The Darlington Letters

i

Chapter 1

London

April, 1819

Mist swirled through the thick dark of the London night. Malcolm Rannoch shrank back against the rough boards of the dockside warehouse. Old instincts surfaced like hairs rising to an electric current. A spy's instincts never left him. Or was he a fool to find adventure in what was probably a perfectly commonplace outing? He could hear his wife's affectionate mockery. You can't leave it behind any more than I can, darling.

The river was a shadowy line, mist clinging to the water. The grease and grime so obvious by daylight blended into the shadows, but the smell choked the air, sharp and sour, worse because the night was unusually warm for April. Coal smoke, human waste, sweat, rotting slops. London. So different from standing on the shores of Lake Como. Or in the wind on the Scottish coast, the salt scent sharp in the air. But he was home. The thought, still a novelty after more than three months back from exile, washed over him, bringing a warmth and comfort he hadn't admitted to anyone. Not even his wife. Especially not his wife.

Yellow pools of lamplight glowed against the cracked cobblestones to either side of him. He had deliberately taken up this position, in a gap between two warehouses, because it was also in the shadows between the lamps. The boat had pulled up before he arrived, at the base of the stairs that led down from the terrace across from him. But they'd wait until it was a bit later, and ideally until the moon was obscured, before unloading their cargo—or letting their passengers debark.

The wind picked up, bringing the damp of the water and pushing the clouds over the moon. Malcolm moved from his hiding place to the crumbling stone terrace overlooking the river. He could make out the outline of the boat below. A dark figure detached itself from the shadows and made its way to the stairs leading to the terrace, moving with an economy that somehow made it blend into the night.

Malcolm felt himself smile. Tempting to run down the stairs, but probably foolish given the company in which Raoul O'Roarke had slipped back into Britain. Malcolm melted back towards the gap between the buildings on the far side of the terrace where he had sheltered before. Less than half a minute later, Raoul appeared at the top of the stairs. Malcolm took a step out of the shadows, just as three figures from the right hurled themselves on O'Roarke.

Raoul whirled round, knocked one of the men backwards, and kicked a second even as the third jumped on his back. Malcolm ran forwards, grabbed the two on the ground by their shoulders as they scrambled to their feet, and knocked their heads together. Raoul had shaken off the third man. As Malcolm turned round, the man launched a blow at Raoul's jaw. Raoul caught the man's wrist and used his momentum to hurl him to the pavement.

Of one accord, Malcolm and Raoul ran through the alley where Malcolm had been concealed, darted into a dockside tavern, slipped through the crowd of sailors and dockworkers and women with bright hair and overly rouged cheeks, lost themselves long enough to order pints, slap down coins, and swallow a third of the contents, then went out a back door into another alley, round the corner, across two more streets, and at last paused in the doorway of a shuttered used-clothes dealer, both breathing hard. Damn it, O'Roarke, Malcolm said, you can't get yourself killed. You're getting married in a week.

Raoul gave the sort of grin with which he'd been defying danger for as long as Malcolm could remember. And I have every intention of being at my wedding.

Laura's the calmest bride-to-be imaginable, but she'll never forgive me if anything happens to you.

For a moment, in Raoul's gaze Malcolm saw the unreality of the situation. Raoul was a man who had lived his life not believing in happy endings, at least not for himself. He lived in the murky world of a spy, devoted to causes he believed would make the world a better place, but with little time to focus on himself. And the choices he'd made in the service of that cause made him unsure he deserved happiness. Malcolm understood, because he was a bit like that himself. More than a bit. After all, Raoul O'Roarke was his father.

But Raoul, recently divorced from his estranged wife, was about to marry Laura Tarrington, the woman he loved far more than he'd probably ever let himself put into words. And Laura was about to have their child. A positively domestic outcome. Save that O'Roarke, leaning against the cracked boards, a scratch on his cheek and a bruise beginning to form round his eye, didn't look in the least domestic.

How is she? Raoul asked. I can never be sure she's putting the truth in her letters.

Glowing. Telling everyone who fusses that's she's not ill, she's having a baby. Malcolm pushed his hair out of his eyes. And no, there's no sign she's going to have the child before the wedding.

Relief shot through Raoul's gaze. Much as he, like Malcolm, might fight against the rules of society, in the world in which they lived, legal legitimacy mattered. Of course, Malcolm himself was illegitimate, but he had all the advantages of legally having been born within a marriage, which was all that counted, however many people knew to the contrary.

What are you doing here, Malcolm? Raoul asked.

Meeting you. Rupert told us you were coming in tonight. What happened to Bertrand and the friend you were helping out of Spain? Their friend Bertrand Laclos helped Bonapartists escape the reprisals of the restored Bourbon regimes in France and Spain.

We let them off outside London without incident. I stayed on the boat to get home faster. Not that I'm not delighted to see you, but what made you anticipate trouble?

You're slipping into London. Need you ask more?

My dear Malcolm. I've been slipping in and out of London since before you were born. Including when I was a wanted man.

Malcolm stared at his father in the shifting light of the moon. After all this time, Raoul could still surprise him. You came into London after the Irish Uprising? When there was still a warrant for your arrest?

You don't really think I'd have gone a year without seeing you, do you?

Malcolm studied the man who had been there for him since his birth in ways he was only beginning to understand. Or at least to consciously acknowledge. No. I don't think so. Not now. You never did go that long. But the risk—

Life's a risk. Raoul touched his arm. I'm distinctly grateful for your help tonight. I don't know that I could have managed three on my own. But I think they were just rival smugglers. Or possibly Preventive Waterguard men, though then I think they'd have announced themselves.

Maybe. That is, maybe they were rival smugglers.

Raoul's hand tightened on his arm. You worry too much, Malcolm. Let's go home.

Malcolm's wife answered the door in Berkeley Square. Another change since he and Mélanie had returned to Britain. They had their full staff back, but at a certain point in the evening they now sent everyone to bed and answered the door themselves. When they returned home from late nights, they used a key. Unheard of, in Mayfair.

Mélanie's gaze darted over Raoul with relief. She gave him a quick hug, then drew back and looked from him to Malcolm, taking in the bruises on their faces and the dust on their coats. You had trouble.

Just a brush with a few men from a rival gang, Raoul said. Smugglers are undeniably useful, but have their challenges as traveling companions.

Mélanie slid her arm round Malcolm and pressed her head against his shoulder.

I've only been gone a matter of hours, he said, his lips against her walnut-brown ringlets .

I'm still relieved to have you back in one piece. She looked at Raoul. You have a visitor. I wasn't sure—but your being here isn't secret. And it seemed important. When he learned we were expecting you tonight, he said he wanted to wait. It's Lord Weston. He's in the library.

Malcolm frowned. Weston was Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster, a respected Tory politician. A decent man, but not someone he'd have expected to find connected to Raoul, an avowed Radical who had worked against the British government in France, Spain, and Ireland.

Raoul's brows drew together, but he nodded without the surprise Malcolm would have expected. I should talk to him.

They moved into the hall. Laura appeared in the library doorway as they crossed the black and white marble tiles. Raoul's gaze lightened. He went to her side, kissed her, and held her against him for a moment. Children well?

Emily's asleep. And the baby as well, I think. She put her hand on her stomach. No kicks at present.

Raoul put his hand over her own where it rested on her stomach for a moment. Laura's gaze flickered over his face. She reached up with her free hand to touch the bruise forming round his eye, a question in her gaze.

Just a bit of excitement at the docks. He took her hand, laced his fingers through her own, and stepped into the library, drawing her with him.

Weston had been sitting in one of the Queen Anne chairs by the fire, but he stood as Raoul moved into the room. He was a tall man whose fair hair showed a touch of gray in the candlelight. Probably a few years younger than Raoul, who was one-and-fifty. To Malcolm's surprise, as he observed the scene standing behind Raoul and Laura, Raoul’s and Weston's gazes met in a moment of recognition.

I'm sorry, Weston said. I wouldn't have disturbed you. But as I explained to Mrs. Rannoch and Lady Tarrington, this is rather urgent.

Raoul nodded, as though it was perfectly natural for a member of the British establishment to need to see an avowed revolutionary who had just slipped back into the country. No need to apologize for calling on an old friend.

Is that what we are? Weston gave a wintry smile.

It's what we were. I don't know that anything’s changed. Raoul advanced into the room, drawing Laura with him. Anything you have to say to me you can say in front of everyone here. Laura is my wife to all intents and purposes and soon will be so legally. Mélanie is Malcolm's wife. And Malcolm's my son.

Again, to Malcolm's surprise, Weston smiled. I always thought so. Though I wasn't sure you'd ever admit it.

A number of things have changed. If you need my help, you're going to need all of them.

Mélanie squeezed Malcolm's arm, a warning to be quiet and let the scene play out. Which he had every intention of doing, despite his curiosity. Or because of it.

Raoul and Laura moved to the sofa. Raoul helped Laura sit, keeping a protective hand on her arm as she lowered her eight-months-pregnant self, then eased down himself to the sofa with, Malcolm noted, the well-disguised care of one whose bones ached. Mélanie poured coffee from the silver pot on the sofa table, gave cups to Raoul and Malcolm, refilled Laura's, Weston's, and her own.

Weston turned his cup in his hand. It's been a long time.

Raoul took a sip of coffee. We don't precisely move in the same circles any longer. He looked from Laura to Malcolm and Mélanie. Lord Weston and I knew each other many years ago, in Ireland.

Malcolm stared at the Tory politician. He'd have thought Weston would have opposed Raoul in Ireland save for the obvious friendship between the men. You were one of the United Irishmen?

Weston drew in and released his breath. Not officially. But yes, I worked with them.

It was a shocking admission from one of Britain's senior politicians. An admission that could end his career. But then, Raoul already knew and could tell any of the people in this room.

I nearly turned myself in when it all fell apart, Weston said. It seemed I should share my comrades' fate. O'Roarke was the one who persuaded me not to.

Raoul leaned back on the sofa, his arm round Laura. I saw no reason for you to needlessly throw your life away. There was a great deal you could make of it.

I don't imagine you approve of what I have made of it.

"I'd hardly blame anyone for following their conscience, though I might not agree with where it took them. And in your case, I assume it was conscience."

Weston's fingers tightened on the handle of his cup. Our ideas were dangerous.

If you mean by that that they might change the world if put into practice, I trust to God they would.

Weston gave a faint smile. You're still a madman.

Hardly.

Yes. Laura squeezed Raoul's fingers. And I love you for it.

From the look of it, you had adventures only tonight, Weston said.

A minor skirmish, Raoul said. Nothing like Ireland.

Weston turned to Malcolm. I expect you're shocked.

In this family? You can't expect me to be shocked by anyone's being a spy.

It could ruin me. That goes without saying. One could argue that I deserve it—

Please let’s not talk of what anyone deserves, Raoul said. I'd come out worse than anyone in this room. What you deserve is to live the life you've built for yourself. And someone's trying to blackmail you?

Weston's brows snapped together. How did you guess?

Something sent you to seek me out now. Something brought up the past. And you were so quick to share it, I suspect you knew you'd have to do so the moment you called on us.

Weston gave a sigh that seemed to weigh his shoulders beneath the glossy fabric of his coat. I received a blackmail letter.

Do they have proof? Raoul asked in a level voice.

Weston nodded. Letters. I wrote to Anne that year. He looked at the others. Anne Somercote. Lady Darlington now. We were—in '98 we hoped to marry one day. I didn't guard my tongue when I wrote to her.

And she kept the letters, Raoul said.

She says she had them in a safe place. In a compartment in her dressing table. They disappeared a fortnight ago. She told me at once. He looked among them. You investigate things. I thought—

Yes, Raoul said. You were right to come to us. And I was right to think we'd need Malcolm and Mélanie and Laura. The Rannochs are the real investigators. Though Laura and I aren't bad at it.

Spare us the protestations, O'Roarke. Malcolm said. Did Lady Darlington say who had access to her room, Lord Weston?

Weston turned his coffee cup on the saucer, knuckles white as he gripped the gilded handle. She gave a ball the night before she discovered they were missing. She can't be sure, but that seems the likeliest time.

What do the blackmailers want? Raoul