Murder in Grosvenor Square (29 page)

I led my daughter into the ground-floor drawing room, where a fire was crackling. “Have you learned to love the English countryside?” I asked. “And English society?”

“The countryside was fine, but truth to tell, I found society a bit wearing.” Gabriella plopped down on a gilt-armed sofa and let out a sigh. “How nice to sit on something soft, that is not moving.” She looked up at me and flushed. “I am sorry. I sound ungrateful.”

“Because coaches, after a long day, are uncomfortable?” I seated myself next to her. “And that remembering how to address a bishop or a baronet can grow tiring? Simple truths. Not ungrateful at all. Although I would not confide the latter to Lady Aline or Lady Breckenridge.”

Gabriella sent me a grin. “Only to you, sir. I must admit it is all a bit exciting, although I am worried about the debut ball. I’ve been learning to dance—Lady Aline hired an instructor in Bath, which she called a
hop-merchant
. That made me laugh so. I’ve also taken instruction on the harp and singing and how to walk in a ball dress and beaded slippers. Even so, I live in fear that I’ll trip and sprawl, or drop my champagne, or break a harp string, or something equally horrifying. I’d be mortified.”

She would be, and the
haut ton
was not always forgiving. The only reason they were tolerating her at all, though both Carlotta and Major Auberge came from good families, was because of the patronage of Lady Breckenridge and Lady Aline, and a good word from Grenville.

“I’ll speak to Donata,” I said. “There is no reason for you to parade about if you do not wish to.”

“Oh, but I do,” Gabriella said, with the changeability of the young. “Deep down inside, I do want to be an elegant lady at a ball. Really. And they are being so kind to me.” She laughed, unself-consciously. “It does not matter, though, does it? I will dress up and dance and let my fingers be kissed, and then I will return to France and be Gabriella again.”

I knew Donata would not let things stay that simple, but I said nothing. I took Gabriella’s hand and squeezed it. “I am glad, no matter what happens, that you will be here in London until summer.”

“As am I.” Gabriella gave me a shy smile, then lost it as she studied me in concern. “What is it, Father? You look most unhappy.”

“Not unhappy,” I said. “Weary. Tired of death and all it means. I need a touch of joy, Gabriella.”

“It is all around you,” my daughter said, with a sweep her hand. “You have Lady Breckenridge, and young Peter, and me. Bartholomew and Barnstable. And all your dear friends.”

Had I ever been as young and eager as she? Yes, once upon a time. I’d been filled with that hope the day this wonderful child had been born. The midwife had laid Gabriella into my arms, as I’d stared in astonishment, and I’d had to turn my back so no one would see my tears.

“Will you tell me more about your adventures?” Gabriella was saying. “I mean your life here, since you returned from the army. Lady Aline gives me snippets about you running about to apprehend criminals, and Bartholomew has told me plenty, but I want to hear the stories from you.”

I can say honestly that at that moment, I cared about nothing else in the world. Not Gareth Travers’s death, or what he’d wanted to sell to Mackay, or James Denis, or even Donata and Lady Aline, nattering upstairs as they planned Gabriella’s future.

For now, I basked in delight, holding the hand of my daughter, knowing she wanted to be here with me. I would see to it that though I’d missed fifteen years of her life, I would miss no more, and be with her for many years to come.

*

I finally released Gabriella so she could ascend to her bedchamber and rest from her journey. I heard Donata and Aline speaking animatedly in Donata’s sitting room, and knew they could go on for hours, so I left them to it.

As I made my way toward my study to await Denis’s response to my request for an appointment, Matthias came bursting through the front door below, followed by an agitated Grenville.

Grenville would never be so gauche as to charge into another’s house without good reason. There was an etiquette to visiting, and Grenville never disobeyed it.

“Lacey,” he called up to me. “For God’s sake, come.”

I made my way down the stairs as quickly as I was able. “What is it?”

“Marianne.” Grenville’s dark eyes were wide with fear, his pupils mere specks. “He has her. He wants the book, and says for you to bring it, or they won’t let her live.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Dread poured over me in an icy blast. Gareth’s killers, in my rooms, Marianne trapped with them. There was nothing to say they wouldn’t simply kill her when they grew tired of waiting.

“Damnation,” I said.

Grenville opened his mouth to continue, but I took him by the shoulder, pushed him into reception room where I’d sat with Gabriella, and shut the door.

I faced him squarely, our feet exactly placed on the black-and-white marble tiles. “Tell me what has happened. Quietly—Gabriella is home.”

Grenville’s fear and fury poured out of him, the unflappable man terrified. “Three bullies forced their way into your rooms in Covent Garden. Marianne was there, and me with her. I was in no position to fight them off, if you understand what I mean. They told us they’d come for the book. Marianne said she didn’t know what book, so they started tearing up the place. When they couldn’t find it, they sent me to you to fetch it.”

“You did not run straight to Bow Street?” I asked.

“They sent one of them with me—he’s outside. I could not go anywhere near Bow Street, and anyway I couldn’t risk they wouldn’t kill her when they saw Runners and foot patrollers clumping down the lane toward them. They have big knives and skill at using them.” Grenville’s hands shook as he rubbed his face. “God, Lacey, they might just kill her anyway.”

“We won’t let them,” I said with energy. “I do not have the book, Grenville.”

Grenville’s hands came down, fists clenched. “Bloody hell—they said you did—”

“I have no idea where the blasted thing is. No, do not answer … let me think.”

I laid out the events in my head and pictured them from beginning to end. Gareth and Leland traveling to the Bull and Hen to meet Mackay. Leaving when he did not make the appointment—I still did not know why.

Ruffians followed Leland and Gareth from the tavern. Perhaps the two had been on their way to hire another hackney to take them home. The ruffians had followed them and waylaid them. Whether Mackay had been part of that plot or not, I did not know. Leland and Gareth had been felled. If Gareth had been carrying the book these men in my rooms now wanted, Mackay would have had ample time to take it from Gareth’s body.

Perhaps that was what Mackay had been doing when Leland had seen the man stooping over them. Leland had asked for help. Mackay had given assistance in the form of coming for me and leading me back there, so he must have had some compassion. A dealer of stolen goods perhaps; a killer, no.

Why should the villains now believe I had the book? I closed my eyes. Mackay had been in my rooms twice. First, when he fetched me; second, when I’d sent him back to Marianne. He could easily have tucked the book there for safekeeping, either while I was snatching up my wraps to follow him, or while Marianne was busy writing a note to Grenville. Mackay might have feared that whoever had set the ruffians on Leland and Gareth would try to steal it from him, and so left it in a place they would not think of looking. His own rooms must not have been safe. He could return at his leisure for it—I did not live there anymore, and Marianne was often out.

Obviously, the book was no longer in my rooms. Had Mackay succeeded in fetching it?

More images ran through my mind. Of Mackay, getting himself into the Derwents’ house. Mackay lying in a drawing room, where books abounded. Had he returned to my rooms, found the book gone, and assumed I’d found it and taken it to Leland? That would explain why he was at the Derwents’ house, and also his death—someone had followed him and killed him. To take the book for themselves? Or because Mackay had seen them murder Gareth?

In any case, I had
not
taken the book to the Derwents. I hadn’t known of its existence until I’d spoken to Freddie last night. So how had it disappeared from my rooms?

A few more images … and I knew.

“Bloody hell,” I whispered.

“Lacey.” Grenville broke through my churning thoughts, and I opened my eyes. “I cannot leave her there much longer.”

“We will not.” I started for the stairs again. “Donata has any number of books here—we’ll find
something
to take to them.”

“But good God, man,” Grenville said as he followed me out. “What happens when they find out we’ve given them a decoy?”

“By that time, we’ll have Marianne out and safe. I doubt a thief who sent men to search my rooms was very specific about what book it was—wouldn’t trust them not to simply take it themselves. We can even follow them back to whoever hired them, and catch the man.”

“You had better be right,” Grenville said darkly. “It is a great risk.”

I entered the library, a small room lined floor-to-ceiling with books. “What do you suggest?”

Grenville strode swiftly past me and cast his practiced eye over the collection. I had no intention of actually giving one of Donata’s books to the villains; I only needed something to show them in exchange for Marianne.

While Grenville searched, I sat down, wrote a short note, and sealed it.

“This,” Grenville said. He handed me a small, fat book, leather-bound with gilding on the cover. It was in French, dated from the middle of the last century. No pictures, but Grenville assured me it was valuable, a first edition of Voltaire.

I trusted his judgment. Grenville had a fine collection himself, including hand-lettered manuscripts from medieval times, with exquisite gold leafing and bright drawings in the margins.

I pocketed the book, and we went out and down the stairs. I did not summon my wife, because she would want to accompany us. I preferred she stayed here and safe, no matter how angry she grew with me later.

As we went down the stairs and out the door, I gave the note I’d written to Bartholomew. “Have that delivered when we are well gone,” I said.

Bartholomew looked troubled—Matthias would have told him everything. I knew the brothers would want to come with us, but I did not want to endanger Marianne. Jackson the coachman would have to suffice for our protection across town.

Bartholomew glanced at the direction on the letter and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“As for Lady Breckenridge,” I said. “I want her here until I return. Do not let her convince you or any of the staff to let her go out. Understand?”

Bartholomew drew a breath, but squared his shoulders. I was leaving him to guard her, and he appreciated that. “Yes, sir,” he said, this time with more conviction, and I departed.

*

The man who’d come with Grenville waited for us outside, leaning on the wheel of his carriage. He was a fighter, much like the men Denis employed, but not as clean. His cauliflower ear and deep scar under his eye spoke of his life of brutality. He had no emotion in his eyes but impatience, and no sympathy. He was doing a job and waiting to get paid.

Such men would kill Marianne if we didn’t hurry. They’d not stopped at striking down the son of one of the wealthiest gentlemen in London, or committing murder in Sir Gideon’s drawing room. They’d thought nothing of roughing up Grenville, a famous and influential man, and they’d think nothing of killing an actress from the Drury Lane chorus. Someone in the shadows did not care for wealth or status in their victims. They simply struck and took what they wanted.

The ruffian rode on top of the coach to Covent Garden, until Jackson let us out at the entrance to Grimpen Lane. The tough jumped down and joined us when we descended, following us into the cul-de-sac.

All was quiet as we made our way toward the bakeshop, dusk settling over the city. Mrs. Beltan was still inside cleaning for the next day. She and her assistant had their heads in mobcaps down, concentrating on their tasks.

Grenville and I went up the stairs, the tough falling in behind us. The door on my landing opened, and a tall man peered out.

“Better have the book, guv,” he said in a South London accent, “or your ladybird is done.”

“He has it,” Grenville snapped.

I climbed slowly, as though every step pained me, and halted out of the man’s reach. I took the small book from my pocket and held it close to my chest.

“Send Miss Simmons out,” I said. “I want to see she’s unhurt before I part with this.”

The big man grinned. He was bulky, like Brewster. Greasy black hair clung to his head, and tufts of hair on his upper chest peeped around the cloth tied carelessly around his throat. He looked like a man used to wrestling beasts, a hostler perhaps, or a farm hand.

This man knew he could simply knock me down the stairs and take the book from me when I landed at the bottom. I wanted him to think that.

“Miss Simmons, please,” I said, making sure my voice was not as robust as usual.

Grenville said nothing, did nothing. In the carriage, he’d loaded and primed one of the pistols he always kept there, and shoved it into his pocket before descending from the coach. The activity, and our quiet discussion on what we’d do, had put paid to his usual motion sickness, and the darkness in the stairwell now hid the bulk in his pocket.

The man called back into the rooms without turning his head. “Make ’er come out.”

I heard Marianne before I saw her, nothing wrong with her voice. I could tell by her tone that she was frightened, but she cursed and threatened dire retribution as the men inside pulled her forward.

The first man opened the door wider, and Marianne, struggling, blond curls falling into her eyes, was shoved around to face us. The man who held her was shorter than the others, but he had a barrel-like chest and beefy arms.

I didn’t glance at Grenville, but I sensed him tense, ready.

“Let her walk downstairs,” I said.

The black-haired man, clearly the leader, shook his head. “Give us the book first, guv.” He held out a broad hand.