Banquet of Lies Read online

  Once the door was closed she walked down the street toward his house, fast and with her head down, as if she were in a hurry. She turned her head at the place where Dervish had gone in and noted the number.

  Now all she needed was a sample of his handwriting, and she could determine if he was Mr. D.

  And if he was, then, finally, the document would be safe.

  12

  The look Madame Levéel cast him when Jonathan had sent her scurrying down the stairs like a naughty schoolgirl had been laced with surprise and hurt. Jonathan didn’t want to even think about the look Dervish had given him.

  Surprise, too. And pity.

  He flicked out a crinkle in the newspaper he was pretending to read, unable to get comfortable.

  Madame Levéel had taken him unaware, popping up from behind them like some kind of exotic jack-in-the-box, all sweeping dark lashes and plump lips, tied up in an apron that showed all her dips and curves.

  And she had no idea how she’d affected them.

  He’d noticed her frown of confusion at their staring, and he knew when she’d held out her jam, Dervish had barely been able to understand what she was saying to him.

  Jonathan had been hard-pressed to grasp it himself, and he hadn’t been the subject of her intense scrutiny.

  Because she had watched Dervish with all her concentration.

  Jealousy had swept over him like a London fog, obscuring his common sense. But he could think better now, with a little distance, and he had the feeling it wasn’t interest but trepidation that had had his perplexing cook watching Dervish with those huge green-gold eyes.

  Dervish had hardly said a word after Jonathan had banished his cook belowstairs. He’d rubbed his face, muttered something about not enough sleep and, seeing ghosts everywhere, he left. Jonathan wondered if the small progress they’d made in their friendship this morning had been wiped out for good.

  If it meant Dervish would never see Madame Levéel again, he could live with it.

  Jonathan lowered his paper slowly.

  Had he really just thought that?

  He folded the paper and set it aside. Stood up. He needed to walk, to do something, rather than sit and brood over things he had never brooded over before. Like the look his cook had given an acquaintance.

  He needed to see Barrington’s lawyer and let him know about the burglary. It was as good a reason for a walk as any.

  He went to the hall and grabbed his hat and coat. Edgars appeared as he turned the door handle.

  “I’ll be back in time for dinner. Tell Cook I’d like to eat early.”

  “I will,” Edgars murmured. “When she returns.”

  He refused to ask where Madame Levéel was. Edgars had never seen fit to give him this sort of information before, damn it. He’d never had the slightest curiosity about where his staff were in the past, and he refused to do so now.

  It was an admission he would not make.

  He gave a nod of disinterest and stepped out into the crisp air.

  He felt calmer, less restless, by the time he reached Barrington’s solicitors, where an efficient clerk ushered him into Greenway’s office.

  Dervish had cautioned him this morning to say nothing of Barrington’s death when he spoke to Greenway, and the need for secrecy hampered him as he watched the lawyer fidget at the news of the burglary. He wondered what Greenway would tell him if he knew Barrington had been murdered and his daughter was missing.

  “Did Mr. Jones say anything was stolen?” Greenway played with the quill on his desk, his eyes on his fingers.

  “No. Barrington’s correspondence was rifled through, that was all. If they took anything, Jones didn’t think it was important.”

  Greenway tapped quick fingers on the desk, and something flickered behind his eyes, as if the news of someone searching through Barrington’s letters meant more to him than a strange burglary. “I’d already taken the letters the day before. Jones is right, there was nothing useful there.” He looked like an English setter, about to go for a walk. He was vibrating with contained energy, but he had no reason to confide in Jonathan. And there was nothing Jonathan could think of to change that, without spilling secrets that weren’t his to spill.

  “Have you already sent the letters on to Barrington?”

  Greenway lifted his head sharply. “Yes, I have. Why do you ask?”

  Jonathan raised his brows at the suspicion in Greenway’s voice. “Merely that if the burglar was after some specific correspondence, they may try your office next. And perhaps a warning to whoever takes Sir Barrington’s mail for him on the Continent would be prudent, as well.”

  “Oh.” Greenway had clearly not thought of that, and he scribbled a note on the paper before him. “Quite right to err on the side of caution, Lord Aldridge. Thank you for the advice.”

  There seemed no reason to extend the meeting, and it was almost painful to see how badly Greenway wanted him to go. Jonathan rose from his deep leather chair. “Do you know Miss Barrington, Mr. Greenway?” The question left his lips before he had a chance to think better of it.

  Greenway rose himself, shaking his head. “No.” He looked sideways at Jonathan as he walked to his door.

  “Pity. I haven’t seen her in many years, and being back at Goldfern last night reminded me just how long it’s been. I wondered if she was well.”

  “Barrington’s never said anything different.” Greenway shrugged. “Girl’s already had one paper published, on the social customs of Europe, or some such. I forwarded the payment for that on to her last year.”

  Jonathan raised his brows. “I didn’t realize she shared her father’s interests.”

  “Not much else for the girl to do, I suppose. It was a prestigious journal she was published in, so I’ve no doubt she knows what she’s talking about. Writing a book as well, I think Barrington mentioned.” He looked at the outer door pointedly.

  He was a man who had something to do, and wanted Jonathan gone so he could do it in private.

  Jonathan bade the solicitor goodbye. Perhaps he could persuade Dervish and Durnham to talk to Greenway. If Barrington had given him special instructions in the event of a burglary, or in the event of someone being interested in his correspondence, it would help to know.

  Jonathan stepped out onto the street, wondering how a young woman whose interests lay in academic papers could possibly have survived the kind of people who were after her.

  Dervish was probably right—the Swedish authorities would find her floating in Lake Mälaren.

  It was an unpleasant thought. One Dervish clearly hoped wasn’t true, or he wouldn’t be walking the streets looking for her.

  Jonathan turned homeward reluctantly. He had two papers to read for the next session in the House of Lords, as well as some work to do for Durnham and Dervish—if Dervish didn’t decide to kick him out of the very exclusive club of three he seemed to have joined.

  As he turned onto South Audley, he saw just ahead of him, going the same way and weighed down by two baskets, the cause of his rift with Dervish in the flesh.

  Madame Levéel was in a dark coat and bonnet, her boots tapping on the pavement.

  He lengthened his stride, even though he knew it would be awkward to escort her home, awkward to speak with her after his rudeness this morning.

  But just like last night, when he had not asked her questions that he knew he should have asked, he found himself helpless to resist the urge to catch up.

  At the sound of his heavier tread, she turned her head to look back at him, and he didn’t think he mistook the fear in her eyes, or the way it changed to a guarded friendliness when she saw it was him.

  It seemed she didn’t hold a grudge for this morning’s dismissal, and the relief of that almost made him forget about the fear.

  Almost.

  “May I help you with those?” He took the first basket and held out his hand for the other. She handed it over without a word.

  “You were afraid when you h
eard me behind you. Did you think it was the man who followed you last night?”

  She massaged her shoulder, and Jonathan, hefting baskets that were far heavier than he’d anticipated, didn’t blame her.

  “I did.” She rubbed her hands on her arms and then shook them, as if they were numb.

  “If you didn’t see him, though, or if you thought it was your imagination, I can’t understand why you would be so scared.”

  She said nothing, looking down at her feet as she walked.

  “Madame Levéel, if you saw him, if he threatened you or intimidated you in any way, please tell me. There is something even more important than a robbery at stake, and if you could describe the man to me, it would be very helpful.”

  “I didn’t see him.” She turned her gaze on him, and there was such rage in her eyes he nearly stopped in surprise. “I wish I had seen him, if he was there at all. My fear is because of something that happened to me. Not in London, somewhere else. That is why I’m a little scampering mouse, my lord.” Her voice was as bitter as burned coffee, and just as dark.

  “You are not a mouse.” His voice came out an octave lower than usual, and he cleared his throat. “You are more like a cat.”

  “A cat?” She looked at him sidelong, brows lifted.

  He realized anything he said now would be dangerous. To him, she was unpredictable, sensual and deeply mysterious. But he could say none of that to her.

  “I would like to be like le chat botté. Puss in Boots.” Her own boots tip-tapped on the cobbles. “Wily and courageous, and not afraid to take big chances.” She stopped, and he saw they were already at Aldridge House. She held out her hands for the baskets.

  “I’ll take them—”

  “No.” She said it kindly. “I will take them down the side alley and go in through the kitchen. You will go in through the front door.” She put her hands on the handles, and he felt the brush of her gloves on his wrists as she tugged the baskets away. “Thank you for your help, your lordship.”

  She walked away, swinging the baskets and humming a little tune to herself, and he stared after her.

  She’d treated him as an equal again.

  She’d told him how things must be, with a firm practicality. She had not deferred to him or felt the slightest bit uncomfortable giving him orders.

  But this same woman was afraid of the sound of men’s footsteps behind her, of people following her in the night.

  Jonathan waited until she disappeared into the kitchen and he couldn’t see her anymore.

  And then, as she’d told him to, he went in through the front door.

  13

  Gigi ground the coffee, each turn of the grinder turning something inside her: tight, pent-up, ready to burst with the need for action. She had to get a sample of Lord Dervish’s handwriting to compare to the letters in her father’s trunk. The only way she could see to do that, short of somehow stealing his correspondence, would be to write him a note and ask for a response. And still somehow remain anonymous—just in case she was wrong.

  “His lordship wishes to convey his compliments on the almond-and-courgette soup, Cook.” Rob placed the empty bowl on the table.

  “Merci.” She tapped the ground coffee into its canister, then pulled the cherry-and-frangipani tarts from the oven. “Will you whip the cream for me, Iris?”

  She handed the deep bowl with the cream and a whisk across, and turned back to the table.

  Edgars was coming down the stairs, his eyes fixed on Iris as if he were in a trance.

  Gigi looked over her shoulder, trying to see what he saw. While Iris looked her usual lovely self, with cheeks pink from the exertion of whipping, she couldn’t understand what would catch his attention so. She looked back at Edgars, tried to follow his gaze, and then blushed.

  Iris’s bosom was jiggling and bouncing as she beat the cream.

  With a cry of surprise, Edgars fell down the last three steps and stumbled into the kitchen, arms flailing about.

  “You all right, Mr. Edgars?” Gigi asked.

  He gave her a dazed look, as if he’d walked into a door, and she turned away to hide her expression.

  “Here you go, Cook.” Iris handed her a bowl of glossy white peaks.

  “Perfect.” Gigi beamed as she took the cream. “Isn’t Iris perfect, Mr. Edgars?”

  “What?”

  Edgars stumbled across the kitchen toward his own rooms, realized halfway he had no reason to go there, and changed his path to the cellar to fetch wine.

  “We getting any o’ these?” Rob stood over the cherry tarts, his eyes as riveted to them as Edgars’ had been to Iris’s bosom.

  Gigi shooed him away. “Not enough good cherries. But I made apple tart for you instead. It is very nice.”

  Edgars appeared with a dusty bottle and kept his gaze firmly down, his pace faster than usual.

  Could it be he realized at last who Iris was? What everyone else saw when they looked at her? And how small his chances of success were, given the way he’d treated her in the past?

  Iris had disappeared into the staff dining room, none the wiser, and Gigi hoped she led him a very merry dance.

  As she sent Rob up with the tarts and cream, and then the coffee, she wondered how she could word a note to Dervish that would force him to respond without giving herself away. And where she should ask him to drop the note off.

  Somewhere easy for her to get to, but which wouldn’t lead back to Aldridge House.

  The cracks and loose bricks in the wall near Goldfern’s garden door would be easy to get to unseen, and Goldfern was surely a place the mysterious D. would find a reasonable drop-off. It also had no direct connection to Aldridge.

  She would need to find the courage to walk down that dark alley again.

  She made the brioche dough automatically, thinking of what the note should say. When she was done and standing at the sink to wash her hands, she realized the maids had already done the dishes and gone up, and Rob and Harry were back from their serving duties and talking quietly in the dining room over coffee and apple tart.

  She finished her breakfast preparations and went to her room, sinking down on the little chair by her desk with relief.

  It felt almost too good to be off her feet. She didn’t want to stand up again and walk to Dervish’s to deliver a note without being seen.

  She knew it was cold outside, and from the sigh of rain on the high kitchen windows it was wet as well. And someone wanted her dead.

  She hugged herself, trying to stop a shiver. She could see her father: body crumpled on the cold ground, open eyes staring sightlessly at the silver-rimmed clouds.

  She hadn’t looked at the letter he’d died for. She’d been conditioned by years with her father to leave it alone.

  But if she was to have any chance of convincing Dervish to reply to her note, she needed to know what the letter contained. And if she was going to risk her life for it, she needed to understand what the stakes were.

  The letter isolated her from every acquaintance her parents knew, because she could only give it to the right person. And with the shadow man circling, unknown and disguised, she had the feeling she would only have one chance to get it right.

  She flipped her skirt up over her knees and then lifted the hem of her petticoats. Felt for the crackle of paper and slipped the letter out of its secret pocket.

  She reached for the small silver paper knife that had been her father’s gift in celebration of her first published journal article, and hesitated.

  He wouldn’t be happy about her doing this. She sighed and, in one smooth move, broke the wax seal and opened the letter.

  Then read the contents with a buzz in her head.

  The Russians were saying they were prepared to break with France and join Britain. The signature at the end of the page made her blink. No wonder men were prepared to kill for this.

  She pulled out a piece of paper with shaking hands and wrote a draft to Dervish, then another and another, unti
l at last she thought she had it right. Then she took a fresh piece and wrote the note out in simple, neutral script. She folded it, waxed it closed, and gnawed on her thumbnail for a while, considering what she should put on the front.

  What would get the note brought to his attention immediately? Make him open it as a matter of priority?

  If he was the mysterious D., she knew a surefire way. If he wasn’t. . . . She rubbed at her brow and then wrote carefully in Russian:

  A most urgent communication for D.

  With the Russian letter safely back in its hiding place and her letter for Dervish in her coat, Gigi dug in her trunks for the heavy, fur-lined cloak her father had bought her in Finland. She fastened it around her shoulders, but left the hood down as she stepped into the kitchen.

  Rob and Harry were still in the dining room, and she took the stairs to the back door quietly, unlocked it, and slipped the key in her pocket again.

  She was grateful for the cloak as a sharp, rain-laden wind hit her when she stepped outside. As she pulled the hood over her head, the door slammed behind her and she winced.

  She would be hard-pressed to explain a trip outside in this weather to anyone at Aldridge House, but she could always speak in French until they gave up in the face of a crazy foreigner.

  The wind half blew her to where the alley opened onto Chapel Street and she hesitated, looking toward Goldfern quickly to make sure there was no one there.

  Then, drawing her cloak tight about her, she faced the other way and stepped out, head bent against the rain—a Little Red Riding Hood, intent on her task.

  She let the darkness swallow her up.

  * * *

  Jonathan swirled the last of his wine around in its glass and decided it was better to know tonight if Dervish held his behavior this morning against him or not. Rain, wind and cold notwithstanding.

  The idea had bothered him all day. More than he wanted it to.