Bless her. She knew I was infirm but couched her words to imply I’d do her a favor if I got off my feet. I acquiesced and allowed her to tow me to a line of gilded blue damask chairs that had been placed against the wall.
As soon as I sat down and drew a breath, my dizziness passed. Unfortunately, so did the tantalizing hint of memory.
“What can you tell me about Lord Armitage?” I asked Lady Aline, nodding at the man and his wife. “I met them last night at the Pavilion but know little about them.”
Armitage was not very tall, but he had a commanding presence, his hair crisp black, his face square and sharp, glittering eyes taking in the room. His wife was a beauty, though not a conventional one. Nothing fair and frail about her. She was the same height as her husband, with dark hair that gleamed in the lamplight. The gold net of her gown caught the same light, as did the diamonds in her hair. They made a striking pair.
Lady Aline Carrington, daughter of an earl and proud to be a spinster, knew everything about everyone in Britain. Gossip she did not know was not worth learning.
“I forgive your ignorance because you lived so long away from home,” Lady Aline said. “It was quite a scandal in its day, but people have forgotten, as you can see.”
She gestured with her lorgnette at the throng around Grenville and Marianne, everyone exquisitely polite, of course, but avidly curious about her. Lord and Lady Armitage were greeted courteously but all attention tonight was on Grenville and his new wife.
“Lady Armitage was Miss Elizabeth Randolph, niece of an ambassador from the American states to Austria fifteen years ago,” Lady Aline began. “Quite stunning she was, and she is still very comely. Lord Armitage was in Vienna, also an ambassador, during the wars with Bonaparte, and there he met Miss Randolph. So did a number of gentlemen, including Armitage’s brother, who lived with him there. The Austrian Emperor’s nephew was also much interested in Miss Randolph. There were duels and so forth. She flitted through it all quite happily, enjoying the attention.”
My daughter listened with interest, but I did not send her away or tell Lady Aline to eliminate the sordid details. I preferred Gabriella to hear the truth about people instead of remaining in ignorance.
“But Miss Randolph married Lord Armitage,” I observed as Armitage and his lady drifted arm-in-arm through the crowd. “They seem to get on well. I assume she fell in love with him and forsook all others?”
“She fell in love with his brother,” Lady Aline said with enjoyment. “He was good for nothing. A decent soldier, I hear, but a roué of the worst sort. Had half a dozen ladies on his string, both respectable women and those of the demimonde. He seduced Miss Randolph, it was rumored, and ruined her utterly. Her uncle tried to hush it up, of course, but everyone knew, and no announcement of an engagement was forthcoming. Lord Armitage, mortified, and possessing a few more morals than his brother, tried to insist the brother marry her. They came to blows over it.” Lady Aline flapped her peacock-feather fan as though warm from the exciting tale.
“Good heavens,” Gabriella said. “Did Lord Armitage marry Miss Randolph to save her reputation? That was noble of him.”
“If he had done, it would have been a satisfying end to the tale,” Lady Aline continued. “But life is not so tidy, Gabriella, dear. Miss Randolph decided that being ruined was a fine thing, as she no longer had to play the insipid miss—or so she said. She began a grand flirtation with the Austrian Emperor’s nephew. He had no intention of marrying her, of course, and she was well on the way to becoming a courtesan.”
“Then how did she come to marry Lord Armitage?” Gabriella asked.
Lady Aline leaned closer. “I am sad to relate that Miss Randolph discovered she was increasing. Disaster. Lord Armitage pressed harder on his brother to do the honorable thing, and his brother actually wavered, declaring he really did love the lady. He might have proposed, but then both men joined the Austrians at Austerlitz, to observe that battle. Unfortunately, the French bullets did not care that the two men had only come to watch, and Lord Armitage’s brother was killed.” Lady Aline lifted her fan to shield her face as she spoke the next words. “Some are uncharitable enough to say that Armitage himself killed his brother, to leave the way free to Miss Randolph. I don’t quite believe that—he could have simply married her while his brother played the rogue. But apparently, Miss Randolph and Armitage’s brother had been very much in love. They’d patched things up between themselves before he went to Austerlitz, and he looked forward to becoming a father.”
“Poor Lady Armitage,” Gabriella said softly.
Lady Aline gave her a fond look. “You are a kindhearted gel, my dear. Yes, Miss Randolph was quite grieved at his death. When Lord Armitage insisted Miss Randolph marry him to save her from utter ruin, she had little choice but to accept. She’d never been officially engaged to his brother, no settlements, so there was no impediment to her marrying Armitage. When her child was born—a girl, thank heavens—Armitage declared the child his. We all know better, of course, but no one challenges the statement. All was well, it turned out—Lord and Lady Armitage discovered after this hasty marriage that they rather liked each other. Armitage is wealthy and powerful in his circle, able to give Lady Armitage a luxurious life. He went to the Peninsula for a time, but since he’s been home, the two have been inseparable.”
“So it was a happy ending,” Gabriella said, eyes shining.
“Eventually,” Lady Aline conceded.
Our gazes went to the couple across the room, Lady Armitage in the act of disengaging from her husband to speak to several ladies. She had no stiffness in her, and the other women responded to her with ease—they clearly did not shun her. I wondered whether she’d had difficulty at first, an outsider with a scandalous history, being accepted into her husband’s circle.
But then, she was an ambassador’s niece, possibly connected to a highborn family—many in the American government could trace their lineage to British patriarchs—and she was charming. The Regent had invited her and her husband to the Pavilion last night, so Armitage at least must be one of the Regent’s cronies. The Regent’s friends tended to be a bit dissipated, but Armitage had seemed steady and forthright, if too blustering for my taste.
Had he been the upright diplomat in his youth, indignantly demanding his reprobate brother marry Miss Randolph? Or had Armitage been a reprobate himself but had simply hidden it well? After all, Armitage had ended up with the beautiful lady, and there were those who said he’d leveled the field for her.
And what had Lord Armitage’s appearance made me begin to remember about the events of the previous night?
That, I would have to discover.
The lecture tonight was about the Ancient Roman ruins at Herculaneum, an interest of mine. The man who spoke had an excellent style of oration, and even those who might have nodded off at the subject remained bright-eyed and applauded loudly at the end.
We broke for refreshments. I greeted the lecturer and praised his knowledge, asking questions about the discoveries around the Bay of Naples. The discussion took my mind off my troubles for the moment, but when the host led the lecturer away to speak to others, I retreated to a smaller room where I’d been told brandy was plentiful. A card room was also available, but I did not have the head for cards tonight.
I found Grenville already ensconced in the small chamber. He was pouring himself a brandy as I entered, and he held up the decanter in invitation. As I closed the door, he trickled a large measure into a goblet and handed it to me.
“To our wives,” he said, raising his glass. “May they chatter to their heart’s content.”
I toasted the ladies and drank deeply.
“I hate to ask it,” Grenville said after we’d settled into the quiet. “But are you quite well this evening? Bartholomew passed word to Matthias that you were up and walking about as usual but still looked peaky. Not to embarrass you, my friend,” he added quickly. “We are concerned, is all.”
I lounge
d into my chair and took a sip of the excellent brandy. I appreciated Grenville not hovering over me, too solicitous. A gentleman did not imply another was weak, even when that other could barely stand.
“I appear not to have had any terrible lapses in memory today, nor found anyone dead at my feet.” I tried to keep my voice light, but the ordeal had been damned unsettling. Still was.
“You raved a bit in your sleep,” Grenville said. “To be honest, we were worried you’d not recover.”
I recalled my dreams of faces swooping over me, Grenville’s included. Unnerving to think they’d seen me half insensible and looking like death.
“I have recovered, it seems,” I said. “I feel perfectly as usual at the moment.”
Grenville gave me an admiring look. “I envy you your constitution, Lacey. A lesser man might have had solicitors reviewing his will or deciding he was headed for madness.”
“I do hope it is not madness. My father was certainly unstable, though I’d always attributed it to drink. But then—he possibly did kill Marcus’s father.”
“If your dear cousin is telling the truth,” Grenville pointed out. “But I am working in the dark, my dear fellow. Donata, Bartholomew, and—reluctantly—Brewster told me the gist of things, but I have not heard the story from your lips.”
I took the precaution of rising and confirming no one else was in the room with us or listening at convenient keyholes, then I resumed my seat and told him, in a low voice, everything I remembered. I included retracing my steps with Brewster today, meeting the Friends and Isherwood’s son.
When I’d finished, Grenville sat limply. “Good Lord.”
I wet my dry mouth with the brandy. “What I must discover now is whether I actually killed Isherwood.”
“There is no certainty that you did,” Grenville said with an assuredness I did not share. “The sword was not yours, but Isherwood’s, his son told you. Isherwood was not a feeble man, and you would have had to fight him to wrest the weapon from him. He proved himself quite strong at supper, when he nearly strangled that footman.”
I thought back but could not recall the incident. “Another memory denied me.”
“I beg your pardon—I am not certain you had arrived yet. A footman of the Regent’s was slow, in Isherwood’s opinion, to fetch him a glass of hock. Isherwood took the young man by the lapels and shook him hard, poor lad. The boy’s turban fell to the floor, which Isherwood thought hilarious. I was a bit terse with Isherwood after that.”
“Turban.” Another memory knocked at me.
“Yes. Tall young footman, too old to be playing a Moorish boy, but the Regent likes his costumes.”
It came to me then, clear as a summer morning, the footman in his dressing gown, staring at me as I stood over Isherwood’s body, the cavalry sword in my hand.
“Clement,” I said.
Grenville blinked. “Pardon?”
“The lad’s name. Clement. He told me.”
“Oh? When was this?”
“When I found Isherwood. I remember now.” I closed my eyes, hoping the rest of the night would come flooding back, but it did not. I recalled Clement helping me find my way out of the Pavilion, and my cold and stumbling walk back home, but nothing between being with Grenville in the Steine and finding Isherwood’s dead body.
I told Grenville about Clement then studied my empty goblet. “I do not recall imbibing enough strong drink to take away my memory. I suppose I must have done, but usually when I overindulge, I simply fall asleep and wake feeling miserable. I have never wandered about town, had conversations with Quakers, and then dueled with a man, killing him with his own sword.”
“It might not have been drink,” Grenville suggested. “Another substance, perhaps.”
“I had nothing but wine at supper and port afterward, all of which were excellent, and I was not the only one who drank them. I remember you enjoying them quite soundly.”
“I did. Perhaps you took something else and you simply cannot recall it.”
“Possibly,” I conceded. “But what substance would affect me so? I use laudanum to combat the pain in my knee when it becomes too great, but again, if I take too much, I merely sleep.”
“As to that.” Grenville rose. “If you will sit here a moment, I will return in no time.”
I helped myself to another brandy as Grenville slipped out, and was halfway through it when he returned.
He brought Marianne with him. I stood up politely as Grenville ushered her in and closed the door, but Marianne waved me back down. She drew a straight-backed chair next to my softer seat, sat down, and leaned to peer hard at me.
“What are you doing?” I asked her nervously.
“Studying your eyes.” Marianne’s were marvelously blue. She wore her hair in a matronly knot tonight, revealing the strong bones of her face.
“What is the matter with them?”
“Nothing.” Marianne continued to stare at me. “A bit bloodshot. Your pupils look normal, but …” She suddenly pushed her hand at my face.
Soldier’s instinct made me grab her wrist, but I instantly gentled my touch and released her. Grenville had started for me when I’d latched my fingers around her arm, but he subsided, looking a bit abashed at his reaction.
Marianne resumed her scrutiny of my eyes. “You were slow to focus. Whatever substance you took is lingering, though mostly gone, I think. The wine and brandy you have drunk today will slow its dispersion, but I believe you will be well by morning. Have a good sleep tonight.”
I was torn between amusement and alarm. “Are you now a physician?”
“My dear Lacey, in a theatre company, one learns all sorts of tricks—for keeping oneself awake, for example, or ensuring a sound sleep amidst noise and chaos. Laudanum or opium for relaxation. Belladonna to brighten the eyes. The magical gas that takes away pain and makes you silly. And of course, gin, when one wants to forget one’s troubles.”
“Could the gas have done this to me?” I remembered inhaling an odorless concoction at a gathering a few years ago, and the sudden and surprising absence of pain. But I recalled every moment of that day, no blurring of memory.
“Possibly. Possibly not. On the other hand, the opium eater sometimes forgets hours, or entire days, even the act of taking the opium itself.”
“Does it cause bad dreams?” I asked.
“Yes, the dreams when one comes down can be awful.” Marianne cast a quick glance at Grenville, who was listening intently. “Do not worry—I am not an opium eater myself. I’ve watched too many become a slave to it to wish to inflict that upon myself.”
An opium delirium would explain both the memory lapse and the dreams last night, I decided. Also my fear that I was going mad.
“But look here,” Grenville broke in. “Opium might be the solution, but how would an enemy get it into you, Lacey? I cannot imagine you tamely swallowing a bottle or smoking a pipe of the stuff at another’s suggestion.”
“Neither can I,” I agreed. “But what if I thought the opium was something else?”
“The smell and taste are distinct and unpleasant,” Marianne said. “You could not have mistaken it. I suppose someone could have dosed a strong enough tea or coffee and you might not notice it.”
“It was late when we left the Pavilion. I rarely have coffee after midnight.”
“You might have drunk it, nonetheless, and simply do not remember,” Marianne said. “I have known actors who have lost entire weeks of their lives while they ate opium. They’d take the stuff even before a performance and muff their lines, which was most annoying for the rest of us.”
“You met the Quaker fellow,” Grenville reminded me.
“A man who takes no strong drink, not even coffee?” I shook my head.
“It might not have been opium at all,” Marianne said. “There are other substances, not as well known, that have similar effects. Plants and medicines from China and India, for example. Sailors bring them back, as do soldiers.”
> “And there are plenty of soldiers in Brighton,” Grenville put in. “And sailors. Large merchantmen unload at Portsmouth, not many miles down the coast. Smugglers land anywhere they can find a cove.”
I sat back, more frustrated than ever. “Excellent. We are looking for smugglers who might have sailed here from anywhere in the world, with any exotic substance, who sought a former cavalry officer, dosed him, and set him off to either kill another officer or at least make him believe he did.”
My friends exchanged a glance. “I do see the difficulties,” Grenville said.
“Brewster advises me to leave it alone,” I replied sourly.
Grenville gestured with his brandy glass. “I see his point as well. Why should you have anything to do with it? Let Isherwood’s son try to find out what he can. You return to London and stay well out of it.”
“I have a witness,” I reminded him. “Clement. And you know I cannot go through my life wondering whether I’ve killed a man. A certain Bow Street Runner would joyfully arrest me on the speculation alone.” I spoke of Timothy Spendlove, who waited for any excuse to put me in the dock.
“I know,” Grenville said. “I did not believe you would leave it, and my suggestion was not wholehearted.”
I glanced at Marianne. “What do you think, Mrs. Grenville?”
Pink stole over her cheeks—this was the first time I’d addressed her thus. “I agree with Mr. Grenville,” she said. “You will investigate whether we believe it prudent or not.”
She’d ceased referring to Grenville as him, I noted. I wondered if she called him Lucius in private.
“Exactly, my dear fellow,” Grenville said warmly. “What do you propose we do to help?”
I let out a breath. “We must find out everything we can about Isherwood’s enemies. You know the Regent, Grenville—why did he invite Isherwood at all? What about Lord and Lady Armitage? Lady Aline told me their history—what is it about them I need to remember?” I pressed my hands together. “In other words, please, my friends, use your connections and your penchant for persuading people to talk to you, and discover whether another did this deed or …” I swallowed. “Or whether I truly am responsible and need to make amends.”
Death at Brighton Pavilion (Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries Book 14) Page 5
