Again, the look of near amusement. “As you say, Captain. I will keep you informed. Good day.”
I knew Denis wanted me to be grateful to him for bothering to tell me about the necklace at all. He also wanted to rub my face in the fact that he’d used everything I’d done in my investigation to further his own wealth and power.
He might be right that de la Fontaine had possessed the same kind of arrogant ruthlessness that Denis himself had now. But the world turned, and it changed, and eventually all tyrants fell to become dust.
I wrote to de la Fontaine, telling him that Denis had the necklace, and suggested he apply to a magistrate I knew who was not in Denis’s network. I then wrote to the magistrate in question, informing Sir Montague Harris of all that had happened, though I kept silent on the roles Mrs. Dale and Lady Clifford had played in the necklace’s loss. After all, they’d only disposed of an inexpensive copy.
I had no way of knowing whether de la Fontaine would act against Denis or end up bargaining with him. Or perhaps drop the matter altogether.
I somehow did not think he’d choose the last recourse, and I was correct. Several days later, Sir Montague replied to me, saying that he’d spoken to de la Fontaine, but that de la Fontaine had not wanted to prosecute either Denis or Lord Clifford.
I received a letter from de la Fontaine himself soon after that. In it he thanked me for my assistance, told me that the necklace had been returned to him, and made a vague suggestion that perhaps we might share fine brandy again one day. Nothing more. Not until months later did I see his son-in-law stand for Parliament and be elected by a landslide. James Denis had won again.
For now, I was finished with the business. I tied the last two threads of the affair the day after I received de la Fontaine’s letter. The first came in the form of a note from Lady Breckenridge, calling in her favor and bidding me to attend her at her home.
Chapter 10
Such a delight,” Lady Breckenridge said. “Captain Lacey answers a summons. I hear from Grenville that you do not always comply.”
She’d received me in her sitting room, she wearing a deep blue afternoon dress, its décolletage trimmed with light blue ribbon woven through the darker cloth. The ribbon matched the bandeau in her hair and brought out the blue of her eyes.
She did not invite me to sit down. We stood near the fireplace, the heat from the coals soaking into my bones. I leaned on the walking stick she’d given me, its handle warm under my palm.
“I can be abominably rude at times,” I said.
Lady Breckenridge shrugged, her shrugs as smooth and practiced as Denis’s own. “You do not rush to obey those who seek to command you. Your independence makes people puzzle over you.”
I gave her a wry smile. “They puzzle over why a poor nobody does not hasten to snatch from every hand.”
“Your behavior does give others something to talk about, Lacey.”
“Including you, my lady.”
Her gaze went cool. “I admit to the curiosity, but I choose very carefully to whom I speak about what.”
I believed her. “I beg your pardon,” I said. “I was teasing and meant no censure. You have invited me here to call in your favor. Perhaps you should tell me what it is.”
She smiled. “Have done with it, you mean? I can imagine you wondering like mad what I would ask of you as you rode over from Covent Garden. But you may cease worrying. The task is very simple. I wish for you to meet my son.”
I blinked in surprise. I’d never met Lady Breckenridge’s son, who would be about five by now. The young Viscount Breckenridge stayed with his grandmother in the country much of the time, so I had been told, tucked away with nannies and tutors and other caretakers.
Lady Breckenridge seldom spoke of the boy, but observing her now, I realized that her silence was not because she had no affection for him. I saw in her the same thing I’d seen in Marianne during the Sudbury School problem—a woman who loved desperately and protected fiercely.
I gave her another half bow. “I would be honored, my lady.”
“Very well, then.” She turned from me in a brush of faint perfume and tugged on a bell pull. When the ever-efficient Barnstable glided in, she said, “Tell Nanny to bring Peter downstairs.”
“You mean you wish me to meet him now?” I asked. “He is here?”
Barnstable had already disappeared to carry out his lady’s wishes. “Before you can change your mind,” she said. “Shall we?”
She slid her hand into the crook of my arm and more or less forced me to guide her out of the room.
The staircase hall of Lady Breckenridge’s house was plastered in pale colors, with niches holding vases of hothouse flowers. Paintings from centuries past hung on the walls—originals, not copies. Wide stairs with a polished railing ran up into the dim recesses of the house.
I heard a door shut high above us. In a few moments, two people came down the stairs: a tall, slender woman in neat black, and a small lad for whom the black-clad nanny slowed her steps.
The boy’s suit was a miniature of what Grenville would wear, down to the pantaloons and well-shined pumps. However, Viscount Breckenridge would never attain Grenville’s taut slimness. He had a sturdiness that spoke of developing muscle, and in a dozen or so years, he would attain the large, powerful build of his father.
The lad stopped a few stairs above me and stared with undisguised curiosity. I was in my regimentals, my braid neatly fastened, my unruly hair somewhat tamed, my boots as polished as Bartholomew could make them. I saw the lad take note of my height, the breadth of my shoulders, my bearing, my uniform.
“This is Peter,” Lady Breckenridge said, a note of pride in her voice. “Peter, this is Captain Lacey, my friend I have mentioned.”
Peter was inclined to do nothing but stare, but at a surreptitious nudge from his nanny, he bowed correctly. “How do you do?” he asked.
He was far too polite for a lad of five. He ought to be tearing up and down the stairs and shouting at the top of his voice. But perhaps he’d been persuaded to be on his best behavior for me—either that or I’d stunned the lad.
I made a formal bow. “How do you do, Your Lordship.”
I’d never been one to seek the company of children, except for my daughter, but I decided that a brief smile was called for. Young Viscount Breckenridge grinned back at me then quickly hid it.
A pang bit my heart. My daughter and I had exchanged such covert smiles when we were supposed to be formal and serious, knowing we’d both be scolded if caught. I missed her with an ache that had never subsided.
“Do you ride?” I found myself asking the boy.
“Yes, sir.” The small voice held a scoff, as though I were an idiot for asking. He was a lordship after all, born to horse and hound.
“Perhaps your mother will allow you to ride with me in the park sometime. I have some modest skill.”
“Will you show me how to ride like a cavalryman?” The scorn vanished, and Peter sounded like a normal, eager boy.
I glanced at Lady Breckenridge, but she looked in no way dismayed. She went to Peter and took his hands. “If you are good, darling. Now give me a kiss good night.”
Peter obeyed, and I was pleased to see that he kissed his mother with affection. There was no strain between Lady Breckenridge and her son.
Introductions over, Peter was taken his slow way back upstairs with nanny. He glanced back down at me over the banisters but did nothing so undignified as wave. I gave him another friendly nod, and he continued climbing, seeking his nursery once more.
I turned to Lady Breckenridge. “Have I fulfilled my obligation?”
The smile she gave me eased some of the hurt in my heart, enough to make me believe that the pain could be assuaged a bit were I often enough in her presence.
“Excellently well, Captain,” Lady Breckenridge said. She touched my arm again, her fingers warm.
I dared lift her hand to my lips. “I am pleased to hear it, my lady,” I said.<
br />
The last thread of the necklace affair was tied when I accepted Grenville’s invitation to dine at Watier’s that night. Watier’s, famous for food provided by chefs of the Prince Regent, offered the deepest gaming in London. Games of macao and whist relieved gentlemen of their fortunes in one room, while the dining room provided excellent cuisine with which to ease the sting.
Grenville was in full dress that evening, which meant that he wore a suit so tailored to his figure that he might have been poured into it. Pantaloons that emphasized his muscular calves were buttoned at the ankle above fine leather pumps. His quizzing glass hung on a fine gold chain, ever ready for scrutinizing the gauche.
After we’d finished our excellent meal and looked in on the games room, I was dismayed to see Lord Clifford making so bold as to approach us. A few of the dandies looked up with interest when Clifford walked to Grenville and put a hand on his shoulder.
Grenville glanced disdainfully at the large hand on his immaculate frock coat, but Clifford did not notice the censure. He let go only after he’d turned Grenville away from the crowd.
“I want to thank you, Grenville,” Lord Clifford said.
“Do you?” Grenville’s voice was icy. “Whatever for?”
“For agreeing to stay out of my business. Decent of you.”
I suppressed my sudden urge to punch the man, but this time it was Grenville who took retribution. He stepped back one pace, lifted his quizzing glass, and studied Clifford through it.
“Let me see,” Grenville said. “You stole an extremely valuable necklace from a wretched French émigré who was trying to remove his family from the dangers of France. A necklace you later sold—probably for a fraction of its worth—to cover your debts, whatever they were, giving your wife a copy so she wouldn’t guess what you’d done. Then, when the false necklace goes missing and Lady Clifford seeks our help, you harass and browbeat her so much that she attempts to take her own life. All the while betraying her with her closest friend and companion, the only comfort she has. I’d say there was not much decent in the entire business.”
Clifford flushed. “I told you, Grenville, what goes on in a man’s household has nothing to do with you.”
“Oh, but it has. Your wife reached out to me and Captain Lacey, because she had nowhere else to turn. And you may be correct that your household is your business, but the fact remains that you stole the diamonds from de la Fontaine in the first place. Not very sporting of you. In fact, one might call that a crime.”
“Fontaine was hated among the French,” Clifford said. “They’d applaud me.”
“Ah, you are a latter-day Robin Hood, stealing from the corrupt rich to give to the . . . well, to yourself. And then to sell them and drape your wife in paste diamonds. Dear me.” Grenville shook his head.
We had the attention of much of the room. Though we spoke in low voices, Grenville’s attitude of derision spoke volumes.
“I had to sell them,” Clifford said. “I’d promised Derwent a large sum for his damned reforms and then had some bad luck at games. I sold the necklace to pay my debts and not leave Derwent standing. Would have made me a laughingstock. Nothing else to be done.”
“You might have explained to your wife,” I said. “You ought to have trusted her with the truth.”
“Damn it, Lacey, you’ve met my wife. You know what she is. She would never be able to keep her damn fool mouth shut. She’d blab all to her blasted companion, upon whom she’s much too dependent. A wife should know who is master, after all.”
So, he’d taken Mrs. Dale to his bed to keep Lady Clifford under his thumb. A man who ruled his household by manipulation, lies, and fear. How was he better than a French aristocrat who’d made a hundred peasants labor for him?
He wasn’t. De la Fontaine had risked all and given up everything to take his children out of danger. Even after it had been safe for him to return home, de la Fontaine had stayed in his reduced circumstances to be with his one remaining child and his grandchildren.
Grenville’s look turned to one of unfeigned disgust. He sniffed, lowered his quizzing glass, adjusted his gloves, and said, “I believe, Lord Clifford, that I will have to disapprove of you.”
“What the devil does that mean? Why should I care whether you approve or disapprove of anything I do?”
Lord Clifford did not realize his danger, but I knew quite well what Grenville meant. Clifford might be an earl, but such was the power of Lucius Grenville in the fashionable world that if he wanted a man to be cut, that man would be cut. One can be an earl, I could imagine Lady Breckenridge saying in her clear, acerbic tones, and still be invited nowhere.
Grenville did not wait. There, in the very crowded gaming rooms of Watier’s, with one movement of his slim shoulders, with one spin on his immaculate heels, Grenville turned his back on Lord Clifford, and ruined him.
End
Author’s Note
I hope you enjoyed The Necklace Affair, a shorter adventure in Captain Lacey’s saga. This novella started off as a short story, written to keep myself entertained (and sane) while I waited eight hours in a jury room to see whether I’d be called (I was not). The story remained unpublished, forgotten in a file on my computers for years. When I began republishing the Captain Lacey series, I found it, rewrote it as a longer novella, and fit it between The Sudbury School Murders and A Body in Berkeley Square.
If you are new to Captain Lacey, it’s best to start with Book 1, The Hanover Square Affair, as the Captain’s story progresses with the series. The E-book of Hanover Square Affair is free at all vendors.
Visit my website www.gardnermysteries.com for links to the Hanover Square Affair and for more information on the series. There you can also subscribe to my newsletter, which is sent out to announce new book releases.
Thank you again!
Best wishes,
Ashley Gardner
Also by Ashley Gardner and Jennifer Ashley
Leonidas the Gladiator Mysteries
(writing as Ashley Gardner)
Blood Debts
(More to come)
Kat Holloway “Below Stairs” Victorian Mysteries Series
(writing as Jennifer Ashley)
A Soupçon of Poison
Death Below Stairs
Scandal Above Stairs
Captain Lacey Regency Mystery Series
(writing as Ashley Gardner)
The Hanover Square Affair
A Regimental Murder
The Glass House
The Sudbury School Murders
The Necklace Affair
(in print in
The Necklace Affair and Other Stories)
A Body in Berkeley Square
A Covent Garden Mystery
A Death in Norfolk
A Disappearance in Drury Lane
Murder in Grosvenor Square
The Thames River Murders
The Alexandria Affair
A Mystery at Carlton House
Murder in St. Giles
The Gentleman’s Walking Stick
(short stories: in print in
The Necklace Affair and Other Stories)
Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries, Vol 1
Includes
The Hanover Square Affair
A Regimental Murder
The Glass House
The Gentleman’s Walking Stick
(short story collection)
Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries, Vol 2
Includes
The Sudbury School Murders
The Necklace Affair
A Body in Berkeley Square
A Covent Garden Mystery
Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries, Vol 3
Includes
A Death in Norfolk
A Disappearance in Drury Lane
Murder in Grosvenor Square
Anthologies
Murder Most Historical
Past Crimes
About the Author
Award-winning Ashley Gard
ner is a pseudonym for New York Times bestselling author Jennifer Ashley. Under both names—and a third, Allyson James—Ashley has written more than 85 published novels and novellas in mystery and romance. Her books have won several RT BookReviews Reviewers Choice awards (including Best Historical Mystery for The Sudbury School Murders), and Romance Writers of America's RITA (given for the best romance novels and novellas of the year). Ashley's books have been translated into more than a dozen different languages and have earned starred reviews in Booklist. When she isn’t writing, she indulges her love for history by researching and building miniature houses and furniture from many periods.
More about Ashley Gardner’s mysteries can be found at the website: www.gardnermysteries.com. Stay up to date on new releases by joining her email alerts here: http://eepurl.com/5n7rz
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Copyright
A Soupçon of Poison
Copyright © 2015 by Jennifer Ashley / Ashley Gardner
Blood Debts
Copyright © 2017 by Jennifer Ashley / Ashley Gardner
The Necklace Affair
Copyright © 2011 by Jennifer Ashley / Ashley Gardner
These stories are works of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of these stories or this collection may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Past Crimes: A Compendium of Historical Mysteries Page 29
