A Regimental Murder (19 page)

I ran out of breath. She stared at me, lips
parted. A slight draft of air stirred the tapes of her cap.

I eased my hands open. "You see," I said,
lowering my voice. "You are barely a widow, and I make declarations
that I should not. I take the unpardonable liberty of speaking your
name, uninvited. And who am I? A nobody, here on your leave, hardly
better than a servant."

She continued to stand still in shock, her
gaze fixed on mine. "No." Her whisper was cracked. "Not a servant.
A gentleman."

"Hardly, at this moment. I am ready to ask
for what I do not deserve."

Color climbed in her cheeks. "And if I say
you may have it freely?"

"Then I will count myself most blessed of
men." I shook my head. "But I cannot ask it. I will go."

"No," she said quickly. "I was willing once
before to grant it. Do you remember?"

How could I forget? I recalled her warm lips
against mine, her arms about my neck; I had thought of the incident
every day since it had happened.

"You were ill, and frightened. And a bit
foxed, as I recall." I made a slight bow, my throat aching.
"Forgive me. I will go."

"Please do not leave me alone, Gabriel." She
held her hand palm out, as if pushing me away. "Not yet."

"Lydia." I could not stop myself saying her
name again. The word filled my mouth, liquid and light. "If I stay
. . ."

"Stay. Please."

She stood motionless until I came to her and
gathered her into my arms. She leaned to my chest, and the clean
scent of the lawn cap drifted to me as I pressed a kiss to it.

Her hold tightened, and she raised her face
to mine. I kissed her. I tasted her lips, her brow, her throat, the
lace at her neck.

"Gabriel," she whispered. "Please stay."

I kissed her again. I threaded my fingers
into her dark hair, and her white cap loosened and fluttered to the
floor like a fallen bird.

*** *** ***

The warmth of her bed wrapped me in a comfort
I had not known in many a year. I learned her that night in her
chamber beneath silken bed hangings, learned the cool brush of her
fingers, the scent of her skin, the taste of her mouth. I had not
realized how starved I’d been; I was like a man who hadn’t known he
was thirsty until given clear water to drink.

I sensed from her inexperienced caresses, her
unpracticed kisses, that she’d not had a lover in many years. I
scorned her fool of a husband as I gentled my touch for her. Even a
man who could not complete the act could have pleasured a woman in
myriad ways. Colonel Westin seemingly had not bothered to do
so.

I liked the way we fit, her head tucked
beneath my chin, my arm about her shoulders. She brushed her
fingers over my face, smiling at the stiff bristles there. We lay
together far into the night, warm and contented. I drifted in and
out of sleep, not dreaming, simply dozing in blissful warmth.

At last in the cool hours of the morning I
rose and dressed. She smiled sleepily as I kissed her good-bye and
departed into the gray dawn.

Happiness settled over me. I knew it would
not last, but I drank it in, savoring it for the time I could.

*** *** ***

Covent Garden was quiet when I reached it,
though a few street ladies still paraded. Black Nancy, a game girl
Louisa had taken in to reform, was no longer there, but the others
recognized me and greeted me raucously. I tipped my hat to them, my
mood still sunny, and moved on to Grimpen Lane.

I reached the bake shop and let myself into
the stuffy staircase hall.

Light footsteps hastened down to me. "Lacey!"
Marianne said in a hoarse whisper. A wavering taper, likely one of
mine, lit her face. Her eyes were wide. "Where the devil have you
been?"

"Out," I answered laconically.

"There are men in your rooms, looking for
you. Came banging on my door, asking where you were, about two
hours ago. As if I take your particulars."

I glanced up the stairs. All was quiet. The
painted shepherds and shepherdesses wavered under the glare of
Marianne's candle.

I clasped the head of my cane. "They are up
there now?"

"Yes. I tell you, you cannot fight all three,
and they looked well able to throw you down the stairs."

"Who are they?"

"How the devil should I know? I have never
seen them before."

"Let us find out, shall we?"

I moved past her. She stared at me as though
I'd run mad. but made no move to stop me.

I quickly and quietly ascended to the first
floor. My door stood closed. Long ago, it had been painted dove
gray and its panels outlined in gold. The handle was fancifully
shaped like a maiden who’d sprouted great long wings from her back.
Once she had been gold, but now she was only the tarnished brass
that had lain beneath the gold leafing.

I opened the door.

Two large footmen stood to either side,
waiting for me to come bursting in. I foiled them by simply
swinging open the door and remaining in the hall. Across the room,
James Denis rose from my worn wing chair.

* * * * *

Chapter Fifteen

He wore a black evening suit of superfine, as
though he'd just arrived from the theatre or opera. A sapphire ring
glinted on his third finger, and a diamond sparkled coldly on his
cravat. He or his toadies had lit every one of my candles. The
light tinged the flaking ceiling plaster the delicate red-gold of
rose petals.

"What do you want?" I asked
unceremoniously.

"A moment of your time," Denis replied.
"Since I could not convince you to visit me in my home, I have
traveled to yours. Please come inside."

"I will when you leave."

He gave me a frosty look. "You will want to
hear what I have to say, believe me, Captain."

"I did not ask for your help."

"Yet I give it. And this after my encounters
with you last spring. You owe me much."

"There we differ. I say I owe you nothing." I
unsheathed my sword. "Please get out. I have no interest in your
information."

He paused, his eyes hooded. "Not even in the
whereabouts of Mrs. Brandon?"

The words dropped into silence. My heart
jumped, then stopped, then began pounding again.

"What the devil have you to do with Mrs.
Brandon?"

"I know where she is. You do not. I offer the
information in fair exchange."

My limbs unfroze and I went for him. The two
brutes to either side of me seized my arms. I jerked free, and with
two strides across the room, my hands locked around James Denis's
throat.

His cold blue eyes flickered, but other than
that he remained still. Beneath his cravat, his throat was
surprisingly warm, and his pulse beat beneath my fingers.

"Tell me where she is," I said, "or by God, I
will kill you where you stand."

"Then you would not learn anything."

In a swift, sudden movement, he brought up
his hands between my wrists and snapped them apart.

His henchmen closed on me again as he looked
me up and down. "I imagine you have heard the term 'loose cannon,'
Captain. Aboard a frigate, I believe, a cannon that is not fastened
down properly provides for much danger. You are that loose cannon
for me. You do not heed counsel to stay out of my way, and wherever
I turn these days, I nearly trip over you."

I remembered my encounter with him the day
Lydia had asked me to help her. I had wondered what errand he'd
been performing in Russel Street. "If I have met you by chance,
that is hardly my fault."

"That may be. But I do not trust you not to
interfere with my business. I have determined that the only way I
can trust you--although "trust" is not quite the word I would
use--is to tame you."

"Tame me?" I almost laughed. "Like one of
your trained lackeys?"

"No," he said. "I want you obligated to me. I
will appeal to your sense of duty, your sense of fair play. One
gentleman does not cheat another."

"But I do not consider you a gentleman."

"I believe that." He gave me the faintest of
smiles. "Mrs. Brandon speaks highly of you. She claims you have a
good heart, though your judgment is often rash. I believe you a bit
misguided myself."

Fury welled up so tight I could barely see.
"Where is she?"

"We will come to that in a moment-- "

"Where?"

"I will tell you when you meet my price."

I would not encourage him by asking what the
price was. I remained stubbornly silent.

"It will be very simple," he continued. "I
want you to promise me--your word as a gentleman--that when I call
upon you to assist me, in any way or for any reason, you will do so
at once, no matter what your situation."

His expression was utterly still, but I did
not delude myself that everything he said was not precisely
calculated, his thoughts running far ahead of the conversation. He
had decided the outcome of this interview before he had even
conducted it.

This man bought and sold favors and owned
people outright, and he had an extensive network that stretched all
over the continent, perhaps the world. He dressed like a gentleman,
lived in a fine house, and drove a fine carriage, but he was as
much an underworld figure as the blacklegs who fleeced gentlemen at
the gaming hells of St. James’s.

I in no way wanted myself obligated to him.
But I thought of Louisa, of her cool gray eyes and warm smile and
slightly crooked nose. My blood chilled.

"Why did you come to me and not her husband?"
I asked.

"She does not want to see her husband," he
replied. "Or so she said."

"She is safe?"

Denis met my eye, cold clarity in his gaze.
"That depends very much on you, Captain."

I hated him powerfully at that moment. He had
me, and he knew it.

"I want your word," he said.

A candle sputtered in the silence, loud as a
pistol shot.

I nodded, my neck sore with it. "I give you
my word."

"I will hold you to the bargain. Know that."
His voice went soft. "I believe Louisa Brandon is very dear to you,
is she not?"

"Just tell me where she is."

He watched a bit of plaster float to the
carpet. "She is a clever woman, your Mrs. Brandon. She has hidden
herself well." And he told me.

*** *** ***

I arrived at a respectable-looking
boardinghouse down the Thames in Greenwich at two that afternoon.
Denis had told me Louisa had moved into the house under the name
"Mrs. Taylor," and had purported to be a widow who had recently
lost her husband, found herself cut off by an indifferent son, and
had nowhere to go. Her story was not far-fetched; by law, sons were
not related to their mothers, and had no legal obligation to care
for them. I wondered, on a sudden, what provisions Brandon had
made, if any, for Louisa in case of his death.

The landlady who ran the household had a kind
face and a softness about her eyes. She told me I'd been expected,
and led me to the back of the house to a small, sunny parlor.

Louisa lay on a divan, a shawl over her
knees. Her golden hair was loose about her, and a widow's cap
similar to the one Lydia had worn rested on her head,
verisimilitude for the part of the widowed Mrs. Taylor.

I meant to greet her with a jest about it,
but I was struck with how thin she'd grown since I'd last seen her.
Her fingers were white and frail, and her gray eyes were enormous
in her nearly bloodless face.

My heart tightened. She had been ill, damned
ill, if I were any judge. Life could be brutally short in these
times, and to be sure, I had already seen a number of childhood
acquaintance lost to disease and war, but Louisa had always seemed
indomitable, strong, everlasting. The thought that she could be
taken from me so easily made my pulse quicken with dread.

But her smile was welcoming. She held out her
hands to me. I clasped them in mine and bent to kiss her cheek.

"Gabriel. I am so glad you've come." She
squeezed my fingers hard, to the bone.

I went down on one knee beside her. "Louisa,
what is it? Are you ill?"

She shook her head. "Not any longer."

"What has happened? Tell me."

She smiled and released my hands. "Oh, do
take a chair, Gabriel. The floor must be devilish
uncomfortable."

I rose and dragged a rather shabby armchair
with ball and claw feet to her side. When I seated myself, I took
one of her hands in mine again. Her fingers curled against my palm,
but she did not pull away.

"Please tell me what has happened," I
repeated.

"Nothing that has not happened before," she
said tiredly. "I will weather it."

I looked into her eyes, and I realized that
what I read there was not illness, but great sorrow. Her eyelids
were rimmed with red, and I saw a woman who had relinquished her
last hope.

"Oh God," I whispered.

"I wish I knew why I cannot do what every
maid in the street can in a trice," she said. "They even pay to
give up what I'd pay a thousandfold to have. It baffles one, does
it not?"

"Louisa." I caressed her cold fingers. Three
times before, Louisa Brandon had been with child, and three times
before, she had lost that child. The first had been born, a tiny
little boy. But all too soon, he had began gasping for breath, and
then he had died. The others had been born far too early, too weak
to live. This one could not have been inside her for more than
several weeks. "I am sorry."

Her gray eyes filled as her fingers tightened
on mine.

"Does Brandon know?" I asked.

She shook her head. "I said nothing to him.
How could I have? It seemed little short of cruel. He would have
hoped so much. I decided I'd go away. I'd met the woman who runs
this boarding house during the Peninsular campaign before her
husband was killed and she returned to England. She is a midwife
now. We corresponded still, and I thought this would be an ideal
place. I could wait here until I was certain all would be well."
She smiled shakily. "But all was not well, was it? I do not know
why I supposed it would be. I have always failed before."