Murder in Grosvenor Square (13 page)

Where Lord Percy might have defied me and certainly Brewster, he’d never refuse a direct order from Grenville.

“Of course,” he said, as though he and Grenville were deciding to have a private word at White’s. “Miss Simmons.” Lord Percy gave Marianne stiff bow, took up his hat and greatcoat from where he’d pitched them to the chair at my writing table, and walked past me to the door.

Grenville had already exited, moving unworriedly around Brewster. He did not wait for Lord Percy but simply walked down the stairs as though having no doubt the man would follow.

Percy did, quickly. He barely remembered to give me a civil nod, ignored Brewster as Grenville had, and strode down the stairs.

I knew Marianne would begin shouting as soon as the two gentlemen were out of sight, but they’d be able to hear until they were well out onto the street. I took her by the arm and steered her into the bedchamber, closing the door on Brewster’s interested face.

“Devil a bit, Lacey.” Marianne’s voice rang through the room as she jerked away from me. “Why did you bring Grenville here? You knew Lord Percy was meeting me, didn’t you? You are hand in glove with
him
, trying to ruin me!”

I folded my arms, standing like a pillar at the end of my bed. “How would I have had any bloody idea Saunders would be here? I didn’t even know you knew the man. I came to discuss something else entirely. In any case, why the devil were you using my rooms for your tryst?”

“As though I could take him up
there
where it’s barren as an orphanage.” She jabbed her finger at the ceiling. “I thought you’d be off investigating crime, or holding young Mr. Derwent’s hand.”

“I
am
investigating. Which is what brought me to talk to you. About Mr. Mackay.”

Marianne’s diatribe cut off, and she shot me a puzzled look.

“The man who arrived here last night to take me to Leland,” I said. “I sent him back to you, to ask you to find Grenville.”

“Oh,
him
.” Marianne rolled her eyes. “He was a poor specimen. He was sick in the street then tore off as soon as I sent the message.”

“That was Mr. Mackay. If you will sit down and speak quietly, perhaps you could tell me about him.”

She blinked. “I can’t tell you anything about him. I barely said a word to the man.”

I began to answer, then broke off, opened the door, and ushered her out into the sitting room again. We could at least be comfortable. Brewster had settled himself on the straight-backed chair, reading one of the few books I kept in my shelves, a small tome on Egypt and Belzoni’s discoveries. He was truly reading it, his eyes moving along the lines.

I sat Marianne in the wing chair and remained standing over her. “You can tell me a little about Mr. Mackay,” I said. “What did you think of him? Was he middle class? Impoverished but respectable? A clerk? A gentleman’s son? Did he mention where he lived?”

“Yes, of course,” Marianne said derisively. “He gave me his entire family history and a map to his estate in Norwood while he was blithering and dithering about what you wanted him to do.”

I suppressed a sigh of impatience. “He might not have been specific. But you are good at forming impressions, Marianne. I want your opinion.”

“Well, apparently I am very bad at forming impressions, or I’d not have made myself a slave to
him
for most of a year.”

Brewster snorted a laugh, and Marianne turned a freezing look on him. “I’ll thank you not to listen, sir.”

“I’m ten feet away from yer, miss.” Brewster, who did not consider himself a servant and saw no need to behave like one, returned his attention to the book. “You know, Captain, his nibs can find out all about this Mackay cove for you.”

“Possibly,” I said. “But he might be an innocent man with no need to be dragged from his house by Mr. Denis.”

Brewster shrugged. “He gets the thing done, though, doesn’t he?” Having said his piece, he closed his mouth and continued reading.

Marianne’s look suggested I was mad to let Brewster into my rooms, but she at least began speaking reasonably.

“I would think your Mr. Mackay is a gentleman’s son,” she said. “Had the look. Not a rich gentleman, I’d say, but not a destitute one either. Coat was well cut and made of good material. Boots made to fit, but no rings or cravat pin. His manservant, if he has one, ties a sloppy knot, but his cravat linen costs a bob or two.”

“You see? You have a knack for knowing what a person is like.”

Marianne scowled. “Do not try to flatter me—I am furious with you for bringing
him
here. Good Lord, could you not have left him in a pub somewhere?”

Another laugh from Brewster, which, this time, Marianne ignored.

“He insisted,” I said. “I would have given you warning if I’d been able. Did Mackay say anything else to you? Anything that would help?”

Marianne thought a moment. “Not really. What he said was,
You must send for Mr. Grenville. He said you must send for Mr. Grenville.
He repeated this several times, and then had to run downstairs and bend over the pavement to lose whatever he had in his stomach. Once I fetched a boy to run with a message to Mayfair
—
which I paid for, by the bye—Mr. Mackay had dashed off.”

“You did not see which way?”

“I saw him turn left onto Russel Street. He could have been making for a hackney stand, or simply running off into the mists. Who knows?”

“Thank you.” I dug into my pocket and pulled out a crown, which would more than cover her expenses, and dropped it into her waiting palm. “It is a help.”

“I do not see how, but nonetheless.” Marianne heaved a sigh and threw herself back into the wing chair, her hand closed firmly around the coin. “Do go away now, Lacey. I would like to sulk in peace.”

In my rooms. I felt sympathy for her, but also exasperation. I had since the day I’d met her.

“Tell me,” I said to her as I signaled to Brewster. He rose and set the book aside. “Why Lord Percy?”

Marianne gave me a deprecating look. “Because he has plenty of money and doesn’t tell me what to do. No, he has not yet offered me anything, and because of your so timely interruption, I doubt he will.” She rose to her feet, deigning to leave. “Now if you will excuse me. Good day, Lacey.”

She swept past me, and out the door, as arrogant as ever, but I saw the despair in her eyes. I watched her ascend the stairs, her thin gown floating gracefully, until she disappeared into her rooms above.

“She’ll lead that aristo a life of merry hell if he does offer her
carte blanche
,” Brewster said. He lifted a book from the table, enclosing it in his beefy hands. “Mind if I borrow this, sir? It’s fascinating stuff.”

Chapter Thirteen

My next idea was to retrace the steps Leland and Travers had taken the previous night. They’d planned to meet at Brooks’s, where Leland and his father were members, and to Brooks’s I would go.

Percy Saunders had vanished by the time I emerged downstairs. Grenville, tight-lipped when I reached his carriage in Russel Street, said nothing at all about him.

We first returned to Seven Dials to fetch Matthias and Bartholomew, but they asked to stay and keep looking about. Grenville agreed they could meet up with us again at his home, gave them fare for transportation and a spot of luncheon, and he and I departed for St. James’s.

Brooks’s club was in St. James’s Street near Park Place. With its elegant facade, Doric columns, and Greek pediments, it held a quiet dignity amid the bustle of the area. Its members were traditionally Whigs, and Sir Gideon Derwent was prominent here.

I considered myself Whiggish, as my father had been, though I had no true political leanings. My father had chosen to align himself with the Whigs because the Lacey family had done so since Whigs had been invented, and my father was happy for the ruling power to be out of the hands of the monarch and into hands of people like himself. Not because he wanted to better England, but because he hated others telling him what to do.

Grenville was a member of Brooks’s, and I was allowed in as his guest. Once upon a time, I had cornered one of the members here, a man called Alandale, and done harm to him. I had thought I’d be banished from these halls forever because of that, but not so. Grenville and others had stood up for me, and while the
ton
had decided I was a bit of a bully, being hot-tempered and quick with fists was a far lesser crime than breaking one’s word, not paying one’s debts, or worst of all, cheating. Gentlemen of society had learned that I was at my most enraged when the honor of a lady was at stake, and that motive was wholly approved. Not many had liked Alandale anyway—I’d not seen him in London since.

This was one building Brewster could not enter, at least not into the main rooms, and he chose to wait outside with the coach. The club was fairly empty this early in the day, containing only a few gentlemen breakfasting or reading newspapers.

The most logical person to quiz was the doorman, who knew all members on sight, and the most likely person to take note of the comings and goings.

“Yes, Mr. Derwent was here, Mr. Travers as his guest.” The elderly gentleman stood ramrod straight and watched us with disdainful dark eyes. “They had mutton and beef in the dining room and sat at a game of whist in the card room. Mr. Derwent plays like a gentleman, if I may say so, sir.”

Did I detect a faint hint of emphasis on
Derwent
? As though implying Travers did not?

“Indeed, he does,” Grenville said. “What time did the gentlemen depart?”

“Very early, sir. Around eight o’clock. I assumed them on their way to another appointment.”

“Oh?” I broke in. “Why did you suppose that?”

The doorman gave me a pained look. He was much more comfortable speaking to Grenville and attempted to pretend I did not exist, but he at least thought about it a moment. “I couldn’t say, sir. Perhaps they mentioned a meeting. I did not hear precisely, but I formed that opinion.”

“They left quite alone?” I asked. “The two of them together?”

“Several gentlemen were coming and going at the time,” the doorman said, looking down his nose. “Many were taking an evening meal.”

“It’s quite all right, Richards,” Grenville said soothingly. “What we mean is, they were not obviously part of a group of gentlemen?”

“Not that I could see, sir,” Richards answered. He looked back and forth between us, beginning to wonder at our questions. “Has something happened?”

Grenville looked at me inquiringly, and I nodded. We could not keep it from the world for long.

“Mr. Derwent was hurt last evening,” Grenville said. “Set upon and robbed.”

Richards’s haughty look vanished to be replaced with one of concern. “Good Lord, sir. Is the lad all right?”

“We have hopes of his recovery,” Grenville said. “But it is not certain at the moment, I am afraid.”

“Why do you wish to know if he left with others, sir?” Richards asked, puzzled. “Surely you do not believe other gentlemen of this club are common robbers.”

“No, no, not at all,” Grenville said quickly. “We are trying to determine where they might have gone, if they’d met up with unsavory types—through no fault of their own, of course.” He added the last as Richards’s eyes began to widen again. “But you know the Derwents. Always trying to help the downtrodden. We want to find these villains and see that they come up before a magistrate.”

“That’s what Bow Street’s for, innit?” Richards’s speech began to slip into its East London origins.

“Yes, but we wish to assist any way we can. Young Leland is a dear friend.”

“Of course, sir. Of course.” Richards snapped back into his butler-like tones. “But I do not believe Mr. Derwent left this club with anyone but Mr. Travers. Mr. Travers would know, sir. Thick as thieves those two are.”

“Unfortunately, Mr. Travers was hurt as well, and can tell us nothing,” Grenville said. “Thank you, Richards. If you hear anything else, you will send word to me, won’t you?”

Richards assured him he would, and we moved into the heart of the club.

The games room was quiet this morning. Its heavy chandelier hung dark from the vaulted ceiling, which formed a graceful arch over us. The large round tables were empty except for a few gentlemen who idly drank coffee and read newspapers.

I recognized one as the Honorable Mr. Henry Lawrence, son of a marquis. Mr. Lawrence had the reputation of being a man of many appetites, some of them disreputable, though no one had ever stated this to me outright. There were whispers, however, that did not bear close examination.

In light of what had happened to Leland and Gareth, I wanted to know more about him. If the two lads had been lured away, someone like Lawrence might be able to point to where they’d gone and why.

Mr. Lawrence’s red-rimmed eyes, peering over his newspaper as we boldly sat down at his table, told me he’d had a very late night and wished he’d remained in bed this morning. He had thinning dark hair and a face covered with dark bristles. His hazel eyes, though bloodshot, held intelligence, and he twinkled them at me as though he guessed my interest in him.

“Mr. Derwent and Mr. Travers,” Lawrence said after he and Grenville had exchanged polite greetings, and Grenville had asked the question. “I did not speak to them much, Captain Lacey,” he said to me. “I promise. They are much too innocent for me, though Mr. Derwent has the loveliest hair. Like spun silk it is, do you not think?”

Grenville gazed at him steadily. “May we keep this civilized, Lawrence?”

“Of course, my dear Grenville.” Lawrence set down his newspaper and lifted his hands in surrender. “But the captain wanted you to speak to me, because he believes I lust after young Mr. Derwent, and he does not approve. Look at his face. You know it to be true.”

I frowned at him, my hands curling in my lap. “We are only interested in where Mr. Derwent and Mr. Travers went after they left here.”

“Hmm, well.” Lawrence debated, lowering his hands and closing his long fingers around a coffee cup. “You will have to promise me that if I confide in you, Captain, what I say will never come to the ears of your Runner friend.”