The Hanover Square Affair

Chapter Six

Grenville half smiled at me, as though he thought me joking. He wore monochrome colors today, his black and white suit as understated as the exterior of his house. A ruby stick pin adorned his white cravat like a drop of blood.

As I continued to sip brandy, his eyes widened.

"Good Lord, Lacey, you are serious. You astonish me."

I settled myself on his Turkish divan, stretching my left leg to ease the ache in it. "Is that why you asked me to call on you? To discover which rumors were true?"

"Only in part. The other was to get your opinion on this brandy." He held up his glass, showing amber depths glowing behind crystal facets.

"It is truly remarkable," I conceded. "An excellent choice."

"I enjoy giving you food and drink, Lacey. You do not wait to discern what I want you to say before pronouncing judgment. If something truly disgusts you, you do not hesitate to declare it so. I appreciate your honesty."

"And I thought I was only being rude," I said. "I went to view Ormondsly's new painting last night. I was surprised you did not attend."

"Were you?" Grenville leaned against the mantelpiece, crossing one polished boot over the other. "What did you think of the painting?"

I had barely noticed the damned thing. My attention had been distracted by watching for Grenville, trying to keep up my part of the conversation, and staring at the lovely Mrs. Danbury. I shrugged. "It was… "

He gestured, diamond rings glinting. "Exactly. Ormondsly is young and talented, but unperfected. In a few years' time, he will amount to something-if he does not murder himself with his opium eating before then. If I praise his painting now, artists of more merit will be undeservedly ignored; if I slight his work or give it lukewarm praise, his career will be over before it begins. Best to pretend I regretted I hadn't the opportunity to view the work. I will see it in private, with him there, and tell him what I truly think."

He took a sip of brandy, finished with his lecture.

I said dryly, "It must be difficult to have such power."

For a bare instant, anger sparkled in his dark eyes, and I wondered if I'd gone too far. He'd summon his large footmen to toss me out, and I hadn't had the chance to finish this excellent brandy.

Then his good humor returned. "Society does put a value on my opinions that is far higher than it is worth. To save having to think up their own opinions, I imagine."

I took a sip of the precious brandy in relief. "In truth, it is your opinion I am seeking at this moment."

"Not about that painting, surely."

"No. I want to know about a gentleman who lives in Hanover Square."

Grenville gave me an inquisitive look, and I saw a gleam of interest in his eye. I told him the tale, stopping here and there to wet my mouth with the brandy.

During the story, Grenville frowned into the depths of his glass, then, when I related Horne's mention of Denis and my speculations that Denis was a procurer, he sat down abruptly on one of the straight-backed chairs.

When I'd finished, Grenville said, "My apologies, Lacey. I was eager for gossip and had no idea you'd been involved in something so tragic."

"No matter. What do you know about Josiah Horne? The Thornton family, including Alice, believe Horne abducted Jane. Is it possible?"

Grenville rolled his glass between his palms. "I've never heard anything against the man. Horne is an MP for Sussex. He's a widower who lives quietly, and as far as I know never raises a ruckus in Parliament. Not a political hothead. I rarely see him at social gatherings, and I can't name one person who truly knows him well." He sipped brandy. "You say he did not recognize Jane Thornton's name?"

"I would swear that he'd never heard of her. But maybe he knows her by another name."

"Or he could be telling the truth."

"But Mr. Thornton and Alice saw Jane go into the house."

"They may have mistaken the house," Grenville pointed out. "Or Horne may not have known she'd come there at all. Perhaps her meeting was with someone else-the butler, the valet, the maid you saw."

"Why are you trying to absolve him? He may have abducted the girl and ruined her. If she is not still with him, she will have nowhere to go but into a brothel or the streets."

Grenville lifted his hand. "Calm yourself, Lacey. I am merely pointing out possibilities. I know you disliked the man, and I cannot blame you for that if what you say is true. But before sending in the magistrate, you should first discover if he ever truly saw the girl at all."

I drummed my fingers on the table beside me. "Louisa Brandon said as much. I have an unfortunately rash temper."

"So I have heard. Did you know, a colonel who frequents my club told me you'd once put a pistol to the head of another colonel and demanded he rescind one of his orders." He regarded me with curiosity, as though hoping I'd regale him with the entire story.

"An order that would have killed all my men. I would not sacrifice them so that he might claim courage."

I recalled that blustery winter day on the battlefield in Portugal, when my blood had boiled hot and a cavalry colonel had wet himself because he'd thought me insane enough to pull the trigger. Fortunately, the staff officers knew of the man's incompetence, and so I'd avoided an incident that could have wrecked my career. Watching my temper rise dismayed me-my vision would become clear and sharp, and a course of action, direct and plain, would present itself to me. Right and wrong became suddenly vivid; a complex situation would resolve into one bright point. Sometimes my rages cut right to the heart of a matter; at others, they only made things worse. Unfortunately, I could not always tell which was which.

Grenville rose and paced to the fireplace. "Speaking of your rashness, I am going to give you a bit of advice concerning this James Denis." He faced me. "Have nothing to do with him. Pursue Horne if you must, but leave Denis out of it."

I lifted my brows. "Why? Who is Denis?"

Grenville hesitated, while shadows played on his angular face. "James Denis is a dangerous man to know. Please take my word for it."

He wanted me to stop asking questions, which ensured that I simply wanted to ask more. "If that is so, why have I never heard of him?"

Grenville shrugged. "He lives quietly."

"So does Horne, you say."

Grenville regarded me uncomfortably, as though wanting to deny he had the information I wanted. Then he gave a resigned sigh and set his crystal glass on the mantelpiece.

"I do not know who James Denis truly is," he said. "His father is rumored to have been a footman and his mother a lady of quality. I'm not certain I believe that. But despite his origins, Denis is now one of the wealthiest men in England. Dukes know him. The Prince Regent has no doubt hired him; you know what a mania the Prince has for art, especially when he's told the thing in question is impossible to acquire. I've asked the Prince point blank if he used Denis to find some of his collection, but he only gave me that coy look he has when he's trying to be clever."

I'd never met the Prince Regent or seen him closer than from the back of a crowd that watched his coach travel down Pall Mall. The last time I'd spied his coach passing, the crowd had booed him and mud had splattered the side of his garish yellow carriage. The Regent's daughter, Princess Charlotte, was wildly popular, but the profligate Regent was barely tolerated. Grenville had told me tales of dining at Carleton House-on one occasion the dining table had been surrounded by a sparkling trough of water, through which fish had swum. Grenville had shaken his head while relating the anecdote, his expression pained.

"Well," I said. "I will meet Denis soon and discover what he is for myself. Horne wrote that he'd had an answer to our request for an appointment."

Grenville turned swiftly, eyes wide. "No, Lacey, don't go, not even for curiosity's sake. Denis is dangerous. Leave him alone."

The directive, of course, only fueled my determination. "Explain to me what he is then. A procurer? A smuggler?"

Grenville shook his head. "I wish I knew. The man is elusive, even to someone as bothersome as me. I know that he has procurers and smugglers dancing his bidding. He obtains things, things that might be out of reach of the ordinary person. He is able to work seeming miracles to get exactly what his, shall we say, customer, wants." Grenville paced again. "Whenever he expresses interest in a bill or discussion in Parliament, funnily enough, the vote always seems to coincide with his interests. But I have never heard that he actually controls anyone. You never hear anything directly against Denis. He is that discreet."

"Discreet enough so that his customer might not know the name of the young woman abducted for him?"

Grenville paced the length of the hearth rug then turned to me. "Lacey, I beg you, do not openly accuse James Denis of abducting Miss Thornton. You would never get out again."

"You speak as though you know him well. Does he have the honor of your acquaintance?"

Grenville colored. "No. I was a-customer-once."

The candle beside me guttered and died in a spattering of wax. "Were you, indeed? This sounds interesting."

"Yes. And, like you, I want to know all about a person before I commit myself. I made it my business to find out about Denis, and I did not like what I found."

"Yet, you hired him."

Grenville tapped his heel against a pattern of the rug. "I had no choice. I wanted a particular painting that was in France during the war. In Bonaparte's personal collection, as a matter of fact. It belonged to an exiled French aristocrat, painted for him specially, he told me, and the man had tried everything to get it back." Grenville continued to study the carpet. "I offered to help him, and I had heard of Denis. I hired Denis to find and deliver the painting. Denis did."

"Damned resourceful of him. How did he manage it?"

"I have no idea. And I never asked. The price was, as you might expect, very high."

For some reason, I suddenly thought of the screen that Colonel Brandon had brought home with him from Spain. Its three panels depicted scenes of the holy family, done in gold leaf and ebony. I had no idea where he'd obtained it, but it was very old, and he prized it above all possessions. Louisa told me he'd set it in his private sitting room behind his bedchamber, a room few were allowed to enter. I'd always wondered where he'd stumbled upon the thing, which looked valuable beyond compare. I wondered now if he'd obtained it from someone like Denis.

I pried my fingers apart. "So that is why Horne intimated that you knew all about Denis."

Grenville shook his head. "He did not hear such a thing from Denis. Or from me. I imagine my French acquaintance flapped his tongue. It might explain why he departed so suddenly for France." He hesitated, his dark brows lowered. "When you attend this appointment with Denis, I will accompany you."

I didn't want that. Grenville would want to handle everything very discreetly, while I would prefer to take Denis by the coat and shake him until I received the information I needed. Grenville would also, as was his habit, take over the conversation. I simply gave him a nod and decided I would not bother to mention the time and day of my appointment when I learned it.

Grenville snatched up his glass and crossed the room to the brandy decanter. "You've piqued my interest in this situation anyway, Lacey. Raise the reward to ten guineas. I will supply it; Mrs. Brandon can save her pin money. And advertise in newspapers. If Miss Thornton has gone to another protector, that protector might believe confessing her whereabouts is worth ten guineas. My carriage, also, will be at your disposal for dashing about London questioning people."

He filled his glass, then came to me and poured more brandy into mine.

"Why are you so interested in sparing me shillings?" I asked.

He shrugged as he returned the decanter to the exact center of the table. "The last time I was in a hackney, it smelled as through the previous passenger had relieved himself in the corner. You can't pretend that is preferable to my rig."

I had to shake my head. "I would think you'd want to stay out of such a sordid business."

He turned to me, hands restlessly cradling his glass. "I will tell you a secret, Lacey. The answer to why I traipse about the world like a vagabond and come home with these interesting trinkets. The reason I elbowed my way to the top of society and take mistresses of exotic and unusual backgrounds."

I finished for him. "Because you are hopelessly bored."

Grenville shot me a look of surprise and then laughed. "Am I so readable?"

"It is what I would do, if I had the means."

"You have uncanny perception, you know, Lacey. I discovered that shortly after I met you. I also discovered that anything you are involved in is certain to be interesting. That is why I brought you here and am plying you with brandy. I am making a rude attempt to satisfy my curiosity."

"So I thought."

I knew full well that Grenville's interest in me was entirely selfish. He sought to entertain himself, and paid me back by smoothing my way into a society that would normally have ignored me. I supposed I should be grateful, but what I mostly felt was irritation.

Colonel Brandon had been another man who'd smoothed my way for me, in this case, into an army commission when I'd had no money to purchase it. He'd convinced me to volunteer as an officer, which I could do as the son of a gentleman, and his influence slid me into the rank of cornet when one came open. I'd clawed my own way up the next few ranks to captain, moving more slowly than others because of my lack of wealth, but Brandon's influence, and money, certainly had helped me.

And then, in the end, he had completely and utterly betrayed me. The look on his face when I'd returned from the mission in which I was to have died had forever shattered any remnant of love and respect between us. Poor Louisa, blaming herself, had tried to sow the seeds of forgiveness, but neither of us had let her.

Small wonder that I never wanted to depend upon anyone again. I barely knew Grenville, despite the interesting circumstances of our first meeting. He must have the acquaintance of scores of officers from the Peninsular campaign, not to mention Waterloo, but he'd fixed his interest upon me.

Grenville confirmed my thoughts even as I had them. "I admit that I collect people," he said, "much as I collect art. I am interested in people like you, people who have lived. I've only played at living."

"You have explored Africa and much of the Amazon," I reminded him.

"A rich man relieving his ennui. You, on the other hand, have lived your life."

I warmed the goblet in my palm. "Yet, I would gladly trade with you."

Grenville shook his head. "You would not, in truth. I have done things that I regret."

"As have all of us."

Grenville fixed an intense gaze on me, but I could see that he saw something beyond me. "Have you?"

I simply drank my brandy. Grenville did not know the half of what I regretted, and I was not going to tell him.

The afternoon had clouded over, and by the time I reached Hanover Square for my appointment with Horne, the sky was dark, rain spattering in little droplets. I descended from the hackney and knocked on the door, hoping the butler would hasten to answer.

I'd decided after speaking with Grenville to ask Horne point blank about Jane Thornton and her maid. If he were innocent, then he would have nothing to fear from me-I'd apologize and leave him alone. If he were not innocent, I'd put him to the question until I knew Jane's whereabouts. If she were in his house, I'd get her out of it, using violence if necessary. If she were elsewhere, I'd damn well make the man take me to her.

I was tired of polite evasiveness and roundabout methods. It was my nature to act. If I offended the man and he called me out, then he did. I'd borrow a pistol from Grenville and let Horne shoot at me while I fired into the air. If he were innocent, I'd deserve it.

The butler took his time. I plied the knocker again.

Instead of the butler, a young footman yanked open the door and peered out at me. I handed him my card. He looked me up and down, inspected my drab suit, then ushered me inside to the dim hall.

The hooknose butler entered from the back of the house as the footman took my hat and gloves. "Captain. Welcome, sir. My master is expecting you. I will inform him of your arrival."

He limped away and mounted the stairs. The footman led me to the same reception room with the same annoying Egyptian drawings and the same clumsy paintings. I did not sit down.

The footman moved to stir the fire. He shot me a few eager looks over his shoulder before he wet his lips and spoke. "Were you in the war, sir? At Waterloo?"

I was asked that often, but no. Brandon and I had chosen semiretirement before Napoleon's escape and return to power in 1815. While the last, glorious battle had been waging in Belgium, we'd remained in London, learning of the outcome only when the guns in St. James's Park had fired to celebrate the victory. "Not Waterloo," I answered. "The Peninsular campaign."

The footman grinned in delight. Already, the horrors of the war were fading, the brutal battles of Vitoria, Salamanca, and Albuera had becoming distant and romantic tales.

"What regiment, sir?"

"Thirty-Fifth Light."

"Aye, sir? My brother was in the Seventh Hussars. He was batman to a colonel. The colonel died. Shot out of the saddle. My brother was that broken up. Narrowly missed ending up a Frog prisoner."

"My condolences for his loss," I said.

"I wanted to go. But I was only fifteen, and me ma wouldn't hear of it. What was to happen to her if both her sons died over in foreign parts? she wanted to know. So I stayed. My brother came back all right, so she worried for nothing."

My own father had forbidden me to go into the army; the fact that he could not afford a commission for me had been moot. We'd had day-and-night screaming rows about it, which included him cuffing me or beating me with a stick when I couldn't elude him. I'd no money of my own for a commission either, and I'd assumed I had no hope. Then, just after my twentieth birthday, I'd met Aloysius Brandon, who convinced me to come with him to India and volunteer.

Brandon had been a compelling man in those days and our friendship had deepened quickly. So I'd turned my back on my father and gone with Brandon to the King's army. I heard of my father's death the very day I'd followed Arthur Wellesley, the brilliant general who was to become the Duke of Wellington, into Talavera, in Spain. The next morning, I'd been promoted from lieutenant to captain.

We heard the butler returning, but he was running, clattering down the stairs. Somewhere upstairs, a woman began screaming.

The footman with his young exuberance gained the hall before I could. The butler swayed on the stairs above us, clutching the rail, his face gray. His gaze fixed on me and clung for a moment, then he doubled over and vomited onto the polished floor.

The screaming went on, winding down to wails of despair. Footsteps sounded on the lower stairs-the rest of the staff emerging from the kitchens to see what was the matter.

The footman charged past me and up the stairs. I came behind, my injured leg slowing me. On the first floor, in the doorway of the study in which I'd met Horne the day before, huddled the maid called Grace. Her cap had fallen from her brown hair, and her face was blotched with weeping.

The footman looked past her into the room, and his face drained of color.

The pretty yellow carpet had been ruined. A huge brown stain marred it, spreading from under the body of Josiah Horne. He lay face up, his eyes wide, his mouth frozen in a grimace of horror. The hilt of a knife protruded from the center of his chest, and a small circle of blood stained his ivory waistcoat.

But that wound had not made the dull brown wave that encompassed most of the carpet. Horne's trousers had been wrenched opened and his testicles sheared from his body.