A Mystery at Carlton House: Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries, Book 12 Page 4

  “Who the devil is that? Never tell me it’s Captain Lacey.”

  A woman’s voice floated down the stairs, followed by the personage of Marianne Simmons. Marianne had at one time been an actress and had lived in the rooms above mine in the narrow street of Grimpen Lane near Covent Garden. She’d given up the stage to become Grenville’s mistress, sending tongues wagging across the world.

  I stepped past the disapproving footman and bowed to Marianne as she halted halfway down Grenville’s magnificent staircase with its arched landing, resting one hand on the railing. Her golden hair poured from under a lace cap to tumble over a peignoir of exquisite silk, a gift from Grenville. Softly lit by the windows above her, she was poised and beautiful.

  “Good morning,” I said to her. “Grenville is truly out?”

  “He is.” Marianne remained where she was, not coming down to greet me. “He ran off at an excruciatingly early hour when Matthias brought him a message. He’d tell me nothing about it.”

  She sounded annoyed but not unduly worried. Grenville was prone to dashing about on a whim, though rarely this early.

  “Come up and have coffee,” Marianne said. “It’s bloody cold down here, but I’ve got a nice fire in the morning room. You can watch me have breakfast, if you’ve already eaten.”

  I wouldn’t have minded warm coffee and a chat with Marianne, who was a mine of London gossip, but I was aware of the footman’s chill stare.

  “It would hardly do for the close friend of Mr. Grenville to sit alone with his paramour while he is out,” I remarked.

  “That is absolute nonsense, and you know it. Everyone is aware you live in the pocket of your lady and that I wouldn’t touch you even if you did not.”

  “Your art of persuasion needs polishing,” I said, amused rather than irritated. “You are to flatter, not insult.”

  “Flattering you would only raise your suspicions. You know this, Lacey, so do not bother to argue. Forget about scandal and come up. I need to ask you a question.”

  “Fire away,” I said.

  “In private.” Marianne’s tone turned icy. The footman was listening while pretending not to, and I knew many of Grenville’s servants would be lingering in the shadows. They didn’t spy, exactly; they simply had a healthy curiosity about everything involving Grenville.

  I knew, however, that if I ascended and closeted myself with Marianne, no matter how innocently, the fact would be all over Mayfair in a few hours. Plenty on the street had seen me arrive, which probably included a few journalists passing by to discover what sorts of stories they could tell. I wanted the reports of my visit to say I’d stepped indoors for a only a few moments, could be seen at all times through the door the footman had pointedly left open, and that I’d barely had time to remove my hat.

  I also knew Marianne would not want to ask me a question she did not consider important, especially one she did not want the servants to hear.

  “I will meet you,” I said. “Somewhere public. Send me a note when you are ready with a time and place. I will be there. With the full knowledge of my wife.”

  “Bring her along,” Marianne said. “She’s a wise lady, and her opinions will be welcome. Good morning, Lacey.”

  With that, she turned and skimmed up the stairs. She was already slamming a door above by the time I made my polite bow. It was to the footman that I said my good-byes, and then I stepped into the crisp, bright morning and settled my hat upon my head.

  * * *

  As I could not put my hands on Grenville, I made my way to a hackney stand in Oxford Street and directed the driver who stopped for me to take me to St. Giles.

  The coachman did not want to go. I could not blame him, though at this time of the morning the worst of the St. Giles’s denizens would be asleep, exhausted after a night’s hard thieving and violence. I persuaded the driver with the promise of extra coin and told him he could let me off before we reached the warren itself.

  After a jostling ride down the length of Oxford Street, the driver pulled up at the junction of it and Tottenham Court Road, refusing to go any farther. I paid over my shillings and walked the rest of the way through the rookeries to the narrow street of my destination.

  I’d been to the house I sought only once, but I remembered the narrow lane, its dwellings rammed together as though a giant had put great hands on either end of the row and pushed.

  I was partly correct that the denizens of the area were sleeping off the night, some slumped in doorways or lying on the street itself. I wasn’t foolish enough to simply step over bodies in my way—one could rise up, knife in hand, to relieve me off all I possessed, and possibly my life.

  The smells of gin, fire, and waste lingered in the air, the stench the worst when I hobbled past a gaping hole in the road. This was a forgotten part of London, where people lived ten to a room, where water wasn’t clean, and the Watch and even intrepid Runners feared to come.

  Why Mr. Denis allowed one of his most trusted retainers to live in such a place I did not understand, but neither Denis nor the man I came in search of seemed to think anything of it.

  The front door of the house I wanted stood open. The first two landings were covered with grime, but the floor where my quarry lay was clean and a bit damp, as though it had been recently scrubbed. I scraped the dirt from my boots before I dared tramp there.

  All was silent in the stairwell until I knocked, the sound of which set off voices that rose behind the door.

  “Whoever that is, Tommy, run ’im off,” a woman shouted. “I need to get on.”

  “Run ’im off yourself.” The male growl was irritated but not angry. “I’m asleep.”

  “How can ye be asleep if you’re talking t’ me, ye lazy sot? Heave your arse off the chair and open the door.”

  I leaned as close to the wooden panels as I dared. “It’s Captain Lacey,” I called.

  There was a moment of silence, and then the woman cried, “Well, why didn’t ye say so?”

  The door swung open, emitting scents of ale and scalded tea. A middle-aged woman with brown hair laced with gray, a sharp face that managed to be pleasing, and rouge rubbed heavily on each cheek stood on the threshold, beaming at me.

  “Come in, come in, Captain, and see if ye can shift me husband. He’s been morose as an old dog without you to look after.”

  I had not seen Thomas Brewster since our return from Egypt in late November—I’d left abruptly for Oxfordshire and Donata, while Brewster had remained in London. Brewster had endured much following me to Alexandria and Cairo and back, and surprisingly, Mr. Denis had been compassionate enough to let him take a rest.

  Brewster was a large man of solid build. He’d once been a pugilist, until he grew tired of the sport, and then took up a post to be bodyguard and all around lackey to James Denis. Brewster had also been a thief and a good one but could read and write as well as any educated man and knew when a thing was worth stealing and when it wasn’t. He eschewed the trinkets pickpockets took—watches, handkerchiefs, coins—and cast his eye on silver, rare books, paintings, and the like. I had the feeling he’d know more about the Prince Regent’s collection of art than the prince himself.

  I accepted Brewster’s wife’s delighted invitation to sit, and she ducked into another room to brew coffee. I reposed on a surprisingly soft chair in the cozy parlor as the lady bustled about, while Brewster, in shirtsleeves with his stockinged feet propped on an ottoman, only gave me a belligerent look.

  “How have you been keeping yourself?” I asked him.

  The inquiry, made in a friendly tone, earned me a glare.

  “Well, I ain’t been keeping at all, have I?” Brewster rumbled as Mrs. Brewster, whom Brewster affectionately referred to as “My Em,” returned from her tiny kitchen with a tray of cups and a tall pot. “Have done sod all, and you know it.”

  I took the full cup Mrs. Brewster poured for me, curbing a start of surprise. “I know nothing of what you’ve been doing,” I said. “I’ve been
in the country, watching my wife recover from her ordeal and dandling my beautiful daughter.”

  “Aw,” Mrs. Brewster broke in. “We heard about the little mite. Good on yer, Captain.”

  “Aye,” Brewster said. “Felicitations.” He snarled the word.

  “What the devil is the matter with you?” I asked him in bewilderment.

  Brewster had been angry with me before we’d left Egypt because I hadn’t trusted him completely—and he’d been right. I still owed him a few pints of ale for that. But Brewster usually wasn’t one to hold a grudge, not out loud and not for three months, anyway.

  “Never mind him,” Mrs. Brewster said. She shoved a cup of coffee under her husband’s nose and turned back to me. “He’s put out because Mr. Denis has given him the sack, hasn’t he? And Tommy blames ye for it, the daft man.”

  Chapter 4

  I stared at Brewster in shock. “Sacked? What the devil for?”

  Mrs. Brewster’s response was lost in the grumbling noise that issued from her husband’s mouth. “For going soft,” he said.

  “Soft?” I blinked.

  Brewster was not a person with whom I associated the adjective soft. This was a man who’d thought me mad to return stolen silver to a church, who’d coolly purloined a book worth thousands of guineas, and had nearly killed a man with his bare hands before I’d stopped him, not to mention the dangers he’d faced without a qualm in Egypt. He’d worked for Denis for years, trusted to carry out tasks that would make most men blench.

  Mrs. Brewster took a chair next to me. “Mr. Denis says Tommy is more loyal to you now than he is to him. Said Tommy ought to stay home quiet and cause no trouble for a while.” She shook her head, brows pinched, but I noticed she didn’t say she disagreed with Denis.

  “Meaning he don’t trust me to do you over if ’e tells me,” Brewster growled. “Finks I’d protect you from him.”

  “And would you?” I asked in curiosity.

  Brewster pinned me with a hard stare. “I don’t know. ’Aven’t decided.”

  “But it’s why he’s home,” Mrs. Brewster put in. “Because he couldn’t argue that Mr. Denis was wrong.”

  I sat back, resting a heavy hand on my walking stick. “Then I shall speak to Mr. Denis.”

  The idea of me admonishing one criminal for sacking another might seem strange, but Tommy Brewster had done me many good turns. He’d pushed me out of the way of a bullet, kept me from harm during the dangerous journey through Egypt, and had lent me his good sense to help solve puzzles in the past. He didn’t deserve to be shunted aside.

  If Denis no longer employed him, would Brewster return to thieving to make ends meet? Men like Brewster didn’t always reform—they fell back on what they knew. Without Denis to protect him, he would quickly find himself in Newgate if he were caught stealing, finishing his life dangling at the end of a rope. I did not want that to happen to Brewster, who was, underneath it all, a good man.

  “I wish you wouldn’t,” Brewster said wearily. “If you go talking to his nibs, you’ll only cause more trouble. Leave it.”

  “I feel responsible for your dilemma,” I argued. “Let me at least try to fix it.”

  “You are responsible. But leave it, for God’s sake.” I wouldn’t, and Brewster and I both knew it. Brewster heaved a sigh, looking resigned. “Drink your coffee, then, and bugger off.”

  “Tommy,” Mrs. Brewster admonished. “The Captain’s come all this way, to St. Giles of all places, to see yer. At least let him tell ye what he wants.” She turned back to me, avidly curious.

  The simple way I could help Brewster struck me. “Indeed, I came for your expertise,” I said. “If you are at a loose end, then I’ll employ you.”

  Brewster’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, but he looked a bit less belligerent than before. “Employ me to do what?”

  “Help me learn about what sorts of things would be found in Carlton House, the prince’s residence. And how and why a man might steal what’s there.”

  Brewster’s eyes flickered with interest. “Aye, I heard about a chap arrested for nicking from royalty. Bloody fool, is all I can say. Good luck to ’im. ’E’ll need it.”

  “You heard?” I sipped the coffee Mrs. Brewster gave me, wincing as I burned my tongue. “I saw nothing in the newspapers, have heard nothing through gossip.”

  Brewster unbent enough to chuckle. “Don’t need no newspapers, Captain. These things get told, like. Everyone wants to nick a priceless bit of art and not get caught. Set you up for life, that would. Much more respectable than nicking apples off a cart. Moves a bloke up in the world.”

  “Do you know what he took?” I asked, my interest growing.

  “That I do not. But it could have been any number of things, couldn’t it? Gold cups are easiest to shift. Can be walked out with in a bag, painted over to look like bronze, sold to a collector what loves historical things and ain’t too particular about where a thing comes from. Or, in a pinch, melted down for its gold. A snuffbox all over gems is easy too—slides into a pocket, no one the wiser. Much harder to walk a great square of a painting out of a house, innit? Have to cut it out of a frame, fold it up without cracking the paint. Hard to shift too—have to prove it’s real or the buyer thinks you’re having him on. Who do they have banged up for the job?”

  “I don’t know,” I answered. “Mr. Spendlove wouldn’t tell me.”

  Brewster’s face puckered. “Spendlove? He’s a right bastard—don’t do noffink for the likes of ’im.”

  “I agree with you. Spendlove wants me to find evidence the man is the thief, or I shall see myself in the dock for whatever crime he can pin on me. Besides, I want to make sure the scapegoat he’s arrested is truly guilty. I don’t wish to see an innocent hang.”

  Brewster’s expression didn’t change. “Spendlove’s a bastard but he’s also clever, Captain. He wouldn’t pull a man if he weren’t guilty of somefink. Stay clear of it, that’s my advice. Ye can get around his threats. Your lady wife has plenty of blunt to hire fancy lawyers to keep you free.”

  I wouldn’t stay clear, and Brewster knew that. I shook my head. “I cannot in all good conscience let Spendlove send a man to the gallows for something he didn’t do. Also, I can’t help wondering what this theft has to do with Spendlove’s pursuit of Mr. Denis—why he’s commanded me to help him and no other.”

  Brewster nodded sagely. “He wants his nibs to have somefink to do with it and you to hand him the evidence. Sodding bugger.”

  “It’s why I need your help,” I said truthfully. “I’m out of my depth.”

  “Ha. You need someone to lead you around the world of art thieves— that’s what you’re telling me. Someone not his nibs.” Brewster stretched back in his chair, crossing his giant feet in worsted socks. “It might not be a brilliant thief at all, you know, but an under-footman what saw a chance to make a bit of coin. Not everyone is like Mr. Denis, or in his employ.”

  “True, but I am beginning at a disadvantage. If Pomeroy had asked for my help, he’d have told me all he knew. Spendlove plays a closer game. Will you ask about for me—discreetly—if anything’s come on the market, or even a rumor of such things? And who brought it there? We can negotiate a fee for your services.”

  Brewster’s scowl returned. “Don’t give me no charity, Captain. His nibs sacked me, but he gave me a pension. I worked for him near twenty years.”

  “Even so.” I set aside my cup and rose, giving Mrs. Brewster a nod of thanks for her hospitality. “I wouldn’t ask you to do a dangerous job without compensation. I appreciate your help—I owe you a night of imbibing.”

  Brewster eyed me with his usual surly stare, then his lips twitched. “You’re still remorseful about what ye said to me in the tomb, ain’t ye? That the only reason I’d not rob ye is because of what his nibs would say? Ye did hurt me feelings, Captain, that is true.”

  I gave him a bow. “I know. It was rude of me.”

  “Aye, it was. I forgave ye for getting me out of
that grave we were in alive, ye know. But if ye want to pour ale into me down the pub, I’ll not stop ye.”

  * * *

  As I walked back through St. Giles to find another hackney, I felt eyes upon me. I might have been in deep woods, with wolves circling beyond sight in the trees. The wolves were leaving me be for the moment, but just for the moment. Those here would have known I’d gone to see Brewster, likely the only thing that kept them in check.

  I moved as quickly as I could, my walking stick ringing, my awareness prickling. A jaunt through enemy territory on the Peninsula hadn’t made me this uneasy.

  I’d nearly made it to Great Russell Street when an unsavory person stepped out in front of me. He wore shabby clothes covered by a threadbare greatcoat, gloves whose fingertips had worn through, and a battered hat that once had been a tricorn. He had few teeth and a face covered with grizzled whiskers through which sores shone red.

  He was a sad specimen, one fit for charity, but he planted himself in front of me and would not move. Attempting to step around him did no good, as he swiftly put himself before me again.

  “Give us a coin,” he said, bathing me in breath foul with gin. “Give us a toll, and I’ll let ye pass.”

  I had no intention of reaching into my pocket and pulling out anything. These days, I had a few more shillings with which to pay my hackney coach fares, but I wasn’t foolish enough to go walking about London jingling with gold. I had enough to get home, but I didn’t dare bring out my meager purse to give this man a farthing.

  My advantages over the reeling gentleman were that I was sober, a trained fighter, and had a sword sheathed in my sturdy walking stick. His advantage was that he wasn’t lame in one leg, and he had friends.

  These emerged from doorways and passageways as I stood face-to-face with the gentleman, my fingers tight on my walking stick.

  Someone came to my side, and I felt a prick at my armpit. I turned to see a man a head shorter than I, hard-faced, and definitely not drunk. He held a knife poised to go straight into my lung.