His light blue eyes remained blank for a moment, then his gaze fixed on me, and his pupils widened.
"Oh hell," he said. His voice was little more than a croak. "It's you."
Chapter Twenty-one
I feared John Spencer would kill Eggleston before the constable arrived. The young man was beside himself with grief. I guessed correctly that he had followed Grenville's carriage here to Hertfordshire, as he confirmed. When I had left him earlier that day, excited about Spinnet's letter and my conclusions, he had grown suspicious of me and followed.
Upon arriving at this house, he had heard the noises inside, walked around the house to see if he could discover another way in, and had found his brother lying dead in the garden.
"You killed him, you dung-eating son of a bitch," he said.
Eggleston shook his head hard. "No! I killed no one. I swear to you. Jack did it. He said Mr. Spencer was spying upon us. And he was."
We had removed Jack's bloody body to a shed outside, and laid Kenneth Spencer more reverently on the grass.
Brandon lay on his back on the hearth rug in the sitting room. One of his legs had broken. My own leg ached and throbbed, but I had not broken it, as I'd feared. I'd simply wrenched and strained the muscles. I often forgot I could no longer run about with impunity. I sat now in a chair near Brandon, resting my foot on a stool. It did not help.
We had bound Eggleston's hands with rope found in the shed and sat him on a chair. Grenville held a loaded pistol loosely in his hands. He, too, was angry enough to use it.
"I for one will be happy to see you hang," Grenville said. "For my footman, if nothing else."
Eggleston's round eyes went rounder still. "I did not shoot him! I swear to you. It was Jack."
"You'll hang for Westin's murder," I said. "Or Spinnet's. Or Captain Spencer's. Which would you like?"
Grenville shot me a puzzled look. "Westin?"
My feelings of loyalty to Lydia had dimmed, and I decided it was time for truth. "He was murdered. Stabbed in the neck. His wife pretended he'd died accidentally, because she feared the savagery of the newspapers."
Grenville's eyes widened. "Good lord. You do know how to keep secrets, Lacey."
"He is ever the champion of the ladies," Brandon said dryly from the floor.
"I do not understand this," John Spencer barked. "He murdered Colonel Westin?"
"Yes," I said. I eased my leg to a slightly less painful position, gritting my teeth as I did so. "He learned that Colonel Westin had made an appointment with you and your brother, and feared that Westin would tell you the entire truth-how he and Breckenridge had conspired to murder Colonel Spinnet back in 1812 and make it look as though he had died in the rioting at Badajoz." I looked at Eggleston. "Captain Spencer saw you shoot Spinnet deliberately, did he not? He was so horrified, he ran to try to stop you. So he died as well."
Eggleston stared. "How do you know this? Westin did not tell anyone! He swore to us."
"He kept his word," I said. "Of course, you and Breckenridge made certain of that to the last. You and he together went to see Westin the day he died, early in the morning, probably, say when you would be returning from a gaming hell and Breckenridge would be up for his early ride. You either made an appointment with Westin, or he saw you approach, but he must have let you in himself, in his dressing gown, and taken you quietly upstairs."
I gave him an inquiring look. Eggleston only stared.
"You must have argued with him long," I continued. "Perhaps he agreed to keep silent, perhaps he did not. You must have known some secret Westin desperately did not want revealed, but perhaps Westin had decided he would rather humiliate himself then let you get away with murder. I imagine Breckenridge was not satisfied, in any event. I think it was he who actually murdered Colonel Westin. Just as he murdered Spinnet at Badajoz, and shot Captain Spencer."
Eggleston nodded readily. "He did. He killed Spinnet because he knew Spinnet would forever block his way to promotion."
I gave him a hard look. "The plan was yours. It smacks of the kind of sneaking subterfuge you would dream of. You advised him not to challenge Spinnet directly, oh no. Instead, take away a good man's life and hide it in the chaos of the destruction around you. What was one more death in the Peninsula campaign, after all?"
Eggleston put his hands to his face. "It was not like that. We saw an opportunity. That is all."
"Which you urged Breckenridge to take. Did you urge him on to kill Westin?"
"No, no. Breckenridge decided that himself. Westin refused to listen to us. He vowed he would reveal all. When he turned away, Breckenridge took out a stiletto and pressed it right into Westin's neck. He died at once. Went down in a heap."
"So," I continued. "You tucked him up in bed, rejoicing that so little blood had been shed to give things away, and let yourself out of the house."
Eggleston's throat worked. "Yes. That was it."
I wanted to rise from the chair and kick him, but I was too tired. My melancholia danced just beyond my vision.
"The death of Westin must have upset you greatly," I said. "Soldiers dying at Badajoz was one thing, but I think you realized after Westin's death that Breckenridge was a cold-blooded killer. You were a witness; who knew when he might turn on you? So you sought the comfort of your lover. Jack probably advised you to leave everything to him." I paused. "He killed Breckenridge, did he not?"
"He did," Eggleston whispered. "To protect me."
The knowledge that I had been right all along comforted me little. "Sharp must have killed Breckenridge somewhere in the garden. Perhaps you had not known he would do it right then. You decided it best to make his death seem an accident, a riding accident-Breckenridge was so fond of rides at ungodly hours of the morning. I doubt you were prepared to handle the body, so Sharp did it all, am I right? He must have, because you would not have made the mistakes he did. He saddled Breckenridge's horse, using the saddle I'd left, not realizing that a cavalryman who took the trouble to travel with his own saddle would certainly use it. He put my coat on Breckenridge's body…" I paused. "I confess, I do not know why he should, or why Breckenridge was in shirtsleeves at all."
Eggleston flinched. "They were boxing. In the garden. Sharp offered to show Breckenridge exactly how he'd been felled by that farmer's lad. Breckenridge took off his coat." He swallowed. "I could not find it in the dark."
Grenville sucked in a breath. "Good lord. So Sharp must have found Lacey's coat and put it on him. He reasoned one gentleman's coat was as good as another."
"I thought it so amusing," Eggleston said. "Breckenridge was so careful about his clothes. And to be caught dead in a shabby coat several years out of date… " He wheezed a little and tears leaked from his eyes. "I laughed so."
I did not find it in the least amusing. The sniveling little twit deserved to have John Spencer lay him out.
Grenville still looked puzzled. "But Major Connaught," he said. "He died peacefully. Or seemed to."
Eggleston shook his head fervently. "We had nothing to do with that. He really did die in his sleep. That was a bit of luck." He eyed us with the smugness of one who was at least innocent of something.
"No," I corrected softly. "Your luck changed when he died. His death renewed my interest in deciphering the truth. And I found it. Colonel Spinnet was the key."
John Spencer cleared his throat. His eyes were red with grief, his hair tangled where he'd raked it. "What about my brother? Why did you kill him?"
Eggleston met his gaze with something like defiance. "He was spying on us," he repeated.
"He must have worked out the truth," I said. "And came here to confront you. He was just as grieved as his brother, even if he kept it quiet. You are not blameless in his death."
"But I killed no one," Eggleston protested. "Jack and Breckenridge did it all."
From the fireside carpet, Brandon opened his eyes. "You were an accomplice to five murders. You will definitely hang for that, my friend."
His brisk, matter-of-fact voice seemed to penetrate Eggleston's haze of denials. His eyes widened. Then the gentleman who had sneered at my clothes and dismissed me as less than nothing, went slack-kneed and fainted.
Lord Richard Eggleston's trial was held a few weeks later. His brother, the Marquis of Hungerford, protested on the strongest terms, but there had been no denying that Eggleston had, at the very least, shot at me, Brandon, and Grenville, and had been party to Kenneth Spencer's murder. Grenville's word on this counted for much. The marquis, however, pointed out that we could produce no concrete evidence that Eggleston had been present at the deaths of Breckenridge or Westin. In the end, the Lord Chief Justice and the marquis made an agreement that if Eggleston wrote out a confession, explaining all, he could commute his sentence to transportation.
So Eggleston's argument that he had not actually murdered any of these gentlemen won out. He wrote the confession and signed it, and was taken to Newgate to await passage on a ship to New South Wales. I had no doubt that his wealthy brother had ensured he'd have a fine room in the jail with servants and wine and food. Such were the wheels of justice for the privileged.
Lady Richard, his child wife, I learned later through Louisa, had gone to the north of England to live with the marquis and his wife.
After the sensational trial, the journalists turned to other fodder. Pomeroy had discovered the bodies of two women in a cellar in Islington and arrested the gentleman who had married, then murdered, them. He was quite pleased with himself, and the journalists, Billings included, lauded him.
Louisa Brandon returned home after I dragged her husband back from Hertfordshire with his leg in splints. She had nearly flown from the carriage that had deposited her at her front door, and rushed to her husband’s bed with rage and fear in her eyes. I walked away from their reunion and closed the door on their rising voices. I did not see or hear from either of them for a long time after that.
Bartholomew recovered from his gunshot wounds, though for a long time he limped from the bullet that had pierced his leg. Grenville had spared no expense on surgeons and doctors, and the lad had lived like a prince while he convalesced. He was young and strong and brave-hearted, and he recovered quickly.
August slipped into September. The days at last cooled, and the evenings became crisp. Grenville talked of going to the country to go hunting. He invited me along, but I’d had enough of country houses. The vice of the city at least wore a face I could recognize.
In mid-September, long after I’d believed Lydia Westin must have quit Town herself, she sent for me.
William greeted me with subdued wariness. He led me in silence to the upstairs room with the pianoforte and Lydia's portrait. He ushered me in, then took the double doors one in each hand and backed out, closing us in, leaving us alone.
Lydia sat on a damask chair, her hands in her lap. She avoided my gaze as I entered. She had given up mourning black, and wore a gray high-necked and long-sleeved gown trimmed with lighter gray. The costume did not become her; her face was too pale for it, though it made her midnight blue eyes bluer still.
If only she would look at me with them.
I moved slowly forward, resting my weight on my walking stick. When I reached the halfway point between door and chair, I stopped.
Silence hung in the air, broken only by the ticking of the clock and the faint crackle of the fire. The September day had turned cool.
"I had not thought you would come," she said.
"As ever," I answered, trying to keep my voice light, "I fly to your side when you call."
Still she would not look at me. She transferred her gaze to a corner of the carpet. "You cannot imagine how long it took me to work up the courage to face you. Even now I falter."
"You have no need to."
My anger at her had long since ground itself to dust. After the arrest of Eggleston, my melancholia had taken over, as I had known it would.
The last time I had discovered the identity of a murderer, the sheer cruelty of it all had sent black waves of melancholia crashing over me. I had been expecting it this time; nonetheless, the malady had laid me in bed for nearly a fortnight, and had not yet completely subsided. I currently could only view the world through a fog, as though I watched everything through a thick, waved glass. Although I walked and spoke, I often could not say whether what I did was real or the vestiges of a dream.
She smiled faintly. "Before you remonstrate with me, or scold me, allow me to thank you for clearing my husband's name. Lord Richard's confession absolved him of all crimes in the Peninsula. The Times even praised Roe for his bravery."
I looked straight ahead. "Yes, I read the story."
"Well." Her voice was soft, whispery. "I wanted to thank you. To see you when I did it. Writing seemed-an inappropriate method."
"I would have treasured such a letter."
At last, she looked at my face. Our gazes met, stilled. "Please do not say such things when you do not mean them," she said. "I know that you long to tell me what you think of me."
I slowly closed the distance between us. I reached down and lifted her hand, the one with the heavy gold and sapphire ring. I stroked my thumb gently across her fingers, the same smooth fingers that had caressed me while we lay together in her bed.
"I did not come here to scold you." I lifted her hand and pressed it to my lips. "But to learn whether you were well."
She watched me kiss her fingers, then she withdrew her hand and crumpled it on her lap. "Please, Gabriel, do not be kind to me."
"If you prefer that I rail at you like a drunken waterman, I am afraid I cannot oblige."
"It might be easier for me." She lifted her gaze and looked at me fully. I saw in her eyes everything that had been between us, and great pain, and loneliness. She was lonely because of the grief she faced, a grief she could not share.
"You are a good man, Gabriel. You did not deserve what I did to you-tried to do to you. In the end, I simply could not." She tore her gaze away. "Oh, please, sit down. I cannot bear you standing there looking so patient."
I was not patient. Anger was stirring beneath my fog, and the mists had cleared a little. I obliged her and seated myself on the divan.
She studied the carpet again, seeming to gather strength from the gold and black oriental pattern. "Do you know why I made my way alone that night to the bridge?"
I remembered her sliding through the rain, her dark cloak blending with the night, the fire of diamonds in her hair, her lovely, distressed face beckoning me to follow, follow.
"You wanted to end your life," I said. "Because you carried a child that you dared not bring into the world."
She looked at me, startled. Then she shook her head. "No, Gabriel, I had not intended to kill myself. I would never have left my daughter alone, no matter how wretched I was, believe that." She paused. "It was not to end my life, much as oblivion would have been sweet to me at the moment. I went to meet someone."
"The beggar who tried to cut you."
"He was not a beggar." She drew a breath. "I had been told to meet him there, by a-a woman to whom I spoke about my predicament. She assured me that this man would tell me where to go to rid myself of- my so unfortunate burden."
I remained still. Likely she had managed to consult a high-flying courtesan or an actress who would know all about removing unwanted children.
She went on, her face pale. "When I met the man, I did not like him. He was wretched and stank and leered at me so. He wanted to lead me to this doctor himself. I suddenly did not want to follow."
I nodded. "You were no doubt wise. He and your high-flyer might have been conspirators, and he leading you off to rob you."
"I thought of that. I realized how utterly alone I was. I tried to run away. He took out his knife. And then you were there."
I ran my finger over the engraved brass head of my walking stick. "I am pleased that I at least saved you from danger."
"I was so grateful to you." She smiled a little. "D
o you know, that was the first time in my life that someone had taken care of me. It has always been me, you see. I looked after Roe, and Chloe. Neither of them were ever very strong. I was the one who held my head up and faced it all, no matter how terrible, and kept them safe. But that night, I at last learned what it was to lay my head on someone else's shoulder. I so craved that comfort, and you offered it for nothing."
I remembered how she'd twined her arms about my neck, pressed her lips to mine, how she'd whispered, "Why not?"
"I am pleased I was able to help," I said.
She gave me a rueful smile. "Always so polite. By rights, you should hate me."
I looked away and let out my breath. "I cannot hate you, Lydia. I admit that I tried to when Louisa made it clear that the child was not mine." I paused. "I gather from your actions that the child was not your husband's either."
"It was not. Roe and I…" She stopped, grief filling her eyes. "No, it was not his."
"I know about your husband's-difficulties," I said.
She glared at me, suddenly indignant. "You know? How the devil could you? Did Richard Eggleston-"
I held up my hand. "You asked me to discover the truth and so clear your husband's name. I am afraid that when one searches for truth, one uncovers it all, not simply the parts that are not ugly. I am sorry."
She sank back. "Oh, it does not matter anymore. I resigned myself long ago that I would never have a natural marriage. After a while, I no longer cared. I could still be a partner to him, if nothing else."
"But he gave you Chloe."
She nodded, a faraway look in her eyes. "Yes, on a moonlit night in Italy. I was so happy. I thought everything would be all right after that. But it was not. It never was."
I felt sweet relief. If she told the truth, then Grenville had been wrong. She had not taken a lover to give herself Chloe. She was innocent of that at least.
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