A Regimental Murder (21 page)

I thought it through during my wakeful nights
after I left her afternoon bed. I had found a quiet happiness with
her, despite the dark questions that ever hovered round us.

Lydia had given me a second reason to
contemplate it. She had quietly told me, four weeks into our
affair, that she believed she was increasing. I was not surprised,
we had had been passionate without much restraint. She looked
worried when she had whispered the news, as though she feared I
would grow angry, or blame her, or end the affair.

In truth, the news affected me strangely. I
was glad, and I told her so. She had provided me with an excuse to
face what I had so long refused to face, but once confronting these
things, I would be free of them. I told her I would marry her.

I would need Grenville's help in preparing
the way, and I made my plans to approach him.

One evening, Grenville took me to a
performance of an Austrian lady violinist with whom gossip had
begun pairing him. Anastasia Froehm would play at a musicale hosted
by a French exile who had decided to remain in England even after
Louis XVIII's restoration. Grenville obtained an invitation for me,
and we strolled into the Comtesse du Lille's house in Upper Brook
Street just as Mrs. Froehm began to play.

Anastasia Froehm was not pretty of face,
though she had plump arms and fine brown eyes. But when she played,
she filled the air with sweetness. She had loveliness inside her,
and it poured through her fingers and through her instrument to
entrance us. Grenville's eyes gleamed with pride, and a small smile
tugged at his mouth.

At the end of the performance, however, he
did not join the throng that greeted her, and instead expressed the
wish to depart abruptly for his club. I thought this odd and rude,
and told him so.

"Nonsense, Lacey," Grenville said as he sent
a footman running for his carriage. "I am hungry. We will go to
Watier's. The food is tolerable there."

He did not even offer to introduce me to Mrs.
Froehmm so that I could pay my compliments. I held my tongue, but
wondered. Once inside his carriage with cushions at my back and the
sweet scent of wax rising from the lanterns, I questioned him. "Do
you tell me that you find the charms of Marianne Simmons far
superior to Mrs. Froehm's? I will call you mad and a blackguard if
you do."

He frowned. "What devil has Marianne got to
do with Mrs. Froehm?"

"Are you not Mrs. Froehm’s paramour?"

He fixed me with a black stare. "I thought
you of all people would not believe what you read in the
newspapers."

I shrugged. "You escort her everywhere and
you have been elusive of late."

He regarded me for a long moment. As I met
his enigmatic stare, I realized just how little I knew this man. We
had investigated puzzles together, but he showed me only the facets
of himself that he wanted me to see.

At last, he spoke. "If I tell you the truth,
Lacey, you must keep it to yourself."

"Everything you say to me is in confidence,"
I said.

"I mean no offense. It is the lady's secret,
not mine. I met Anastasia in Italy a year or so ago, and we became
fast friends. When she came to London, she wrote me and asked if
I'd be her escort, because she did not want to spend her time
fending off offers of protection. She wanted to live quietly, and
if she was seen about with me, would-be suitors would leave her
alone."

"That is no doubt true," I conceded. "But she
does not mind gossip pairing your names?"

"Not in the least. She will return to the
continent soon, and all will be at an end. She did me a good turn
in Italy and I decided I would do her one here. That is all."

I studied him a moment, wondering what the
"good turn" was. He returned the look blandly, and I knew that
tonight, at least, my curiosity would go unsatisfied.

We did not speak again until we arrived at
Watier's in Piccadilly at Bolton Street. Grenville called the food
here
tolerable
, but only because he employed the best chef
in the country. Compared to the clubs that served boiled beef and
lifeless greens, Watier's, begun by a chef of that name who had
worked for the Prince of Wales, was culinary paradise. Deep play
was to be found here, but it was the food that drew gentlemen forth
from the sanctums of White's and Brooks's. We dined on tender meat
and fish and fine wine and delicate bread.

After supper, to my dismay, we also found Mr.
Allandale.

I had managed to avoid him, thanks to
William, while making my illicit visits to Lydia. Now, in the card
room, he turned to us, a fixed smile on his face, betraying nothing
of the flash of temper I'd glimpsed beneath his mild façade on our
last meeting.

Mr. Allandale was not alone. Two gentlemen
stood with him, one older, one younger, obviously father and son.
The son could only have been just down from university; his face
was still downy soft and lacked the hardness of experience. His
hair was pale yellow and trained into fashionable curls made
popular by poets and artists. His expensive suit copied Grenville's
tastes, and he seemed quite eager to greet us. As I shook his hand,
I beheld in his wide gray eyes a vast innocence, one unprepared for
the realities of the world.

The father was a baronet, Sir Gideon Derwent,
and I found in his eyes the same deep-seated innocence that dwelled
in his son's.

Sir Gideon fastened an awed gaze upon me.
"You were a dragoon?" he queried. "Good heavens. Did you see
action?"

"India and the Dutch campaign," I replied
laconically. "Then the Peninsula. Not Waterloo, I am afraid."

They'd be disappointed. Waterloo made one a
hero, even if one had remained behind in camp guarding the water
sacks. The Derwents did not seem to mind this, however.

Leland, the son, asked, "Did you lead many
charges?"

"A good many more than I would have liked.
And then back again after we'd run too far."

I'd hoped my self-deprecating humor would
break their intense stares. It did not.

"You must have many stories to tell,
Captain," Leland said.

Allandale suddenly interposed, his voice
smooth. "Indeed, he is a most entertaining dinner companion. I
myself was much delighted with his company several weeks ago."

I was surprised he did not turn purple with
the effort of the lie. He had not wanted me there. The room had
been palpable with it.

Father and son exchanged a look. "Well then,"
Sir Gideon said hopefully. "Certainly we would be honored to have
you at our supper table, Captain Lacey. Perhaps Monday week?"

I looked at the both of them hovering
anxiously upon my answer. It would be impolite to snub them, yet I
found their admiring gazes a bit unnerving.

I remained silent a moment too long. Leland
looked downcast. "Perhaps he will not be free, Father."

Of course I would be free. I had little to
fill my social calendar, I could assure them. But Sir Gideon spoke
before I could. "We will write to you, Captain, and fix a
date."

I could only agree, and after more exchanges
of pleasantries, we parted.

Grenville and I moved from Watier's to a
billiards room in St. James's Square. Once ensconced in a game,
Grenville remarked, "You have just met the most unworldly father
and son in all of England. The entire family is like them. All they
know of London and life is what they see between their front door
and their carriage door. God help them."

"They seemed kind."

"They are. Unequivocally so. To their credit,
they are also the most honest beings you will ever meet. If they
professed interest in you, it was not feigned."

"Then it would be rude of me to refuse their
invitation."

He smiled. "Be prepared to be questioned to
death. But they mean well. And you should cultivate them. The
Derwents are acquaintances of Sir Edward Connaught. I should have
thought of them at once."

That, of course, clinched the matter. When
Sir Gideon wrote to me next day requesting my presence at his table
on the following Tuesday, I replied that I would come.

*** *** ***

The day I was to meet the Derwents, William
failed us. I strolled downstairs in Lydia's house at five o'clock
to find Allandale just coming in.

William, looking distressed, was busily
trying to turn him away. Allandale looked up, caught sight of me,
and stared in astonishment.

I stopped on the landing. Allandale gaped at
me. William helplessly held the door open. A hot breeze filled the
hall.

I came out of my standstill and continued
down. By the time I stepped off the last stair, Allandale was
spluttering.

"I do not understand. William said Mrs.
Westin was unwell. What are you doing here?"

I retrieved my hat and gloves from the table
myself, William having become fixed to the door handle. "Shall we
go out together, Allandale?"

Allandale stared past me and up the stairs.
"Where is she?"

I had left Lydia at her dressing table,
brushing out her long hair. I had wanted to linger and watch her,
but my supper appointment pressed me. I had put my hands on her
waist, kissed the nape of her neck, then taken my leave.

"Accompany me, Mr. Allandale," I said firmly.
I certainly did not want him waiting at the bottom of the stairs
for her like an outraged governess.

Again, his mask slipped. The habitual
pleasant expression left him. "How dare you."

I slapped my hat to my head, took Allandale
by the elbow, and steered him outside. William gave me an anguished
look as we passed. I said to him, "If Mr. Allandale tries to call
again tonight, or even tomorrow, do not admit him."

William, wide-eyed, nodded. He closed the
door behind us.

Allandale shook off my hold before we'd
walked five feet. "Explain yourself, sir. What the devil were you
doing upstairs in my mother-in-law's house?"

I set my mouth in a grim line. "I have
nothing to explain. And if you question her about it, I will not
overlook it. Do you understand me?"

He stopped. A hurrying gentleman, perspiring
in the heat, nearly ran him down. Grumbling, the gentleman pushed
past and went on.

"Good God, Lacey, you are a cad of the
highest water."

"It is not your business," I said.

"Not my business? She is the mother of the
woman I shall marry! Shall I let her be ruined by a fortune hunter?
I will not stand by and let you deceive her."

I caught his coat lapels, uncaring of others
in the street who stopped to gape. I jerked him close, glaring into
his flawless face. "I would do nothing to hurt her, you
thrice-damned idiot. If you speak one word of this to her, I will--
"

"Call me out?" He glared back, his shock
overcome.

"No, I will drag you to the Thames and throw
you in. Let the watermen fish you out. They will if you offer them
enough coin."

He swallowed. "You are mad enough to do
it."

"I am. If I discover that you have spoken to
her of this matter in any way, I advise you to dress in the suit
you most wish to ruin."

I released him. He landed on his feet,
looking startled, then he jerked from me and hastily smoothed his
coat. "I find it hard to credit that you are a friend of Mr.
Grenville's. He would be shocked at your behavior."

"In this case," I said, "I believe he'd agree
with me."

I turned on my heel, marched away, and left
him red and furious in the middle of the street.

*** *** ***

Every corner of London had its own
characteristic, every street its personality. Rich then poor then
rich ran together like water and cream. Mansions could give rise to
rookeries in two streets, and inhabitants of each would not know a
thing of what went on not a short walk away.

Not far from Grosvenor Square, where I made
my way to the house of the Derwents upon the appointed hour, had
stood Tyburn Tree, the infamous gallows where executions had taken
place until late in the last century. South of the old hanging
place, Mayfair had sprouted a swath of mansions, some of the finest
in London. The Derwents, Grenville had given me to understand, were
among the wealthiest citizens in England.

I wondered that I had not heard of the
Derwents before, but Grenville assured me they were also among the
humblest. Sir Gideon had sat in the House of Commons for many years
before retiring to spend more time with his family. He had been
made a baronet because of services to the realm, mostly
philanthropic. No one could claim to know a more disinterested
giver of money to the poor than Sir Gideon Derwent, and so George
III had been persuaded to honor him.

If he had given away a fortune to the London
poor, he must have had much to spare, I thought as I descended from
the hackney and gazed up at Derwent's enormous mansion.

Light glowed from every window, as though
they expected a crowd. I hoped not, as I was not in the mood to be
jovial to dozens of people I did not know.

The hackney driver grinned at me as I counted
shillings into his hand. "Someone's got friends in 'igh places," he
said. He chortled as he drove away.

Stately columns flanked a grand double-doored
entrance, and a red carpet stretched like a tongue over the small
bit of pavement to me. I wondered what exalted guest they were
expecting.

I soon learned. A butler met me at the door,
bowed formally, and ushered me into the house. A footman, equally
stately, though much younger, took my gloves and hat.

The butler led me through a massive hall,
equally as large as that in Lady Mary Fortescue's country house,
but thankfully, much more tastefully decorated. Gray, white, and
gold marbled columns marched along the walls, sheltering niches
that bore busts of prominent Greek and Roman scholars. Burgundy
hangings framed high windows in the rear, and soft gold panels
graced the ceiling.