"Anton is experimenting again," he said as we entered. "I have no idea what he will offer us, but please tell him you like it, no matter what you truly think."
Anton was Grenville's celebrated French chef. The man was an artist with food, as I had come to know to my delight.
"He has been doing this all summer." Grenville informed me in a low voice. "He spends the day creating a dish then brings it to me to sample. If ever I say it is not his best, he crumples into tears and refuses to cook for a week." He put a heavy hand on my shoulder. "So praise him and swallow it, even if it tastes like sawdust."
I assured him I would dissemble, though, as I suspected, he needn't have worried. Anton brought us a delicate mussel bisque, so smooth and light it flowed like silk on the tongue. He followed this with grouse in a wild raspberry sauce, then a salad of cool greens, and ended with a lemon tart, not too sweet, and a rich chocolate soup.
I ate every bite and sang his praises without compunction. He beamed at me and glided away, back to his sanctum to no doubt create more delectable feasts.
Once left on our own with brandy, Matthias entered the room bearing a tray stacked neatly with papers and two ledgers. He set this down before his master, bowed, then departed.
To the questioning look on my face, Grenville said, "I did not invite you here simply to soothe Anton's temperament. I managed to procure Colonel Westin's financial papers, in hopes that they might tell us why Eggleston and Breckenridge might have blackmailed him into confessing to Spencer's murder."
I leaned forward, my interest quickening. "How did you get them?"
He gave me a modest look. "I know people. Some of whom owe me favors. Shall we begin?"
We divided the stack between us and sorted things out across the dining room table. Matthias and Bartholomew kept us in brandy and also brought in black coffee as rich as chocolate.
For the next several hours, we leafed through papers, passed ledgers back and forth, and discussed our findings. The Colonel Westin I found here had been as meticulous as the one I'd come to know in his private papers in Lydia's house. He or his man of business had kept strict accounts for everything: for the country house and the London house, for servants' wages and clothing, for food, for fuel, for horses, for his wife's clothing and jewelry.
My fingers felt a bit sticky as I turned over the pages describing Lydia's personal finances. These were none of my business, and yet, I desperately wanted to discover anything that would point away from her and to Eggleston, Breckenridge, or the elusive Connaught as her husband's murderers.
I found that Lydia was just as careful as her husband in the matter of finances. Her bills for her dressmaker, her glovemaker, her milliner, and her shoemaker were high, but not extravagant, and well within Colonel Westin's means. Likewise her household budget bore the marks of a woman who could spend wisely and still manage to live in elegance.
The Westins appeared, by all accounts, to have been a model couple of moderation, good taste, and financial sense.
Grenville sat back as the clock struck one. "Well," he said. "We have learned that Westin had no heavy debts, gambling or otherwise. Pity."
"Yes," I answered, subdued. "It seems that he led a blameless life."
Grenville sighed and tossed down the sheet he'd been perusing. "So why would he suddenly sacrifice this blameless life for Breckenridge, Eggleston, and Connaught?"
"He would sacrifice his family as well," I remarked.
"Perhaps Breckenridge and Eggleston were instrumental in persuading Allandale to propose to the daughter. Then Allandale could look after both daughter and Mrs. Westin after Westin had been tried and executed."
"Is Allandale such a catch?" I asked. The opinion I'd formed upon meeting him in Lydia's house had not been high.
Grenville thought a moment. "I would not have chosen him for my own daughter, but yes, Geoffrey Allandale is, from what I have heard of him, a catch. He has money and he has connections and the beginnings of a political career. Everything a father could want for his daughter."
What about a mother? I wondered. Lydia disliked Mr. Allandale. I read that in her tone when she spoke of him and in her face when she'd looked at him. And yet, she'd not opposed the match. Or perhaps she had, and had been overruled. I wondered if the daughter, Chloe, had been happy with the choice.
"Providing an excellent marriage for the daughter would fit," Grenville speculated. "Westin let his friends set up the marriage knowing he would go to the gallows. His daughter and wife would simply be absorbed into Allandale's family."
I could sincerely hope not. Perhaps another reason Lydia had expressed relief at her husband's death was that she would no longer be at the mercy of Allandale. Westin had died technically a free and innocent man, and she would come into whatever money and property he had left her absolutely. His sudden death had saved her from the fate of living in Allandale's household.
"We should find a copy of the marriage settlement," I said, "before we draw a conclusion."
"Agreed. But I cannot imagine what else it could be. Westin certainly was a man without vices . . ." He broke off, his dark eyes riveting to an entry on a ledger page. "A moment. I spoke too soon. This is interesting."
Nothing else had been all night. I waited impatiently.
"I am not certain whether this counts as a vice," Grenville said. "But at one time in his life, our Colonel Westin was in the habit of purchasing cantharides." He sat back and looked at me.
"Spanish fly?" I asked, surprised.
"On more than one occasion. But this was a long time ago. 1798, to be precise." He turned back a page. "No, wait, a few years before that as well."
"Anything more recent?"
Grenville flipped forward through the book. I took up the other ledger and gently turned its pages. We had been looking for things of recent memory, but perhaps we ought to examine the man's deep past as well.
"I looks as though he gave it up," Grenville said presently.
I frowned. "Why on earth would a man married to Lydia Westin need an aphrodisiac?"
Grenville shot me a thoughtful look. "Some take it for the stimulation. It adds a spice, shall we say, to the performance. Though one must have a care not to poison oneself with it."
I leafed through the ledger, baffled. Westin did not seem the type of man to try something as dangerous as Spanish fly simply for the adventure of it. Especially in light of Lydia's assertion that her husband had disliked pleasures of the flesh. Were I married to Lydia Westin, I certainly would not need a dose of Spanish fly to convince myself to take her to bed.
I searched for another explanation. "I have heard that it is sometimes used for the skin, as well." I touched an entry. "This ledger shows he was seeing a doctor for an unnamed affliction in the past. Perhaps he used the cantharides for that."
"Possibly. But I hardly believe B and E would convince Westin to go to the gallows to keep the secret of a skin condition."
I did not either, but I needed something. "He made payments to this Dr. Barton for a number of years."
Grenville suddenly came alert. "Barton? Jules Barton? Of Bedford Square?"
"Yes. Why?"
He gave me a curious look. "There is only one reason a gentleman consults Dr. Barton of Bedford Square." He watched me as though I should know damn well why without being told.
"I have never heard of the man."
His eyes flickered. "Hmm. Well, I doubt any gentleman would confide to you he'd made a visit to Dr. Barton. At least not in another's hearing."
"Why? Who the devil is he?"
Grenville pressed his fingertips together. "One consults Dr. Barton when . . . Well, to put it delicately, one consults him--discreetly--when one cannot make one's soldier stand to attention."
My brows rose. Lydia's faint smile, her rueful look when she explained why she doubted her husband had a mistress, became suddenly clear. "So," I said, "you believe Westin was not so much unattracted by pleasures of the flesh as unable to enjoy them.
"
"That would explain the Spanish fly," Grenville said. "Perhaps Dr. Barton suggested it. Poor beggar. To be married to such a lovely woman, and not be able to-- "
"They had a child," I pointed out. "Miss Westin is of marriageable age now, so could well have been conceived near to 1798. Perhaps he was cured."
Grenville seemed determined to throw cold water on everything. "One child. A girl. Most gentlemen would keep trying until his wife produced a son. Did he continue to see the doctor after her birth?"
I examined the page of payments to Dr. Barton. Several were dated a mere nine years previously, shortly before the Peninsular campaign began. "Yes," I answered.
"A lucky shot, then. Or . . ." Grenville paused. "This is not a nice speculation, but perhaps . . ." Again he hesitated. "Perhaps Miss Westin is not Westin's daughter at all."
Silence fell. I traced a pattern on the ledger page. My finger shook once. "What are you suggesting?"
"Something sordid and vulgar, I am sorry to say. But we are looking for reasons that Breckenridge, Eggleston, and Connaught might have blackmailed Colonel Westin."
"If we were speaking of Lady Breckenridge," I said, keeping my voice quiet, "I might agree with you. But Mrs. Westin does not seem the type to have a sordid affair and then force her husband to accept her child. I do not believe it is in her character."
"I know." He studied me for a time. "But perhaps when she was young, and wanted a child, and her husband could not give it to her . . ."
"She sought it elsewhere?" My fingers tightened on the ledger. "Colonel Westin's letters are filled with great affection for his daughter," I pointed out. "Would he have doted on her if she were another man's child?"
Grenville shrugged. "We live in odd times, Lacey. I know men who grew up in nurseries with half-brothers and -sisters and the illegitimate by-blows of either parent. Lady Oxford is rumored to have borne children by a number of different fathers, and yet her husband keeps the pretense that they are his own, and no one says a word. Hell, my own father brought home a little girl he called my cousin, and we both discovered much later he had fathered her with his mistress. It happens. Mrs. Westin may simply have wanted a child too desperately."
I looked at him. "This line of speculation is distasteful."
"I know. It is a distasteful business, all of it. But such a secret might be enough for Westin. Breckenridge could have threatened to reveal that shame to the world."
I let out my breath. "Such a predicament would certainly give Breckenridge, Eggleston, or Connaught hold over Colonel Westin." I took a draught of my now-cold coffee. "But dear God, Grenville, I do not want it to be true. I pray we find a better explanation."
I pictured Eggleston's glee at knowing a sordid secret about the impeccable Colonel Westin. But would they have loosed that hold by murdering him?
Grenville rested his elbows on the table. "Even if what we have speculated is true, that still does not prove who killed Captain Spencer at Badajoz. This is a most baffling problem you have become tangled in, Lacey."
Well I knew it. Lydia Westin had asked me to clear her husband's name. So far, I was only succeeding in tarnishing it.
As much as we tried, we could find nothing else that night to explain why Colonel Westin might have offered to die on the gallows. Defeated, we closed the ledgers, and Grenville called his carriage to take me the long way back home.
*** *** ***
Grenville had asked leave to accompany me to my meeting with the Spencer brothers and I had agreed. He had an uncanny knack for asking the right questions, and his head was a bit clearer on the entire Westin affair than was mine. The next afternoon I met him at Pall Mall and we made our way to the appointment together.
The façade of the tavern had been refurbished to complement the modern buildings surrounding it, but the interior remained dark with age. The paneled walls and spindle-legged tables were nearly black, the beamed ceiling bowed, and the floorboards creaked. A blurred sign in one corner proclaimed that the house had stood since 1673. I felt surprised that it had not burned down at least once during that time, but perhaps it had, and the sign reposted to reassure patrons that it was as traditional as any other tavern.
Only a few men sat about sipping thick coffee or eating beefsteak this afternoon. We were in St. James's, where clubs had become far more the fashion than taverns or coffeehouses. But political liaisons were still cultivated here and old friends still met. I was pleased to see, however, that no journalists lingered here today.
As we halted just inside the doorway, blinking to adjust to the dim interior, two gentlemen rose and advanced upon us. One was slight of build and had a thin brown hair, a fringe of which hung limply on his forehead. The second man looked much like him, but larger, and his hair was thicker.
I advanced to shake hands, but Grenville stopped, staring. "A moment," he said in an odd voice. "I remember you. You were in Kent, at Astley Close, four days ago. I saw you there, at Jack Sharp's boxing match."
* * * * *
Chapter Thirteen
I looked from the two of them to Grenville. Grenville was scowling at them, and the large man scowled back. The other wet his lips, his gaze flicking to me and back to Grenville.
"You must be mistaken," he said.
"I'm not," Grenville said flatly. "I saw you both. You watched the match. I did not know who you were, but I remember you."
I did not recall seeing either one of them in Kent, but then, I had backed out of the crowd, and later been distracted by Breckenridge and Eggleston. My pulse quickened with my speculations. These men certainly had motive to murder the officers from Badajoz, and now we knew they had been on the spot for Breckenridge's death.
The smaller man shot his brother an anxious glance. "Shall we sit down, gentlemen? And discuss this?"
He pulled back a straight-legged chair with trembling hand and sat down. Grenville took the seat next to him. His larger brother waited until I'd seated myself, then he joined us. I noted he chose a chair with the least obstructed path to the door.
The smaller gentleman offered his hand. "I am Kenneth Spencer. My brother, John."
I shook his hand. John Spencer did not offer his. He sat with arms folded, regarding us in deep suspicion. He certainly looked strong enough to break a man's neck, even a man as muscular as Breckenridge had been.
Keeping my expression neutral, I said, "So you did not go to Norfolk, after all."
"We had," Kenneth answered. John shot him a glare, but Kenneth plunged on. "But John discovered that Lord Breckenridge was traveling to Kent and decided we should go there to speak to him."
"Why?" I asked.
John Spencer unfolded his arms. "By all accounts, Lord Breckenridge was present at my father's death. That makes me interested in him."
"And did you speak to him?"
His lip curled. "No. Their lordships do not take kindly to being approached without introduction."
And the two of them had no doubt closed ranks against Captain Spencer's sons, just as they had against Pomeroy.
Spencer fell silent as the proprietor brought port for Grenville and coffee for the rest of us. We sipped in tense silence for a moment, then Kenneth took up the tale. "We left Kent immediately after Mr. Sharp had fallen at the end of his match, and reached London that night. We found Mr. Grenville's letter, sent on from Norfolk, waiting for us. I believed that meeting Captain Lacey would be a good idea." He glanced at his brother, who scowled back. "Perhaps together we can see an end to this matter."
"There will be no end until my father's murder is avenged," John said fiercely. "Colonel Westin escaped justice, and now Lord Breckenridge has as well."
"I consider Colonel Westin's death a blessing," Kenneth said quickly. "It saved us all from being dragged through the courts. The newspapers were bad enough."
John frowned at me. "If you gentlemen have come here to convince me to give up my search for the truth, save your breath. I am not satisfied that Colonel Westin killed my
father, much as he was ready to admit to it." He shot his brother a stony look.
"I agree with you, Mr. Spencer," I broke in to what sounded like a long-standing argument. "I think the conclusion too pat, and it does not tally with what I have learned of Colonel Westin's character."
John lifted his brows in surprise. "You share my assessment? I assumed you friends of their lordships."
Grenville gave a half-laugh. "Good heavens, no."
I looked at John. "I would be interested to know how you discovered that your father's death was murder at all. That he was not a random and unfortunate victim of the rioting at Badajoz."
"Colonel Westin himself," Kenneth said.
I stared at him. "I beg your pardon? He told you?"
John sipped his coffee, face dark. "He wrote a letter to our mother. Just after my father's death. We did not know; she kept it to herself, and I found it among her papers after she died last winter. In it, Colonel Westin apologized profusely for our father's death at Badajoz. As though an apology could ever suffice."
His brother broke in. "Colonel Westin was kind to write. He said the incident had been unfortunate, and those men who had caused it deserved to be punished, but he was powerless in the matter. He was trying to console her."
John snorted. "It was not kindness. Guilt, rather. I wondered why the devil he had chosen to write at all. He was not my father's commanding officer; they were not even in the same regiment. I concluded that he must have been present at my father's death, and had known how utterly wrong it had been."
I watched him pensively. The remorse that moved Colonel Westin to pen the letter fit with what I'd learned of his character so far.
"The letter made me decide to discover just who had actually killed my father," John continued. "I asked questions of officers I knew and then of the soldiers and officers they directed me to. I even advertised in the newspapers. I at last found one man and a woman who had been eyewitnesses." He took another sip of coffee. "The man, an infantry corporal, told me that he had seen my father at Badajoz, running toward a group of officers who had been drunk and shouting. There was much smoke and glare of fire, and he could not see precisely what happened, but he heard a shot and then saw my father fall dead to the ground."