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

by Ashley Gardner

  “The constable will want to speak to you before you go.”

  “Well, I don’t want to speak to him. Here I am in this kitchen all the day long, cooking dainties to please the master’s delicate appetite. The dishes I created for him and him alone. He would come down those stairs some nights and thank me, smiling so friendly-like, and take my hand . . .” She stopped. “And now there’s rioting outside the house one day, and murder inside the next.” She picked up the bag, which clanked. “I’ll have no more of it. Good evening to you, sir.”

  She marched past me, lips firm, head high, and out through the scullery. After a moment, I saw her climb the steps outside, gray skirt swirling to reveal shapely ankles and stout shoes.

  I knew I ought to go after her, to escort her somewhere safely at least. A young woman walking alone, no matter how robust, in London, had much to fear. But somehow I sensed that any would-be assailant would get the worse end of the bargain in an encounter with her tonight.

  No, I left her, I left Bremer sobbing in the servants’ hall under the onslaught of Pomeroy’s questioning, and I left that house.

  Outside, fog rolled over me, thick and clammy, but I inhaled as if I stood in a fragrant spring night of Portugal. I leaned against the railings and let the rain beat on me, and was still there when Alice came, worry and relief on her work-worn face, to take Aimee home.

  *** *** ***

  Grenville’s carriage stood at the head of Grimpen Lane when I arrived home, coach lights throwing a sickly yellow swirl into the fog and rain. Despite the weather, my neighbors had turned out to ogle it and the fine horses that pulled it, but the sight did nothing to relieve my temper.

  Grenville sat in the same worn wing chair Louisa had occupied the night before, with something crumbly and bready in his hands. He had stoked the fire high and the room hung with heat.

  “Ah, Lacey,” he said as I entered. “Your Mrs. Beltan does a fine crumpet. I’d have her supply my house entirely, but my chef would never speak to me again. Thinks he’s a genius with pastry.” He peered at me. “Good Lord, Lacey, what happened?”

  I was soaked through, and my face must have been grim as an undertaker’s. I moved to my bedroom and began peeling off my clothes.

  I heard Grenville rise and follow me. “Are you all right?”

  “Ask Mrs. Beltan to bring me some hot water,” I said and slammed the door in his face.

  Chapter Nine

  I soaked in the steaming water for half an hour as the heat slowly leached into me. I heard Grenville and Mrs. Beltan in my front room, discussing me.

  “He gets like this sometimes,” she confided. “Won’t speak to a soul. I’ve seen him take to his bed two days at a time, and not even look at me when I come to see if he’s all right. Melancholia, they call it.”

  “What do you do?”

  “Nothing, sir. I make sure he’s well and leave him be. He comes out of it on his own and goes on right as rain.”

  I let them talk, although I could have told Mrs. Beltan that my mood did not stem from melancholia. Rather, I wanted to wash the evil of number 22, Hanover Square from my skin.

  I knew evil existed in the world. I had seen men, fire in their eyes, thrust bayonets through other men they did not even know. I had seen scavengers swarm battlefields to take everything from the fallen, even the coats on their backs. I’d seen such a scavenger put a gun to the head of a soldier, who might have lived with a small amount of help, and pull the trigger, all so that the murderer might steal his boots. But never had I felt the clinging, clammy evil of Horne’s household, the gruesome secrets that hid behind a mask of respectability. At least the evils of war had been committed in the open.

  The gray shadows of my bedchamber chased each other over the carved posts of my bed as the day died and the water warmed me. The wooden flowers and leaves became eyes and mouths, open and round.

  I rose from the bath, dried myself, and dressed. Grenville was alone again when I emerged.

  “Horne is dead,” I said before he could speak. “Someone murdered him.”

  Grenville stared at me in open-mouthed astonishment. “Good God. You didn’t—Lacey, you didn’t—kill him yourself, did you?”

  “No. I only wanted to.”

  I told him everything. We sat in the darkening room, the firelight’s shadows on the curved beams rendering the room a cavern of hell. I hadn’t wanted to talk about Horne’s murder at all, but the words came out of me, forced out as though another entity moved my mouth.

  “No wonder you looked like you’d been wrestling the devil,” Grenville said when I’d finished. “Did Pomeroy make an arrest?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t ask him.”

  “What about Aimee? Did she hear anything when she was inside the wardrobe?”

  I sighed, suddenly tired. “I didn’t ask her. I wanted to leave her alone. I’m rather more interested in the fate of Jane Thornton than with Horne’s murderer.”

  Grenville touched his fingertips together. “They might be connected. You say Denis visited that day?”

  “According to the maid.”

  “Odd, because he rarely visits anyone. One goes to him. Only with his permission.”

  I shrugged, not caring very much.

  “A puzzle,” Grenville said. “What about the butler—Bremer? Perhaps he had grown disgusted with his master and decided to stick a knife into him.”

  “I would swear his shock when we found the body was genuine. But any of them had time and opportunity to murder him. With only five of them to look after so large a house, each of them would have been alone for some stretch of time during the day. I didn’t speak to the valet, because it was his day out.”

  Grenville pursed his lips. “Perhaps he returned, killed Horne, and left again.”

  “I suppose he must have a key. I imagine Pomeroy has asked questions about him. He’s usually thorough.”

  Ploddingly, ruthlessly so. Pomeroy had hounded more than one poor soul to the gallows—guilty and innocent alike.

  “What about the other maid? Grace?”

  “I didn’t speak to her either. The cook had sent her off.”

  He started to say something more, then stopped and stared at me. “I sense a lack of interest in you, Lacey. Or perhaps you believe Horne deserved what he got.”

  “No one deserves what was done to him.”

  “You say that out loud. But do you feel it in your heart?”

  I did not answer.

  Grenville tapped the arm of the chair. “Well, I’ll not press you. The reason I presumed to call on you today is because I received an answer to one of your advertisements.” He reached into his pocket and plucked out a letter.

  I came alert. We had agreed that inquiries should be sent to the newspaper itself, but I had been too stunned by Horne’s death and finding Aimee to stop for the letters tonight. “Someone has found Jane Thornton?”

  “I don’t know. The letter is from a man called Beauchamp, who lives in Hampstead. He saw the notices and the advertisement, and wrote to say a young lady from his household had also disappeared in mysterious circumstances.”

  I sat back. “Which may have nothing to do with Jane.”

  “Possibly not. But I would like to look into it. It seems a cousin of his wife’s came to live with them a year ago. Her family is from Somerset. When her parents died, she had no living relatives but the Beauchamps, and she went to Hampstead to live with them. About two months ago, she left the house and never returned.”

  “About the same time Jane Thornton disappeared.”

  “Exactly. The two incidents may not be connected, but then again, they might. This young woman, Charlotte Morrison, is about ten years older than Jane.”

  “Denis might have procured her as well.”

  Grenville threw me a look. “Might, Lacey. Might. We should gather facts. Are you well enough to go to Hampstead with me?”

  I did not have the energy to light a candle, let alone be dragged to Hampstead
. But Grenville was ready to run there himself and probably frighten the life out of the worried family. “You don’t have to go. I can call on them alone.”

  “I’d rather go. I am damned curious. Or do you think they’d be intimidated to have Lucius Grenville pay them a visit?”

  I snorted. “They have probably never heard of you.”

  Grenville looked affronted, then he smiled. “Touché. You pay the call, and I’ll follow along as an anonymous gentleman.”

  I studied the fire, not answering. Grenville waited, and I sensed his impatience. I looked up to find his dark eyes upon me and something in them that had lost friendliness.

  “Very well,” I said. “Let us journey to Hampstead.”

  *** *** ***

  After Grenville left me, I let the fire die down. He’d stoked it with at least a week’s supply of coal, with the zeal of a man who never had to think about the cost of fuel.

  I sat in the wing chair he’d vacated and let my hands fall limply over the sides. I sensed melancholia, black, menacing, and watching, start to creep over me. I closed my eyes and willed it away. When it struck me, it often laid me abed for days, rendering me unable to move or eat. But I needed all my faculties at the moment. Jane Thornton was still missing, perhaps in danger, and I wanted to find her. I could give in to despair after that.

  The murderer had cheated me out of throttling the whereabouts of Jane from Horne’s throat. But the butler, Bremer, must know, or Grace, the maid. They were the only ones allowed to wait on the two girls, and a man could hardly spirit away one young woman and hide another without the help of his butler, valet, or coachman.

  Pomeroy would bully most of the information out of Bremer, but I still wanted a go at the spindly butler. Pomeroy would not know the right questions to ask. I’d lost my temper today, but I’d get Bremer in my hands again and interrogate him coldly. He had to know something.

  The valet was another matter. I would wait until Pomeroy tracked down the valet—which he would—then ask the man pointed questions. Grenville was right when he’d commented that the valet could very well have let himself into the house, slain his master, then let himself out again, without the other servants seeing him. He’d know who was likely to be where in the house, and perhaps he had been disgusted by Horne’s proclivities. Or perhaps he’d been jealous and wanted Jane or Aimee for himself. Or perhaps the murder had nothing to do with Jane and Aimee whatsoever.

  Someone knocked on my door, making my head throb with each rap. Only one person would think to pound on my door so late.

  I called out, “Go away, Marianne. I don’t have any candles to spare.”

  This was met with silence. Usually Marianne would make foul remarks about my stinginess and enter anyway.

  The knock did not sound again. I supposed I should rise and see whether anyone stood on the stairs beyond the door, but I did not have the strength.

  The handle moved, and the door swung open. Janet Clarke stood on my threshold.

  The strength returned to my limbs in a rush. I was out of the chair and halfway across the room before she could step inside.

  She smiled at me. “Hello, my dear old lad.”

  Chapter Ten

  I caught Janet’s hands and more or less dragged her inside. She drew a breath to speak, but I gathered her against me and held her in a crushing embrace. I had no idea whether she’d come to speak to me, or to say good-bye, or to talk over old times, but for that instant I needed her as she was, needed her to take me to the past where I’d been, for a brief moment, happy.

  Janet raised her face from my shoulder. Her hair was mussed and her cheeks were flushed, but she still smiled. “That happy to see me, are you?”

  I said hoarsely, “Yes.”

  She straightened the lapels of my coat. “Then I am glad I asked Mrs. Brandon for your direction. She was very gracious.”

  I smoothed Janet’s hair. I had no right at all to hold her like this, to touch her, but I somehow could not let go. “Mrs. Brandon is always gracious.”

  “She told me about your injury. It hurts you, does it not?”

  “The break never healed properly, but if I take care, it doesn’t pain me too much.”

  Janet slid from my grasp and took a step back, looking at me with a critical eye. “I don’t mean that. I was remembering the night I took ill and nothing would comfort me but coffee. You searched all over camp for some, and it was raining so hard I thought the sky would come down. You sprinted through the rain, holding that packet of coffee under your coat as though it were the most precious gold. I’ve never seen a man run so fast in all my life. But you did it, and you laughed. Someone took that liveliness away from you.” She touched the hair at my temple. “Nor was this gray here when we parted.”

  “I was not an old man then.”

  Janet sat down on one of my straight-backed chairs, lacing her fingers. “You’d had better start telling me that story, if it’s so long.”

  I sat in the chair facing hers. I stared at the flames on my hearth for a few moments, while I decided what to tell her.

  In the end, most of it came out of me. I told her of the cold morning that Brandon and I had met each other with pistols drawn, until Louisa and several other officers from our regiment had persuaded us to settle our differences and shake hands. I’d thought the matter finished with, even if the topic of our falling out remained uncomfortable, and then had come Brandon’s betrayal. I told her of the mission he’d sent me on, never meaning for me to return, glossing over our decision to leave the army behind to avoid disgracing ourselves, Louisa, or the regiment.

  When I’d finished, I sat silently, as bereft as I’d been the day I’d left Spain to return to England. I made to smooth my damp hair and saw that my fingers trembled.

  Janet reached across the space between us and caught my hand. “And what do you do now?”

  I smiled. “Very little.”

  “Colonel Brandon ought to help you. He ought to find you a proper job.”

  I shrugged. “He tries hard to pretend nothing ever happened.”

  Her eyes glowed with anger. “You always told me how he was like a father to you, or a brother. Your years together should count for something.”

  “It is difficult for some to acknowledge a mistake.”

  Her face softened. “Oh, Gabriel. And you love him enough to let him do it.”

  She was wrong. I hated him. He had taken things from me, and I would not easily forgive him.

  My anger must have shown on my face, because Janet squeezed my hand. “I’ll not press you. You were always one for not knowing your own heart.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  Her brown eyes twinkled. “No, my lad, I do not. You have honor and duty and love all mixed up in that head of yours. That’s why I’m so fond of you.”

  I leaned forward and touched her face. “And I am fond of you, because you are not afraid of the truth.”

  “I am sometimes. Everyone is.”

  We shared a look. A thump sounded upstairs, as though Marianne had dropped something to the floor. A few flakes of plaster wisped down and settled on Janet’s hair.

  “You have not told me your story,” I said. “What happened to you after I sent you off with my smitten lieutenant?”

  She smiled. “Your smitten lieutenant was a perfect gentleman. He only made three or four propositions and took it well when I turned him down.”

  “Poor fellow.”

  “Not a bit. We parted as friends when we reached England. I went to Cambridge and stayed with my sister until we buried her.” She hesitated. “I met a gentleman there.”

  “Mr. Clarke,” I said.

  “He was my sister’s neighbor. A kindly man. He succumbed to influenza three years gone now.”

  I suddenly felt shame for wallowing in my own self-pity, and pure compassion for her. Janet ever found herself alone. “I am sorry.”

  Her eyes softened. “He was kind to me to the end. He left enough f
or me to get by. And I have friends.”

  “Like Sergeant-major Foster?”

  “I speak to him from time to time. He frequents a public house near the Haymarket, where I buy my ale.”

  “He is a good man,” I said. “And a good sergeant.”

  The room went silent. Wind groaned in my chimney, and upstairs, Marianne dropped something else.

  Janet rose and came to me. Her cotton gown smelled of soap and clean things. “I remember the first time I saw you. You were ready to murder those soldiers for playing cards for me.”

  “They had no right to.”

  “You had no right to break up the game before I found out who won.”

  I chuckled. She leaned down and brushed my lips with hers.

  I put my arms around her waist. My mouth remembered hers, my hands remembered her body, and we came together as though the seven years between this kiss and our last had only been seven days.

  I took her to my cold bedroom and stoked the fire there, putting to flight my plan of conserving the rest of that week’s coal. We sat on the bed and touched and kissed each other, our hands and mouths discovering again what we had once known so well. I eased the hooks of her dress and chemise apart and slid my hands to her bare torso. She nuzzled my cheek, and my desire stirred, pressing aside my darkness.

  Not long later, we lay tangled together in the firelight that spilled across the bed, the heat warming our skin. My senses embraced her—the smell of her hair, the sound of her breathing, the press of her body, the remembered taste of her mouth. I hadn’t known how much I needed her. I lay for a long time in her arms, managing to at last find a small bit of peace in that stark bedroom in the April night.

  *** *** ***

  The Beauchamps occupied a small house in a lane not far from Hampstead Heath, in a quiet turning with brick houses and tiny gardens. The afternoon sky was leaden as we approached, but a steady breeze kept mists from forming.

  The sweet sounds of a pianoforte drifted from the right-hand window as Grenville and I approached and cut off when I plied the knocker to the black-painted door. A middle-aged man in butler’s kit opened the door and stared at me inquiringly. I gave him my card.