A Regimental Murder

Chapter Sixteen

I spent the following weeks in an odd mood. On the one hand, I could not shake a feeling that I was ineffectual, a spinning wheel going nowhere. The identity of Westin's murderer eluded me, as did evidence of Captain Spencer's killer. Nor was I any closer to proving who had murdered Breckenridge.

I had not seen or spoken to Lord Richard Eggleston since the incident. I had tried on two occasions to make an appointment with him, but was told firmly by his secretary that he was seeing no one while mourning the death of his friend.

I likewise had no luck questioning Brandon about events in Kent. He refused point blank to see me. He once shut the door in my face himself, and I could only leave his doorstep, muttering choice curses under my breath.

Grenville and I met occasionally to discuss things, while Anton brought us dishes both unusual and delicious. Grenville had tried to meet the elusive Sir Edward Connaught, but he had not been able to find the man. Connaught had left town for the summer, the caretaker of his London house had informed Grenville. Letters to his country house went unanswered.

The newspapers, at least, had tired of taunting me and moved on to bread riots in Seven Dials. London grew hotter still, and I slept with my windows wide open, praying for a breeze or cooling rain.

On the other hand, my mind was much relieved by knowing Louisa was safe. My heart ached for her sorrow, but as promised, I said not a word to her husband, a promise made easier by his refusal to speak to me.

And then, I had Lydia. While part of me puzzled over her husband's past and berated me for not knowing the answers, the rest of me rejoiced in her.

She was a lady like no other. I spent countless time tangled in her black hair, touching her skin, breathing her in. Her smile made all the hurt go away, even deep hurts that had tucked themselves into my heart for years.

I do not know if I soothed her as she soothed me, but when she kissed me, her lips were gentle and warm, and when she slept beside me, her breathing was deep and even, without distress.

William aided and abetted our secret affair. Because she was newly in mourning, Lydia did not go to the opera or theatre or balls, such places that lovers might meet, and in any case, it was high summer and entertainments were few. We met in the afternoons, lying together in the sunlight of her bedchamber, dozing in the white heat while carriages rumbled past in the street. Climbing roses bloomed at the window then wilted in the heat and dust.

William ever made certain that the other servants were well occupied with duties below stairs before Lydia and I ascended to her rooms, or I departed later. He delivered Lydia's letters to me and took mine to her-we exchanged billets doux like cozy lovers in a farce. He performed these errands with childlike glee, seemingly happy that Lydia and I were conducting a tawdry liaison.

She and I were the tenderest of lovers, even going so far as to exchange tokens and locks of hair. She had given me a ribbon to wear inside my coat and I had given her one of my handkerchiefs. She wore it about her person, she assured me with a sly smile, but would not tell me where.

She purchased a small enamel snuffbox for me, blushing when she presented it, saying that she had no idea of an appropriate gift for a lover. I kept it with my most prized treasures, and then scraped money together to buy a thin gold chain for her slender ankle.

Even Billings let us alone. I encountered him only once, while hiring a hackney in Hanover Square to take me home early one evening. He emerged from a bakery not far from me, a loaf under his arm.

"Ah, Captain," he hailed me. "Have your feet firmly planted under the Westin table, do you?"

"I will have my foot firmly planted on your backside if you do not go away," I answered. He only laughed and moved on.

My investigation into the murder at Badajoz continued, but slowly. Eggleston refused to see me; Breckenridge was dead and could tell no more tales. Grenville was, of course, making vain attempts to contact Sir Edward Connaught. I met with the Spencer brothers again, but they had not been able to convey much more to me. John Spencer was particularly surly.

But for Lydia, I would have found those summer days hot and frustrating.

I did not return to see Louisa, much as I wanted to. She needed to heal, alone, she'd said, and I would respect that. But I did want very much to ask her advice on one matter. As my affair with Lydia deepened, I seriously contemplated the step of marrying her.

I thought it through during my wakeful nights after I left her afternoon bed. I had found a quiet happiness with her, despite the dark questions that ever hovered round us.

Lydia had given me a second reason to contemplate it. She had quietly told me, four weeks into our affair, that she believed she was increasing. I was not surprised, we had had been passionate without much restraint. She looked worried when she had whispered the news, as though she feared I would grow angry, or blame her, or end the affair.

In truth, the news affected me strangely. I was glad, and I told her so. She had provided me with an excuse to face what I had so long refused to face, but once confronting these things, I would be free of them. I told her I would marry her.

I would need Grenville's help in preparing the way, and I made my plans to approach him.

One evening, Grenville took me to a performance of an Austrian lady violinist with whom gossip had begun pairing him. Anastasia Froehm would play at a musicale hosted by a French exile who had decided to remain in England even after Louis XVIII's restoration. Grenville obtained an invitation for me, and we strolled into the Comtesse du Lille's house in Upper Brook Street just as Mrs. Froehm began to play.

Anastasia Froehm was not pretty of face, though she had plump arms and fine brown eyes. But when she played, she filled the air with sweetness. She had loveliness inside her, and it poured through her fingers and through her instrument to entrance us. Grenville's eyes gleamed with pride, and a small smile tugged at his mouth.

At the end of the performance, however, he did not join the throng that greeted her, and instead expressed the wish to depart abruptly for his club. I thought this odd and rude, and told him so.

"Nonsense, Lacey," Grenville said as he sent a footman running for his carriage. "I am hungry. We will go to Watier's. The food is tolerable there."

He did not even offer to introduce me to Mrs. Froehmm so that I could pay my compliments. I held my tongue, but wondered. Once inside his carriage with cushions at my back and the sweet scent of wax rising from the lanterns, I questioned him. "Do you tell me that you find the charms of Marianne Simmons far superior to Mrs. Froehm's? I will call you mad and a blackguard if you do."

He frowned. "What devil has Marianne got to do with Mrs. Froehm?"

"Are you not Mrs. Froehm’s paramour?"

He fixed me with a black stare. "I thought you of all people would not believe what you read in the newspapers."

I shrugged. "You escort her everywhere and you have been elusive of late."

He regarded me for a long moment. As I met his enigmatic stare, I realized just how little I knew this man. We had investigated puzzles together, but he showed me only the facets of himself that he wanted me to see.

At last, he spoke. "If I tell you the truth, Lacey, you must keep it to yourself."

"Everything you say to me is in confidence," I said.

"I mean no offense. It is the lady's secret, not mine. I met Anastasia in Italy a year or so ago, and we became fast friends. When she came to London, she wrote me and asked if I'd be her escort, because she did not want to spend her time fending off offers of protection. She wanted to live quietly, and if she was seen about with me, would-be suitors would leave her alone."

"That is no doubt true," I conceded. "But she does not mind gossip pairing your names?"

"Not in the least. She will return to the continent soon, and all will be at an end. She did me a good turn in Italy and I decided I would do her one here. That is all."

I studied him a moment, wondering what the "good turn" was. He returned the look blandly, and I knew that tonight, at least, my curiosity would go unsatisfied.

We did not speak again until we arrived at Watier's in Piccadilly at Bolton Street. Grenville called the food here tolerable, but only because he employed the best chef in the country. Compared to the clubs that served boiled beef and lifeless greens, Watier's, begun by a chef of that name who had worked for the Prince of Wales, was culinary paradise. Deep play was to be found here, but it was the food that drew gentlemen forth from the sanctums of White's and Brooks's. We dined on tender meat and fish and fine wine and delicate bread.

After supper, to my dismay, we also found Mr. Allandale.

I had managed to avoid him, thanks to William, while making my illicit visits to Lydia. Now, in the card room, he turned to us, a fixed smile on his face, betraying nothing of the flash of temper I'd glimpsed beneath his mild facade on our last meeting.

Mr. Allandale was not alone. Two gentlemen stood with him, one older, one younger, obviously father and son. The son could only have been just down from university; his face was still downy soft and lacked the hardness of experience. His hair was pale yellow and trained into fashionable curls made popular by poets and artists. His expensive suit copied Grenville's tastes, and he seemed quite eager to greet us. As I shook his hand, I beheld in his wide gray eyes a vast innocence, one unprepared for the realities of the world.

The father was a baronet, Sir Gideon Derwent, and I found in his eyes the same deep-seated innocence that dwelled in his son's.

Sir Gideon fastened an awed gaze upon me. "You were a dragoon?" he queried. "Good heavens. Did you see action?"

"India and the Dutch campaign," I replied laconically. "Then the Peninsula. Not Waterloo, I am afraid."

They'd be disappointed. Waterloo made one a hero, even if one had remained behind in camp guarding the water sacks. The Derwents did not seem to mind this, however.

Leland, the son, asked, "Did you lead many charges?"

"A good many more than I would have liked. And then back again after we'd run too far."

I'd hoped my self-deprecating humor would break their intense stares. It did not.

"You must have many stories to tell, Captain," Leland said.

Allandale suddenly interposed, his voice smooth. "Indeed, he is a most entertaining dinner companion. I myself was much delighted with his company several weeks ago."

I was surprised he did not turn purple with the effort of the lie. He had not wanted me there. The room had been palpable with it.

Father and son exchanged a look. "Well then," Sir Gideon said hopefully. "Certainly we would be honored to have you at our supper table, Captain Lacey. Perhaps Monday week?"

I looked at the both of them hovering anxiously upon my answer. It would be impolite to snub them, yet I found their admiring gazes a bit unnerving.

I remained silent a moment too long. Leland looked downcast. "Perhaps he will not be free, Father."

Of course I would be free. I had little to fill my social calendar, I could assure them. But Sir Gideon spoke before I could. "We will write to you, Captain, and fix a date."

I could only agree, and after more exchanges of pleasantries, we parted.

Grenville and I moved from Watier's to a billiards room in St. James's Square. Once ensconced in a game, Grenville remarked, "You have just met the most unworldly father and son in all of England. The entire family is like them. All they know of London and life is what they see between their front door and their carriage door. God help them."

"They seemed kind."

"They are. Unequivocally so. To their credit, they are also the most honest beings you will ever meet. If they professed interest in you, it was not feigned."

"Then it would be rude of me to refuse their invitation."

He smiled. "Be prepared to be questioned to death. But they mean well. And you should cultivate them. The Derwents are acquaintances of Sir Edward Connaught. I should have thought of them at once."

That, of course, clinched the matter. When Sir Gideon wrote to me next day requesting my presence at his table on the following Tuesday, I replied that I would come.

The day I was to meet the Derwents, William failed us. I strolled downstairs in Lydia's house at five o'clock to find Allandale just coming in.

William, looking distressed, was busily trying to turn him away. Allandale looked up, caught sight of me, and stared in astonishment.

I stopped on the landing. Allandale gaped at me. William helplessly held the door open. A hot breeze filled the hall.

I came out of my standstill and continued down. By the time I stepped off the last stair, Allandale was spluttering.

"I do not understand. William said Mrs. Westin was unwell. What are you doing here?"

I retrieved my hat and gloves from the table myself, William having become fixed to the door handle. "Shall we go out together, Allandale?"

Allandale stared past me and up the stairs. "Where is she?"

I had left Lydia at her dressing table, brushing out her long hair. I had wanted to linger and watch her, but my supper appointment pressed me. I had put my hands on her waist, kissed the nape of her neck, then taken my leave.

"Accompany me, Mr. Allandale," I said firmly. I certainly did not want him waiting at the bottom of the stairs for her like an outraged governess.

Again, his mask slipped. The habitual pleasant expression left him. "How dare you."

I slapped my hat to my head, took Allandale by the elbow, and steered him outside. William gave me an anguished look as we passed. I said to him, "If Mr. Allandale tries to call again tonight, or even tomorrow, do not admit him."

William, wide-eyed, nodded. He closed the door behind us.

Allandale shook off my hold before we'd walked five feet. "Explain yourself, sir. What the devil were you doing upstairs in my mother-in-law's house?"

I set my mouth in a grim line. "I have nothing to explain. And if you question her about it, I will not overlook it. Do you understand me?"

He stopped. A hurrying gentleman, perspiring in the heat, nearly ran him down. Grumbling, the gentleman pushed past and went on.

"Good God, Lacey, you are a cad of the highest water."

"It is not your business," I said.

"Not my business? She is the mother of the woman I shall marry! Shall I let her be ruined by a fortune hunter? I will not stand by and let you deceive her."

I caught his coat lapels, uncaring of others in the street who stopped to gape. I jerked him close, glaring into his flawless face. "I would do nothing to hurt her, you thrice-damned idiot. If you speak one word of this to her, I will- "

"Call me out?" He glared back, his shock overcome.

"No, I will drag you to the Thames and throw you in. Let the watermen fish you out. They will if you offer them enough coin."

He swallowed. "You are mad enough to do it."

"I am. If I discover that you have spoken to her of this matter in any way, I advise you to dress in the suit you most wish to ruin."

I released him. He landed on his feet, looking startled, then he jerked from me and hastily smoothed his coat. "I find it hard to credit that you are a friend of Mr. Grenville's. He would be shocked at your behavior."

"In this case," I said, "I believe he'd agree with me."

I turned on my heel, marched away, and left him red and furious in the middle of the street.

Every corner of London had its own characteristic, every street its personality. Rich then poor then rich ran together like water and cream. Mansions could give rise to rookeries in two streets, and inhabitants of each would not know a thing of what went on not a short walk away.

Not far from Grosvenor Square, where I made my way to the house of the Derwents upon the appointed hour, had stood Tyburn Tree, the infamous gallows where executions had taken place until late in the last century. South of the old hanging place, Mayfair had sprouted a swath of mansions, some of the finest in London. The Derwents, Grenville had given me to understand, were among the wealthiest citizens in England.

I wondered that I had not heard of the Derwents before, but Grenville assured me they were also among the humblest. Sir Gideon had sat in the House of Commons for many years before retiring to spend more time with his family. He had been made a baronet because of services to the realm, mostly philanthropic. No one could claim to know a more disinterested giver of money to the poor than Sir Gideon Derwent, and so George III had been persuaded to honor him.

If he had given away a fortune to the London poor, he must have had much to spare, I thought as I descended from the hackney and gazed up at Derwent's enormous mansion.

Light glowed from every window, as though they expected a crowd. I hoped not, as I was not in the mood to be jovial to dozens of people I did not know.

The hackney driver grinned at me as I counted shillings into his hand. "Someone's got friends in 'igh places," he said. He chortled as he drove away.

Stately columns flanked a grand double-doored entrance, and a red carpet stretched like a tongue over the small bit of pavement to me. I wondered what exalted guest they were expecting.

I soon learned. A butler met me at the door, bowed formally, and ushered me into the house. A footman, equally stately, though much younger, took my gloves and hat.

The butler led me through a massive hall, equally as large as that in Lady Mary Fortescue's country house, but thankfully, much more tastefully decorated. Gray, white, and gold marbled columns marched along the walls, sheltering niches that bore busts of prominent Greek and Roman scholars. Burgundy hangings framed high windows in the rear, and soft gold panels graced the ceiling.

At the end of this echoing hall stood a tall double doorway, behind it, a gargantuan drawing room, and the Derwents.

They were grouped about a chaise longue as though posed for a portrait. Lady Derwent reposed on the chaise, and Sir Gideon stood behind her, his hand affectionately on her shoulder. Leland stood next to his father, brimming with delight, his gray eyes fixed hungrily upon my regimentals.

In a chair next to Lady Derwent sat a girl perhaps a few years younger than Leland. Ash-blond hair and gray eyes made her a child of Sir Gideon, and the slightly shy, innocently curious looks she darted at me confirmed it.

The fifth member of the group proved to be a lady I had met earlier that year-Mrs. Danbury, a young widow of the same blond hair and gray eyes of the Derwents. She was not, in fact, Sir Gideon's daughter, I was informed as she was presented, but his niece.

Lady Derwent did not rise, but lifted her hand for me. Her blond hair was darker than her son's and going gray, and her eyes were light blue. The hand she offered me was thin and worn. As I bowed over it, I saw in her face a weariness, a gray tinge that her smile could not disguise.

Melissa Derwent went brilliant scarlet and looked frantically at anything but me when I bowed to her and murmured a greeting. She did not offer her hand, but curled her fingers into her palms so tightly I feared she'd hurt herself.

Mrs. Danbury did profess to remember me. Her smile was crooked, slanting one side of her mouth. "Captain Lacey and I have met before. At Lord Arbuthnot's, was it not?"

I agreed that it was.

They plied me with Madeira, then we went through another pair of palatial doors, opened by two footmen, to a dining room with a ceiling at least twenty feet high.

As the ambience promised, the food brought in by the deferential footmen on trolleys was on par with what Anton gave me at Grenville's. I ate from fine porcelain plates with a heavy silver knife and spoon, and drank from crystal goblets that never seemed to be empty of smooth, blood red wine.

I realized as we began that there was no other guest but me. I was the one they had lit the house for, had unfurled the red carpet for, had produced this meal for. Good lord.

By the time we reached the fish course, Sir Gideon had asked me to relate, in detail, my life in the army, from the time I'd volunteered to the day I'd decided to leave the life behind. I could not imagine why they'd want me to tire them with war stories, but they asked many eager questions, and Sir Gideon refused to let me steer the conversation elsewhere.

"Tell us of Mysore," he'd say eagerly. "Did you ride elephants? Was the Tippu Sultan as cruel as they say?"

"I have no idea," I had to reply. "When we at last stormed the city, the Sultan was dead, by his own hand or murdered, who could say. But yes, I did manage to ride an elephant."

I then had to tell them exactly what that had been like. Unnerving, to say the least. The elephants kept in the town of Seringapatam were gentle enough, being generally used as beasts of burden, but to ride atop a creature as large as a house, who regarded you as no more significant than a flea, had been a bit unsettling.

I remembered the hot, baking sun, the smell of vegetation struggling to live in the heat and dense air, the overpowering scent of elephant, and the faint cries of a very young Mrs. Lacey, as white and golden as Melissa Derwent, screaming that the elephant would eat her, or me, or at least kill us in some horrible way. I had laughed at her.

Had I ever been such an arrogant, blind fool? Yes, my conscience whispered to me. You were exactly that.

I was aware I'd paused too long, and hurriedly resumed my narrative.

Mrs. Danbury, seated next to me, listened to my tales as avidly as the others did, but her eyes crinkled in amusement at the rapt attentions of her cousins. But at least she listened. She could have flicked her fingers and sighed and given other signs of growing boredom, but she never did.

Leland's stare on the other hand, fixed and filled with hero-worship, made me most uncomfortable. I hoped to God that tomorrow morning he would not run off to join a regiment.

Lady Derwent ate very little. She toyed with her food, her thin fingers shaking slightly. Her smiles were as eager as her son's and husband's, but I saw her strain to keep her lips still, saw the cough well up in her throat from time to time before she hastily buried it in a handkerchief.

A dart of sympathy pierced my heart. These people, these innocent, kind, genuinely friendly people would soon know grief. I wondered how long it would be. From the waxen tinge to Lady Derwent's skin, I thought it possible she would not live much past Christmas.

I sought to entertain them as I could, pulling their thoughts from sorrows to come. I tried to keep the more gruesome aspects of my stories to a minimum, attempting to relate only the light and humorous. Louisa would like these people, I reflected. I would introduce them, when she recovered from her own present grief. In fact, it might be just the thing for her. She hated to wallow in her own sorrows, and this unworldly, innocent family would tug at her heart.

After we had consumed the elegant desert-a decadent pudding decorated with spun sugar-we moved back to the drawing room. Despite its ostentation, the room was well lived in. Workbaskets rested by chairs, books lay about, a lady's sketchbook had been tucked into a rack near a settee. The Derwents obviously spent every evening here, guests or no. They occupied every inch of this grand house, and with their charming obliviousness, rendering what could be cold and grandiose warm and friendly.

Melissa performed a minuet for us on a satinwood pianoforte. She played competently but nervously. I clapped politely when she finished and smiled when she curtseyed. Sir Gideon and Leland both seemed very pleased with me.

It was very late before I could introduce into the conversation the purpose for which I'd come. I tried to casually lead to the topic of Sir Edward Connaught, Major in the Forty-Third Light Dragoons, but in the end I had to bluntly ask if he were their acquaintance.

"Of course, my dear fellow," Sir Gideon replied. He handed me yet another tumbler of mellow, sweet brandy. "I do know him. He was one of those involved at Badajoz, was he not? With this killing of the man, Captain Spencer."

"Yes." So they did read the newspapers after all.

Sir Gideon turned an eager gaze on me. "I did not know Colonel Westin well, except from the club, poor chap. Did he really kill that wretched man at Badajoz?"

"No," I answered. "I believe Colonel Westin was innocent."

My words rippled through the room like the faint approach of a summer storm. The four Derwents turned to me, breathless. Even the footman, who had come with a tray of exquisite chocolates, froze to listen.

There was nothing for it then that I should tell them every detail of the Badajoz investigation, as well as about the death of Lord Breckenridge.

Never in my life had anyone listened to me with complete interest, begging me to go on when I slowed. Another man might have been flattered; I realized early on that they simply had very little connection with the outside world. I must have seemed larger than life to them.

By the time I departed-Sir Gideon insisted on calling his own carriage for me-I had made an appointment to meet Connaught in the company of Sir Gideon and Leland four days hence.

I also garnered another invitation for supper in a week. They suggested they make my invitation to supper a standing one once a fortnight. This idea delighted the four Derwents; Mrs. Danbury smiled in the background. I was uncertain whether to be pleased or alarmed.

As we pulled away, I looked back at the warm, bright house that had welcomed me so. They wanted me back. I would oblige them.

I was just settling back when my eye caught a brief movement. I peered past the coach lights into the darkness. Gaslight had been laid here, but in the space between the pale yellow globes the darkness was complete. I had seen someone, a man I thought, duck back into shadows.

It had been Brandon trailing me to and about Astley Close, but he had no reason to do so now. Disquiet settled over me. I asked the coachman to stop, told him what I saw, and to drive back to the spot.

When we reached it, the footman and I climbed down and examined the lane between the houses, but we found nothing, and no sign that anyone had passed.