A Covent Garden Mystery clrm-6

by Ashley Gardner

  "Ah, well, I will have to console meself. As long as you tell me all about it after you pummel him."

  "I assure you, you will have the entire story." I settled my best frock coat and took up my walking stick. "By the bye, why is Bess called Black Bess?"

  Nancy tugged at a lock of her own richly dark hair. "Same reason I'm called Black Nancy. 'Cause of our tresses."

  "Why isn't Felicity called Black Felicity?"

  "Don't know. Never thought of it. Don't sound as good, though, does it?"

  "No, I admit Black Nancy has better cadence."

  Nancy grinned. "Well, I don't know what cadence is, but I'm glad I got it. You go off and shake up the gentleman. As long as you like me best, I'll overlook your interest in Felicity."

  "You are too kind." I snatched up my hat. "Rest here as long as you like. You have been at it all day and night. Sleep on the bed if you like."

  Nancy laughed and twirled around, skirts swirling to reveal plump ankles. "Thought you'd never ask, Captain. I'll take you up on that. And brag to me pals I was flat on me back in your bed." She blew a kiss to me, and I went out the door, certain I'd regret my sudden charity.

  Jackson waited for me at the carriage. He was checking over the harness but looked up when he saw me coming. "Ready, sir? Mr. Grenville said I was to deliver you to Tatt's safe and sound."

  Jackson was a typical coachman, broad of shoulder and of hand, used to working around horses. Like other coachmen, he'd filed his incisors to points, giving him a rakish look when he smiled, which was seldom, in Jackson's case. In his red livery and black hat with its stiff brush, he looked well turned out but just a bit savage, a man more at home with beasts than men.

  I knew that Jackson must be one of the best coachmen in the business, because Grenville employed only the best. I also noted that Grenville let him use his real name rather than calling him "John Coachman" as most people did their drivers.

  Jackson held the door open for me, and I thanked him. I sat back against the leather seat as the coach listed as Jackson hauled himself to his perch. I heard him give command to the horses and crack his whip, and we jolted through traffic toward Mayfair.

  Tattersall's, near Hyde Park Corner, was the demesne of the Jockey Club and an auction block for the very best in horseflesh. Here, upper-class gentlemen and the aristocracy bought and sold horses, placed bets on races important and unimportant, and talked horses, sport, and hunting.

  Grenville often invited me to join him at Tatts, asking my opinion when he wanted to buy or sell. As a cavalryman, I knew horses. I could quickly discern correct conformation, or whether the horse was sound or sickly, and whether he had the spirit for racing or was better suited for country hacks. Best of all, I could ride whatever horse interested Grenville, and in the saddle, I was the equal of or better than any man.

  A number of gentlemen had drifted in to spend the summer afternoon discussing horses. In the enclosure, with its small rotunda in the center, I saw Lord Alvanley and a few of his cronies watching two grooms put mounts through their paces. Leland Derwent and the friend who was his shadow, Gareth Travers, stood nearby-although, since Travers was the more robust of the pair, I should more rightly say that Leland shadowed him.

  Grenville, resplendent in fashionable riding garb-cutaway frock coat, immaculate buff breeches, and polished high boots-saw me, broke away from the group of gentlemen he'd been speaking with, and came to me. "Lacey, what news?"

  "None, I am afraid. Is Mr. Stacy here?"

  "Not yet. I told him three o'clock-if he does not arrive, we will hunt him down. In the meantime, there's a horse I want you to look at."

  So saying, he led me along the columned walkway that surrounded the green.

  Leland Derwent hailed me as we approached. "Well met, Captain." He shook my hand, staring at me with admiration that a year of acquaintance had not diminished. In Leland's eyes, I was a war hero. He loved my stories of the hardships of the army, the harsher, the better. A bit strange for a timid young man from one of the wealthiest families in England. I had worried Leland a bit this spring when I'd questioned him during the investigation of Berkeley Square murder, but by the eager manner with which he clasped my hand now, he'd forgiven me.

  "I am so sorry about your daughter," Leland said, anguish in his eyes. "My father is doing all he can."

  "Thank you. Tell him that I very much appreciate his assistance."

  "He knows all the reform houses and workhouses in London. He'll look through them all."

  "Thank you," I repeated with sincerity. They were a kind family.

  "Father is using the opportunity to put another reform bill before the House of Commons. He will call it the Lacey Bill if he can."

  I winced. "God help me. Grenville, where is this horse?"

  The horse in question proved to be a bay stallion, five years old, which Grenville thought to use as a hunter. I handed Grenville my walking stick and let a groom boost me into the saddle.

  I walked the horse to the rotunda, casting a glance at the bust of the Prince of Wales within it, then squeezed my lower legs against the horse's sides. The stallion picked up his pace, trotting smartly where I guided him. Well trained. His trot was so smooth I barely had to rise in the saddle with it.

  I tapped the stallion with the crop and leaned into my left leg, and the horse flowed like water into a canter. I took him around at this gait, not letting him move too fast, collecting him if he extended too much.

  The stallion responded well, although I was not too surprised at his sound going. Grenville always asked my opinion, but in truth, he was a fine judge of horses and could pick out the best. I suspected that he asked my opinion under the guise of giving me an opportunity to ride. Richard Tattersall liked Grenville, because any horse for which Grenville showed interest automatically jumped in price, whether he bought it or not. Everyone wanted a horse that had caught Grenville's eye.

  I cantered the stallion around again, letting him pick up speed, so that Grenville could see what he'd be like at full tilt. A few gentlemen applauded. I slowed the stallion, trotted him out, then walked back to where Grenville stood waiting.

  "He is a wonderful horse." I patted the stallion's neck. "Who wants to part with him?"

  "Lord Featherstone. He doesn't ride much anymore and decided yesterday that he had no reason to keep the horses he had. So they all went on the block." Grenville grimaced. "I had better get my bid in before the price goes up. I always pay a mint for my horseflesh, having to outbid every gentleman who wants a horse of which I approve."

  I slid to the ground, reminded that I was no longer whole the moment my left foot touched the ground. The groom handed me my walking stick, and I leaned on it, flexing my leg. "Another difficulty of being the most fashionable man in London," I said.

  "Yes, do not rub it in. Ah, here's Stacy, come at last."

  I looked to where a tall, thin man walked into the enclosure, his riding coat and breeches as well made as Grenville's. When Grenville inclined his head at him, Stacy started over.

  Grenville extended a hand to him when he reached us. "Stacy," Grenville said. "You remember Captain Lacey. Chat with him a moment, will you, and I will snatch up this horse while I can still afford it." Grenville strode off, and Stacy chuckled at his back.

  "He makes a good joke," he said.

  I studied the man beside me while he watched Grenville walk away. Jeremiah Stacy was a few inches taller than I was, with oddly long and thin limbs, as though someone had taken a normal man and stretched him. He had dark hair and blue eyes and a reasonably handsome face, leaning on this side of plain. Stacy looked down at me without concern, genially wondering why Grenville had left me in his care.

  "Will you walk with me, Mr. Stacy?" I asked. "I would like to speak with you privately."

  He looked surprised. "Very well." He gestured toward the corner of the enclosure nearest the loose boxes. "There?"

  "That will do." I fell into step beside him, waiting until we were ou
t of earshot of the other gentlemen before I began. "I asked Grenville to bring you here today on purpose so I could speak to you."

  "Oh? What about?"

  I heard no trace of trepidation in his voice, as though he had a clear conscience. I plunged on. "I saw you last night. In Covent Garden."

  Stacy nodded. "I attended the theatre with my wife."

  "Not at the theatre. You left it early."

  "I did. To meet friends for cards." He studied me. "What are you getting at, Captain?"

  Grenville reached us before I could expound. He looked satisfied. "Excellent. Featherstone was in a hurry to sell, so I got close to my price, only a little inflated because Alvanley decided to stick in his oar. Alvanley used to emulate Brummell, now he wants to emulate me. Such a tragedy he cannot have his own personality."

  Stacy laughed. "Congratulations, Grenville."

  "Thank you. Carry on, Lacey."

  "You left your wife and daughter at the theatre," I said to Stacy, "and went off to play cards."

  "I have just said so. My daughter and wife were to attend a soiree together after that. We often arrange our evenings thus."

  "On your way, your carriage rolled through Covent Garden. The carriage halted, and you descended. You spoke to a game girl and invited her into your carriage with you."

  Stacy stopped, his cheeks burning a sudden red. "Why do you say so?"

  "Because I saw you."

  "Oh, did you?" His look turned hostile. "And what business is it of yours?"

  "Then you do not deny that you did this," I said.

  Stacy looked at Grenville for support, but Grenville only pinned him with a black stare. "Always thought you marched the straight and narrow, Stacy."

  Stacy shot a fearful glance at the crowd of aristocrats and dandies under the colonnade. "For God's sake, keep your voices down. I couldn't… I do not want anyone to know."

  "Least of all your wife?" I asked.

  "Oh, you would not be so much of a bounder to tell her, would you? She would die of shame."

  "Your secret is safe with us," Grenville assured him. "At least for now. As long as you tell us what you did."

  Color flooded Stacy's face, and he regarded Grenville with distaste. "What the devil do you think I did? Why should you want to know?"

  "Do not worry," Grenville said. "The captain and I are not voyeurs. What I mean is, where did you go? How long did you stay with the girl, and where is she now?"

  "As I say, what business is it of yours?"

  I leaned on my walking stick, giving him a cold stare worthy of James Denis himself. "Tell us, Stacy."

  Stacy's eyes glittered in sudden worry. "How should I know where the devil she is? I did what I always do. My coachman drove through the quietest streets he could find, while…" He trailed off. "And then returned me to Covent Garden. I set her down there and went on. To play cards, as I said."

  "Do you do this often?" I asked sharply.

  "Yes." His gaze shifted. "Rather too often."

  Grenville adjusted his hat and gave a sniff, his way of showing disapproval. "I was surprised when Lacey mentioned that he'd seen you. I would not have pegged you for it."

  "It really is my business, Grenville," Stacy said desperately.

  I cleared my throat. "For myself, I do not care for your reasons. I want to know whether you enjoyed yourself with a girl called Black Bess or a girl called Mary Chester."

  Stacy gasped. "Black Bess?"

  "Specifically, I want to know whether you promised either of them a good sum of money to take up with you."

  "Dear God. What has Bess been telling you?"

  "Bess has told me nothing." My voice went harsh. "She has disappeared, and Mary Chester has been murdered, and I want to know what you had to do with it."

  Chapter Thirteen

  Stacy went pasty white. "Murdered? Bloody hell."

  "You knew Bess and Mary, then?" I demanded.

  "I do not always know their names. Black Bess told me hers. I don't remember a Mary."

  "Dyed blond hair, pretty. Came from Wapping."

  Stacy drew a ragged breath. "You don't have a flask on you, do you, Grenville?"

  Grenville produced a silver flask of brandy from his pocket and handed it to Stacy. Stacy opened it and drank deeply. "Thank you."

  "Mary Chester," I prodded. "Had you been with her?"

  "Possibly. Several weeks ago, if she is the same girl. I haven't seen her since. That is the truth. I certainly did not murder her. What do you take me for?"

  "I take you for a man who goes trawling for game girls," I said. "Why you choose to is your own business, as you say. They likely appreciate your coin and your fine carriage on a rainy night. But Bess and Mary went missing, and you were with them both."

  Stacy's face was still wan, the brandy clearly not helping. "Coincidence."

  Grenville drew out his quizzing glass and peered at Stacy through it. Stacy flinched. Grenville examining a man thusly was preliminary to said man being dismissed as a vulgarian. Grenville doing so in front of a large crowd at Tatt's could ruin a man.

  "You know, Stacy," Grenville said in a cool, rather bored manner. "Slumming can be a recipe for the clap."

  Stacy reddened again, a vein pulsing in his neck.

  I recognized that Grenville was very angry. I generally blustered and threatened when enraged, but Grenville turned ice cold. The death of Mary and the disappearances of Bess and Gabriella had distressed him, and the thought that Stacy, one of his own crowd and a friend, could have anything to do with it enraged him.

  "Damnation, Grenville," Stacy said. "I am not the only one who does such a thing."

  The quizzing glass didn't move. "Yes, but you are the only slummer who has drunk from my flask. Keep it, there's a good fellow. I hardly want it back."

  Stacy's mouth opened and closed, but before he could respond, a new voice broke in. "Extolling your own virtues, are you, Grenville?"

  A man strolled to us, one of a height between mine and Grenville's, his tailed coat hanging from broad shoulders. His breeches and boots hugged legs muscled from riding, but although his garb was fashionable, he wore it as though he cared nothing for fashion and had bought it because that was all his tailor would make for him. He had dark hair and eyes, a square jaw, and a chin blue with whiskers. He spoke with the faintest of Scottish accents, as though he secretly wished to speak broad Glaswegian but strove while in London to speak like a Londoner.

  "Not got a leg to stand on, I should think," the man said. He looked pointedly at my walking stick.

  I did not rise to the bait, but Stacy looked uncomfortable. "McAdams, this is a private conversation."

  "But I am here to rescue you, my friend. Is Mr. Grenville berating you because you enjoy spending time in Covent Garden?" McAdams made a tut-tut noise. "While Grenville parades about with an actress who's little better than a whore? The captain, now, he's caught himself a viscountess. Very well done, I must say, Captain. Although I'd say the Breckenridge came after you with all flags flying, wanting to snare herself a cicisbeo. A feather in your cap, that is."

  Grenville twirled his quizzing glass in his fingers, his eyes flat. "Crudely done, McAdams. Insults ought to be subtle."

  "What?" McAdams's eyes widened in mock surprise. "You will not slap my face and call for your seconds? After I have spoken so of your lady?"

  Grenville hid a yawn behind his gloved hand. "You are hardly worth the effort of rising early and making my sleepy way to Hyde Park Green. Waste of gunpowder, as well. My lady, as you call her, has far better manners than you, albeit she is an actress from the gutter. As for Lady Breckenridge, she could flatten you with a single barb at twenty paces. She has a command of language and a true wit that you will never achieve in your lifetime, no matter how you strive. Perhaps she has disparaged you at some time, so that you feel it your right to speak so slightingly of a lady who is well beyond your reach."

  McAdams smiled coldly. "Grenville, my friend, I do not fear your
censure."

  "You are a fool then. I can make certain you never set foot in a respectable parlor again, let alone White's or any other club, just by putting about that you are a blackguard."

  The lines around McAdams's mouth tightened, but he would not back down. My own anger was up, but I took a step back to let Grenville fight it out. This was his world, with its own rules, and here, Grenville was master.

  Stacy clenched the flask in his hand. "McAdams, I have no need of rescue. Please go."

  "But you looked so distressed, my friend. If Mr. Stacy wishes to invite a girl into his carriage, that is nothing to do with you, gentlemen. Why do you harp at him for it?"

  "Tell me, McAdams," Grenville said, "were you the one who put him on to it? Dragged him from the respectability of Mayfair to the dark of Covent Garden?"

  "Perhaps." McAdams shrugged. "He wanted a bit of diversion, and I gave it to him."

  "And I am sorry you ever did," Stacy said under his breath.

  McAdams looked at us in disbelief. "Good Lord, can three Englishmen be any more stifled? What is the matter with passing an hour with a gutter girl? That's what they're for. They don't expect you to give them houses and expensive presents, like courtesans do, and they don't cry when you beat 'em a little. They expect it."

  I made a noise of disgust. Grenville's brows rose in cold hauteur. "Well, that has torn it for you, McAdams. You're out."

  "Over game girls?" McAdams laughed. "I've always thought you a bit touched, Grenville."

  "It is not funny," Stacy said. "Some of them have gone missing, and one is dead. The Captain and Grenville think I had something to do with it."

  McAdams laughed again. "Good Lord, so what if he did? They're not worth bothering about, gentlemen. Go look at the horses. They're far more important."

  I broke in. "Murder is murder, Mr. McAdams. It is a capital offense, whether you are convicted of killing a game girl or your own brother."

  McAdams paled slightly but lost none of his bravado. "A jury might not think so. Girls no better than they ought to be. They'd die soon enough of some disgusting disease anyway."

  "Perhaps you are right about a jury, but the kidnapping and murder of a respectable young woman is a different matter altogether," I said, keeping my temper tightly reined. I might learn nothing if I gave in to impulse and knocked McAdams to the ground.