"Certainly. I will allow you to be in on the bidding."
"Bidding?" I clenched the walking stick, which stopped its twirl.
"If the necklace proves to be the de la Fontaine diamonds, I will assuredly wish to sell it," Denis said. "I am not in the business of assisting impoverished French emigres or feckless English aristocrats. Clifford owes me money, and whatever price I can obtain for the necklace will more than suffice to pay his debt. He will not fight me for it."
"The necklace is de la Fontaine's," I said angrily.
"De la Fontaine's family stole the original diamonds themselves, you might be interested to learn, during some continental war long ago. And who knows from whence it was originally looted? Such famous pieces often have murky histories."
"You are splitting hairs. The necklace belongs to de la Fontaine, and I intend to give it back to him."
Another twitch of lips. "Of course you do. I will inform you if I come into possession of it, to that I will agree."
I sat still and looked at him, the impeccably dressed young man, kid-gloved hands folded on his walking stick.
I wondered, as I always did, how he'd come to be like this. Who was James Denis? What of his family? What sort of child had he been that he'd become a man who bought and sold precious objects, people, secrets? Had he loved and lost? Raised himself from nothing? Or been defeated and climbed out of the ashes?
If I asked, he'd never tell me, so I did not ask.
Denis looked at me as though guessing my thoughts. He knew by now exactly where I'd come from, who my people were, and what I'd done for the last forty years of my life. Denis was that thorough. I would have to be just as thorough about him.
One of his brows twitched upward. "Did you truly think I would tell you exactly where to find the necklace, Captain?" he asked. "It is worth far more than Lord Clifford understands. De la Fontaine understands. Perhaps it will ease your conscience if I tell you how many peasants de la Fontaine and his family worked to death in France during the height of their power. They lived quite well on the backs of many."
I knew that if de la Fontaine had come from landed wealth, then yes, he'd worked it out of others. But I couldn't help thinking of the broken man whose only joy these days was the chance sampling of Grenville's brandy and the occasional treat outing with his daughter and her stuffy husband.
"Have you become a republican?" I asked Denis.
He gave me a small shrug. "I must believe in every man being allowed to do what is best for himself, or I would be out of business."
He fell silent to look out the window at the rain, the conversation finished. We didn't speak until Covent Garden, where Denis had his coachman halt, and he bade me good night.
*** *** ***
Now four people wanted the necklace: Lady Clifford, Lord Clifford, de la Fontaine, and Denis. Five people. Me.
I'd find the damn thing, and to hell with the lot of them. I would check de la Fontaine's story, and if he hadn't told me false, he would win the diamonds. I'd do something to placate Lord Clifford to keep him from turning his wrath on Lady Clifford. Clifford was the sort of man to blame his wife for his troubles. I cared nothing for what Denis thought of the matter. He'd find some other piece of art or jewelry on which to turn his attention soon enough.
When I entered my rooms in Grimpen Lane, Bartholomew was there, my fire roaring, my coffee hot. There were compensations for allowing him to practice valeting on me.
"Post's come," he said, pointing to a small pile of letters on my writing table. "I say, Captain, Mr. Grenville is asking for my help tonight. I've got your dinner in. Can you manage on your own?"
"It will be a struggle," I said, sitting down at the writing table. Bartholomew had left a plate of beef in juice sitting perilously close to my post.
Bartholomew grinned. "Aye, sir. I'll be back before morning."
"Stay at Grenville's and return tomorrow. No need for you to be rushing across town in the middle of the night in the rain. I can manage to hobble downstairs for a bit of bread on my own for breakfast."
"Are you certain, sir?" Bartholomew liked to believe I'd be hopelessly lost without him. "I can tell Mr. Grenville you can't spare me if you like."
"Mr. Grenville pays your wages, not me. What entertainment is he having tonight? I'm not expected, am I?"
"No, sir. It's his circle of art fanciers. They have supper and talk about Constable and Dah-veed and that French chap with the name like the sound of your throat closing up."
"Ingre?" I asked.
"That's the sausage. Sorry, sir, Mr. Grenville didn't tell me to tell you to come."
"Thank God for that. I'm hardly in the mood to talk about the intricacies of David and his pupils. David was a radical revolutionary, did you know that? Probably ran Comte de la Fontaine out of his home personally, thereby allowing de la Fontaine to be preyed upon by an Englishman looking to line his coffers. Possibly best I do not bring this up at Grenville's supper with his art critics."
"No, sir." Bartholomew gave me a dubious glance. He never knew what to do with me when I started waxing philosophical.
"Never mind. Go on, then."
Bartholomew poured me more coffee then made ready to depart with a look of relief.
I was glad to see him go, because I'd recognized the handwriting on the top letter of the pile as that of Lady Breckenridge, and I wanted to read her missive in private. I shoveled in beef and bread while Bartholomew scrambled upstairs to gather a few things to take home with him.
As soon as Bartholomew had trundled down the stairs and out--slamming the door hard behind him--I wiped my hands, broke the seal on the letter, and opened it.
My dear Lacey, Lady Breckenridge wrote. I think that I shall never forgive you for persuading me to undertake this decidedly dreadful task. I must invent many more favors for you to do in return.
I smiled, but with a touch of uneasiness, and read on.
I have been seeing much of Lady Clifford of late, and I cannot express what a relief it is to return to my quiet home in the evenings. Barnstable brings me thick coffee, which he liberally laces with brandy, bless him. Though I believe an entire decanter of the stuff would not be enough to rid myself of the taste of the Clifford household. Heaven help you, Lacey.
But I will cease complaining and come to the heart of the matter. It was easy enough to worm myself into Lady Clifford's household. I approached Lady Clifford on the pretext of asking her to assist me with one of my musicales--there is a soprano who sings like an angel--I believe you will agree when you hear her.
Who knows why Lady Clifford so readily believed I sought her help. Her taste in music is appalling--or, I should say, nonexistent. But I soldiered on, and she professed delight.
The poor woman has not much more to do in her life but play cards and gossip. Even her companion, Mrs. Dale, does all the embroidery for her, while Lady Clifford sits and pretends to conduct interesting conversation. She does knit on occasion, for the poor, though so badly that I suspect the poor simply unravel the yarn and use it for some more practical purpose.
These drawbacks are not entirely her fault. Her husband, I have now observed firsthand, tells Lady Clifford outright that anything she endeavors is foolish, and so she gives up before she begins. Lord Clifford tried to include me in one of these rants but, as you can imagine, he had no success in that regard.
Lady Clifford is much too easily cowed by him. Bullies are encouraged by meekness, as I have come to know.
Mrs. Dale, the companion, is not as easily cowed, but her strength lies in her silences. She is able to remain perfectly still, eyes on her sewing, no matter what storms rage on around her. She is not quiet like a serene pool--more like a stubborn rock that refuses to be worn down. Because of this, she hasn't much to say for herself, although I note that, when we ladies are alone, some rather sarcastic humor comes out of her mouth. Not often, but it is there.
Mrs. Dale does indeed take laudanum, as I suspected. Her excuse is headache, which, she says, i
s why she likes to sit so quietly, but that is all fabrication. When anything unnerving happens in that household, it's a quick nip from the laudanum bottle. And believe me Lacey, unnerving things occur all the time.
For instance, Mrs. Dale mislaid Lady Clifford's knitting basket (on purpose, I suspect). Instead of simply telling a servant to find the blasted thing, Lady Clifford went into hysterics. She screeched at Mrs. Dale about her every fault, until Lord Clifford, who was home, had to come to see what was the matter.
I stepped to the next room, pretending the need to refresh myself--and indeed, I was developing a headache as fierce as Mrs. Dale's supposed ones. I heard Lord Clifford quite clearly tell his wife that the loss of the knitting basket was her own fault, that she could not keep account of any damned thing, and there was a reason he'd begun to favor Mrs. Dale over her.
I am not certain he'd have said such a thing had he known I was listening, but then again, Lord Clifford hasn't the best of manners. But really, what a thing to tell your wife! Lady Clifford cried all the more, Mrs. Dale joined her when Lord Clifford stormed out, and I returned to two weeping women.
But interestingly, I found them trying to console each other. Dear, dear Annabelle wasn't to blame, said Lady Clifford, and Mrs. Dale cried that dear, dear Marguerite was brave to suffer so much.
They continued weeping and embracing even after I sat down and pointedly started going through the guest list for the musicale. I gather that the two were the dearest of friends before Lord Clifford decided he wanted both his meat and his sauce in his own house. Saves him the bother of going out for it, I suppose. The two ladies are putting up with it as best they can.
The truce did not last long, however. Before another hour was out, Mrs. Dale was once more a hard-hearted, ungrateful bitch, and Lady Clifford a slow-witted fool.
I took Mrs. Dale aside and asked her why she stuck it here. I do not for one moment believe that she has fallen in love with Lord Clifford. From all evidence, she rather despises him.
Mrs. Dale blinked red-lined eyes at me and bleated that she stayed because she had nowhere else to go. This I can well credit. Her husband hadn't a penny left to his name when he died, and Mrs. Dale immediately went to live with her girlhood friend, Lady Clifford. She's been in the house ever since. Mrs. Dale did not say this, but I also had the feeling that she does not want to leave Lady Clifford to face Lord Clifford on her own.
Both ladies are well under Lord Clifford's thumb, and I strongly suspect that his interest in Mrs. Dale is more a game of power over his wife than any sort of sentimental feeling.
This was confirmed by my maid who spent the time in the kitchens while I was there (and by the bye, she is not very forgiving of you, either). Lord Clifford apparently satisfies some of his baser needs with maids below stairs, including the very maid arrested for stealing the necklace.
Of the necklace itself, I haven't a dratted clue. I have run very tame in Lady Clifford's house but have been unable to find a trace of it. I began with the most obvious place, Lady Clifford's own bedchamber and dressing room. The woman has many baubles--Lord Clifford does not stint on hanging finery on her. He must be of the ilk that believes a jewel-encrusted wife reflects well on him. However, the necklace in question was nowhere in Lady Clifford's chambers that I could see.
Next was Mrs. Dale's meager chamber, but again, I had no luck. What I discovered there was that Mrs. Dale wears Lady Clifford's castoff gowns, modified to fit her rather narrower figure. Her jewelry is quite modest. Again, I suspect, gifts from her dear Lady Clifford before their falling out.
Lord Clifford might favor Mrs. Dale in his bed these days, but he certainly hasn't rewarded her with anything costly. Or, if he has, she neither displays these gifts nor keeps them in her bedchamber. I assure you, I was quite thorough.
Other rooms revealed nothing. I could not do much searching in the main sitting room, because Lady Clifford and Mrs. Dale were sitting in it. Constantly. I took a quick look at the dining room, but I had little time, and it's likely anything hidden there would be found by a servant.
Not that the staff of Lady Clifford's house is anything like efficient. I would sack the lot of them, and I told the housekeeper so. The housekeeper is an exhausted stick, not pretty enough for Lord Clifford, I gather, and he does run rather hard on her when he bothers to notice her at all. Were it my lot in life to be a housekeeper, I'd certainly try to find a better place.
Nonetheless, the servants at least attempt to keep the large house clean, and anything hidden in the public rooms would come to light eventually. That leaves the kitchens, the chambers of the servants themselves, and Lord Clifford's private study and bedchamber.
A servant might hide the necklace for her employer out of loyalty, but I do not think so in this case. I have not seen here the sort of affection some servants have for their employers. Barnstable looks after me as though he still regards me as the naïve young wretch who first married Breckenridge, ages ago it seems now. The staff in the Clifford household simply do their jobs, and from what my maid tells me, the family is not much respected below stairs.
As I say, that leaves Lord Clifford's private study and bedchamber. If I can contrive to enter them, I will, but apparently, there is but one reason a lady enters Lord Clifford's bedchamber, and forgive me, Lacey, but there is a limit to my interest in this little problem. Lord Clifford's chamber might have to go unsearched.
I am afraid this letter will not help you much. In conclusion, if the stolen necklace is still in the house, it is well hidden. And if it secretly has been sold, I cannot tell either, because no one here ever discusses the necklace at all. A forbidden topic, I gather.
The atmosphere is strained and full of anger, and Lady Clifford, Mrs. Dale, and Lord Clifford make a strange threesome. There is no love lost between them, and much misery exists.
Now, then, Lacey, in return for my prying, I will ask one of my favors right away--and that is for you to attend said musicale tonight. I have observed that you dislike crowded gatherings, but you must put a brave face on it and come. If nothing else, your presence will give me a chance to speak more to you about this problem.
Wear your grand uniform and stand about looking imposing, as you do, so that my guests will have something to talk about. They grow bored and need a good whisper about the captain friend of Grenville's who turns up at Lady Breckenridge's gatherings now and again.
Besides, in truth, you will quite enjoy the soprano. Unlike Lady Clifford, I do have fine musical taste, and I shall have Barnstable look out for you.
Ever yours in friendship,
Donata Breckenridge
* * * * *
Chapter Seven
Bartholomew would not return tonight, so I had to dress myself for the musicale. Bartholomew was convinced I could no longer do this on my own, but he kept my clothes so clean that they always looked fine, no matter how clumsy I might be at buttoning my own coat.
I peered into the small square mirror in my bedroom as I brushed my thick hair and fastened the braid across my chest. The regimentals of the Thirty-Fifth Light consisted of a dark blue coat with silver braid and dark cavalry breeches with knee-high boots. I wore the regimentals for social occasions, this being the finest suit I owned.
Imposing, Lady Breckenridge had written. I glanced into the aging glass again. She either flattered me or poked fun at me.
I took a hackney across London to South Audley Street and entered Lady Breckenridge's house with a few moments to spare.
Lady Breckenridge prided herself on her musicales and soirees, styling herself as one of the tastemakers of London. Therefore, her sitting room was filled to overflowing, and I sidled through the crowd as politely as I could.
Sir Gideon Derwent was there, his kind face breaking into a smile when he saw me. Next to him was his son Leland, a slimmer, younger version of the father, and a pace behind them, Leland's great friend, Gareth Travers. The Derwents were a family of innocents who invited me to dine with them at
their house in Grosvenor Square once a fortnight. There, they'd beg me to entertain them with stories of my army life. Travers had a bit more cynicism, but he seemed to enjoy the unworldly companionship of the Derwents as much as I did.
We took seats for the performance. Lady Breckenridge, dressed in a russet gown that bared her shoulders, introduced the lady as Mrs. Eisenhauf, a young Austrian who was just beginning her career. A pianist played a few strains on her instrument, and the soprano launched into her aria.
I found myself floating on a cushion of music, sound that filled my entire body. The woman's voice soared, loud and full, then dropped to the tiniest whisper, never losing its strength and quality.
Those around me were enchanted as well, but after a time, I stopped noticing anyone else. I heard only the music, observed only the curve of Lady Breckenridge's cheek, her face soft with enjoyment. Lady Breckenridge might once have been the naïve young wretch she described, but she'd left that girl far behind.
For a moment, I forgot about necklaces, weeping ladies, de la Fontaine's unhappiness, and the cold rain outside. There was only this bliss of warmth and music, and Lady Breckenridge's smile.
The aria ended, not in a crescendo, but in a few low notes of pure sweetness. As soon as the lady closed her mouth, the room erupted in applause and shouts of Brava! Brava!
They surged forward to meet her, swamping Lady Breckenridge, who stood next to her protege. I wondered why Lady Breckenridge had brought me to this crush if she wished to speak to me privately as her letter had stated. I'd never get near her.
I spied Lady Clifford, dressed in a blue velvet gown too tight for her figure, her high feathered headdress bobbing as she moved among her acquaintance. Hearing snatches of her conversation, I learned that she took much of the credit for arranging the gathering and persuading the soprano to sing.
Lady Clifford spied me watching her. She made her way to me, clamped her hand around my arm, and drew me into a corner.
"Have you found the thief, Captain?" she asked, a bit too loudly for my taste.
The Necklace Affair (Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries #4.5) Page 5
