A Regimental Murder

Chapter Fourteen

Allandale greeted me cordially enough, his too-handsome face arranged in polite lines that expressed nothing.

I had been invited to take supper. We sat at the long table in the dining room, the three of us, Lydia at the head, with Allandale and I across from each other, I on her right hand, he on her left.

Lydia wore a dull black mourning gown that covered her bosom and circled her throat with thin, pale lace. Long black sleeves fastened at her slim wrists with onyx buttons. She wore a widow's cap, a small lawn piece that fitted snuggly. Her dark hair peeped from beneath it.

She wore the costume like a uniform, the outward shell of it reflecting nothing of the woman inside. Behind her thick lashes, her eyes smoldered with anger and impatience, whether at me and my lack of news, or at Allandale, or at both of us, I could not tell.

Allandale led the discussion and Lydia let him. He talked of conventional things, like the controversial novel Glenarvon, published that year. In it, Lady Caroline Lamb had satirized most of London society in retaliation for her failed, very public love affair with the poet Byron. Byron, sensibly, Allandale said, remained on the Continent and ignored it. Allandale professed disgust for the book and those who had flocked to buy it, but I noted that he seemed to know many of its details.

I could not contribute much to the conversation because I had not read the book, nor was I likely to. Lydia only ate in silence.

As supper and Allandale's monologue drew to a close, I inquired after Lydia's daughter. She was well, Lydia answered, still in Surrey with her uncle and aunt.

"Better that Chloe remains there for a time," Allandale interposed. "Let the newspapers calm down before she returns. What trash they do print. I have forbidden William to bring them into the house." He shot me a look that said he blamed me for the scurrilous stories.

"She will not return here at all," Lydia said. She broke off a tiny piece of bread and lifted it to her lips. "My husband left this house to me, and I plan to sell it."

"Now, Mother-in-law." Allandale began. He took on a look of patience. "We have discussed this. You should do nothing in haste."

Lydia's eyes flickered. She returned her gaze to her food, but not in submission. I had seen her flash of temper at Allandale's impudence. Allandale was overstepping his mark, trying to slide in as man of the house before he'd even married Lydia's daughter. I was pleased to note that, because she'd mentioned selling the house, Colonel Westin must have left it to her outright. I hoped he had left her everything absolutely, as a man with no entail and no son might do. Doubtless she held any money left to her daughter in trust. It would be in Allandale's best interest to ingratiate himself to Lydia, but the fool obviously did not know how to do it.

I carefully clicked my knife to my plate, interrupting them. Allandale shot me a rueful smile.

"Forgive us, Captain, for bringing up family business." He dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. "But as long as we have broached the subject, I do so hope that you will help me persuade my mother-in-law to give up this business about Captain Spencer. It is agitating her greatly."

"My husband did not kill him," Lydia said calmly.

Allandale's tone was all that was pleasant, but I sensed in him the quiet, unthinking stubbornness of a limpet. "It is over and done with, now. No need to worry about it any longer."

"It will be over and done with," Lydia answered. "Once Captain Lacey and I have unraveled the truth."

Allandale shot her a glance. She returned the look, uncowed.

Allandale laid down his knife. "Captain, would you speak to me a moment in the drawing room? Mother-in-law, please excuse us."

Lydia said nothing. I looked a question at her, and she inclined her head slightly. I hoped she trusted that I would oppose him on her behalf, but her gaze told me nothing.

Allandale led me to the next room, which was Lydia's private drawing room. Candles had been lit here. The light brushed the pianoforte and gently touched Lydia's portrait.

Allandale closed the door. His expression held annoyance, but he spoke in the soft, careful voice of a man who suppressed his annoyance because the person he addressed was a fool. "Captain, I truly must take you to task. When I heard that Mrs. Westin had invited you here tonight to discuss Captain Spencer, I was most distressed. I insisted I attend as well, so that I could speak to you." Behind him, Lydia's portrait looked down on him, cold and haughty. "You must cease speaking to her of the incident on the Peninsula. It upsets her. Colonel Westin is dead, and that is that."

He sounded like Kenneth Spencer. "Her husband was accused of murder," I said dryly. "That would certainly be upsetting."

For one instant his affable expression vanished. Beneath it I glimpsed something ugly and hard, a glittering sharpness. It was a flash only, then his fatuous smile returned.

"Even so," he went on, "I do not like what the events of the past month have done to her. I will ask you to please have done discussing it with her." He clasped his hands. "I have asked her to go to her daughter, but she refuses. You can certainly see that such a thing would be better for her."

"On that point, I can concede." When Lydia had lifted her glass, I was alarmed to see how much her too-thin hand had trembled. The country air could only do her good.

"Excellent," Allandale said. "I do appreciate your interest, but really, Captain, this business must stop." He gave a decided nod, as though he expected his word to be final on the subject.

I opened my mouth to tell him that not talking of it did not mean the deed had not been done, but William, Lydia's footman, opened the door on us. "Forgive me, sir."

Allandale swung on him, then quickly rearranged his expression. "Yes, William. What is it?"

"Message for you, sir." The boy advanced across the carpet, a folded paper in his hand.

Allandale took the note, unfolded it, and read the two lines penned there. He blew out his breath. "Devilish nuisance. Forgive me, Captain, but there is business I must take care of. William, please send for the carriage to take Captain Lacey home. I will hire one for my errand."

He shook my hand, his polite mask returning. "Pleased that you should dine with us, Captain."

He crumpled the paper, his brow creasing even as he turned away.

He marched from the room. I followed more slowly. Lydia had not dismissed me, and I certainly would not rush to obey the upstart Mr. Allandale.

I looked in at the dining room, but Lydia had gone. Disappointed, I proceeded downstairs, and reached the ground floor just as Allandale was gathering his hat and gloves from the young footman.

Allandale looked up at me. "Good night, Captain," he said firmly. He went out. The front door closed.

William's expression performed an instant transformation. The deferential footman's mask vanished, his young eyes twinkled, and he almost smiled. He raised his finger to his lips.

On the other side of the door, Allandale tramped away, his footsteps soon lost in the noise of traffic. William turned, nearly quivering with glee. "Please come with me, sir."

He led me back upstairs and to the drawing room I had just vacated. I followed, puzzled, and hopeful.

"Just wait here, sir," William said, then vanished.

I waited for about twenty minutes, pacing the room beneath Lydia's portrait. She gazed down at me, serene, calmly beautiful. She'd had no troubles at the time the picture had been painted-she'd had a young daughter and a husband with a solid and distinguished army career.

I had just decided William had forgotten about me, when, to my delight, and answering my hope, he opened the door again and ushered Lydia inside.

She smiled at me as William closed the door and left us alone. "The cocklebur has become unstuck at last."

I smiled back. "Happy chance that took him away."

She flushed. "It was not chance, truth to tell. I caused that message to be sent. It will take him to Essex, and by the time he discovers the ruse, it will be far too late to reach London again until morning. But I wanted to speak to you, uninterrupted."

My heart quickened. "I forgive you your deception. I, too, find him a constraint to conversation."

She sat in her usual place on the divan. "You mentioned selling this house," I said. "Where will you go after this business is cleared up? That is, if it ever is. I feel devilish ineffectual, I must say."

"You believe in Roe's innocence. That is already a great help."

"I want to do so much more."

Her eyes softened. "You do not know how it feels to have someone on my side, Captain, such a relief to speak openly. I so long to know the truth. The newspapers-what they print is horrible. Those cartoons about you are ludicrous. How can you bear it?"

I smiled. "I thought Mr. Allandale had forbidden newspapers in the house."

She made a derisive noise. "He might have told William to throw them away, but William is loyal to me, not to Mr. Allandale. Yes, I have seen the stories. They do not upset me, they make me quite angry. They have no right to ridicule you."

"I am a convenient target. It will pass." Or else I would break all Billings's teeth.

"They are hashing out the entire Badajoz incident over again." She sighed. "I am so tired of all of this."

I sat forward, wanting to comfort her and not knowing how.

She sent me a wavering smile. "Please, Captain. Tell me what you discovered in Kent."

"Little, I am afraid. I discovered that Lord Richard Eggleston and Lord Breckenridge are vulgar and irritating, but you did not need me to tell you that. And that they were Belemites."

She raised her delicate brows. "Belemites?"

"Officers who manage to be assigned posts nowhere near the fighting. Even if their regiment is heavily involved in battle, they somehow have been assigned to transport prisoners or look into a supply problem."

"My husband was not fond of them," Lydia said. "They liked a pretty uniform, but nothing more. Lord Breckenridge plied Roe for a long time to raise his rank, but fortunately Roe had the resolve not to let him become a colonel."

"I can believe that. Breckenridge might have served in the Peninsular campaign, but he was not a soldier."

I then gave her the full account of my visit to Astley Close. I omitted the shameful game of cards and my boxing bout with Breckenridge. I did tell her of Brandon's unexpected appearance and Breckenridge's suspicious death. While I spoke, she toyed with a heavy gold and garnet ring on her right forefinger, twisting it round in a distracted way.

"So I really learned nothing," I concluded. "Except that Eggleston and Breckenridge were most put out that I should be investigating them. I have not yet made acquaintance with Connaught, though Grenville is trying to contact him."

"He is much the same as the other two, I am afraid."

I tapped my fingers to the arm of the chair. "I wonder that your husband did not cut his acquaintance with them after the war. They are thoroughly unpleasant, and not men whose company I would have thought your husband would seek."

She opened her hands in a helpless gesture. "I asked him why myself, but he never would tell me. He only said that they had shared the camaraderie of battle, and so they must remain friends. I knew he did not much like them, but he refused to break the connection."

I remembered Lady Breckenridge describing how Lydia had begged her husband to take her home when Breckenridge wanted to play his disgusting card game. "He ought to have spared you."

She shrugged. "It no longer matters."

It mattered to me.

I continued, telling her what I'd learned from the Spencers and from Pomeroy. She listened attentively, the garnet on her ring winking as she twisted the band again.

"What this means," I said carefully, "is that not only could Breckenridge, Eggleston, or Connaught have killed your husband, but the Spencers could have also. And they might have killed Breckenridge as well."

She looked surprised. "But why should they?"

"Because John Spencer longs for revenge against those connected to his father's death. He reeks with it. And Kenneth Spencer worries much about his brother. He might have murdered your husband believing that John would be satisfied once Colonel Westin was dead. He seemed much distressed that John wanted to continue his search for the truth."

Her eyes widened, pupils spreading to swallow the blue. "Could they have gained the house?"

"Indeed. The same way Breckenridge or Eggleston could have. I have toyed with the idea that their two lordships had an early morning appointment with your husband, that he let them into the house himself. But suppose the appointment had been with the Spencers? They admitted he'd asked to meet them at a coffeehouse, but what if he had told them to meet them here instead? He goes downstairs and lets them in. They murder him and leave."

She watched me in growing dismay. She had wanted the three aristocrats to be the culprits, wanted it with her whole being. The possibility that Breckenridge or Eggleston or Connaught had nothing to do with it meant that she might have made a grave mistake.

"I must agree with Mr. Allandale on one point," I said gently. "Perhaps you should go to the country. Stay with your daughter and brother. I will write you of anything I find."

She shook her head. "I am not ready yet. I would go mad in the country, waiting."

"Your daughter might need you."

She raised her hands in supplication. "Do not ask me, Captain. I cannot go. Chloe's uncle will look after her well."

"But the country might be safer for you. There is real possibility that someone closer to home killed your husband, as I suggested before. You should face that. William, for instance."

She stared at me in baffled outrage. "I have told you, that is impossible. William refuses to kill even insects. The idea that he might have hurt my husband is preposterous."

"But he is large and strong and could easily have struck your husband down. Or Millar could have done the same."

She shook her head, her eyes sparking anger. "Millar had been my husband's manservant for twenty years. He grieved and still does. And he and William are both devoted to me."

"Perhaps too devoted," I suggested. "Perhaps William saw that your life would be eased if your husband died."

She sprang from her chair and paced in agitation to the pianoforte. "No. Please stop this. He cannot have."

"Forgive me. I simply want no harm to come to you."

"I did not ask you to investigate my husband's death, Captain Lacey. I asked you to clear his name."

"I know. I cannot help myself. I want to be certain."

She swung on me, her head high. "Certain of what? You have no right to accuse my servants. How dare you?"

"I accuse them to stop myself from speaking something still more repugnant, from drawing a conclusion even Sergeant Pomeroy leapt to without prompting."

"What conclusion? What are you talking about?"

"Good lord, Lydia, have you not seen it? That you killed him yourself."

Her face flashed white with shock. "What?"

I went on remorselessly. "You most easily of all could have crept into your husband's chamber and stabbed him while he lay abed. The servants were asleep; who would notice you move from your bedroom to his? And then in the morning you pretend to find him and swear your servants to silence on the matter."

She stared. "How can you say these things to me?"

"Because they might just be true."

Her look turned furious. "They are not."

She moved as though to flee the room. I stepped in front of her.

"No? What was he to you? You had no marriage; you admitted so yourself. He was about to bring disgrace to you and your daughter, and his friends disgusted you. If he died, you would be spared an ordeal, and if you could push the deed onto the foul Breckenridge, so much the better."

I could not still my tongue. My fears were pouring from me, words spilling into the still room.

"If I am so clever," she flashed, "why on earth did I tell you all?"

"Because when I helped you on the bridge, you saw a chance to move your plan along. You saw that you could stir me to pity, that you could make me do anything you pleased. That I would scramble to cast the blame on your husband's disgusting colleagues, anything to keep them from you and the taint from your name. You must have seen how easily I'd promise you anything."

I ran out of breath. She stared at me, lips parted. A slight draft of air stirred the tapes of her cap.

I eased my hands open. "You see," I said, lowering my voice. "You are barely a widow, and I make declarations that I should not. I take the unpardonable liberty of speaking your name, uninvited. And who am I? A nobody, here on your leave, hardly better than a servant."

She continued to stand still in shock, her gaze fixed on mine. "No." Her whisper was cracked. "Not a servant. A gentleman."

"Hardly, at this moment. I am ready to ask for what I do not deserve."

Color climbed in her cheeks. "And if I say you may have it freely?"

"Then I will count myself most blessed of men." I shook my head. "But I cannot ask it. I will go."

"No," she said quickly. "I was willing once before to grant it. Do you remember?"

How could I forget? I recalled her warm lips against mine, her arms about my neck; I had thought of the incident every day since it had happened.

"You were ill, and frightened. And a bit foxed, as I recall." I made a slight bow, my throat aching. "Forgive me. I will go."

"Please do not leave me alone, Gabriel." She held her hand palm out, as if pushing me away. "Not yet."

"Lydia." I could not stop myself saying her name again. The word filled my mouth, liquid and light. "If I stay…"

"Stay. Please."

She stood motionless until I came to her and gathered her into my arms. She leaned to my chest, and the clean scent of the lawn cap drifted to me as I pressed a kiss to it.

Her hold tightened, and she raised her face to mine. I kissed her. I tasted her lips, her brow, her throat, the lace at her neck.

"Gabriel," she whispered. "Please stay."

I kissed her again. I threaded my fingers into her dark hair, and her white cap loosened and fluttered to the floor like a fallen bird.

The warmth of her bed wrapped me in a comfort I had not known in many a year. I learned her that night in her chamber beneath silken bed hangings, learned the cool brush of her fingers, the scent of her skin, the taste of her mouth. I had not realized how starved I’d been; I was like a man who hadn’t known he was thirsty until given clear water to drink.

I sensed from her inexperienced caresses, her unpracticed kisses, that she’d not had a lover in many years. I scorned her fool of a husband as I gentled my touch for her. Even a man who could not complete the act could have pleasured a woman in myriad ways. Colonel Westin seemingly had not bothered to do so.

I liked the way we fit, her head tucked beneath my chin, my arm about her shoulders. She brushed her fingers over my face, smiling at the stiff bristles there. We lay together far into the night, warm and contented. I drifted in and out of sleep, not dreaming, simply dozing in blissful warmth.

At last in the cool hours of the morning I rose and dressed. She smiled sleepily as I kissed her good-bye and departed into the gray dawn.

Happiness settled over me. I knew it would not last, but I drank it in, savoring it for the time I could.

Covent Garden was quiet when I reached it, though a few street ladies still paraded. Black Nancy, a game girl Louisa had taken in to reform, was no longer there, but the others recognized me and greeted me raucously. I tipped my hat to them, my mood still sunny, and moved on to Grimpen Lane.

I reached the bake shop and let myself into the stuffy staircase hall.

Light footsteps hastened down to me. "Lacey!" Marianne said in a hoarse whisper. A wavering taper, likely one of mine, lit her face. Her eyes were wide. "Where the devil have you been?"

"Out," I answered laconically.

"There are men in your rooms, looking for you. Came banging on my door, asking where you were, about two hours ago. As if I take your particulars."

I glanced up the stairs. All was quiet. The painted shepherds and shepherdesses wavered under the glare of Marianne's candle.

I clasped the head of my cane. "They are up there now?"

"Yes. I tell you, you cannot fight all three, and they looked well able to throw you down the stairs."

"Who are they?"

"How the devil should I know? I have never seen them before."

"Let us find out, shall we?"

I moved past her. She stared at me as though I'd run mad. but made no move to stop me.

I quickly and quietly ascended to the first floor. My door stood closed. Long ago, it had been painted dove gray and its panels outlined in gold. The handle was fancifully shaped like a maiden who’d sprouted great long wings from her back. Once she had been gold, but now she was only the tarnished brass that had lain beneath the gold leafing.

I opened the door.

Two large footmen stood to either side, waiting for me to come bursting in. I foiled them by simply swinging open the door and remaining in the hall. Across the room, James Denis rose from my worn wing chair.