Death at Brighton Pavilion (Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries Book 14)

by Ashley Gardner

  Armitage let out a laugh. “I am joking, my friends. Speculation and amusement about a nobody. I trust none of our words tonight will be repeated?”

  He cast a warning gaze at us both, the aristocrat commanding his inferiors.

  Grenville’s quizzing glass was now at his eye. “Of course they will not be.” The iciness in his tone chilled the air. “It is never a question.”

  Armitage had the grace to look embarrassed. “Forgive me, Grenville, but you have not met the gentlemen I have in my life. Diplomats are the least trustworthy people in existence. And upon them hang the fate of nations.”

  I wondered if he included himself in that number.

  Armitage liked to dominate, I could see. He wanted control of a place, a conversation, and what was said when his friends left him. I wondered if that control had extended to his brother, to the point of deciding that the woman who was to marry that brother would be better off with Armitage himself.

  To give him the benefit of doubt, war played arbitrary tricks on people’s lives, altering them forever, as it had altered mine. There was nothing to say his brother had simply not stood in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Armitage took his leave of us and breezily walked away, heading toward the lighted part of the green from which the fireworks would be viewed.

  Grenville dropped his quizzing glass into its pocket then removed a handkerchief and dabbed his mouth as though he’d tasted something foul.

  “His is an old title,” he said, tucking the handkerchief away. “Which makes him believe himself untouchable. My family is far more lofty than his, but as I am a distant twig, he dismisses me. You, of course, are a dust mote in his very small mind.”

  “So I gathered.” I leaned on my stick, my energy giving way. “His accusation of Mrs. Isherwood is unlikely, in my opinion. She was an unhappy woman, ill-used. She does not deserve more dishonor piled upon her.”

  Grenville was looking me up and down, his famous brows high.

  “Is something amiss?” I asked tersely.

  “You are a man of great reserve, Lacey. You know my entire history, while bits and pieces of yours turn up at the oddest times.”

  “Not quite. You had a daughter you kept to yourself.”

  “I never knew I had a daughter until the fact was slapped in my face.” He took on a fond look. “She is doing well, by the way. Gained much applause for her portrayal of Portia at Drury Lane this spring.”

  “So I have heard.” Grenville’s obvious pride in Claire Bennington would divert me any other time. “Forgive me if I have not provided you a list of my paramours from the time I was able to understand what one did with a woman until my present marriage. It would hardly be kind to the ladies.”

  “That is not what I mean, which you know very well,” Grenville returned. “But I would have thought this information relevant, as the woman’s husband has been murdered.” He let out a sigh. “Unfortunately your affair with Mrs. Isherwood makes you still more of a suspect. Gentlemen have battled over ladies before. Do regularly, in fact.”

  “It was a long time ago.” I heard the weakness of the statement even as I said it. “She was far better off without the blackguard Isherwood. Why should I fight him about her now?”

  Grenville rubbed a finger under his lip. “I’d love for your memory of the night to come flooding back.”

  “As would I.” I tamped down despair as the emptiness of those hours rose up to mock me. “But I’ve lost time before when inebriated. I may never recall what happened.”

  “I doubt you went temporarily mad.” Grenville must have read my unhappiness, because he put a kind hand on my shoulder. “Never fear, my friend. We will discover what occurred and why you were dosed and by who. We will pull together and not let you down.” He removed his comforting touch. “However, you must oblige me by telling me the tale of you and Mrs. Isherwood. Then we will decide whether Armitage is correct about her, or if he is simply being a fathead.”

  My uncertainty about the question bothered me. I believed my assessment of Marguerite the true one, but Armitage had sowed doubt.

  I noted the crowd gathering on the green. “The fireworks are about to begin.”

  “Indeed. Let us return to our happy families and enjoy ourselves.”

  Grenville gave me an encouraging nod and led the way back to civilization.

  Grenville rejoined Marianne, and was soon surrounded by her friends—actors and actresses who were quite taken with him. I broke from them after a few moments to seek my wife and daughter.

  The Steine was very dark beyond the lantern-lit main path. While the park had a simple layout, there were patches under trees that were inky black, a perfect trysting spot for lovers or a hiding place for robbers.

  I fancied I spied Lady Aline Carrington, or at least her outlandish headdress, feathers waving above a large turban. Donata and Gabriella would be near her, or Aline would know where I could find them.

  A loud bang announced the first of the fireworks. It rose in a red nimbus, bursting over the towers of the Pavilion to rapturous applause.

  More explosions followed the first, white, orange, and green spangling the night. The crowd surged in front of me, cutting off my view of Lady Aline. I skirted them, moving along a path overhung with trees, plunged into darkness as I sought the light.

  I felt a rush of air to my right. Assuming I was about to be assailed, I sidestepped, bringing up my walking stick to fend off the villain.

  Another explosion of fireworks sounded behind me. In front of me came a second bang, nearly lost in the blasts in the sky. I saw a bright flare of gunpowder and then I was on the ground, my face in the mud, instinct preserving my life.

  Desjardins’ gun had been a long-barreled shooter. This was a pistol, I could tell from the sound and a chance gleam from the fireworks.

  I roared as I surged to my feet, anger propelling me upward. I ran forward, recklessly assuming that the shooter had only one pistol, which would now be spent.

  Empty air answered my assault. I struck out with my cane but encountered no one.

  The boom of the fireworks smothered any sound of retreating footsteps. I plunged along in the direction I imagined the shooter would have run, until I was rewarded by the outline of a man against the sky.

  I snarled and launched myself at him. A large pair of hands caught me, wrested away my stick, and shoved me several feet backward.

  “It’s me, guv.” Brewster held my walking stick protectively in front of him. “What the devil you attacking me for?”

  “Brewster. Bloody hell.” I sucked in a breath, my heart banging behind aching ribs. “A blackguard shot a pistol at me.”

  “‘Struth.” Brewster thrust my walking stick back at me. “That’s twice in one day. Was it the Frenchie?”

  I took the cane and rested it at my side, my knee now hurting powerfully. “I do not believe so. The comte wore a distinctive scent, and I did not smell it.”

  “A man can wash,” Brewster pointed out.

  “True, and I couldn’t smell much over the gunpowder and the fireworks.” My rage dissolved into stark worry. “Where are my daughter and Donata? If there are madmen with pistols about, you need to be watching over them, not me.”

  “Don’t fuss yourself—they’re with Mr. Grenville and a whole host of ladies and gents.”

  “Where?” I began striding toward the pack watching the fireworks, forcing Brewster to catch up with me. He did so with a grunt of irritation.

  “Certain ye want to join them? You look like you’ve been kissing the ground.”

  I glanced down at myself. A bright wave of fireworks showed my suit plastered with mud, my cravat and waistcoat black with it.

  “Bartholomew will not be pleased,” I observed.

  “Naw, he’ll be chuffed. He likes looking after your clothes.”

  I ignored him. If I hurried to Donata and Gabriella, there would be questions and alarm, and I might serve them better by finding and stopping the
fellow instead.

  “As I am not fit to be seen, let us hunt for the shooter,” I said.

  Brewster glared at me. “No, ye should take yourself inside in case he tries again.”

  “Exactly, and we should find him before he does. He must have run that way.”

  I pointed with my stick to the road beyond the Steine. It was the darkest path, and I’d seen no one running on the lighted ones. The strongest possibility was that he’d fled across the street and into the labyrinthine back lanes of Brighton.

  “You expect to find him in there?” Brewster demanded. “Brighton has paid night constables. Let them do their job.”

  “He shot at me, Brewster,” I said in a hard voice. “This was not arbitrary, but personal. He waited until I was in the shadows to strike.”

  “I know that, and I’ll scour the town for him, but right now, ye need to get inside where he can’t shoot at you anymore. That is, if you’ll stay away from the windows.”

  Part of me reasoned that Brewster had the right of it, but being a target boiled rage through my blood.

  “Someone is going to much trouble to make my life hell,” I snapped as I headed for the road. “Making me believe I killed a man and then trying to kill me in return. I have had enough of it.”

  “Go back to London,” Brewster advised as he caught up to me. “Much safer.”

  His sarcasm was sharp, and I did not bother to answer.

  “Captain Lacey?” A woman’s voice stopped me before I reached the other side of the street. “Are you fleeing the fireworks? You never liked them much, I remember.”

  Chapter 12

  I turned to see Marguerite Gibbons ambling from the Steine across the empty street. She was alone, no husband or servant to guard her.

  I met her in the middle of the road to escort her safely to the other side. “Have a care, madam,” I said. “A man has just shot at me.”

  “Good heavens.” Marguerite looked me up and down, taking in my ruined clothing. “I thought the wars were over.”

  “I’ve found England to be as dangerous as a battlefield. You should not wander about on your own, Mrs. Gibbons.”

  “I often do.” Marguerite glanced at Brewster, concluding he was my servant, to his obvious annoyance. “Perhaps following the drum made me fearless. But do not worry. I am not an ingenue but an aging woman who has potted more than one would-be pickpocket with my umbrella.”

  Her eyes sparkled with warmth, bright under the shadow of her feathered hat.

  “Even so, I should return you to your husband.”

  “This husband, yes. I would have fought you if you’d suggested such a thing on our last acquaintance.”

  In another circumstance, I might have enjoyed reminiscing with her. Marguerite and I had been friends, if only briefly. But I was furious at the attempt on my life, still shaken by the death of Joshua Bickley, and sickened by the entire course of events.

  “Isherwood is dead,” I said bluntly. “Murdered. I have been shot at twice today, and there is nothing to say a third time will not come. It is unsafe to stand next to me. I will take you back to the park and retire.”

  Marguerite gaped at me. “Twice?” I noted that she showed no reaction to my declaration that Isherwood had been killed, but I assumed her stepson had told her the truth of his murder.

  “My husband is home, not at the Steine,” Marguerite went on. “He does not like crushes and said he could see the fireworks as well from our rooms, which is true. I wanted air and to discover who was in Brighton for the summer.”

  “Lord Armitage for one,” I said. “You recall him from Salamanca?”

  Her eyes widened. “I do. Goodness. I had no idea he was in Brighton …” She looked thoughtful.

  I took her arm and firmly led her along the street, making for the promenade where I’d seen her emerge from a house. “Armitage claims you were a spy for Napoleon.” I saw no reason not to reveal this to her. “I told him he was an idiot.”

  “He said that?” She was more amused than alarmed. “I am hardly surprised. Lord Armitage violently disliked me and encouraged Isherwood to be rid of me. I have no idea why except that I am outspoken, and Armitage prefers women to be obedient. I am glad of the divorce now. It left me free when I met Mr. Gibbons, a far, far better man than Isherwood ever was.”

  I noted that she did not deny being a spy, and had neatly turned away the question.

  “Did your stepson send for you?” I asked.

  “Giles? No, actually. We were never close—Isherwood made certain of that—and he has corresponded little with me since the divorce. I was summoned by Major Forbes.”

  I slowed in surprise. “Forbes?”

  “Indeed. He also violently dislikes me, but he felt it his duty to inform me of Isherwood’s passing. Major Forbes thought I deserved to know he had been murdered. Or possibly he was warning me he thought I’d done it.”

  “And you rushed here to discover what had happened?”

  Another laugh. “You are correct to be skeptical, Captain. I suppose I came to reassure myself Isherwood was truly dead. Mr. Gibbons feared there might be some legal tangle with inheritance and decided we’d better make the journey. Isherwood was well off, and I am named in his will—at least, I was once upon a time. If so, the money would be welcome.”

  A practical man, was Gibbons, encouraging his wife to seek an inheritance from a man who’d abandoned her.

  We’d gone deep into the narrow lanes of the old town, Brewster keeping a sharp eye out.

  “Where are you lodging?” I asked Marguerite.

  “Worry not, Captain. I will not hang on you and prevent you going home to your lovely wife. She is quite fond of you, I can see. Mr. Gibbons and I have taken rooms in Ship Street.”

  I turned my steps that way. The Old Ship, where I’d sought the magistrate, sat on the corner overlooking the sea, but Marguerite directed me to a plain house in the middle of the lane.

  Mr. Gibbons exited the house as we approached by means of a door next to the ground-floor shop. “Captain Lacey, well met again.”

  “I found him rushing from the park,” Marguerite said, withdrawing her hand from my arm. “Someone shot at him, it seems.”

  “Truly?” Gibbons raised his brows. “Perhaps you heard a firework and mistook it?”

  “Not when the pistol discharged five feet from me,” I explained. “I thought it best I see your wife safely home—even quiet Brighton has dangers.”

  Gibbons tucked Marguerite’s hand in the crook of his elbow, looking not at all worried that I had walked closely with her in the dark. “We’ve lived on the coast for years, Captain, and know its perils.”

  He dismissed the threat, as she did. I wished the pair of them well.

  “Good night,” I said, tipping my hat.

  “Good night, Captain,” Marguerite said. “Thank you for your courtesy.”

  Gibbons echoed her farewell, and I bowed and left them.

  “Odd folk.” Brewster shoved his hands into his coat pockets and slouched next to me along Bedford Row. “Want me to find out what they’re really here for?”

  “The reading of the will presumably. But it would be wise to keep an eye out. Discreetly, of course.”

  Brewster returned an irritated look. “I’m always discreet, guv. They’ll never know I’m there.”

  Brewster was a large man with a loud voice, but I believed him. Mr. Denis employed only the best.

  I went home at Brewster’s continued prodding, but only after he promised to return to the Steine and make certain Donata and Gabriella were looked after. He seemed aggrieved I’d think he wouldn’t go, and disappeared into the night.

  Bartholomew was surprised and appalled at my ruined suit but quickly had me out of my clothes and into a banyan and slippers. After he left me, I sat at my writing table with pen in hand, trying to make sense out of all that had happened thus far. My lists were disjointed, my handwriting shaky.

  Finally I threw down my pen and gave up
.

  Noise below announced the arrival of my family. I went to meet them, relieved to see both Grenville and Brewster escorting Donata and Gabriella, Grenville having taken them under his wing. Brewster departed at last, but Grenville lingered.

  I kissed my daughter good night, and she held fast to me. “Did you grow ill, Father? You ought to have told us—we’d have come home together.”

  Brewster had apparently kept the story of the shooting to himself. “I am well,” I assured her. “I decided to have an early night and did not wish to spoil your enjoyment.”

  “Spending an evening with you is always enjoyable, Father.” My daughter gave me a winsome smile, making me wonder if she teased or was serious. “Good night, sir.” She touched another kiss to my cheek and then went upstairs.

  Donata sent me a steely glance, but she said not a word as Jacinthe relieved her of her light wraps and escorted her up. I called a good-night to Donata, but she never turned, never answered.

  Grenville cleared his throat. He beckoned me into the front sitting room and closed the door against the servants, who were shutting down the small house for the night.

  “Donata learned early in her first marriage not to twit her husband about his indiscretions,” Grenville said in a quiet voice. “So she will not mention she saw you hurry away from the park with Mrs. Gibbons.”

  I groaned in dismay. “Oh, good Lord. Mrs. Gibbons followed me. I haven’t put it out of my head that she shot at me.”

  Grenville’s eyes widened. “Shot …”

  I quickly told him what had happened. “Brewster insisted I take myself indoors at once. Mrs. Gibbons caught up to me, and I took the opportunity to quiz her on why she’d come to Brighton.”

  Grenville went very still as he listened to my tale. “I must learn never to turn my back on you, old friend,” he said when I’d finished. “You fall into adventures faster than any man I know.”

  “Someone is trying to make my life very difficult,” I agreed. “I am grateful you remained with Donata and Gabriella, though I believe I rendered them safer by leaving them. I seem to be hunted only when I am alone.”