Grenville tore his gaze from the club again, looking not at all ruffled at Brewster’s and his servants’ discussion of him. “You are speculating that the attacker went to great trouble to make it look as though ruffians had set upon Leland and Gareth in this passage.”
“Yes,” I said. “They were setting a scene—Sir Gideon’s son and his lover decide to engage in a bout of passion in a street in Seven Dials. For the excitement of it? They are set upon by robbers and coshed. Found partly undressed, Leland’s fine coat and waistcoat stolen. Shock ensues. Whether the villains intended death or not is unclear.”
Mackay had scuttled their plans by coming to find me. Had he just happened by, or was he part of the killer’s plan? If Mackay had been a witness, why hadn’t he tried to prevent the attack, and why hadn’t he been hurt himself?
“We must find Mackay,” I repeated.
“Undoubtedly,” Grenville agreed. “Where did he run off to, after he led you here?”
“I sent him back to my rooms to get word to you, but he never returned.”
“Hmm. Perhaps Mrs. Beltan spoke to him,” Grenville said. “She’s the motherly sort—when she saw that this Mackay was upset she’d have plied him with bread and coffee. She might have ferreted something out of him, such as who he is and where he lives.”
“Possibly,” I said. “Except that I did not send him to Mrs. Beltan. I sent him to Marianne, who was using my rooms at the time. I knew she’d be able to get word to you the quickest.”
“Ah.” Grenville’s face went still except for a tightening around his eyes. “I was aware only that the summons came from you. Then it seems we must ask Miss Simmons what became of Mr. Mackay.”
“I can do that,” I said quickly. “No need for you to accompany me.”
“Not at all. I’ll not cower here or in my carriage while you approach her.” Grenville dabbed his mouth with his handkerchief, sniffed, returned the handkerchief to his coat, and adjusted his hat. “But, my good fellow, do be kind and warn me next time you’re about deliver a blow like that.”
Chapter Twelve
By the time we reached Grimpen Lane, I thought Grenville would change his mind about facing Marianne. He was a trifle white about the eyes as he descended from his carriage, though he looked airily around him as though he had no qualms about being in the street outside the rooms of his former lover.
Brewster accompanied us. Matthias and Bartholomew had volunteered to stay behind and continue to search the passage for any other signs we might have missed. Bartholomew was of the mind that those who lived in the houses around the narrow lane might have seen something, though Brewster negated that idea.
“The more goes on, the less they see, if you understand me,” Brewster had said in his blunt way. “No harm trying I s’pose, but I wish you lads luck.”
Bartholomew had looked annoyed but determined to prove Brewster wrong.
As we climbed the stairs to my rooms, Grenville’s face grew tighter, and at the same time his expression became more disdainful. He was slipping on his haughty dandy persona, the one he used to mask his true self. Easier to face her if he made the encounter less personal, I supposed.
There was nothing to say Marianne was even home. She might have gone out, not wanting to be there whenever I returned.
We knew soon enough. As we reached the landing, we heard her laughter behind my front door.
My door handle, in the in the shape of a woman with long wings, had once been gilded, but the gilt had flaked off years ago, leaving worn brass behind. The handle was cool under my palm as I pushed the door open.
Marianne did indeed occupy my sitting room. This morning she wore a gown of light pink that went with her girl-like prettiness, but no modest young debutante would have worn such a garment. The fabric was thin, hiding little, and the gown’s décolletage slid from her shoulders, coming dangerously close to baring her right breast. Ribbons dripped from her ringlets of golden hair, moving as she laughed.
She reposed in my wing chair, lolling as though she had no cares, the position letting the silken skirt cling to her shapely legs. On the footstool, holding her hands and inciting her laughter, was a gentleman in a black frock coat and riding boots, his hair as artfully tousled as Grenville’s.
The gentleman turned abruptly at our entrance, an admonishment on his lips. When he saw the two of us standing there, Brewster behind, his irritation vanished, and he leapt to his feet.
He was Lord Percy Saunders, eldest son of the Duke of Waverly. I had met him once, briefly, a year or so ago when he and I had been guests in Donata’s box in Covent Garden. I’d thought him coolly rude. He’d tried to persuade Donata to marry him, she’d told me, but she’d turned him down. She’d not found much to object to in him, she’d said, beyond his name—she’d not wanted to be called Lady Percy—but not much beyond that either.
He is neither good nor evil, interesting nor dull, hard nor soft, she’d said of him in one of our nightly discussions. He does everything expected of him, converses on predictable topics, loses at cards without fuss, and expects ladies—if they are pretty—to hang upon his every word. He mistakes petty vindictiveness for wit, and I soon had enough of his company.
I heard Donata’s words hanging in the silence as Lord Percy and Grenville faced each other.
Most Mayfair gentlemen knew one another’s mistresses, and often the ladies were handed from one to the next when affairs ended. But to be found in the company of the former mistress of Lucius Grenville, without his knowledge or previous approval, had to be the social blunder of the Season.
Lord Percy cleared his throat. “Grenville.” His hands clenched in kid gloves, and he looked as though he hoped a hydra would crash through the window and swallow him whole.
“Saunders.” Grenville gave him a minute bow.
They exchanged another long look, ignoring the rest of us in the room. Brewster and I, and even Marianne, might not have existed.
“I have come to speak to Miss Simmons,” I announced into their motionless fencing match. “If she can spare a moment.”
Marianne, who’d remained stiffly in the chair, straightened up and gave me a cool nod. She alone of the players responded to the situation with the most aplomb. She might be a royal at her levee, quietly acknowledging that more admirers had come to greet her.
I would have assumed she’d staged the tableaux except for two things—she hadn’t known we were coming, and the strained look on her face as she turned to me masked a boiling fury.
Saunders continued to eye Grenville. I wanted him gone, or for Marianne to come outside with me so I could speak with her alone, but neither she nor Saunders moved. I feared Brewster would simply walk past me and pluck Lord Percy up by his collar, but Grenville saved the shaky moment.
“Saunders,” he said, his voice as smooth as ever. “Walk out with me, will you?”
Where Lord Percy might have defied me and certainly Brewster, he’d never refuse a direct order from Grenville.
“Of course,” he said, as though he and Grenville were deciding to have a private word at White’s. “Miss Simmons.” Lord Percy gave Marianne stiff bow, took up his hat and greatcoat from where he’d pitched them to the chair at my writing table, and walked past me to the door.
Grenville had already exited, moving unworriedly around Brewster. He did not wait for Lord Percy but simply walked down the stairs as though having no doubt the man would follow.
Percy did, quickly. He barely remembered to give me a civil nod, ignored Brewster as Grenville had, and strode down the stairs.
I knew Marianne would begin shouting as soon as the two gentlemen were out of sight, but they’d be able to hear until they were well out onto the street. I took her by the arm and steered her into the bedchamber, closing the door on Brewster’s interested face.
“Devil a bit, Lacey.” Marianne’s voice rang through the room as she jerked away from me. “Why did you bring Grenville here? You knew Lord Percy was meeting me, didn�
��t you? You are hand in glove with him, trying to ruin me!”
I folded my arms, standing like a pillar at the end of my bed. “How would I have had any bloody idea Saunders would be here? I didn’t even know you knew the man. I came to discuss something else entirely. In any case, why the devil were you using my rooms for your tryst?”
“As though I could take him up there where it’s barren as an orphanage.” She jabbed her finger at the ceiling. “I thought you’d be off investigating crime, or holding young Mr. Derwent’s hand.”
“I am investigating. Which is what brought me to talk to you. About Mr. Mackay.”
Marianne’s diatribe cut off, and she shot me a puzzled look.
“The man who arrived here last night to take me to Leland,” I said. “I sent him back to you, to ask you to find Grenville.”
“Oh, him.” Marianne rolled her eyes. “He was a poor specimen. He was sick in the street then tore off as soon as I sent the message.”
“That was Mr. Mackay. If you will sit down and speak quietly, perhaps you could tell me about him.”
She blinked. “I can’t tell you anything about him. I barely said a word to the man.”
I began to answer, then broke off, opened the door, and ushered her out into the sitting room again. We could at least be comfortable. Brewster had settled himself on the straight-backed chair, reading one of the few books I kept in my shelves, a small tome on Egypt and Belzoni’s discoveries. He was truly reading it, his eyes moving along the lines.
I sat Marianne in the wing chair and remained standing over her. “You can tell me a little about Mr. Mackay,” I said. “What did you think of him? Was he middle class? Impoverished but respectable? A clerk? A gentleman’s son? Did he mention where he lived?”
“Yes, of course,” Marianne said derisively. “He gave me his entire family history and a map to his estate in Norwood while he was blithering and dithering about what you wanted him to do.”
I suppressed a sigh of impatience. “He might not have been specific. But you are good at forming impressions, Marianne. I want your opinion.”
“Well, apparently I am very bad at forming impressions, or I’d not have made myself a slave to him for most of a year.”
Brewster snorted a laugh, and Marianne turned a freezing look on him. “I’ll thank you not to listen, sir.”
“I’m ten feet away from yer, miss.” Brewster, who did not consider himself a servant and saw no need to behave like one, returned his attention to the book. “You know, Captain, his nibs can find out all about this Mackay cove for you.”
“Possibly,” I said. “But he might be an innocent man with no need to be dragged from his house by Mr. Denis.”
Brewster shrugged. “He gets the thing done, though, doesn’t he?” Having said his piece, he closed his mouth and continued reading.
Marianne’s look suggested I was mad to let Brewster into my rooms, but she at least began speaking reasonably.
“I would think your Mr. Mackay is a gentleman’s son,” she said. “Had the look. Not a rich gentleman, I’d say, but not a destitute one either. Coat was well cut and made of good material. Boots made to fit, but no rings or cravat pin. His manservant, if he has one, ties a sloppy knot, but his cravat linen costs a bob or two.”
“You see? You have a knack for knowing what a person is like.”
Marianne scowled. “Do not try to flatter me—I am furious with you for bringing him here. Good Lord, could you not have left him in a pub somewhere?”
Another laugh from Brewster, which, this time, Marianne ignored.
“He insisted,” I said. “I would have given you warning if I’d been able. Did Mackay say anything else to you? Anything that would help?”
Marianne thought a moment. “Not really. What he said was, You must send for Mr. Grenville. He said you must send for Mr. Grenville. He repeated this several times, and then had to run downstairs and bend over the pavement to lose whatever he had in his stomach. Once I fetched a boy to run with a message to Mayfair—which I paid for, by the bye—Mr. Mackay had dashed off.”
“You did not see which way?”
“I saw him turn left onto Russel Street. He could have been making for a hackney stand, or simply running off into the mists. Who knows?”
“Thank you.” I dug into my pocket and pulled out a crown, which would more than cover her expenses, and dropped it into her waiting palm. “It is a help.”
“I do not see how, but nonetheless.” Marianne heaved a sigh and threw herself back into the wing chair, her hand closed firmly around the coin. “Do go away now, Lacey. I would like to sulk in peace.”
In my rooms. I felt sympathy for her, but also exasperation. I had since the day I’d met her.
“Tell me,” I said to her as I signaled to Brewster. He rose and set the book aside. “Why Lord Percy?”
Marianne gave me a deprecating look. “Because he has plenty of money and doesn’t tell me what to do. No, he has not yet offered me anything, and because of your so timely interruption, I doubt he will.” She rose to her feet, deigning to leave. “Now if you will excuse me. Good day, Lacey.”
She swept past me, and out the door, as arrogant as ever, but I saw the despair in her eyes. I watched her ascend the stairs, her thin gown floating gracefully, until she disappeared into her rooms above.
“She’ll lead that aristo a life of merry hell if he does offer her carte blanche,” Brewster said. He lifted a book from the table, enclosing it in his beefy hands. “Mind if I borrow this, sir? It’s fascinating stuff.”
Chapter Thirteen
My next idea was to retrace the steps Leland and Travers had taken the previous night. They’d planned to meet at Brooks’s, where Leland and his father were members, and to Brooks’s I would go.
Percy Saunders had vanished by the time I emerged downstairs. Grenville, tight-lipped when I reached his carriage in Russel Street, said nothing at all about him.
We first returned to Seven Dials to fetch Matthias and Bartholomew, but they asked to stay and keep looking about. Grenville agreed they could meet up with us again at his home, gave them fare for transportation and a spot of luncheon, and he and I departed for St. James’s.
Brooks’s club was in St. James’s Street near Park Place. With its elegant facade, Doric columns, and Greek pediments, it held a quiet dignity amid the bustle of the area. Its members were traditionally Whigs, and Sir Gideon Derwent was prominent here.
I considered myself Whiggish, as my father had been, though I had no true political leanings. My father had chosen to align himself with the Whigs because the Lacey family had done so since Whigs had been invented, and my father was happy for the ruling power to be out of the hands of the monarch and into hands of people like himself. Not because he wanted to better England, but because he hated others telling him what to do.
Grenville was a member of Brooks’s, and I was allowed in as his guest. Once upon a time, I had cornered one of the members here, a man called Alandale, and done harm to him. I had thought I’d be banished from these halls forever because of that, but not so. Grenville and others had stood up for me, and while the ton had decided I was a bit of a bully, being hot-tempered and quick with fists was a far lesser crime than breaking one’s word, not paying one’s debts, or worst of all, cheating. Gentlemen of society had learned that I was at my most enraged when the honor of a lady was at stake, and that motive was wholly approved. Not many had liked Alandale anyway—I’d not seen him in London since.
This was one building Brewster could not enter, at least not into the main rooms, and he chose to wait outside with the coach. The club was fairly empty this early in the day, containing only a few gentlemen breakfasting or reading newspapers.
The most logical person to quiz was the doorman, who knew all members on sight, and the most likely person to take note of the comings and goings.
“Yes, Mr. Derwent was here, Mr. Travers as his guest.” The elderly gentleman stood ramrod straight and watch
ed us with disdainful dark eyes. “They had mutton and beef in the dining room and sat at a game of whist in the card room. Mr. Derwent plays like a gentleman, if I may say so, sir.”
Did I detect a faint hint of emphasis on Derwent? As though implying Travers did not?
“Indeed, he does,” Grenville said. “What time did the gentlemen depart?”
“Very early, sir. Around eight o’clock. I assumed them on their way to another appointment.”
“Oh?” I broke in. “Why did you suppose that?”
The doorman gave me a pained look. He was much more comfortable speaking to Grenville and attempted to pretend I did not exist, but he at least thought about it a moment. “I couldn’t say, sir. Perhaps they mentioned a meeting. I did not hear precisely, but I formed that opinion.”
“They left quite alone?” I asked. “The two of them together?”
“Several gentlemen were coming and going at the time,” the doorman said, looking down his nose. “Many were taking an evening meal.”
“It’s quite all right, Richards,” Grenville said soothingly. “What we mean is, they were not obviously part of a group of gentlemen?”
“Not that I could see, sir,” Richards answered. He looked back and forth between us, beginning to wonder at our questions. “Has something happened?”
Grenville looked at me inquiringly, and I nodded. We could not keep it from the world for long.
“Mr. Derwent was hurt last evening,” Grenville said. “Set upon and robbed.”
Richards’s haughty look vanished to be replaced with one of concern. “Good Lord, sir. Is the lad all right?”
“We have hopes of his recovery,” Grenville said. “But it is not certain at the moment, I am afraid.”
“Why do you wish to know if he left with others, sir?” Richards asked, puzzled. “Surely you do not believe other gentlemen of this club are common robbers.”
“No, no, not at all,” Grenville said quickly. “We are trying to determine where they might have gone, if they’d met up with unsavory types—through no fault of their own, of course.” He added the last as Richards’s eyes began to widen again. “But you know the Derwents. Always trying to help the downtrodden. We want to find these villains and see that they come up before a magistrate.”
Murder in Grosvenor Square (Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries Book 9) Page 10
