Yardley went red as Grenville carefully touched the tip of his walking stick to a spot in question. Grenville was a half a head shorter than Yardley, but this hardly mattered as he rubbed the stick’s tip on one of the waistcoat’s brown fleurs-de-lis.
Yardley stood, stunned, and the other gentlemen waited, hanging on Grenville’s words.
Grenville stepped back, drew out his handkerchief, and dabbed his nose. “I suggest you change it, Yardley,” he said. “Or burn the thing altogether.”
With that, he casually turned on his heel and strolled toward the exit, slipping his handkerchief back into his pocket as he went.
The room was quiet a moment, then, as Grenville disappeared out into the thin rain, the assembled gentlemen exploded into laughter.
Yardley turned angrily on his heel and made for the opposite door, but I stopped him with a heavy hand on his shoulder. He swung to me. “What do you want?”
“Miss Simmons,” I said. “The woman you called a tart, and English whey.” When Yardley focused angry eyes on me, I tightened my grip on his shoulder. “I consider her a very good friend. I advise you have a care what you say about her.”
Yardley was nearly my height, and his cheeks reddened as he looked straight at me. News of the outcome of my duel had certainly got around, I saw, reading the blatant fear in his eyes.
I squeezed his shoulder once more, released him, and departed to find Grenville.
*
We found Lord Percy in a yard with a groom who held the reins of a gray gelding. Saunders was running his fingers along the horse’s side and down to its rear hock, but he straightened quickly when Grenville approached.
Grenville held up his hand. “Peace, Saunders. We wish only for a conversation.”
I looked over the horse, a sound beast, in appreciation. “Are you buying or selling?” I asked.
“Buying.” Lord Percy’s answer was a grunt. “Possibly.”
The horse’s mane and tail were jet black, a nice contrast to the light gray coat. I patted the gelding’s shoulder and stroked his nose, while he observed me with a soft, but lively eye. “Good choice,” I said. “A strong mount. Will give you his all when you need it.”
“I will consider that.” Saunders nodded at the groom. “Please tell Derby I might as well take him.”
The groom led the horse away. The gelding had a sprightly walk, and I wished I could buy him myself.
Once we stood alone in the closed yard, Saunders faced us with arms folded, rain glistening on his hat and the shoulders of his coat.
“This is not about Miss Simmons,” I said, before Grenville could speak. Grenville shot a glance at me, but I went on. “It is about Leland Derwent.”
Saunders’s eyes widened, his breath quickening. “Oh, yes? What about him?”
His arrogant expression could not mask his sudden flash of guilt. “Last evening, you were seen speaking with him and Mr. Travers at Brooks’s,” I said. “After Mr. Travers was overheard saying he wished to find deeper play.”
Saunders tried to maintain his indifference. “Deeper play?”
“Travers wanted something more challenging. And then he and Mr. Derwent left with you, apparently. Did you suggest a place?”
Saunders still pretended not to understand, but the stiffening of his shoulders betrayed that he knew exactly what I was talking about. Grenville rarely looked overtly angry; he simply went ice cold. I was surprised the rain falling past him didn’t turn to sleet.
Saunders flushed, guilt rising to break through his hauteur. I half-expected him to confess he’d taken Leland and Gareth to the Bull and Hen and then bludgeoned them himself, when he said, “Yes, yes, very well. I took them around the corner, to the Nines. Is this what the fuss is about?”
Grenville’s attention riveted to him. “Good Lord. You took Leland Derwent to the Nines?”
I wanted to echo him. The Nines was notorious, even among heavy gamblers. The hell lay in Jermyn Street, its facade innocuous, but once down the stairs into its cellars, every kind of game was played by its prestigious, and not-so-prestigious, clientele for hideously large stakes. The ladies who floated about there were high-priced courtesans who would happily take a gentleman’s winnings, smiling silken smiles all around.
I had entered the place once, in my poorer days. The courtesans had shown little interest in me once my circumstances were known, and I’d departed when I’d realized the amount I’d need to place even the smallest bet.
I also remembered the thick-necked men who prowled the gaming rooms looking for any signs of cheating or inability to pay. I’d witnessed them seize a young man who’d gazed in despair at his last cards, and haul him up the stairs to toss him into the street.
If Leland had gone to the Nines, and if he or Travers had gotten on the wrong side of the toughs, they could have come by their injuries there, without ever having to go near a molly house.
“A moment,” I said. “Let us be clear. You escorted them to the Nines, and then you accompanied them in? What I mean is, are you certain they went inside? You did not simply leave them at the door?”
“No, no, they went downstairs to the game rooms. With me. Travers seemed perfectly happy to be there. Derwent, as you might predict, was not.”
“Did you lead them back out again?” I asked.
Saunders blinked. “Pardon? No—I fell in with other acquaintances and quite lost track of Derwent and Travers. I found I had no head for games that night, and I let these acquaintances persuade me elsewhere. What is this all about? Damn it, Grenville, why are you letting him quiz me like this?”
I was vastly irritated with Lord Percy Saunders. The Nines was no place for an innocent like Leland, and if the ruffians who’d kept order there had decided to take him and Mr. Travers outside …
“Where was Leland when you left?” I asked. “Joining a game? Or trying to persuade Mr. Travers to leave? Did they meet anyone else there?”
“How the devil should I know?” Saunders answered testily. “I told you, I lost sight of them. There was quite a crowd, and someone was scoring well at hazard. The place was in an uproar.”
“I see.” I wanted to seize him and shake him, not caring that he was the son of a powerful duke. Leaving two cubs like Leland and Travers in a place like the Nines was vastly irresponsible and could have cost Travers his life.
Saunders raised his hands, as though sensing my need for savagery. “Derwent has plenty of money, and Travers, the card sense. I thought it would suit them. They were well when I left them.”
“They were not well,” I said. “That is the point. They were set upon and robbed, and Travers is dead.”
Saunders’s face turned as gray as the gelding’s coat. “What? Dead, you say?”
“Decidedly so.”
“Good Lord.” Saunders blinked, the shock on his face genuine, though I thought I detected something more than surprise behind his expression. What, I was not certain.
Saunders took a disjointed breath and let it out, fogging in the cool rain. “The devil you say. I promise you, gentlemen, they were both well when I departed the Nines. You have no reason to admonish me. I could not have foreseen …”
“You could have,” I said in a hard voice. “I suppose you thought it entertaining to lead Leland into such a place. Only disaster could have come from your step. Good day to you, sir.”
Saunders began to speak again, protesting, but Grenville cut him off.
“About Miss Simmons,” Grenville said. “I am not finished there, old boy. Do keep yourself away, there’s a good fellow.”
“But—” Saunders scowled in confusion. “You told me not an hour ago that you did not blame me my attentions. And you have Signora Carlotti.”
“The newspapers couple my name with Signora Carlotti’s, I know,” Grenville said. “I cannot help what newspapermen take it into their heads to write about. But Miss Simmons is to be left alone. Do you understand?”
Saunders recovered from his surprise, hi
s anger returning. “I understand you perfectly.”
“When the way is clear, I will tell you.” Grenville touched his hat, sending a rivulet of water off its brim. “Good day, Saunders.”
Saunders bowed stiffly in return, two gentlemen coolly furious with each other. Grenville turned and strolled out of the yard, back through the enclosure, and out to his waiting carriage.
I gave Saunders a polite bow and followed Grenville out.
Brewster wasn’t with the coach when I reached it but came tramping from the direction of Piccadilly as Grenville and I got ourselves inside. Brewster swung up to the top to ride in the rain, while we shut it out inside the sumptuous conveyance.
I was puzzling over what I’d thought I’d seen behind Lord Percy’s obvious surprise at the news Travers was dead. Disappointment, I thought. Even annoyance. Odd things to come from the announcement of a death.
The thump of Grenville’s walking stick to the seat beside him interrupted my musings. “Dear God, Lacey. What the devil is wrong with me? Now I will have to run away to Egypt and let London forget about me.”
“What are you on about?” I said, out of temper. “Do you mean that last bit with Saunders?”
Grenville balled his fists, stretching his gloves. “I have no idea why I said such a thing. I was fully prepared to step aside, further my acquaintance with Paola Carlotti, and let Marianne do as she pleased. But when I saw Saunders fumble about trying to excuse himself for leading Leland to the slaughter, I decided I’d be damned before I let him anywhere near Marianne. The man is a fool, and she needs someone better than a fool.”
“I agree,” I said, my anger at him fading. “Will that man be you?”
“How should I know? I have behaved like a boor and a prig all morning. She is likely better off if we all went to the devil,” he finished, his face hardening. “I suppose we are making for to the Nines now?”
“I would like to question whoever runs the place, and the ruffians there. But no one would be there at this hour, would they?”
Grenville looked pained. “The Nines is open at all hours. Not quite legal, but the magistrates look the other way.”
“Then there we shall go,” I said.
Grenville tapped on the roof, still disgruntled at himself, gave his coachman the direction, and we rumbled back into St. James’s as the rain increased.
Chapter Fifteen
The Nines was discreetly tucked among more ostentatious buildings on Jermyn Street, its plain face unremarkable. The front door opened to a foyer with ivory-colored paneling and a ceiling of lighter white. A polished table with tapered legs and an ebony inlay top stood modestly against the wall, bearing an unlit candelabra and a vase of flowers fresh from the market.
This entrance showed nothing but quiet respectability, and the hall beyond held tranquil silence.
The incongruity was the bull-like man who’d opened the door. He peered down at us with small, glittering eyes in answer to our knock, then at Brewster, hulking behind us, with no less belligerence.
However, he admitted Grenville without question. The Nines was not a club like White’s, Boodle’s, and others, where membership was granted by very careful selection. The Nines let in anyone who could put their money down and buy the appropriate number of markers used to place bets in the game. Only those who could not pay were barred.
The bull-like man opened one of the doors in the quiet hall to reveal a staircase leading downward. A musty mixture of smoke and perfume, both ladies’ and gentlemen’s, wafted upward from the room below.
Grenville did not hide his distaste as he led the way down. I came behind, leaning on my stick and trying to ignore the acrid odors.
Brewster followed directly behind me. I’d tried to order him to wait upstairs when he scrambled down from the carriage to stand at my shoulder at the front door, but he’d have none of it.
“His nibs won’t want you going down there alone, Captain, and it’s not worth my life to let you.” He paused. “Oh, and he wants to see you.” To my surprised look, Brewster added, “I nipped off to his home when you were in with the horseflesh. Mr. Denis said for you to come as soon as convenient.”
For Denis, as soon as convenient meant immediately. I did not gasp and hurry away, however. Denis could wait while I saw what was what here.
Gentlemen were already at the tables when we entered the main room. Down here, away from the street, with no windows to let in daylight, the hours of the clock had little meaning.
While the clubs of St. James’s could not be breached unless one had the appropriate family connections, the Nines admitted anyone with cash, no matter his background. Here, a trader from Liverpool, who’d grown fat from shipping, could set his bulk next to a duke; an actor born in the gutter could sit next to Lucius Grenville without censure. I recognized a few gentlemen from the circles Grenville and Donata had introduced me to, but most of the men were strangers.
One of the ladies meant to entice gentlemen into immodest play instantly drifted to Grenville, laying a gloved hand on his arm. Grenville, always charming, gave her a smile that promised nothing.
“What games do you play, Captain?” a second butterfly asked. Her perfume was expensive, her clinging silk gown as much so.
That she knew who I was did not surprise me—everyone knew the captain who had become Grenville’s privileged friend. The lady must have been instructed when we’d been seen entering. “I am not the gambler Grenville is,” I said truthfully.
The woman betrayed no disappointment in her liquid dark eyes. She was very young for this game, her face unlined and a little bit plump. Her look was practiced, however, and no woman would be allowed to work here without having proven herself an expert at beguilement. “Whist, then?” she suggested in her velvet dark voice. “It is a game of skill, not chance.”
“It’s a bit of both, actually.” I moved away from the gamers to an empty table, exaggerating my limp as I went. “I will rest while Grenville enjoys himself. Perhaps you can keep me company.”
The young woman did not want to—no doubt she received a portion of the winnings from those she dragged into games—but she gave me a gracious look as she sat next to me.
“You were here last evening?” I asked. “Perhaps you saw a friend of mine. Mr. Leland Derwent?”
She stilled, her acting so well-done that had I not been watching, I might have missed the uneasiness in her eyes.
I decided to press her. “You must have seen him. Young lad. Very blond hair, as well dressed as Grenville. I imagine he looked a bit out of place.”
“I did not notice in particular.” The woman’s smile returned. “Play was quite exciting last night. I am afraid I was not paying much attention.”
She lied smoothly, but it was a lie nonetheless. “I am anxious about him. Mr. Derwent was badly hurt and is near death’s door. I would like to find out who did that to him.”
My voice hardened as I spoke. Leland was dying, his family plunged into grief. Here, gamers bent over tables, and ladies like this one washed their hands of another’s suffering.
Her gaze lost its softness as she truly looked at me. “What do you mean, near to death’s door?”
“Just as I say. Mr. Derwent was hit quite hard, enough to kill him. He is at home now, but we have no idea whether he will recover.”
“Oh.” The young woman bit her lip. “I had nothing to do with that. I never saw—” She cut off the words and rose swiftly from her chair, gliding off without another word.
The woman moved so elegantly that for a moment, I didn’t realize she was running away. By the time she reached a door at the far end of the room, I was on my feet, after her.
Grenville was deep in conversation with a hard-faced man at one of the tables, along with the butterfly who’d attached herself to him. None of them noticed as I moved by.
The door through which the lady exited slammed before I reached it, and when I tried the handle, the door was locked. I rattled the handle in frus
tration, but the door itself moved under my buffeting, its hinges flimsy.
One hard shove broke the door from the frame, which let me into a narrow hall that ended in a blank wall. The elegance of the rest of the house was gone here—peeling paint and damp floorboards held prominence. I heard staccato, hurried footsteps and followed, keeping a tight hold of my walking stick.
A draft told me a door to the outside had opened. I hastened forward and found a short flight of steps upward to my left. I climbed the stairs and went out another door into a grimy, confined yard.
These yards hidden behind the houses of wealthy neighborhoods could be as rundown as St. Giles slums. Slops left by nightsoil men lent a stench, and rubbish and mud filled the corners.
I spotted the lady making for a narrow gate that led to a passage behind the houses. I hurried forward, ignoring the strain on my leg, and seized her just as she wrenched the gate open.
She swung to me, fury in her eyes. Gone was the pleasant-voiced butterfly who had cajoled me to game and then condescended to sit with me. Now I faced a harpy, her face blotched with rage, who tried to rake her claws across my face.
“Leave off,” she said in East End cant. “They don’t pay enough for this. Lemme go!”
We struggled, the young woman strong. She managed to land a single blow across my face. The next moment, a large pair of hands grabbed her wrists and jerked her away, and Brewster slammed her against the wall.
“Stop,” I told him, my breath coming fast. “Don’t hurt her.”
“Nah, don’t go soft on her, guv. She’s got a knife in her pocket and will slash both of us. Won’t you, luv?”
She spat at him. I folded my arms, walking stick dangling. Now that we were in daylight, I could see that the lady’s dark hair had a red cast, her true color, I surmised as her eyebrows and lashes were the same. Rain glistened in the ringlets that now straggled across her face and on the silk finery of her dress. The anger in her eyes also showed desperation and hint of true fear.
Murder in Grosvenor Square (Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries Book 9) Page 12
