A Covent Garden Mystery clrm-6 Page 18

  "A respectable young woman?" Stacy stared. "What are you talking about?"

  "My daughter has gone missing as well. She left a boardinghouse in King Street, presumably walked through Covent Garden, and has not been seen since."

  Stacy stilled. McAdams hooted a laugh. "Better keep a rein on your offspring, Lacey. Such a comedown for a gentleman of standing, to have his daughter enter the world of the demimonde."

  "Now, for that, I will call you out," I said, surprised I could say it so calmly. "After I conclude this business, my seconds will make an appointment with you."

  "We duel over whores now?"

  Stacy's voice went sharp. "McAdams, for God's sake, shut your mouth." Gentlemen under the colonnade turned to stare at us. Alvanley brought out his quizzing glass. Stacy stepped to McAdams. "Shut up, I tell you. This is serious business."

  "For you perhaps," McAdams said, though he shot me a wary look. "I have nothing to do with it."

  "Yes, you do," Stacy said. "You told me to look up Black Bess in the first place. And now she's missing. It is bad for the both of us."

  McAdams raised his brows. "Not for me. I haven't been to Covent Garden in weeks."

  I turned to Stacy. "Both Bess and Mary spoke of a wealthy gentleman who'd soon do well by them. They went to Covent Garden to meet him, each of them, a week ago. Did they have an appointment with you?"

  Stacy shook his head. "No. I've spoken to neither of them in some time."

  "You never promised them money? Or to set them up well?"

  "No, indeed, why would I? Spending an hour with them is one thing, taking them as mistresses is something else entirely. No, I never promised a thing."

  "Then who was the wealthy gentleman they so looked forward to meeting? He would settle them for life, they thought. McAdams?"

  McAdams barked a laugh. "Good God, no. Why would I spend more than a crown on a street whore? They wouldn't know what to do with money if they had it, except drink it up."

  I gave him a steady look. "I look forward to shooting you."

  McAdams returned my look with mock dismay, but the wary light in his eye grew deeper. Grenville, on the other hand, ignored him altogether. Grenville was already cutting him, but McAdams was too self-important to notice.

  Stacy looked at me in trepidation. "The thing is, Captain, I believe I might have seen your daughter."

  My disgust at McAdams vanished in an instant. I brushed him away and advanced on Stacy. "Did you? Where? When?"

  "Was it yesterday? I was in Covent Garden in the evening, on my way to the theatre to meet my wife. I drove through to, um, decide.. "

  He'd gone to survey the girls for his later visit. I waited.

  "At any rate, I'd descended, because I fancied an orange, and I wanted to get it myself from the orange girl. After I purchased it and, er, chatted with her a few moments, I saw a young woman pushing through the crowd, looking a bit lost. I thought, you know, that she seemed out of place, and I asked if I could help her. She stopped, grateful, and asked the way to Russel Street. We were near to it, so I pointed it out. She thanked me and walked on, more cheerfully. I got back into my coach and drove away."

  "Did she reach Russel Street?" I asked.

  "Have no idea. I was in the coach, and my coachman drove away."

  "Busy eating your orange, no doubt," Grenville said.

  "Yes, getting dratted peel everywhere and knowing my coachman would cut up rough. He's fond of the conveyances, treats them like they were his children. Anyway, he dropped me in front of the theatre, I met my wife and daughter, and I never saw the girl again. That is all I know."

  "What did she look like?" I asked, my throat dry.

  Stacy considered, his eyes flickering nervously. "Pretty, in a girlish sort of way. Light brown hair, cannot remember the color of her eyes. Wearing a nice enough frock, nothing that caught my eye. Definitely not a street girl, I could see. Daughter of respectable parents, I thought."

  "And she spoke like a respectable English girl?"

  "She did, though I detected a faint accent. Prussian maybe, or French."

  I felt hotness rush through me, followed by tingling in my fingers. "That was her. It must have been." I gave him a hard stare. "If you harmed her in any way…"

  Stacy's eyes widened. "I did not. I promise you, Captain, I directed her to Russel Street and left her alone. I do know the difference between a street girl and a young lady. Good Lord, she was the age of my own daughter."

  His words rang with sincerity, but I would not take them at face value. "I hope you are right," I said softly.

  Grenville looked Stacy up and down with his quizzing glass. "So do I. You are our primary suspect, Stacy. Mind what you do in Covent Garden. There is a massive search going on for Lacey's daughter, which includes Bow Street Runners and men who work for James Denis. I should be careful, were I you."

  McAdams clapped Stacy on the shoulder. "I advise you to inform your solicitor, my friend. He may be able to bring a case of defamation of character."

  Stacy gave McAdams a cold look. "I will be fine." He stalked off, but instead of joining the group watching the next horses to be exercised, he departed through the walkway and was gone.

  I handed one of my cards to McAdams. "So that your seconds may call on mine. Good day." I inclined my head and walked away under the curious stares of those not looking at the horses.

  Grenville, on the other hand, cut McAdams dead. I watched from the colonnade as he turned his back, removed his snuffbox, and took a pinch, blatantly ignoring McAdams. Every man turned to stare as Grenville calmly replaced his snuffbox and walked away from McAdams without acknowledging him.

  As I joined Grenville to seek out Tattersall and arrange delivery of the stallion, the assembled dandies, earls, and barons began to gabble like a mad flock of geese. Not one of them spoke to McAdams.

  Grenville invited me back to Grosvenor Street so that he could change his suit before resuming the search for Gabriella with me. Ensconced in his dressing room while his valet, Gautier, dressed him, I sipped a much-needed brandy.

  "Do you think any of what Stacy told us was the truth?" Grenville asked, cranking his head back so Gautier could tie his neckcloth. "Or was it all rubbish?"

  "He admitted that he saw the girls and was with them," I said. "But after that, who knows? I'd like to borrow your coachman and have him help me talk to Stacy's coachman. He'd be an eyewitness to everything Stacy does. Whether he's a loyal servant or loves to gossip about his betters remains to be seen."

  "Take him." Grenville said, waving a hand at me and causing his valet to cluck in disapproval. "As for McAdams, he is certainly worth investigating, far more likely to lure girls to their doom. You heard what he said about beating them. The man is disgusting." He held out his arms for his coat, and Gautier slid it over his slim shoulders. "I dislike duels, but I will gladly hold the pistol box for you on this one. Although McAdams may not last long enough to meet you, now that I've cut him. He might flee England altogether."

  "He seems resilient to opinion," I said.

  "Well, he will not be for long. If I cut him dead, then other men will follow suit. They know I only cut for a good reason. Alvanley muttered to me as I left that it was time the boor got his comeuppance. Alvanley is an imitator, but in truth he has a great deal of power."

  "Perhaps we will get McAdams for murder, and there will be no need to cut him."

  I liked the idea of McAdams as murderer, because watching him stand in the dock would satisfy me. I felt a little sorry for Stacy-not too sorry, however-and hoped McAdams proved to be the culprit.

  I would check with Thompson to see how Mary Chester had actually died. Perhaps McAdams began his violent ways and went a bit too far. Perhaps the prior bruises on her throat had come from him, indicating that he'd already enjoyed being rough with her. Perhaps this time, she had died, and in panic, McAdams had hidden the body inside Bottle Bill's doorstep. If McAdams went often to Covent Garden, he'd have become familiar with
Bottle Bill and his habits, as we all were. The magistrate would easily believe that Bill had become violent under the influence of drink and killed Mary, intentionally or no.

  "I will pot him one way or another," I said. "I'd like to speak to Marianne as well. She might know Stacy if he haunts Covent Garden. I'd like her opinion of him."

  Marianne, like Lady Breckenridge, was a shrewd observer. As an actress, she'd have seen the seamier side of the upper classes and been privy to gossip that gentlemen wouldn't dream of taking home to their wives, daughters, and sisters.

  Grenville looked uncomfortable. "I am afraid you cannot speak to Marianne. I meant to tell you but hadn't a chance at Tatt's. She's gone missing as well-but do not be alarmed. She went as she usually does, taking her best hat and a handful of guineas and telling my footman she'd be back when she was ready."

  "Damn and blast her," I said feelingly. "Why did she decide to disappear just now, when girls are going missing left and right?"

  "I really could not say," Grenville answered. His lips were pale. He told Gautier, who was busily brushing the coat, to run off somewhere. The valet nodded, laid down the brush, and discreetly departed.

  Grenville faced me. "You warned me from the very beginning about her. I wish to God I'd heeded you, but the woman intrigued me. I gave her clothes, money, jewels, a house and servants, and then my carriage. I've made a grand fool of myself, haven't I? If it ever comes out that she runs off to other men whenever she pleases, I'll be a laughingstock."

  He exhaled slowly. "I have decided, Lacey. I will not see her again. When she returns, will you please tell her for me that I am finished chasing her? She may keep the money and jewelry and do whatever she likes with them. I no longer care."

  His hands fell to his sides, and his cool mask slipped. I'd never seen him so dejected.

  "You would break her heart," I said. "She truly cares for you."

  Grenville gave me a bitter laugh. "She has a damn odd way of showing it. I wish she hadn't chosen now of all times to go, because I am worried that she too has become a victim. I believe I'd rather hear that she is in the arms of her lover than that she is dead under a pile of rubbish near the Strand."

  I eased back in the chair and made my decision. Marianne had asked me to tell him, and as much as I did not want any part of this business, they'd both fully dragged me into it. Besides, I counted Grenville a friend and was fond of Marianne, in a way. I hated to see them at cross-purposes like this.

  "She is not cuckolding you, Grenville," I said. "She's gone to Berkshire."

  Grenville stilled, and an odd look came over his face. "Berkshire?"

  "A small house near Hungerford, to be exact."

  Color flooded his cheeks, then he pointed a long finger at me. "You knew why she went last time, and you never told me, blast you."

  "Marianne begged me to keep her secret. Two days ago, I saw her in Covent Garden, and she told me she was thinking of making her way to Berkshire again. This time, however, she asked me to tell you why. I tried to talk her out of it, but you know how well Marianne listens."

  "Indeed," Grenville said in a cool voice. "Pray go on."

  He was angry again, at me this time. I felt the full weight of his wrath, just as McAdams must have.

  "Marianne has a son."

  Grenville stared at me a moment as though waiting for me to go on, then his black eyes focused sharply. "A son?"

  "He is about seven years old, and he is a halfwit."

  "A halfwit." Grenville frowned. "Lacey, you had better not be inventing this. Is she inventing it?"

  "I've met him. His name is David. Marianne keeps him in a little house near Hungerford and pays a woman to look after him. That is where all the money you give her goes, to buy David's food and his clothes and to pay for his upkeep. She would not tell me who the father was, only that he'd died years ago. I believe her."

  I lifted my brandy to my lips and drank, but for the first time since I'd been allowed to partake of Grenville's fine stock of brandies, I barely tasted the liquid.

  Grenville's face was utterly still, his gaze fixed, his lips parted. He remained thus for a long time, watching me while I watched him.

  An ornate gold clock in the corner sweetly chimed the quarter hour. Grenville passed a shaking hand through his hair. "Why in God's name didn't she tell me?" He fastened his glare on me. "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "She feared your reaction."

  "My reaction? She would rather let me believe she had a lover she could not give up than that she was taking care of a child by herself?"

  I held up a hand. "Consider. Your money is going to another man's child, a halfwit child at that. When you learn the truth, will you withdraw the gifts in disgust? If so, what is Marianne to do for the money? Return to the theatre? Look for another protector who won't scrutinize her so closely?"

  Grenville stared at me in amazement. "Is that what you think I would do?"

  "It is what Marianne fears."

  He swung away and paced across the small space of the dressing room. Abruptly, he brought his fists down on the dressing table, sending the mirror and Gautier's various brushes dancing on the surface.

  "God damn the pair of you. Is this what you think of me, that I'd beggar a child? That I'd throw Marianne out to grub her living on the stage, so that she can hang about in hopes that some disgusting man like McAdams takes her home? Is that what you have thought all this time, that I am the sort of man who could do that?" Grenville's face was red, his eyes hard and glittering.

  I remained quiet. "You must admit that you are difficult to predict."

  "For God's sake, Lacey, have I ever behaved anything but generously to her-to you? I have offered you both everything I have. Damnation, I offered you my friendship and her my love, and both of you stare at me as though you cannot deign to accept it. I have taken Marianne among my friends; I have given you the cachet of my approval. You know you would have been nothing in London without it, but I gladly gave it, because I saw the worth of you." He ran out of words and breath.

  "I know what you have done for me," I said, meaning it. "You have always told me that it was because I interested you."

  "Yes, and you puff up with pride because you believe it an insult. Selfish of me to expect gratitude, I suppose. From either of you. But consider, if the bloody girl had told me, what do you think I could have done for this David? I can give him the best care money can buy. I can give him his own house, a string of attendants if he wants them. I can do this, Lacey, I am damn rich. Why the devil doesn't Marianne understand that?"

  "This is the other reaction she feared," I said. "That you'd smother David with generosity and take him away from the place where he is happy."

  Grenville stared at me in shock. "You agree with her."

  I set aside the brandy with reluctance and rose. "Yes. I do."

  "Devil take you, Lacey."

  "She does not want you to overmaster her. She wants David left in peace."

  Grenville scrutinized me a moment longer, his face sheet white except for red that stained his cheekbones. I watched him try to contain himself, to draw his cool poise about himself in the same manner as his valet had eased on his coat.

  His next words were quiet but spoken with finality. "Tell Marianne I will continue the money to help her son, but I no longer wish to see her. And I believe I no longer wish to see you either, Lacey. I will allow my servants to help carry on the search for your daughter, but that will be all." His eyes were filled with suppressed anger and, behind that, hurt. "I gave you my implicit trust, Lacey. I was a fool to expect it in return, I suppose."

  I bowed in silence. "I am sorry to have angered you." I turned without further word and strolled to the door.

  I half expected him to call me back, to say in good-natured exasperation, "For God's sake, Lacey, let us sort this out," but he did not. Both Marianne and I had wronged him. Grenville had cuffed us, and I, for one, felt I deserved the blow.

  I quietly clos
ed the door behind me and made my way down the polished staircase, the satinwood rail gleaming as deeply as gold. With some regret, I took my hat and gloves from the footman at the door and went back out into the London afternoon. It had clouded over, and the first drops of rain fell as I made my way to the hackney stand at the corner of Grosvenor Street.

  I decided to pay a call on Denis, notwithstanding his lackey's suggestion that I should not arrive without an appointment. If Denis were indisposed, he would not admit me, and I would go on. I had plenty to do without this aside.

  Denis's butler, as cold as his master, took me upstairs and bade me wait in the austere reception room in which I'd awaited his attention before. Not long after that, the butler returned and ushered me to Denis's study. Denis flicked his dark blue glance from his correspondence, curtly told me to take a chair, and asked what I wanted.

  "Only to know if you have heard anything about my daughter," I said.

  "If I had, I would have sent word or already restored her to you."

  "Yes." I remained seated, uncertain how to explain what I wanted. Reassurance? I would not get it from Denis. Or maybe I wanted truth, which was what Denis dispensed in abundance-brutal, unromanticized truth.

  Denis seemed to sense my need. He set his correspondence aside and twitched his fingers at the lackey who stood at the window. "Fetch the captain port," he said.

  The man moved to the door and summoned another footman. I noticed he did not leave the room, which would have put me alone with Denis.

  "Tell me what you have learned this afternoon," Denis said, "and perhaps I can aid you."

  I hesitated. "You are heavy-handed with your aid."

  "Heavy-handedness is often effective. The trick is to know when to employ it and when to be restrained. You have learned something. What is it?"

  I told him about Stacy and McAdams. I was worried enough and angry enough that I did not care whether Denis and his ruffians paid a call on either of them. If Stacy or McAdams had hurt my daughter, Denis could do his worst.