A Regimental Murder (13 page)

Tonight, at least, I was served every course
and my port glass kept full at all times. I consumed more port than
usual, trying to deaden the fact that my right hand hurt like the
devil. The company was maddening, and I was frustrated with my
ineffectualness. By the end of the meal, I was well on the way to
being foxed, and the brandy I consumed after the ladies went up to
bed completed the process. A few snifters' worth set up a pleasant
buzz in my ears that at last drowned out Eggleston's voice.

He suggested cards, but he had a sly gleam in
his eye, and I bowed out. I'd had enough of his card games.

Grenville had already gone upstairs, his
politeness strained. I decided to follow him and said good night to
the company, who behaved as though they cared not one whit whether
I stayed or departed. The world was fuzzy about the edges as I made
my way upstairs; the gods and goddesses above me writhed and
whirled in obscene frenzy.

I stopped in Grenville's chamber and he and I
spent another hour in companionable silence, both of us relieved at
not having to make conversation. When he began to yawn, I sought my
own bed.

I reached my chamber and opened the door.
Lady Breckenridge lay on my bed, fully clothed, stretched out on
her side, asleep, her head on my pillow.

I stopped, fingers frozen on the door handle.
Had she come here in hopes I’d play the card game to its fullest
intent? Or had she simply not wanted to face bed with Breckenridge?
I wondered whether they even slept in the same chamber.

Asleep, her face lost its acerbic nature,
lines smoothing to display her natural prettiness. She didn’t stir
as I stood there, watching and wondering.

I softly crossed to the bed, pulled a quilt
up over her, and left the room. She never woke.

*** *** ***

I slept that night in an empty chamber far
down the corridor, making my bed on an uncomfortable divan. I awoke
at dawn, both my head and my hand competing for which could throb
the most, but I was alone.

Though it was barely light and very early, I
decided I wanted a dose of fresh air. Coffee would have done me
better, but I disliked to wake a servant for it. I rose, shrugged
on my frock coat, and let myself out.

I hobbled along the path that led from the
house, drinking in the welcome chill of morning. I speculated upon
whether Lady Breckenridge had gone back to her own bed or still
slept in mine.

I wondered suddenly what Louisa Brandon would
make of all this nonsense. I realized I missed her deeply. She
would have found some joke or quip to steady me and we would have
laughed together. Also, I could have told her everything, all my
fears and frustrations. She would have lent me some hint or
suggestion of how I could proceed. She had helped me in the past
and I longed for her help now.

I found myself turning toward the stables.
Stables had a comforting smell about them, horses and leather and
grain and dust. I had never realized how much a part of my life
horses had been until I'd given up the cavalry and could no longer
afford to keep a horse of my own.

A ride would soothe me, I decided, more than
a walk. I let myself into the stables. Quietly, so as not to
disturb the lads sleeping above, I chose a steady-looking bay
gelding and in a trice had the horse bridled and saddled.

I did have the devil of a time making the
horse stand still next to the mounting block. My injury made it
impossible for me to climb onto a horse from the ground. A legup
was best, but a mounting block or a box helped much--from there, I
could simply swing my right leg over and quickly transfer my weight
to the saddle.

The horse proved immune to my bad language,
but at last, I got mounted and rode quietly out of the yard.

Once on horseback, my lameness mattered
little, and I could ride with only small discomfort. Within a
matter of minutes, I was moving at an easy trot toward the paths in
the woods.

I had been right; the ride did soothe me. I
put Breckenridge and Eggleston and their odd wives behind me, and
simply enjoyed a gallop over the downs. I thought of nothing but
the horse moving beneath me, of my shifting balance, and the feel
of the horse's mouth through the reins.

After some time of this, I felt much better.
I slowed the horse and turned him back for the house, letting him
breathe while I ordered my thoughts.

Eggleston and Breckenridge were proving
difficult to question. I would have to pin them down or abandon the
attempt. I wanted to talk again with Lydia Westin. She must know
some reason why Eggleston and Breckenridge would blackmail her
husband into taking the blame for Captain Spencer's death at
Badajoz.

Truth to tell, I simply wanted to see her
again. I wanted her to look upon me and thank me for helping
her.

I sighed. I had a long way to go before she
would thank me for anything.

The curious prickling between my shoulder
blades suddenly returned, just as it had at the wayside inn, just
as it had in the gardens the night we'd arrived. Someone followed
me, someone who lingered in the trees in the bend of the road. I
could taste it in the air, breathe it in the scent of dewy
grass.

I abruptly wheeled the horse and plunged back
the way I'd come. Startled doves fluttered from the underbrush and
a rabbit dashed away across the field. Nothing else moved.

I slowed the horse and peered among the
trees. The damp brown and green of the woods showed no signs of
human life, and I heard nothing but early birds in song. I
hesitated for a long time, disquiet settling upon me. I knew
someone followed me, someone who knew how to mask their footsteps
and hide themselves with skill.

I looked for a long time, holding the horse
still, but I saw no one. At last, I turned the horse again and rode
back to the house, looking about me, unnerved.

The stable lads were still not stirring when
I entered the yard, so I removed the saddle and bridle myself and
led the horse back into his box. I was too conscientious to leave
the horse without rubbing him down, so I did this quickly, with a
curry comb and brush I found in the tack room. The saddle and
bridle, on the other hand, I left for the stable lads to clean.

Despite the unknown person tracking me, the
ride had settled my nerves somewhat. I entered the house through
the garden door I'd left unlocked and trudged back upstairs. I
paused at my bedchamber door then bravely opened it.

To my immense relief, the room was empty. I
closed the door and locked it behind me. Tired now with my short
night and long ride, I removed my boots and lay down on the
bed.

I felt blissfully drowsy. The ride, the port
and brandy I'd imbibed the night before, and the horse care
combined to send me to sleep in a trice.

So hard I slept that I did not awaken until
nearly ten, which, as it turned out, proved to be most
unfortunate.

*** *** ***

Once awake, I performed my usual
ablutions--washed, shaved, cleaned my teeth with tooth powder, and
combed my hair. I donned my regimentals, since I seemed to have
left my coat in the stables. I had a vague memory of sliding it
from my shoulders as I rubbed down the horse in the morning
heat.

I made my way down to the dining room, hoping
to scare up a servant to bring me a large feast for breakfast. And
coffee. Plenty of coffee.

When I reached the dining room, I heard
raised voices on the other side of the door. One was Grenville's.
Odd, because he prided himself on never shouting or losing his
sangfroid in public.

The other voice was. . .

My eyes widened in astonishment and I opened
the door.

"How the hell should I know?" Grenville was
saying. "You and your wife are the closest thing . . ." He broke
off and swung around as I entered.

The man facing him was Colonel Brandon. When
Brandon saw me, his expression performed a powerful transformation
from astonishment to relief to disappointed dismay.

I had witnessed the identical transformation
one day a few years ago when I'd returned from a mission he'd sent
me on. I had been dragged, half-dead, back to camp on a makeshift
litter, and when Brandon had first seen me, he'd assumed me dead.
His face had betrayed triumph, guilt, remorse, and behind that,
glee. And then when I'd opened my mouth and called him a bastard,
his look had changed to one of horror. He had wanted me dead, and
against all odds, I lived.

His look now was little different. This
morning, Brandon had once again thought, for some reason, that I
was permanently out of his life.

Grenville, on the other hand, gaped at me,
white-faced. "Lacey! Good God."

"What the devil is the matter?" I snapped. My
headache had returned.

Grenville took two strides to me, relief
lighting his eyes. He clapped both hands to my shoulders, and for a
moment, I thought he would embrace me.

I frowned at him. "Tell me what has
happened."

His fingers clenched my shoulders, hard,
once, then he stepped back, his Adam's apple moving. "We thought
you had gone and died, my friend," he said lightly. "I knew it had
to be a mistake."

I looked from one man to the other.
"Died?"

Grenville turned and strolled to the decanter
on the sideboard. His hands were shaking. "Brandon here rushed in
and told me he'd found you dead in the woods. Frightened me half to
death."

My gaze switched to Brandon. His face
suffused with blood. "I thought it was you," he said. "He was
dressed in that brown coat of yours, or so I thought. He was
facedown in the brush, and obviously dead. Hair the same color as
yours, too." He glared at my head as if it were to blame for this
deception.

"Did it not occur to you to roll the poor man
over and discover who he was?" I demanded.

Brandon looked peevish. "He is down the side
of a hill. I could not get to him through the mud and the saplings
without help. Looks as though he was thrown from his horse and slid
there. And a stable lad told me he'd seen you go riding in the wee
hours of the morning. Sounded like a damn fool thing you would
do."

"I did go," I answered. "But I returned. I
even rubbed down the horse and left the furniture in the middle of
the tack room. Did they not reason I'd returned?"

Grenville broke in. "Apparently not. Colonel
Brandon came to rouse the house. And found only me. No one else is
stirring."

Brandon sneered. "At ten o'clock on a fine
summer's day. I do not think much of your friends, Mr.
Grenville."

Grenville held up his hand. "They are not my
friends. Believe that." He drank down a measure of brandy and
clicked his glass back onto the sideboard. "Well, shall we go and
see to this poor gentleman?"

*** *** ***

Brandon led us to a lane that lay near to
where I had been riding that morning. The stable lad who
accompanied us called it Linden Hill Lane. Tortuous and narrow, the
road climbed toward a low ridge that encircled the valley. To
either side of the lane, the land fell away in steep, wooded banks.
Trees grew thinly here, but the underbrush was dry as tinder in the
summer heat.

About a quarter of a mile along, Brandon
stopped. "There."

He pointed. A body was caught halfway down
the brown hill, the brush and branches broken in a path to it. He
lay facedown, very still. I could see why Brandon had thought him
me. He was a tall, lean man with thick dark hair and no hat and
wore a brown coat, the one I had mislaid that morning.

We stood in a semicircle, staring down at
him. In addition to the stable lad, Bartholomew and Matthias had
accompanied us.

"If he rode a horse up here," I began, "then
where is the horse? Has it returned home?"

The stable lad shook his head. "Lad" was a
misleading appellation--this man looked to be about fifty. A stable
lad was simply a man, of whatever age, who looked after the tack
and helped the grooms care for and exercise the horses. "Unusual,
that," he said. "A horse will run right back to his own stable.
Knows where the grub is, don't he?"

Grenville poked at the brush with his walking
stick. "Bartholomew, can you get down there?"

The energetic young footman promptly began
crashing through the dried scrub toward the body. His brother
followed. I came after them, using my walking stick to bear my
weight.

I slid and scrambled down the two dozen or so
feet between the road and the body, arriving just as Bartholomew
put out a large hand and turned the body over.

Matthias whistled.

"Who is it?" Grenville called down.

I straightened. "It's Breckenridge."

* * * * *

Chapter Eleven

Breckenridge's eyes were open to nothing,
unseeing and glassy, pupils fixed. His mouth was open as well, as
though he'd been drawing a breath to shout. His face had been
slashed by the dozens of branches he'd crashed through, not to
mention bruised where I'd hit him the day before. His knee-high
boots and buckskin breeches were likewise scarred by his descent.
My coat and his gloves were in ribbons.

Bartholomew slid his huge hand beneath
Breckenridge's head. "Neck's broken," he informed us.

Grenville cupped his hands around his mouth.
"Can you bring him up here?"

Bartholomew stooped beneath the branches.
Breckenridge was a large man, but Bartholomew was larger. He rolled
the older man onto his shoulder. With his brother's help,
Bartholomew began climbing back toward the road, brush crackling
and breaking under his onslaught. I followed slowly.

Bartholomew laid Breckenridge out at
Grenville's feet. "Must have fallen from his horse, sir," he said,
dusting off his hands. "Broke his neck tumbling down the hill."

Questions spilled through my mind. Had
Breckenridge truly fallen or had someone broken his neck for him
and tossed him down the hill? What had Breckenridge been doing up
here at all? And why dressed in my coat?