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

by Ashley Gardner

  Denis brought his steepled fingertips to his chin. “It cannot matter anymore, can it? Horne is dead.”

  “And you could be his murderer.”

  “I could be. But I was not.”

  “I believe you. You didn’t lie to me when you said he was worth more to you alive than dead. What did he ask of you? What did you give to him that put him so deep into your power?”

  Denis watched me a moment, and at long last I saw some emotion in the cold blue depths of his eyes. That emotion was irritation.

  “When I first met you, Captain, I told myself that someone like you could be useful to me. I have revised my opinion. You are too hotheaded. I would not be able to trust you.”

  “You owned him body and soul, didn’t you?” I asked. “I think that once upon a time, vulgar Mr. Horne wanted a seat in Parliament. He came to you and behaved as though he were doing you a favor asking you to buy up votes for him. He disgusted you, but you must have seen an opportunity. No doubt you own other men in the Commons, and perhaps even in the Lords, people who owe you favors, as Brigadier Champlain did. But one more wouldn’t hurt. You could have eyes and ears in all parties and manipulate whichever would benefit you the most.

  “So you helped Horne get his seat, and your price was that he obeyed your every order. I can imagine a man like Horne would not even resent you. He had a seat; who cared that he made no move without your permission? But his stupidity over Jane Thornton could have jeopardized his position, especially when you discovered that her father had tracked her to his doorstep. When Thornton tried to accuse Horne of ruining his daughter, you called in a favor and had five cavalrymen ride to Hanover Square to shut Thornton’s mouth. So they obeyed orders and shot an innocent man who was only grieving for his daughter.”

  Denis regarded me coolly. “You seem to have worked everything out to your satisfaction.”

  “If it is not the truth, it is very near.”

  His gaze drifted to the clock on the mantel. “My appointment is in ten minutes, Captain. I must bid you good evening.”

  I didn’t move. “You don’t fear me or my revelations. Horne is dead, and I can prove nothing. I imagine many men of power owe you favors and would make sure that you were not hurt even if I tried to speak. I imagine they, like Horne, are grateful to you for what you’ve done and don’t mind helping you.”

  “It is the way of the world, Captain. Do not pretend you do not know that. You were in the army.”

  “I admit I have done things I would not care to have closely examined,” I said. “But my promises were made on the right side of honor.”

  “Yes, I have heard all about your honor. It has put you where you are today: poor and of no consequence.”

  “I must live with that.”

  Denis shrugged. “I am pleased to meet a man who values honor so highly. There are few these days. But I must insist you leave now. I have many things to do this evening.”

  I rose to my feet, and he stood up as well. I was a fraction taller than he, but the cool stare from Denis’s blue eyes told me he cared nothing for that.

  “Good evening, Captain. Next time, remember that I see no one without an appointment.”

  I remained in place. “I came for a second reason. I would be most interested in speaking again to your coachman, Jemmy.”

  Denis looked thoughtful. “I am certain you would. And I’m certain I know why. Very well, I will deliver him to you. Please remember, however, that murder is against the law.”

  “Jemmy is of more use to me alive than dead,” I said.

  “Not to me.” The chill in Denis’s eyes could have frozen oceans. “Be so good as to tell him that for me when you speak to him.”

  *** *** ***

  By the week’s end, I felt well enough to accompany Grenville to Hampstead. He took me to the estate of Lord Sommerville, an elderly viscount, and listened curiously while I asked his lordship about his kitchen maid.

  Lord Sommerville reiterated what he’d told Grenville earlier, that he’d found no satisfactory culprit in his kitchen maid’s death. He directed me to the housekeeper, who had known the girl better, with the instruction that he wanted to know anything I discovered about the girl’s murder. The housekeeper restated what Lord Sommerville had told me and let me talk with the kitchen maid’s sister, who also worked in the house.

  The sister was still very upset about Matilda’s death, but she spoke with me readily. She wanted to find the culprit more than anything and bring him to justice. Yes, she believed it had been a man, the same man who had turned Matilda away from her other young man. Matilda had not told her sister who she’d taken up with, but she’d shown her little trinkets the man had bought her and bragged that she was moving up in the world. Matilda had slipped out in the middle of the night, probably to meet this new suitor, and had never returned.

  I gave the woman my condolences, and Grenville and I took our leave.

  “Was that helpful?” he asked as we rolled away in his luxurious coach. “I first believed that the person who killed the maid also killed Charlotte Morrison, but Miss Morrison is alive.”

  “Miss Morrison is alive because she ran away. And she ran away because of the maid’s death.”

  “Because she feared for her own life?”

  “Because she knew who killed the maid. And it upset her so much that she fled.”

  “If that is the case, why didn’t she go to Lord Sommerville and tell him what she knew?”

  I contemplated the green meadow on our right. “She was afraid. Or so horrified by what she knew that she could only think to get away. She was wrong to go, but I understand why she did. Sometimes it is easier to turn your back on the truth than to face it, especially when it is more painful than you can stand.”

  Grenville had nothing to answer to this, and we traveled in silence for a time. Then Grenville cleared his throat. “There is something I’ve wanted to ask you, Lacey, about you and Brandon. On the rowboat, you fought him hard, and he looked at you as though he’d cheerfully kill you. I’d thought you the dearest of friends.”

  “We were. Once.”

  Curiosity flickered in his eyes, but I shook my head. “I might be able to explain someday. The same day you explain to me why you disappeared from the inn when we visited Hampstead the first time.”

  Grenville started, then laughed. “And I thought I was utterly discreet.” He turned to look out the window, his gaze fixing on something far from here. “Let us say that I have a friend who once met a lady. But what was between them could not be. And so he agreed to go away. Much time has passed since then. And then the friend heard the lady was in Hampstead, and so he searched for any excuse to go there.” He slanted me a wry look. “Unfortunately, his damned curiosity led him to an interest in other problems, and he went all the way to Somerset to satisfy it.”

  Grenville looked embarrassed, an expression I’d never seen on his face. His sangfroid had slipped, and I had the feeling that few people had ever seen it slip.

  I tapped my walking stick on the scarred, square toe of my boot. “I have a friend,” I began, then stopped. I should say nothing, but somehow I wanted Grenville to know, to understand, the depths of my anger, and why I’d never forgiven Brandon, nor he me. “This friend knew another man, a man of pride and wealth whom the friend deeply respected. My friend followed his every order without question. One day,” I said, my voice slowing, “this respected man made the decision to put aside his lady. She could not give him children, you see, which was a severe blow to him. The great man’s family and name meant much to him, and he saw his lineage trickling away to weaker and lesser branches. And so he decided, with great reluctance, that she must be sent away.” I studied the tip of my boot with great intensity. “My friend objected in the strongest possible manner to the dishonor such a thing would cause this lady. If she were put aside, she would be ruined, reviled, and this the friend could not allow. He found himself in the situation of having to choose between his love for t
he lady and his love for the great man. And so he chose. Things grew complex from there. Suffice it to say, the two gentlemen nearly killed each other over it.”

  I stopped, tired of the memories. Still vivid in my mind was the night Louisa’s golden head had rested on my shoulder when she’d come to me in anguish. I remembered with perfect clarity, as though it had happened yesterday, the silken texture of her hair beneath my palm, the heat of her tears on my cheek. Also vivid was the look on Brandon’s face when he’d walked in and found her crying on my shoulder—the anger, the chagrin, the utter heartbreak.

  I said nothing about the rest of it, how Brandon had let anger simmer inside him until the day he could take his revenge. After Vitoria, he had sent me to take up immediate command of another unit, neglecting to inform me I’d journey alone right through a pocket of French troops. They ambushed me, stole the papers I carried—which were false anyway—and then amused themselves torturing me.

  An English troop at last swooped down upon them, and I was left with the dead. The English did not see me, and I crawled away from the scavengers, broken and barely alive.

  After many days, I had regained my regiment, my leg a ruin. The look on Brandon’s face when he saw that I was alive told me everything.

  Our commander had not been best pleased with either of us. A scandal between officers was not what he wanted in his regiment. He had made me realize that if I raised a stink, if Brandon were court-martialed as he deserved, the disgrace would stain all of us—Brandon, me, Louisa, the regiment.

  We three had agreed to leave the army and return to London.

  When I looked up from my muddy boot I found Grenville regarding me in stunned surprise. “Forgive me, Lacey. I had no idea.” He drew a breath. “I am honored that you told me this. I swear to you it will never cross my lips to another soul.”

  I had no doubt that he would keep his silence. Grenville kept staring at me as though he thought me even more a wonder than he had before, until I grew irritated.

  “You make too much of it,” I said, and turned to look out the window.

  We said nothing more until we reached the well-bred house of the Beauchamps, Charlotte Morrison’s cousins.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “I’m so pleased to see you again, Captain.” Mrs. Beauchamp shook my hand. “Do you have news?”

  “I’m happy to tell you, Mrs. Beauchamp, that Miss Morrison is alive and well. In Somerset.”

  Eyes widened, brows rose. Mr. Beauchamp spluttered, “Somerset?”

  “Good heavens, why has she not written us?” his wife said at the same time. “Did she return to her family’s house?”

  Grenville glanced at me. I hadn’t told him what I’d intended to say, but he followed my lead. “I saw her,” he said. “She is safe. And married.”

  Mrs. Beauchamp gaped. “Married?”

  “But why not write to us?” her husband demanded. “Why disgrace herself by running away?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Mrs. Beauchamp said. “She is safe, thank God. Do you have her direction, Mr. Grenville? I must write to her and tell her that of course we forgive her. She must be worried that we’ll be angry with her. No, we should make preparations to journey there and tell her ourselves.”

  I held up my hands. “I believe she doesn’t yet want visitors. No doubt she’ll write to you when she is ready.”

  Mrs. Beauchamp lost her smile. “I do not understand. We’re her family.”

  “That is all I know, madam. I myself care only that she is safe and well.”

  Beauchamp’s ruddy face held a mixture of relief and anger. “I thank you for coming in person to tell us, Captain.” He held out his hand. “It was good of you.”

  “Yes.” Mrs. Beauchamp sounded subdued.

  I shook both their hands. “I bid you good afternoon.”

  Grenville, who’d kept his composure well throughout the entire exchange, bowed and murmured his good-byes, though I could see him bursting to ask me questions.

  Beauchamp followed us out. He waited until the footman had given us our hats and gloves, and he accompanied us out into the soft rain.

  “My wife is understandably upset,” Beauchamp said. “But we feared the worst. No doubt we will rejoice that Charlotte is well when the surprise wears off. It was kind of you to journey all this way to tell us.”

  “I had another errand in the area,” I said. I took a parcel from my coat. “And I wanted to give you this.”

  Beauchamp frowned at the parcel, but he took it, bemused.

  Grenville’s footman helped me into the carriage, and Grenville sprang up behind me, the door slamming as the carriage rolled away. Beauchamp remained in front of the house, staring at the brown paper, rain pattering on his bare head.

  Grenville contained himself until we’d gone half a mile. “I’ve kept my peace long enough, Lacey. What the devil did you give him?”

  The road curved, bending through the flat land behind the Beauchamps’ house. “Ask your coachman to stop.”

  “Would it be futile to demand to know why?”

  “I will tell you in a moment.”

  Grenville’s look was aggrieved, but he rapped on the carriage roof and gave the order to stop.

  We waited. The damp air rose, fresh and green-smelling, the earth rich and virgin, awaiting the first spring planting. A muddy path led to a stile, and over this to the meadow behind the Beauchamps’ home.

  The horses, bored, snorted and moved in the traces, rocking the carriage slightly. The light rain grew heavier.

  A rider appeared at the bottom of the meadow, on a small horse, trotting fast. Both horse and rider were rotund, the master rivaling his mount for squat body and stout belly.

  Grenville lowered his window. “It’s Beauchamp.”

  At the stile, Beauchamp dismounted. He did not tie his horse, but it seemed content to lower its head and crop grass. Beauchamp climbed the stile and scrambled down the other side, his face streaming perspiration and rain.

  He approached the coach. I opened the door and climbed to the ground to meet him.

  He thrust the parcel at me. “What is your game, Lacey? What is this?”

  “Lord Sommerville’s housekeeper gave it to me,” I said. “It’s the remains of the gown a servant girl wore the night she was killed, sometime near the end of February. A man bashed in her head and tried to bury her in the woods. Were you not at the inquest? The entire village turned up, I’ve been told.”

  Beauchamp glared at me, flushed and angry. “My wife and I stayed away. It was a sordid affair.”

  I opened the paper and smoothed the blue worsted strips. “Likely it was her best dress. She must have been excited, knowing she was going to meet a lover. Not the solid, hardworking young man who’d hoped to marry her, but an older man, well off and respected, who would give her presents. Maybe jewelry and gowns finer than this.”

  Grenville climbed down from the carriage and his coachman watched from above. Beauchamp looked from me to Grenville. “What do you want of me?”

  I ignored him. “Perhaps, as the mistress of a wealthy gentleman, the kitchen maid began to give herself airs. Perhaps she threatened to tell her young man about her lover, or your wife.”

  Beauchamp took on a hunted look. “She was a silly girl, a maid, for heaven’s sake. What did she expect me to do? Put aside my dear wife for her? You gentlemen understand.”

  “Your cousin, Charlotte, knew who killed her,” I said.

  Beauchamp began to stammer. “Matilda wasn’t murdered. It was an accident. She fell and hit her head.”

  “Or perhaps Charlotte did not know; I cannot say. But your attentions must have frightened Charlotte. So much so that she fled you, in a manner that makes it impossible for you to pursue her and bring her back.”

  Beauchamp gave me a pleading look. “We took Charlotte in, we gave her a home. How could she have done this? We were her family.”

  His bleating was pathetic, but I hardened my heart. “I imagine
your wife’s pretty young cousin was a great temptation for you. An intelligent and beautiful girl would be much more satisfying than a silly maid. And close at hand, under your own roof. You’d need no secret trysts in hedgerows. Did you seduce Charlotte? Or threaten her if she did not comply?”

  Beauchamp sucked in his breath. “How do you know this? Charlotte must have told you.”

  “Your wife gave me her letters. You sent a boy after me to steal and destroy them. You feared that Charlotte might have written some hint, left some clue of what you had done to her.”

  Beauchamp clasped his hands against his ample belly. “You must not tell my wife. She is a gentle creature. It will break her heart. Please, I beg of you.”

  I went on ruthlessly. “What happened in the woods that night? Did you tell Matilda you’d found better? Perhaps Matilda did not want to leave so quietly. Perhaps she threatened to make a fuss. And you grew alarmed, and struck out.”

  Tears trickled down his cheeks. “No, it truly was an accident, I swear it. Matilda wanted me to run away with her. She started to screech and cry. I tried to make her stop. She started to run away, but she stumbled and fell. I heard her head crack on a rock. I tried to help her, but her head was covered with blood, and she had stopped breathing. I could not take her home; could not explain.”

  I thrust the parcel back into his hands. “Explain it to Lord Sommerville. He is a reasonable man.”

  Beauchamp wiped his eyes. “Will I ever see Charlotte again?”

  “I rather doubt it. Tell your wife the truth, all of it. She will understand why Charlotte isn’t coming back.”

  I turned away from him. Grenville, his face white, waited while I climbed back into the carriage.

  “Please, gentlemen.”

  Grenville ascended behind me, and his footman, shocked and trying to hide it, shut the door. I looked out the window at Beauchamp, weeping beneath me.

  “Go home,” I said.

  Grenville rapped on the roof of the carriage, and the coachman drove on.

  *** *** ***

  “Are you going to tell Sommerville?” Grenville eyed me sternly. “If you don’t, I will.”