I approached the desk. Easton stared down at the page, his face drained of color.
The one word on it was Corn. Obviously a code, but what Denis meant by it I could not say.
The expression on Easton's face was telling me, however. The brigadier stood slowly, his skin wan, the man looking ten years older than when I'd walked in.
"You brought this from Mr. Denis," he said.
"I did. Denis . . . asked me to."
Now what was in his eyes was abject fear. Easton studied me anew, taking in my large build, my big hands, the walking stick I held, inside of which rattled a sword.
"I suppose I ought to have known. What else did he ask you to do? Tell me quickly; I've faced it before."
I looked at him, puzzled. "Nothing. To deliver the message was my only charge. What does it mean?"
The brigadier let out a breath and sank to his chair. He put both hands on the desk and looked up at me, shoulders slumped in defeat.
"You've brought me my death sentence, my boy. That's what it means. This is my last day on earth."
* * * * *
Chapter Two
A death sentence. Denis's first commission to me had been to warn a man that his life was in danger.
I might have suspected Denis of playing a jest on me, but one look at the terror in the brigadier's eyes made me know that he, for one, took it seriously.
"Why should James Denis want to kill you?" I asked.
Easton's face was damp with sweat. "You do not know?"
"I told you, I was directed to hand you the message, that is all. I know nothing about it."
Easton got to his feet again, fists on the desk. "I must ask you to leave, Captain."
"Tell me what this is about, and I might be able to help you."
"I will make it an order."
I set my feet, my hand firm on my walking stick. I was twice the brigadier's size and the creaking butler who'd answered the door would be no match for me.
"Neither of us are in the army any longer," I said. "I advise you to get away from here. Denis was polite enough to give you a warning, perhaps even a sporting chance. I would take it."
"Yes." The brigadier nodded, swallowing. "I must . . . prepare my carriage."
"And have Denis or one of his pugilists accost you on a lonely road? You have an ocean at your disposal. A boat to France or the Netherlands is what I'd advise."
"A boat." Easton's eyes focused a bit, and he looked around his study. "If I leave, I can never return. My wife . . ."
"Where is your wife?"
"Visiting my daughter and grandchildren. In Kent."
"Let her stay there. You go, and I will talk to Denis. Send no word to your wife or daughter, in case he intercepts it. Send a message when you're safe--not to your wife or to me, but to Lucius Grenville in London. I will see that your family receives it."
"Grenville?" Easton looked puzzled. "That self-important dandy? Why should I involve him?"
"He is a friend and trustworthy. Now, you need to be off. The tide is out, but if we go to the point you might be able to hire someone willing to take you at once."
"I have a boat of my own. Down in the Broads."
"Which Denis will no doubt be watching. Hire someone, chosen at random, and go. Denis is not a man to hesitate. Gather what you need--quickly--and be off."
*** *** ***
In the end, I had to go with him to the boat. The brigadier and I rode out on a pair of his horses, he with a small pack strapped to his saddle.
I took a direct route to the coast, deciding that if Denis's men were watching and following, they would be less likely to attack us in the middle of a village high street than on a deserted back lane.
In any case, I saw nothing of the hired pugilists Denis employed to do everything from serve brandy to dispose of men who disobeyed him. What Easton had done to draw Denis's displeasure I couldn't imagine, and Easton wasn't about to tell me.
At the point, I refused a fisherman far too eager to sail Easton across the North Sea, and chose one I more or less had to threaten to do it. I could too well imagine the eager fisherman taking Easton's money and dropping him overboard halfway to Amsterdam.
The rain continued without abatement, and I was soaked through by the time I helped the fisherman and his son push the boat off the sands and into the waves. Easton had already disappeared into the tiny cabin, clutching his bundle of belongings, several guineas poorer. The fisherman had driven a hard bargain.
I had no doubt the fisherman would make it to Amsterdam or wherever he was bound. No matter how un-seaworthy a man's craft looked, I knew these fishermen could sail a goodly distance and back in safety.
I was left with the horses. I mounted one and led the other back to Easton's, where I relinquished both to his groomsman. I told Easton's butler to shut up the house and send the servants on holiday. The butler eyed me in trepidation, but I did not give him time to argue before I departed again.
*** *** ***
I seethed that Denis had sent me on such an errand and seethed at the brigadier for making it necessary. I was also angry at Easton for not having the sense to run before Denis caught on that he'd been crossed.
Therefore, I was in a perfectly foul mood when I reached the public house in Cley. I was not happy with Bartholomew's round-eyed stare at my ruined clothes or his, "Oh, sir."
"My baggage has already been sent to Lady Southwick's," I said waspishly, "so they will have to take me as I am. Hire a horse for me, will you? I do not relish the idea of tramping over miles of muddy roads."
"Yes, sir."
Bartholomew had learned to simply vanish when I spoke that sharply.
He could not find a horse to hire, but he did find a cart. It was slow and smelled of rotting vegetables, and the wheels squeaked, but at least I could sit and stretch out my bad leg.
We bumped our way south and east, while a fresh breeze blew in from the coast, bringing with it more rain. Bartholomew hunkered into his greatcoat, but I didn't mind the rain in my face. Though I'd adjusted to living in London, I was country grown, used to sharp ocean winds, not stagnant fog that smelled of London's many cesspits. London, especially in the summer, could be noisome and appalling. Perhaps I missed my native land more than I knew.
Southwick Hall stretched wide arms across a green lawn, situated so that approaching guests would have a view of magnificent fountains placed in tiers leading to the front door.
"Gaudy trash," Lady Breckenridge had called the place, and I saw why when the cart drew closer.
The long, four-story house had a pleasing symmetry when viewed from afar, but the architect had decided to lavish this pleasant outline with pilasters, columns, hexagonal windows, plaster curlicues, pediments, and half-clothed marble women who held up giant urns or pulled back stone draperies. Much of the decoration was in imitation of the ancients, but in such a mishmash of cultures and eras that it confused the eye and upset the stomach.
The inside of the house was not much better, I saw when I entered. The lofty entrance hall was painted with multicolored gods, goddesses, nymphs, satyrs, maidens, shepherds, mermen, and other creatures of the sea, all surrounded by an abundance of gold-leafed moldings certain to give the onlooker a headache.
Bartholomew had already given the carter his coin and legged it around to the back of the house. I envied him. The servants' quarters would be full of bustle, warmth, and normal-looking decor.
The majordomo, after looking askance at my sorry state, told me that the other guests had begun dinner, but I would be taken to them after I refreshed myself. His look told me he'd allow me nowhere near the other guests until I made myself presentable.
The bedchamber to which he led me resembled the entrance hall in decoration, but I consoled myself that I would be sleeping in the dark. The bed at least looked comfortable.
Bartholomew entered as I stripped off my wet clothes. He looked inordinately cheerful for someone who'd ridden through pouring rain on the back of
a cart. He unpacked my things, whistling, while I washed up, then he helped me into my regimentals.
"Something amusing you, Bartholomew?" I asked as I fastened the silver braid.
"You'll see, sir."
His good mood after my race to send Easton out of harm's way then our muddy ride irritated me a bit, but I kept my temper in check. I asked no more questions and went downstairs to the dinner in progress.
The dining room's theme was that of hunting. The mural on the longest wall depicted gods and satyrs chasing helpless oxen and boar through a featureless wood. Most of the animals looked like pincushions full of spears, and those already dead lay broken in pools of blood.
At least ten people gathered around the table--I'd not thought this would be a large house party, but perhaps my ideas of large and Lady Southwick's differed.
The head of the table was empty, but Lady Southwick sat at its foot. Lord Southwick was far away in Greece at the moment. I'd been told that he was often far away in Greece.
Lady Southwick looked to be of an age with Donata Breckenridge, her hair fair with a touch of red. Lady Southwick's gown was a near match to Donata's, dark green and black to my lady's cream and silver. The two women also had similar bearing and mannerisms, as though the same set of governesses had trained and finished both.
The difference ended there, however. Lady Breckenridge had developed a sharp intelligence, while Lady Southwick wore a sly, predatory look of a person who thought herself more clever than she was.
The guests did not look up or cease conversation when the butler led me to the only empty chair, which was on Lady Southwick's left. This put me nowhere near Lady Breckenridge, who sat at the other end of the table next to a dandy called Rafe Godwin. She and Godwin carried on a merry conversation, neither glancing my way.
When I could pull my gaze from Lady Breckenridge, I looked across the table and saw a man I knew very well indeed. He was the most popular gentleman in England, and his name was Lucius Grenville.
The source of Bartholomew's good humor became clear. While in the servants' hall, Bartholomew must have come across his brother, Matthias, who was footman to Grenville. Bartholomew would think it a good joke to surprise me with Grenville's presence.
It did surprise me, because Grenville was very choosy about whom he graced with country visits. The dark-haired, dark-eyed dandy shot me a look across the table as Lady Southwick signaled to her footman to serve me the sole.
After Donata's warnings, I expected Lady Southwick to pay me embarrassing attention, but, alas for Grenville, he eclipsed me. Lady Southwick spent the meal leaning to him, her bosom resting nearly in her plate, so that Grenville could look straight down her decolletage if he chose. Grenville kept his gaze firmly on his food.
The fish was tender and fresh, served with a hot, buttery sauce, welcome after my afternoon in the rain. The game birds that followed were equally good, and the meal ended with a tart heaped with late berries made piquant with lemon. In spite of her taste in decor, Lady Southwick apparently employed a fine chef.
Once the last plates had been taken away, Lady Southwick rose, and the ladies flowed out of the room, leaving the gentlemen alone.
I disliked the modern practice of ladies and gentlemen parting after supper. I'd always found more enjoyment in the company of the fairer sex. Even well-bred gentlemen were apt to grow boorish in their cups, make bodily noises, and emit odors.
One of the Mayfair men at the table already resembled an indolent satyr in the mural. By the rapidity with which he imbibed port, I predicted he'd soon be splayed like the dead boar in the foreground.
Rafe Godwin lit a cheroot, blew out smoke, and directed a his words at me. "You're from these parts, are you not, Lacey?"
The manner in which he said "these parts" told me he thought little of them. "I am, yes," I said. "My father's house is about five miles distant."
"How's your yield?" Godwin asked. "I hear that farming has been dreadful these last few years."
True, a few years ago, a spate of bad weather had meant a dearth of crops, which had resulted in a sharp rise in the price of grain and of bread. People had starved, both here and in the cities, which had led to violence and riots.
Godwin, who spent his nights at White's and the gaming hells and his days asleep, likely knew little about farms and their yields.
"I have not been to Norfolk in two decades," I said. "I have no idea what my fields yield."
"Oh, dear," Rafe said, as though this were the most amusing thing he'd heard in a twelvemonth.
A thirtyish gentleman I did not know narrowed his eyes at me. "Lacey? Not related to Roderick Lacey, are you?"
"He was my father," I said.
The gentleman studied me for a time then seemed to remember to be polite and held out a hand. "Reaves. Preston Reaves. I have the living at Parson's Point."
Mr. Reaves, with his fine suit and manicured hands, looked nothing like a vicar. I assumed he was one of those clerics who'd gone into the church not for the calling, but because there was nothing else he could do. Younger sons who had no hope of inheritance took clerical orders or joined the army, and Reaves looked a bit soft for army life.
In the church, an ambitious man could progress until he was made a bishop, perhaps with a seat in the House of Lords. Money could be had in the higher positions, although a vicar could have a good living if the local lords and gentry were generous enough.
My father had held the living for Parson's Point, which meant that I now did. However, because my family had grown notoriously poor, Lord Southwick had begun paying the vicar's living many years ago, as well as the living for the vicar of his own parish. It was one of those things everyone knew and no one mentioned.
"In my youth, the vicar here was one Dr. Quinn," I said.
"He passed on about seven years ago," Reaves said. "They had a curate for a short while, then Lord Southwick proposed me for the living."
"Did you know my father?" I asked.
"Not at all, actually. He, too, passed on, not long after I arrived." Reaves stared at me a moment, as though reconciling himself to the fact that he now, in theory at least, worked for me.
Grenville rose, helped himself to port, and removed a snuffbox from his pocket. He opened it, one-handed, and held it out to me. I declined, not much caring for snuff.
"No doubt the captain would prefer a pipe," Rafe Godwin said, grinning. "Shall we ask our hostess if she can locate a corncob?"
Baiting the yokel was to be Godwin's entertainment for the evening, I saw. After all, I wore old regimentals and had arrived in a cart, late and covered with mud. Perhaps I ought to be chewing on a straw.
I got up and made my way to the humidor on the sideboard. "I do like a pipe, it is true," I said. "But I will make do with what our hostess has provided." I chose a cheroot, rolled it between my fingers, and lit it from a candle on the table.
Grenville took a pinch snuff from his fingertips, wiped his nose with a silk handkerchief, and ignored Godwin. I seated myself in the chair Lady Southwick had vacated.
Godwin began a raucous conversation with the other gentlemen, and Grenville leaned to me. "I can only say, thank God you are here, Lacey. The company, apart from Lady Breckenridge, is appalling."
"You did not need to accept the invitation," I said. "I am amazed you did."
"It was Lady Breckenridge's invitation. I imagine she was as appalled as I and needed reinforcements. While Lord Southwick is away, Lady Southwick is free to have as many house parties as she pleases. Notice the high proportion of gentlemen to ladies."
I had noticed. Three ladies to seven gentlemen, including myself.
"Lady Southwick does not like to share," Grenville said. "But it would not look well for her if she had no ladies in the party at all."
I had puzzled over the reason Donata wanted me to stay in the house of a predatory woman, but I thought I understood. Lady Breckenridge's first husband had practiced infidelity without shame, even bringing his mist
resses into the Breckenridge household. Had Lord Breckenridge been here, he'd already have let Lady Southwick net him and then moved on to the other ladies of the party. I'd once witnessed Lord Breckenridge fondle another woman while his wife stood not a yard away.
Donata had professed not to care, but I'd seen the hurt in her eyes, the anger that had turned into acerbic humor and a cynical view of the world.
Lady Breckenridge wished to determine, before she married me, whether I'd do as Lord Breckenridge had done. I could not grow offended at her worry--Breckenridge had put Donata through a terrible time of it. If she needed to be certain that I would not do the same, then so be it.
"At least the food is not bad," I said. I pulled on the cheroot, following it with a deep drink of port. The port was rich and smooth, complimenting the dusky taste of the cheroot.
"Lady Southwick has a fine chef, yes, but he's temperamental. As long as he does not grow angry, we eat well. The moment he goes on a tear, we dine on hardtack and water."
"Continental, is he?"
"As English as the pair of us. Local born, son of a fisherman, happened to stow away on a boat to France and get an education in food." Trust Grenville to know the pedigree of every chef in England. "Luckily for us."
"What of Marianne?" I asked. Marianne Simmons, former actress at Drury Lane Theatre and once my upstairs neighbor, was now more or less openly Grenville's mistress.
I did not ask why Grenville hadn't brought her with him--Lady Southwick, for all her reputation for chasing gentlemen, was a lady of the aristocracy, who would hardly invite a stage actress turned courtesan to her gathering. If Marianne had been famous--another Sarah Siddons, say--leeway might be given, but Marianne had never risen higher than the chorus.
"She is in Berkshire," Grenville said. "I told her I'd take her to Paris when this visit was done, and she agreed. She has the full run of the Clarges Street house now, as well as use of my carriage. There are those who wonder when she'll get at the family plate. I have become a laughingstock."
A Death in Norfolk (Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries #7) Page 2
