A Mystery at Carlton House_Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries_Book 12

by Ashley Gardner

  “Because there is none to find,” I said coolly. I put aside my plate and rose, signaling Bartholomew, who’d followed Spendlove in, to withdraw. Bartholomew did not look happy, but he went.

  “Of course there is evidence,” Spendlove began, but I held up my hand.

  “I don’t believe Mr. Floyd is guilty. I think he was handed to you when the thieves learned that a Runner was coming to investigate. He even wrote to Mr. Higgs some months before you were called in, worried that someone was stealing items from the prince’s collection. He’d found what he thought was an identical copy of one of the Regent’s paintings in Amsterdam.”

  I stopped as I said the word. Amsterdam. I remembered the surgeon when he’d sent for me, apologizing—or at least explaining—that he hadn’t spoken to me before because he’d been in Amsterdam.

  Oh, Good Lord, was Denis involved in this after all? With the aid of Higgs, smuggling out the originals after Billy copied them, sending them abroad with his agents, like the surgeon? The surgeon was obviously able to get into and out of England without anyone being the wiser.

  Denis had denied having anything to do with the thefts, but why would he tell me the truth? I remembered Brewster saying to me that Denis did not confide all to everyone who worked for him—they did not always know what one another did. Denis considered me his agent now, and he would not feel the need to impart every scheme he had to me unless I needed to know.

  But, no. I halted my spinning thoughts. Why should Denis send the surgeon to sell a painting in Amsterdam? Why send him to do anything at all—and once the man had been on the Continent, why on earth would he come back? No, the surgeon’s journey there had to be for another reason. Many Londoners went to Amsterdam on business, as it was near, and it was a port with ties to the entire world.

  Spendlove, not noticing my stillness, plunged on. “If not Mr. Floyd, then who? Mr. Higgs? Convenient he’s dead, eh? He can’t stand trial now, can he?”

  “I believe that was the idea,” I answered. “A dead man can’t confess and give away his compatriots. I believe Higgs died because those compatriots feared he’d talk. He’d already spoken at length to Grenville and me, showing us a list of what had gone missing as well as the things that had moved. Perhaps his confederates concluded he was having a fit of conscience.”

  I stopped again, picturing Carlton House and the easy way I had come and gone on the day of Higgs’s death. I’d also moved without restriction during the soiree, the servants caught up in keeping us all supplied with food and drink. No one watched to see what we did.

  Brewster had told me that a way to rob the place was to be part of the staff, someone admitted to the house without question. I agreed with him. The prince liked to show off, and so many people had walked through the chambers in Carlton House over the years, admiring all within.

  Spendlove took a step toward me. “I need a man to answer for this, Captain. The Regent is growing impatient, and his retinue are threatening me, and the magistrate, and all the way up past him.” He gestured as though the administrators of the law were stacked up in my dining room. “The Regent doesn’t want it in the newspapers—the magistrates wish to announce the incident only after the criminal is caught.” He pointed at me. “So bring me a culprit, or I arrest you for being Mr. Denis’s accomplice. The magistrates want to see Mr. Denis brought down, but most are afraid to act against him. You, on the other hand, will do nicely as an example of why one does not want to become tangled with criminals.”

  My chest went tight as he spoke, knowing Spendlove was right. If he arrested me, the magistrates Denis had under his control might be happy to see me hang to alleviate their own shame in being bought by him. Denis might step in to prevent this—then again, he might not. Thinking over the number of times I’d angered and exasperated him in the last three years, I thought perhaps not.

  “Please leave my house,” I said to Spendlove. “Bartholomew!”

  I did not have to raise my voice. Bartholomew opened the door in an instant—I knew he hadn’t gone far. “Yes, sir?” he asked eagerly.

  “See Mr. Spendlove out,” I said. “And do not admit him again.”

  Spendlove snatched up his gloves. “When I do come back, Captain, I’ll have my patrollers with me, and you’ll be marched off. Don’t matter what your lady wife has to say about it.” He stalked to the door but turned back to deliver a parting shot. “I won’t be long.”

  “I hope to have a culprit for you by Monday,” I told him. “If I am lucky.”

  Surprise flickered across Spendlove’s face, but he hid it with another growl. “Hope that you are,” he said, then departed. Bartholomew followed close behind him to make sure he went.

  * * *

  Early Saturday morning, Donata and I took our coach south to Surrey. Grenville journeyed on his own in his phaeton, pretending to be doing nothing more than enjoying a drive in the country.

  Donata and I rode side by side, she swathed in a rich brown velvet redingote over a gown of fawn cashmere and silk, I in a plainer suit of black under my greatcoat. My ivory silk waistcoat held the watch Donata had given me last New Year’s. This New Year’s we’d contented ourselves with the gift of our daughter.

  Donata’s silk-lined bonnet was topped with ostrich plumes which I continually pushed out of my face when she turned her head. I didn’t mind one bit.

  I’d been to Epsom with Grenville before, when we’d visited the grieving father of a young man who’d been killed in London. I remembered the sadness of that occasion, the quiet grief of his father. The young man had been a fop and a bully, but his father had loved him.

  The memory made me squeeze Donata’s hand, and I thought of little Anne’s face when I’d kissed her good-bye this morning. Also of Peter manfully trying not to cry when we’d left him. Whatever we discovered today, I’d give the information to Spendlove and tell him to leave me the hell alone. Then I’d lock myself in my house with my children and wife and shut out the world.

  Grenville had managed to find out exactly where the auction would take place—apparently gentlemen of the ton weren’t above attending covert auctions, or at least sending an agent to bid for them. Grenville said his cronies seemed surprised he hadn’t known about it already.

  The mansion Hagen drove us to was well out into the country, far beyond Epsom Downs where we’d watch the racing in June, to a house isolated by a sweep of hill and mile-long drive. Tall trees lined the drive like living columns, and in the woods around the house, I glimpsed what might be a folly, an outdoor building made to look like a ruin.

  The house itself was fairly new, its facade speaking of John Nash, and probably designed by him. If this nabob Poppy told us about had wealth he would make certain his home looked as aristocratic as he possibly could. Interesting that the man had finished it then rushed to live with his sister the moment he felt unwell. I supposed we all return to our places of comfort in the end.

  The doors of the house were shut, the windows muffled with curtains. Wherever the auction would be held, the house was not a welcoming place.

  As Hagen slowed the carriage, Grenville came around the side of the house on foot and waved for us to follow him.

  “Round the back,” he shouted up at Hagen. “There’s a sort of Petite Trianon in the woods,” he continued to us through the window I’d let down. “Very extravagant. The auction is being held there. They start in a quarter of an hour.”

  I reached to unlatch the door for him, but Grenville grabbed the bar on the back of the coach as Hagan started the horses and swung himself to the footman’s perch. We’d brought no footman with us—Matthias and Bartholomew were following discreetly in a cart with Brewster.

  Grenville hung on as well as any experienced lackey as the carriage moved forward. He risked mud on his elegant riding clothes, but then, he’d driven down here in an open phaeton. Grenville never succumbed to his motion sickness when driving himself, which was why he hadn’t journeyed with us. He’d wanted to arrive fr
esh and with his wits about him.

  Apparently motion sickness did not bother him when he clung to the back of a coach, either. When we stopped, he dropped off and cheerfully opened the door for us.

  “Watch your step, guv’nor,” he said in a false working-class accent. “M’lady.”

  He gallantly helped Donata descend, and she gave him a roll of her eyes and a dismissive laugh. Grenville steadied me to ensure I didn’t topple over, and then Hagen, once we were down, guided the horses toward a grove of trees where coaches and coachmen had gathered to wait. I wondered what conversations the coachmen would have about the insanity of their various masters.

  The buildings before us indeed reminded me of the Petite Trianon of Versailles, one of the fabricated villages to which Marie Antoinette and her ladies had retreated to escape the tension of life in the palace. This village had been designed in the classical style, more like a lane of miniature Greek temples than a rustic French village, but the principle was the same.

  The auction was taking place in the largest building, a stone box with a deep Greek portico. This porch was shielded by thick columns topped with Corinthian capitals studded with plaster leaves. A pediment rested over it all, the architects determined to fold every facet of Greek architecture into the miniature structure.

  The portico led to a door with a fanlight above it, which opened to a wide room filled with artwork and people.

  However secret this auction was reputed to be, a good many of London’s finest were in attendance. I recognized plenty of men I’d met at White’s, Brooks’s, and every outing Donata had taken me to; plus two of the regimental gentlemen I’d spoken with at Carlton House. Along with them were earls, barons, and knights of the realm, and very wealthy gentlemen with no titles but plenty of family connections. There were ladies as well as gentlemen—I suppose a gathering like this did not have as many social rules attached to it. As long as the winning bid could be paid, it did not matter who made it.

  The artwork resting on easels and tables around the room was stupendous. I was dazzled by paintings of landscapes, still lifes, and beautiful portraits; sculptures in bronze and marble; objects d’art in gold and silver; miniature paintings, watches, and exquisite music boxes; tiny furniture made by a cabinetmaker in exact replication of full-sized counterparts; and an alabaster inlayed sewing box that contained alabaster handled scissors.

  As I browsed the tables, I came across an item that made me halt in shock. On a cloth of black velvet lay one of the miniature paintings by the talented Mr. Cosway that had been so well described on Higgs’s list of missing items.

  “Oh, how lovely.” Donata was beside me, her ostrich feathers tickling my chin as she bent over the portrait. The lady in it was in the act of lifting a flimsy garment from herself to bare her breasts. She smiled at us from under her upraised arm, her face surrounded by ringlets of pleasantly mussed hair.

  “Very pretty,” my wife said with admiration. “And a bit naughty. I believe I will bid on it.” She smiled at me, daring me to try to forbid her.

  I could hardly argue that the picture might be evidence of theft and fraud with so many others packed around us. I remembered reading in the Hue and Cry at the Bow Street office that two such miniatures had been pinched from a market stall. I wondered if this was one of them, and what had become of the other. This might be a copy as well.

  Donata was waiting for my response, but I only shrugged, my indication that she could do what she liked. Donata would do so anyway. My wife was hardly a cowed woman.

  A rumbling voice caught my attention. I looked up, my anger rising when I beheld the Duke of Dunmarron. He stood in the row of tables behind us, his cropped hair making his head look small on his large frame. He hadn’t noticed me yet, or Grenville. At the moment, he was holding a clock identical to the one by Vulliamy in the prince’s library, with its gilded sphinxes and malachite stone.

  “What are they playing at?” Dunmarron said loudly. “This ain’t real. It’s a copy. The original is at Carlton House. Do they think we’re fools?”

  A rustle and murmur spread out from him like ripples. Through those ripples a small man hurried, followed by a larger man, trying to quiet the duke.

  “What is he doing?” I murmured to Donata. “He’ll turn this crush into a rout if he’s not careful.”

  “It is called rubbishing the stock,” a cynical male voice came from behind me. “One does so when one wants to prevent others from bidding up the price on a piece. The rest of us will disdain the item, and he’ll buy it for a song.”

  I turned to see Mr. Floyd a few steps away from me, dressed in a plain black suit, his hair neat in its queue, his bruises having faded somewhat since the last time we’d met. Not far behind him stood his true employer, James Denis.

  Chapter 22

  Denis’s gaze met mine, his blue eyes cool. He gave me a faint nod and Donata a more polite one. “Mrs. Lacey,” he said.

  Then, without pausing to exchange pleasantries, he turned and walked away from us, heading purposefully to a row of paintings on easels. Mr. Floyd remained behind, as though apologizing for Denis’s abruptness.

  “Well met,” I told him. “You are looking more hearty than at our last encounter.”

  “Yes, a rest has done me good,” Mr. Floyd said, and bowed to Donata. “My lady.”

  “May I present my wife? Mrs. Lacey,” I said, never tiring of saying the name. “This is Mr. Floyd.”

  Floyd gave Donata another bow. “I am honored to meet you. A bit far to drag a lady, I’d say, Captain, to make her stand in a drafty outbuilding and gape at artwork.”

  Donata answered, “Not at all, Mr. Floyd. I find it quite entertaining. Is Dunmarron correct? Are these pieces from the prince’s collection copies?”

  Floyd gave me a look that showed surprise my wife knew all, but he answered without a blink. “No, my dear lady, I believe they are the originals. His Grace rubbishes it as I’ve said, to keep down the price so he can have it. Mad collectors will do anything to obtain something special at a bargain.”

  I flicked my gaze to Dunmarron, who stalked to the next object, a gold cup, and glowered at it. I’d begun forming the idea that Dunmarron was in on the plot to empty Carlton House of its treasures. Now that Marianne had told me what horrific threats he could make, I easily imagined him bullying and cowing Higgs to commit the thefts for him.

  I could also envision Dunmarron killing Higgs when the man began confiding in Grenville and me, and frightening Billy Boxall into hiding, or killing him for making more copies than he’d been commissioned to. Dunmarron wouldn’t need the money from the thefts, but both Spendlove and Donata had told me Dunmarron liked to collect art, even it he wasn’t the best judge of it.

  On the other hand, if he had stolen the pieces, why not simply keep them instead of letting them go to auction? Unless he hoped to make a profit from selling the smaller things to buy something more grand. There were plenty of items at this auction that were not part of Carlton House’s inventory—whether they were stolen, or quietly sold by their owners who did not want to let on they needed money, or loot from the wars I likely never would know.

  At the moment, Dunmarron’s acquaintances, Lord Lucas and Rafe Godwin, flanked him and tried to get him to remain quiet. I looked about for Grenville, a bit alarmed when I couldn’t see him. I feared that if he drew near Dunmarron, Dunmarron would be left bleeding on the floor, Grenville carted off for the crime.

  I heard the soft chime of a hand bell, rung to gain everyone’s attention. As we quieted, the auctioneer, a tall, reed-thin man with a head of thick gray hair, stood at the front of the room.

  “If you will take your seats, ladies and gentlemen.”

  Donata said a bright good day to Mr. Floyd and led me to seats in the middle of the room. The chairs were soft and comfortable—I wondered if they’d be auctioned off as well.

  As we sat down among the cream of London society, I whispered to her, “Do they not know a few of these things
belong to the Regent? Surely someone will report this to the magistrates, or to the prince, or at least to his majordomo.”

  Donata removed her bonnet and set it on her knee, kindly allowing the person behind her to see the front of the room. “They would not have received an invitation if they would,” she said quietly to me. “There are very old names here, Gabriel, and most have no love for the Hanoverians.”

  True, many of the aristocratic families of Britain believed themselves in a far better class than the portly German princes invited to come and play king. The Hanoverians had been fetched because there had been constitutionally no other choice.

  All eyes were not on the auctioneer at the moment, however. They were on Grenville, who had stepped to Lord Lucas to murmur into the man’s ear. Dunmarron loomed over Lucas’s left shoulder, but Grenville calmly continued to speak to Lucas, as though he didn’t notice the duke.

  Grenville turned his back on Dunmarron once he’d finished his conversation, utterly ignoring him, though Dunmarron’s large body filled much of the space around them. Grenville’s expression was as cool as ever, nothing at all in his eyes as he threaded his way to the seat Donata had reserved for him.

  Whispers and soft laughter flowed around us. Grenville had just given the Duke of Dunces the cut direct, and they’d been there to witness it. The incident would be the talk of Mayfair.

  The auctioneer cleared his throat, and his audience reluctantly dragged their attention back to the matter at hand.

  The only auctions I’d attended in my life had been as a lad in Norfolk, whenever a bankrupt farmer’s personal effects had been auctioned. The farmer went to debtor’s prison, while furniture, plows, and animals were sold to try to help erase his debts and whatever taxes he owed on the land. The process was informal, cold, and damp, with goods going for far less than they were worth.