She was adamant. I respected the Quakers for their devotion and the kindness they showed to the downtrodden, but I could see that if one was not happy with that way of life, it could be difficult.
“Look after Bickley,” Mrs. Craddock went on. “Losing his son is a terrible blow to him. He lost his wife, and a brother too, you know. Well, a half-brother.”
Poor Bickley had certainly seen his share of tragedies. “He has gone to stay with his sister.”
“I am glad. Much better for him. Good day to you, Captain. Well met.”
I wished her a good day in return, and we parted, I with the feeling of having been put in my place.
Mr. Quimby was out, but I left him a message to call on me at his earliest convenience. I next turned my steps to Denis’s lodgings, not entirely expecting to be admitted.
I was, to my surprise, and the surgeon hadn’t yet departed. In Denis’s study under Denis’s watchful eye, the surgeon listened to my questions with his usual stoicism.
When I finished, he shook his head. “Valerian root is used for sedation. Its effects are mild—you would have to take quite a lot to inebriate you.”
“If it were given to me in alcohol? Such as in strong port?”
“No, Captain. My suggestion of pure opium is the most likely answer.”
I saw an emotion in his eyes now. Arrogance. He wanted to be right—was certain he was right. The arrogance was tinged with scorn at me for doubting him.
Denis, who sat at his desk, clearly agreed with the surgeon. “Why would you suppose one of the Quakers wished to murder Colonel Isherwood?” he asked me.
“I am running out of possibilities,” I said in frustration. “Speaking to you both now, I see it is unlikely I was fed anything out of their garden.”
“I did not mean to imply they had nothing to do with it,” Denis said. “The surgeon’s opinion is only that what you took was stronger than valerian. They may not have made the opium concoction themselves, but could have had it on hand. If you can find a reason why any of the Quakers wanted Isherwood dead and for you to take the blame, you can send Mr. Quimby to them and be done.”
“Isherwood was a career soldier,” I pointed out. “The Quakers are pacifists. They refuse to take part in any war.”
“A potential conflict there. Perhaps one of their members has gone a little mad about his pacifism and sought to destroy a man he thought personified war.”
I considered the suggestion a moment. “Farfetched.”
“But possible.” Denis signaled one of his guards to open the door, indicating the interview was at an end. “Examine all possibilities, Captain, until you find the right one.”
Upon my return, Bartholomew gave me a note from Mr. Quimby that said he would call on me tomorrow. The missive indicated nothing more than that, and I was confident the man was busily investigating leads of his own.
The social whirl of Brighton continued. The death of a colonel of Preston Barracks and a Quaker lad did not affect the upper classes who’d come to the seaside to play.
We attended a ball that evening in a well-appointment mansion at an estate not far from Brighton. The festivities spilled into the gardens, where paper lanterns hung along the paths, the air warm enough for a stroll.
Comte Desjardins arrived with a young lady who turned out to be his niece. She began chattering to Gabriella, walking away with her, which unfortunately left me alone with Desjardins.
“You aren’t armed tonight, are you, sir?” I asked, making a show of checking him over.
The man laughed. “No, no, my Purdeys are at home. You know I didn’t shoot at you intentionally, my good man.”
He spoke in French, far less awkward in that language. Or was he? Many a Frenchman of my acquaintance who’d lived in England since childhood, as Desjardins had, spoke English fluently, with little accent. I wondered if he affected the awkwardness for his own purposes.
“No?” I countered. I thought about the height and build of the figure in the park, the gleam of moonlight on a fine pistol. “What about during the fireworks in the Steine last night? Was that not you in the shadows, with another gun?”
Desjardins lost his fatuous smile. “What do you mean? You accuse me? You English—I have always been on your side.”
“He’s got you bang to rights.” Lord Armitage had wandered to us, glass of champagne in hand, lantern light touching his sleek dark hair. “It was indeed the good count taking shots in the park. Again, you got in the way, Lacey.”
My temper splintered. “Why the devil were you shooting away in the dark? You could have hit anyone. You could have hit my daughter, damn you.”
“I wasn’t aiming at you,” Desjardins snapped.
“Who then? And does it matter? We are all lucky you are such a rotten shot.”
“I spotted a traitorous femme,” Desjardins said, his scorn rife. “As you might say, a turncoat bitch.”
My hand tightened on my cane, eager to draw the sword within. “If you are speaking of Marguerite Gibbons, there is no evidence of that. Only Armitage’s word.”
Armitage’s brows climbed. “Oh no? I know damn well she went through Isherwood’s dispatches and stole papers. Who can say what else she did? And she shared your bed—everyone was rife with that gossip. Did she pass information to you? Whisper secrets while she lay in your arms?”
I gazed at him in amazement. “Why on earth should she?”
Armitage shrugged. “She recruited where she could. She will deny it—who would not? But she did spy, my dear Captain. Tried to recruit Desjardins here as well.”
Desjardins opened his light blue eyes very wide. With his thick, fair hair, he looked like an overgrown schoolboy, one of the none-too-bright but bullying lads of the upper form.
“I told you, I am loyal to the British,” Desjardins said indignantly. “Your country took me in when my family had to flee the Directorate. Those in power shifted every day—one day a friend, the next, they were sending you to the guillotine.” He shuddered. “Terrible times. I would never betray your country, Captain Lacey. No matter what papers Mrs. Isherwood tried to hand me to leak to Bonaparte’s generals.”
Armitage scowled as Desjardins spluttered through this speech, as though he’d heard it one too many times.
“A moment.” I surveyed the two men, the dandified Frenchman and the ramrod straight Englishman who’d watched the destruction at Austerlitz. “You were on the Peninsula, Desjardins?”
“Of course,” Desjardins said without hesitation. “As an advisor only. Who better to instruct His Grace of Wellington in the thoughts of Marmont and Bonet?”
“And, as you know, the French were allowed to escape when it was all over at Salamanca,” Armitage put in. “How do you suppose that happened? Money changed hands, I imagine. Someone told the French where the weak point lay, and they fled.”
Wellington had not been happy with that blunder—it had given the French time to regroup and join their fellows when they came at us later in Madrid.
Coldness stole over me. I’d always assumed those guarding the French retreat had been given bad orders, or was Armitage correct that information had been leaked?
“It hardly mattered in the end,” I said, trying to keep my expression calm. “Wellington won Salamanca with good tactics, and Bonaparte weakened his Peninsular army by pulling out too many regiments to march to Russia.”
“But Marguerite could not have known that, could she?” Armitage waved his glass. “She seized an opportunity. Likely she was paid for her perfidy. How else could she afford to make her way back to England when Isherwood cut her off?”
I had paid her way to England, but I decided not to bring that up at the moment.
“If you had evidence of her betrayal, gentlemen, why did you not give it to Wellington?” I demanded. “Or send word to have Marguerite arrested when she reached England?”
Desjardins shook his head in sorrow. “These things are difficult to prove, Captain. No doubt she passed on th
e papers or burned them. Plus she was, as you say, wily.”
Armitage agreed. “I am certain she made certain she’d never be convicted. Marrying a nondescript Englishman must have helped her enormously. I suspect her spying days are over, but I would not trust that woman, Lacey. Not an inch.”
I did not like these two, and I liked what they said still less. “Why are you warning me of her? Why bother?”
“Doing you a favor, old boy,” Armitage said. “She’s still a beautiful woman, and she deceived you once. She can do so again.”
“I have not renewed my intimacy with her,” I said stiffly. “Nor do I intend to.”
“That does not mean she will not use you,” Desjardins said. “Or your friendship. Depend upon it, she is up to no good. Why has she come to Brighton, do you suppose?”
“Her former husband died,” I said, my patience thinning. “She came to see her stepson.”
“Did she?” Desjardins opened his eyes wide. “Perhaps he is passing on English secrets too. Perhaps it runs in the family.”
Armitage scoffed. “Do not become too fanciful, my friend. Isherwood’s son is well thought of in his circle. Isherwood senior was a bullying churl. His son is an angel in comparison.”
“You seemed happy enough to converse with Isherwood at our supper at the Pavilion,” I said. “Congenially, I recall.”
“Politeness.” Armitage’s smile was cold. “The politeness that is drilled into all of us from an early age. We sit with those we despise and do not make a scene.”
Not entirely, as I’d observed. From what I recalled of the supper, Armitage had been boastfully arrogant about his role as diplomat to the Austrian court. Desjardins had been a buffoon, and had ogled Marianne repeatedly. Grenville had studiously ignored them, and Marianne had behaved as though Desjardins was not even in the room.
“Ah, well, Isherwood is dead now,” Desjardins said. “And can tell no tales about his wife.”
Armitage seemed displeased at Desjardins’ words. He lifted his chin. “She might still tell plenty. Have a care of her, Captain. Remain with the beautiful Lady Breckenridge and pay Marguerite no mind.”
Desjardins’ lopsided grin moved dangerously close to a leer. “You did well there, Captain. How do you manage to draw the most beguiling women to your side?”
I bowed coldly. “I will take that as a compliment to my wife. Good evening, gentlemen.”
“I meant no insult, of course,” Desjardins said quickly. I imagine that with his lack of skill at shooting he did his best to stay out of duels. “Englishmen can be so quick to take offense.”
I bowed again without a word and took my leave of both of them.
In the morning as I breakfasted, I found not an answer to my letter to Brandon, but Colonel Brandon himself.
Chapter 20
Colonel Aloysius Brandon had never deigned call on me since I’d been married, though he’d attended Donata’s soirees and suppers at the South Audley Street House with his wife, Louisa. Therefore, I was astonished when Bartholomew admitted him to the dining room.
Brandon had always been a hearty man, large without being soft, with a big voice, firm handshake, and loud opinions. I noted a bit more gray in his dark hair today and a few more wrinkles on his forehead, but his blue eyes were as bright and vigorous as ever.
“Did you ride all night?” I asked as I rose to shake his hand and gesture him to a seat.
Bartholomew, without prompting, set a place for Brandon, poured him coffee, and checked the dishes under silver covers on the sideboard. He hurried out, likely to shout at those in the kitchen to replenish the food.
Brandon sat down, lifting the cup of coffee, eyes pinching at the steam. “Left early this morning. Fine weather for riding, and I wanted to reach Brighton before it grew too hot. Easier on my horse.” He spoke with the consideration of a cavalryman for his mount.
I set aside the newspaper I’d been reading, more uncomfortable with his presence than I wished to admit. My turbulent relationship with Brandon had calmed in the last year, but there remained a bit of strain between us.
“How is Louisa?” I asked, keeping my voice light. “Is she well?”
Brandon took a sip of the coffee, an excuse to not meet my eyes. “She is right as rain. Can’t drag her out of the gardens most days. She loves summer in the country.”
“I cannot blame her.” The Brandons’ large house in Kent was indeed a lovely place, the gardens lush under Louisa’s care.
“And Mrs. Lacey?” Brandon asked in return. “She is well?”
“Donata enjoys the sea bathing. Has insisted we go several times a week, claiming the salt water is good for us. Gabriella likes splashing about, and Peter swims like a fish,” I finished proudly.
“Excellent.” Brandon’s tension eased at my answers. “I received your letter, of course, and decided to come down. Easier for me to explain face to face.”
Brandon had never been one for letter writing. He could agonize an entire afternoon over a single paragraph.
“Explain what?” I asked. “That Isherwood was a boor? And what of this fantastic idea that Mrs. Isherwood was a spy for Bonaparte?”
Brandon started to answer, then clamped his mouth shut as Bartholomew and a footman returned with more platters for the sideboard. Bartholomew offered to serve Brandon, but Brandon waved him away, climbed to his feet, and moved to pile food on his plate. I signaled Bartholomew to withdraw, which the young man did with reluctance, taking the footman with him.
Brandon clumped back to the table and thunked down his plate. He resumed his seat, lifted knife and fork, and attacked the mound of bacon, sausage, eggs, toast, and meat pie.
“In truth, Louisa thought I’d do better to speak to you,” he said around a mouthful of sausages. “She remembers Salamanca. She was taken with the place, has suggested we return and hire a house there.” His expression told me he thought Louisa had run mad.
“The warmth is nice.” I recalled balmy Spain with nostalgia, particularly whenever the weather turned cold and dank in London. “The French chose well when they garrisoned in Salamanca.”
“Yes, they made good use of the place.” Brandon assumed the look of admiration he wore when discussing tactics and battles. “But I have not come to reminisce about the war. I need to tell you about Armitage and Isherwood. Two more self-serving gentlemen I have never met. I suppose that is the sort the Forty-Seventh Light attracts.”
I nodded, sharing his disdain for any regiment but our own. “I barely knew anything about Isherwood, except for what he did to his wife. I never realized Armitage was even in the Forty-Seventh.”
“Because you did not attend the senior officers’ suppers and soirees and all that nonsense.” Brandon tore apart his eggs. “I had the displeasure of dining with Lord Armitage, Colonel—then Major—Isherwood, and Comte Desjardins on several occasions. Desjardins was more a hanger-on. He was brought in by Armitage, who’d known him for years, to advise Wellington about the Frenchmen he fought. But Desjardins was useless, in my opinion. Most of the Corsican’s marshals despised emigres like Desjardins and wouldn’t have moved in his circles, but Armitage insisted. I do not know if the two men were simply old friends or Armitage owed him something. The latter, probably.” Brandon paused to take a noisy sip of coffee.
“You were alarmed enough by my letter to ride to Brighton,” I said.
Brandon nodded and set down his cup. “If there is perfidy, Armitage is behind it, trust me. He killed his own brother, you know.”
I started at his bluntness. “A rumor, I thought. Unproven.”
Brandon snorted. “He did it, all right. Lady Armitage married him quickly enough—angling for it, a few fellows who were in Austria at the time tell me. Armitage had the money, the prestige, the title, and the composure to give Miss Randolph a grand house and a soft life. His brother was a wastrel and she knew it—she chased him only in order to gain Armitage’s attention.”
“Lady Aline told me she was increa
sing at the time of the brother’s death. She’d have leapt at any offer of marriage, I’d think.”
“She’d had other offers to marry,” Brandon said darkly. “But she wanted Armitage. They say she even encouraged Armitage to kill his brother and pretend a stray bullet did it.”
I grimaced. “That is a fairly monstrous accusation.”
“Monstrous is the word. Which is why I rose at an ungodly hour and rode to Brighton to tell you.” Brandon finished off another forkful. “Damn fine cook you’ve found here, Lacey.”
I, for one, had lost my appetite. “Lady Armitage had the child.”
“A daughter, which was a mercy for the poor mite. No worries about the entail. She gave Armitage a son a year after that, so all is well in Armitage’s world.”
I drew a pattern on the tablecloth with the back of my knife. “What perfidy did Armitage commit at Salamanca?”
Brandon chewed and swallowed. “You recall that a large part of the French battalions we fought escaped during their retreat? That Wellington pursued them but had to give up?”
“I do remember chasing them, fruitlessly, over hills full of olive trees and being dead tired when I finally returned. Armitage tried to tell me last night that Marguerite caused this by passing information stolen from Isherwood to the French marshals.”
“Ha. Isherwood did that himself,” Brandon said. “Aided and abetted by Lord Armitage.”
I froze, my lazy patterns coming to an end. “Isherwood did? I’d believe it of Armitage, but I thought Isherwood was a stickler for the rules, very upright. He had a long career as an officer. If his name was tarnished, I would have heard. Wouldn’t I?”
“He was also head over arse in debt. His commission cost money, his fine house in Derbyshire cost money, not to mention the one here in Brighton, and the keeping of his wife cost money. Probably he wagered heavily at cards—who knows?” Brandon spoke with the virtuous air of one who’d never been in debt. “Armitage gave Isherwood money to help him pay up. They spoke of it quite openly over cheroots one night. Isherwood expressed a wish for the war to go on forever, as he was too worried about his creditors to return to England. He said it jokingly, but Armitage told him he need have no fears—Armitage would pay the debts and make an arrangement with Isherwood to return the money when he could.”
Death at Brighton Pavilion (Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries Book 14) Page 19
