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

by Ashley Gardner

  I grasped his hand politely. “I apologize for the intrusion,” I said. “It is actually your valet, Marcel, that I have come to see.”

  Berring gave me a look of surprise and alarm. “Don’t tell me Mr. Grenville sent you to lure him away. I pay the fellow well—he’s a topping valet—but I could never offer him the distinguishment he’d get valeting for Mr. Grenville.”

  “Grenville is in no need of a valet that I know of. I wished to ask Marcel about his former master, Mr. Horne.”

  Berring made a face. “Nasty business, that. My footmen had to bodily evict the newspapermen all that night. Impudent fellows. What have you to do with it?”

  “I am trying to discover who killed him.”

  He raised his brows. “Why the devil? Isn’t that what the constables and Bow Street are for? Oh, do sit down, there’s a good fellow. But you must already know Horne’s butler has been arrested. Marcel told me all about it. Nothing more to discover.”

  “But I believe Bremer did not kill him. That the murderer has not been found.”

  “Good Lord.” Berring looked at his sofa cushions as though the murderer might be hiding beneath them. “Are you certain?”

  “Fairly certain,” I said. “If I can find another culprit, I can make the magistrates certain.”

  “But see here, surely you have no need to muck about in it yourself?”

  I knew what he meant. A gentleman didn’t soil his hands chasing criminals or investigating crimes.

  “I’m afraid there is no one else to muck about in it. On the day Horne died, did you happen to note anyone going or coming from his house?”

  He shook his head. “We weren’t home that day at all, which is a mercy. We’d journeyed to Windsor to visit my wife’s family. Her father has an excellent wine cellar.”

  “But you returned that night.”

  “Very late. Such a ruckus there was next door. My footman came running back to tell of the murder, and I locked my wife and daughters and myself up tight in this house, I must say.”

  “After you sent for Horne’s valet.”

  Two spots of red stained his cheeks. “Had my eye on the fellow since my own man departed to get married. Marcel’s talents were wasted on a man like Horne. I saw no reason not to set him up here at once.”

  “But he might have murdered Horne.”

  “No, no, no. No question of that. He was away all that day, he told me. Only arrived home an hour after we did—and found his master dead. Took my offer there and then.”

  For a moment I contemplated that Lord Berring murdered Horne for his valet, then I dismissed the thought. “I wonder if you’d allow me to speak to Marcel myself.”

  Berring looked surprised. “Speak to him? He can’t tell you more than I have already.”

  “Even so, I’d like to ask him a question or two.”

  “Very well, I suppose it would do no harm.” He rose and tugged the bell pull, his expression bewildered. “Have a drop of port while we wait?”

  Marcel was a tall and slim young Frenchman with a long, thin nose and wide set brown eyes. He regarded me with an air of rigid politeness, his correct bearing betraying only the faintest hint of curiosity.

  “Yes, sir?”

  Berring waved a hand at me. “This is Captain Lacey. He wants to ask you questions.”

  Marcel turned forty five degrees and faced me. “Yes, sir?”

  I had hoped to speak to Marcel alone, but Berring handed me a tumbler of port, then settled into the sofa and looked on with interest. I would have to make the best of it.

  “The day your former master died,” I began, “you were out.”

  “Yes, sir.” Marcel’s accent was faint, his English precisely pronounced. “I was gone all that day. Arrived home at nine o’clock, and found he had been killed. The staff were most upset.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “I went upstairs, packed my bags, and came here. His lordship had kindly offered me a place if I ever left Mr. Horne, and I came here to ask if he still wanted me. He did, and I took up the post immediately.”

  “You were quick off the mark.”

  Marcel made a gesture of indifference. “Mr. Horne was dead. What could I do?”

  “Did the constables question you?”

  “Indeed. The man, the Runner, was quite rude. Asked me a dozen questions about where I had been and what I had been doing.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “That my business was my own on my days out. But I had not ever returned to the house, so how could I know what had happened?”

  “You did not return at all that day?”

  “No, sir. I had gone to Hampstead. I was very late returning. I was afraid Mr. Horne would be angry.”

  “Was he often angry at you?”

  “No, sir. He was seldom angry at all. But he liked his routines and did not like to vary them. At ten he liked a glass of port and for me to help him undress.”

  “Every night? Did he not go out?”

  “Not often, sir. He liked to stay at home.”

  “You knew, then, about Lily and Aimee.”

  Marcel looked blank a moment, then his cheeks reddened, though his countenance remained fixed. “Yes, I knew about them.”

  My temper mounted. Like the rest of the staff, Marcel had known and had silently condoned. “And yet, you said nothing?”

  Marcel gave me a direct look. “If you want frankness, sir, I will give it to you. I found Mr. Horne disgusting. I much prefer valeting for his lordship. But Mr. Horne paid me to look the other way, and so I looked the other way.”

  I tapped my fingertips together. “Did it surprise you that someone had killed Mr. Horne?”

  “It did very much, sir. He was not the most refined of gentlemen, but many men are not. I saw no reason to kill him for this. To murder must take great anger or hatred. To have enough of either, to be able to kill, one must be a madman.”

  “You believe whoever killed him was a madman?”

  “He must have been, sir.”

  Berring looked up with a pained expression. “Is that all, Captain? This talk of murder is making me quite ill.”

  “One more question, Marcel. Did Mr. Denis call often?”

  Marcel blinked a moment. “Mr. Denis? No, sir, he never called at all. He sent someone when he wanted to communicate with Mr. Horne. I believe Mr. Horne owed him a great deal of money.”

  “He came to the house that morning. Before Mr. Horne was killed.”

  Marcel raised his brows. “Indeed, sir? That is very surprising.”

  I regarded him in silence for a moment. Marcel kept his emotions below the surface, but he did not disguise them. I was certain Pomeroy would have checked in Hampstead regarding Marcel’s whereabouts, making sure the man had truly been where he said.

  “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 question Charlotte’s friends myself, but I could ill afford to travel across England merely 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 ab
ated. 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 each other 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.