Murder in Grosvenor Square (Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries Book 9) Read online

  One of Stubbins’ seconds, Chetterly, I remembered his name was, came forward. He threw me a nervous glance but spoke only to Grenville.

  “His lordship brought pistols. He would be honored if Captain Lacey were to use one of them.”

  I took a step back, pretending to adjust my coat and survey the ground. The logistics of the duel were entirely the purview of the seconds.

  “Captain Lacey respectfully declines, though we thank Stubbins for the offer,” Grenville said. “Each combatant will use his own weapon, as we previously decided.”

  Chetterly nodded, looking happy not to pursue the matter. “Very well. The ground is to our liking. Two shots, one from each, will satisfy. Signal me when ready.”

  As the challenger, Stubby had the right to name the time and place, and I’d agreed with it. I had to admit he’d chosen well—or rather, I suspect his seconds did for him. We were in the heart of Hyde Park, early in the morning, spring fog obligingly obscuring us. The stretch of grass was well tended, making footing good. No one needed to die because someone slipped.

  Grenville watched Chetterly in dislike as the man walked away. “I do not trust Stubbins not to have mucked about with the pistol he’d offer you, to make it jam, or fool your aim, or even blow up in your face.”

  “Not very honorable,” I said dryly. “In this affair of honor.”

  “Stubby is a cheat at heart. I’ve known him a long while, unfortunately. I hope he remembers which is his good pistol and doesn’t choose the one he meant for you.” Grenville laughed, but his laughter was tight.

  I caught his gaze, keeping mine steady. “I’ll not die this day, Grenville.”

  “I hope not, my dear fellow,” Grenville said, his words light. “I haven’t finished telling you the tales of my travels, and I do like an attentive audience.”

  The fog parted like a billowing curtain to admit another man, obscured by shadow. Grenville straightened up, putting his body in front of the box of pistols he’d set on a folding table, which his valet had brought for the purpose. The man who emerged from the mists, however, was Gareth Travers, dressed in a suit almost as fine as mine.

  He gave me a nod as he approached. “Captain. Well met.”

  I returned the greeting, shaking Travers’s offered hand. His grip was strong, but I could feel him trembling.

  “I’ve fought battles of honor before, gentlemen,” I said, releasing him. “And here I stand.”

  Grenville shot me a look, as though I were not appreciative enough of my own luck, and turned to Travers. “Right. This is the point where we speak again to the seconds and try to resolve this without bloodshed.”

  He sounded hopeful, but I knew better. Stubbins’ friends were as pigheaded as he was.

  I watched Grenville and Travers walk to the middle of the green to meet Danielson and Chetterly. The four men looked much alike in their dun-colored greatcoats, tall hats, and dark trousers.

  Grenville and Travers returned. “I’m afraid you’re carrying on with the appointment,” Grenville said. “Stubby believes he has the guidance of angels.” His look turned grave. “Watch yourself, Lacey.”

  I intended to. Grenville loaded the pistol himself—I wanted someone who knew what he was about to do it right. He tipped fine black powder into the barrel through the muzzle, so skillfully that the March breeze took nothing away. He tamped it down with the ramrod, added a cloth wad, tamped that down, then finally slid in a ball and another cloth, repeating the tamping. Grenville half-cocked the gun and primed the pan with a small amount of powder—when the hammer struck the pan, the resulting spark would set off the gunpowder inside the barrel and discharge the pistol.

  Grenville checked that all was solidly inside—no ball rolling out before I could fire—and offered me the pistol, butt first. I shucked my greatcoat and my frock coat, Grenville’s valet coming out of the shadows to take them from me. I handed him my walking stick, preferring to balance without it for shooting.

  As Gautier, the valet, scuttled away again, folding the coats over his arm, I took the pistol from Grenville.

  All was ready. Time to walk out and meet Stubbins.

  Stubbins wouldn’t look me in the eye when we met in the middle of the green, though I stared straight at him. Stubby’s chest heaved with agitated breath, but I did not read fear in him so much as determination. He was anxious to kill me.

  “Gentlemen,” Chetterly said. “Walk twelve paces, turn, and fire when ready.”

  I gave Stubbins a curt bow and put my back to him. I didn’t wait to see whether he had pivoted around to begin his walk, I simply went, counting my paces.

  As I made my way to my mark, I noticed another man in the mists, standing far enough back in the fog to shroud his features. I had no need to see him clearly, however, to recognize the bulk of James Denis’s man Brewster—one of the pugilists he employed as guards. Brewster had been told to watch, I assumed, and report the outcome to his master.

  When I reached my twelfth step, I turned and brought up my pistol.

  Stubbins swung around at the same time, and he fired.

  I saw the flash of his powder, heard the roar of the gun a bare moment later. Death headed straight for me, but I didn’t move. To dive to the ground, to run, would mean Stubbins would win the day, his honor satisfied.

  I continued steadying my aim in the hanging time from the flash of Stubby’s pistol to the outcome of the shot. Everything stilled—then propelled forward very fast. One moment I was sighting down my barrel, the next, I was dancing backward as a wad of earth exploded at my feet, spattering mud up my new trousers and shirt and into my face.

  Bloody man. The ball had plowed into the ground inches from where my right foot had been. No doubt he’d been aiming for my head, but his miss had nearly crippled me.

  I lost my temper. I raised the pistol and sighted down it again, calculating how much to compensate for the wind and the distance, ready to teach the idiot a lesson.

  At the other end of the green, Stubbins began to gibber. He assessed my straight body, my rock-steady hand, and knew he was about to die. I sensed Grenville and Travers, on either side of me, tense, waiting to see what I’d do.

  Stubby’s gibbering turned to wails of distress. His seconds quavered, clearly wondering whether to dart forward and stop the duel or let me proceed.

  I could always delope; that is, fire into the air, declaring the contest over. Honor fulfilled. After all, I’d been the one who’d beaten Stubbins down, the one who’d insulted him.

  I thought of Felicity, crouching in the dingy bedchamber above a taproom, terrified and in pain, and Stubbins slashing at her bare back with a strap. She’d been crying, pleading, and Stubbins had gone at her, enjoyment in his eyes. He’d sealed his own fate.

  I completed my aim, and pulled the trigger.

  A loud bang sounded as my pistol went off. Smoke curled in my nose, and powder stung my face like grains of fine sand.

  Stubby’s pale lawn shirtsleeve erupted in blood, crimson coating the fabric. The bullet, traveling true to my will, entered Stubbins in the fleshy part of his right arm.

  The man stared at his red sleeve for a split second, then he started to scream. He collapsed to the ground, clutching the wound, his screams escalating. His seconds swarmed around him, shouting at him to lie still, to let them see the wound.

  I turned away and handed the spent pistol to a white-faced Grenville.

  Travers was watching me, open-mouthed. “Did you miss?” he asked in a strained voice.

  Grenville was already shaking his head before I answered.

  “No,” I said. “He’ll hurt, and he’ll be scarred, but he’ll live.” Every time Stubbins undressed, he’d see the scars on his upper arm and remember me.

  Travers only stared at me. A swallow moved down his slender throat.

  As I tried to scrape mud from my ruined shirt, Gautier came hurrying forward. “Sirs!”

  He pointed to the bottom of the green, where the mists were yel
lowing with the coming day. Several men strode out of the fog, led by a man in a black suit who walked with an arrogant stride. I recognized the Bow Street Runner called Spendlove.

  I calmly took my coat and greatcoat from Gautier. “Go,” I said to Travers. “Now.” I had no doubt that Spendlove was coming to arrest me for shooting Stubbins and would happily arrest Grenville and Travers as well.

  Travers looked indignant. “And leave you hanging? What kind of friend would I be?”

  “One who doesn’t come up before a magistrate,” I said. “Go on.”

  Travers gave me a stubborn look in spite of another swallow bobbing in his throat. He squared his shoulders. “I’ll not desert you.”

  I ignored him and beckoned to Brewster, who came forward without concern. Grenville calmly wiped down the pistol, emptied the remnants of the powder from the pan, and returned the pistol to the box. He was not going to save himself either.

  Brewster reached us. I caught Travers by the arm and pushed him toward the pugilist. “Take him home,” I said.

  Brewster nodded, putting his beefy hand on Travers’s shoulder. Travers sent me an unhappy look, but I noted he didn’t bother trying to fight the giant at his side.

  “You too, sir,” Brewster said in his deep voice. “Mr. Denis said be sure you wasn’t arrested.”

  “I’ll look after myself,” I said. “Please take Mr. Travers out of here.”

  Brewster looked me over, shifted his gaze to Grenville, who was stoically putting away the gun, then watched the approaching Spendlove. At last he gave me another nod and marched the young man away.

  Spendlove quickened his pace. Two of his foot patrollers peeled away to approach Stubbins, and the remaining man and Spendlove flanked me and Grenville.

  “Good morning, Captain,” Spendlove said, his expression a mixture of amusement and self-assurance. “And what have you been getting up to, so early on a spring morning in Hyde Park?”

  Chapter Three

  Spendlove kept his gaze on me, his light blue eyes hiding deadly glee. He had dark red hair that he tried and failed to tame, and the pale skin that went with his coloring, though his freckled face was sun-bronzed.

  Timothy Spendlove wanted me under his thumb, he’d told me when I’d first met him. He wished to grind me for information about James Denis, who controlled much of the underworld in London. He’d use me until he had Denis in the dock, never mind what happened to me in the meantime.

  I didn’t answer his question. Grenville laid the final piece of the dueling set back into its resting place and shut the inlaid mahogany box.

  “We were testing my pistols,” he said smoothly as he locked the box. “Captain Lacey did not believe they were the finest he’d ever shoot, and wanted to try them himself. Unfortunately, one of the pistols went off too early and hit Mr. Stubbins.”

  Spendlove lifted one red brow. “Who happened to be walking by with pistols of his own?”

  Grenville shrugged. “This spot is a grand place for shooting, so early in the morning. No one around to get hurt. Except, of course, Mr. Stubbins,”

  “What do you say, Captain?” Spendlove asked. “You’re very quiet.”

  “It is early,” I said in clipped tones. “I’m not my best in the morning.”

  “I see.” Spendlove spent a long moment studying me with eyes that missed very little. He flicked a glance at Stubbins, who was complaining loudly about me and Grenville to the patrollers.

  Spendlove could arrest the lot of us on the moment, for attempted murder, or for brawling, or for discharging weapons in a public park—anything he could think of. I saw him debate whether it would be more to his advantage to see me up before a magistrate today or let me walk away. Perhaps if I faced a charge of attempted murder—even true murder or manslaughter if Stubbins took ill from his injury—I might promise Spendlove anything in exchange for my life and freedom.

  No, Grenville would not leave me to dangle in the wind. He had an army of solicitors he could call upon to help me out of trouble and so did Donata. Spendlove knew that.

  But I saw in Spendlove’s eyes as he fixed me with his gaze, that he did not care what friends I had. When he got me, and he would, his expression told me, all the expensive solicitors in London wouldn’t make a blind bit of difference.

  Spendlove gave me a sudden and beatific smile. “Then good day to you, Captain.” His tone was polite, but I glimpsed his buried rage. “Mr. Grenville.”

  Spendlove tipped his hat to us. I expected him to stride away, but he remained where he was, waiting for us to leave first. He said nothing more, not dismissing the event or admonishing me or vowing to have me in the end. He only watched, waiting to see what I’d do.

  Grenville tucked his pistol box under his arm, and Gautier folded the table. “Time for a spot of breakfast, eh, Lacey?” Grenville suggested, then without another word started around Spendlove and into the mists, heading for the path where he’d left his carriage, Gautier in his wake.

  I gave Spendlove a brief nod, which he did not return, took up my walking stick, and walked after Grenville, leaving the field of battle.

  *

  My wife was awake, reclining on a chaise in our upstairs sitting room, when I returned after declining Grenville’s invitation to breakfast. I was surprised to see Donata out of bed, because she rarely bestirred herself until well after one in the afternoon.

  But there she was, drinking coffee and reading a newspaper, her thin peignoir flowing over legs. I smelled of gunpowder, and my face was filmed with the stuff along with the mud Stubbins had splashed over me.

  Donata looked over her newspaper at me and raised her delicate brows. “Well, I see you are in one piece,” she said. “If a little worse for wear.”

  I unbuttoned my damp coat. “Stubbins is as bad at shooting as he is good at being a bloody nuisance.” I let Bartholomew, my manservant, who was hovering like a worried maiden aunt, peel off the frock coat and waistcoat beneath.

  When he wanted to strip me to the skin and scrub me down, I told him irritably to go away. “I’ll bring a bath, sir,” Bartholomew said. He blinked a few times, as though he had something in his eyes, then turned to carry my coat and waistcoat to the dressing room.

  “No, you’ll wait until I send for it,” I called after him. I was suddenly exhausted and weary of the whole business.

  When the door closed behind Bartholomew Donata languidly put aside her newspaper, rose, and came to me. She laid her hand on my chest, her fingers resting over my heavily beating heart, never mind the mud on my new lawn shirt.

  “I am pleased to see no holes here,” she said, tracing a pattern across my pectorals.

  Her hand flattened on me, then her cool assuredness evaporated, and she half-fell against me, hands clutching the muddy ruins of my shirt. Her dark head bowed to my shoulder. I smelled the lavender rinse she used on her hair, the warmth of woman under the peignoir.

  Her body shook against mine—with sobs, I realized.

  My brave Donata, who never cried, was clinging to me, weeping. I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her close.

  “There now,” I said, kissing her hair. “I was in no real danger. Stubbins is a terrible shot.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” she said, her words muffled against my chest.

  I turned her face up to mine and kissed the tears on her face. That this beautiful woman wept for fear of losing me was astonishing.

  I kept one arm around her waist as I led her to my bedchamber. I closed the door, turned the key in the lock, and took Donata to bed. The bath and all its luxuries could wait.

  *

  The duel gained me respect in some quarters, notoriety in others. No honor, a few of Grenville’s acquaintances at White’s said. He should have shot into the air. Stubby was the aggrieved party. Lacey had humiliated him, after all.

  Grenville’s closer friends were more apt to congratulate me on a job well-done. Stubby needed to be potted. Good to see his comeuppance.

  My
visit to the Derwents the next week was trickier. Sir Gideon Derwent, my host, did not hold with duels, or violence of any kind. He admired me for being in the army, but blood and death in war was inevitable, he’d say, and necessary to put down those who would oppress. Shooting a man in cold blood in a park was a different thing.

  His large home in Grosvenor Square could have been overly ostentatious had not his family made every corner cozy. Vases of flowers arranged by the hands of the Derwent ladies were placed next to marble statuary, baskets of plain mending rested next to damask chairs.

  Nearly every room was strewn with books piled haphazardly on top of one another, bookmarked with ribbons, scribbled notes, pressed flowers, a folded piece of sheet music. The Derwents—Sir Gideon and his wife, his daughter Melissa, his son Leland, and the various and sundry friends they brought home—read these books, discussed them, debated them, laughed at them, praised them.

  But for all their knowledge and appreciation of books, art, music, and conversation, they remained the most innocent family I’d ever known.

  Gareth Travers was there that evening, as well as another couple who arrived with a daughter the same age as Melissa Derwent. Melissa and the young lady—Miss Braithwaite—knew each other, but instead of going off into a corner to whisper and giggle as young ladies do, they remained politely with the family, staying silent until spoken to directly.

  I contrasted the two young ladies to my daughter, Gabriella. Gabriella would have joined in the adults’ discussion and given her opinion freely. I’d overheard Donata’s friends say that Gabriella was too forthright and needed to learn to concede, but I preferred her openness. Gabriella’s mother, my former wife, had been meek to the point of exasperating me to harsh words. My fault for my impatience, but I would not like to see my daughter give way before a man of hard temperament.

  Gabriella was learning how to be a woman from Donata and Lady Aline—a spinster with decided opinions no one dared contradict—and Louisa Brandon, wife of my former commander, who had a backbone of steel. Gabriella was, I concluded, in good hands.