A Regimental Murder (Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries #2) Page 15

  Brandon had once dared complain in my presence that Louisa had sorely disappointed him in the matter of children. He had said bitterly that she could not come up to scratch, and a childless wife was no wife at all. I understood later that he had been as hurt as Louisa by her latest miscarriage, but at the time, all I had seen was the misery in her eyes and the blatant blame in Brandon's. I'd lost my temper and said that perhaps it was not the receptacle that was to blame, but the seed.

  That moment, I believe had begun the end of our friendship. Our feud had later taken a darker, grimmer twist, but my words that day had never been quite forgiven.

  Louisa toyed with the fringe of her shawl. "I went to Aline," she said. "She advised I go away, somewhere quiet, where I could be alone. I should have nothing that would upset me, she said, and Aloysius was certainly upsetting me." She looked up, a ghost of a defiant glint in her eye. "Agreeing to testify that Colonel Westin had been inebriated and committed murder. Rot and nonsense. I told him no good would come of such lies, but he can be so stubborn!"

  She did not need to tell me of Brandon's stubbornness.

  "I wondered how you had responded to his promise. I ought to have known you would see the thing for what it was."

  "Of course I did," she said firmly. "But he would preach to me about preserving the honor of the regiment. The Forty-Third should not be shamed. Colonel Westin had agreed to take the blame alone so that he could be singled out and punished. Of course Westin did not murder that captain."

  "I know."

  "I know you know. I have read the newspapers. You are in this up to your neck. I hope you came prepared to tell me everything."

  I raised a brow. "If you have read the newspapers, then you already know."

  She gave me a deprecating look. "Do not tease me. I am not in the humor for it. The newspapers print what they like, and you know it. I want the truth, Gabriel." She slid her hand from mine and folded her arms. "And I do mean all of it. I read that man Billings's salacious hints about you and Mrs. Westin. Well?"

  A day ago, they would still have been lies. Today, I felt my cheeks grow warm.

  "So," she said softly. "Not all lies."

  "But the truth is not what he makes out," I said. "Fortunately, Billings's stories are so outrageous they can be laughed off as improbable."

  She would not let me off so easy. "What is the truth, Gabriel? Stop prevaricating and tell me at once."

  I hid a smile. I was pleased that I had sparked her interest. I was willing to let her scold me if doing so would soothe her.

  I began my tale with the moment I'd caught sight of Lydia Westin making her way through the rain to the half-constructed bridge. I told of Westin's death, and Lydia's wish that I clear his name. I told her of Pomeroy's investigation, and how Grenville and I had journeyed to Astley Close and met Lord Richard Eggleston and Lord Breckenridge. I told her about all the events there, not leaving anything out, including the card game. I told her of Breckenridge's death, Brandon’s sudden appearance, the inquest, and my speculations there.

  "Lady Breckenridge seemed not in the least upset by her husband's death," I concluded. "Almost as though she'd been waiting for it."

  "Some women do spend their marriages waiting for their husbands to die. Seems a rather uncomfortable existence."

  "I doubt she would have had the strength to break his neck," I mused. "Though she could have caused him to fall. Or an accomplice might have killed him for her." I sighed. "I see too many accomplices in this. Lydia Westin could have stabbed her husband, but she could not have carried him to bed, were he not already there. Lady Breckenridge never would have been able to fling her husband over the back of a horse and drag him to the edge of the rise and pitch him over. No, a man, every time, has done the brute work of it."

  Louisa touched my hand. "But that man was not my husband."

  I ought to have known she would have guessed my fears. "I am afraid I cannot put the suspicion from my mind."

  She shook her head. "No, Gabriel. Aloysius would not have killed him, even accidentally." She gave me a quiet look. "You know he would have made certain it was you, first."

  "Hmm. That is comforting."

  "But nonetheless true."

  "You might be right. That still leaves us with an appalling number of suspects."

  Her eyes narrowed. "Yes, Mr. Spencer and his brother, to name two."

  "And Eggleston. And this Major Connaught, whom I have not yet met."

  She levered herself up on the divan, as if determined to leave her sagging posture behind. "Aloysius is acquainted with him. Ask him to introduce you."

  I smiled mirthlessly. "Your husband is more likely to give me a punch in the jaw than help me. If he discovers that Denis told me where you were instead of him, he will have apoplexy." I sobered. "Why did you ask Denis not to tell him?"

  Two spots of color appeared on her cheeks. "Because I am not yet ready to face him. My return will be stormy, I know that. I am not yet strong enough for it."

  I took her hand in mine again. She rested it there limply. "When you do return, would you like me to go with you?"

  "No," she answered quietly. "It must be between me and him."

  I nodded. I hated to let her face him alone, but I knew she was right. She would win, but it would take much strength to do it. The last time I'd seen her face him down had been the day I'd lain before them both, drunk with opium, my leg shattered, and she had discovered what he had done. I had laughed, far gone on the drug and pain when she had turned on him, furious and shocked. I had laughed, unable to stop, until I'd wept.

  She abruptly withdrew her hand and tried to sound bright. "I was quite pleased to meet your Mr. Denis. An interesting man. I was at last able to tell him what I thought of his treatment of you last spring."

  I raised my brows. "Good lord. I would dearly have loved to have heard that conversation."

  "We were quite civil, do not worry. I found that we agreed that you were often not as prudent as you might me."

  "I will not forgive him for dragging you into this," I said.

  "I, on the other hand, am pleased he called. I had not realized how much I missed you, my friend, until he offered to send you to me. And then I knew I missed you sorely! To speak to you, to advise you on your latest conundrum, I knew I must do that."

  "Thank you for letting me come."

  Her fingers were cool on mine. "You comfort me. You cannot know how much."

  We shared a look. Her eyes were gray as winter skies.

  "You have comforted me so often," I said softly. "How could I not return the favor?"

  The clock on the mantel struck the hour. I caressed the backs of her fingers. She looked swiftly away and withdrew her hand.

  "About Aloysius," she said.

  I sat back. "Please do not lecture to me about reconciling with him, Louisa. His actions this past week have put reconciliation further away, if anything."

  "If he did not care for you so deeply, you could not hurt him so much."

  I folded my arms. I was not ready to feel great depths of sympathy for Aloysius Brandon. My last encounter with him had all but unraveled our tense politeness. The next time we met, the gloves would be off, much like they'd been when I'd boxed Breckenridge.

  "I think you misread him," I said.

  "No, I think you do. I still remember what he was like when I first met him. He was a great man, full of fire and able to inspire that fire in others. You felt it."

  "Yes," I had to say.

  "The fire has dimmed a little, and disappointment has tarnished him. But it is still there, Gabriel, deep inside. He is a man others will live for. That is the man I stand by."

  I could not argue with her. When I'd first met Aloysius Brandon, I had been rather dazed by him. I had just reconciled myself to go on living with my martinet father until he died, bearing his tantrums and his beatings, my life bleak and predictable. And then this man, this astonishing man, had told me I could have a life, a career, honors
if I wanted them. All I had to do was follow him.

  He had compelled me to return to my father, tell him I had volunteered in the King's army, and that I, his only son, was leaving him. That interview had become eight hours of stormy shouting, violent threats, and broken furniture. In the end, I'd flung myself from the house, vowing never to enter it again.

  I'd joined Brandon, who had listened with sympathy to my woes. Later, just before we embarked on the ship that would take us to India, he had introduced me to his bride, Louisa.

  Life had not been kind to her. I clasped her hand again. As she chatted to me of the boardinghouse and the people she had met here, I wished with all my heart I could change that for her.

  * * * * *

  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 i
n 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 façade 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.