A Body in Berkeley Square Read online

  "You mean that I should let him make me into the woman he wants me to be."

  "I mean that you should stop antagonizing him. Grenville helps you because he feels charitable, and yes, he does pity you. And you punish him for it."

  She snorted. "I am extremely grateful to you, Lacey. You have made me realize that you men will always defend one another, no matter what. You say that he is looking to Mrs. Bennington because I am angering him. Of course, it must be all my fault."

  "I said nothing of the sort. You will drive me mad. The fault lies in both of you. You both have stubborn pride." I touched my face, feeling the bruises. "Grenville has said nothing to me about leaving you for Mrs. Bennington. And if he does try to cast you into the street, I will stop him."

  Marianne cocked her head and observed me with her childlike gaze. "What can you do against him, Lacey? He is a powerful man. When he makes a pronouncement, even royalty listens. You may hold his interest now, but when you lose that, you will be nothing to him."

  I knew the truth of this, but perhaps I had more faith in Grenville than she did. "I have seen evidence of his kind heart. He is not as callous as you would have him be."

  Her eyes were as cool as ever, but I knew Marianne well, and I sensed the hurt in her. I could reassure her until my breath ran out, but both she and I knew that Grenville did what he liked for his own reasons.

  "If I discover anything, I will tell you," I promised. "I agree that he should not keep you in the dark about Mrs. Bennington."

  "Well, thank you for that anyway."

  "I cannot blame him if he grows exasperated with you. You are a most exasperating woman."

  "He has power," she said. "I have none. I am only getting back a little of my own."

  The door banged open. I leapt to my feet, and so did Marianne, both of us expecting the return of the Frenchman. But it was only Bartholomew, balancing a covered dish and two tankards. He caught sight of me, and his jaw sagged.

  I sprang forward and rescued the plate. "Do not drop my dinner, Bartholomew, for heaven's sake. I am hungry." I put the platter safely on a table and took the tankards from him.

  "Good Lord, sir." He looked me up and down then glanced at Marianne. "Did she have a go at you?"

  Marianne looked affronted. "Of course not, you lummox."

  I quickly told Bartholomew about the Frenchman. Bartholomew, growing excited, wanted nothing more than to dash out and scour the city for him then and there.

  I stopped him. "He did not find what he came to find, so he will no doubt show himself again. He has a distinctive appearance. We will find him."

  I did not say so, but I had the feeling that Imogene Harper would know good and well who this Frenchman was. If he'd stolen her letters to Brandon, he must have had good reason to do so. He could be her friend or a lover--even her husband. Mrs. Harper had left the Peninsula four years ago, after all, and had only recently come to London. She could have done many things during that time.

  "Do run to Bow Street," I told Bartholomew as I uncovered the beefsteak he'd brought me. "Tell Pomeroy to watch out for a lean Frenchman with close-cropped hair. The man may next try to search Mrs. Harper's rooms, or Turner's, or even Turner's father's house in Epsom."

  "Of course, sir." Bartholomew's eyes were animated. He tugged his forelock and ran off, leaving me with Marianne and a quickly cooling dinner.

  *** *** ***

  I shared the beefsteak with Marianne. Never one to forgo a free meal, she ate but did so in silence. We did not mention Grenville or Mrs. Bennington again.

  Marianne departed before Bartholomew returned. She did not tell me where she was going, and I did not ask. She was angry and worried, and somehow, I did not blame her.

  Marianne was correct when she said that Grenville could wash his hands of me whenever he wished and that I could do nothing against him. But I did not care. The threat of losing his patronage would not hold my tongue if he had been betraying Marianne. I had seen men change mistresses before, but I felt protective of Marianne, perhaps because I knew how vulnerable she truly was, despite her hard-nosed approach to life.

  I finished my meal and, as it was nearing four o'clock, remembered my promise to call upon Lady Breckenridge.

  I looked at myself in the dusky mirror above my washstand and winced. The left side of my face was puffed and bruised, and a cut creased my right cheekbone. My lip had split, and dried blood stained my chin. I was sore and stiff, and my knee felt as though it were wrapped in bands of fire.

  I was in no fit state to visit a lady. I soaked a handkerchief in water and continued to clean my face. It was a slow, tricky business, every touch stinging.

  I made myself ready for the visit anyway. I very much wanted to put together the pieces of Turner's murder before Brandon could be tried. When the wheels of justice turned, they turned swiftly. Brandon's trial could come up before a week was out, and only days after that, he could be hanged or transported. Louisa would be shamed and disgraced, and likely abandoned by everyone she knew, excluding myself and Lady Aline.

  I refused to let Brandon bring that sorrow upon his wife. I would find the killer and release Brandon, whether he liked it or not.

  My other reason for resolving to visit Lady Breckenridge as planned was that I simply wanted to see her.

  Since our first discordant meeting in Kent, Lady Breckenridge and I had become friends of a sort. She had helped me during the affair of the Glass House and the problem of Lady Clifford's necklace, and she'd had given me a new walking stick when my old one had been lost.

  She'd taken to inviting me to gatherings at which she launched musicians or poets into society and made it clear that I could add her to my list of afternoon calls. I rarely made calls, but since my return from Berkshire I had several times sat in her drawing room sipping tea while other members of the ton stared at me and wondered why I'd turned up.

  I bade Bartholomew accompany me back to Mayfair, and we made our way to South Audley Street and Lady Breckenridge's home. I used Bartholomew as a scout to discover whether Lady Breckenridge had received anyone else that afternoon. If she had guests in her drawing room, I would take my battered face away.

  Bartholomew returned with the news that the lady was alone. Relieved, I descended from the hackney coach and went inside.

  Lady Breckenridge's butler, Barnstable, looked at me in shock. "Sir?"

  I gave him a smile that pulled at my sore face. "Will I frighten her ladyship, do you think?"

  "No, sir." He continued to stare at me. "Her ladyship is made of stern stuff. I have just the thing to put on those bruises, sir. Take them down in no time."

  Barnstable, it seemed, had remedies for everything. He had, a few months ago, treated my sore knee with hot towels and a penetrating ointment, which he'd graciously sent home with me. I'd begun to believe in Barnstable and his remedies.

  One of Lady Breckenridge's footmen, looking no less dismayed at my state than the butler, led me up the stairs. He did not take me to the drawing room, but led me up another flight to Lady Breckenridge's private rooms. When he opened a door and ushered me inside, I realized I'd been shown to her boudoir.

  Lady Breckenridge's entire house was very modern, and this room was no exception. A Roman couch faced the fireplace, and windows were elegantly draped in light green silk to complement the cream-colored walls. Thick carpet under my boots warmed the room.

  Lady Breckenridge entered only a few moments after the footman left me. Today she wore a peignoir of gold silk and had threaded a wide, ivory-colored bandeau through her dark hair. When she saw my bruised face, her reaction was predictable.

  "Good God," she said, stopping on the threshold.

  "Forgive me," I said. "I decided to participate in a boxing match before making my calls today."

  She came all the way into the room and closed the door behind her, but her expression did not alter. "Whom did you anger this time, Gabriel?"

  "A Frenchman searching for something he could not fi
nd."

  Lady Breckenridge raised her brows, and I explained the incident. As I spoke, Barnstable bustled in with a steaming bowl on a tray. He politely waited until I finished then bade me to sit on the Roman couch.

  I did so and stretched my aching leg to the fire. Barnstable dipped a cloth in the liquid and touched it to my face. It hurt like fury and at the same time soothed.

  "You ought to be a physician, Barnstable," I said.

  "Indeed, no, sir." He sounded affronted.

  Lady Breckenridge watched the proceeding without speaking. She wandered to a small rosewood table, pulled a black cigarillo from a box, and lit it with a candle.

  "Are you certain this robbery was connected with Turner's death?" she asked as thin smoke wreathed her face.

  "I am certain of nothing." I inhaled the heady-smelling steam that Barnstable waved beneath my nose. "If he were a mere robber, he would have taken the snuffboxes, which were costly. But he held on to the letters he found in my pocket."

  "Why would a Frenchman be interested in letters written by Mrs. Harper?"

  "That I do not know. I do not know anything." Colonel Brandon was being uncommonly stubborn, I had only vague accounts of what had happened at the ball, and both Louisa and Mrs. Harper had convinced themselves that Brandon had murdered Turner.

  "If your line of thinking is that Mrs. Harper stabbed Turner before she screamed, you will be wrong," Lady Breckenridge said, breaking my thoughts. "She did not. At least, not then."

  "How do you know?"

  She took a pull of the cigarillo. "Because I saw her. When Mrs. Harper went into the anteroom at twelve, she left the door ajar. I could look right in and observe her."

  I sat up straight, pressing Barnstable's hand aside. "Why did you not say so?"

  "I did not have the chance. Your Mr. Pomeroy turned his attention to Colonel Brandon very quickly, and I had not the time to explain."

  Yes, Pomeroy could fix on one purpose and ignore everything else in his path.

  "Tell me what Mrs. Harper did," I said as Barnstable calmly returned to patting my bruises and cuts.

  "I saw her bend over Turner, then she gave a little start. I suppose that's when she realized he was dead, but of course I had no idea yet that he'd been killed. She moved her hands over him or inside his coat, I could not see exactly. Then she straightened up. She looked at her glove, which was red with blood. She recoiled from it, and that was when she began to scream."

  "If you could not see exactly, how do you know she did not press the knife into Turner's chest when she bent over him?"

  "Because I did not see a knife in her hand when she went in, nor did I notice her picking one up from the desk. She went nowhere else in the room. Besides, she would have had to put quite a bit of strength behind the blow, would she not? She did not raise her arm or strike out, and in any event, it's likely Turner would have seen her and fought her. Unless Turner were drunk and senseless." Lady Breckenridge shook her head. "No, I do not believe Mrs. Harper stabbed him. It was as though she searched him for something--love letters perhaps? Although I cannot imagine her writing love letters to Turner. But supposing he had letters from her to someone else?"

  She was a perceptive woman. "Perhaps," I said cautiously.

  Lady Breckenridge glanced at her butler. "Barnstable, will you leave us?"

  Barnstable rose and handed me the linen pad. "Of course, my lady. Keep that pressed to the wound, sir. It will take the ill from it."

  I promised I would see to it. Barnstable bowed and took himself from the room, closing the door behind him with every show of deference.

  "He looked a bit disappointed," I said.

  "Of course he is. He is as interested in this business as I am. But he will not listen at the door. He considers that beneath him."

  I gave her a smile. "I am certain that my man, Bartholomew, will tell him all he wants to know below stairs."

  "I sent him away so that we might speak frankly. Because your colonel was arrested for the crime, I assume that Mrs. Harper was looking for letters she had written to Colonel Brandon, or that he had written to her. This would explain their mutual antagonism toward Mr. Turner."

  "You guess well," I said.

  She sank to the sofa next to me, crossing her legs in a graceful move. "You must remember that I was there last night. I observed the very strange behavior of Colonel Brandon and Imogene Harper. Did they forget how much the ton gossips? Believe me, today the polite world is grateful to Lord Gillis for providing them with something new to discuss. We were growing tired of who would race what horse at the Derby and what an appalling frock Lady Jersey wore last Thursday. Mind you, it would be much more interesting if Colonel Brandon were one of us, but it will have to do."

  She spoke with her usual acid tones, but I took no offense. She was directing her sarcasm at her own circle, not Colonel Brandon.

  I removed the linen pad from my face, defying Barnstable's instructions, and laid it across my knee. The warmth of it felt good there. "And what is the ton saying today?"

  "I will know more about which way gossip is directed when I go out, but I have already received several notes from my acquaintances regarding the matter. Lady Seville, a girlhood acquaintance who attended the ball, is terribly excited at having been at a gathering where something actually happened, even something so low as murder. Lord Gillis is to blame, she says, for having so many military men among his acquaintance. They are violent, she believes, and do not always have the right connections. Lady Seville puts much store on pedigree."

  "Colonel Brandon comes from a fine family."

  "But not a peerage." She emphasized her words with a jab of the cigarillo. "And that is the only thing that counts with Lady Seville. She is a horrible snob. She would approve of you, however."

  I looked at her in surprise then glanced at my threadbare trousers, made worse by my scuffle with the Frenchman. "Would she? Why?"

  "Because you have pedigree of the right sort. Your family is older and more connected than your colonel's."

  "I would be interested to learn how you know all this."

  Lady Breckenridge took another pull from the cigarillo then laid it on the edge of the table. "You are not the only person who likes to investigate things. Your family was quite important during the time of Charles the Second, I discovered. They were given land, and even offered a title, one declined by your proud ancestor. Later a Lacey married a peeress, rendering you quite respectable."

  "Until my father and grandfather impoverished us," I said.

  She waved that away. "Money is not as important as breeding. You know that, my dear Captain. That is, until someone sets their sights on marriage. Then money is quite important, but it would never do to let on, would it?"

  "You are a most cynical lady."

  "Indeed. I learned very early in life that the world is not a kind place. Your position in it determines all. For instance, were I born into the servant class, my sharp tongue would earn me many blows. As it is, I am smiled at because I am the daughter of an earl and the widow of a viscount."

  I had to concede the truth of this.

  "And so Colonel Brandon suffers," she concluded. "If he were a peer, there would be much scandal and sensation, but I doubt he would be cooling his heels at Newgate."

  "He might be," I said. "He is mostly there because of his pigheaded stubbornness."

  Lady Breckenridge hung her arm over the back of the sofa, a dangling well-shaped hand near my head. Slim gold rings, one embedded with a topaz, the other with twinkling sapphires, hugged her fingers.

  I found myself thinking that I could never afford to give her jewels. For instance, if I wanted to give her a strand of diamonds for her slim wrist, I could not do it. It stung a man's pride not to be able to give a lady a gift.

  I drew my thumb across the inside of her wrist where the bracelet would lie.

  Her eyes darkened and grew quiet. I waited for her to drawl sarcasm or to snatch her hand away, but she did neither.
I rubbed her warm skin, comforting myself in the small feel of softness. Lady Breckenridge moved closer to me and rested her fingers against my chest.

  I had kissed her before, once in her private box at Covent Garden Theatre. She had not minded. I leaned to her and kissed her now. My sore lip pulled a little, but I did not care. She kissed me well, then she lifted my hand and pressed a long kiss to my fingers.

  Donata Breckenridge was a lovely woman, and I needed comfort. We were alone in her private rooms, and only her servants would know what we did here. I wondered how loyal they were to her or whether they would give the ton something new to talk about tomorrow.

  "Stay for a time, Captain," she said, as though reading my thoughts. She smoothed her palm across my chest. "Your heart tells me that you wish this."

  Indeed, my heart was beating swiftly. I kissed her again, tempted, so tempted to take her hand and lead her to her bedchamber, despite the pain in my body. Her eyes were moist, her lips soft.

  I smoothed back a strand of her hair. "It would cause great scandal if you had a liaison with me."

  She studied me with a mixture of curiosity and resignation, as though she'd made a wager with herself as to my reaction to her offer. I wondered whether she'd won or lost.

  "It is not only scandal you think of," she said.

  "Indeed, it is," I answered, surprised.

  "No. You forget. I saw exactly how you looked at Louisa Brandon last night when you comforted her in her sitting room."

  I sat up, and her hand dropped away from me. I remembered Lady Breckenridge entering the room while I'd held Louisa in my embrace. At the time, I'd tried to dismiss her shrewd glance, but she had seen all and forgotten nothing.

  "Louisa Brandon and I have been friends for twenty years," I said. "She loves her husband, and I will help restore him to her."

  Lady Breckenridge folded her arms across her silk peignoir, assuming a neutral expression. "So that is the way of it."

  "The way of what?"

  She did not move, but I felt a distance grow between us. "Do you know, Captain, I am trying to decide whether I am too proud to take another woman's leavings."