The Hanover Square Affair (Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries Book 1)

by Ashley Gardner

  “I think it excellent news, Sergeant-major.”

  “When I’m all settled in, I’ll send word, and we’ll have a nice long talk over old times.”

  “I’d like that.”

  My mouth spoke the expected responses, but my thoughts, and eyes, were on Janet. She looked back at me, her smile pulling me to her and telling me all I needed to know.

  “We’ll let the captain get on now, Mrs. Clarke,” the sergeant-major was saying. He saluted again, stiff and exact. “Good night, then, sir.”

  I saluted back. “Good night, Sergeant-major. Mrs. Clarke.” I wondered who the devil Mr. Clarke was, but that question would have to wait.

  Janet took my offered hand, and the brief, warm pressure sent a slight tremor through me. I realized then that although I’d sent Janet away all those years ago, I’d never truly let her go.

  They said their good-byes and walked on together. My feet led me the other way, toward Long Acre. After I’d gone perhaps ten paces, I stopped and looked back. Janet walked beside Foster, equal to the small man’s height. She turned her head and looked back at me.

  She’d always been able to tell what was in my heart. I imagined, as our gazes locked, that she could tell what beat there now.

  At last she turned away, and I walked on, but the world had changed.

  *** *** ***

  “Gossip is flying about you, my friend,” Lucius Grenville said as his butler silently presented me a goblet of French brandy. I thanked him and sipped the fine liquid, my eyes closing briefly in appreciation.

  We reposed in the upstairs sitting room of Grenville’s Grosvenor Street house. The façade of the house was simple, almost austere, in the style of the Adam brothers from the later years of the last century. The inside, however, was lavishly furnished. This room in particular showcased items from Grenville’s travels: carpets from the Orient piled the floor, a silk tent hung overhead. Ivory and bits of Egyptian jewelry filled a curio shelf near the door, and a gold mask of some ancient Egyptian adorned the fireplace mantel. Furniture ranged from a Turkish couch to mundane straight-backed chairs set at random around the room. Real wax candles, dozens of them, brightened the gloom and softened the colors around us.

  I recalled the faux Egyptian room in Horne’s house and wondered if the man had tried to emulate this chamber, though it was unlikely he’d ever seen it in person. If he’d meant to imitate, he’d fallen far short of the mark.

  Grenville himself was a slim man a few years younger than I, with dark hair that curled over his collar and sideburns that drew to a point just below his high cheekbones. His eyes were black in his sharp face, his nose long and sloping. He could not be called a handsome man, but there were hordes of women, respectable matrons and Cyprians alike, willing to forgive him for it.

  In that morning’s post, I had found a letter from Grenville, informing me that his carriage would call for me at eleven o’clock to carry me to his home. I was torn between annoyance and relief. He’d solved the problem of my seeking him by him seeking me, but his abrupt habit of summoning me whenever he wished to see me grated on my pride.

  Horne had also written me that he’d had an answer from Mr. Denis, and would I call at number 22 that afternoon at five o’clock? I replied, answering in the affirmative.

  I’d bathed and breakfasted and thought about Janet Clarke, who’d once been Janet Ingram.

  Janet had been the widow of a young infantryman, left on her own very young, without money or protection. One night I discovered a card game in progress among my men—the winner would take Janet home with him. When I broke it up, she grew angry and demanded to know where I thought she was to sleep that night, if I were so clever. I said I supposed she could stay with me. Which she did, for six months.

  She never spoke much about her past, although she did tell me she’d been born in a village on the east coast of England, near Ipswich. She’d had little to look forward to, she said, except backbreaking work on a farm or being pawed at by the local lads. When young Ingram had passed through her village, boasting that he was taking the King’s shilling and going off to chase the Frenchies out of Portugal, Janet had seized a chance to escape her narrow life, and left with him.

  Life following the drum was hard for a woman, as I well knew, but many of them, like Louisa Brandon, developed a resilience that any general would envy. They suffered loss and deprivation and hunger and exhaustion, and every battle, successful or not, brought much death. Wives so easily became widows; many more than once.

  Janet herself had developed enough resilience to survive her husband’s death and declare she would become the wife or mistress of whoever won the card game. My men were annoyed with me for taking her for myself, but I ever after rejoiced that I had. During those six months I was more alive than I had been in the decade before or the years since.

  We never spoke of love, or later. During the war in Spain and Portugal, you had only now, because tomorrow, a battle or a French sniper could change your life forever. When Janet received word that her sister was dying, I’d sent her home, knowing she would not come back. We did not promise to write, or to meet again, or to wait. Time had passed, but she was still beautiful. Still Janet.

  Grenville held up his forefinger, which was encircled with a diamond-encrusted ring. “First, you escort Mrs. Brandon to the opera, while her husband is conspicuously absent.”

  I said, “Any slander regarding Mrs. Brandon will be silenced at the end of my pistol.”

  Grenville grinned and shook his head. “Your honor, and Mrs. Brandon’s, seems to be unquestionable. Though the most malicious tried valiantly to make something of it, that story was quashed.”

  He lifted his second finger alongside the first. “Second, you are putting up notices about a young woman I have never heard of, which means you are involved in something interesting.”

  “That is almost close to the truth.”

  Grenville raised the next finger. “Third, you single-handedly threw a dozen cavalrymen out of Hanover Square yesterday, where they were making a nuisance of themselves. Lieutenant Gale is fuming.”

  “Five,” I said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  I took another sip of brandy. “I threw only five cavalrymen out of Hanover Square.”

  Chapter Six

  Grenville half smiled at me, as though he thought me joking. He wore monochrome colors today, his black and white suit as understated as the exterior of his house. A ruby stick pin adorned his white cravat like a drop of blood.

  As I continued to sip brandy, his eyes widened. “Good Lord, Lacey, you are serious. You astonish me.”

  I settled myself on his Turkish divan, stretching my left leg to ease the ache in it. “Is that why you asked me to call on you? To discover which rumors were true?”

  “Only in part. The other was to get your opinion on this brandy.” He held up his glass, showing amber depths glowing behind crystal facets.

  “It is truly remarkable,” I conceded. “An excellent choice.”

  “I enjoy giving you food and drink, Lacey. You do not wait to discern what I want you to say before pronouncing judgment. If something truly disgusts you, you do not hesitate to declare it so. I appreciate your honesty.”

  “And I thought I was only being rude,” I said. “I went to view Ormondsly’s new painting last night. I was surprised you did not attend.”

  “Were you?” Grenville leaned against the mantelpiece, crossing one polished boot over the other. “What did you think of the painting?”

  I had barely noticed the damned thing. My attention had been distracted by watching for Grenville, trying to keep up my part of the conversation, and staring at the lovely Mrs. Danbury. I shrugged. “It was . . .”

  He gestured, diamond rings glinting. “Exactly. Ormondsly is young and talented, but unperfected. In a few years’ time, he will amount to something—if he does not murder himself with his opium eating before then. If I praise his painting now, artists of more merit
will be undeservedly ignored; if I slight his work or give it lukewarm praise, his career will be over before it begins. Best to pretend I regretted I hadn’t the opportunity to view the work. I will see it in private, with him there, and tell him what I truly think.”

  He took a sip of brandy, finished with his lecture.

  I said dryly, “It must be difficult to have such power.”

  For a bare instant, anger sparkled in his dark eyes, and I wondered if I’d gone too far. He’d summon his large footmen to toss me out, and I hadn’t had the chance to finish this excellent brandy.

  Then his good humor returned. “Society does put a value on my opinions that is far higher than it is worth. To save having to think up their own opinions, I imagine.”

  I took a sip of the precious brandy in relief. “In truth, it is your opinion I am seeking at this moment.”

  “Not about that painting, surely.”

  “No. I want to know about a gentleman who lives in Hanover Square.”

  Grenville gave me an inquisitive look, and I saw a gleam of interest in his eye. I told him the tale, stopping here and there to wet my mouth with the brandy.

  During the story, Grenville frowned into the depths of his glass, then, when I related Horne’s mention of Denis and my speculations that Denis was a procurer, he sat down abruptly on one of the straight-backed chairs.

  When I’d finished, Grenville said, “My apologies, Lacey. I was eager for gossip and had no idea you’d been involved in something so tragic.”

  “No matter. What do you know about Josiah Horne? The Thornton family, including Alice, believe Horne abducted Jane. Is it possible?”

  Grenville rolled his glass between his palms. “I’ve never heard anything against the man. Horne is an MP for Sussex. He’s a widower who lives quietly, and as far as I know never raises a ruckus in Parliament. Not a political hothead. I rarely see him at social gatherings, and I can’t name one person who truly knows him well.” He sipped brandy. “You say he did not recognize Jane Thornton’s name?”

  “I would swear that he’d never heard of her. But maybe he knows her by another name.”

  “Or he could be telling the truth.”

  “But Mr. Thornton and Alice saw Jane go into the house.”

  “They may have mistaken the house,” Grenville pointed out. “Or Horne may not have known she’d come there at all. Perhaps her meeting was with someone else—the butler, the valet, the maid you saw.”

  “Why are you trying to absolve him? He may have abducted the girl and ruined her. If she is not still with him, she will have nowhere to go but into a brothel or the streets.”

  Grenville lifted his hand. “Calm yourself, Lacey. I am merely pointing out possibilities. I know you disliked the man, and I cannot blame you for that if what you say is true. But before sending in the magistrate, you should first discover if he ever truly saw the girl at all.”

  I drummed my fingers on the table beside me. “Louisa Brandon said as much. I have an unfortunately rash temper.”

  “So I have heard. Did you know, a colonel who frequents my club told me you’d once put a pistol to the head of another colonel and demanded he rescind one of his orders.” He regarded me with curiosity, as though hoping I’d regale him with the entire story.

  “An order that would have killed all my men. I would not sacrifice them so that he might claim courage.”

  I recalled that blustery winter day on the battlefield in Portugal, when my blood had boiled hot and a cavalry colonel had wet himself because he’d thought me insane enough to pull the trigger. Fortunately, the staff officers knew of the man’s incompetence, and so I’d avoided an incident that could have wrecked my career. Watching my temper rise dismayed me—my vision would become clear and sharp, and a course of action, direct and plain, would present itself to me. Right and wrong became suddenly vivid; a complex situation would resolve into one bright point. Sometimes my rages cut right to the heart of a matter; at others, they only made things worse. Unfortunately, I could not always tell which was which.

  Grenville rose and paced to the fireplace. “Speaking of your rashness, I am going to give you a bit of advice concerning this James Denis.” He faced me. “Have nothing to do with him. Pursue Horne if you must, but leave Denis out of it.”

  I lifted my brows. “Why? Who is Denis?”

  Grenville hesitated, while shadows played on his angular face. “James Denis is a dangerous man to know. Please take my word for it.”

  He wanted me to stop asking questions, which ensured that I wanted to ask more. “If that is so, why have I never heard of him?”

  Grenville shrugged. “He lives quietly.”

  “So does Horne, you say.”

  Grenville regarded me uncomfortably, as though wanting to deny he had the information I wanted. Then he gave a resigned sigh and set his crystal glass on the mantelpiece.

  “I do not know who James Denis truly is,” he said. “His father is rumored to have been a footman and his mother a lady of quality. I’m not certain I believe that. But despite his origins, Denis is now one of the wealthiest men in England. Dukes know him. The Prince Regent has no doubt hired him; you know what a mania the Prince has for art, especially when he’s told the thing in question is impossible to acquire. I’ve asked the Prince point blank if he used Denis to find some of his collection, but he only gave me that coy look he has when he’s trying to be clever.”

  I’d never met the Prince Regent or seen him closer than from the back of a crowd that watched his coach travel down Pall Mall. The last time I’d spied his coach passing, the crowd had booed him and mud had splattered the side of his garish yellow carriage. The Regent’s daughter, Princess Charlotte, was wildly popular, but the profligate Regent was barely tolerated. Grenville had told me tales of dining at Carleton House—on one occasion the dining table had been surrounded by a sparkling trough of water, through which fish had swum. Grenville had shaken his head while relating the anecdote, his expression pained.

  “Well,” I said. “I will meet Denis soon and discover what he is for myself. Horne wrote that he’d had an answer to our request for an appointment.”

  Grenville turned swiftly, eyes wide. “No, Lacey, don’t go, not even for curiosity’s sake. Denis is dangerous. Leave him alone.”

  The directive, of course, only fueled my determination. “Explain to me what he is then. A procurer? A smuggler?”

  Grenville shook his head. “I wish I knew. The man is elusive, even to someone as bothersome as me. I know that he has procurers and smugglers dancing his bidding. He obtains things, things that might be out of reach of the ordinary person. He is able to work seeming miracles to get exactly what his, shall we say, customer, wants.” Grenville paced again. “Whenever he expresses interest in a bill or discussion in Parliament, funnily enough, the vote always seems to coincide with his interests. But I have never heard that he actually controls anyone. You never hear anything directly against Denis. He is that discreet.”

  “Discreet enough so that his customer might not know the name of the young woman abducted for him?”

  Grenville paced the length of the hearth rug then turned to me. “Lacey, I beg you, do not openly accuse James Denis of abducting Miss Thornton. You would never get out again.”

  “You speak as though you know him well. Does he have the honor of your acquaintance?”

  Grenville colored. “No. I was a—customer—once.”

  The candle beside me guttered and died in a spattering of wax. “Were you, indeed? This sounds interesting.”

  “Yes. And, like you, I want to know all about a person before I commit myself. I made it my business to find out about Denis, and I did not like what I found.”

  “Yet, you hired him.”

  Grenville tapped his heel against a pattern of the rug. “I had no choice. I wanted a particular painting that was in France during the war. In Bonaparte’s personal collection, as a matter of fact. It belonged to an exiled French aristocrat, pa
inted for him specially, he told me, and the man had tried everything to get it back.” Grenville continued to study the carpet. “I offered to help him, and I had heard of Denis. I hired Denis to find and deliver the painting. Denis did.”

  “Damned resourceful of him. How did he manage it?”

  “I have no idea. And I never asked. The price was, as you might expect, very high.”

  For some reason, I suddenly thought of the screen that Colonel Brandon had brought home with him from Spain. Its three panels depicted scenes of the holy family, done in gold leaf and ebony. I had no idea where he’d obtained it, but it was very old, and he prized it above all possessions. Louisa told me he’d set it in his private sitting room behind his bedchamber, a room few were allowed to enter. I’d always wondered where he’d stumbled upon the thing, which looked valuable beyond compare. I wondered now if he’d obtained it from someone like Denis.

  I pried my fingers apart. “So that is why Horne intimated that you knew all about Denis.”

  Grenville shook his head. “He did not hear such a thing from Denis. Or from me. I imagine my French acquaintance flapped his tongue. It might explain why he departed so suddenly for France.” He hesitated, his dark brows lowered. “When you attend this appointment with Denis, I will accompany you.”

  I didn’t want that. Grenville would want to handle everything very discreetly, while I would prefer to take Denis by the coat and shake him until I received the information I needed. Grenville would also, as was his habit, take over the conversation. I gave him a nod, and decided I would not bother to mention the time and day of my appointment when I learned it.

  Grenville snatched up his glass and crossed the room to the brandy decanter. “You’ve piqued my interest in this situation anyway, Lacey. Raise the reward to ten guineas. I will supply it; Mrs. Brandon can save her pin money. And advertise in newspapers. If Miss Thornton has gone to another protector, that protector might believe confessing her whereabouts is worth ten guineas. My carriage, also, will be at your disposal for dashing about London questioning people.”