I wondered what other hold Kensington had had over her. Not every odious connection is easy to break, especially if one person has an emotional tether to the other.
I also wondered about the man of business Marianne had mentioned. I'd found no letters to or from such a person in Peaches' rooms. The man of business might be a thing of the past, but he was worth pointing out to Sir Montague or Thompson.
Marianne smiled again. "You are always stirring up trouble, Lacey. It is a bad habit of yours, that."
"I agree," I said. "I would like nothing more than a holiday from it."
"You would not know what to do with yourself if you did. But I will give you this advice for nothing. I hear you stayed a night in the house of Lady Breckenridge. Have a care of her, Lacey. She can be a viper."
My face grew warm. "You are well informed for a lady being kept prisoner."
She shot me a pitying look. "I hear things, Lacey. I also hear that she can be rather ruthless."
"Do not worry about me. I do not imagine she has any interest in me whatsoever."
"You would be wrong, Lacey. But have a care. You are lonely. When one is lonely, one does foolish things."
We looked at each other. I wondered how many foolish things Marianne had done and how many more I would do.
I thanked her for her information and asked her to inform me if she thought of anything else. I took my leave, admonishing Marianne once again to try to be kinder to Grenville. She made a face at me.
As I departed, I heard Marianne close the boudoir door behind me and the click of the key as she locked it. I sighed. She and Grenville would have a long battle ahead.
Grenville was still furious with me when we retreated to the carriage, though he strove to mask it. He looked, if anything, embarrassed. Grenville, I had come to learn, was not a man who shared himself lightly. He valued his privacy above all else.
Nonetheless, I decided to approach the matter head-on and told him, rather bluntly, that if he did not let Marianne off the tether, she would snap it altogether.
He grew offended, of course. But at last, as we approached Haymarket on the way to Covent Garden, he heaved an exasperated sigh. "Blast it, Lacey, look what she has reduced me to."
"It is your business," I said, "and I will stay out of it. But my warning is fair. If you do not trust her, she will never trust you."
Grenville didn't answer. He looked away for a time, studying the passersby as we bumped slowly toward Covent Garden.
"Tell me what you learned from her, at least," he said after a time. "Unless you discussed only me."
"Not at all. She proved to be most helpful." To cover the awkwardness between us, I related to him everything Marianne had told me about Peaches. By the time I'd finished, Grenville had softened at bit.
"The poor woman," he said. "She probably would have done a great deal better remaining a strolling player in the country. Married some actor chap and had a passel of children who'd tread the boards as soon as they could walk."
Thus spoke a romantic-a man who would never know what it meant to be cold and hungry and not know whether the next town would provide enough money for food or shelter for the night.
"By the by," Grenville said. "What do you intend to do for the rest of the winter, once this problem is cleared up, I mean?"
"Do?" I raised my brows. "What I always do."
Which was damn little. Thanks to Grenville, I had his library available to me, and reading through the winter months kept me occupied at least. I had the Derwents to visit once a fortnight, an event I always looked forward to. Grenville would likely invite me to dine or to his club or to Tattersall's every once in a while. At least I now had things to occupy my time and keep my melancholia at bay.
Grenville studied me. "You know, Lacey, you do not need to live alone. I have an enormous house. I will give you rooms of your own, and you can pay me rent to soothe your pride. We can be two lonely bachelors together."
I looked at him in surprise. "You enjoy taking in strays, do you? First Marianne, then me."
"Touche, Lacey."
"I could not pay you the worth of the lodgings, and you know it."
He gave me a critical look. "You know, Lacey, your difficulty is that you spent most of your life with overwhelming tasks to undertake. Push back the Tippu Sultan in Mysore, push back Boney in Spain. Now, nothing so dire engages your attention. I have had this in mind for several weeks, and in fact, it was the news I wished to tell you at my soiree before you interrupted me to tell me you had found a ring on a poor dead young woman."
He stopped as though assessing my mood, and I gestured for him to continue. "What?"
"I have an old school friend in Berkshire, a widower and a gentleman of means, now head of the Sudbury School there. He is in need of a secretary. I saw him at Christmas, and he asked me in passing whether I knew of any gentleman he could take on. I thought at once of you. How about it, Lacey? Live in Berkshire and write letters for a dull headmaster? Hot meals by night and a servant to light your fire in the mornings?"
I sat still for a moment. Grenville was offering me what I wanted, a way to earn a living, a way to leave London and its smoke and grime and loneliness. Perhaps a way in which I could leave behind my melancholia and uncertainty, perhaps again find my own respect.
I wondered what Louisa would think of the offer. She would doubtless encourage me to take it. If I were out of London, she would no longer have to watch me bait her husband.
"It was good of you to think of me," I said.
"Not at all. It seemed the perfect solution."
"I might well be interested," I said. "I will think on it. Thank you."
Grenville nodded and we ended the discussion.
His coach dropped Bartholomew and myself at home then clopped away into the night. I went to bed, sending Bartholomew up to the attics to do the same. The next morning, Bartholomew fetched a newspaper for me as well as bread and coffee from Mrs. Beltan's shop.
I ate bread and leafed through the newspaper, and then I stopped, my blood freezing.
On the second page, in the middle of the column was a notice that a member of the peerage, Lord Barbury, a baron, had been found outside his house the night before, shot through the head, a pistol clasped in his hand.
Chapter Fourteen
I hastened back to Mayfair, taking Bartholomew with me. Lord Barbury's home was in Mount Street, in a large house typical of the neighborhood. Pomeroy was there, along with another Runner from the Queen's Square house, asking the neighbors what they'd heard. Nothing, Pomeroy told me in disgust.
Lord Barbury had been laid out on his bed, pale and cold. A dark red hole marred the black locks of his hair just behind his right ear. As I looked at him, my anger soared.
The fact that the pistol had been in his hand might convince the Runners that it was suicide-over grief for his dead mistress, they'd say-but I was not convinced.
His coachman, who had been the last to see him alive, replied readily to Pomeroy's questions. Upon leaving Grenville's, Lord Barbury had asked his coachman to set him down in Berkeley Square, saying that he'd walk home from there. He'd wanted to think, he'd said. Why he could not have thought in the carriage, the coachman couldn't say, but that was not a coachman's business. The man set his master down as requested and returned home. Later, one of Barbury's footmen had heard a noise outside, opened the door, and found Lord Barbury lying dead on the front doorstep.
The servants were shocked and grieved. Barbury had been a good master and a kind man. I was in a boiling fury. I had Bartholomew fetch another hackney, and I rode to Middle Temple.
I ought to have consulted Sir Montague or Thompson or even Pomeroy first, but I was tired of waiting for them to uncover evidence through slow investigation. Whatever my thoughts were, they were not clear; I only knew that I wanted to find the killer and drag him to justice. In the affair of Hanover Square, I'd sympathized with those wanting to murder the odious Horne. In the regimental affair, I'd
understood the motives behind the deaths; but Peaches and Lord Barbury, though a misguided in some respects, were hardly in the same standing.
I turned to the most obvious suspect, the jealous husband.
Chapman's chambers lay in the Brick Court of Middle Temple. The house and those around it bore the same formal architecture of gray brick and white windows. The Middle Temple coat of arms, the Agnus Dei, reposed over the door.
Mr. Chapman sent down first his clerk, then his pupil, to try to put me off. Very busy, the clerk said. The red-haired Mr. Gower made a face and said, "He's been closeted all morning by himself, pouring over mucky books. Why, I do not know. I'm only thankful he hasn't made me help him."
"It's important," I said, and Bartholomew loomed behind me to put in, "There's been a murder."
Mr. Gower looked somewhat more interested. "Really? And you want to prosecute? Mr. Chapman works through a chap called Sandringham, in Fetter Lane. I'll give you his direction."
"No, Mr. Gower," I said in a hard voice. "I want to talk to Mr. Chapman about the murder of his wife's lover."
Gower's freckles spread as he raised his brows. "Good lord." He looked at Bartholomew as though asking the large lad whether this were a joke, then he looked back at me. "Well, well. Did Chapman do him in?"
"Maybe," I said.
"Good lord."
"May we go up?" I asked pointedly.
Gower blinked at me, then nodded. "Yes, yes, follow me."
He led us up a flight of polished stairs, his gait agitated. He rapped briefly at a door at the top of the stairs, then pushed it open and fled before Chapman could say a word.
Chapman looked up from behind a stack of books, his graying hair awry. "I told you I did not want-"
He broke off when he saw me, his mouth remaining open. I walked inside. Bartholomew stayed in the hall but closed the door, shutting me in alone with Chapman.
"What do you want?" Chapman bristled. "I am a busy man, sir. What did my clerk mean by admitting you?"
"I am afraid I rather insisted." I dragged a chair from the wall and sat facing Chapman. The chair was hard, the upholstery frayed. "Your wife's lover is dead."
He flushed. "I know that. What of it?"
"You have heard the news, then?"
"I do read newspapers."
"Yes, you make much of your living from the sordid crime that is reported there. Where were you last night?"
He stared, puzzled. "Last night? At home, of course."
"You have witnesses to place you there?"
"Witnesses?" He rose. "See here, Captain Lacey. What are you on about?"
"Do you?" I asked.
"My housekeeper made me supper. I ate it and retired."
"What time was this supper?"
"Eleven o'clock. I am certain of that, because I arrived home at half-past ten."
"Why so late? Were you out?"
"No, I was here. I have much practice, much work to do. Not that my good-for-nothing pupil helps me. He whined that he wanted to waste time at his club with his friends, so I told him to go."
"At what time?"
"Why are you obsessed with the hours of the day, Captain?"
"Tell me, please."
Chapman came around the desk, but I remained seated. "Leave at once, sir. I do not have time for this foolishness. I have a difficult case for which I must prepare."
"Involving murder?" I asked. "Perhaps you are researching how a man might get out of hanging for a crime of passion? How to prove it was not premeditated?"
His flush deepened. "Just what are you suggesting?"
"Did you leave these chambers last night, meet Lord Barbury, and shoot him dead?"
His brow clouded. "Lord who?"
"Barbury. You saw him yesterday at your wife's funeral."
"Did I?" He looked confused.
"The tall man with the dark hair. That was Lord Barbury. Your wife's lover."
Chapman stared at me a moment longer then his face drained of all color. He crossed back to his desk and sat, his eyes fixed in frozen horror.
" He was her lover?"
"Yes. The Thames River policeman told the court all about him at Mrs. Chapman's inquest. He wasn't there himself."
But Chapman had left the room, I now remembered, before Thompson had revealed Lord Barbury's name. Lord Barbury had managed to keep his name out of any newspaper reports of Peaches' death and inquest, probably by giving healthy bribes to the right people.
I could swear that Chapman's astonishment now was genuine. Not only astonishment, shock. He had known that his wife had taken a lover but had not realized that the name of the man was Lord Barbury. I wondered just who he'd thought the lover was.
Then it struck me. "Oh, my God," I said. "You thought it was Simon Inglethorpe."
Chapman looked at me, his face blotched red, his lips white.
"You must have heard she had been going to his house in Curzon Street," I said. "You so concluded that Inglethorpe was her lover."
Chapman's breathing was ragged. "It was an accident. The man ran at me, and the sword went right through him."
I let him sit there while I envisioned the incident. I imagined Mr. Chapman approaching number 21, Curzon Street, filled with indignation, ready to dress down Inglethorpe for his improper relations with his wife. Chapman might have thought to threaten Inglethorpe with a lawsuit or perhaps he'd merely wanted to vent his feelings. Inglethorpe might have laughed at him, provoked Chapman to anger. And my swordstick was to hand…
I paused. How Inglethorpe had suddenly produced my swordstick, I still could not fathom, nor did I yet understand why he'd removed half his clothing.
"Tell me what happened," I said.
"No, I should say nothing." Chapman's hands shook.
I rose and opened the door. Bartholomew was sitting on a wooden chair, resting his muscled shoulders against the wall. I knew he'd heard every word. "Run to Bow Street," I told him. "Fetch Pomeroy if he is back from Lord Barbury's. Tell someone to send word to Sir Montague Harris in Whitechapel. Tell them both it is urgent that they come here."
Bartholomew nodded once, sprang to his feet, and dashed off.
I stayed with Chapman, who sat listlessly, forgetting about his books and everything else around him. Gower came to offer coffee, looking puzzled and very interested.
Pomeroy arrived in a remarkably short time, followed soon after by Sir Montague Harris and Thompson.
Chapman, looking defeated, told his story. Yes, he had learned from one of his maids that Mrs. Chapman was in the habit of going to a certain house in Curzon Street, owned by a wealthy gentleman called Inglethorpe, for regular visits. Mrs. Chapman would never allow the maid to follow her in, and in fact she would dismiss the maid at the door, saying she would return home alone later.
After Peaches' death, Chapman had wanted to see for himself who was this wealthy gentleman of Curzon Street. When he'd reached the house, he found the door wide open and Inglethorpe in the reception room, shirtless, for heaven's sake, and looking annoyed.
Inglethorpe had not even had the decency to pick up his coat and put it on. He'd demanded to know what Chapman wanted, very high and mighty. Chapman had accused him of being Mrs. Chapman's lover, and Inglethorpe had laughed at him.
He'd not denied that Peaches had come there regularly; she always had a marvelous time, Inglethorpe said.
A sword from a walking stick had been lying on a chair next to the door. Chapman had picked it up, uncertain why, he said. He did not really remember, but suddenly, the sword was in his hand. He'd looked down the blade at Inglethorpe, angrier than he had ever been. Inglethorpe, alarmed, had lunged for him. Chapman had held the sword steady, and the blade had pierced Inglethorpe's chest.
Inglethorpe had dropped to the floor. Chapman had let go of the sword and fled.
Chapman's voice was hollow when he finished. Thompson and Sir Montague exchanged glances. Pomeroy said, "A nice story. Now then, sir, what about your wife?"
C
hapman looked puzzled. "What do you mean?"
"Your wife, who was cuckolding you with a Mayfair gent. Did you kill her first, vowing you would kill her lover as well?"
"No, no. I did nothing to Amelia. I told you, I never saw her after the time she left my house to begin her journey to Sussex."
"Well, the jury will decide whether that's true," Pomeroy said cheerfully. "Who knows? Perhaps the gent what prosecutes you will be one of your acquaintance from Middle Temple." He chuckled.
Chapman went white. The man who had aspired to take silk would now have a King's Counsel staring at him across the courtroom at the Old Bailey, questioning his stammered explanation of how Inglethorpe had run into the swordstick.
I rather believed Chapman had stabbed Inglethorpe in fury then had come up with the story of Inglethorpe skewering himself, while sitting in this room "researching" his case. The sword had been thrust all the way through Inglethorpe's chest and into the carpet. I could imagine Chapman stabbing, Inglethorpe crumpling, dying, Chapman keeping the sword hard in him until he'd pinned Inglethorpe to the floor.
As Pomeroy had said, the jury would decide what was true.
Before Pomeroy dragged Chapman off, I said to him, "What is the name of your wife's man of business? I wish to speak with him."
Chapman stared at me in bewilderment. "My wife did not have a man of business. All of our affairs were handled by mine."
"Oh, but she did," Sir Montague Harris broke in, a smile on his broad face. "He sent the coroner a letter on hearing of her death, asking for the death certificate."
Chapman continued to look surprised.
I was surprised as well. "So the man of business does exist?" I asked.
"Indeed," Sir Montague said. "I think I ought to pay him a visit. Care to join me, Captain?"
"This is most irregular," the thin man on the other side of the table said to us. He had sandy, almost colorless hair, narrow dark eyes, and pale skin stretched tightly over his bones. He kept a tiny room in a court off Chancery Lane, not far from the Temples, had a clerk as thin as he was, and an office of painful neatness.
His name was Ichabod Harper, and he'd been Peaches' man of business for six years, ever since she'd inherited property in a trust.
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