"You look bloody awful," he said.
I gave him a nod. "I imagine I do."
A cut ran from the corner of Brandon's mouth to his chin. I dimly remembered pounding my fist just there when we'd fought in the rowboat.
"Thought you'd like to know," he said. "I was speaking the other day with Colonel Franklin, Gale's commanding officer. He said he got the order about Hanover Square from Brigadier Champlain himself."
Champlain had been one of Wellington's most trusted generals. I propped myself up on my pillows, waiting for him to go on.
"I saw Champlain at a card party yesterday," he said. "He imparted to us that he'd sent for Franklin in response to a message from a friend. This friend was afraid that the house of an acquaintance in Hanover Square would be set alight by a mob. Champlain owed the friend a favor and agreed to assist."
"And the name of the friend?" But I'd already guessed.
"James Denis."
Of course. Denis would hardly want the father of the abducted girl drawing attention to Horne. I wondered if Denis had ordered Mr. Thornton to be shot, or if that had been Cornet Weddington's own idea.
"Louisa ferreted it out of him," Brandon said. "Franklin gave the orders to Lieutenant Gale, and Gale took out a squad of his best men." He hesitated. "According to Grenville, this Denis is the same gentleman who had you dragged out to that boat."
"Yes."
"Good Lord, Lacey, he has one of the highest generals in England owing him favors. And you've pitted yourself against him."
"I have."
Brandon stared at me a moment longer, his anger palpable from where he stood. "You always were a damned fool."
He knew better than most what I fool I had been.
So Denis had a general in his pocket. I wondered how many other men in high office owed Denis "favors." Perhaps I should have gone through with my plan to shoot Denis after all.
"Thank you," I said tiredly. "That does help. Thank Louisa for questioning Champlain on my behalf."
Brandon should have simply said, "Not at all," and left the room. I wished he would. But he remained fixed there on the carpet as though he still had plenty to say. Every muscle in my body tensed.
Brandon cleared his throat, and my muscles tightened all the more. "Out on the boat," he said. "You might have killed us all, trying to save that girl."
"I know."
"That is why I tried to stop you."
"I know."
He cleared his throat again, looked uncomfortable, and clenched his fists at his sides. "It was well done, Lacey. Even if it was bloody stupid."
My lips cracked as I smiled. "High praise from my brave commander."
Brandon glared at me, his face reddening. Again, I wished he'd go away. I was too weary to fence with him and wanted to sleep. I hoped to God he did not intend to offer his forgiveness for my sins past and present. I did not think I could stomach it just now.
His lip curled. "Such things are why you never rose higher than captain, Gabriel. As admirable as you may be."
I felt my temper stir beneath my hurt and tiredness, but I closed my eyes and willed it to silence. "Are you finished?"
When I opened my eyes again, it was to see Brandon's face a mask of undisguised fury. Had he come here hoping to provoke a reconciliation? If he had, he was a fool.
Brandon breathed heavily in the silence. "The way you have played it, Gabriel, we will never be finished."
I waited for him to explain what he meant by that, but Brandon snapped his mouth shut and turned on his heel. He said nothing more, not a good-night or best wishes for my health. He simply stalked away, letting the slam of the door behind him tell me what he thought of my rudeness.
I slid my eyes closed, threads of pain winding through my head. It took me a long time to drift again to sleep.
* * * * *
Staying with Grenville gave me time not only to heal and think, but also to come to know him better. He was a complex man who took three hours to dress for supper, yet could practice philanthropy in meaningful and useful ways. He had acquaintances across all classes and held prejudice only against a man who would not think for himself.
He admired beautiful women and had had discreet affairs with duchesses and actresses alike, but Grenville had never found a woman he'd wanted to marry. I told him dryly that it was just as well; his bride would have no room in his house for her own mirror, and he laughed and supposed I had hit upon a truth.
The evening before I returned home, Grenville entered my chamber looking rather bewildered.
"I've just had a visit from your Marianne Simmons."
I came alert, remembering how I'd told her to apply to Grenville for her ten guineas. "I'm sorry, Grenville, I ought to have warned you about that. She brought me some interesting information, and I sent her to you so she would leave me alone. I'd forgotten about it."
"It is no matter. She is rather--overwhelming, is she not?"
"It's how she survives."
Grenville looked troubled. "And yet, I found myself giving her twenty guineas."
"Twenty? I told her ten, the wretch."
"She asked for ten. But then I saw that her shoes were cheap and shabby. No one should go about poorly shod, Lacey. I told her of a shoemaker in Oxford Street and instructed her to tell them I'd sent her."
"What did she say to that?" I asked.
"She told me I was a gentleman. And then she said a few things that brought a blush to my cheek. I'll admit to you, Lacey, though I've traveled the world, I've never met anyone like her."
"You may count yourself fortunate for that."
Grenville gave me a sharp look. "There is nothing between you, is there?"
"Between Marianne and myself? Good Lord, no. She likes only wealthy gentleman. I would have a care, were I you."
He looked at me a long moment. "I believe that is good advice. Thank you, Lacey."
Grenville rang for wine and shared it with me, but he drank deeply of his and sat in silence most of the evening.
* * * * *
I returned home to find that, despite her twenty guineas, Marianne had taken all my candles, and I was obliged to visit the chandlers to acquire more. The quietness of my return and the fact that I went from candle shop to pub and back home without being accosted reaffirmed my idea that Denis had abducted me not to kill me but to show me where I stood in his world.
I understood his message. I was to stay out of his way.
My mind spun with things I needed to do, but my body was too tired to do them. I'd written to young Philip Preston with my apologies for missing our appointment for riding instruction, and I needed to write again to set another date. On the weekend, Grenville and I would travel to Hampstead, where I would speak with Lord Sommerville. I'd pay a visit to the Beauchamps as well, having made my decision as to what I'd tell them. As to the whereabouts of Jane Thornton and the identity of Horne's killer, my mind balked. I knew who had killed Horne and why, but I did not want to know this. The world was happy with Bremer as the culprit; let him satisfy the world.
I also wasted time missing Janet. I wished for the hundredth time I'd never gone to Arbuthnot's to view that damned painting--I'd met an attractive woman there, Mrs. Danbury, who made it plain she had no interest in me, and I'd chanced upon Janet. God had been amusing himself with me that night.
I should have stayed longer at Grenville's, I reflected as I lit a candle in the darkness of my rooms. He at least diverted me with talk and food and drink. Here I was alone with my thoughts, my memories, and my past. I needed action.
Pomeroy had told me I was mad. Brandon agreed with him. Grenville thought so too. Louisa understood me a little better, but even she was fond of telling me how imprudent I was. All of them were right about me.
I changed into my regimentals, hobbled to the hackney stand in Covent Garden market, and took myself to the house of James Denis.
* * * * *
Chapter Twenty-Three
"You'll forgive
my precautions, Captain." Denis touched his fingertips together and regarded me calmly from a brocade wing chair. "I assume you did not call on me to apologize for setting my boat alight."
Upon my arrival, two of his thugs had thoroughly searched me for weapons and had taken away my walking stick, which Grenville had had repaired for me.
But the fact that Denis would not let me near him without searching me satisfied me a little. I did not make him feel safe.
"You are curious as to why I came," I said. "Or you never would have let me in."
He gave a single nod. "I admit, I am slightly curious. But I have an appointment in a half-hour's time, so please be brief."
I had no intention of being brief. "I've had much time to think this past week. It occurred to me that Josiah Horne was a man of sordid and vulgar taste."
Denis raised his sleek brows. "Please do not tell me that you traveled all the way to Mayfair to inform me of this obvious fact."
"The abduction of Jane Thornton smells of his vulgarity. To lure an innocent girl from her family, to take pleasure in her ruin--that fits with Josiah Horne and his way of life."
Denis looked pained. "Indeed."
"It occurred to me, however, that such a mode of business is not typical of you. You work for the rich and the discreet. You steal precious paintings from under Bonaparte's nose. Your business is a subtle one; you have networks scattered far and wide. You make wishes come true with seeming ease."
"You flatter me."
"I've had time to mull over the risk and the foolish theatricality of Jane Thornton's abduction, put together with what I've learned about you. I wondered why a man with your exactitude would want to do such a thing. And then it struck me. You had nothing to do with it."
Denis did not move, but his eyelids flickered. "I told you this when you called the other day."
"You actually told me nothing. You let me run on in my anger, and you denied just enough to put me off the scent. You knew about Horne's abduction of Miss Thornton, and it angered you. So much so that you went to see him to tell him this. But it did not anger you in the same way it angered me. You cared nothing for Miss Thornton's welfare. Instead, you worried that Horne's stupid actions would endanger something else in which you were involved. What was it, I wonder?"
Denis brought his steepled fingertips to his chin. "It cannot matter anymore, can it? Horne is dead."
"And you could be his murderer."
"I could be. But I was not."
"I believe you. You didn't lie to me when you said he was worth more to you alive than dead. What did he ask of you? What did you give to him that put him so deep into your power?"
Denis watched me a moment, and at long last I saw some emotion in the cold blue depths of his eyes. That emotion was irritation.
"When I first met you, Captain, I told myself that someone like you could be useful to me. I have revised my opinion. You are too hotheaded. I would not be able to trust you."
"You owned him body and soul, didn't you?" I asked. "I think that once upon a time, vulgar Mr. Horne wanted a seat in Parliament. He came to you and behaved as though he were doing you a favor asking you to buy up votes for him. He disgusted you, but you must have seen an opportunity. No doubt you own other men in the Commons, and perhaps even in the Lords, people who owe you favors, as Brigadier Champlain did. But one more wouldn't hurt. You could have eyes and ears in all parties and manipulate whichever would benefit you the most.
"So you helped Horne get his seat, and your price was that he obeyed your every order. I can imagine a man like Horne would not even resent you. He had a seat; who cared that he made no move without your permission? But his stupidity over Jane Thornton could have jeopardized his position, especially when you discovered that her father had tracked her to his doorstep. When Thornton tried to accuse Horne of ruining his daughter, you called in a favor and had five cavalrymen ride to Hanover Square to shut Thornton's mouth. So they obeyed orders and shot an innocent man who was only grieving for his daughter."
Denis regarded me coolly. "You seem to have worked everything out to your satisfaction."
"If it is not the truth, it is very near."
His gaze drifted to the clock on the mantel. "My appointment is in ten minutes, Captain. I must bid you good evening."
I didn't move. "You don't fear me or my revelations. Horne is dead, and I can prove nothing. I imagine many men of power owe you favors and would make sure that you were not hurt even if I tried to speak. I imagine they, like Horne, are grateful to you for what you've done and don't mind helping you."
"It is the way of the world, Captain. Do not pretend you do not know that. You were in the army."
"I admit I have done things I would not care to have closely examined," I said. "But my promises were made on the right side of honor."
"Yes, I have heard all about your honor. It has put you where you are today: poor and of no consequence."
"I must live with that."
Denis shrugged. "I am pleased to meet a man who values honor so highly. There are few these days. But I must insist you leave now. I have many things to do this evening."
I rose to my feet, and he stood up as well. I was a fraction taller than he, but the cool stare from Denis's blue eyes told me he cared nothing for that.
"Good evening, Captain. Next time, remember that I see no one without an appointment."
I remained in place. "I came for a second reason. I would be most interested in speaking again to your coachman, Jemmy."
Denis looked thoughtful. "I am certain you would. And I'm certain I know why. Very well, I will deliver him to you. Please remember, however, that murder is against the law."
"Jemmy is of more use to me alive than dead," I said.
"Not to me." The chill in Denis's eyes could have frozen oceans. "Be so good as to tell him that for me when you speak to him."
* * * * *
By the week's end, I felt well enough to accompany Grenville to Hampstead. He took me to the estate of Lord Sommerville, an elderly viscount, and listened curiously while I asked his lordship about his kitchen maid.
Lord Sommerville reiterated what he'd told Grenville earlier, that he'd found no satisfactory culprit in his kitchen maid's death. He directed me to the housekeeper, who had known the girl better, with the instruction that he wanted to know anything I discovered about the girl's murder. The housekeeper restated what Lord Sommerville had told me and let me talk with the kitchen maid's sister, who also worked in the house.
The sister was still very upset about Matilda's death, but she spoke with me readily. She wanted to find the culprit more than anything and bring him to justice. Yes, she believed it had been a man, the same man who had turned Matilda away from her other young man. Matilda had not told her sister who she'd taken up with, but she'd shown her little trinkets the man had bought her and bragged that she was moving up in the world. Matilda had slipped out in the middle of the night, probably to meet this new suitor, and had never returned.
I gave the woman my condolences, and Grenville and I took our leave.
"Was that helpful?" he asked as we rolled away in his luxurious coach. "I first believed that the person who killed the maid also killed Charlotte Morrison, but Miss Morrison is alive."
"Miss Morrison is alive because she ran away. And she ran away because of the maid's death."
"Because she feared for her own life?"
"Because she knew who killed the maid. And it upset her so much that she fled."
"If that is the case, why didn't she go to Lord Sommerville and tell him what she knew?"
I contemplated the green meadow on our right. "She was afraid. Or so horrified by what she knew that she could only think to get away. She was wrong to go, but I understand why she did. Sometimes it is easier to turn your back on the truth than to face it, especially when it is more painful than you can stand."
Grenville had nothing to answer to this, and we traveled in silence for a time. Then Grenvil
le cleared his throat. "There is something I've wanted to ask you, Lacey, about you and Brandon. On the rowboat, you fought him hard, and he looked at you as though he'd cheerfully kill you. I'd thought you the dearest of friends."
"We were. Once."
Curiosity flickered in his eyes, but I shook my head. "I might be able to explain someday. The same day you explain to me why you disappeared from the inn when we visited Hampstead the first time."
Grenville started, then laughed. "And I thought I was utterly discreet." He turned to look out the window, his gaze fixing on something far from here. "Let us say that I have a friend who once met a lady. But what was between them could not be. And so he agreed to go away. Much time has passed since then. And then the friend heard the lady was in Hampstead, and so he searched for any excuse to go there." He slanted me a wry look. "Unfortunately, his damned curiosity led him to an interest in other problems, and he went all the way to Somerset to satisfy it."
Grenville looked embarrassed, an expression I'd never seen on his face. His sangfroid had slipped, and I had the feeling that few people had ever seen it slip.
I tapped my walking stick on the scarred, square toe of my boot. "I have a friend," I began, then stopped. I should say nothing, but somehow I wanted Grenville to know, to understand, the depths of my anger, and why I'd never forgiven Brandon, nor he me. "This friend knew another man, a man of pride and wealth whom the friend deeply respected. My friend followed his every order without question. One day," I said, my voice slowing, "this respected man made the decision to put aside his lady. She could not give him children, you see, which was a severe blow to him. The great man's family and name meant much to him, and he saw his lineage trickling away to weaker and lesser branches. And so he decided, with great reluctance, that she must be sent away." I studied the tip of my boot with great intensity. "My friend objected in the strongest possible manner to the dishonor such a thing would cause this lady. If she were put aside, she would be ruined, reviled, and this the friend could not allow. He found himself in the situation of having to choose between his love for the lady and his love for the great man. And so he chose. Things grew complex from there. Suffice it to say, the two gentlemen nearly killed one another over it."