sleeve. “Can we play knights later? With the sword and battle-ax?”

Colin set down the mug of milk. A genuine smile broke across his face. “All right. But we have to be careful.”

“I won’t cry if you hit me this time. Well, not unless it really hurts.”

Charles’s shoulders relaxed, as though a weight had been lifted from them. He heard Melanie release her breath.

The door eased open. “I’m sorry, sir, madam.” Michael stepped into the room. “Mr. Roth and Mr. O’Roarke have called. Shall I—”

“No, we should see them.” Charles got to his feet.

“We’ll be back.” Melanie knelt between the children’s chairs. “As soon as possible.” She kissed both of them. Charles ruffled their hair. Laura moved to the table.

Michael had shown Roth and O’Roarke into the small salon. A wash of sunlight lent warmth to the cool sea green of the walls. Or perhaps the warmth came from the circumstances rather than the light. Roth walked forward as they entered the room. His face had the gray, worn quality that comes from a string of sleepless nights, though he had shaved and changed his linen in the few hours since they had seen him. “How’s the boy?” he said without preamble.

“Remarkable, all things considered.” Charles closed the door. “It will take time, but he’s going to be all right.”

Relief showed in Roth’s eyes. “Children are remarkably resilient. When my wife left, I thought it would take my boys years to grow accustomed to it, but they seem to have adjusted far more quickly than I have.”

It was a surprising personal admission, and in its own way an offer of friendship. Charles held Roth’s gaze for a moment, acknowledging the offer and responding with a like one.

“I asked Mr. O’Roarke to come with me,” Roth continued. “I thought it would be simplest if I talked to all three of you at once, since you were all bound up in the events of last night.”

“Of course,” Charles said.

O’Roarke had waited by the fireplace throughout this exchange. They joined him and seated themselves round the warmth of the fire.

Roth settled himself in a chair and crossed his legs. He looked far more at ease in the room than he had a mere three days before. “Margaret Simmons has made a full confession. Carevalo hired her and Evans a fortnight ago. He promised them five hundred pounds to take Master Fraser and keep him until the matter was resolved. Meg Simmons thought the job was worth four times that. She figured once they had the boy in their hands they could extract the money from Carevalo.”

“Did she know about the ring?” Melanie asked.

“She doesn’t seem to have done.” Roth frowned. “She asked if Master Fraser was all right. She sounded as though she meant it.”

Melanie tugged at the ruffle on her sleeve. “That didn’t stop them from cutting off Colin’s finger.”

“No.” Roth pulled out his notebook, opened the cover, flipped through the pages, then closed it again. “Victor Velasquez turned himself in at Bow Street in the early hours of the morning. He made a full confession to the murder of Elinor Constable, also known as Helen Trevennen, though it sounds as if it was more accident than murder.” He took his pencil from his pocket and chewed the tip. “So that would seem to tie up all the loose ends.” He looked up at Charles. “Except for your brother’s death.”

“Yes.” Charles leaned forward and drew a breath. He was prepared, but the words still stuck in his throat for a moment. Such revelations seemed to belong to the cloaking, whisky-scented shadows of night, not the clear, revealing light of morning. Melanie reached out and took his hand. Her presence beside him on the sofa was like a touchstone. He let himself meet her steadying gaze for a moment. Then he recounted his surmises about Edgar in as straightforward a manner as possible, neither dwelling on unnecessary detail nor shirking what needed to be said.