The Necklace Affair (Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries #4.5) Read online

  The Necklace Affair (Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries #4.5)

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter One

  The Necklace Affair

  by Ashley Gardner

  A Novella (Book 4.5) of the

  Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries

  The Necklace Affair

  Copyright 2011 by Jennifer Ashley (Ashley Gardner)

  All rights reserved.

  Excerpt from A Body in Berkeley Square copyright 2011 by Jennifer Ashley

  Published 2011 by Jennifer Ashley (Ashley Gardner)

  www.gardnermysteries.com

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  * * * * *

  Chapter One

  On an evening in late March 1817, I climbed to the third floor of Lucius Grenville's Grosvenor Street house in search of peace, and found a lady, weeping, instead.

  In the rooms below me, Grenville's latest revelry tinkled and grated, Grenville celebrating recovery from a near-fatal injury. The entire haut ton had turned up tonight, Lucius Grenville being the darling of society, the dandy all other dandies aspired to be. The famous Brummell had fled to the Continent, Alvanley grew stout, but Grenville reigned supreme. He was an epicure who knew how to avoid excess, a sensualist who could resist the temptations of sloth and lechery.

  I'd enjoyed speaking to a few of my friends below, but the transparent way Grenville's sycophants tried to exploit my acquaintance with him soon grated on my patience. I decided to sit in Grenville's private room and read until the festivities died down.

  I used my walking stick and the banister, hand-carved by an Italian cabinetmaker, to leverage myself up the stairs. My leg injury, given to me by French soldiers during the Peninsular War, did not affect me so much tonight as did the near gallon of port I had drunk. I could never afford what Grenville had in his cellars, so when he invited me to partake, I took enough to last.

  Therefore, I was well past foxed when I at last emerged onto the third floor and sought the peace of Grenville's sitting room.

  I found the lady in it, weeping.

  She sat squarely under the scarlet tent that hung in the corner of the room, a souvenir from Grenville's travels in the east. The entire room was a monument to his journeys--ivory animals from the Indies reposed next to golden masks from Egypt, rocks bearing the imprint of ancient American animals held pride of place near hieroglyphic tablets from Persia.

  The lady might have been pretty once, but too many years of rich food, late mornings, and childbirth had etched their memories onto her face and body. Her large bosom, stuffed into a satin bodice and reinforced with bands of lace, quivered with her misery.

  I took two steps into the room, checked myself, and turned to go.

  "Captain Lacey?"

  I halted, bowed, and admitted to be he. I had no memory of who she was.

  The woman swiped at her wet cheeks with a handkerchief so tiny she might as well not have bothered. "May I make so bold as to speak to you? Mr. Grenville said you might assist me."

  Had he, indeed? Grenville was apt to volunteer my services, as I'd been of some use in solving problems that ran from innocuous misunderstandings all the way to violent murders.

  I ought to have walked away then and there and not let myself be drawn into the whole sordid business. I was tired and quite drunk and had no reason to believe that I could help this sorrowful lady.

  But her red-rimmed eyes were so pleading, her wretchedness so true, that I found myself giving her another bow and telling her to proceed.

  "It is my maid, you see."

  I braced myself for an outpouring of domestic troubles. My head started to pound, and I sank into the nearest comfortable chair.

  "She is going to be hanged," the lady announced.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Two

  Her blunt statement swept the fog from my brain. I sat up straight as several facts clicked into place.

  "You are Lady Clifford," I said.

  She nodded, dejected.

  "I read of it in the newspaper this morning," I said. "Your maid has been accused of stealing a diamond necklace worth several thousand pounds." The maid was even now awaiting examination by the Bow Street magistrate.

  Lady Clifford sat forward and clasped her doughy hands. "She did not take it, Captain. That horrible Bow Street Runner said so, but I know Waters would never have done such a thing. She's been with me for years. Why should she?"

  I could think of a number of reasons why Waters should. Perhaps she saw the necklace as her means of escaping a life of servitude. Perhaps she had a lover who'd convinced her to steal the necklace for him. Perhaps she bore a secret hatred for her employer and had at last found a way to exact revenge.

  I said none of these things to Lady Clifford.

  "You see, Captain, I know quite well who stole my diamonds." Lady Clifford applied the tiny handkerchief once more. "It was that viper I nursed at my bosom. She took them."

  I knew from gossip which viper she meant. Annabelle Dale, a gently born widow, had once been Lady Clifford's companion and dearest friend. Now the woman was Earl Clifford's mistress. Mrs. Dale still lived in the Clifford home and, from all accounts, continued to refer to Lady Clifford as her "adored Marguerite."

  But all of London knew that Lord Clifford spent nights in Mrs. Dale's bed. They formed a curious menage, with Mrs. Dale professing fierce attachment to her old friend Lady Clifford, and Lord Clifford paying duty to both mistress and wife.

  "Do you have evidence that Mrs. Dale took it?" I asked.

  "The Runner asked just the same. He could produce no evidence that Waters stole the necklace, yet he arrested her."

  The arresting Runner had been my former sergeant, Milton Pomeroy, who had returned from Waterloo and managed to work his way into the elite body of investigators who answered to the Bow Street magistrate.

  Pomeroy was far more interested in arresting a culprit than in slow investigation. He was reasonably careful, because he'd not reap a reward for the arrest if he obtained no conviction. But getting someone to trial could be enough. Juries tended to believe that the person in the dock was guilty, and a maid stealing from an employer would make the gentlemen of the jury righteously angry.

  However, I conceded that Lady Clifford would know a maid she'd lived with for years better than would Milton Pomeroy. Interest stirred beneath my port-laden state.

  "As I understand the story," I said, "your maid was upstairs in your rooms the afternoon the necklace disappeared. Before you and your husband and Mrs. Dale went out for the day, the necklace was in place. Gone when you, Lady Clifford, returned home."

  Her lip curled. "Likely Mrs. Dale was nowhere near Egyptian House as she claims. She could have come back and stolen it."

  My injured leg gave a throb. I rose and paced toward the windows to loosen it, stopping in front of one of Grenville's curio s
helves. According to the newspaper, the other Clifford servants had sworn that Mrs. Dale and Lord Clifford hadn't returned to the house all afternoon. "You want very much for Mrs. Dale to have stolen your necklace."

  "Perhaps I do. What of it?"

  I touched a piece of jade carved into the shape of a baboon. "You must know that however much you want Mrs. Dale to have taken it, someone else entirely might be guilty."

  "Well, Waters is not."

  I studied the jade. Thousands of years old, Grenville had told me. The carving was intricate and detailed, done with remarkable workmanship. I rested the delicate thing on my palm. "You might be wrong," I said. "Are you prepared to be?"

  "Mr. Grenville promised you would help me," Lady Clifford said, tears in her voice. "Waters is a good girl. She doesn't deserve to be in a gaol cell with common criminals. Oh, I cannot bear to think what she is suffering."

  She broke into another flood of weeping. Some ladies could cry daintily, even prettily, but not Lady Clifford. Her large body heaved, her sobs choked her, and she blew her nose with a snorting sound.

  I set the miniature beast back on its shelf. Lady Clifford might be wrong that the solution was simple, but she was in genuine distress. The fact that some of this distress was pity for her poor maid made up my mind.

  Lady Clifford sniffled again into the abused handkerchief. "Mr. Grenville said I could rely on you utterly."

  The little baboon smiled at me, knowing I was caught. "Very well, my lady," I said. "I will see what I can do."

  *** *** ***

  "I did not exactly say that," Grenville protested.

  I eyed him from the opposite seat in his splendid carriage. I had awakened with the very devil of a headache, but I felt slightly better this afternoon, thanks to the concoction that my landlady, Mrs. Beltan, had stirred for me upon seeing my state. Grenville had arrived at my rooms not long later, and now we rolled across London in pursuit of the truth.

  In his suit of finest cashmere and expensive kid gloves, Grenville's slim form was a tailor's delight. I bought my clothes secondhand, though I had a coat from Grenville's tailor that he'd insisted on gifting to me when my best coat had been ruined on one of our adventures.

  I said, "Lady Clifford strikes me as a woman who so much wishes a thing to be true, that it is true. To her. But this does not mean she is mistaken. If the maid did not steal the necklace, I have no wish to see her hang."

  "Nor do I," Grenville said. "Her predicament played on my sympathy. Lady Clifford might have exploited that, but I sensed she genuinely cares for poor Waters." He gazed out at the tall houses of Piccadilly then back at me, a sparkle in his eyes I'd not seen since before he'd been injured. "So, my friend, we are off on another adventure. Where do we begin?"

  "I should speak to Pomeroy," I said.

  I imagined my old sergeant's dismay when I turned up to muck about in what he'd believed a straightforward arrest. "And I'd like to speak to the maid Waters if I can. And we can try to discover what became of the necklace--whether anyone purchased it, and from where, and trace backward from there, perhaps to the culprit."

  Grenville grimaced and glanced again at the city rolling by outside. "A needle in a haystack I would say."

  "Not necessarily." I had pondered this all night, at least, as far as my inebriation would let me. "A master thief would try to get the necklace to the Continent, to be reset and sold. In that case the necklace is gone forever, and the maid obviously did not escape with it. At most, she was an accomplice. As highly as Lady Clifford speaks of her, we cannot rule out the possibility that Waters was coerced by a lover to steal the jewels. A petty thief, on the other hand, might try to dispose of the necklace quickly, close to home, which means London. If I were the thief, I'd find a pawnbroker not much worried about where the merchandise came from, one who knew he could reset and sell the thing with no one being the wiser."

  "Your knowledge of the criminal mind is astonishing," Grenville said.

  I gave him a half smile. "Sergeant Pomeroy likes to tell me about it over a pint now and again. And Sir Gideon Derwent has worked to reform criminals most of his life. He's told me many interesting tales."

  "Very well, then, a petty thief who seized an opportunity might sell it to a shady London pawnbroker. But what if you were Mrs. Dale? A gently born lady, who likely has no knowledge of unsavory pawnbrokers?"

  I shrugged. "If she is the evil viper Lady Clifford paints her, she either passed it to a confederate to dispose of it for her, or she is hiding it to pin the blame on the maid and upset Lady Clifford."

  "A dangerous proposition. Would Mrs. Dale risk hanging to gloat over her rival?"

  "I have no idea," I said. "The ways of lady rivals are unknown to me. But if the maid or other servants stole the necklace, we will find it at a pawnbroker's."

  "Yes, but which one?"

  "We check them all," I said.

  Grenville gave me a look of dismay. I had always wondered how Grenville would respond when my adventures turned into dogged work, but to his credit, he did not try to wriggle out of his offer to help. "It will take less time if we recruit Bartholomew and Matthias and divide the search."

  "Some areas are more likely than others," I assured him. "Not every corner in London sports an unsavory pawnbroker. And the theft will be talked about. We might be able to pry loose some information, at the very least."

  Grenville squared his shoulders, wincing a little because the wound he'd received during our last investigation still pained him. "Very well. I will change my boots and soldier on."

  The carriage listed around the corner, and I braced my walking stick against the floor to steady myself. The handle was shaped like a the head of a goose and bore the inscription, Captain G. Lacey, 1817. A gift, and a fine one, and it gave me an idea.

  "I know someone who does understand the ways of lady rivals," I said.

  Grenville knew exactly who I meant. He shot me a grin. "Ah, but will she help?"

  "Who can say? She will either be interested or show me the door." Lady Breckenridge was nothing if not unpredictable.

  "Her observations are usually directly on the mark," Grenville said. "I saw her last week at a garden party, where she told me that if I'd hurt myself during the Sudbury affair, it was my own fault for not taking proper care when it came to you. Any friend of Captain Lacey, she said, was bound to come to some kind of danger, and that I was a fool to take what you did lightly."

  My fingers twitched on the walking stick. "Considering I almost got the poor woman roasted alive, that remark was almost kind."

  "And probably true, with regard to me. I tend to believe myself untouchable."

  I still hadn't quite recovered my guilt over the incident, though Grenville had cheerfully taken the entire blame himself.

  "I will write to her," I said. "And discover whether she will condescend to see me. If she does not think it too dangerous to associate with me."

  "She would be an excellent person to ask for the lady's point of view."

  "I hesitate to mention it," I said. "But so would Marianne. She's been an actress for some time, so she'd have seen female rivalry, as well as, I'm sorry to say, petty theft."

  Grenville's expression went still, even blank, which I'd come to learn was his way of stemming his anger. Marianne Simmons, who had lived upstairs from me before Grenville had spirited her away to a fine house in Clarges Street, was a bit of a sore point between us.

  Marianne, as poor as she was, did not like cages, no matter how luxurious, and she'd flown from Grenville's almost at once. I knew why, and the reason was a good one, but I suspected she'd not yet told Grenville. She'd softened toward him when he'd been injured, but I hadn't spoken to her since his recovery.

  "I am afraid I've not seen much of Miss Simmons of late," Grenville said in a cold voice. "But please, do ask her advice if you think it would be helpful."

  "I've not seen her either. I wondered if you had."

  "Not since shortly after our return fro
m Sudbury." His frown held frustration, anger, and concern.

  "I would not worry about her. Marianne is resilient and will turn up when she feels it necessary."

  "Indeed."

  Grenville glanced out the window again, and though he'd never admit it, even under torture, I knew he was struggling to regain his composure. The closest we'd come to a permanent falling out had been over Marianne. He knew that I knew her secret, and that I had given her my word not to tell him. Grenville and I had made an agreement not to speak of the matter, but I knew it grated on him.

  Grenville at last turned back to me, his lips tight but his equanimity restored. "I will obtain a map and ask Gautier about pawnbrokers," he said. "If we divide the task between us and Matthias and Bartholomew, we can make short work of the search. And while they put lists together, you and I shall take a repast. Anton is experimenting again, and I need someone to help me eat his creations. If he continues on this bent, I shall grow too stout for my clothes, and my reputation will be at an end."

  The troubles of the very rich, I thought dryly. Not that I would refuse a lavish meal prepared by Anton, Grenville's French chef. My pride ran only so deep.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Three

  Anton did not like us to talk about business while we dined, especially when he was in a creative mood, so I endured the lobster brioche, asparagus soup, squabs stuffed with mushrooms, and a large and tender sole drowning in butter to please him. After each dish, the chef hovered at Grenville's elbow to wait for his precise opinion and hear what might be improved.

  To me it was all ambrosia, but Grenville thoughtfully tasted each dish then critiqued its texture, flavor, piquancy, and presentation. I simply ate, while Bartholomew and Matthias, Grenville's two large, Teutonic-looking footman, kept our glasses topped with finest hock. Being Grenville's friend had decided advantages.