A Body in Berkeley Square

Chapter Twenty

The next morning, in the Bow Street magistrate's house, I told Sir Nathaniel Conant the story of Bennington's confession to me, verified by Grenville and Pomeroy, who had heard it from the next room.

Mr. Bennington, wearing his usual air of faint scorn, stood before Sir Nathaniel and smoothly agreed that yes, he was a murderer twice over. Love of money, he said, was the root of all evil. That was in the New Testament. In Saint Paul's letters to Timothy, if one wanted to be precise.

Sir Nathaniel, looking neither shocked nor amused, committed Mr. Bennington to trial for the murder of Henry Turner. The murder of Mr. Worth, occurring in another country years ago, with no witnesses, would not be tried here, although Sir Nathaniel would keep Bennington's confession to it in mind.

Bennington, however, never did come to trial. He was found dead the morning before he was to stand in the dock, hanging from his bedsheets in his prison room in Newgate. The turnkeys were supposed to prevent such things, but as I had observed, the turnkey for the rooms of the wealthy prisoners was easily bribed. I assumed that the fastidious Mr. Bennington could not bring himself, in the end, to face the public hangman.

In any case, Brandon was released the same day Bennington was taken to Newgate. I do not know what Louisa did when Brandon arrived home, because I was not there to witness it. I left the two of them alone to rejoice, to scold, to decide what they would do from there, together. They did not need me.

The same afternoon Brandon went home, I received the inevitable summons to Denis's Curzon Street house.

I met with Denis and Colonel Naveau in Denis's study, the room in which Denis usually received me. Denis sat behind a desk that was habitually clean-I did not know if he ever used it for anything other than intimidating his visitors.

Colonel Naveau, tense and irritated, turned on me as I entered the room. "Have you got it?"

"No," I answered. "I burned it."

"What?" The colonel trailed off in French, his language becoming colorful. Denis said nothing.

I laid my walking stick on a small table beside me. "I burned it because its existence was a threat to Colonel Brandon. I could not risk that you would not try to extort money from him because of it, or from Mrs. Harper."

"Brandon sent it to me," Naveau said. "He took the risk. He must live with that."

"Not any longer. Why did you keep the paper, by the bye? To prove that you were a good republican and an excellent exploring officer? Louis Bourbon is not a strong king. Perhaps the Republic will rise again, and you will need to prove your loyalty to it."

"Please do not tell my motives to me," Naveau said. "I kept it for my own reasons." He glanced at Denis, who had neither moved nor spoken during our exchange. "You promised he would obtain it for me. I paid you money. Much money."

"I will return your fee," Denis said smoothly. "Like you, Captain Lacey does things for his own reasons."

Naveau gave Denis a hard look. "And you will do nothing?"

Denis cleared his throat, and the two pugilists who stood near the windows came alert. "Please pack your things and return to France, Colonel," Denis said.

Naveau looked at me for a moment longer, stark anger in his eyes. But he was not foolish enough to argue with James Denis. He bowed coolly then strode past me and out of the room.

A lackey in the hall closed the door behind him. Silence fell. The pugilists returned to their stances by the windows. Denis folded his hands on top of his desk and said nothing.

"You must have known I would never give that paper back to him," I said.

Denis inclined his head. "I suspected so, yes."

"Then why did you ask me to find it? Not to placate Naveau, surely."

"It was a test, of sorts."

"A test? And I failed?"

"No," Denis said. "You passed."

I lifted my brows.

"I wished to see where your loyalties lay," he said. "And what you would do for them. You are a man of great loyalty, even when it conflicts with your heart."

I stared at him, not a little annoyed. "I am pleased I could provide you with entertainment."

"No, you are not." He regarded me a moment longer. "Was there something else?"

I hesitated, my fingers brushing my engraved name on my walking stick. "My wife." A familiar lump rose in my throat. "Did she ever marry her French officer?"

"Never officially. I believe they find it easier to let others simply assume them man and wife. Mrs. Lacey has had four other children with this Frenchman, as a matter of fact."

"Good Lord." So, Carlotta had found family and happiness at last. I continued, my lips tight, "If I dissolve the marriage with her, they will no doubt be pleased."

"You will likewise be free," Denis said.

I knew that he could help me, that he waited for me to ask him to help. James Denis could no doubt reach out and scoop up my wife, pay the money to get me a divorce or annulment, and land her in France again to marry her Frenchman.

He could, and he would. But I was not yet certain I was ready.

Denis nodded, as though knowing my thoughts. "Good afternoon, Captain. My carriage will return you home."

I left him, still tempted and uncertain. I knew that one day soon, I would return to him, hat in hand, and ask for his help. He knew it, too.

I turned away without telling him goodbye, and his butler led me out.

I did not return home but asked Denis's coachman to leave me in South Audley Street. Lady Breckenridge's drawing room this afternoon was filled with highborn ladies, wits and dandies, and a poet and an artist.

They'd heard that Mr. Bennington had been arrested for murder, and wasn't that dashed odd? Poor Claire Bennington, they said, but then, her husband had always been a queer chap that no one knew much about. Best she put him behind her as quickly as possible.

Lady Breckenridge smiled at me from across the room. She lounged in a peach silk gown that bared her shoulders, and smoke from her cigarillo wreathed her face. A decadent lady, she liked her sensual pleasures, but she had heart.

When I at last was able to speak to her, she leaned to me and whispered, "Stay behind."

I obeyed. As the callers drifted away, I lingered, shaking hands with the wits and dandies who were trying to become closer to the great Grenville.

Finally, the last guest went away, and Lady Breckenridge and I were alone.

"Let us adjourn upstairs," she said. "This room reeks of perfume. Lady Hartley does like exotic scent, and there's nothing for it that we all must be drenched in it by the time she leaves."

So saying, she ascended to the next floor and to her private boudoir. Barnstable, after his inquiries about the state of my bad leg and rejoicing how quickly my bruises had gone away, brought us coffee and brandy and then left us alone.

I told Lady Breckenridge about Bennington's examination and the fact that Brandon had gone home.

"Thank heavens," she said, pouring a large dollop of brandy into my coffee. "Poor Mrs. Brandon. How awful for her. It will not be easy for her to forgive him."

"No. But she loves him enough to do it."

Lady Breckenridge's brows arched. "Love and loyalty in marriage. What an odd idea."

I smiled over my coffee cup. "Rather old-fashioned."

We drank in companionable silence.

"This summer I will spend time at my father's estate in Oxfordshire," Lady Breckenridge said presently. "It is a beautiful place, and the gardens are quite grand. People pay a shilling on Thursdays to look at them."

"Do they, indeed?"

"I am going to be so bold as to ask you to visit. For a fortnight, perhaps. My mother would approve of you."

"Of a penniless captain who cannot even be a captain any longer?"

"My mother is a true blue blood. She cares nothing for money. Or at least, she does not now that her only daughter is provided for. She can retreat into lofty ideals. She does it very well." Lady Breckenridge smiled, the affection in her eyes outweighing her acerbic words.

"I would be honored to accept such an invitation."

"Good," she said.

I set down my cup, and rose. Lady Breckenridge looked surprised. "Goodness, are you going already?"

"No." I reached down, took her cup from her, and put it on the table beside her. Then I closed my hands on hers and raised her to her feet.

"Donata," I said. "I want never to be less than honest with you. You once guessed that I had been married, and you assumed me a widower. The truth is that I am still married."

Lady Breckenridge's eyes widened. I went on quickly. "Fifteen years ago, Mrs. Lacey deserted me. I have not seen her since. I recently discovered that she lives in a village in France with her lover." I tightened my grip. "I want to find her and dissolve the marriage if I can. And after I have done what I need to set her free, I would like to ask leave to court you."

Lady Breckenridge said nothing. Any other woman might have been overwhelmed by what I'd just told her, or grown furious, or burst into tears. But I knew that Lady Breckenridge would forgive honesty far more quickly than she'd accept pleasing lies. She was resilient, this lady.

"I have no idea how to make pretty lover's speeches," I said when the silence had stretched. "Not like your poets."

"Poetry can be tedious. Too many words to say a simple thing." She studied me a moment longer, the pressure of her fingers warm on mine. "Very well, Captain. I give you leave."

Something stirred in my heart. I leaned down and brushed her lips with a soft kiss.

When I made to pull away, to take my leave, she held on to my hands. "Stay," she said.

We looked at each other a moment longer.

"Very well," I replied, and did so.