Murder in Grosvenor Square (2 page)

“Some people resist being reformed,” I said. Well I knew this. I’d tried last year to help a street girl called Felicity, with mixed results. She was the lady in question Stubbins had been beating when I’d discovered him.

“Well, Eely won’t hear of it. Bless the boy.”

Travers called him
boy
, when the two were the same age. “Leland is a kind young man,” I said. “Heaven help him.”

Travers nodded. “Good thing he has me to look after him. His father is as kind, and sometimes as foolish.”

“But Sir Gideon is a man of much power, and he’s reached that state by being a philanthropist,” I pointed out. “Perhaps Leland will do the same.”

Travers tapped his ale tankard, shaking his head in mild exasperation. “Perhaps, but until then, it falls to
me
to keep the lad out of scrapes.”

“He is lucky to have such a friend,” I said in all sincerity.

Travers glanced at me a moment, his brows drawing together. Then he drained the rest of his pint and rose with restless energy.

“Pleased to have met you, Captain.” Gareth stuck out his hand as I got to my feet, and I shook it. “I look forward to dining with you at the Derwents next time. Good day.”

As he started for the door, I had a thought. “Mr. Travers, a moment.”

Travers waited for me as I grabbed my hat and then walked with him out the door. When we stepped into the fine weather, I spoke to him in a low voice. “How do you feel about settling questions of honor?”

Travers raised his brows but gave me a shrewd look. “Why do you ask, Captain?”

“I need a friend,” I said. “One to stand by me, with Grenville. Next week, on Lady Day, early in the morning.”

“I see.” Travers set his hat on his head. “Should I speak to Mr. Grenville about the particulars?”

“Indeed. That would be best.” I hesitated then said delicately, “Perhaps Leland and Mr. Derwent do not need to know of your plans.”

Travers shot me a sudden grin, the look in his eyes one of satisfaction, almost triumph, which puzzled me a bit. “I believe I understand you.” He shook my hand again, squeezing my fingers warmly. “Well met, Captain.” With that Travers gave me a nod, and walked away into the crowd, whistling.

*

I survived Donata’s soiree that night without too much damage. She was always very careful with her guest list, and I could not fault the time spent talking with people I truly liked and respected.

Things were rather tense, however, in the Lacey household for the next few days, the knowledge that I would meet an unsavory gentleman early on the upcoming morning for a dangerous act keeping us terse. To that end, my daughter Gabriella, who was staying with us for the Season, had been sent to spend a few weeks with Lady Aline Carrington, to prepare for her come-out ball Donata planned for later in the Season. I missed Gabriella, and wanted the duel over with so I could return to my newfound domestic bliss.

Donata was all for me teaching Stubby a lesson, but she was worried, I could see. She did not say much, but her look told me everything.

Grenville and Travers paid a call on me to go over the particulars of the duel. Though Grenville spoke with his usual sangfroid, I could sense his anxiousness. Travers, on the other hand, was excited, and quite flattered I’d chosen him as my other second.

Whatever Travers had wanted to say to me in the tavern, I never learned. With much on my mind, I did not pursue it.

And so we came to Lady Day, and my appointment.

Chapter Two

Fog shrouded the green deep in the middle of Hyde Park, blotting out the rest of London. I blessed the mists which closed around us like clinging fingers. No one would be able to see us here, and by the time the noise reached a watchman or foot patroller, we’d be finished and gone.

I wore my new suit, a black affair of thick cashmere, my waistcoat ivory satin. It was the finest suit I’d ever owned, and I would waste it on a duel.

Stubby Stubbins and his seconds arrived moments after I did. Stubby was tall but rail-thin, with light brown hair he’d slicked with pomade. His eyes, a shade of blue so pale that they washed out into his face, fixed on me in burning anger. His coat’s shoulders were padded wide as was the fashion, making his torso a severe upside-down triangle.

Grenville, who’d brought me here in his carriage, did
not
wear the padded shoulders in his silent condemnation of the latest craze. I had no doubt that, without his approval, the fashion would quickly disappear.

Grenville opened his box of finest dueling pistols. They were made by Wogdon, dull black with silver inlay on the hammer and barrel. They’d been so masterfully wrought, it was difficult to believe they were lethal. I chose one, hefted its weight, tested the trigger, then handed it back to Grenville.

One of Stubbins’ seconds, Chetterly, I remembered his name was, came forward. He threw me a nervous glance but spoke only to Grenville.

“His lordship brought pistols. He would be honored if Captain Lacey were to use one of them.”

I took a step back, pretending to adjust my coat and survey the ground. The logistics of the duel were entirely the purview of the seconds.

“Captain Lacey respectfully declines, though we thank Stubbins for the offer,” Grenville said. “Each combatant will use his own weapon, as we previously decided.”

Chetterly nodded, looking happy not to pursue the matter. “Very well. The ground is to our liking. Two shots, one from each, will satisfy. Signal me when ready.”

As the challenger, Stubby had the right to name the time and place, and I’d agreed with it. I had to admit he’d chosen well—or rather, I suspect his seconds did for him. We were in the heart of Hyde Park, early in the morning, spring fog obligingly obscuring us. The stretch of grass was well tended, making footing good. No one needed to die because someone slipped.

Grenville watched Chetterly in dislike as the man walked away. “I do
not
trust Stubbins not to have mucked about with the pistol he’d offer you, to make it jam, or fool your aim, or even blow up in your face.”

“Not very honorable,” I said dryly. “In this affair of honor.”

“Stubby is a cheat at heart. I’ve known him a long while, unfortunately. I hope he remembers which is his good pistol and doesn’t choose the one he meant for you.” Grenville laughed, but his laughter was tight.

I caught his gaze, keeping mine steady. “I’ll not die this day, Grenville.”

“I hope not, my dear fellow,” Grenville said, his words light. “I haven’t finished telling you the tales of my travels, and I do like an attentive audience.”

The fog parted like a billowing curtain to admit another man, obscured by shadow. Grenville straightened up, putting his body in front of the box of pistols he’d set on a folding table, which his valet had brought for the purpose. The man who emerged from the mists, however, was Gareth Travers, dressed in a suit almost as fine as mine.

He gave me a nod as he approached. “Captain. Well met.”

I returned the greeting, shaking Travers’s offered hand. His grip was strong, but I could feel him trembling.

“I’ve fought battles of honor before, gentlemen,” I said, releasing him. “And here I stand.”

Grenville shot me a look, as though I were not appreciative enough of my own luck, and turned to Travers. “Right. This is the point where we speak again to the seconds and try to resolve this without bloodshed.”

He sounded hopeful, but I knew better. Stubbins’ friends were as pigheaded as he was.

I watched Grenville and Travers walk to the middle of the green to meet Danielson and Chetterly. The four men looked much alike in their dun-colored greatcoats, tall hats, and dark trousers.

Grenville and Travers returned. “I’m afraid you’re carrying on with the appointment,” Grenville said. “Stubby believes he has the guidance of angels.” His look turned grave. “Watch yourself, Lacey.”

I intended to. Grenville loaded the pistol himself—I wanted someone who knew what he was about to do it right. He tipped fine black powder into the barrel through the muzzle, so skillfully that the March breeze took nothing away. He tamped it down with the ramrod, added a cloth wad, tamped that down, then finally slid in a ball and another cloth, repeating the tamping. Grenville half-cocked the gun and primed the pan with a small amount of powder—when the hammer struck the pan, the resulting spark would set off the gunpowder inside the barrel and discharge the pistol.

Grenville checked that all was solidly inside—no ball rolling out before I could fire—and offered me the pistol, butt first. I shucked my greatcoat and my frock coat, Grenville’s valet coming out of the shadows to take them from me. I handed him my walking stick, preferring to balance without it for shooting.

As Gautier, the valet, scuttled away again, folding the coats over his arm, I took the pistol from Grenville.

All was ready. Time to walk out and meet Stubbins.

Stubbins wouldn’t look me in the eye when we met in the middle of the green, though I stared straight at him. Stubby’s chest heaved with agitated breath, but I did not read fear in him so much as determination. He was anxious to kill me.

“Gentlemen,” Chetterly said. “Walk twelve paces, turn, and fire when ready.”

I gave Stubbins a curt bow and put my back to him. I didn’t wait to see whether he had pivoted around to begin his walk, I simply went, counting my paces.

As I made my way to my mark, I noticed another man in the mists, standing far enough back in the fog to shroud his features. I had no need to see him clearly, however, to recognize the bulk of James Denis’s man Brewster—one of the pugilists he employed as guards. Brewster had been told to watch, I assumed, and report the outcome to his master.

When I reached my twelfth step, I turned and brought up my pistol.

Stubbins swung around at the same time, and he fired.

I saw the flash of his powder, heard the roar of the gun a bare moment later. Death headed straight for me, but I didn’t move. To dive to the ground, to run, would mean Stubbins would win the day, his honor satisfied.

I continued steadying my aim in the hanging time from the flash of Stubby’s pistol to the outcome of the shot. Everything stilled—then propelled forward very fast. One moment I was sighting down my barrel, the next, I was dancing backward as a wad of earth exploded at my feet, spattering mud up my new trousers and shirt and into my face.

Bloody man. The ball had plowed into the ground inches from where my right foot had been. No doubt he’d been aiming for my head, but his miss had nearly crippled me.

I lost my temper. I raised the pistol and sighted down it again, calculating how much to compensate for the wind and the distance, ready to teach the idiot a lesson.

At the other end of the green, Stubbins began to gibber. He assessed my straight body, my rock-steady hand, and knew he was about to die. I sensed Grenville and Travers, on either side of me, tense, waiting to see what I’d do.

Stubby’s gibbering turned to wails of distress. His seconds quavered, clearly wondering whether to dart forward and stop the duel or let me proceed.

I could always delope; that is, fire into the air, declaring the contest over. Honor fulfilled. After all, I’d been the one who’d beaten Stubbins down, the one who’d insulted him.

I thought of Felicity, crouching in the dingy bedchamber above a taproom, terrified and in pain, and Stubbins slashing at her bare back with a strap. She’d been crying, pleading, and Stubbins had gone at her, enjoyment in his eyes. He’d sealed his own fate.

I completed my aim, and pulled the trigger.

A loud
bang
sounded as my pistol went off. Smoke curled in my nose, and powder stung my face like grains of fine sand.

Stubby’s pale lawn shirtsleeve erupted in blood, crimson coating the fabric. The bullet, traveling true to my will, entered Stubbins in the fleshy part of his right arm.

The man stared at his red sleeve for a split second, then he started to scream. He collapsed to the ground, clutching the wound, his screams escalating. His seconds swarmed around him, shouting at him to lie still, to let them see the wound.

I turned away and handed the spent pistol to a white-faced Grenville.

Travers was watching me, open-mouthed. “Did you miss?” he asked in a strained voice.

Grenville was already shaking his head before I answered.

“No,” I said. “He’ll hurt, and he’ll be scarred, but he’ll live.” Every time Stubbins undressed, he’d see the scars on his upper arm and remember me.

Travers only stared at me. A swallow moved down his slender throat.

As I tried to scrape mud from my ruined shirt, Gautier came hurrying forward. “Sirs!”

He pointed to the bottom of the green, where the mists were yellowing with the coming day. Several men strode out of the fog, led by a man in a black suit who walked with an arrogant stride. I recognized the Bow Street Runner called Spendlove.

I calmly took my coat and greatcoat from Gautier. “Go,” I said to Travers. “Now.” I had no doubt that Spendlove was coming to arrest me for shooting Stubbins and would happily arrest Grenville and Travers as well.

Travers looked indignant. “And leave you hanging? What kind of friend would I be?”

“One who doesn’t come up before a magistrate,” I said. “Go on.”

Travers gave me a stubborn look in spite of another swallow bobbing in his throat. He squared his shoulders. “I’ll not desert you.”

I ignored him and beckoned to Brewster, who came forward without concern. Grenville calmly wiped down the pistol, emptied the remnants of the powder from the pan, and returned the pistol to the box. He was not going to save himself either.

Brewster reached us. I caught Travers by the arm and pushed him toward the pugilist. “Take him home,” I said.

Brewster nodded, putting his beefy hand on Travers’s shoulder. Travers sent me an unhappy look, but I noted he didn’t bother trying to fight the giant at his side.

“You too, sir,” Brewster said in his deep voice. “Mr. Denis said be sure you wasn’t arrested.”

“I’ll look after myself,” I said. “Please take Mr. Travers out of here.”