The Hanover Square Affair clrm-1

by Ashley Gardner

  "Thank you for speaking with me," I finished.

  Lord Berring nodded at Marcel, who bowed and made his way out.

  I deflated, as I realized that Marcel knew little more than I did. A pity Lord Berring's family had been in Windsor that day. The curious females I'd seen upstairs would no doubt have known every coming and going next door. But I doubted that Lord Berring would have let me question his wife and daughters whether they'd been home at the time of the murder or not.

  "Thank you," I told Berring. "I'll take no more of your time."

  Lord Berring waved me back down. "Nonsense, my good fellow. It's a dreary day. Have some more port and stay for a chat. Only, let us turn the topic from murder, shall we? Aggravates my dyspepsia something horrible."

  Chapter Fifteen

  After spending another three-quarters of an hour in unenlightening conversation with Lord Berring, I departed. I had tried to pry from him any information regarding Jane Thornton and Aimee, but he gave me a puzzled look and said he knew nothing about such goings-on. He could have been a master actor, but I didn't think so.

  Before leaving Hanover Square, I took a chance and knocked on the door of number 23. A footman answered.

  "Mr. Preston is not at home, sir."

  "I've come to see Master Philip," I answered. I handed him my card.

  The footman studied it curiously, then me. "Master Philip is not here either, sir. He's gone out in the carriage to take the air."

  I suppressed a dart of impatience, but there was little I could do. I did not know the family, and I could hardly force myself inside to wait. I made myself nod. "Please tell Master Philip that I called and that I will write to him for an appointment."

  The footman regarded me dubiously, but nodded. "Yes, sir."

  I made my way home then, intending to begin my search for Jane again, and to plan how to go about finding and getting myself introduced to Horne's cousin, Mulverton. Then there was the matter of Charlotte Morrison to look into. But Grenville's carriage stood in Russel Street, at the top of Grimpen Lane, and his footman politely informed me that Grenville was waiting for me at his club.

  I was becoming irritated at Grenville's arbitrary summonses, but he might provide me some information on Mulverton. I let the footman help me into the coach. The conveyance was truly luxurious, with plush and tufted walls and deep cushions, and it was so well sprung that the hard cobbles of London jolted me far less than they did in any hackney. I rested my foot on the cushioned stool and resigned myself to the comfortable journey.

  I descended into St. James's Street and made my way through the rain and lowering fog to Brooks's club. This early in the afternoon not many gentlemen were about. The club would fill to the brim later in the night when men would risk their fortunes, estates, and family reputations on the turn of a card. Even now, the more hardened players sat in the games room, hunched over green baize tables taking chances on macao or whist.

  I asked for Grenville and was shown to one of the parlors. Three gentlemen, necks swathed in starched white, stood at the window, discussing everyone who passed below. Grenville was enthroned in a wing chair near the fire, facing an avid audience of two young dandies, a young lord, and Mr. Gossington, a prime gossip who cared only for his clothes and for sport.

  "… lime green waistcoat," I heard Gossington say as I approached. " And his trousers so puffed out he had to turn sideways to enter the room. I ask you."

  Grenville saw me and lifted his hand to interrupt. "You must excuse me, gentleman. I have business with Captain Lacey."

  His audience turned glassy stares on me. Gossington raised his quizzing glass and surveyed me through it from head to toe.

  Grenville rose, greeted me, and led me to an empty sitting room beyond the parlor. He closed the door. "Gossington fancies himself the arbiter of fashion when Brummell is out of earshot, but he comes nowhere near. Though Brummell is getting perilously close to landing himself in the Fleet."

  I had no interest at the moment in the famous debt-ridden dandy, though I could not know that a scarce month later George Brummell would quietly flee England and his creditors and never be seen in London again.

  Grenville faced me. "You haven't been keeping me apprised of what you are doing. What is our plan of action?"

  I hadn't realized we'd decided on one. I told him I had begun scouring the brothels for any sign of Jane Thornton, what I'd learned from the valet and John, and my plan to speak to Mulverton.

  Grenville shook his head. "Mulverton might have killed him for the inheritance, but he probably knows nothing of Miss Thornton. No, we'll have to rely on the reward there, I'll wager."

  I silently agreed. "Have we received any more replies to our advertisement?"

  "A good many. All with no idea of Jane's whereabouts. They smell the reward, that's all."

  "So it was a waste of time," I said flatly.

  "Not necessarily. I hold out hope. We did discover the parallel disappearance of Charlotte Morrison. What shall we do about that?"

  I thought over again what Charlotte's letters contained. We had discussed them a little on the way home from Hampstead but had drawn no conclusions. "It might be worth contacting this Geraldine Frazier in Somerset," I said. "Charlotte might have revealed something important in the letters she did not copy out."

  Grenville tapped his fingers together. "One of us could travel to Somerset and speak with her personally. I could take on the task, while you remain in London and continue to search for Miss Thornton."

  "It might be all a mare's nest, a false trail. You would journey all the way to Somerset for nothing."

  Grenville shrugged, spreading his hands. "Perhaps Charlotte has gone there herself. Or the people who knew her-friends, villagers-might have an idea where she would go if she did run away."

  "And if she did not?"

  "Then we continue searching."

  I sat back, frowning. "You seem eager to dash across England on only a slight possibility."

  "I am restless. London has palled."

  I raised my brows. "You have been in Town only since January. That has been, what, four months?"

  "Laugh at me if you wish. I told you why I wanted to help you."

  "Yes, your great fatigue with life."

  Grenville jumped to his feet. "Damn it, Lacey. I might actually discover something useful. Perhaps I'll redeem myself in your eyes if I do."

  I blinked. "What the devil do you mean by that?"

  "I mean that you disapprove of me. I am frivolous and too rich and the people of London give me too much adulation. I agree with you. I want to prove you wrong."

  I watched him, surprised. "I have never said such a thing."

  "You do not have to. It's in your face every time you look at me."

  "Perhaps I am thinking of the woman who lives upstairs from me, who has to shave every penny and even resorts to pinching coal and candles from me."

  "While I pay fifty pounds for a pair of boots."

  "Something like that."

  Grenville was silent for a long time. When he looked at me, I saw a new expression in his eyes, but I was not sure what it meant. "If I offered her fifty pounds," he asked, "would she take it?"

  I thought about Marianne and her pretty smiles and hungry eyes. "She's greedy and grasping, but life has made her so. I would be careful. She might believe you want to become her protector."

  Grenville looked pained. "Perhaps I will make an anonymous donation and style myself a secret philanthropist. But there is another reason I am eager to help you."

  "What is that?"

  He smiled, his mouth drooping into its usual ironic lines. "I made a rather large wager that you'd clear up the mystery of Horne's murder and find the missing Jane. If I lose it, I will not be able to make donations to your upstairs neighbor. So it's in my own interest to help you as much as I can."

  I left Brooks's and went back out into the rain. I had to admit that Grenville's journey would be a great help. I longed to ques
tion Charlotte's friends myself, but I could ill afford to travel across England simply to talk to someone. If Grenville wanted to spend the time and money, I would not stop him. Also, his leaving would coincide with my appointment tomorrow with Denis. I hadn't bothered to tell Grenville about it. He'd only postpone the journey, and I wanted to face Denis without him.

  On St. James's Street stood the Guards' club, founded for members of the Foot Guards. The cavalrymen, not to be outdone, had taken to meeting in a coffeehouse 'round the corner. I found myself in front of the coffeehouse before I'd decided what to do next, and ducked into its dark interior.

  I scanned the rooms. Lieutenant Gale or his commander might well have stopped for a warm ale or coffee, and I wanted to ask again who had given Gale the order to halt the disturbance in Hanover Square. Perhaps I could shake it out of one of them.

  My anger over Thornton's shooting and the abduction of Jane still had not abated. The helplessness of that family and the real grief of Alice, their maid, haunted my dreams. They were crushed and forgotten. Although the magistrates were very interested in the murder of the despicable Josiah Horne, no one gave a damn that a poor clerk's daughter had been ruined and violated by the same Josiah Horne. Gale and young cornet Weddington, after piling more grief onto the Thornton family, had dusted off their hands and walked away. If I ever saw Cornet Weddington again, I might be moved to violence.

  Fortunately for Gale, Weddington, and my temper, I did not find either of them within. I found Aloysius Brandon instead.

  Louisa Brandon's husband was five years my senior, and had been my commanding officer since I'd been a green and youthful lad. His dark hair was just going to gray, but his ice blue eyes still held the fire that had inspired me to follow him that long-ago day when he'd convinced me to leave my fruitless life and venture with him into the unknown.

  These days he wore a fretful look that came from the incidents between us, his boredom with civilian life, and the fact that he had no children, which meant that his wealth and tidy estate in Kent would be handed to a dissipated cousin he despised.

  His trim body and handsome face had barmaids all over London vying for his favors, but he remained oblivious of them. Brandon showed no overt devotion to his wife, but it was inside him, burning and deep. I'd discovered how deep one day in Spain, and I believe he himself had realized the extent of his devotion that very same day.

  Before that fateful moment, we had shared campaigns and wearying marches, happiness and grief, and we'd once been as close as brothers. Now we were bitter enemies, pretending, in public, to still be friends.

  We regarded one another in tight silence. Brandon's eyes held apprehension, anger, and impatience.

  "Lacey."

  "Sir."

  Three men of our acquaintance stopped at that moment to wish us a good afternoon. Brandon's relief was palpable as he turned to speak to them. When they bade us good-bye and moved on, the silence pressed us again.

  Brandon gestured to the chair next to him. "Stay and have some port with me." His hand trembled, then stilled. He wanted me to refuse, walk away, return to the gray street.

  I decided to punish him. I sat. "Thank you. I will."

  Brandon moved away from me a fraction, then barked an order for port and water. We sat without speaking until the waiter brought a decanter, a small bowl, and a caster filled with sugar. I took my wine straight, with only a little water, but Brandon sifted a large amount of sugar into his glass and poured the dark liquid over it.

  He took a sip of the concoction and regarded me with disapproval. "So you have mixed yourself up with the murder in Hanover Square. Sergeant Pomeroy told me. He said you had asked him any number of questions about this Horne fellow, then turned up to discover his murder."

  I ran my finger around the rim of my glass. "I am taking an interest, yes."

  "Why? Did you know the fellow?"

  "No."

  Brandon gave me a cold stare. "Then I don't understand why you've involved yourself."

  "I happened to be there. Of course I am interested."

  "Louisa told me about the girl he abducted. Did you murder him yourself?"

  A passing gentleman heard the question and stared in astonishment. Brandon glowered at him until he hastily walked on.

  "Believe me, sir," I said quietly, "I had thought of it."

  "Disgusted me, what Louisa told me. I cannot really blame you for your anger this time. But wasn't someone arrested for the murder?"

  "The butler. But I don't believe he killed him."

  "Why the devil not?"

  I shrugged, pretending that sitting next to him didn't make me tense as a violin string. "A feeling, an instinct, I am uncertain what. It also irritates me that everyone is happy to let him swing for it, mystery solved."

  "Simple explanations are best, Lacey. You always want things to be complex."

  I sipped my port. "The simple explanation is not always the right one."

  "But it usually is, isn't it?"

  I knew Brandon had stopped talking about Bremer the butler. He'd always believed I'd lied to him about Louisa, which had made me realize that for all his bleating about honor, he did not really understand it.

  I did not bother to answer. What happened was over and done with, flogged to death long ago.

  Brandon held my gaze for a long time then finally turned away and studied his sweetened wine. "I admit, your taste for trouble has proved beneficial before. You did find that would-be assassin while the rest of us were looking in the wrong place."

  It was true that I had stopped an assassination plot against Wellington, based on a chance remark overheard around a barrel of brandy purloined from a French officer. Some had admired me for it; others accused me of currying favor. The deed did not garner me a promotion, and the accusations eventually stopped.

  But although Brandon's nearness irritated me until my teeth ached, I could not let pass the opportunity to use him as a source of information. "Do you know Lieutenant Gale's commanding officer?" I asked him.

  "Yes. Colonel Franklin. What about him?"

  I studied the ruby red port in my glass. "I wondered why five cavalrymen were sent to put down the riot in Hanover Square the other day. Usually the military isn't called unless things are far out of hand. This was simply a handful of people throwing stones at one house."

  "Perhaps they were taking precaution."

  I raised my brows skeptically.

  "Ask him yourself," Brandon grunted.

  "I am not well enough acquainted with him to engage him in idle conversation."

  Something glinted in Brandon's eyes. "He knows you lambasted Gale for it. He likely won't speak to me either."

  I slanted him an annoyed look. "If he happens to mention it…"

  "I'll write you."

  We regarded another in silence. I noticed that Brandon had carefully not asked me why I had been seen at the opera with Louisa several nights before. But his eyes held winter chill, and his neck was red.

  Once, when I'd first come to London, Brandon had tried to apologize. I had not let him. He'd never tried again. He wanted my forgiveness, but he didn't want to extend the same forgiveness to me, and I knew it.

  So it went. We finished our port. Brandon feigned interest in billiards, and I declined, as he'd known I would. I felt his eyes on my back as I departed. I never would have dreamed, as a lad of twenty, how viciously, and how completely, love could turn to hatred.

  I took a hackney home. I descended at Grimpen Lane and stumped to Rose Lane, wondering where to begin looking for Grace, Horne's former maid. John hadn't been precise about where she was living.

  I simply began inquiring at houses. The third door I knocked on produced a mobcapped maid who seemed to know all the goings on on the street. She directed me to Grace's sister's house, informing me that Grace had recently been employed at a house in which the master had gotten himself murdered, just imagine.

  I thanked the profuse woman, walked three houses
down, and knocked at the door.

  Grace herself answered it, and her eyes widened in astonishment. "It's you, is it? You'd better come in, sir."

  Chapter Sixteen

  She opened the door and allowed me into a narrow hall that smelled of boiled vegetables. "You were Mr. Horne's friend. I know you were. It's a terrible thing."

  Her large eyes filled, and she drew a handkerchief from her pocket.

  I followed her to a tiny, dark parlor in the front of the house, and we sat down facing each other. "I am trying to discover who murdered him," I said.

  She sniffled into the cloth. "Mr. Bremer did, sir. They arrested him."

  "But I do not believe he killed him."

  The handkerchief came down. "To be truthful, sir, nor do I. The master was stabbed something hard, and Bremer couldn't have done that with such force. He had to have John carry trays up the stairs for him."

  "Then who do you believe could have?"

  Her eyes were large in her tearstained face. "I don't know. John would be strong enough. Or Cook."

  "Did you find him?"

  She started. "What?"

  "Mr. Horne. When I came upstairs that day, you were in the doorway to your master's study. You were crying. Do you remember?"

  "Yes, sir. I couldn't believe my eyes. There he was, the poor master."

  "Did you find him? Did you open the door and find him there?"

  She shook her head vehemently. "I would never have gone in without his permission. I would have knocked first. No, Bremer opened the door, and I looked inside."

  "Why were you upstairs at all?"

  The hand holding the handkerchief whitened. Her eyes moved past me, then back to my face, and she wet her lips.

  The obvious explanation would have been that she was going about her duties. But she brushed her lips again with her pale tongue and replied woodenly, "I was fetching something. For Bremer. When he came to open the door, I looked into the room."