Free The Berkeley Square Affair (Malcolm & Suzanne Rannoch) by Teresa Grant

Malcolm’s father?”
    “Dear God no.” Suzanne shook her head, seeing again Alistair Rannoch’s mocking face and the way his gaze had at once undressed and dismissed her. “I still can’t believe it. Malcolm doesn’t—His family life has been unfortunate.” An understatement if there ever was one. “One more betrayal—”
    Manon turned to her, her hand on the cabinet latch. “I’m so sorry.”
    “It’s not your fault.”
    “You’ve been nothing but kind to me, and I’ve put you at risk.”
    Suzanne smoothed her hands over her sarcenet skirt to still their trembling. “We’re all at risk.”
    “You have a husband.”
    “You have a lover.”
    Manon gave a short laugh. “I’m fond of Crispin. Fonder than I intended to grow. But I have no illusions.” She opened the cabinet and took out a brandy bottle. “It’s better not to have illusions. Not that I don’t have moments of envy when I see you with your Malcolm.” Manon studied her for a moment. “He might forgive you if he learned the truth, you know.”
    “No.” Suzanne forced herself to stare into the possible future. She could feel Malcolm’s lips against her hair in the Green Room a half hour before. “He has too much integrity himself. He could never do what I’ve done.”
    Manon crossed the room and splashed brandy into Suzanne’s teacup and then her own. “You sound as though you admire him.”
    “I do. It doesn’t mean I regret what I’ve done.”
    Manon dropped down beside her. “Drink some of your tea. You could do with the jolt.”
    Suzanne gave a bleak smile and took a sip of brandy-laced tea.
    “You can’t persuade him to give up the investigation?” Manon asked, reaching for her own cup.
    Suzanne shook her head.
    “For a woman with a besotted husband, you’re slow to use your wiles.”
    Suzanne ran her finger over a chip in the gilded rim of the cup. “Malcolm and I don’t have that sort of relationship. We never did. It’s part of what I love about him. Part of what he loves about me, I think.”
    “And you claim not to be romantic.” Manon tossed down a generous swig of tea and brandy.
    “It’s the opposite of romantic. Romance is rose-colored glasses. Malcolm and I see each other clearly.” Suzanne took a sip of tea and brandy. “Except for the part where he has no idea I was spying on him.”
    Manon flopped back in her chair and stared up at a cobweb on the ceiling. “I can’t believe Crispin’s father was a Bonapartist agent.”
    “Did you ever meet?”
    “Once. He came to my dressing room after a performance. Said he wanted to get a look at his son’s bit of muslin. Tried to put his hand down my dress. The usual tiresome sort of thing.” Manon wrinkled her nose. “Crispin came in and grabbed his father by the back of his coat and threw him out. An overreaction, but I rather appreciated it.”
    Suzanne studied her friend. “I think you may have more in Crispin than you’re crediting, Manon. He obviously loves your girls.”
    Manon’s carefully plucked brows drew together. “It’s dangerous, that. I don’t want them to become too attached to him. They’re too young to understand that he won’t always be here.”
    “Are you so sure he won’t be?”
    “Oh, for God’s sake, Suzanne.” Manon sat up straight, sloshing her tea. “Has love addled your brain? Forget being a former French agent. I’m an actress. Even if I had any desire to marry, he’d hardly consider it.”
    Suzanne saw the tenderness in Crispin’s gaze when it had rested on Manon. “He’s in love with you.”
    “A lot of men have been in love with me. It passes.”
    “He doesn’t know you were an agent?”
    “Good God no. That would certainly cross a line for him.” Manon gave a crooked smile. “He may not be a Crown and country sort as he says, but he’s an English gentleman. Charming but decidedly set in his ways beneath the easygoing demeanor.”
    “So is Malcolm. Well, a British gentleman. However