Mission for a Queen

By Tracy Grant

A Malcolm & Suzanne Rannoch Historical Mystery Novella 12
Malcolm and Suzanne Rannoch have fled with their family from fog-drenched England to golden Tuscany as the secrets of Suzanne's past unravel. On their way to their villa on Lake Como, they seek refuge with Suzanne's friend, Hortense Bonaparte, daughter of the Empress Josephine, stepdaughter of Napoleon.
The Rannochs arrive at Hortense's elegant château to find Hortense terrified and desperately in need of their services. And so, Suzanne and Malcolm find that even on the run from danger they are not done playing the spy game—or being drawn into intrigues that could affect the future of crowns and countries.
"Shimmers like the finest salons in Vienna." —Deborah Crombie
"Meticulous, delightful, and full of surprises." —Tasha Alexander
"Glittering balls, deadly intrigue, sexual scandals. . .the next best thing to actually being there!"— Lauren Willig
"A superb storyteller."— Deanna Raybourn

• Language: English
• Publisher: NYLA
• Release date: Nov 3, 2016
• ISBN: 9781943772643

Tracy Grant

Tracy Grant studied British history at Stanford University and received the Firestone Award for Excellence in Research for her honors thesis on shifting conceptions of honor in late-fifteenth-century England. She lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her young daughter and three cats. In addition to writing, Tracy works for the Merola Opera Program, a professional training program for opera singers, pianists, and stage directors. Her real life heroine is her daughter Mélanie, who is very cooperative about Mummy's writing time. She is currently at work on her next book chronicling the adventures of Malcolm and Suzanne Rannoch. Visit her on the web at www.tracygrant.org

Book preview

iii

Chapter 1

London

20 June 1818

Lady Frances Dacre-Hammond spun round at the opening of her dressing room door. What do you know? she demanded.

Archibald Davenport closed the door and leaned against it. About?

Don't play games. Frances waved her nephew's letter at him. Malcolm and Suzanne have taken the children and left Britain.

Archie drew a sharp breath. I didn't think it would—

Didn't think it would what? Frances took two quick steps towards him. Didn't think it would come to this? What the devil—

Fanny, I know less than you. Archie closed the distance between them and took her wrists in a strong clasp. I'm very fond of both of them, but I'm not in their confidence.

But you have an idea of why they might have felt compelled to leave? Frances stared down at his hands, closed round her wrists with reassuring warmth. She still held the letter in one hand, much creased from rereading. A jagged remnant of red sealing wax clinging to one corner showed the imprint of Malcolm's signet ring. Malcolm says for their own sakes they had to leave at once, and for my sake it was best I knew as little about it as possible. He asks me to convey to others that they've gone on a holiday to the villa in Italy. And then he begs me not to think ill of him, whatever I may hear. She hesitated a moment, then pulled away from Archie's grip so she could put the letter in his hand.

Archie raised a brow, as though aware of the trust she had placed in him.

He's obviously afraid of something coming out, Frances said. Is it to do with Raoul?

At the mention of his friend Raoul O'Roarke, Archie looked up from scanning the letter. Why on earth—

Because you know about it. And Raoul went with them.

Archie gave a faint smile. That's hardly surprising considering I assume Laura Tarrington did as well.

Which is odd in and of itself. She's left her family too. After just finding them again. Frances pictured the titian-haired woman who had been the Rannoch children's governess and who recently had proved to be the long-lost widow of the heir to a dukedom. Another story she didn't believe for a moment. Surely Malcolm wouldn't run simply because he thought it was going to come out that Raoul is his father. She looked at Archie. Don't pretend you didn't know that.

I won't. And I can't imagine it making either of them run.

Nor could Frances. But Raoul O'Roarke, who had been her sister's lover off and on for years, had more than his share of secrets. If Malcolm is involved in one of Raoul's intrigues in Spain or Ireland—

You can't imagine Raoul would embroil Malcolm and Suzanne in anything of the sort. Or Laura Tarrington.

"No. He has scruples, much as he tries to deny it. Too many scruples, actually. But—They're gone. Frances put her fist to her mouth. She still could not quite comprehend it. And Malcolm doesn't say anything about when they may come back. She turned away. For some reason, Malcolm's image as a boy of four hovered in her mind. Bright gray eyes, brown hair falling over his forehead, smile as sweet and unexpected as it was now. Tears stung her eyes. Damn. I seem to be a watering pot these days."

Fanny. Archie's arms closed round her. You know Malcolm has secrets. And you know he can take care of himself.

For a moment she let herself cling to him, her face buried in his cravat, his lips against her hair. Then she lifted her head to look up at him. Is it the Elsinore League? Have you and Raoul embroiled him in your fight against them? Fanny didn't entirely understand the mysterious organization, but she knew her late sister, Malcolm's mother, had made it her quest to thwart them and that both Raoul and Archie had worked with her.

I haven't, Archie said. I'm quite sure O’Roarke wouldn't.

 Fanny dragged her hand across her eyes, heedless of her blacking. And yet you suspect something.

Archie looked down at her. His gaze had softened with tenderness in a way she had come to know in the past months, and yet there was something implacable behind it. I can't, Fanny.

She stared into the blue eyes she now knew so well. From girlhood, she'd been accustomed to being able to twist men round her finger. She couldn't with Archie. It was one of his attractions. It's Suzanne, isn't it?

Archie returned her gaze. He was too good an agent to give himself away. What makes you think that?

Frances smoothed the crushed lilac silk of her dressing gown. Malcolm wouldn't be this afraid for himself. I've always known—

What? Archie asked.

Frances saw her nephew's wife again as she had first seen her four years ago, a dark-haired vision holding her child with complete disregard for creasing her elegant peach-sprigged gown, smiling at Malcolm with obvious love. And perhaps even more surprising, her reserved nephew, who had sworn he would never marry, looking at Suzanne with equal love in his eyes. Nothing. She's perfect. Almost too perfect.

Fanny—

She loves him, I don't doubt that. But something went wrong between them last Christmas. They seemed better lately. I hoped—But I'm horribly afraid that whatever it is has driven them from England.

Fanny, Archie said again, taking a step towards her. My darling—

"Damn it, Archie." Frances started to pull away, then turned back and buried her face in his coat.

David Mallinson, Viscount Worsley, looked across the library at the man with whom he had shared his life for the past decade. I wasn't sure you'd come here today.

I wasn't sure I'd be welcome here today. Simon Tanner leaned against the window ledge, hands braced on the sill, the light behind him, tension writ in the lines of his shoulders. Malcolm and Suzanne have left Britain.

Shock drained the blood from David's head. How long have you known?

Since last night. Simon stayed still, his face hard-cut in the shadows, his voice even.

You went to see them. The reverberation of the door closing when Simon had left the house the previous night seemed to echo through the room. He hadn't slammed the door, but the click had echoed with finality.

I wanted to say goodbye.

David swallowed. His mouth was dry with the ashes of the two most important relationships of his thirty years. You knew they'd leave.

Simon met his gaze without flinching. I guessed.

That I'd drive them away.

That the truth being out would.

Malcolm Rannoch's face, in the sitting room at Brooks's where David had confronted him yesterday—God, was it less than twenty-four hours?—hung in David's memory. Close on that came a memory of Malcolm huddled beside him at Harrow beneath a blanket, giving him a cup of hot chocolate, both their noses bloody thanks to a trio of older boys devastating with fists and words. I never wanted—

No. I didn't think you did.

This time it was Suzanne's image that shot into David's mind. Laughing up at Malcolm as they waltzed. Holding her children. Bending over the pallets of the wounded who filled her house during the battle of Waterloo. The woman his friend loved, against all expectation. The friend David had come to love as well. Who he now knew had been an agent for the Bonapartist French. Had married Malcolm to spy on him and his country. David's country. Who had been giving information to the French even as she nursed the British wounded from Waterloo beside David and Simon. Where have they gone?

I don't know, Simon said. I didn't want to know.

David nodded. He was so used to seeing his friends nearly every day that he could still scarcely comprehend it. I wouldn't have—

For what it's worth, Simon said, once he knew your father knew the truth about Suzanne, Malcolm was bound to leave the country, whatever your reaction.

I don't think even Father would—

You know as well as I do there's no telling what your father might do.

David nodded. His father, Lord Carfax, was the unofficial head of British intelligence. Even David could still be surprised by his ruthlessness.

David— Simon drew a breath as though weighing words he wasn't yet sure he should speak.

Father told me about Suzanne to drive a wedge between us?

Simon stared at him. Dust motes danced in a shaft of sunlight between them. You worked that out.

Once the initial shock wore off. During the long night, when he'd paced the floor, first of the library, then of his cold and empty bedchamber. I may not be an agent like Malcolm, but I know something of the way my father's mind works. And Lord Carfax, above all, wanted David to marry and father an heir to the earldom.

I expected he wanted Malcolm away from you as well, Simon said. Malcolm's always had a way of encouraging you to move in the opposite direction from what your father wants.

"Perhaps. One way or