Murder in Grosvenor Square (27 page)

Reverend Travers put his lips to my ear. “Could you ask young Mr. Derwent to return the book? I will need it.”

“Book?” I whispered. Surely not the French erotica … but my interest piqued.

“A prayer book. About so big.” Mr. Travers released my hand to frame the air approximately five inches high by a few across. “It was mine, has been in my family for years. I gave it to him at New Year’s, but now that Gareth is gone, it belongs at home.”

Ah.
I drew back, disappointed. A family Book of Common Prayer would not be as costly as a valuable French tome filled with drawings, even risqué ones.

“Certainly,” I said. “When I next visit the Derwents I will inquire.”

“Thank you, sir. You are a gentleman.”

Mrs. Travers looked daggers at both me and her husband. I was not certain whether she had heard or was angry because she hadn’t.

Grenville expressed his condolences to the reverend once again, and we both took our leave.

“Good Lord,” Grenville said in a quiet voice as we made our way to his carriage, Brewster following. “Mrs. Travers must have been a comely woman once, but she has thoroughly ruined her looks. And so young too. Tragic.”

I tried to be charitable. “She cannot have an easy time, married to an elderly man who lives in his cups.”

“She has my sympathy, of course, but only so far,” Grenville said. “I’ve met ladies with difficult husbands who manage to remain both lovely and agreeable. She has decided what she will be.”

“Some women are born shrews,” Brewster said unapologetically. “They’d be that way no matter who they married.” With that, he climbed up onto the seat with the coachman, and Grenville’s footman helped us into the carriage.

As we went, I told Grenville that Bartholomew had informed me of finding Leland’s clothes, which he confirmed.

“I thought it kindest to let the man have them,” Grenville said. “The chap was terrified. I gave him some coin as well. I do not think he had anything to do with the attack, before you ask. If he did see what happened, he was far too afraid to tell me.”

“Well, if you could not persuade him to tell you all, I doubt I could. But Sir Gideon might.”

“True.” Grenville subsided. “We would have to take Sir Gideon to the man, however. I doubt Mr. Olmstead will travel to Mayfair.”

So be it. I, in turn, told Grenville about Freddie Hilliard’s visit to the Bull and Hen, and my speculation about their intended meeting with Mackay, who was now dead. Grenville knew about the death—Matthias and Bartholomew had dutifully reported it to him—and he looked interested at what Freddie had observed.

As we rumbled over Blackfriars Bridge and headed toward Mayfair, Grenville said, “Why don’t you take dinner with me, Lacey? We’ll have a long natter over this case and sift through everything we’ve learned.”

I shook my head. “Gabriella comes home today. I want to be there when she arrives.”

“Ah, yes, that is so. In that case, I will descend at my club. Jackson will be happy to deliver you to South Audley Street.” He idly lifted the blind and looked out at the Strand as we passed along it. “By the way,” he said in a casual tone, “I have ceased to be on intimate terms with Signora Carlotti. I decided I could hardly warn Percy Saunders off Marianne and then pursue my own
inamorata
. Signora Carlotti is a shrewd woman, and we parted amicably.” He dropped the blind and gave me a wry smile. “I am certain Paola has someone waiting in the wings, so to speak. I went to Marianne and used the excuse of explaining your scheme of her finding someone to send to the Bull and Hen to tell her what I’d done.”

Thus explaining his absence at the musicale, and Marianne’s better spirits on our adventure the night before.

“As you can imagine, she was very angry with me over Saunders,” Grenville said with a slight smile. “I do understand her predicament—she has had to grub her way for so long, she thought to continue grubbing with Saunders. I have set up a trust for her, to pay her and her son an annuity for the rest of their lives, even if she marries and hands over every penny of her share to her husband. Least I could do for her putting up with me.”

“That was uncommonly generous of you,” I said, impressed.

Grenville’s hand on his walking stick stiffened. “I know you think me a fool. But I won’t see her starve because we could not get on. She shall not prostitute herself to selfishly cruel fellows like Saunders. Or marry a brute to keep herself and young David fed. I have only ever wanted to help her.”

He glanced out the window again, but I saw the depth of emotion in his eyes. I realized in that moment that Grenville loved her.

The revelation surprised me, but it should not have. Grenville had always been different with Marianne, both kind and bad-tempered at the same time. He’d never quite taken to any other woman since he’d made her acquaintance.

I waited to let him regain his composure, before I asked, “And how did Marianne take this news?”

Grenville flashed me a sudden grin. “Once I made her understand, I am pleased to say that, for the first time since meeting her, I rendered her speechless.”

*

I returned to a home that was lively and chaotic, which was just what I needed. Gareth’s funeral had stirred my melancholia, but in a house preparing for my daughter’s return, I had no opportunity to indulge in it.

Donata saw me from the first floor landing and started down to me. I met her partway up, took her by the elbows, pushed her against the wall, and kissed her, hard, on the lips. Her protests silenced as soon as her back touched the paneling, and her eyes sparkled with interest.

I would not have embarrassed her so in other circumstances. But the sound of earth hitting the coffin still echoed in my ears, and I needed life to chase away the clinging odor of death.

Donata was life. She looked upon it, seized it with both hands, and wrested it to her will. She was warm and welcoming, and had enough spice to chase away dullness.

She gave me a calculating look when I released her. The glimmer in her blue eyes told me she was not displeased with what I’d done, no matter that all her servants busily rushed about us.

She touched my cheek, her fingers gentle. “Sir Gideon sent word that Leland is awake again and asking for you. Why don’t you run along, Gabriel? Your daughter isn’t due for another few hours, and you’ll only be in the way here.”

I leaned my fist to the wall near her head. All the responses I could make flitted through my mind, and I decided on one.

“God bless you.” I kissed her lips again, and took myself away.

*

Leland did not look much better. He lay flat on his back, his face too white, his hair in lank and unwashed wisps. His eyes were hollow, with a sunken look that disquieted me.

I sat down beside him in the chair that had become fixed in that position. The seat was flattened now from Catherine Danbury, Melissa, Lady Derwent, Louisa, and Sir Gideon hunkering there, waiting for what would come.

Leland studied me a long while, his lashes damp, while his labored breathing filled the silence. A clock on the bureau
tick, tick, ticked,
contrasting the rumble of wheels on the pavement below. Outside, the world moved on. In here, death hovered patiently.

When the clock struck four, small, polite chimes in the quiet, Leland asked in a hoarse whisper, “He’s buried, then?”

“Yes.” My hands hung between my knees, limp. “It was a dignified service. I said good-bye for you.”

Leland groped for me, and I clasped his cold, shaking hand. “Thank you,” he said. “I loved him. I’d have done anything for him. I’d have gladly gone in his place.”

“I am sorry,” I said sincerely. I was sorry for a lot of things, including hurting this very young, vulnerable boy.

“Not your fault.” Leland wet his cracked lips. “I was a fool. So was Gareth. We’d been quarreling over so many things. But underneath it all, we still loved. Do you understand?”

I gave him a nod. I’d known married couples less devoted than Leland and Gareth.

“Not your fault you didn’t know,” Leland went on. “About us, I mean. Not many did.”

“What about Gareth’s parents?” I asked. “Did they ever discover your secret?”

“They never said. Mrs. Travers hates me and my family. She told me so. Blames us for taking Gareth away from his father. Which is true—we did.”

I released his hand and leaned my elbows on my knees. “Leland, Gareth ran to you willingly. I had an unhappy home myself; I too found refuge in other boys’ houses. You and your father and mother gave Gareth the family he needed.”

“But I never gave a thought to
his
father,” Leland said, determined to be guilty. “I was selfish, and wanted Gareth around me all the time.”

I made an impatient noise. “Please, do not browbeat yourself. Gareth could have reconciled with his family at any time. Not doing so was his choice.”

“They did reconcile a little this year,” Leland said, his haunted look easing. “Gareth took me home with him at New Year’s, and we spoke with his father. My father sent along some pamphlets about how to wrest oneself from the evils of drink—not the horrible kind of pamphlets about driving oneself to hell, but ones that address the real struggles of the drunkard. My father writes them himself, with the help of other men who have had to do battle with the vice.”

I imagined the pamphlets did not go over well with the Reverend and Mrs. Travers, even if given in the best of intentions.

“Mr. Travers and Gareth talked together, alone, for a time, I was happy to see. I was too shy to say much to Mrs. Travers.” Leland gave me a faint smile. “Not that she wanted to speak to me at all. She made herself scarce.”

I wondered. Mrs. Travers was a shrewd woman and must have concluded at some point that Leland and Gareth shared a bed. Had she told her husband? Would either of them have become so ashamed and enraged that they sent someone after them to kill them?

The meeting Leland described had been at New Year’s—the same time I had been in Oxfordshire getting married. It was March now. Would Mrs. Travers have waited that long to assuage her anger? And I could not see Gareth’s broken father having either the will or the strength to send an assassin after his own son.

“Have you remembered anything more?” I asked Leland. “I know you went to the Nines, I know you kicked up a fuss. Not very tactful, my friend. If you threaten someone, make sure you’re at a safe distance before you do so.”

“Did I?” Leland rubbed his bandaged head. “I don’t remember.”

“Unfortunately, those at the Nines do.”

“Well, if I did, then they must have deserved it,” Leland said with conviction. “I have heard of the Nines—a terrible place, my father says. It ought to be closed.”

“I believe it will be soon,” I said. “The man who runs the place, Forge, had his bullies take you out into a yard and rough you up a little. Do you remember that?”

“No.” He sounded mournful. “There are vast blanks about the night. I do remember arguing with Gareth in a carriage. About …” Leland scrubbed at the side of his head and let out a moan when he touched something sensitive. “I don’t know.”

“You were in a carriage?” I asked. “Your father’s? Your father’s coachman did not mention picking you up at the Nines.”

Leland looked puzzled. “No, not ours. I do not know. Gareth never owned a coach, that is for certain. It must have been a hackney—I remember a particularly long tear in the upholstery, and my father’s coachman would never stand for that. Gareth must have hired it, to take us to the man Gareth said he had an appointment to meet.”

“What man?” I asked, sitting up straight. “Do you mean Mackay?”

Leland blinked. “I do not know. Gareth and I were heading to meet a man about business, somewhere near Covent Garden.” He looked at me in perplexity. “Why did I suddenly I remember that? When everything else is gone?” He furrowed his brow, pain entering his eyes as he thought. He sighed. “No, nothing more. Forgive me, Captain.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“The point is, you are starting to remember,” I said, trying to sound reassuring and hide my growing convictions at the same time. “I know for a fact that you went to a tavern called the Bull and Hen in Seven Dials, in Little Earl Street, near where you were found. Do you recall that?”

Leland frowned and shook his head. “I do not remember a tavern. As I said, it is only flashes.”

“Tell me about the flashes,” I said. “Perhaps we can piece together what happened between your snippets of memory and what I’ve managed to discover.”

Leland sent me a grateful look. “Very well, I will try. As I say, I remember now that Gareth had an appointment that evening. I did not want him to go, and no, I do not recall why. I know nothing of what happened at Brooks’s or the Nines, but I know Gareth was very excited. I’d never seen him like that. Both enraged and happy. The next thing I remember, we were in a coach, and he …”

Leland closed his mouth, flushing a dark red. It was not a healthy color, but Leland’s fair face was not one that could hide embarrassment.

“You mean you became intimate,” I said. “In the coach.”

“Yes, Gareth, he liked … unusual places … when we found ourselves private. I was quite happy we had made things up between us, so I did not stop him. I let my appetite overrule my common sense.” His hand balled to a weak fist. “I should not give into such things. A man ought to always be in control of his appetites.”

His self-chastisement made me want to laugh. “Leland, my friend, every man on earth has let his appetites rule him from time to time. Common sense does not come into it.”

Leland regarded me in surprise. “Even
you
, Captain?”

Now I did laugh. “Good Lord, especially me. I’ve never been one to retain my sense when tempted by a beautiful lady. And I find so many ladies beautiful.”

His puzzlement was very Leland-like. “But you are married.”

“Lady Breckenridge tempted me most of all, and she continues to do so, even though we are now staid and married. But enough of the hair shirt, lad. What happened?”

His flush did not ease. “It is unclear after that. You say we went to the tavern? But I do not know. I only remember being … with Gareth … and then… Nothing. I woke up and …”