Free The Mask of Night by Tracy Grant Page B

convincing.”
    "Good.” Mélanie got to her feet and walked toward him.
    "But we'll have to be sure—"
    "Enough talking, Mr. Fraser.” She slid her hand behind his neck and pulled his head down to her own.
    His arms closed round her waist. "Mel—"
    She caught his lower lip between her teeth. "What?"
    "This doesn't change anything."
    "No. It's just another moment of parley."
    His mouth came down hard on hers. He lifted her against him and carried her to the bed. She wrapped her arms round his neck and closed her eyes, knowing that for a brief while she could make him forget they weren't the people they'd been two months ago.
    The danger, of course, was that she'd forget it as well.
     

     
    Jeremy Roth set down his coffee cup and flipped open his notebook. "This St. Juste was a trained killer. And yet someone managed to kill him and apparently escape unhurt."
    Mélanie met her husband's gaze across the Wedgwood coffee tray. The serene calm of their library held invisible knives and unexploded mines. On the sofa opposite, Blanca and Addison, officially her maid and Charles's valet and unofficially a great deal more, sat absolutely still. Blanca, who had met Julien St. Juste more than once, stared fixedly at the polished black toes of her shoes.
    "It's possible the killer was another trained assassin," Mélanie said. "Someone who recognized him from the war. Or someone who knew what brought St. Juste to England and was hired to stop him."
    "Quite.” Charles picked up his cup and turned it in his hands. "Which brings us to the question of who did hire St. Juste and to do what."
    "You said Carfax and Castlereagh suspect English Radicals plotting against the Government?" Roth asked.
    "Carfax and Castlereagh suspect English Radicals of everything. But even they admitted it could be anyone. There were representatives of just about every European power at the ball last night, and any of them might have found a reason to employ a man of St. Juste's talents."
    Roth leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. "St. Juste had worked for Napoleon Bonaparte in the past. Any chance he still was?"
    Roth's voice was beautifully casual. So was Charles's when he answered. "It's always possible. Any communication on or off St. Helena is guarded much more closely than when Bonaparte was on Elba—we may be slow, but never let it be said we don't learn our lessons. But Bonaparte's nothing if not clever at deceiving his opponents. Still it strikes me as likelier St. Juste's mission was focused on England."
    "You called him an assassin," Addison said. "You think he came to England because he'd been engaged to kill someone?"
    "Perhaps.” Mélanie picked up the milk jug. "But killing wasn't St. Juste's only skill. He could have been hired to steal information or to plant it or to set up a network. The possibilities are endless."
    "And did St. Juste's death end the plot?" Roth asked.
    Charles's mouth tightened. "His death may have delayed matters, but I doubt the plot, whatever it is, began with St. Juste, and I doubt his death ended it."
    "You have people you can question about St. Juste?" Roth asked.
    Charles nodded.
    "Good. Dawkins is visiting jewelers to see if we can identify the earring.” He looked at Blanca and Addison. "I was hoping you could help him."
    "Of course.” Addison sounded as though he was agreeing to help Dawkins review account books or shift furniture. If anything, he was even more adept at keeping his feelings in check than Charles was. Mélanie could never make up her mind which of them had influenced the other.
    "I'm much obliged to you," Roth said. "Meanwhile I'll visit some of the ball guests Mrs. Fraser suggested. Shall we meet back here about one o'clock to compare notes?
    Roth, Blanca, and Addison all got their feet. Blanca flashed Mélanie a worried look. Mélanie gave a smile that was designed to be reassuring but wasn't sure how well she succeeded. Blanca was good at seeing through her.
    Charles saw them from