A Covent Garden Mystery

Chapter Two

The carriage belonged to Lucius Grenville. Those were his perfectly matched grays pulling it, his liveried coachman on the roof, his family crest on the door, and his footman on the back. The footman, who had been helping me into and out of Grenville's carriage for the last year, gave me a grin of greeting.

"I was on my way to see you, Lacey," Marianne called down. "I didn't realize that was you until we'd near run you down."

The footman on back leapt to the ground, fanned away the beggars who gathered around the conveyance like moths round a lantern, and opened the door for me.

I obeyed Marianne for two reasons. First, I was dazed by the encounter with Carlotta, and the real world seemed a bit distant and hazy. Easier to obey orders than argue. Second, I knew that Marianne would not come all this way in a carriage if she did not need to speak to me on some matter of importance. She rarely made any effort without hope of reward.

The footman assisted me into the coach, careful of my bad left knee, and I settled myself facing Marianne. He shut the door, and the carriage jerked forward to continue through the crowd of Covent Garden to nearby Russel Street. I lived in Grimpen Lane, a tiny cul-de-sac that opened off Russel Street, nestled between the buildings of Covent Garden and the houses of Bow Street.

"You are white as plain paper, Lacey," Marianne said. "What is the matter with you?"

When I sat, unable to speak as we creaked our very slow way through Covent Garden, she persisted. "Who were those women you were speaking to? Were they blackmailing you?"

The odd question pulled me out of my haze. "Blackmail? What put that idea in your head?"

"Because it is the sort of thing respectable-looking women turn their hands to. I knew a seamstress that you never would believe was anything but well-spoken and kind, until she demanded payment to keep quiet about one's peccadilloes. I know you. You poke your nose into so many things that I'm certain someone like Mr. Denis would be delighted to find out something about you."

"You have an interesting imagination, Marianne."

"Well, something they said overset you. Are you going to tell me what is the matter? Something clearly is."

I wondered why she wanted to pry. Had I had more of my wits about me, I would have put her off. As it was, with my mouth dry and my head pounding, I found myself letting out the truth.

"They are my wife and daughter."

Marianne's mouth became a pink O, and she blinked at me. "Good Lord, Lacey, are you telling me that you are married?"

"I was. I am. I have not seen my wife-or daughter-for fifteen years. Gabriella was two when my wife took her away."

"Good Lord," Marianne repeated. She stared at me some more, reassessing all she knew about Gabriel Lacey. "No wonder you look pole-axed. Let's have some brandy. Grenville's best." She opened a pocket beside the seat and drew out a box I recognized. Grenville's servants always stocked this carriage with the best drink and crystal glasses in case their master grew thirsty traveling the streets of London.

Marianne lifted the bottle from the box just as the carriage stopped, reaching our destination. The coach was too big to fit into Grimpen Lane, so we descended in Russel Street, the efficient footman opening the door for us. Marianne shoved the brandy at me and snatched two glasses. "Come along. We'll drink it in your rooms."

The house that held my flat was narrow and tall. The ground floor was devoted to a bake shop, where my landlady, Mrs. Beltan, sold bread and seed cakes to passersby. She did well out of the shop and rented the rooms in the two floors above it. The first floor held my rooms, reached by a dim staircase from a door to the street.

The house had been grand in the time of Charles II, but its elegance had long since faded. My two rooms, bedchamber and sitting room, had once been a bedchamber and grand salon. Now they housed my eclectic mix of furniture-chest-on-frame and huge tester bed from the era in which the house had been built, a writing table and chair from the middle of the last century, a wing chair from 1780, and a low bookcase, carved and gilded in the Egyptian style, a gift from Grenville, which had been made in the last year.

The rooms above mine, identical but with lower ceilings, once had been rented by Marianne, before Grenville had taken her away to live in luxury. In the attics above those, my valet-in-training, Bartholomew, kept himself as comfortably as possible.

Since March, when I'd returned from a brief stay in Berkshire, two different lodgers had taken the rooms above mine, but neither had stayed more than a month. The rooms were currently empty. I'd pondered taking both floors for myself, so that I'd have an extra room and so Bartholomew would not have to sleep in the chilly attics, but Mrs. Beltan and I had not come to an agreement. She was a kindhearted lady but steely hard about money.

Bartholomew was not in evidence when we arrived upstairs. Marianne plopped herself on the wing chair and held out her glass. I filled it with brandy, then I drew up the straight chair from the writing table for myself.

"You knocked me over with a feather, you know," Marianne said. "A wife? You?"

"Few people know." I drank a swallow of brandy, absently noting its rich texture, in too much shock to appreciate it.

"Does he?"

"Grenville?" I wondered how long it would be before Marianne could bring herself to say Grenville's name in conversation. "Yes. And the Brandons know. Colonel Brandon was the one who helped me procure a special license so I could marry Carlotta without having the banns read."

"Thought someone would object, did you?" Marianne asked.

"Plenty of people should have. My father. Hers. Her entire family, in fact. Carlotta was quite ready to board the ship that took us away from England." I rolled the goblet in my hands. "In those days, we thought our lives would be fine if we could only get away from England. Things turned out much differently, to say the least."

"No one's life becomes what they think it will, Lacey. Not even his. " She cocked her head. "What about her ladyship?"

She meant Lady Breckenridge, an aristocratic lady of rather blunt opinions, with whom I had formed an affection. More than an affection.

After the murder in Berkeley Square in April, I'd gone to Lady Breckenridge, told her the truth about my marriage, and revealed that I wanted to court her. Lady Breckenridge, the least shockable lady of my acquaintance, including even Marianne, had taken the news of my estranged wife stoically. I'd confessed everything, and incredibly, Lady Breckenridge had understood. Having gone through a miserable marriage herself, she perhaps had some sympathy for me.

After my declaration, I had taken her hand and led her into her bedchamber. We'd spent the rest of the afternoon learning each other's bodies in her bed and letting the warmth between us grow.

I'd not had opportunity to see much of her since, her life during the height of the Season being a whirlwind of social gatherings and obligations. Even so, gossip coupled our names, somewhat disapprovingly. Lady Breckenridge, daughter of an earl and widow of a viscount, was worlds above a half-pay captain, son of an untitled nobody, albeit my father had been a landed gentleman of Norfolk.

"This is awkward for you," Marianne said.

The plain statement from anyone but Marianne might imply glee at my plight. From Marianne, it meant compassion.

"Divorce is a difficult thing," I said. "I've looked into the matter in some detail. To divorce Carlotta, I must accuse her of adultery and drag her through several courts, then ask for a private Act of Parliament to dissolve the marriage. A long, expensive, embarrassing process."

"Has she committed adultery?"

"Oh, yes. She left me in France and has lived there ever since with the French officer who stole her away. They dwell idyllically near Lyon, and she's borne him several children."

"There you are, then, rush her to trial. I imagine he would help you with the expense. He does so like to arrange people's lives for them."

I remembered something Carlotta had said when I'd stood there staring at her: He would make the appointment. Who? Grenville? Her French officer? James Denis, who'd discovered her whereabouts in the first place?

"Grenville would likely assist with the cost if asked," I conceded. "But Mrs. Lacey was never a strong woman. Making her face hostile juries who will condemn her as an adulteress might break her. I no longer love her, but I cannot wish such an ordeal on her."

"You are far too kindhearted, Lacey."

"Not really. There is my daughter to consider. Though I will fight to get her back, a divorce would hurt Gabriella as well. Any taint on her family will be a taint on her." I paused. "She does not know that I am her father."

Marianne's eyes widened. "Your wife never told her?"

"It would appear not."

Marianne gave me a look of deep sympathy. "How awful. Are you going to tell her?"

I took a long drink of brandy. "Yes, but not yet." I traced the facets of Grenville's heavy crystal goblet. "My life, as usual, is a tangle."

"As is mine."

I looked up, remembering that she had not sought me out to discuss my troubles. "You wanted to speak to me about something? Grenville, I assume. I thought he had loosened the leash a bit."

Marianne poured herself another helping of brandy. "I want to go to Berkshire."

"Ah." I had discovered, earlier this spring, that Marianne Simmons had a son, a halfwit boy she'd borne years ago and kept in a cottage in the Berkshire countryside. A kindly woman looked after both cottage and son, and Marianne traveled to see them when she could. She'd spent almost everything she'd earned as an actress plus any money or trinkets she could coerce gentlemen into giving her on the keeping of the boy, David.

When Grenville had first met Marianne, he'd handed her twenty guineas. She'd promptly and secretly sent the money to Berkshire, and Grenville had gone slightly mad trying to decide what had happened to his gift.

I had learned Marianne's secret by chance when I'd stayed in Berkshire at the Sudbury School in March. She'd made me swear to tell no one, especially not Grenville. I had no desire to interfere between Grenville and Marianne, and so kept my silence.

"You have not spoken to him of David, yet," I said.

"No, and you know why. As I've just declared, he enjoys arranging people's lives for them. He would try to take David away from the home he's always known to lock him away somewhere, however plush, and hire hordes of people to look after him. David would be frightened. I cannot let that happen."

She spoke determinedly, but her eyes held worry.

I could not reassure her that Grenville would do no such thing, because though I'd known him a few years now, I could not predict the things that Grenville might do. Lucius Grenville was one of the wealthiest and popular men in England. He was intelligent, generous, gossipy, curious, friendly, and frank-although he could turn his cool, sardonic man-about-town personality on those of whom he disapproved and destroy them socially with one quirk of his eyebrow. Gentlemen in clubs all over London feared the cold scrutiny of his black eyes, trembled when he raised a quizzing glass, and went pale when he dismissed them in his chill voice.

It was telling that the two people he claimed to like best, myself and Marianne, were the two people who did not stand in awe of his power. Both of us, coming from very different walks of life, had seen too much and experienced too much to fear Grenville's scorn. He found us baffling, and therefore, fascinating.

But that assessment was unjust. Grenville did have a generous heart and truly wished to help, although he could be heavy-handed about it. He did not know how not to be.

"You need to tell him," I said gently. "Give him a chance."

"I came to ask you to tell him, while I am away in Berkshire. And then send me word whether to bother to come home or not."

"It is no business of mine," I said quickly. Ever since Grenville had taken Marianne to live with him, I had strived to stay out of their lives, but in vain. Both of them liked to confide their frustrations about the other to me-at length.

"I have considered this well, you know," Marianne said. "If I tell him before I go, he will try to prevent me. If I am in Berkshire when he finds out, and he reacts as I predict, I can simply stay there with David. I do not want his disapprobation to keep me from my son. I have saved enough of the money he's given me, plus the bits of jewelry he's given me, to live on for a good while. Unless he sets the magistrates on me… Although I do not think he would. Too embarrassing for him."

While I agreed with her assessment of Grenville's character, I could not let her simply run off and try to live on Grenville's gifts. "Tell him, for God's sake. I can be present when you do, and do my best to stop him disrupting David's life."

She looked stubborn. "You have just told me that you were prevented seeing your daughter for fifteen years. I thought you would have more sympathy."

"Sympathy, yes. But I am not your conspirator against Grenville. You are fond of Grenville; I know you are. Can you not show him that?"

"Heavens, Lacey, I know better than to let on to a gentleman that I like him. They take advantage, you know."

I rose to my feet. "Your ideas on how ladies and gentlemen behave to one another are your own. I cannot agree with them, but I know I cannot change your mind. You may finish the brandy if you like. I must go to Bow Street."

"Consulting with the magistrates again, are you?" Marianne reached for the bottle.

"An errand."

She was too shrewd for me. "If you hire a Runner to watch that your wife does not slip away, you will be as bad as Grenville. He threatened to do the same to me, remember?"

I well recalled the incident. When I had taken the post at the Sudbury School, Marianne had disappeared from Grenville's house, and he'd wanted to take England apart to find her. I had dissuaded him from this action only because I happened to know where Marianne had gone.

"I thought Grenville unwise, but I could not blame him. You tease him and plague him, and I am surprised he does not keep you on a tether."

She made a face at me as I prepared to leave. "Gentlemen always stand together," she said. "Especially those of your class. Rich and poor, if you went to the same school and came from the same sort of family, you band together against the downtrodden."

I shot her an ironic look. "I could never think of you as downtrodden, Marianne. You are the least downtrodden woman I know."

Her answer was to put out her tongue, then I shut the door on her as she raised her goblet again.

I left the house and walked to Bow Street. I made this trip often, strolling out of Grimpen Lane to Russel Street and around the corner to the left to Bow Street. Today I made it under the June sun, which had at last chased away the drear of winter. I preferred warmer climes, having grown used to the stifling heat of India and the warm summers of Spain. Grenville had recently invited me to accompany him to Egypt when next he went.

I wondered, as I perfunctorily tipped my hat to a passing housewife, whether Grenville had told Marianne he wanted to leave England for several months, and what her reaction would be when he did. He believed Marianne cared not a fig for where he went, but I knew better. I hoped they settled things between them soon, because both were driving me mad.

I approached the Bow Street magistrate's house, a tall, narrow edifice that comprised numbers 3 and 4. The chief magistrate lived upstairs, and the unfortunates dragged in to appear before him in the large room downstairs spent the night in buildings behind the house as well as the cellar of the tavern opposite. These unfortunates consisted of pickpockets, prostitutes, the drunk and disorderly, thieves, illegal gamers, housebreakers, brawlers, and murderers. Those accused of more serious crimes, like murder or rape, generally saw the magistrate in isolation. The petty criminals tumbled together in a mass of unwashed and surprisingly good-humored humanity.

"Mornin,' Cap'n," slurred a man who was brought in for drunkenness nearly every night. He did not simply drink himself into a stupor-many a man did that and went home and slept-but Bottle Bill, as he was called, could become quite frenzied when he was drunk.

In the light of day, Bill was a quiet creature, ashamed of himself, smiling gently and apologizing to those he might have hurt the night before. He could not help himself, he said. If he did not have drink, he became wretchedly ill, near to death. A few glasses of gin, and he was right as rain. But then he could not stop drinking the gin, and so he went round again to losing his senses, starting fights, breaking furniture, and ending up at Bow Street.

"Good morning, Bill," I said as I stepped past him.

"How are you this fine day?" Bill asked. He leaned against the wall, his red eyes screwed shut against the bright sunshine without. "I like it a bit gloomier, meself."

"I'm well, Bill. What did you do this time?"

"No idea, Cap'n. They say I broke a fellow's arm, but I don't remember. I'm not very big, am I, to be breaking another man's arm?" He put a shaky, thin hand to his brow. "Feel like the elephant at the 'Change is a-dancing on my head."

"You'll likely go home soon," I said. "Is Pomeroy about?"

"Aye, that he is. Hupstairs. With one of those Thames River blokes."

"Thank you." I put a shilling in his hand that was not quite outstretched and made for the stairs.