A Body in Berkeley Square

Chapter Three

Aline signaled me to wait for her as she led Louisa into her bedchamber, so I paced Louisa's feminine sitting room while she and a maid tucked Louisa into bed.

The room reminded me of Louisa. She liked yellow, because she said it brought the sunshine to her and made her feel cheerful even on the gloomiest days. Tonight, the cheerfulness did nothing for me. The cream and yellow striped wallpaper, the white drapes with gold tassels, and the matching gilt and yellow silk chairs and sofa could not chase away the darkness.

I had known Louisa Brandon for twenty years. She'd been a fresh young woman of twenty-two when Brandon had proudly introduced her. I, already married at twenty, had marveled at her forthrightness and good sense, as well as her prettiness. My own wife, Carlotta, had been an ethereal beauty, all gold ringlets and soft white skin. Louisa had a wide smile, a crooked nose, and shrewd gray eyes that noted everything.

I hadn't understood that Carlotta, shy as a mouse, had been intimidated by her, and I had not helped by holding up Louisa as a model for Carlotta to follow. Carlotta, after we'd been married six years, had left me, deserting me for a French officer. I had been furious and blamed her entirely at first, but then I'd shifted the blame to myself. I'd been an appalling husband.

Lady Aline returned through the white and gold door that led to Louisa's bedchamber and closed it behind her. She was shaking her head. A pure white curl came loose from her coiffure and fell to her shoulder.

"She's overset." Aline wiped a tear from her eye, smearing the kohl she'd applied liberally around it. "I am not certain what has horrified her more, the fact that her husband has been arrested for murder or the fact that he betrayed her with another. All gentlemen take mistresses, she said to me, a wife must learn to bear it. What rot. Men fill women's heads with that nonsense so that they can do what they like. Don't you think so, Lacey?"

"I agree," I said.

She gave me a look of surprise. "Well, well. If that is the truth, then you are the most remarkable gentleman I have ever known. Ring for the maid, please. We need more tea."

I crossed the room to tug a bell pull.

"I've given Louisa a drop of laudanum," Aline said. "That and the brandy should ensure that she sleeps well into the morning. I will stay with her until she's stronger. I do hope you clear up this mess quickly, Lacey."

"I appreciate your faith in me."

Lady Aline folded the blanket Louisa had used and drew it onto her lap. "You have impressed me so far. You cleared up the murder at the Sudbury School in Berkshire, discovered who killed Lydia Westin's husband and that barrister's wife, not to mention put up with Lady Clifford and her blasted missing necklace. I much prefer having you look into the matter than Bow Street. So unsavory."

"It is unsavory no matter who looks into it," I said. I gathered up the tea things to give my hands something to do.

"Perhaps, but this is Louisa's life. Her husband. Their secrets. You can at least be gentle."

"I can be gentle with Louisa, true. I'm certain I'll throttle Brandon when I see him. As far as I can discern, he's been a complete idiot."

The maid entered with a fresh pot of tea on a tray. She removed the dirty cups and saucers and departed. I noted that the maid's eyes were red with tears.

Lady Aline poured tea in a businesslike manner. She sloshed a dollop of brandy into mine without asking me before handing me the cup.

"Now then," she said, lifting the teapot to pour for herself. "I will tell you the entire nasty tale. I arrived at the Gillises' ball not long after the Brandons did. I entered, in fact, in time to see the damn fool colonel lead Imogene Harper from her friends to a private alcove. Louisa watched them go with a look of dismay. Tongues around me began to wag on the instant. Mr. Bennington, the husband of the actress, drawled to me, I say, he's no model of discretion, is he? He sounded delighted to be entertained. Others speculated about who this Harper woman truly was. She is a friend of Lady Gillis's, I gather, though Mrs. Harper claimed to me that she'd known the Brandons during the war."

"And yet, Louisa says she does not remember her."

"Precisely. At any rate, Louisa's friends took her under their collective wing and went on as though nothing had happened. Colonel Brandon and Mrs. Harper stayed in that alcove for a very long time. They did not emerge, in fact, until the dancing began. Brandon stood near Mrs. Harper after that, and whenever I happened to glimpse him, he did not look best pleased. I saw Mr. Turner approach Mrs. Harper, possibly to ask her to dance. Colonel Brandon more or less shooed him away. Mr. Turner looked unhappy, but he went. But later on, I happened to be standing near when he approached again.

"Mr. Turner claimed that Mrs. Harper had promised him the waltz. Mrs. Harper looked a little confused, then she said, Oh yes, of course. Colonel Brandon turned bright red. He said, Mind your manners; the lady does not wish to waltz. Mr. Turner said, You are mistaken, sir. She promised. Then Colonel Brandon said, rather loudly, If you do not cease pestering her, I will thrash you. People began to stare at that, I do not have to tell you. Mr. Turner smiled a bit and said, No, you won't. He bowed to Mrs. Harper and wandered away."

"Damn," I said, exasperated. "Brandon appears the very picture of a jealous rival."

"Yes, it was not well done. Soon after that, supper was called. Leland Derwent escorted me in, sweet boy. Colonel Brandon immediately stuck out his arm to Imogene Harper. Never mind that Louisa was standing near to them. I know it's not the thing for a husband to always escort his wife, but the snub was apparent. Brandon was red and uncomfortable. He knew what it looked like."

"And Mrs. Harper? Was she uncomfortable as well?"

"Not a bit of it." Lady Aline clicked her cup to her saucer. "She smiled sweetly at him and took his arm. He led her to the supper room and seated himself next to her, stayed glued to her throughout the meal. Louisa was not far from him, trying not to look mortified, poor lamb."

"What the devil was he thinking?"

"Precisely what Mr. Bennington asked me. He was seated on my other side. My wife runs about where she pleases, he said with a cynical smile. But she pretends to be the very picture of devotion. Of course, that is what makes her a celebrated actress. Perhaps the colonel could take lessons from her. "

"Dear God," I said. "Brandon's made himself and Louisa a laughingstock."

"I know," Lady Aline replied sadly. "That was not the worst of it."

I drank down my tea, the bitter liquid burning my tongue. "Go on," I said.

"After supper, Colonel Brandon led Mrs. Harper out of the dining room again. He monopolized her in her ballroom, kept her near him. They did not dance, but neither did she dance with anyone else. When Mr. Turner approached again, Brandon snarled at him. Mr. Turner laughed and walked away. I heard Mr. Turner say, Soon, sir. Very soon. What that meant I have no idea, but Mrs. Harper looked distressed, and Brandon grew even redder."

"Did anyone else approach them?" I asked. "Or Mr. Turner, for that matter?" I knew I needed to tamp down my anger at Brandon in order to decide what had happened. Anyone near Brandon might have stolen his knife, including Mrs. Harper herself.

"Basil Stokes spoke to them. I saw him laughing about something in that loud way of his. Colonel Brandon and Mrs. Harper endeavored to be polite. Leland Derwent spoke to them, but then, young Mr. Derwent is a stickler about making the polite rounds. He is too shy to be much of a conversationalist, but he knows to ask about one's mother or ailing sister and to remark upon the weather." Lady Aline put her forefinger to the corner of her mouth. "Let me think. Lady Gillis herself approached them. The irritating Rafe Godwin. He is an annoying young man, tries to imitate Grenville, but Grenville has nothing to do with him, and so he should not."

"What about Mr. Turner? To whom did he speak?"

"Oh, a good number of people. He circulated the room, danced with a few debutantes-whose mothers ought to have known better, but he is an earl's cousin, after all. He spent much time with Leland Derwent. I believe they knew each other at school, though I would not think that innocent Leland was much Henry Turner's type. But Leland suffers from over-politeness and doesn't have the bad manners to tell Turner to go to the devil."

I thought about the people Lady Aline had named, some of whom I knew, some I did not. I would have to discuss them with Grenville later, to obtain his opinion. One person, I noted, Lady Aline had not mentioned. "What about Lady Breckenridge?"

Lady Aline opened her mouth to answer, then she closed it again and eyed me shrewdly. "Lacey, my boy, what is exactly between you and Donata Breckenridge?"

I stopped. "Between?"

"I am not blind. I know you're not courting her, and yet… "

She left it hanging. My face heated as I touched the handle of the walking stick Lady Breckenridge had given me. "We are friends," I said. But I had kissed her lips on more than one occasion, and she had helped me when I'd needed it. I had not liked her when I'd first met her, over a billiards game in a sunny room in Kent. I'd found her abrupt, abrasive, and overly forward. "Perhaps more than friends," I finished.

"She had a wretched marriage to Breckenridge," Lady Aline said, a rather unnecessary statement. I had met Lord Breckenridge and knew exactly what kind of man he'd been. "Marriage to him would have killed a woman with a lesser strength than Donata's."

"I have no desire to make her wretched," I said.

That was the truth. On the other hand, I had not the means to marry her, either. My own wife, I'd discovered, was still alive, and in France, with my daughter. I had been given her exact whereabouts a few weeks ago, and I had been contemplating traveling across the Channel to find her.

I would go sooner or later, but I was having difficulty steeling myself to meet her again. The only thing that drove me to do it was the thought of seeing my daughter again. Gabriella would now be seventeen.

Even if I came to some arrangement with my wife, even if Grenville helped me with a divorce or annulment, I'd have little to offer Lady Breckenridge. I was a poor man, though I was a gentleman born. Lady Breckenridge marrying me would be a sad misalliance for her.

"And I have no desire to see her wretched either," Lady Aline said. "But you treat her kindly, and she is grateful for that."

I raised my brows. "She said so?" I could not imagine Lady Breckenridge expressing such a tender thought.

"Of course not," Lady Aline said. "She does not need to. But I've known her since she was in leading strings. Her mother is a great friend of mine."

"I am pleased she has such an ally in you. But you haven't answered my question. To whom did Lady Breckenridge speak this evening?"

Lady Aline gave me a smile. "Not to Colonel Brandon and Imogene Harper. Donata spoke to me and to Lady Gillis-although she does not like Lady Gillis very much. She finds her too washed out and tiresome. She danced much, of course. She always does. She even danced with Mr. Derwent, who asked her out of painful politeness. She seemed most amused."

I imagined she had. Leland Derwent was the epitome of innocence, and Lady Breckenridge had a rather worldly outlook. I hoped she had not shocked Leland too much.

I studied the head of my walking stick, which was engraved with the inscription Captain G. Lacey, 1817. "Now, we come to the event of Turner's death. Take me to that and tell me what happened, exactly."

"I remember very precisely that I was talking to Lady Gillis. We both had seen a patterned silk at Madame Mouchand's and admired it. I was explaining that it would look fine on her, but not me, because I am too stout to carry it off. All at once, we heard a horrible scream. It pierced the air, cutting over the music. Everyone stopped, of course, even the musicians, as we looked for the disturbance. And there was Imogene Harper, near the stairs with the anteroom door open behind her, screaming frantically."

"Did you see Colonel Brandon? Was he near her?"

"No. At that moment, I saw him nowhere in the room. He did reappear, however, when I made my way to Mrs. Harper. The colonel came from behind me and shoved his way through. We reached her at about the same time."

"What did he say?"

"Nothing very much. In general, men are useless in a crisis. Except Grenville. He very sensibly took Mrs. Harper by the hand and led her to a seat and called for brandy. Then he entered the room with Lord Gillis. The rest of the guests could only gape. I stayed with Louisa, who took it very well, until Lord Gillis sent for Bow Street. Then she nearly swooned. Louisa believes her husband truly did kill Mr. Turner, you see."

I recalled the resigned look in Louisa's eyes. "Pomeroy obviously thinks he did also. But is there anything that points concretely to Brandon having stabbed Turner? Two gentlemen can exchange sharp words without one murdering the other. Or if they do, they call each other out and make a formal show of it."

"Ah, Lacey, the problem of it is, there were so many people in the ballroom. Who knows who entered that room with Mr. Turner, or who was there already when he entered it? Had he slipped inside for peace and quiet, or did he mean to meet someone? No one saw. We were concentrating and dancing and gossip and disparaging other ladies' gowns, you see. The usual thing."

"One does not expect a member of the ton to be murdered at a ball," I agreed. "And yet, these are violent times."

"The rioting, you mean?" Lady Aline asked.

Since March, with the hanging of a seaman called John Cashman for the crime of getting drunk and stealing a few weapons, the people of London had rioted. Some protested the unjust killing of Cashman, some the fact that British soldiers, back from the war, often had no money, no employment, and no prospect of payment for the blood they'd given in battle. Others rioted simply because it focused their anger and disgust at something other than the tediousness of their lives.

"Rioting, and the men who put down the riots," I said. "Murder in general. It is as though the war allowed us some measure of venting that side of man's nature, but now that avenue is gone."

Lady Aline's plucked brows rose. "Surely the threat of Napoleon's invasion and the loss of ten thousand men at Waterloo is not better than a few riots."

"No, of course not. Never mind. I am melancholy about this entire business."

"As am I. Poor Louisa."

She glanced at the closed door, behind which Louisa rested.

"Is there anything more you can tell me?" I asked. "Anything else you might have noticed?"

"I will think on it. I admit, Lacey, that I am rather stunned by it all. When Mr. Pomeroy arrived, he was inclined to believe that Mrs. Harper had killed the man. She may have. I don't know. But then Colonel Brandon stepped forward to protect her, and Pomeroy switched his attentions to him." She shook her head. "This will be scandal. Vicious scandal."

"Perhaps Louisa would be better off somewhere other than London," I said.

"Indeed. I could take her with me to Dorset. That is sufficiently distant, for now, I think."

"She will refuse, of course."

"I will persuade her. If nothing else, I'll feed her laudanum and drag her off while she sleeps."

I smiled at the thought, but I knew Lady Aline was capable of doing just that.

Lady Aline sighed. "Tonight Louisa came face to face with the idea that her husband might be in truth a very dreadful man."

"Yes," I said. I was nagged by the feeling that Brandon's vice in this was mere pigheadedness, not evil. Something did not make sense. I, who should have been ready to believe the worst of Brandon, could not now that it had come to it.

Behind the door, Louisa cried out in her sleep. I sprang to my feet, jolted by the heart-rending sound. She must have awakened herself, because we heard a muffled moan, and then the unmistakable sound of weeping.

I was halfway to the door before Lady Aline stopped me. "Not you," she said sharply.

I halted, my heart pounding. The need to comfort Louisa struck me hard.

Lady Aline shook her head at me. Then, gathering her skirts, she strode past me to the door of Louisa's bedchamber and let herself inside.

I quit the house. I could not bear to stay any longer, listening to Louisa cry and knowing I could not help her. I took a hackney coach across rainy London and arrived at my lodgings in Grimpen Lane, near Covent Garden, just as dawn broke the sky.

Bartholomew waited in my rooms for me, awake and as fresh as though he'd slept all night, which he hadn't. He had warmed the sitting room and bedchamber, and he helped me to bed.

I closed my eyes, but I could only see Louisa, pale and drawn, her gray eyes full of conviction that her husband had committed murder and adultery. More than that, I could feel Louisa's soft body against mine as she clung to me, needing me. I was not quite certain how I felt about that.

I did doze a few times only to dream of Henry Turner's still, dead body and the sound of Imogene Harper's screams.

Bartholomew woke me at ten that morning. Pomeroy had told me last night that Brandon would be examined by the Bow Street magistrate at eleven o'clock, and I intended to be there. I bathed my face and let Bartholomew shave me.

"Do you think the colonel did it, sir?" Bartholomew asked as he scraped soap and whiskers from my chin.

"I do not know, Bartholomew. He certainly was not very helpful."

"Want me to come along, sir?"

"No. I have the feeling that trying to keep Colonel Brandon out of Newgate will take much time. No need for you to waste your day in the magistrate's office."

"Mind if I poke around a bit? Get chummy with Lord Gillis's servants, I mean. See if they witnessed the event?"

He sounded eager, ready to begin the game of investigation.

I told him to enjoy himself. Bartholomew could be a mine of information on what went on not only below stairs, but above stairs as well. He had certainly helped me solve crimes before, even getting himself shot during one adventure. The incident had not dampened his enthusiasm the slightest bit.

Before I left my rooms, I wrote a short letter to Sir Montague Harris, the magistrate of the Whitehall Public Office, informing him of my thoughts on the death of Turner.

Bartholomew agreed to post the letter for me, and I walked from the narrow cul-de-sac of Grimpen Lane to Russel Street. I turned left onto Russel Street and traversed the short distance to Bow Street, my knee barely bothering me this morning.

The spring day was warm, and people thronged the lanes. Women with baskets over their arms and shawls against the damp threaded their way among the vendors, working men hurried about with deliveries or on errands, and middle-class women strolled arm-in-arm with their daughters looking into shops.

Bow Street was crowded. Rumor of a murder in elegant Mayfair had reached the populace, and many waited for a glimpse of the murderer that Bow Street had apprehended. I had not looked at a newspaper yet, but I imagined their stories would be lurid. As time went on, every snippet of Brandon's life would be splashed across the pages of the Morning Herald.

I let myself into the magistrate's house and asked one of the clerks for Pomeroy.

"Ah, there you are, Captain," Pomeroy bellowed across the length of the house. He shouldered his way down the corridor, pressing aside the assorted pickpockets and prostitutes who'd been arrested during the night. "Come to see the colonel committed, have you?"