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

by Ashley Gardner

  I opened my eyes again. “You said in your letter that you’d found interesting developments in Somerset.”

  Grenville’s eyes sparkled. “I found much more than that, Lacey. What I found was the missing Charlotte Morrison.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I tried to sit up, but pain drove me back down. “Found her?”

  “Yes, safe and sound, and married to a vicar.”

  I stared. “Did you say married to a vicar?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Then she has nothing to do with Jane Thornton.”

  “I could see no connection, no.”

  I rubbed my pounding temples. “Damn. Then you went for nothing.”

  “Not necessarily,” Grenville said. “I believe the problem more complex. Her curate became a vicar with a living, and a rather good one; I can’t imagine the Beauchamps opposing the match.”

  “Why the mystery, then?”

  Grenville tapped his fingertips together, a habit, I noticed, he had when interested in a problem. “That is what I wondered. Miss Morrison wouldn’t speak much to me, and neither would her husband. They thought at first I’d come from Bow Street to drag her back to Hampstead. When I finally convinced them I had not, they unbent a little, but still did not want me to tell the Beauchamps where she was. I pointed out to Miss Morrison that she’d worried her cousins exceedingly, but this did not appear to move her. She seems very frightened of something, and I could not get her to tell me what.”

  I thought about the letters she’d written to her friend, which had hinted at some fear. “Did you speak to her friend, Miss Frazier?”

  “I did. She is a lively woman, a spinster of about thirty, and apparently Miss Morrison’s greatest friend. When I asked her about what Charlotte Morrison had written to her, she looked down her fine nose at me and told me to mind my own damned business. She said she would do nothing to interfere with Charlotte’s happiness, and the best thing I could do was return to London and pretend I’d never come.”

  “She certainly sounds firm of purpose. What did you do?”

  Grenville lifted his hands. “I returned to London. I suddenly realized she was right, that the lives of Charlotte Morrison and the Beauchamps were none of my damned business. So now I have a dilemma. Do I tell the Beauchamps that their cousin is safe and relieve their fears? Or do I pretend I never went to Somerset, as Miss Frazier commanded, and let them sort it out themselves?”

  I lay quietly for a time, thinking. The conclusions my drugged mind had drawn flitted just out of reach, what had seemed so clear then now foggy and muddled.

  “I believe I know why she went,” I said.

  “Do you? Well, I am baffled. I might understand her actions if she’d run away with some roué, but she married a stolid, respectable vicar with gray hairs. Why should she fear telling her family of it? Unless he’s a highwayman in disguise.” He laughed a little at his own joke.

  “I’m certain the vicar is as respectable and steady as he seems. But I have an advantage. I read the letters, and you did not.”

  “But you told me what was in them,” Grenville pointed out.

  “I know. But I couldn’t convey the feelings I got from them. There was so much Miss Morrison did not say.”

  Grenville regarded me impatiently. “So what do I do, Lacey? Tell the Beauchamps to find her themselves?”

  “Tell them nothing for now. I would like to go to Hampstead myself and speak to Lord Sommerville.”

  “Why? Sommerville already told me he’d discovered nothing about his kitchen maid’s death.”

  Weariness weighted my limbs, and I needed to sleep, but I answered. “Charlotte disappeared soon after the maid’s death. So soon that my first thought upon hearing the tale was that the body found was Charlotte’s.”

  “I thought the same. But it wasn’t.”

  “No. Charlotte is alive and well.”

  Grenville shot me an impatient look. “You’re being damned cryptic, Lacey.”

  “Forgive me, I’m still half-dead on opium. I mean that Charlotte no doubt knows who killed the girl. That knowledge made her flee back to the safety of Somerset.”

  Grenville stared at me a moment, clearly curious. Then he shook his head. “Our trip to Hampstead will have to wait in any case. I doubt you could walk across a room just now.”

  He was right. I sank a little farther into the mattress. “It was good of you to put me up. I will remove to my own rooms as soon as I can.”

  “Nonsense. Stay until you are healed. You need warmth and I have plenty of coal. My chef is happily inventing menus for you. I think he’s rather bored with me.”

  “I suppose you won’t let me argue.”

  “Suppress your pride for once and do what’s good for you, Lacey. We’ll go to Hampstead when you’re better, but only when you’re better. Or I’ll fetch Mrs. Brandon, who will no doubt tie you to the bed.”

  I smiled and subsided. I prepared to let myself drift off to sleep again, then I remembered something. “What day is it?”

  “A fine and fair Monday afternoon.”

  I tried to sit up. “Bremer’s trial is today. I can’t in all conscience let him be condemned for murder. I must talk to Pomeroy.”

  Grenville shook his head. “It will keep. In fact, it no longer matters.”

  His somber look alarmed me. “Why not?”

  “I’m sorry, Lacey. I heard yesterday that the wretched Bremer is dead.”

  *** *** ***

  I convalesced at Grenville’s for five days. His chef did prepare some delightful and hearty meals for me, and it was probably thanks to his cooking that I healed as quickly as I did. His valet also seemed to enjoy waiting on me, and the footman who lugged coal bins about always stopped to chat about sport and give me a few tips on the races.

  And all I could mull over was that I had not saved the stupid and frail Bremer.

  Grenville had a friend who was a barrister, a silk, and he, knowing of Grenville’s interest in the case, had relayed the news of Bremer’s death. There’d been nothing sinister about it. Bremer had caught a chill, which settled in his lungs, and he’d died quickly.

  Grenville told me, “My friend said that the magistrate believed Bremer to be guilty and that a gentler justice was served him by the hand of God. Butler went mad and killed his master, the magistrate said, was arrested, and died in gaol. End of story. Public and justice satisfied.”

  But I was not satisfied. I lay in Grenville’s sumptuous guest room, too ill to move and too frustrated to rest. I had failed Bremer in my idiotic pursuit of Denis.

  Grenville did his best to keep me cheerful, reading stories to me out of the newspaper and giving me the gossip from his club. I learned who was wearing the wrong-colored waistcoat, who had been snubbed, and who had lost a fortune at whist, and I didn’t care about one word of it.

  Louisa Brandon came to see me every day and threatened me with dire fates if I tried to get out of bed too soon. On one occasion, she brought her husband.

  As the sun was descending behind Grenville’s elegant, silk-draped windows, Colonel Brandon entered my chamber alone. He walked halfway across the carpet then stood with his hands behind his back in the attitude of parade rest and looked at me. I wondered if he’d come to force his apology on me, but the spark in his cold blue eyes told me that he was tired of being polite.

  “You look bloody awful,” he said.

  I gave him a nod. “I imagine I do.”

  A cut ran from the corner of Brandon’s mouth to his chin. I dimly remembered pounding my fist just there when we’d fought in the rowboat.

  “Thought you’d like to know,” he said. “I was speaking the other day with Colonel Franklin, Gale’s commanding officer. He said he got the order about Hanover Square from Brigadier Champlain himself.”

  Champlain had been one of Wellington’s most trusted generals. I propped myself up on my pillows, waiting for him to go on.

  “I saw Champlain at a card party yesterda
y,” he said. “He imparted to us that he’d sent for Franklin in response to a message from a friend. This friend was afraid that the house of an acquaintance in Hanover Square would be set alight by a mob. Champlain owed the friend a favor and agreed to assist.”

  “And the name of the friend?” But I’d already guessed.

  “James Denis.”

  Of course. Denis would hardly want the father of the abducted girl drawing attention to Horne. I wondered if Denis had ordered Mr. Thornton to be shot, or if that had been Cornet Weddington’s own idea.

  “Louisa ferreted it out of him,” Brandon said. “Franklin gave the orders to Lieutenant Gale, and Gale took out a squad of his best men.” He hesitated. “According to Grenville, this Denis is the same gentleman who had you dragged out to that boat.”

  “Yes.”

  “Good Lord, Lacey, he has one of the highest generals in England owing him favors. And you’ve pitted yourself against him.”

  “I have.”

  Brandon stared at me a moment longer, his anger palpable from where he stood. “You always were a damned fool.”

  He knew better than most what I fool I had been.

  So Denis had a general in his pocket. I wondered how many other men in high office owed Denis “favors.” Perhaps I should have gone through with my plan to shoot Denis after all.

  “Thank you,” I said tiredly. “That does help. Thank Louisa for questioning Champlain on my behalf.”

  Brandon should have said, “Not at all,” and left the room. I wished he would. But he remained fixed there on the carpet as though he still had plenty to say. Every muscle in my body tensed.

  Brandon cleared his throat, and my muscles tightened all the more. “Out on the boat,” he said. “You might have killed us all, trying to save that girl.”

  “I know.”

  “That is why I tried to stop you.”

  “I know.”

  He cleared his throat again, looked uncomfortable, and clenched his fists at his sides. “It was well done, Lacey. Even if it was bloody stupid.”

  My lips cracked as I smiled. “High praise from my brave commander.”

  Brandon glared at me, his face reddening. Again, I wished he’d go away. I was too weary to fence with him and wanted to sleep. I hoped to God he did not intend to offer his forgiveness for my sins past and present. I did not think I could stomach it just now.

  His lip curled. “Such things are why you never rose higher than captain, Gabriel. As admirable as you may be.”

  I felt my temper stir beneath my hurt and tiredness, but I closed my eyes and willed it to silence. “Are you finished?”

  When I opened my eyes again, it was to see Brandon’s face a mask of undisguised fury. Had he come here hoping to provoke a reconciliation? If he had, he was a fool.

  Brandon breathed heavily in the silence. “The way you have played it, Gabriel, we will never be finished.”

  I waited for him to explain what he meant by that, but Brandon snapped his mouth shut and turned on his heel. He said nothing more, not a good night or best wishes for my health. He only stalked away, letting the slam of the door behind him tell me what he thought of my rudeness.

  I slid my eyes closed, threads of pain winding through my head. It took me a long time to drift again to sleep.

  *** *** ***

  Staying with Grenville gave me time not only to heal and think, but also to come to know him better. He was a complex man who took three hours to dress for supper, yet could practice philanthropy in meaningful and useful ways. He had acquaintances across all classes and held prejudice only against a man who would not think for himself.

  He admired beautiful women and had had discreet affairs with duchesses and actresses alike, but Grenville had never found a woman he’d wanted to marry. I told him dryly that it was just as well; his bride would have no room in his house for her own mirror, and he laughed and supposed I had hit upon a truth.

  The evening before I returned home, Grenville entered my chamber looking rather bewildered.

  “I’ve just had a visit from your Marianne Simmons.”

  I came alert, remembering how I’d told her to apply to Grenville for her ten guineas. “I’m sorry, Grenville, I ought to have warned you about that. She brought me some interesting information, and I sent her to you so she would leave me alone. I’d forgotten about it.”

  “It is no matter. She is rather—overwhelming, is she not?”

  “It’s how she survives.”

  Grenville looked troubled. “And yet, I found myself giving her twenty guineas.”

  “Twenty? I told her ten, the wretch.”

  “She asked for ten. But then I saw that her shoes were cheap and shabby. No one should go about poorly shod, Lacey. I told her of a shoemaker in Oxford Street and instructed her to tell them I’d sent her.”

  “What did she say to that?” I asked.

  “She told me I was a gentleman. And then she said a few things that brought a blush to my cheek. I’ll admit to you, Lacey, though I’ve traveled the world, I’ve never met anyone like her.”

  “You may count yourself fortunate for that.”

  Grenville gave me a sharp look. “There is nothing between you, is there?”

  “Between Marianne and myself? Good Lord, no. She likes only wealthy gentleman. I would have a care, were I you.”

  He looked at me a long moment. “I believe that is good advice. Thank you, Lacey.”

  Grenville rang for wine and shared it with me, but he drank deeply of his and sat in silence most of the evening.

  *** *** ***

  I returned home to find that, despite her twenty guineas, Marianne had taken all my candles, and I was obliged to visit the chandlers to acquire more. The quietness of my return and the fact that I went from candle shop to pub and back home without being accosted reaffirmed my idea that Denis had abducted me not to kill me but to show me where I stood in his world.

  I understood his message. I was to stay out of his way.

  My mind spun with things I needed to do, but my body was too tired to do them. I’d written to young Philip Preston with my apologies for missing our appointment for riding instruction, and I needed to write again to set another date. On the weekend, Grenville and I would travel to Hampstead, where I would speak with Lord Sommerville. I’d pay a visit to the Beauchamps as well, having made my decision as to what I’d tell them. As to the whereabouts of Jane Thornton and the identity of Horne’s killer, my mind balked. I knew who had killed Horne and why, but I did not want to know this. The world was happy with Bremer as the culprit; let him satisfy the world.

  I also wasted time missing Janet. I wished for the hundredth time I’d never gone to Arbuthnot’s to view that damned painting—I’d met an attractive woman there, Mrs. Danbury, who made it plain she had no interest in me, and I’d chanced upon Janet. God had been amusing himself with me that night.

  I should have stayed longer at Grenville’s, I reflected as I lit a candle in the darkness of my rooms. He at least diverted me with talk and food and drink. Here I was alone with my thoughts, my memories, and my past. I needed action.

  Pomeroy had told me I was mad. Brandon agreed with him. Grenville thought so too. Louisa understood me a little better, but even she was fond of telling me how imprudent I was. All of them were right about me.

  I changed into my regimentals, hobbled to the hackney stand in Covent Garden market, and took myself to the house of James Denis.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “You’ll forgive my precautions, Captain.” Denis touched his fingertips together and regarded me calmly from a brocade wing chair. “I assume you did not call on me to apologize for setting my boat alight.”

  Upon my arrival, two of his thugs had thoroughly searched me for weapons and had taken away my walking stick, which Grenville had had repaired for me.

  But the fact that Denis would not let me near him without searching me satisfied me a little. I did not make him feel safe.
r />   “You are curious as to why I came,” I said. “Or you never would have let me in.”

  He gave a single nod. “I admit, I am slightly curious. But I have an appointment in a half-hour’s time, so please be brief.”

  I had no intention of being brief. “I’ve had much time to think this past week. It occurred to me that Josiah Horne was a man of sordid and vulgar taste.”

  Denis raised his sleek brows. “Please do not tell me that you traveled all the way to Mayfair to inform me of this obvious fact.”

  “The abduction of Jane Thornton smells of his vulgarity. To lure an innocent girl from her family, to take pleasure in her ruin—that fits with Josiah Horne and his way of life.”

  Denis looked pained. “Indeed.”

  “It occurred to me, however, that such a mode of business is not typical of you. You work for the rich and the discreet. You steal precious paintings from under Bonaparte’s nose. Your business is a subtle one; you have networks scattered far and wide. You make wishes come true with seeming ease.”

  “You flatter me.”

  “I’ve had time to mull over the risk and the foolish theatricality of Jane Thornton’s abduction, put together with what I’ve learned about you. I wondered why a man with your exactitude would want to do such a thing. And then it struck me. You had nothing to do with it.”

  Denis did not move, but his eyelids flickered. “I told you this when you called the other day.”

  “You actually told me nothing. You let me run on in my anger, and you denied just enough to put me off the scent. You knew about Horne’s abduction of Miss Thornton, and it angered you. So much so that you went to see him to tell him this. But it did not anger you in the same way it angered me. You cared nothing for Miss Thornton’s welfare. Instead, you worried that Horne’s stupid actions would endanger something else in which you were involved. What was it, I wonder?”