The Hanover Square Affair

by Jennifer Ashley

  I stopped, tired of the memories. Still vivid in my mind was the night Louisa's golden head had rested on my shoulder when she'd come to me in anguish. I remembered with perfect clarity, as though it had happened yesterday, the silken texture of her hair beneath my palm, the heat of her tears on my cheek. Also vivid was the look on Brandon's face when he'd walked in and found her crying on my shoulder--the anger, the chagrin, the utter heartbreak.

  I said nothing about the rest of it, how Brandon had let anger simmer inside him until the day he could take his revenge. After Vitoria, he had sent me to take up immediate command of another unit, neglecting to inform me I'd journey alone right through a pocket of French troops. They ambushed me, stole the papers I carried--which were false anyway--and then amused themselves torturing me.

  An English troop at last swooped down upon them, and I was left with the dead. The English did not see me, and I crawled away from the scavengers, broken and barely alive.

  After many days, I had regained my regiment, my leg a ruin. The look on Brandon's face when he saw that I was alive told me everything.

  Our commander had not been best pleased with either of us. A scandal between officers was not what he wanted in his regiment. He had made me realize that if I raised a stink, if Brandon were court-martialed as he deserved, the disgrace would stain all of us--Brandon, me, Louisa, the regiment.

  We three had agreed to leave the army and return to London.

  When I looked up from my muddy boot I found Grenville regarding me in stunned surprise. "Forgive me, Lacey. I had no idea." He drew a breath. "I am honored that you told me this. I swear to you it will never cross my lips to another soul."

  I had no doubt that he would keep his silence. Grenville kept staring at me as though he thought me even more a wonder than he had before, until I grew irritated.

  "You make too much of it," I said, and turned to look out the window.

  We said nothing more until we reached the well-bred house of the Beauchamps, Charlotte Morrison's cousins.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  "I'm so pleased to see you again, Captain." Mrs. Beauchamp shook my hand. "Do you have news?"

  "I'm happy to tell you, that Miss Morrison is alive and well. In Somerset."

  Eyes widened, brows rose. Mr. Beauchamp spluttered, "Somerset?"

  "Good heavens, why has she not written us?" his wife said at the same time. "Did she return to her family's house?"

  Grenville glanced at me. I hadn't told him what I'd intended to say, but he followed my lead. "I saw her," he said. "She is safe. And married."

  Mrs. Beauchamp gaped. "Married?"

  "But why not write to us?" her husband demanded. "Why disgrace herself by running away?"

  "It doesn't matter," Mrs. Beauchamp said. "She is safe, thank God. Do you have her direction, Mr. Grenville? I must write to her and tell her that of course we forgive her. She must be worried that we'll be angry with her. No, we should make preparations to journey there and tell her ourselves."

  I held up my hands. "I believe she doesn't yet want visitors. No doubt she'll write to you when she is ready."

  Mrs. Beauchamp lost her smile. "I don't understand. We're her family."

  "That is all I know, madam. I myself care only that she is safe and well."

  Beauchamp's ruddy face held a mixture of relief and anger. "I thank you for coming in person to tell us, Captain." He held out his hand. "It was good of you."

  "Yes." Mrs. Beauchamp sounded subdued.

  I shook both their hands. "I bid you good afternoon."

  Grenville, who'd kept his composure well throughout the entire exchange, bowed and murmured his good-byes, though I could see him bursting to ask me questions.

  Beauchamp followed us out. He waited until the footman had given us our hats and gloves, and he accompanied us out into the soft rain.

  "My wife is understandably upset," Beauchamp said. "But we feared the worst. No doubt we will rejoice that Charlotte is well when the surprise wears off. It was kind of you to journey all this way to tell us."

  "I had another errand in the area," I said. I took a parcel from my coat. "And I wanted to give you this."

  Beauchamp frowned at the parcel, but he took it, bemused.

  Grenville's footman helped me into the carriage, and Grenville sprang up behind me, the door slamming as the carriage rolled away. Beauchamp remained in front of the house, staring at the brown paper, rain pattering on his bare head.

  Grenville contained himself until we'd gone half a mile. "I've kept my peace long enough, Lacey. What the devil did you give him?"

  The road curved, bending through the flat land behind the Beauchamps' house. "Ask your coachman to stop."

  "Would it be futile to demand to know why?"

  "I will tell you in a moment."

  Grenville look was aggrieved, but he rapped on the carriage roof and gave the order to stop.

  We waited. The damp air rose, fresh and green-smelling, the earth rich and virgin, awaiting the first spring planting. A muddy path led to a stile, and over this to the meadow behind the Beauchamps' home.

  The horses, bored, snorted and moved in the traces, rocking the carriage slightly. The light rain grew heavier.

  A rider appeared at the bottom of the meadow, on a small horse, trotting fast. Both horse and rider were rotund, the master rivaling his mount for squat body and stout belly.

  Grenville lowered his window. "It's Beauchamp."

  At the stile, Beauchamp dismounted. He did not tie his horse, but it seemed content to lower its head and crop grass. Beauchamp climbed the stile and scrambled down the other side, his face streaming perspiration and rain.

  He approached the coach. I opened the door and climbed to the ground to meet him.

  He thrust the parcel at me. "What is your game, Lacey? What is this?"

  "Lord Sommerville's housekeeper gave it to me," I said. "It's the remains of the gown a servant girl wore the night she was killed, sometime at the end of February. A man bashed in her head and tried to bury her in the woods. Were you not at the inquest? The entire village turned up, I've been told."

  Beauchamp glared at me, flushed and angry. "My wife and I stayed away. It was a sordid affair."

  I opened the paper and smoothed the blue worsted strips. "Likely it was her best dress. She must have been excited, knowing she was going to meet a lover. Not the solid, hardworking young man who'd hoped to marry her, but an older man, well off and respected, who would give her presents. Maybe jewelry and gowns finer than this."

  Grenville climbed down from the carriage and his coachman watched from above. Beauchamp looked from me to Grenville. "What do you want of me?"

  I ignored him. "Perhaps, as the mistress of a wealthy gentleman, the kitchen maid began to give herself airs. Perhaps she threatened to tell her young man about her lover, or your wife."

  Beauchamp took on a hunted look. "She was a silly girl, a maid, for heaven's sake. What did she expect me to do? Put aside my dear wife for her? You gentlemen understand."

  "Your cousin, Charlotte, knew who killed her," I said.

  Beauchamp began to stammer. "Matilda wasn't murdered. It was an accident. She fell and hit her head."

  "Or perhaps Charlotte did not know; I cannot say. But your attentions must have frightened Charlotte. So much so that she fled you, in a manner that makes it impossible for you to pursue her and bring her back."

  Beauchamp gave me a pleading look. "We took Charlotte in, we gave her a home. How could she have done this? We were her family."

  His bleating was pathetic, but I hardened my heart. "I imagine your wife's pretty young cousin was a great temptation for you. An intelligent and beautiful girl would be much more satisfying than a silly maid. And close at hand, under your own roof. You'd need no secret trysts in hedgerows. Did you seduce Charlotte? Or threaten her if she did not comply?"

  Beauchamp sucked in his breath. "How do you know this? Charlotte must have told you."


  "Your wife gave me her letters. You sent a boy after me to steal and destroy them. You feared that Charlotte might have written some hint, left some clue of what you had done to her."

  Beauchamp clasped his hands against his ample belly. "You must not tell my wife. She is a gentle creature. It will break her heart. Please, I beg of you."

  I went on ruthlessly. "What happened in the woods that night? Did you tell Matilda you'd found better? Perhaps Matilda did not want to leave so quietly. Perhaps she threatened to make a fuss. And you grew alarmed, and struck out."

  Tears trickled down his cheeks. "No, it truly was an accident, I swear it. Matilda wanted me to run away with her. She started to screech and cry. I tried to make her stop. She started to run away, but she stumbled and fell. I heard her head crack on a rock. I tried to help her, but her head was covered with blood, and she had stopped breathing. I could not take her home; could not explain."

  I thrust the parcel back into his hands. "Explain it to Lord Sommerville. He is a reasonable man."

  Beauchamp wiped his eyes. "Will I ever see Charlotte again?"

  "I rather doubt it. Tell your wife the truth, all of it. She will understand why Charlotte isn't coming back."

  I turned away from him. Grenville, his face white, waited while I climbed back into the carriage.

  "Please, gentlemen."

  Grenville ascended behind me, and his footman, shocked and trying to hide it, shut the door. I looked out of the window at Beauchamp, weeping beneath me.

  "Go home," I said.

  Grenville rapped on the roof of the carriage, and the coachman drove on.

  * * * * *

  "Are you going to tell Sommerville?" Grenville eyed me sternly. "If you don't, I will."

  I leaned back against the sumptuous cushions, suddenly exhausted and wanting to be done with it. "I'll write Sommerville tonight and post it in the morning. I want to give Beauchamp time to confess. If he has an ounce of honor, he will take the blame and leave his wife out of it."

  "If he has any honor at all, he will already be dead," Grenville said.

  I wondered if the man with the rabbity eyes would have the courage to put a pistol to his own head and save his wife the pain of his trial and the public knowledge of his betrayal. "I wish I knew if he had. It is up to him now."

  As we made our way back to London, my tiredness lifted somewhat, and I told Grenville about my second visit to Denis and what I'd decided about his involvement in Jane Thornton's abduction. I did not much want to talk about it, but I'd learned my lesson. If I hadn't written Grenville that rude and angry letter, and if he hadn't been magnanimous enough to forgive my idiotic pride and come looking for me, I'd probably be resting at the bottom of the Thames, Black Nancy with me.

  Grenville was eager to interview Jemmy with me, but I told him I needed to run another errand, one I'd rather do alone. He did not ask me what, but he regarded me sharply as I descended the carriage.

  What I had to face next pained me beyond thought. I left home shortly after dark and traveled to the house near St. Paul's Churchyard. As before, I was shown to an upstairs parlor, and Josette Martin met me there.

  She came forward and took my hand, lamplight shining on the thick braids of her nearly black hair.

  "Captain Lacey. I am pleased to see you again. Will you sit?"

  I remained standing, holding her hand. "When do you leave for France?"

  She looked at me in surprise. "A week today. Why?"

  "Can you leave tomorrow? Will Aimee be well enough to travel?"

  "Tomorrow? I am not certain."

  "Even if she isn't, I advise you to take Aimee and start for France immediately."

  "Why, Captain? I do not understand."

  I led Josette toward the worn divan and drew her to sit facing me. The room smelled faintly of old flowers, overlaid with the slightly stuffy scent of a room whose windows had long been closed.

  "Because I know who killed Josiah Horne," I said. "In all conscience, and following duty, I ought to tell someone everything I know."

  Josette's face drained of color. "Please explain what you mean."

  "The Runners arrested Bremer, the butler. He went to Newgate, but he died before he came to trial. They are satisfied. But Bremer didn't kill Mr. Horne."

  Her beautiful eyes shied from mine. "You cannot know that. How can you?"

  I held her hands gently. "Alice must have told you that she believed Aimee was a captive in Horne's house. She had no proof, but you did not let that stop you, did you? Going to the front door would not help the Thorntons and Alice, so you decided to approach through the kitchens. You began making deliveries to the Horne household, possibly offering a greengrocer or seamstress your services."

  "I did nothing, sir," she said weakly.

  "I'd been so concerned about who'd entered Horne's house through the front door that day, that it never occurred to me to worry about who went in through the scullery. But the lad who lives next door to Horne saw you. You'd started making deliveries, he said, about four weeks earlier--right after Alice and Mr. Thornton discovered that Jane was living with Horne.

  "The lad next door spent the day of the murder looking out of the window, waiting for his tutor, who never arrived. He told me that two delivery men and a woman with a basket had gone down the kitchen stairs and entered the house. I thought nothing of it, and neither did he. That day, at last, you must have been able to go from the kitchens to the study upstairs. I imagine no one noticed you in that chaotic household. Am I right?"

  Josette pressed her hands to her face, tears leaking from her beautiful eyes. "She did not mean to do it. Aimee was so frightened. And so desperate. She just struck out. She did not even know."

  * * * * *

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I waited, my heart heavy, until Josette's weeping quieted. When she looked up at me, her black lashes were wet with tears.

  I said quietly, "You found Aimee in the study when you entered it."

  She nodded. "He was on the carpet, with the knife in his chest, and Aimee lay in a swoon beside him. It had happened only moments before I arrived. Aimee did not even realize what she'd done. He'd taken her from the wardrobe where he'd locked her that day. The knife had been lying on the desk--I suppose he used it for opening letters or cutting open books. She simply picked it up and struck him with it. There was very little blood. A little on her hand; that was all."

  "If it is done correctly, a blow like that does not bleed much."

  "But I knew that if Aimee was found there, she would hang. No matter what the man Horne had done to her, it would be Aimee who paid." Fire burned in the depths of her beautiful eyes. "I could not let that happen."

  "No," I agreed. "You could not. So you wiped off her hands, renewed the bonds on her wrists, and locked her back into the wardrobe. Aimee was frightened enough and confused enough to obey you. You knew that she would likely be found after the murder was discovered, and of course no one would suspect her, when her hands were tied so tightly and the wardrobe was locked from the outside. If they didn't find her, you would return to the house as the concerned aunt, looking for her. It must have been difficult to leave her."

  She nodded fervently. "It was, oh, yes, it was. But if I'd taken her away then, we might be discovered. They'd find Mr. Horne, and Aimee would be accused of the crime. I had to leave her."

  "It was wise of you." Locking Aimee back in the wardrobe would have served two purposes--the obvious one of making it seem that Aimee could not possibly have committed the murder; and second, the discovery of her in the wardrobe would expose Horne for the bastard he was. A man having sport with a maid was one thing. Making a slave of her was something else.

  Josette swallowed. "I had to make certain that the bonds cut into her flesh, and then I had to walk away from her. I had to go home and wait, not knowing who would find Aimee and when. It was the next morning before Alice sent word that she was safe. I had no idea, all that night, if I'd done right.
No way to know-- " More tears spilled from her lovely eyes.

  I pressed Josette's work-worn hand between my own. "But your deception worked. I voiced my opinion loudly to everyone who would listen that it was impossible for Aimee to have killed Horne. It wasn't until I speculated that two people might have been involved that I realized Aimee could very well have stabbed him. Her accomplice would have to have been coolheaded, brave, and utterly devoted to her. And I remembered that Aimee had an aunt who had raised her and was preparing to take her away to France."

  "You are right," Josette said softly. "I am devoted to her. And I'm as guilty as she."

  "You did one more thing before you left that room."

  She whitened. "I barely remember it."

  I smoothed my fingers over the back of her hand. "I would have been in a howling rage myself."

  "I was." She raised her head, words angry. "He had hurt Aimee so deeply, and there he lay, dying, beyond my reach. I wanted to hurt him back. He'd already taken down his trousers, and there he was, exposed for the world to see. I am not certain what happened then. But the knife was in my hand, and I-- "

  I saw again the yellow carpet bathed in blood, smelled the pungent odor of it. I saw Josette of the beautiful eyes, the knife in her hand, rage twisting her face, savagely cutting the man who had raped her beloved niece. Blood had poured from his body, exposing his sins. He had bled the same as any other man would bleed, though his soul was foul and black.

  "What will you do, Captain?" Josette asked in a quiet voice. "If you go to a magistrate, please, I beg you, let me take the blame. Tell them I killed Mr. Horne. Let Aimee go."

  I stood, leaning heavily on my walking stick. "In two days, I will confess what I know to one other person and then decide what is best to do. If I wait longer, I will be tempted to hide it forever, and let the innocent Bremer be labeled the culprit. In two days, you can be in France. I advise you to tell no one exactly where you are going."