Leland swallowed, his eyes wet, but he nodded. “Yes, Captain.”
My sanctuary here was at an end as well. “Good night then,” I said, and without further speech, left the room.
The landing was dark, Grenville’s private chamber near the top of the house. Grenville ordered no lights here during his soirees, to encourage the guests to remain below. I paused in the darkness, hanging on to the railing, taking deep breaths.
I was angry. Travers dragging me into a personal quarrel with Leland, each of them purporting to want to be the first to be with me was ridiculous. Unnerving. Disturbing.
Suddenly weary, I went back downstairs to the light and noise, but the clamor combined with the wash of perfume made my head ache. I quickly had enough and quit the house, heading home alone.
*
I thought I’d dismiss the incident and carry on, but it bothered me as I rose the next day and went on my morning ride. Not because Leland had offended or disgusted me. He and Gareth were by no means the only gentlemen in London who’d formed a passion for each other, and as long as they were discreet, they might be all right.
But I worried about Leland—he was open and honest, and if he put forth his needs to the wrong person, as he had last night, disaster could befall him. While many people looked the other way at such things, there was a contingent who did not. Sodomy was punishable by death, and I doubted Leland would be able to endure exposure, imprisonment, and trial.
I knew from Pomeroy that many trials at the Old Bailey for “unnatural behavior” ended in a verdict of not guilty, usually for lack of evidence. The act had to be reliably witnessed, or else anyone could accuse anyone of sodomy and thus rid themselves of an inconvenient person.
If Leland stood trial, however, no matter what the outcome, he’d be ruined, and his family with him. Travers and his clergyman father would be ruined as well.
Blast the bloody fools.
I hoped I’d see Travers as I rode and get the meeting with him over with, but he never appeared. Donata, who’d found nothing odd in me retreating from a soiree early and going home, was still abed when I had an early dinner and left in a hackney for Pall Mall.
The Gull was sparsely populated at this hour, the better for my errand. It was an older tavern, left over from the days of coffee houses, out of fashion now, where the political decisions had truly been made. I’d chosen it because Leland’s friends and Grenville’s would likely not enter and interrupt us—fashionable men were now at the clubs in Jermyn and St. James’s Streets. I took a seat in a private corner, and waited.
And waited. Travers missed his appointment of three, and he hadn’t arrived at half past, nor at the three-quarter hour. I was ready to leave and to hell with him, when he sauntered in at four.
I rose, waiting impatiently as he crossed the room, his dark gaze darting about in some distaste. The barman caught my eye and brought over another tankard to place in front of Gareth as he took a seat.
“I did not realize such places still existed,” Gareth said as he glance at the bowed beams, the scarred trestle table, and the thick pewter tankard filled with ale.
“They do,” I said, a trifle coldly, resuming my seat. “I will surmise that Leland told you about his conversation with me last night?”
“Yes, the silly young ass.” Travers laughed as though he had years on Leland, when, in fact, Leland was a few months older. “I am sorry he pulled you into our quarrel.”
“You both pulled me into it,” I said, annoyed. “Please cease to do so.”
Gareth laughed again. He sipped the warm ale from the tankard and made a face. “Foul stuff. I must beg your pardon, Captain. You are in the right—it was bad of me to use you so. I have been quite impatient with Leland of late. He is determined I should have no independence of him, which becomes rather galling. One has one’s pride.”
I was still angry with him for his presumption, but I did understand what he meant. How often had I grated when Grenville paid my way or gave me gifts I could never hope to repay? Even now, when I had a bit of blunt at my disposal, the idea that it was Donata’s and her son’s money did not make me happy.
“Be that as it may,” I said. “It was not well-done. Dangerous, even.”
Travers continued to smile. “I know I ought to have asked your leave and told you what it was all about. I simply grew so angry at him, and when you told me the story of your army chaps …”
“You thought I would at least be sympathetic.” I hardened my voice. “And I am. However, lying about another gentleman impinges upon his honor. What if Leland had spread the tale of your fictitious tryst with me? It might have ruined me and hurt my wife, her family, and my friends. Think on this.”
Gareth’s smile began to fade, worry entering his eyes. Likely such a thing hadn’t occurred to him—he hadn’t thought at all, in fact. He’d wanted to anger his lover, without weighing the consequences.
“I have begged your pardon,” he began.
I leaned forward, knowing that if I were to shut his mouth, I had to be harsh. “If I took your actions as deepest offense, instead of the imprudence of youth, I should call you out, Stubbins did me. Would you like to face me across a green, Mr. Travers?”
His face paled as he remembered Stubby, on his knees on the grass, screaming as he clutched his bleeding arm.
“No,” Travers said, more quietly. “I believe I would not.”
“Then we will say no more about it. Whether you make it up with Leland or continue to quarrel with him—that is your affair. But do not drag me into it. Understand?”
My sternness finally quelled him. Travers’s head bowed slightly, and he nodded. “I am sorry.”
“Good.” I returned the nod and lifted my tankard. “No more words about it, then.”
Travers remained where he was, fingers moodily twitching on the dull but smooth pewter.
I sipped my ale, liking the rich, bitter stuff. Much better than the thin wines and sherries served at some of the soirees I attended in Mayfair.
Travers heaved a long sigh and looked across at me again. “May I ask you one thing, Captain?” When I indicated with a flick of my hand he should go on, he said, “What am I to do about Leland? He does not understand that he puts me in a cage, and he is shocked when I suggest a means to leave it. I do not mean leave him. But I am four-and-twenty years old. The Derwents have cared for me for years, but it is high time I was my own man.”
I did understand. Families were known to adopt close friends of sons or daughters and care for them for life, and some gentlemen would envy Travers his position. I, with my independence and pride, however, had empathy for Gareth’s frustration.
“Do not pull against it too much,” I advised. “Make certain you are voluble in appreciation for what the family has done for you. Indicate that being able to live independent of Leland does not slight the Derwents in any way. In fact, explain how much you would be able to help them, perhaps—with whatever is this means you speak of …”
“A windfall,” Gareth said quickly. “A fine one.”
He was not going to tell me, but I could speculate. He could have received a bequest from a distant relative—Gareth could be charming; perhaps he’d charmed an elderly auntie to leave him a sum in her will. Or he’d found a job of some sort, a way to make a living. It was ungentlemanly to work for pay, and perhaps this rankled Leland.
I continued. “Explain to him how you wish to use this windfall to show your appreciation. With a donation to one of Sir Gideon’s charitable projects, perhaps.”
Gareth brightened. “Ah, now, that might be just the thing.” He moved in his seat, as though anxious to jump up and run out on the spot to carry out my advice.
“Go,” I said, barely hiding my exasperation. “I am content to sit here alone.” Refreshingly alone.
Gareth surged to his feet. His brown eyes were bright, his face flushed with hope. He held out his hand. “Thank you, Captain. And I am truly and deeply sorry for offending you.
I shall never do such a thing again. It was foolish.”
Gareth was young, and had plenty of time in his life to do something equally as foolish, but I only shook his hand, accepting his apology.
He leaned close. “You’ll say nothing, will you?” His eyes held anxiousness, and I remembered his white-faced horror at the man in the stocks.
I released his hand and sat back. “I have already said there would be no more words on the matter. That means no words to anyone.”
“Yes,” Gareth said, a bit breathlessly. “Thank you, Captain. Thank you very much.”
He snatched up his hat, shot me a grin, and spun for the door, his coat whirling. He hurried out and banged the door behind him, earning the disapproving looks of the other patrons over their newspapers.
I sat back and enjoyed my ale, bloody glad the mess was over and done with.
*
That evening, I returned to my rooms in the lane off Covent Garden, still working on putting things to rights there. Donata had gone off with some of her close friends for a light supper and gossip before moving on to the opera, and I left her to her feminine delights.
Covent Garden market was crowded when I reached it, though the sun had already gone down. Vendors loudly called out their wares, and women and girls, servants and boys swarmed the place, bargaining, arguing, shouting. I purchased an apple that looked as though it had sat in a barrel all winter, and munched it as I moved through the market.
As I walked, I reflected upon how much more pleasant it was to stroll these lanes when my boots were whole, my body fresh from a bath, and with the knowledge that I could return home to a welcoming wife. Even the blustery wind that started to blow, bringing rain, didn’t dampen the effect.
I tossed my apple core to a stray dog as I turned from Russel Street to the cul-de-sac of Grimpen Lane, where I rented rooms. I fumbled keys out of my pocket and unlocked the door next to a bakeshop. Behind this door was a flight of stairs, which led to the chambers that had housed me since my return to London in 1814.
The rooms were a bit bare now—I’d moved many of my things to Donata’s house—but I kept the writing table, armchair and footstool, small shelf of secondhand books, and the chest-on-frame, which was an old-fashioned but useful piece of furniture. I had begun using the front room as an office, where I could meet friends in private, or help those who had begun coming to me with problems they felt they could not take to the magistrates.
I’d also kept my bed, which would be nothing but a bare mattress. So I was surprised, when I entered the bedchamber, to see it spread with quilts and occupied by Marianne Simmons.
She sat with her back against the headboard, propped against a pillow, her blond curls flowing loosely to her dressing gown. A small ivory snuffbox was open on the bed next to her, and she had a glass of ruby port in her hand. Newspapers were strewn across the covers, from the clean pages of the Times to the ink-smeared single sheets of more dubious publications.
Marianne was crying. She’d swiped at her tears with ink-stained fingers, resulting in black dappled cheeks.
I stopped when I saw her, my hand on the door handle. “What the devil?” I exclaimed.
“Oh, hello, Lacey,” Marianne said, as though me finding her reclining in my bed was of no consequence. She sniffled, swiped one hand across her eyes, and took a long drink of port.
“Why are you here?” I asked, then softened my tone as she turned wet blue eyes up to me. “And what on earth is the matter?”
Marianne shoved a paper across the covers. “That is the matter. I’m such a bloody little fool.”
I eased myself to the edge of the bed, my sore leg happy with me for resting it, and reached for the paper. The sheet contained a drawing of Lucius Grenville in profile, exaggerating his dark eyes, sleek dark hair, knotted cravat, and high collar points. Facing him, also in profile, was a woman with frizzy black curls, a pointed nose, a long neck, and diamonds at her throat.
The caption read: Signora C— , a talented and very lucky soprano, native of Venice, has caught the eye of our own Mr. G—. She now wears jewels from his household. Can he be thinking of handing her the plate?
Chapter Six
“Ah,” I said.
For the past few weeks, Grenville had begun squiring about an opera singer called Paola Carlotti, the newest sensation to reach the Covent Garden stage. The two were well matched in looks, and newspapers had begun depicting them together. The handsomest pair in Mayfair, they’d been labeled.
Grenville had scarcely spoken to me of Signora Carlotti; in fact, he’d scarcely spoken to me about much in the last weeks, except arrangements regarding the duel.
He and Marianne, with whom Grenville had been carrying out an affaire de couer since May last, had begun a coolness earlier this winter, after the incidents surrounding Drury Lane at New Year’s. Marianne had expressed the wish not to see him anymore, and Grenville had complied. She’d retired to Berkshire for a time, and I hadn’t known until walking in here this evening that she’d returned.
Grenville, the most famous dandy in all of Britain, now that Mr. Brummell had removed himself to France, was not one to rush after a woman, pleading for her forgiveness. Nor would he flee to his country estate to sulk. Indeed, his reputation forbade such things.
So he’d taken up with Signora Carlotti, giving the newspapers much enjoyment. Signora Carlotti, already famous for her voice on the Continent, was now gaining great repute in London. I’d heard her, and I agreed with the assessment that she was brilliant.
Handing her the plate was the journalist’s speculation that Grenville meant to marry her. Many families passed part of their wealth down in the form of heavy silver dinner services that retained their value through the years. A woman “getting her hands on the plate,” meant getting her hands on the family’s money, usually through marriage.
“This is trash, Marianne,” I said, shoving the papers aside. “You cannot credit everything you read in a scandal sheet.”
Marianne sniffled again, much liquid in her nose. She swiped it away with her hand, and I yanked out a large handkerchief and passed it to her.
Marianne took the handkerchief, not too proud to accept. She blew her nose and dabbed her face with the fine lawn square. “Don’t be stupid, Lacey. Signora Carlotti is beautiful, sings like an angel, and is a novelty. I imagine he believes himself madly in love with her.”
“As a point of fact, I have no idea.”
“Truly? And I thought the pair of you so chummy.”
“I hardly live in his pocket. I’ve been busy.”
“Playing house, yes.” Marianne smiled through her tears. “With Lady Breckenridge. Are you weary of her shrewishness yet?”
“Keep a civil tongue,” I said, trying and failing to sound severe. “You never answered my question of why you have purloined my apartments and my bed.”
Marianne shrugged. “More comfortable than mine. And I hardly expected you this late.”
“Wanted a good wallow, did you?” I began folding the papers. “You could apologize to Grenville and ask to be friends again. Wouldn’t hurt you.”
She cast me a pitying look. “I doubt he remembers my name. He gave me a decent amount of money at our parting, but it will only last so long. I will have to crawl back to Drury Lane and beg for a place, I suppose. But I’m getting too old for it, Lacey. The rich gents like them young, and I have lines on my face.”
Marianne, a few years younger than me, had no lines that I could discern, but I did not disagree with her. Gentlemen who looked for mistresses on the stage tended to pick out those with fresh faces and youthful steps.
“It was bound to happen,” Marianne said, dispirited. “I will find another means, don’t worry about me. I have before, and I will again …”
Her words faltered, her bravado crumbling. Marianne closed her eyes, fighting tears, then she gave up and hunched over, face in her hands, letting sobs come.
I set aside the papers, moved around the bed t
o her, then sat down and pulled her close. Marianne clung to me and cried into my shoulder, her body shuddering as I stroked her hair.
She was right that Grenville was likely done with her. He was a proud man and had been hurt at her rebuff when he’d tried to apologize to her. He’d first been contrite, then stiff, then began squiring about Signora Carlotti.
I heard a step in the doorway, and a retreat. Not the heavy tread of Mrs. Beltan, but someone lighter, quicker. I gently extricated myself from Marianne and stood up. She huddled down again, my handkerchief to her face.
I emerged into the sitting room in time to see the front door close. I crossed to it as quickly as I could, having left my walking stick in the bedchamber, and threw open the door.
The man on the top step froze, as though surprised I’d come after him. I did not recognize him. He was not a young man, nor had he reached middle age. He wore a well-fitting dark suit, but his cravat was sloppily tied, as though he’d dressed in a hurry or had a thoughtless valet. He wore gloves of an expensive variety, and shining, well-made boots that he stood in uneasily. He had a round face, riotously curly black hair, and shock in his blue eyes so deep it pulled me away from irritation at his interruption.
“Are you Captain Lacey?” he asked uncertainly.
“I have that distinction,” I answered.
The man looked me up and down a few more times, his agitation growing. “Yes. You’d better come.”
I did not move. “Where? Who are you, please?”
“I …” For a moment, I had the impression the fellow didn’t remember. “Mackay. Nelson Mackay.”
“Mr. Mackay.” I gave him a polite bow. “Where am I to follow you?”
He chewed on his lip, his face pale, his blue eyes full of anguish. “He asked for you. He said to fetch you. Please, Captain.”
I felt a draft as Marianne came out of the room behind me, her dressing gown straightened and face clean but her hair hanging down her back.
Murder in Grosvenor Square Page 5
