"Yes, that's why I came. That is, I wouldn't call Christian a cavalier, but he comes to my salons. He's quite sweet in a b.u.mbling sort of way. Willie told me. That you might want to talk to him. . . ." Dorothee hesitated.

"Don't mind us," Aline said. "We're used to secrets with Malcolm and Suzanne."

"And it's not exactly surprising that Suzanne would want to talk to a Laclos cousin," Cordelia said.

"Can you help me talk to him at the interval?" Suzanne asked Dorothee.

"Yes, of course. You know I've been longing to help."

Malcolm, Harry, and Geoffrey came through the curtains from the anteroom, and Dorothee left to go to her sister's box. Her thoughts with Manon, wherever she might be, Suzanne settled in to watch Phedre. With the part of her mind that could focus on the stage, she noted that the understudy was giving a quite creditable performance but lacked Manon's sparkle and fire.

Dorothee found her in the salon during the first interval. "Stewart's already drunk," Doro said, slipping her arm through Suzanne's. "I don't know how Willie stands it."

"Love can cloud the mind."

"I can't believe Willie loves him." She glanced up at Suzanne. "I wasn't sure how much Lady Cordelia and Aline knew."

"They don't know about the child."

"I'm honored Malcolm told Willie and me. There's Christian."

"Madame la comtesse." Christian Laclos pushed back his chair, getting his feet tangled up with the rungs. He made a grab for the gilded chairback, knocked the chair forwards, and jostled the table, spattering champagne from his gla.s.s onto the marble surface. "Terribly sorry." He righted the chair and stepped away from it as though it were a dog liable to bite. "Won't you sit down?" He pulled out two more chairs from the table, with great care.

"Thank you." Dorothee sank into one of the chairs, settling the crepe and satin folds of her skirt with care. "You know Madame Rannoch, don't you?"

"Yes, of course. That is, I don't know that we've been properly introduced, but one can't fail but to be aware of Madame Rannoch." Christian sketched a bow and nearly collided with the table again. He had disordered brown hair cut into a fashionable Brutus crop and wore a well-cut coat and high shirt points.

Suzanne sank into a chair beside Dorothee. "I'm sorry we've interrupted you."

"No. Not in the least." Christian tugged a handkerchief from his sleeve and blotted the spilled champagne. He turned to summon a waiter, but Dorothee had already done so with a simple lift of a finger.

The waiter brought Suzanne and Dorothee champagne. Christian returned to his chair without mishap. "Jolly good show, as the British would say. Pity about Manon Caret, but the actress is charming. Of course not quite as much of a spectacle as the Waterloo ballet at the opera last week."

Suzanne's gloved fingers tightened on the beaded strap of her reticule. The ballet had re-created the battle in great detail and had ended with an English officer presenting a French officer he had taken prisoner to the Frenchman's mistress, who had believed him dead. They had knelt and kissed the hem of the English officer's garment before dancing the finale. The French audience had gone wild with applause. Suzanne hadn't known whether to laugh or to cry.

"Certainly memorable, though to me it didn't seem in quite the best taste." Dorothee took a sip of champagne. "You must be wondering why we wanted to see you," she said with one of her charming smiles.

"No. Yes. That is, always a pleasure to see you of course, madame la comtesse."

"I fear it's about your cousin."

"Gabrielle? Is anything the matter with her? Just saw her across the theatre. Looked perfectly lovely. Or Gui? Has he got himself into some sort of trouble?"

"No." Dorothee set down her gla.s.s. "etienne."

Christian's champagne gla.s.s tilted in his fingers. Dorothee righted it before it could spatter over the table again. "It must have been very hard to lose him."

"Yes. That is-I didn't know him well. Just a boy when they all left Paris. And I didn't realize-"

"It's all right, Christian." Dorothee squeezed his hand. "We know about the plot. We know you were part of it. It's nothing to hide now. You should be proud."

Christian dragged his gla.s.s closer and took a quick swallow. "Seems mad now. But we thought it could work. etienne was fearfully clever. I just mentioned about a line about the security at Malmaison in a letter to him. No one was more shocked than I was when etienne said he was coming to France in secret and had to see me. He arrived with the whole plot worked out." Christian stared into the gla.s.s for a moment, then took another swallow. "To own the truth, I was more than half-inclined to refuse to get involved. Wanted Bonaparte gone as much as the next man, of course. Well, the next Royalist. But never thought to take a hand personally. Not really my thing. Had a job, an income. Managing to get along. Which isn't easy in Paris. Wasn't easy. Well, still isn't for that matter." He shifted in his chair.

"But-?" Dorothee said gently.

"Family, you know. etienne was family, for all we hadn't seen each other since we were boys. And he was so sure he could make it work. Change the future of France. Bit hard not to get caught up in that."

"And Monsieur Rivere worked with you as well," Suzanne said.

"etienne had been put in touch with him. Good thing. Rivere seemed to know what he was doing. Felt better about the whole thing after I met him."

"Did you see a great deal of etienne after he came to Paris?" Suzanne asked.

"Not overmuch." Christian took a sip of champagne. "Had to keep up the appearance of our regular lives. Used to meet in secret in a room above a cafe. Les Trois Rois. Had to go round in the dark, up the stairs, knock three times. Felt as though I was in a novel."

"But you would have been one of the few people etienne could confide in," Suzanne said in the tone she'd used to draw confidences from young ensigns and seasoned diplomats. "Did he talk to you about a woman he'd become involved with?"

Christian shifted in his chair. "Besotted. etienne played his cards close to his chest, but he couldn't seem to stop talking about her." He shook his head. "Got a bit tiresome, I confess. Though of course I tried to listen."

Suzanne reached for her champagne gla.s.s. "Did you meet her?"

"Once. I got there early. To the cafe. She was with him. Wearing a cloak, but I could see her face was beautiful. Made a bit more sense of why etienne couldn't stop talking about her. Of course I saw no reason not to trust her."

"Then?" Suzanne asked.

Christian took another sip of champagne and stared into the gla.s.s. "Couldn't figure out who betrayed us." He twisted the gla.s.s between his hands. "Bertrand came to see me when he came to France. Wanted to know what I knew about etienne. Couldn't tell him much. Then he wrote to me again just before he was killed."

"About etienne?" Dorothee asked.

"No." Christian frowned into his champagne gla.s.s. "It was odd, because I hadn't seen him since we were in the nursery and then of course he'd been gone-that is, we all thought he was dead-"

" 'He'?" Dorothee prompted.

"Gui." Christian set his gla.s.s down. "Bertrand wanted to know what I knew about Gui before he'd been sent to England."

"Madame Rannoch." The quiet, lethal voice stopped Suzanne as she moved into the pa.s.sage to the boxes. Dorothee had been claimed by Clam-Martinitz.

"Monsieur le duc." Suzanne extended her hand to the minister of police, now Duc d'Otrante, though she would always think of him as Fouche, and willed her fingers to remain steady as he bent over it. She was not generally given to fancies and she had dealt with-and on more than one occasion spent the night with-people she found quite repellant. But Fouche always sent a chill through her. His quiet demeanor radiated menace. Or perhaps it was the knowledge of the number of people he had tortured and sent to their death, whether Bonapartist or Royalist. Or that he didn't even pretend to have principles.

"You are enjoying your time in Paris?" the minister of police asked. Somehow she was in an embrasure between two pier tables and he was blocking the egress.

"Yes." Suzanne tugged at the embroidered rose silk of her shawl, drawing the cloak of demure war bride turned diplomatic wife tight about her. "I don't remember it as a child, of course. I was only a baby when my parents and I left. But it feels oddly like coming home."

"Almost as though you'd been here before."

Suzanne kept her gaze wide and steady on his face. "Precisely. It's as though it's in my bones."

"Remarkable." Fouche's gaze shifted over her. With many men that sort of gaze would cut through layers of clothing. With Fouche it seemed to slice into her soul.

"My felicitations on your betrothal," Suzanne said. Fouche had recently become engaged to a young woman from one of the most aristocratic families in France. Louis XVIII himself witnessed the marriage contract of the man who had helped send his brother to the guillotine.

"Thank you. Marriage can come as a surprise to one. As I suspect you understand." Fouche shifted slightly, as though to get a better view of her face. "Your husband has been very busy in Paris as well."

"There's a great deal for diplomats to do these days."

"Just so. But Monsieur Rannoch's work has always moved beyond diplomacy. You can't think me so uninformed as not to know about that."

"I would never think you uninformed, Prince."

He gave a dry smile. "I'm relieved to hear it. And of course from an enemy I had to keep track of Monsieur Rannoch has now become an ally." Fouche took a step to the side, slightly more into the shadows from the wall sconce above. "Lately your husband has been singularly preoccupied with the death of one of our own."

"Do you mean Antoine Rivere?" Suzanne asked, and immediately wondered if she had opened her eyes too wide. She had to step into the candlelight to keep eye contact with Fouche.

"If he's looking into the death of another French civil servant, his behavior borders on obsession."

"Malcolm-"

"Was there when Rivere died." Fouche's clipped voice brooked no argument. "Yes, I know. As were you. Don't look so shocked, my dear. I didn't know you were meeting Rivere. But after his death I was able to put the pieces together. Remarkable the things you and your husband share. You obviously complement each other well. But whatever misguided overtures Antoine Rivere had made to the British before his death, his death is a matter for the French. Your husband would be wise to leave the investigation to us."

Suzanne willed her face to innocence. "I'm sure Malcolm would never interfere with your investigation."

"By running his own, he's likely to stumble over my men."

"Malcolm isn't the sort to get tangled up with anyone."

"Your husband's a clever man, but he hasn't learned restraint. He's stumbled into the midst of a great deal more than he bargains on."

"Malcolm can take care of himself."

"A clever wife could protect him from himself." Fouche's gaze again shifted over her, dark in the shadows. "I imagine you're an exceedingly clever wife, my dear."

"You flatter me."

"I think not." Fouche regarded her for a moment. Once again she had the sense he was cutting through layer upon carefully constructed layer. "In a word, Suzanne, if you know what's good for your husband, not to mention yourself, you'll get him to stop this ill-judged investigation."

Tension shot through her. She willed it from her body. "I generally find it more conducive to a happy marriage to let Malcolm make such decisions for himself."

"My dear Suzanne." Fouche's hand shot out and closed round her wrist. His grip was like an iron shackle. "You wouldn't have survived so long in this business if you did not have a strong practical streak. You will stop your husband's investigation because I'm quite sure you don't wish him to know the truth of why you married him. Or the myriad ways you've betrayed him in the short span of your marriage."

For a moment she thought she was going to disgrace herself and be sick. The gilt and white plaster and gold silk of the pa.s.sage swam round her while the polished floorboards seemed to open at her feet. Yet when she spoke her voice came out surprisingly even. "Malcolm already knows a great deal about me."

"But not the full extent of the truth." His voice was now so gentle it chilled her to the bone. "You wouldn't risk it. And though Rannoch may be a remarkable man, if he knew the truth he wouldn't still be living with you. Or look at you in the way he does."

That, Suzanne knew, was all too true. "Perhaps I don't care."

"I think not. I've also observed the way you look at him. Stop the investigation, Suzanne. If you want your charming, duplicitous life to have a prayer of continuing."

CHAPTER 22.

She forced herself to breathe. One breath after another, driving air into her lungs, forcing more air in, pressing against her corset laces. Experience had taught that if she went on doing that she would avoid vomiting or fainting or sinking to the floor and curling into a ball while she sobbed into her knees. Not unlike the way she had got through the pangs of childbirth. She made her way down the pa.s.sage, willing herself to keep her steps measured, though her every impulse was to hurry, as though she could outrun what had just happened.

She stepped back into her box, smiling at Malcolm as she moved past him to the front row. He caught her hand and squeezed her fingers. She wondered if he could feel how cold her skin was. From the look in his eyes, it seemed not.

She dropped back into her seat between Aline and Cordelia. If she couldn't manage to force her attention to the play, at least she managed to laugh and clap at the appropriate times. She even sipped a gla.s.s of champagne in the second interval, while listening to Lady Caroline Lamb's animated chatter. Through the third act and then she was in a carriage with Malcolm and the Davenports and Blackwells, and they were at Mrs. Heywood's, a haunt of the British expatriates that Wellington had made fashionable. And there, across the room, was Raoul, engaged in a game of whist.

Malcolm was claimed by Count Nesselrode. Cordelia touched her arm. "I see Gui. I'm going to talk to him."

Suzanne squeezed her friend's hand. "Are you sure-"

"I told Harry I would. It's all right. In for a penny . . ."

It was good to remember that she wasn't the only one with a complicated marriage. Suzanne watched Cordelia move towards Gui, then strolled forwards, nodded to William Lamb and Freddy Lyttleton (who grinned at her, as though last night had given them a shared secret), and at last let her gaze drift casually over the card room until it met Raoul's own. Not a muscle moved in his face, but she read at once that he'd received her message. She stopped to ask after Jane Chase's children and to trade baby stories with Fitzroy and Harriet Somerset, then wandered into the adjoining salon and drifted towards a sofa set between two columns. Much safer to talk in public than to take refuge in an anteroom. In all the years they had worked together, she and Raoul had rarely risked that.

A few moments later, Raoul's voice sounded just behind her.

"Mrs. Rannoch."

"Mr. O'Roarke." She managed a smile. "I trust you had a profitable evening at the card table."

"Hardly that, but I didn't lose too egregiously. I remembered that you'd been asking me about the Fernandezes."

"Yes, I've thought about them often since we left Spain, but I wasn't sure where to write. I'd so like to hear if you have news." She sank down on the sofa.

Raoul seated himself beside her. A potted palm half-concealed them. The buzz of conversation and strains of a pianoforte washed over them, creating admirable cover.

"No difficulties," Raoul said. "They should be at the coast in another day or so. Roxane and Clarisse think it a great adventure."

"Thank G.o.d."

He scanned her face. "And yet something has you distressed."

She met his gaze with a bright smile. "Fouche knows. About me."

Raoul's expression held steady. "You're certain?"

"He left no doubt about it." She locked her gloved fingers together, because she wasn't entirely certain she could keep them from trembling. "He threatened to tell Malcolm if I don't convince Malcolm to abandon the investigation into Rivere's death."

"d.a.m.nation." Raoul ran a hand over his hair. "I'm sorry."

"It's hardly the first time I've heard you swear."

"I'm sorry I didn't protect you from Fouche." His voice was still conversational, but the undertone was like iron.