A Regimental Murder (24 page)

The letter of promotion had been signed by
Westin, the regimental colonel. Breckenridge had won his rank of
major--after Colonel Spinnet had died.

I sat back, my thoughts spinning. John
Spencer viewed the rioting at Badajoz as culminating in the death
of his father. But what if we viewed it not as the murder of
Captain Spencer, who had come across the melee by chance, but as
the murder of
Colonel Spinnet
, an annoying cog in the wheel
who had prevented Breckenridge from advancing in rank?

Eggleston had claimed he'd had ideas. Had one
of those ideas been to corner Colonel Spinnet, under cover of
battle or the revelry following, and murder him? Had Eggleston seen
in the rioting at Badajoz a golden chance to rid his friend of the
bothersome Spinnet?

I remembered the confusion at Badajoz, the
drunken violence, the fear and horror, the futile attempts to stop
it. Who could have said whether a man had been killed by a stray
bullet or deliberately murdered by his fellow officers?

It was true that one of the four men killed
Captain Spencer. Which of them had pulled the trigger was still
unclear, but from out of the chaos, facts emerged, and
crystallized.

I sat back, drumming my fingers on the desk.
No wonder they worried about what Westin would say in the dock. He
might very well blurt the whole tale.

"What is it?" Travers asked.

I came out of my reverie and forced myself to
calm. Discovering the murder of Spinnet did not mean I'd discovered
who'd murdered any of the other, or even if the same person had
done so.

"I do not know," I said. "Maybe something,
maybe not."

Travers looked puzzled. He'd read everything
over my shoulder, and he seemed an intelligent enough lad. But he
had not been at Badajoz, could not know how justice had gone up in
the smoke of the siege fires and the aftermath. Breckenridge and
his friends had escaped that justice. At least then. It was
catching up to them now.

I swallowed the lump in my throat. "We should
finish," I said, "and rescue poor Leland."

Travers gave me the ghost of a grin. "Do not
worry about Leland. He is most resilient."

He must have been correct, because Lady
Breckenridge gave me a look of annoyance when Travers and I arrived
upstairs to fetch Leland. I had not played fair once again, her
expression said. Leland took his leave politely, seemingly
untarnished by his encounter with her.

She was right, I had not played fair. But I
had needed truth, and had been ready to take it in any way
possible. I bowed as I took my leave. Doubtless she would have spit
on me if we had been alone.

*** *** ***

Leland obligingly instructed his coachman to
take me to Grenville's. I wanted to tell him of my findings and ask
what he made of them. Grenville had a way of examining facts
without emotion, turning them over to see if they were what I'd
believed them to be. I thought sometimes that he ought to have been
a barrister.

When I arrived at his home in Grosvenor
Street, however, Bartholomew announced that Grenville had gone out
and was doubtless at White's. I started to turn away, but the blond
giant stopped me. "Wait, sir. I had an urgent message from Mrs.
Westin's footman, William, a few hours ago. He asked that if you
turned up here, would I send you down the road to the Westin house?
Mrs. Westin is gravely ill, he said."

* * * * *

Chapter Eighteen

The sweltering afternoon suddenly chilled.
The day's heat still radiated from the brick houses around me and
the stones beneath my feet, but I no longer felt it.

A strawberry seller approached the carriage,
smiled at the two young gentlemen. "Strawberries?" she queried.
"Ripe and sweet."

"Ill?" I repeated.

"Yes, sir," Bartholomew said. "The lad was
fair agitated."

I thought of Louisa and her recent "illness."
I thought of Major Connaught dying in his sleep in Sussex.

I swung away and began striding down
Grosvenor Street in the direction of Lydia Westin's home.

"Captain?" Leland's voice floated after
me.

It would make more sense to press my way down
the street in his carriage. But I could not stop. My feet moved, my
body automatically avoiding passersby, vendors, horses,
carriages.

I reached the Westin house. The doorknocker
was still gone. I pounded on the door with my gloved fist.

After a long time, and more pounding, I heard
male voices inside, and then William pulled open the door.

He had been weeping. His eyes were red, and
mucus puddled on his upper lip. "Sir!" he cried in obvious relief.
"You'd better come in."

He reached for me, then stopped, as though
just in time he remembered he was a footman and I was a gentleman.
I heard Leland's carriage halt behind me, but I could not turn
around, could not explain. I strode inside and left William to face
them.

The other voice I'd heard belonged to Mr.
Allandale. He hurried toward me as I sought the stairs.

"She is very ill, Captain." His handsome face
looked strained. "I have sent word to her daughter. I believe the
best thing we can do now is leave her alone."

I did not waste breath telling him what I
thought of that idea. I plunged up the stairs. Pain nudged my bad
leg, but I did not heed it.

I reached the second floor to see a maid rush
from Lydia's room, a soiled basin in her hands. She hastened toward
the back stairs and another maid scurried up past her with a clean
one.

Below me, Allandale called, "Captain, there
is nothing you can do."

I growled something and pushed my way into
the bedchamber.

Lydia lay among tangled sheets, her nightrail
pasted to her limbs with dark sweat. The room was close and
stinking, the window tightly shut. Lydia's face was dead white, her
eyes red-rimmed. Her long hair hung in loose hanks, snarls of dark
brown tangling her wrists and lying limply across her breasts.

As I entered, she put her head over the side
of the bed and vomited into the clean basin that the worried maid
had brought.

Spent, Lydia collapsed back into the pillows.
Montague, the lady's maid, leaned down and wiped her mouth.

Lydia's dull eyes focused on me; her cracked
lips parted. "Gabriel."

I came to the bed. I touched her forehead,
her cheeks. She was warm, but not fever-hot, thank God. I brushed a
lock of hair from her face.

A spasm wracked her, and she hastily sought
the edge of the bed. When the episode ended, she lay back weakly,
and Montague cleaned her mouth again.

I took her hand.

"Gabriel," she whispered. "I am so
sorry."

This was not a miscarriage. This was
something else. My fear did not abate.

"She needs a doctor," I snapped to the
maid.

"She has had a doctor," Montague said at
once. "He gave medicine. Shall I get more?"

"No!" Lydia jerked her hand from mine. "No, I
cannot." Her eyes were bright, worried. "I will only bring it up
again."

"Fetch her water," I said. "Lots of it. And
brandy. At once."

Montague looked doubtful. "I tried to bring
brandy before, sir. Monsieur Allandale said that she should not
have spirits."

"Monsieur Allandale is a horse's ass," I
said. "Fetch the brandy."

The maid with the basin whitened. Montague
sent me an approving smile. "Yes, sir."

"Gabriel." Lydia tried to sound reproachful.
Her lips trembled.

I laid my hand across her lower abdomen and
gently pressed it. I met only softness like eiderdown. I looked
quickly at her.

Her eyes were dark with hurt. "I am sorry,
Gabriel," she repeated.

Fresh pain flowed through me. I had been
wrong. She'd had a miscarriage. Just like Louisa.

At this moment, I finally understood the
grief that had lived in Louisa Brandon's eyes for years. A child, a
being, gone forever. A part of you, ripped away in an instant, and
you helpless to prevent it. If John Spencer had done this, I would
kill him myself.

My hand tightened on hers. Our gazes locked,
hers filled with trepidation. Did she fear my anger? Some
gentlemen, Brandon included, blamed their wives for miscarrying. An
army surgeon had once told me that miscarrying was not necessarily
the woman's fault. The child could be sick or dead, or there could
be a disease of the womb.

I leaned down and kissed her forehead, having
no words to reassure her.

Montague returned at the moment with a flagon
of brandy and a pitcher of water. She set both on the night table,
sloshing water onto the wood. I took up the glass she handed me,
filled it with water, and added a liberal dollop of brandy.

I lifted Lydia's head and pushed the glass to
her lips. "Drink."

She opened her mouth and let the liquid spill
in. Almost instantly, spasms began, and she started to turn for the
basin.

I held her fast, pressing my hand to her
mouth. "No. Swallow it. Take a deep breath, and swallow."

She obeyed. Her body spasmed and trembled,
but the water stayed down. For now.

I fed her more, small sips at a time. She
began to breathe more easily.

"Monsieur," Montague said. "William says
there are two gentlemen downstairs. They are arguing with Monsieur
Allandale."

Leland Derwent and Mr. Travers. "Good," I
said, tipping more brandy water into Lydia's mouth. "Tell Mr.
Derwent that I want him to drive to Greenwich. He is to find a
boardinghouse called The Climbing Rose, and fetch Mrs. Brandon from
it. Tell her I need her here most urgently, and on the moment. Can
you remember that?"

"Of course, monsieur. I will go at once." She
suited action to word.

"Do not," Lydia whispered. "I do not want--
"

I hushed her. "Louisa will know how to help
you. I will not let you die, love."

Tears leaked from her eyes, and she looked
away.

I fed her that glass of water, and another,
until at last her heaving stopped, and she lay quietly. I gently
stripped the sodden nightrail from her body and bathed her limbs in
cool water. I lifted her in my arms while Montague smoothed out the
bed, then I laid her down again, covering her with new sheets.

She slept for a time, her body still. I
stayed next to her in a chair the maid brought for me. When Lydia
twitched awake, I was there to soothe her. She sought my hand with
hers, and I held it until she slept again.

Darkness at last consumed the room. I ordered
the window open. Softer air slid through the closeness, the
coolness breaking the heat.

The clock struck two. I dozed, Lydia's hand
still in mine, her breathing even. I dimly wondered what had become
of Mr. Allandale. Had he left in a huff? Or did he still wait
downstairs, genuinely worried about his fiancee's mother?

I wondered as well, pain still holding its
fist around my heart, if Lydia, now that she had lost the child,
would want to marry me. The thought wove around the dark hours and
made them darker still.

And then Louisa was there. I started from my
doze to find her bending over me, her golden hair a pale smudge in
the darkness. Her hand on my cheek was cool, her whisper
soothing.

In the glow of the candle she held, she
looked well again, no longer pale and wan. Unhappiness still
lingered in her eyes, but she had regained strength.

She told me softly that I should go home and
sleep. I could not obey the directive to leave, but I did seek a
bed. The nearest one was in the chamber of the late Colonel Westin.
By the light of my lone candle I saw that the room had been rigidly
cleaned and stripped of any personal mementos Colonel Westin might
have brought home from his campaigning days. It was an anonymous
room, reflecting nothing of the man who'd lived there.

I laid myself on the bed Lydia’s husband had
been found dead in, and pulled the coverlet over me. I fell asleep
upon the instant, but I kept my face turned toward the door.

*** *** ***

In the bright light of morning, William, whom
I thought should long be remembered as a saint, brought me coffee,
soft, buttery croissants, ham, and eggs. I consumed the feast
hungrily, washed it down with more coffee, and tried to see
Lydia.

The maid stationed outside the door told me
that I was on no account to enter. When I started to protest, she
added that the order came from Mrs. Brandon, and would I please
meet Mrs. Brandon in the downstairs sitting room?

"Mrs. Westin is all right?" I asked in some
alarm.

To my relief, the maid nodded. "Yes, sir. She
is sleeping. Mrs. Brandon says all is well."

My knees went weak with relief. I turned on
my heel so the maid would not see my wet eyes and marched down the
stairs.

I waited not many minutes for Louisa in the
sunny back sitting room. She looked tired, but otherwise, her eyes
were bright and alert, and her waxen hue had gone.

I held out my hands. She took them, rose on
tiptoe to kiss my cheek, and released me.

"You were supposed to go home," she said.

"Did you really suppose I would?" I looked at
her. "It was good of you to come."

"How could I not? Your Mr. Derwent came
tearing in begging me to return with him as though the whole town
were on fire. I feared . . ." Her smiled dimmed, and she stopped.
"We were halfway to London before he could tell a coherent
story."

I wondered what she had feared. That I, or
Brandon, had done something foolish?

"How is Lydia?" I asked.

"Weak. Quite weak. And tired. But she will
mend. She ate some bread and kept that down. I believe the danger
has passed."

"Good," I said fervently. "Thank you."

She gave me an unreadable look. Her golden
curls were mussed, tangled strands of hair glinting in the
sunlight. "You knew she was carrying a child?"