A burst of laughter came from the Parisian girls and the British cavalry officers. "And your brother?" Suzanne asked.

Lady Caruthers smoothed a finger over the handkerchief. "Gui tried. He was having enough trouble sorting out his own life at the time."

"So all the burden fell to you."

Lady Caruthers shrugged. "As I said, it was the least I owed them. But I don't pretend to have been very good at it. And the gossip only got worse of course. Either people dropped us from their invitation lists, or they called on us, avid for information, like the latest installment of a lending library novel. Henrietta and Clarissa tried to help, but they were both busy with their own families by that time. Clarissa had just had a baby and Henrietta was about to be confined. Then Rupert returned to England on leave."

Suzanne noted the way Gabrielle's eyes softened. "It must have been a great relief to see him."

"A ma.s.sive understatement." Lady Caruthers tucked the handkerchief into her reticule. "I still remember the day I came down the stairs, after soothing my aunt's hysterics, to find him standing in the hall. I fairly ran down the last of the stairs and flung my arms round him, in a way that would have scandalized my aunt. He was so kind. I can't tell you what it meant, having his support. Just little things like the way he could talk to my uncle and aunt and sometimes even get them to smile. And Gui always listened to him. Under Rupert's influence, Gui stopped gaming and drinking quite so much. Also-Rupert missed Bertrand as well, and remembered the good times." Lady Caruthers put a hand to her face, tucking a strand of dark gold hair beneath her bonnet. "We spent more time together than we ever had. And then he asked me to marry him."

"Was that a relief as well?"

"It answered so many problems. I went from a social pariah wondering how to buy sugar to the wife of a future earl." Gabrielle Caruthers stared down at her hands. She touched the plain gold circle of her wedding band. "You must think I'm dreadful, betraying a man who gave me so much."

The word "betrayal" echoed in Suzanne's head as it always did. Malcolm too had given her an unimaginable amount. Even before he'd given her any portion of his heart. "That depends upon the terms of the marriage. I'd never claim to understand what goes on between any two people in such a private relationship."

"Though a relationship played out on the public stage." Lady Caruthers twisted the ring round her finger. "I'd been half in love with Rupert for years. His coming to my rescue like that was enough to tip me over the edge. For a few weeks I was deliriously happy. It wasn't the most romantic of proposals. Rupert didn't go down on one knee or clasp me to his breast. He took my hand and said he thought we could be happy together. But I thought his restraint was just typical British reticence. It wasn't until after we were married, after the wedding journey, after we were settled in London-Rupert is . . ." Lady Caruthers hesitated, her gaze moving restlessly over the cafe tables and the street as she searched for the right word. "He's kind to me." The way she said the word "kind" held the pain of a dagger thrust. "I think he's fond of me. I know he loves our son. But there's a wall I'll never break through."

Suzanne forced her breath to stay even. It was so like a description of her own marriage to Malcolm that she felt as though she'd been punched in the stomach. "British men don't show their affections easily. As you said."

"No, but I can read the difference." Gabrielle looked directly into her eyes. "One learns to read one's husband, don't you find?"

"Yes." Suzanne's fingers curled round her coffee cup. Malcolm loved her. He'd said the words and miraculously she believed them. His eyes showed it when they rested upon her in an unguarded moment as did the touch of his hand when he pulled her to him in the dark. But there were different kinds of love. The wall, as Gabrielle had said, was still there. She was quite sure it always would be.

"I thought I could live with it," Gabrielle said. "I told myself I had more than I'd ever thought to have. That Rupert had never promised me more." She took a sip of coffee and grimaced as though it was bitter. "It was easier when he was in the Peninsula. I didn't see him every day, and I could pretend-" She shook her head. "Now, living together, seeing each other every day, facing each other over the breakfast dishes, going to entertainments on his arm-I can't avoid it. And I've discovered I need-" She frowned into her coffee cup.

"Pa.s.sion?" Suzanne asked. It was often a surprisingly difficult need to admit to, despite being so basic.

Gabrielle frowned. "That too. But I was thinking of intimacy."

"Most people need that as well," Suzanne said in as steady a voice as she could muster.

Gabrielle picked up the silver spoon and stirred her cooling coffee. "Antoine wasn't-It's not that I thought he was the love of my life. But he understood me. And I didn't have to pretend with him." She set down the spoon. "I could be myself with him. I don't think I've ever been so much myself with anyone. I miss that. I miss him."

Sometimes, Suzanne felt she'd forgot what it was like to be herself. Or forgot who that person was. She reached out and laid her hand over Gabrielle's own. "Did Antoine Rivere indicate to you that he had any enemies?"

"His cousin. He wanted the t.i.tle and estates. Antoine was sure he was lobbying to have him proscribed."

"Did he tell you he was trying to get out of France?"

"How could he not be?"

"Did he tell you what he was doing to get out of France?"

Gabrielle's gaze shot over her face. "He threatened Mr. Rannoch, didn't he?"

"Was Monsieur Rivere in the habit of threatening people?"

"No, but-" Gabrielle pulled her hand from Suzanne's grip. "Antoine knew things." She rubbed her arms. "He acquired information in his work. It could be useful."

"Did he tell you whom he had this information about?"

Gabrielle hesitated, frowning. She chewed on her lower lip. "He didn't tell me precisely. Not in so many words."

"But . . . ?" Suzanne leaned forwards. "Lady Caruthers, any information you have may help us find the man behind Monsieur Rivere's death."

To Suzanne's surprise, Gabrielle gave a laugh, sharp with irony. "I'm not sure you want the information I have, Mrs. Rannoch. Your husband will find it decidedly awkward."

"Then perhaps there's all the more reason we should know."

Gabrielle s.n.a.t.c.hed up her cup and took a sip of coffee. "Antoine and I exchanged a few words at the Austrian emba.s.sy reception last week. He said it was amazing how some of the most powerful people could be bent to his will." She lifted her gaze to Suzanne's face. "He was looking at the Duke of Wellington when he said it."

CHAPTER 4.

Harry stared up at the wrought-iron work and elaborate plaster moldings of the building before them. "Rivere was living well for a clerk in the foreign ministry."

"Evidence perhaps that he'd been putting the information he gathered to use well before his death," Malcolm said.

The concierge directed them to the second floor, where Rivere had occupied a s.p.a.cious suite of rooms overlooking the Palais Royale. The door was unlocked. Faint thuds sounded down the entryway. They entered the central sitting room to find a dark-haired man in his shirtsleeves kneeling on the floor surrounded by boxes, in the act of filling an open box with books.

"May I help you, gentlemen?"

"Forgive the intrusion," Malcolm said. "My name is Rannoch, Malcolm Rannoch. I'm an attache at the British emba.s.sy. And this is Colonel Davenport. Antoine Rivere was a friend of ours." A stretch of the truth, but the word "friend" could cover a mult.i.tude of relationships.

"I'm Duvall. I am-I was-his valet."

Malcolm cast a glance round the room. Bare picture hooks and tabletops of marble and ormolu and polished mahogany swept free of ornaments. "You're packing up his things already?"

"His cousin was here this morning and asked me to do so. I need to be quick about it so I can search for a new situation." Duvall looked from Malcolm to Harry. "If either of you gentlemen knows of anyone in search of a valet-"

"I'll put out inquiries," Malcolm said. "However, at the moment what we do need is information."

Wariness and calculation flickered in Duvall's gaze. "About?"

"What may have led to Monsieur Rivere's death."

Calculation gave way to surprise. "He died in a tavern brawl."

"But his death may not have been accidental."

Duvall's gaze widened further.

"We would of course compensate you for any information," Malcolm said. "We understand the trouble you'd be taking."

Duvall pushed himself to his feet. "I don't know that I know a great deal."

"I'm sure you underrate yourself." Harry spoke up. "A good valet always knows his master's doings."

Duvall straightened his neckcloth. "I never pried. But of course one can't help but notice-"

"Of course," Malcolm said. "Just what did you notice?"

"Monsieur Rivere ran risks. Surprisingly so for a government clerk."

"I see a decanter of brandy," Harry said. "I'm sure your late master wouldn't object to your having a gla.s.s. And perhaps sharing one with his friends."

Duvall's posture relaxed slightly as he poured three gla.s.ses. The aroma of good cognac wafted through the room.

Malcolm accepted a gla.s.s and took a small sip to put the witness at his ease. "Had Rivere said anything to indicate he was afraid of anyone?"

Duvall tossed down a large swallow of brandy. "Isn't everyone in Paris with a connection to the Bonaparte regime afraid right now?"

Harry turned his own brandy gla.s.s in his hand. "You must have been concerned about your employer perhaps being thrown in jail."

"I-" Duvall took another sip of brandy.

"Or did you have reason to think Rivere wouldn't be arrested?" Malcolm asked.

"Why should I think that?"

"Perhaps you knew Rivere had leverage?"

"Monsieur Rivere made a habit of knowing a great deal."

"Who else was Rivere close to?" Harry asked.

"Monsieur Rivere was discreet."

"Meaning he had a mistress, but you don't know her name?"

"In a word. This particular lady never came here."

"But other ladies did?" Harry asked.

Duvall shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"Any information could be of use," Malcolm said. "We can certainly make it worth your while, as I said."

Duvall hesitated a moment longer. "There was a lady who visited him here on occasion. Dark haired. Pet.i.te. I didn't know her name."

"What did Monsieur Rivere call her?" Malcolm asked.

"Christine."

"How old was she?" Harry asked.

Another moment of hesitation, though this time Duvall seemed to be considering. "Young, but not in the first blush of youth. About five-and-twenty perhaps. She was-I use the word 'lady' loosely."

"Who else visited Rivere?" Malcolm asked.

"Colleagues from the foreign ministry occasionally. Monsieur Rivere's cousin once. They weren't on the best of terms."

"And-?"

Duvall splashed some more brandy into his gla.s.s. "Monsieur Rivere had a visitor late two nights before-two nights before the brawl. He let the visitor in himself, but I heard raised voices."

"What did they say?" Harry asked.

"I couldn't make out all of it."

"But I'm sure you did your best."

"I heard the visitor tell Monsieur Rivere he 'wouldn't get away with it.' And Monsieur Rivere respond that the other gentleman wasn't 'in a position to make threats.' "

"And then?" Malcolm asked.

"I heard the door slam. I stepped out into the pa.s.sage. I was-"

"Curious. Naturally. Did you catch a glimpse of him? Can you give us a description?"

Duvall drew a breath, as though not sure how his words would be received. "Tall. A sharp profile. I believe he would be known to both you gentlemen." Duvall took a swallow of brandy. "It was the Duke of Wellington."

Malcolm bit back a curse and kept his gaze level on Duvall. "Interesting."

Duvall looked a bit dashed that his words had not produced the intended effect. Malcolm presented him with a purse and suggested he might like to retire to a nearby cafe for an hour or so. Duvall hesitated, glanced at the purse again, and nodded.

Harry stared after him as the door closed and his footsteps retreated down the stairs. "Wellington gave you no clue?"

"None."

"Interesting man, our duke. Do you think Rivere approached him about the Laclos affair himself?"

"Then why Rivere's dramatic approach to me last night?"

"Cover?"

"They wouldn't need the cover for the Laclos affair, since Rivere brought it up to me. But if he approached Wellington about something else-"

Harry met Malcolm's gaze for a moment. "Wellington can be ruthless." It was a flat statement about the man they had both served for years and risked their lives for. "We considered in Brussels that he might be capable of murder."

"But in the end he wasn't behind Julia Ashton's death."