A Body in Berkeley Square

by Ashley Gardner

  "I told Louisa expressly not to show it to you."

  "Why not? What did you fear I'd do? Give it back to Naveau? I am, in fact, supposed to do that very thing, on the orders of James Denis."

  Brandon whitened. "I will never let you. I will kill you first."

  "Your faith in me is overwhelming."

  I turned on my heel and stalked to the fireplace. There I knelt and thrust the letter into the flames.

  "What are you doing?" Brandon demanded.

  "Burning the thing. Or would you like to face charges of treason?"

  I took up the poker and pushed the papers into the heart of the fire, then I watched while the whole of the thing burned. When any scrap fell, I lifted it with tongs and shoved it back into the flames.

  I waited until the papers had burned completely to ashes, then I rose.

  Brandon was staring at me as though he could not believe what I'd just done. "James Denis told you to take that to Naveau?"

  "Yes," I said tersely.

  "What will you tell him?"

  He looked a bit worried. I wondered whether Brandon anxious on my behalf or feared that Denis would retaliate against him for not stopping me.

  "I will think of something. Why did you not have Louisa destroy it?"

  "I hadn't time to examine the papers at the ball. I wanted to be certain Turner had given me the right document. Turner had closed it and the letter into another paper, and I barely had time to break the seal and see that the handwriting was mine before I fled the room. I fancied I'd heard someone coming. Then when I learned that Turner had been killed, I panicked."

  The last turn of the labyrinth straightened before me. "That is how your knife got into the anteroom. You pulled it from your pocket to break the seal on the paper, and you left the knife on the writing table in your haste."

  Brandon looked uninterested. "Yes, I suppose I must have done. At the time I was not concerned about the damned knife."

  "Careless of you. You left a murder weapon handy for the ever resourceful Mr. Bennington." I looked at him in anger. "How could you have written such a letter in the first place? How many men did we lose because you sent Naveau that dispatch?"

  Brandon gave me a look of contempt. "None at all. The information was false."

  I stopped. "I beg your pardon?"

  "I changed the dispatch when I copied it. The information Naveau received was false. I imagine that because of it, a French troop uselessly scoured the hills for hours, looking for English artillery. Meanwhile we were far away." Brandon peered at me. "Did you think I would pass information to the French, Gabriel? What do you take me for?"

  I let out my breath. "Do you know, sir, sometimes I could cheerfully strangle you."

  "We are already in prison. You would not have far to go."

  Brandon rarely tried for levity, so I could not know whether he attempted a joke.

  "If the information were false, why the devil were you so anxious to get the document back?"

  "Well, I could not prove that it was false, could I? I would have to have the original dispatch, which I assume has been destroyed by now, or Wellington would have to come forward and claim he remembered every detail of the original battle plans. I knew it was false, and Naveau probably realizes it was by this time. A tribunal, on the other hand, especially one influenced by any enemies I made during the war might not choose to believe me. And even if I could prove I'd passed bad information, Mrs. Harper's husband might still be exposed, and she ruined. I hardly liked to risk it."

  I stepped close to him. "If anything of this nature happens again--though I likely will strangle you if it does--tell me."

  "When I require your help, Gabriel, I will ask for it."

  We regarded at each other in silence, face to face, eye to eye.

  I turned away. "Be happy that I am both fond of your wife and bad at obeying orders," I said. "You will be released tomorrow. Good night."

  The turnkey let me out. I left Brandon in the middle of the room, staring at me with an unreadable expression.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Twenty

  The next morning, in the Bow Street magistrate's house, I told Sir Nathaniel Conant the story of Bennington's confession to me, verified by Grenville and Pomeroy, who had heard it from the next room.

  Mr. Bennington, wearing his usual air of faint scorn, stood before Sir Nathaniel and smoothly agreed that yes, he was a murderer twice over. Love of money, he said, was the root of all evil. That was in the New Testament. In Saint Paul's letters to Timothy, if one wanted to be precise.

  Sir Nathaniel, looking neither shocked nor amused, committed Mr. Bennington to trial for the murder of Henry Turner. The murder of Mr. Worth, occurring in another country years ago, with no witnesses, would not be tried here, although Sir Nathaniel would keep Bennington's confession to it in mind.

  Bennington, however, never did come to trial. He was found dead the morning before he was to stand in the dock, hanging from his bedsheets in his prison room in Newgate. The turnkeys were supposed to prevent such things, but as I had observed, the turnkey for the rooms of the wealthy prisoners was easily bribed. I assumed that the fastidious Mr. Bennington could not bring himself, in the end, to face the public hangman.

  In any case, Brandon was released the same day Bennington was taken to Newgate. I do not know what Louisa did when Brandon arrived home, because I was not there to witness it. I left the two of them alone to rejoice, to scold, to decide what they would do from there, together. They did not need me.

  The same afternoon Brandon went home, I received the inevitable summons to Denis's Curzon Street house.

  I met with Denis and Colonel Naveau in Denis's study, the room in which Denis usually received me. Denis sat behind a desk that was habitually clean--I did not know if he ever used it for anything other than intimidating his visitors.

  Colonel Naveau, tense and irritated, turned on me as I entered the room. "Have you got it?"

  "No," I answered. "I burned it."

  "What?" The colonel trailed off in French, his language becoming colorful. Denis said nothing.

  I laid my walking stick on a small table beside me. "I burned it because its existence was a threat to Colonel Brandon. I could not risk that you would not try to extort money from him because of it, or from Mrs. Harper."

  "Brandon sent it to me," Naveau said. "He took the risk. He must live with that."

  "Not any longer. Why did you keep the paper, by the bye? To prove that you were a good republican and an excellent exploring officer? Louis Bourbon is not a strong king. Perhaps the Republic will rise again, and you will need to prove your loyalty to it."

  "Please do not tell my motives to me," Naveau said. "I kept it for my own reasons." He glanced at Denis, who had neither moved nor spoken during our exchange. "You promised he would obtain it for me. I paid you money. Much money."

  "I will return your fee," Denis said smoothly. "Like you, Captain Lacey does things for his own reasons."

  Naveau gave Denis a hard look. "And you will do nothing?"

  Denis cleared his throat, and the two pugilists who stood near the windows came alert. "Please pack your things and return to France, Colonel," Denis said.

  Naveau looked at me for a moment longer, stark anger in his eyes. But he was not foolish enough to argue with James Denis. He bowed coolly then strode past me and out of the room.

  A lackey in the hall closed the door behind him. Silence fell. The pugilists returned to their stances by the windows. Denis folded his hands on top of his desk and said nothing.

  "You must have known I would never give that paper back to him," I said.

  Denis inclined his head. "I suspected so, yes."

  "Then why did you ask me to find it? Not to placate Naveau, surely."

  "It was a test, of sorts."

  "A test? And I failed?"

  "No," Denis said. "You passed."

  I lifted my brows.

  "I wished to see where your loyalties la
y," he said. "And what you would do for them. You are a man of great loyalty, even when it conflicts with your heart."

  I stared at him, not a little annoyed. "I am pleased I could provide you with entertainment."

  "No, you are not." He regarded me a moment longer. "Was there something else?"

  I hesitated, my fingers brushing my engraved name on my walking stick. "My wife." A familiar lump rose in my throat. "Did she ever marry her French officer?"

  "Never officially. I believe they find it easier to let others simply assume them man and wife. Mrs. Lacey has had four other children with this Frenchman, as a matter of fact."

  "Good Lord." So, Carlotta had found family and happiness at last. I continued, my lips tight, "If I dissolve the marriage with her, they will no doubt be pleased."

  "You will likewise be free," Denis said.

  I knew that he could help me, that he waited for me to ask him to help. James Denis could no doubt reach out and scoop up my wife, pay the money to get me a divorce or annulment, and land her in France again to marry her Frenchman.

  He could, and he would. But I was not yet certain I was ready.

  Denis nodded, as though knowing my thoughts. "Good afternoon, Captain. My carriage will return you home."

  I left him, still tempted and uncertain. I knew that one day soon, I would return to him, hat in hand, and ask for his help. He knew it, too.

  I turned away without telling him goodbye, and his butler led me out.

  *** *** ***

  I did not return home but asked Denis's coachman to leave me in South Audley Street. Lady Breckenridge's drawing room this afternoon was filled with highborn ladies, wits and dandies, and a poet and an artist.

  They'd heard that Mr. Bennington had been arrested for murder, and wasn't that dashed odd? Poor Claire Bennington, they said, but then, her husband had always been a queer chap that no one knew much about. Best she put him behind her as quickly as possible.

  Lady Breckenridge smiled at me from across the room. She lounged in a peach silk gown that bared her shoulders, and smoke from her cigarillo wreathed her face. A decadent lady, she liked her sensual pleasures, but she had heart.

  When I at last was able to speak to her, she leaned to me and whispered, "Stay behind."

  I obeyed. As the callers drifted away, I lingered, shaking hands with the wits and dandies who were trying to become closer to the great Grenville.

  Finally, the last guest went away, and Lady Breckenridge and I were alone.

  "Let us adjourn upstairs," she said. "This room reeks of perfume. Lady Hartley does like exotic scent, and there's nothing for it that we all must be drenched in it by the time she leaves."

  So saying, she ascended to the next floor and to her private boudoir. Barnstable, after his inquiries about the state of my bad leg and rejoicing how quickly my bruises had gone away, brought us coffee and brandy and then left us alone.

  I told Lady Breckenridge about Bennington's examination and the fact that Brandon had gone home.

  "Thank heavens," she said, pouring a large dollop of brandy into my coffee. "Poor Mrs. Brandon. How awful for her. It will not be easy for her to forgive him."

  "No. But she loves him enough to do it."

  Lady Breckenridge's brows arched. "Love and loyalty in marriage. What an odd idea."

  I smiled over my coffee cup. "Rather old-fashioned."

  We drank in companionable silence.

  "This summer I will spend time at my father's estate in Oxfordshire," Lady Breckenridge said presently. "It is a beautiful place, and the gardens are quite grand. People pay a shilling on Thursdays to look at them."

  "Do they, indeed?"

  "I am going to be so bold as to ask you to visit. For a fortnight, perhaps. My mother would approve of you."

  "Of a penniless captain who cannot even be a captain any longer?"

  "My mother is a true blue blood. She cares nothing for money. Or at least, she does not now that her only daughter is provided for. She can retreat into lofty ideals. She does it very well." Lady Breckenridge smiled, the affection in her eyes outweighing her acerbic words.

  "I would be honored to accept such an invitation."

  "Good," she said.

  I set down my cup, and rose. Lady Breckenridge looked surprised. "Goodness, are you going already?"

  "No." I reached down, took her cup from her, and put it on the table beside her. Then I closed my hands on hers and raised her to her feet.

  "Donata," I said. "I want never to be less than honest with you. You once guessed that I had been married, and you assumed me a widower. The truth is that I am still married."

  Lady Breckenridge's eyes widened. I went on quickly. "Fifteen years ago, Mrs. Lacey deserted me. I have not seen her since. I recently discovered that she lives in a village in France with her lover." I tightened my grip. "I want to find her and dissolve the marriage if I can. And after I have done what I need to set her free, I would like to ask leave to court you."

  Lady Breckenridge said nothing. Any other woman might have been overwhelmed by what I'd just told her, or grown furious, or burst into tears. But I knew that Lady Breckenridge would forgive honesty far more quickly than she'd accept pleasing lies. She was resilient, this lady.

  "I have no idea how to make pretty lover's speeches," I said when the silence had stretched. "Not like your poets."

  "Poetry can be tedious. Too many words to say a simple thing." She studied me a moment longer, the pressure of her fingers warm on mine. "Very well, Captain. I give you leave."

  Something stirred in my heart. I leaned down and brushed her lips with a soft kiss.

  When I made to pull away, to take my leave, she held on to my hands. "Stay," she said.

  We looked at each other a moment longer.

  "Very well," I replied, and did so.

  END

  Please continue reading for a preview of Captain Lacey's next adventure

  A Covent Garden Mystery

  By Ashley Gardner

  Book 6 of the Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries

  * * * * *

  Chapter One

  June 1817

  The young woman buying peaches in Covent Garden in the early morning had honey-brown hair under a small bonnet, clear white skin, deep brown eyes, and a faint French accent. The stall owner was trying to cheat her.

  "Ha'penny for two, miss," the stall owner, a stooped man with a fat red nose and strands of greasy hair under a cap, said. "Best to be had."

  He was goading her to take two shriveled specimens. When she pointed to the firm, ripe fruit near the man's hand, he shook his head. "Penny a piece for those, love."

  I'd just seen him sell two fine peaches to a housewife for half that price, but he probably thought he could fleece a foreigner, especially an inexperienced girl.

  I turned to the peach-seller's stall, walking stick in hand. A lady in distress, even over peaches, spoke to my knight-errant instincts.

  "Prices have changed have they?" I asked the peach seller.

  He shot me an irritated look. "They do, Cap'n."

  "In a quarter of an hour?" I leaned to him. "Sell her the same as you sold the others."

  The peach seller glowered at me, a glint in his eye, but he backed down. I had the reputation for a foul temper, although I believe my acquaintanceship with magistrates and Bow Street Runners decided the matter.

  He handed the good peaches to the girl. "Ha'penny," he muttered. To me he said, "I know why your nose is so long, Cap'n. You use it to poke into business 'tisn't yours."

  "True." I touched the offending appendage. "Several men have broken it for me."

  "Shouldn't wonder." He gave the girl the peaches and took her coin. With another bellicose look at me, he turned to his next customer. "Two for ha'penny."

  The girl placed the peaches in the basket on her arm and glanced at me shyly. "I thank you, sir."

  I had not seen the young woman in Covent Garden before. Her dress was well made, high-waisted and
plain-skirted, the gown of a young, gently-born miss. She seemed more suited to strolling formal gardens with smitten young men than roaming Covent Garden shopping for peaches.

  Though she spoke English well, her voice held definite French overtones. Perhaps she was an Englishman's paramour, brought home with him from Paris. Or the daughter of emigres who had fled France long ago and elected to stay in England, even after Louis Bourbon had been restored to his throne.

  Whoever she was, she smiled at me, grateful for rescue. Her expression was guileless--too innocent to be a man's paramour, I decided. She possessed an unworldly air that spoke of a simple life. She must be a dutiful daughter, gathering breakfast for her mother or father.

  I tipped my hat to her. "Captain Gabriel Lacey, at your service. May I escort you somewhere?"

  Her smile was crooked, and her brown eyes sparkled with good humor. "My father and mother are staying near, sir. I wanted peaches this morning, and so ventured to find them."

  That they'd let her come out alone to the markets in Covent Garden did not speak well for them. But perhaps they were provincial people, used to places where everyone knew everyone, where no one would dream of harming the daughters of respectable gentlefolk.

  The girl stirred a protective instinct in me. I held out my arm. "Which house? I will walk you there."

  She blushed and shook her head. "You are kind, sir, but I must not trouble you."

  She thought me forward. At least she was that wise, but could have told her she had nothing to fear from me.

  "You can introduce me to your mama and papa," I began, but a shrill voice cut across the market, a startled cry in French.

  My young lady turned, and her smile broadened into one of relief. "That is my mama, now, sir. I thank you again for your kind assistance."

  I barely heard her. Hurrying toward me, through the milling housewives and maids, footmen, carters, and cook's assistants making their morning rounds, came a ghost from my past.