Murder in Grosvenor Square (Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries Book 9)

by Ashley Gardner

  Donata gave me a wise nod and dropped the end of her cigarillo into a bowl on the bedside table. “You always do. And then a solution presents itself to you. The correct one.”

  “I do hope it presents itself quickly. I would like to return to being a lazy, married man.”

  I traced the curve of her leg through the fabric and turned my head to look at her. Donata regarded me calmly.

  “Gareth’s funeral is today,” she said. “Lady Derwent told me. She also told me that they’d received a polite note from Mrs. Travers indicating that they should not bother to come. Far too difficult for Lady Derwent in her poor health, and Leland still not recovered. A pointed request for them to stay away.”

  I drew my finger along the crease between thigh and calf of her folded leg. “Mrs. Travers is the only person I’ve ever encountered with severe dislike for the Derwent family,” I said. “Sir Gideon speculates it is because Gareth found more of a home there than his own house.” I let my hand slid away. “I will go and pay my respects. Gareth deserves that.”

  “But I will not,” Donata said. “A dowager viscountess coming upon them suddenly would throw a vicarage in Bermondsey into disarray. Kinder if I stay home. The funeral should be for Gareth and his family, not a grand reception for me.” Donata unfolded herself and stretched out beside me, propping herself on her elbow. “Besides, your daughter arrives this evening, and I want to be certain all is ready.”

  My heart rejoiced once more at the thought of seeing Gabriella again, with her sunny smiles and sensible forthrightness. Gabriella was still coming to terms with the fact that I had sired her, rather than the French major she’d grown up with, but she was making a great effort, and I loved her for it.

  I wanted to thank Donata for accepting Gabriella and helping her, but words would not come. I ensnared my wife with one hand, pulled her down to me, and thanked her without words.

  Passion might have come of our embrace, but Bartholomew entered just then with a tray heaped with breakfast.

  Donata showed no shame about lounging about in bed with her husband, only pulled her dressing gown closed and sat up, reaching eagerly for coffee.

  I pried myself up as well, my loose nightshirt falling from one shoulder. “What time is it?” I asked as Bartholomew set a tray heaped with enough breakfast for two across my lap.

  “Eleven of the clock, sir. I shall lay out your black suit in the dressing room.”

  Eleven. I had prided myself, since my marriage, on rising early, keeping at bay my fear of becoming a pampered, useless fool. But events this week had put paid to my usual habits.

  “Thought you’d like to know, sir,” Bartholomew said. “My brother and I, and Mr. Grenville, we found Mr. Derwent’s clothes.”

  I lifted my brows, nearly dropping the slice of toast I had picked up. “You did? Where? Why did you not tell me?”

  “Didn’t have a chance until now,” Bartholomew answered reasonably. “What with Mr. Mackay getting himself killed, and Mr. Denis pulling you about, and you dropping over on your feet in weariness.”

  Donata poured herself a cup of coffee and daintily lifted a square of toast. “Grenville might have sent word.”

  “Don’t know about that, madam,” Bartholomew answered. “He went out again, as I said, sir, last night, and we’ve not seen him since. He didn’t leave any notes with us to deliver.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” I waved my hand, scattering crumbs. “Where did you find the clothes?”

  “Bloke had them.” Bartholomew stood easily next to the bed, unembarrassed about speaking to his master and mistress while they were en dishabille. “A man local to Seven Dials. I spied him walking around after you and Mr. Grenville left us there. I thought, good Lord, there’s a shabby man in a coat far too fine for the likes of him. Matthias and I gave chase, and we ran him down. He was terrified of us, two large lads as we are. We asked him where he’d gotten the clothes. He tried to put us off with a tale of finding them in the river—he thought at first we were the Watch or foot patrol with the Runners. When we got him calmed down, he admitted he found them on the ground in a street one away from where Mr. Travers got himself killed. Nothing in them, no watch or money, but he could have been lying and already sold them.”

  Very quickly, I had no doubt. “Had he seen who discarded them?” I asked hopefully.

  “No, sir. But I’m not surprised. He was terrified of his shadow. A poor specimen, shivering and gaunt.” Bartholomew hesitated. “I let him keep the clothes. I hope I did right.”

  Donata answered for me. “Leland would have done such a thing. Reasoned he had many others. I trust you took his name so that the captain may quiz him again if necessary.”

  “I did, your ladyship.” Bartholomew took a scrap of paper from his pocket. “Wrote it out plain.”

  He handed me the paper. On it Bartholomew had written in block capitals, Mr. John Olmstead, Number 17, Shorts Gardens.

  “He lives with half a dozen other blokes there,” Bartholomew went on, “He says you’ll mostly find him at home.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  I went to the funeral of Gareth Travers with only Brewster to accompany me. We took a hackney from Mayfair, leaving Donata’s carriage free for her use.

  Gareth was to be buried in the churchyard at Bermondsey, beside the small church his father presided over. The Reverend Travers did not perform the service—another vicar, whose jowls nearly obscured his dog collar, did so. I’d never met Gareth’s father, and when I saw him, sagging against his wife’s shoulder, I knew he’d never have been able to say the words over his son’s coffin.

  Whether Reverend Travers was drunk or simply bowed with grief I could not tell. His young wife stood straight next to him, her lips pursed in disapproval. The rest of the small turnout consisted of men and women from the parish, plus a few straight-backed ladies who appeared to be friends of Mrs. Travers.

  Rolling up at the last minute, his carriage stark black against the gray buildings and gray skies, was Grenville.

  His arrival caused a stir. I could not tell if anyone there knew who he was, or simply wondered why a toff had turned up for the funeral of an impoverished vicar’s son. Grenville came to stand next to Brewster and me at the edge of the gathering as the second vicar began to read the burial service.

  I had heard the words far too often, and I never liked them. The phrases about how man is born to misery and suffering did not match the Gareth Travers I’d known. He’d been happy with his life, not worrying about much beyond his pride, embraced by a kind family who’d treated him as one of their own.

  The part about man having only a short time to live and being cut down like a flower was true, however. Someone had cut off Gareth’s life far too soon. Though he’d not lived an entirely blameless existence, he had not deserved that.

  Once the casket had been lowered into the muddy hole, I moved forward and tossed in a clump of earth as well as the flower I’d purchased. Leland could not be here to send off the man he’d loved best in life, and so I said his good-byes for him.

  “Sleep well, my friend,” I whispered, and then the damp soil hit the wooden coffin with a melancholy sound.

  *

  Grenville waited for me, and we walked together to the Traverses, who lingered in the circle of their friends. Mrs. Travers gave me an unfriendly look, but the Reverend Travers took my offered hand.

  His bloodshot eyes confirmed he was both grieving and far gone in drink, using one to relieve the pain of the other. “You knew my son well?” he asked. He was about ten years my senior, but already stooped and gray, his hands trembling.

  “Not as well as I would have liked,” I said. “I am a friend of Leland Derwent.”

  Mrs. Travers snorted in derision, but Reverend Travers paid no attention to her. “Young Leland is a good lad. Gareth’s letters were always filled with him and the Derwents. Kind people.” He squeezed my hand. “A point of fact, sir, if you are such friends with them …”

  “
Yes?” I asked as he trailed off.

  Reverend Travers tugged me closer, as though wanting to whisper to me, out of his wife’s hearing. Grenville took the cue and became his most charming, turning Mrs. Travers away and gesturing to the church, asking about its history.

  Reverend Travers put his lips to my ear. “Could you ask young Mr. Derwent to return the book? I will need it.”

  “Book?” I whispered. Surely not the French erotica … but my interest piqued.

  “A prayer book. About so big.” Mr. Travers released my hand to frame the air approximately five inches high by a few across. “It was mine, has been in my family for years. I gave it to him at New Year’s, but now that Gareth is gone, it belongs at home.”

  Ah. I drew back, disappointed. A family Book of Common Prayer would not be as costly as a valuable French tome filled with drawings, even risqué ones.

  “Certainly,” I said. “When I next visit the Derwents I will inquire.”

  “Thank you, sir. You are a gentleman.”

  Mrs. Travers looked daggers at both me and her husband. I was not certain whether she had heard or was angry because she hadn’t.

  Grenville expressed his condolences to the reverend once again, and we both took our leave.

  “Good Lord,” Grenville said in a quiet voice as we made our way to his carriage, Brewster following. “Mrs. Travers must have been a comely woman once, but she has thoroughly ruined her looks. And so young too. Tragic.”

  I tried to be charitable. “She cannot have an easy time, married to an elderly man who lives in his cups.”

  “She has my sympathy, of course, but only so far,” Grenville said. “I’ve met ladies with difficult husbands who manage to remain both lovely and agreeable. She has decided what she will be.”

  “Some women are born shrews,” Brewster said unapologetically. “They’d be that way no matter who they married.” With that, he climbed up onto the seat with the coachman, and Grenville’s footman helped us into the carriage.

  As we went, I told Grenville that Bartholomew had informed me of finding Leland’s clothes, which he confirmed.

  “I thought it kindest to let the man have them,” Grenville said. “The chap was terrified. I gave him some coin as well. I do not think he had anything to do with the attack, before you ask. If he did see what happened, he was far too afraid to tell me.”

  “Well, if you could not persuade him to tell you all, I doubt I could. But Sir Gideon might.”

  “True.” Grenville subsided. “We would have to take Sir Gideon to the man, however. I doubt Mr. Olmstead will travel to Mayfair.”

  So be it. I, in turn, told Grenville about Freddie Hilliard’s visit to the Bull and Hen, and my speculation about their intended meeting with Mackay, who was now dead. Grenville knew about the death—Matthias and Bartholomew had dutifully reported it to him—and he looked interested at what Freddie had observed.

  As we rumbled over Blackfriars Bridge and headed toward Mayfair, Grenville said, “Why don’t you take dinner with me, Lacey? We’ll have a long natter over this case and sift through everything we’ve learned.”

  I shook my head. “Gabriella comes home today. I want to be there when she arrives.”

  “Ah, yes, that is so. In that case, I will descend at my club. Jackson will be happy to deliver you to South Audley Street.” He idly lifted the blind and looked out at the Strand as we passed along it. “By the way,” he said in a casual tone, “I have ceased to be on intimate terms with Signora Carlotti. I decided I could hardly warn Percy Saunders off Marianne and then pursue my own inamorata. Signora Carlotti is a shrewd woman, and we parted amicably.” He dropped the blind and gave me a wry smile. “I am certain Paola has someone waiting in the wings, so to speak. I went to Marianne and used the excuse of explaining your scheme of her finding someone to send to the Bull and Hen to tell her what I’d done.”

  Thus explaining his absence at the musicale, and Marianne’s better spirits on our adventure the night before.

  “As you can imagine, she was very angry with me over Saunders,” Grenville said with a slight smile. “I do understand her predicament—she has had to grub her way for so long, she thought to continue grubbing with Saunders. I have set up a trust for her, to pay her and her son an annuity for the rest of their lives, even if she marries and hands over every penny of her share to her husband. Least I could do for her putting up with me.”

  “That was uncommonly generous of you,” I said, impressed.

  Grenville’s hand on his walking stick stiffened. “I know you think me a fool. But I won’t see her starve because we could not get on. She shall not prostitute herself to selfishly cruel fellows like Saunders. Or marry a brute to keep herself and young David fed. I have only ever wanted to help her.”

  He glanced out the window again, but I saw the depth of emotion in his eyes. I realized in that moment that Grenville loved her.

  The revelation surprised me, but it should not have. Grenville had always been different with Marianne, both kind and bad-tempered at the same time. He’d never quite taken to any other woman since he’d made her acquaintance.

  I waited to let him regain his composure, before I asked, “And how did Marianne take this news?”

  Grenville flashed me a sudden grin. “Once I made her understand, I am pleased to say that, for the first time since meeting her, I rendered her speechless.”

  *

  I returned to a home that was lively and chaotic, which was just what I needed. Gareth’s funeral had stirred my melancholia, but in a house preparing for my daughter’s return, I had no opportunity to indulge in it.

  Donata saw me from the first floor landing and started down to me. I met her partway up, took her by the elbows, pushed her against the wall, and kissed her, hard, on the lips. Her protests silenced as soon as her back touched the paneling, and her eyes sparkled with interest.

  I would not have embarrassed her so in other circumstances. But the sound of earth hitting the coffin still echoed in my ears, and I needed life to chase away the clinging odor of death.

  Donata was life. She looked upon it, seized it with both hands, and wrested it to her will. She was warm and welcoming, and had enough spice to chase away dullness.

  She gave me a calculating look when I released her. The glimmer in her blue eyes told me she was not displeased with what I’d done, no matter that all her servants busily rushed about us.

  She touched my cheek, her fingers gentle. “Sir Gideon sent word that Leland is awake again and asking for you. Why don’t you run along, Gabriel? Your daughter isn’t due for another few hours, and you’ll only be in the way here.”

  I leaned my fist to the wall near her head. All the responses I could make flitted through my mind, and I decided on one.

  “God bless you.” I kissed her lips again, and took myself away.

  *

  Leland did not look much better. He lay flat on his back, his face too white, his hair in lank and unwashed wisps. His eyes were hollow, with a sunken look that disquieted me.

  I sat down beside him in the chair that had become fixed in that position. The seat was flattened now from Catherine Danbury, Melissa, Lady Derwent, Louisa, and Sir Gideon hunkering there, waiting for what would come.

  Leland studied me a long while, his lashes damp, while his labored breathing filled the silence. A clock on the bureau tick, tick, ticked, contrasting the rumble of wheels on the pavement below. Outside, the world moved on. In here, death hovered patiently.

  When the clock struck four, small, polite chimes in the quiet, Leland asked in a hoarse whisper, “He’s buried, then?”

  “Yes.” My hands hung between my knees, limp. “It was a dignified service. I said good-bye for you.”

  Leland groped for me, and I clasped his cold, shaking hand. “Thank you,” he said. “I loved him. I’d have done anything for him. I’d have gladly gone in his place.”

  “I am sorry,” I said sincerely. I was sorry for a lot of things, includin
g hurting this very young, vulnerable boy.

  “Not your fault.” Leland wet his cracked lips. “I was a fool. So was Gareth. We’d been quarreling over so many things. But underneath it all, we still loved. Do you understand?”

  I gave him a nod. I’d known married couples less devoted than Leland and Gareth.

  “Not your fault you didn’t know,” Leland went on. “About us, I mean. Not many did.”

  “What about Gareth’s parents?” I asked. “Did they ever discover your secret?”

  “They never said. Mrs. Travers hates me and my family. She told me so. Blames us for taking Gareth away from his father. Which is true—we did.”

  I released his hand and leaned my elbows on my knees. “Leland, Gareth ran to you willingly. I had an unhappy home myself; I too found refuge in other boys’ houses. You and your father and mother gave Gareth the family he needed.”

  “But I never gave a thought to his father,” Leland said, determined to be guilty. “I was selfish, and wanted Gareth around me all the time.”

  I made an impatient noise. “Please, do not browbeat yourself. Gareth could have reconciled with his family at any time. Not doing so was his choice.”

  “They did reconcile a little this year,” Leland said, his haunted look easing. “Gareth took me home with him at New Year’s, and we spoke with his father. My father sent along some pamphlets about how to wrest oneself from the evils of drink—not the horrible kind of pamphlets about driving oneself to hell, but ones that address the real struggles of the drunkard. My father writes them himself, with the help of other men who have had to do battle with the vice.”

  I imagined the pamphlets did not go over well with the Reverend and Mrs. Travers, even if given in the best of intentions.