“A good point,” Grenville said. He leaned forward, no longer downcast, his eyes alight with interest.
“Holt might have been on the stage himself,” I said. “Or perhaps he picked up tricks from his actress wife, or from living with an actress as skilled as Hannah. We were looking for a man and a woman, remember. The woman who had hired Ridgley to make the device, and the man who fetched it and took it to the delivery company. Both were described by distinctive things—golden curls and clothing much like Marianne’s; the man with large teeth and hands. Mr. Holt’s teeth are not large, but I will wager they were false. When I first met the Holts, I remember he sat very quietly, making no gestures. False teeth can be got rid of, but hands are another matter. He took care to hide his from me.” I took the last bite of my crepe and wished for another. “Ridgley apparently did not reveal to Denis that he made more than one device for the Holts. I will have to tell him.”
Grenville shivered and took another sip of coffee. “Holt kept them about to use on people who stood in his way? Fool. He might have done himself real harm.”
“I do not believe either he or his wife cared. I think they’d convinced themselves that anything they did to protect Hannah was just. Even going to Newgate and the gallows. Even destroying themselves.”
“Well, God save me from protectors such as they.” Grenville sighed and clicked his fine porcelain cup to its saucer. “What about Marianne? She is still in Berkshire?”
“I believe so. She’s remaining with Mrs. Collins until Mrs. Collins feels ready to return. Marianne will enjoy the long visit with David.”
I spoke lightly, but Grenville gave me a grim look. “I’ve been a bloody fool, haven’t I?”
“A bit.” I leaned back in my chair, wiping my mouth on my handkerchief. Another excellent meal. I would begin riding in the park this very day, I vowed. “Though I cannot put the blame entirely on you. Marianne can be maddeningly stubborn.”
“If she is determined to leave me, I will let her. I am weary of this. Make certain she comes to no harm, Lacey, and tell her I will continue the keeping of David. Our quarrels are not his fault.”
I did not argue. I knew Marianne and Grenville cared for each other, but I was no longer certain how to settle their battles, if I ever had known.
“Perhaps you will take up your travels again? Egypt?”
I felt a pull when I named the place. Grenville had once said he’d take me with him on his next journey there. I longed to travel the world again, and if he’d asked me two years ago, I’d have already been downstairs waiting for him in his carriage. But these days I had much to keep me in England. I had a wife, and I’d found my daughter. I looked forward to spending the rest of the spring with Gabriella, who would make her debut under Donata’s care soon. I did not want to rush off to foreign lands at this moment.
Grenville lifted his cup again. “It is too late to plan an expedition this winter. By the time I could set everything in motion, the season would be drawing to its end, the weather growing much too hot. I will begin plans for next winter instead. Shall I include you in them?”
Next winter was comfortably far away, yet near enough for excited anticipation. “Yes,” I said. “Do.”
“Very well. We will go.” Grenville said the words in quiet resignation, a man mourning his present rather than contemplating his future.
“Do not give up,” I said as Matthias poured me more of the heady coffee. “Marianne is not an unreasonable woman. She simply wants you to trust her.”
Grenville gave a short laugh. “Apparently, I am lacking in this area.”
“You are,” I said. “You have little trust in your fellow beings, especially the ones you care most about. You are only now beginning to trust me. I know it is a difficult thing for you to swallow, but we are not parasites waiting to stab you the moment you turn your back.”
“A mixed metaphor.”
“But it makes my point. Think on it.”
I returned to enjoying the rest of the meal, including a bowl of bright hothouse berries that must have cost a fortune. They were juicy and sweet, and I relished them. Grenville did not have much of an appetite, so I finished his share as well.
My lecture on trust made me contrite about my own failings in this area. That evening, Donata, in a lacy peignoir, sat curled on a divan in my bedchamber, cigarillo in hand.
Her own chamber had been severely damaged by smoke and the fire before Bartholomew and Barnstable had managed to put it out. Particles of plaster had shot around the room like bullets, pock-marking the elegant cream-colored walls. Mr. Denis had sent a letter of condolence to Donata, commiserating with her and offering to send over the workmen who were repairing his rooms.
Donata had been unhurt, for which I thanked God most fervently. She’d decided to move into my chamber until hers was repaired, which was fine with me. She seemed as usual tonight, unruffled, though I knew her well enough to see she’d been shaken by the incident.
“Actresses,” she said now as we discussed the end of the case. “Paying for roles, sharing husbands, nearly killing rivals, and all for the joy of the applause at the end. Too exhausting. I am happy I never felt the need to tread the boards.”
“I believe I considered the idea very briefly when I was about thirteen,” I said. “Anything to remove myself from my father. But the army was a better stage for me.”
“No doubt.”
I came to sit near her on the divan, and she put her feet in my lap as she liked to. “And now I must tell you the rest,” I said.
Donata fixed her gaze on me as I related how I’d searched for Felicity to question her and found her at the tavern, with Stubbins standing over her, playing his sickening game. I told her I’d beaten Stubbins down, and he’d retaliated with the challenge, which I’d accepted.
Donata drew on her cigarillo as she listened to the tale. When I finished, she let out her last breath of smoke and gracefully dropped the spent cigarillo into a porcelain bowl. “Good. Stubby Stubbins needs to be taken down a peg. Do pot him one, Gabriel.”
I remained still. “You are not about to have hysterics and beg me not to attend?”
“Not at all. It would be dishonorable in the extreme to refuse the challenge, and I have faith in your steady hand. Were you a sickly man, more likely to trip over your own feet and shoot yourself in the leg, I would try to dissuade you. But I have every confidence. It is only a shame that ladies are not allowed to attend. I would enjoy the show.”
“Dueling is illegal,” I pointed out.
Donata dangled her shapely fingers from the arm of the divan. “It is why I have solicitors.”
I smiled at her. “You are an astonishing woman.”
“So you have told me.”
I loved her. My horror upon seeing her reach to open the package returned with force, and I rested my hands on her legs. “I thought I’d lose you. God was good to me yesterday.”
Donata’s eyes tightened. “You mean He was good to me. You pushed me away so you could take the force of the blast. Thank heavens Bartholomew was quick to think of hitting you with a rug. A husband blown to bits is rather useless to me. When you are in my bed, I would prefer you to be in one piece.”
I warmed, even as I remembered the pain of the burns, the smothering folds of the carpet, before darkness had consumed me. “Are you saying you are fond of me?”
“Damned fond.”
I reached out and traced her cheek with my fingertip. “We are a sentimental couple. I prefer you in once piece as well.”
“Let us endeavor to keep each other so.” Donata’s eyes softened as I caressed her, then she loosened herself from my hold and rose. “I have something for you.”
I watched, too tired to come to my feet, as she walked into the dressing room and returned with a walking stick in her hands. The cane was polished mahogany, the head gleamed gold.
“Mr. Pomeroy returned this,” Donata said. “It was proved not to be the murder weapon after all. Acco
rding to Mr. Holt’s confession, Mr. Perry brought this one with him and dropped it when he was struck down. And so, I give it to you once more.”
I took it, turning the head so I could read the inscription: Captain G. Lacey, 1817. “Thank you,” I said. “It is a fine gift.”
I’d said the same when she’d presented it to me, almost a year ago, and I had not changed my opinion. She’d given me a better gift this year—herself. In Donata, I’d found a lady who was intelligent, brave, adventurous, trusting, and strong.
And not afraid of passion. This last she demonstrated to me in the large bed as we settled down to each other. Donata’s blue eyes warmed as I loved her, her touch gentle as down.
The gods had truly smiled upon me.
END
Please continue
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Murder
in
Grosvenor
Square
Captain Lacey
Regency Mysteries
Book 9
Murder in Grosvenor Square
by Ashley Gardner
Chapter One
March 1818
I had an appointment on Lady Day, not half a week away, to face a man in a duel.
My opponent was one Lord Andrew Kenton Stubbins, known to his intimates as Stubby. The reason for the appointment was because I’d come across him beating a young woman he’d hired for his pleasure. I’d indicated to him, by snatching the strap from his hands and giving him a taste of it, what I’d thought of his choice of pleasures.
Stubby had subsequently challenged me, Lucius Grenville had agreed to be one of my seconds, and I’d been fitted with a new suit for the occasion. I thought it ridiculous to waste new clothes on what was certain to be a messy business, but both my wife and Grenville, the most fashionable man in society, assured me it was the done thing.
Today, I was on my way to the Strand to fetch a walking stick I’d sent for repair the Saturday before. During my adventures this January, the stick had been stolen from me before turning up again lying beside a corpse. The stick had been exonerated of any wrongdoing and returned to me by a Bow Street Runner, but I’d discovered eventually that the sword inside it had been bent.
I did not use the sword much, and so did not hurry to repair it. But I complained of it until Donata, in exasperation, told me to please get the blasted thing fixed.
I’d taken the walking stick to its birthplace—a shop in the Strand—explained the problem, and left it with them. This morning, I’d had word that the stick was in good repair, and I’d come to collect it. Being a man of Mayfair now, I could have sent a servant, but I used the excuse to get out for a bit of exercise.
I had the stick now, as fine as ever. I was particularly fond of that walking stick, as it had been a gift from Donata, who only two months before this had done me the honor of becoming the second Mrs. Lacey. After I collected it, I decided to walk up and down a while before returning home, delighted to have use of the stick again.
Spring was gradually creeping over London, kinder winds replacing the harsh ones of winter. March meant green creeping mist-like over trees in the city parks, bulbs pushing their leaves through the ground. It meant rain and fog as well, but also days like this, blue-skied with a promise of sweeter weather to come.
March also meant a whirl of soirees, supper balls, musicales, dinners, at-homes, and other such functions beloved of my new wife. Donata, formerly the Dowager Viscountess Breckenridge, was a hostess to be reckoned with. Now that she had a husband to stand beside her, one she claimed looked fine in his well-kept regimentals, she doubled her efforts to best every other lady in Mayfair. Hence my eagerness to run an errand to the Strand this afternoon, and my excuse to linger and enjoy the first flush of spring.
“Captain?” A voice at my elbow pulled me back from my airy contemplations of the weather. I would be writing poems to skylarks soon.
The young man who’d addressed me had brown hair and small brown eyes set close together. He was well dressed in an expensively cut coat and kid gloves, his hat as fine as any Grenville would own.
“Mr. Travers,” I said in true delight, taking his offered hand.
I’d met Gareth Travers while investigating the affair of Colonel Westin, a murder with roots in the Peninsular War. Travers was the close friend of Leland Derwent, whose family invited me to dine with them once a fortnight, where they’d beg me to entertain them with stories of my army life. Now that I was married, they’d extended that invitation to my wife as well.
The Derwents were a family of innocents, looking upon the world with benevolence, never noticing its darkness. Travers had a bit more cynicism in him, but I imagined he enjoyed their unworldly companionship as much as I did.
“Well met, Captain,” Travers said. “I am pleased to have been walking along this same stretch of pavement. I’ve been meaning to call on you.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Travers?” I liked Travers, who seemed intelligent and sensible, though I did not know much about him.
He hesitated. “There is tavern not far from here. Perhaps . . . ?”
“Of course,” I said politely. A chance to stop for a good pint would delay me further from returning home. Donata would host a soiree tonight, and the house was in an uproar preparing for it. My role would be to stand with her at the top of the stairs and shake hands with the crush that shoved their way upward. A friendly ale at a pub was just the thing to fortify me for the task.
We walked along the Strand toward Charing Cross, Travers leading me to whatever tavern he had in mind. As we neared St. Martin’s Lane, a strange roar rippled through the spring air. The sound grew and built, flowing down the street to us like a sudden river. A cart horse shied, hooves clattering on the cobbles while the driver tried to calm it. Travers stopped, as worried as the horse.
“A mob?” he asked, his young face drawn in concern.
I sincerely hoped not. Riots sometimes tore through these streets, people protesting—I could not blame them—the cost of bread which seemed to rise out of all proportion to anything sensible. In these times after the war, so many had returned from the army to no work and no wages, cast upon the shores of their native land without recompense. Add to that the cost of grain and men unable to feed their families, and anger built to the breaking point. Houses and shops were demolished during violence and rioting, soldiers were called in to fire into the crowds and restore peace.
A strained peace, with desperation boiling just below the surface.
If a mob came this way, we’d have to take refuge in a shop or house, begging admittance. I could not outrun a riot on my injured leg, though I had little doubt that Travers could sprint to safety.
“I do not think so,” I said, relieved, after listening for a moment. The crowd was excited, but missing the sharpness of fury. “Someone in the pillory, possibly.”
Travers relaxed a bit, but only a bit. “Poor bastard.”
I agreed. The pillory was for those convicted of crimes of a lesser degree than robbery, murder, and other heinous things, but while the convicted might not be hanged, they could still lose their lives if the mob grew incensed enough. If the person had the crowd’s sympathy, he might fare little worse than stiff limbs from the ordeal, but if the crowd despised him, the man or woman could be battered to death.
It became clear as we neared Charing Cross that the fellow in the stocks today did not have the crowd’s sympathy. The poor man was already covered in filth from rotted vegetables and dung. His head hung down, and he shuddered when another missile burst upon his back. My pity for him stirred.
I could not get close enough to read the placard that proclaimed his crime. The crowd was chanting, but I could not hear what they said. I turned to a coffee vendor who’d decided this a good place for business today. “What has he done?” I asked him.
The vendor would not answer until I bought coffee from him, so I handed him a coin. He took a
cracked mug from his cart, poured thick, steaming coffee into it, and handed it to me.
I took a sip of the coffee and tried not to make a face at its taste. I was going soft, I decided, being served the finest brew at Lady Breckenridge’s table every day. Then again, my former landlady had made coffee better than this in her little back-street bakeshop.
“Buggery,” the vendor grunted. “So they say.”
“Ah.” Buggery was a lesser sentence than sodomy, because sodomy, a hanging offense, had to be proved with a witness. Gentlemen who engaged in the practice usually were wise enough to make certain they were completely private. But a charge of buggery could be made against a suspect, and a conviction meant a day in the pillory, at the mercy of the mob.
“Poor bastard, indeed,” I said.
“He’ll last.” The vendor, a large bull of a man, shook his head. “Resilient. He’ll be happily poking away at some other bloke in a week or so.”
I had no wish to stand and watch the pilloried man be kicked in the backside by youths who found this good fun, so I finished a few more sips of coffee, handed the mug back, and signaled Travers to lead me on to his tavern.
The public house was north on St. Martin’s Lane, the interior dark with aged wood, the atmosphere quiet. Travers must be a regular, because men greeted him with nods instead of hostile stares.
“Brutal.” Travers looked a bit white about the mouth as we dug into good, thick ale the landlord brought us. “But so many laws in England are.”
He sounded like the Derwents—Sir Gideon Derwent was a reformer who threw himself wholeheartedly into making life better for all. His son Leland was following closely in his footsteps.