Free Secrets of a Lady by Tracy Grant

hard-headed pragmatism was the antithesis of Carevalo’s extravagant intensity.
    Charles had known Raoul O’Roarke since boyhood. O’Roarke’s five-times-great-grandfather had fled to Spain from Ireland after ending up on the losing side in a struggle with the English in the time of Elizabeth. Successive generations of O’Roarkes had intermarried with Spanish noble-women, but Raoul O’Roarke’s mother was an Irish Catholic aristocrat. O’Roarke had grown up in both countries and had been educated in Dublin. Charles had childhood memories of O’Roarke as one of the throng of guests always overflowing his grandfather’s Irish estates. O’Roarke had been friendlier than most, with a kind word to spare for the curious Fraser children and a genuine interest in their activities. Charles still had a copy of Rights of Man that O’Roarke had given him for his tenth birthday, and he could still remember the thrill not only of the present but of the fact that O’Roarke had made time to discuss it with him.
    In those days, O’Roarke had been one of the young Irish radicals who spoke and wrote against British rule. Just how much O’Roarke had had to do with the United Irish uprising of 1798 was still open to debate. No formal charges had been laid against him, but O’Roarke had slipped out of the country in the aftermath of the uprising and returned to Spain.
    O’Roarke’s letter of condolence, after Charles’s mother’s death, had been one of the least sentimental and most comforting Charles had received. When Charles joined the British embassy staff in Lisbon, he met O’Roarke again, a clever man, committed to his cause, willing to be ruthless when necessary. O’Roarke had made it clear that he remembered Charles as a boy, but at the same time had been quick to treat Charles as an adult and an equal. Yet though O’Roarke had fought alongside the British as part of the Spanish resistance to Napoleon, he had no liking for the English and never pretended otherwise.
    “I didn’t know Raoul O’Roarke was in England.” Mélanie spoke when they were halfway up the first flight of stairs.
    “Nor did I. He must have just arrived.”
    “He and Carevalo were never particular friends.”
    “No. I’ve heard O’Roarke call Carevalo a romantic fool on more than one occasion. But they were allies against the French and they’d be allied now in their hatred of the Spanish monarchy. It’s not surprising to find they’re working together. Perhaps O’Roarke thinks he’ll have more luck than Carevalo’s had mustering support in London for Spanish liberalism. Or perhaps he was forced to leave Spain. Last I heard he was setting Madrid on its ear with his antimonarchist pamphlets.”
    Mélanie paused on the first-floor landing. Beneath the blue velvet brim of her bonnet, her eyes looked enormous. “Charles, you don’t think O’Roarke—”
    “I don’t know what I think. Except that I’m going to kill Carevalo when I get my hands on him. Let’s see this message he left for us.”
    He started for the next flight of stairs. She caught at his hand. “Charles.”
    He scanned her face. “What?”
    She drew a breath, then gave a slight shake of her head. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing else matters if they have Colin. Let’s go.”
    They half ran up the stairs and down the second-floor corridor to room 212. Charles turned the handle without bothering to knock. The door was unlatched. “O’Roarke?” he called, pushing the door open.
    “Fraser?” A familiar voice, light with mockery, carried into the narrow entryway from the sitting room beyond. “Come in and tell me what the devil’s going on.”
    The air in the sitting room smelled of toast and marmalade and coffee. O’Roarke was seated at a linen-covered table, his long fingers curled round a cup, a newspaper spread before him. He wore an immaculate white shirt and a rich paisley silk dressing gown. He had always been elegant, even in the blood and grime of the