A Body in Berkeley Square (11 page)

Bartholomew and I took a hackney back across
London to Covent Garden. The going was slow, the traffic thick.
Whenever I rode in a private conveyance, such as Grenville's
carriage, things went faster, because people and wagons would move
aside for a fast team and a shouting coachman with a long whip.

But at last we reached Covent Garden. The
hackney stopped there, and I walked on alone to Grimpen Lane, while
Bartholomew lingered among the vendors in Covent Garden to scare
together our next meal.

Therefore, he was not present to help me
when I was attacked in my rooms.

* * * * *

Chapter Seven

The attacker was not waiting for me; he
followed me up the stairs at a dead run, as though he'd been
pursuing me through the streets. He was a man of my height with a
wiry build, a thin face, dark eyes, and close-cropped hair.

I started to ask him who he was and what he
thought he was doing, when he hurtled into me and pushed me back
inside my rooms.

Many men have made the mistake of thinking
me feeble because I hobble about with a walking stick, but I was
still fit and strong. I brought up the walking stick, slammed it
into the man's chest, and shoved him away from me.

The man was strong, his slim build
disguising powerful muscles. He also knew how to fight, and fight
dirty. He kicked my bad knee, hard. As pain knifed through my leg,
he took advantage of my weakness and punched me in the face.

I fought back. We struggled, each of us
emitting only the occasional grunt as we vied to best one another.
I dropped my walking stick and got my hands around his throat, my
thumbs going for his windpipe. He kicked my bad leg again, scooping
my feet out from under me.

I went down, trying to take the fall with my
shoulder. He kicked me again in the ribs. He snatched up my walking
stick and struck me repeatedly across the chest and shoulders. I
tried to roll away, but the pain in my leg swallowed my
strength.

As I rocked on my back, trying to shield my
face, he let off on the blows. He thrust his hand inside my coat,
searching my pockets. Before I could stop him, he found and drew
out the three letters from Mrs. Harper that I'd taken from
Brandon's desk.

I snatched for them. The man punched me
across the jaw. In fury and in pain, I lunged at him. He brought up
the walking stick and again beat me thoroughly and deliberately. My
father, an expert at beating his son, would have admired him.

At last, I could only lie there, groaning
and cursing. As soon as he thought me no longer a threat, he flung
away the walking stick and began to open all the drawers and
cupboards in the room, searching as I'd searched Henry Turner's
rooms.

"It is not here," I croaked. "I could not
find it, either."

The man ignored me completely. He sifted
through the contents of my chest on frame and dumped everything
onto the floor.

While he worked, I got painfully to my hands
and knees and begin to crawl toward my walking stick. Inside the
stick was a sharp sword, and I was anxious to begin poking it into
my intruder.

He saw me. He swung around, took a pistol
from his greatcoat and trained it on me. I froze.

"I will not be long, monsieur," he said. His
accent was thick.

I wondered in the back of my mind why he'd
bothered to beat me if he might have simply shot me dead, or at
least threatened me with the pistol from the start.

"Tell me who you are and what you want," I
said. "Or are you taking revenge for San Sebastian?"

He did not answer. He flung open a final
drawer and tossed aside the expensive snuffboxes Grenville had
given me. One box broke open, and fragrant snuff drifted through
the room. The Frenchman, with a snarl, threw the empty drawer to
the floor.

I heard a gasp from the hall. "Lacey, what
the devil?"

Marianne Simmons stood in the doorway, her
eyes wide.

"Get out!" I cried to her.

The Frenchman trained his pistol on me
again. "Tell her to show her pockets."

Marianne would have none of that. She began
screeching obscenities that would make the most hardened soldier
flinch. I shouted at her to hold her tongue, fearing the Frenchman
would shoot her in his impatience.

The Frenchman strode to Marianne and slapped
her across the face. Marianne screamed in rage, grabbed his hand,
and sank her teeth into it.

I struggled to my hands and knees, finally
reaching the walking stick. The Frenchman struck Marianne again. I
wrapped my hand around the walking stick and withdrew its
sword.

The man fumbled at Marianne's dress, trying
to search her, while she screamed and batted at him. I got shakily
to my feet and came at the Frenchman with my sword.

He realized finally that he could not fight
us both. He took a step away from Marianne and pointed the pistol
at her head.

I stopped. She tried to kick him.

"Be still, Marianne, for God's sake!"

The Frenchman, his face scratched and
bruised, gave us both a look of fury, then he turned and ran out of
the room. Marianne started after him. I shoved her aside, told her
to stay put, and followed him.

The man hurtled down the stairs and out of
the house. I gave chase as quickly as I could. Outside, rain and
mist shrouded the tiny cul-de-sac of Grimpen Lane. I heard the
Frenchman running away toward Russel Street, then he disappeared
into the fog.

I knew I'd never catch him. Angry and
hurting, I made my way back upstairs.

Marianne helped me inside. "Who the hell was
that?"

"I don't know. I have never seen the man
before." Whoever he was, he'd just run off with Imogene Harper's
letters.

"Well, he made bad work of you." Marianne
gave me a critical look. "Sit down. You look terrible."

"Thank you very much." I obeyed her and sank
to a chair before the hearth, where this morning's fire had died to
a smolder.

Marianne took out a handkerchief and touched
it to my face. I winced as she found abrasions. "I should ask what
you are doing here," I said.

Marianne now lived in luxury in Grenville's
Clarges Street house, but she could not bear the confinement. She
liked to confound Grenville as much as she could by leaving the
house without a word and returning when she pleased. At first,
Grenville had tried to restrict her, but he'd not counted on
Marianne's pride and her love of freedom.

In the end, she'd worn him down. Last month,
after she'd disappeared to Berkshire without warning, he'd wearily
told her that she could do as she liked.

"I came to talk to you," she said. "To ask
your advice." She bit her lip. Marianne so hated to ask for
advice.

"About your son?" I asked.

I'd found out about Marianne's son by
accident when I stayed in Berkshire. I'd told her to confide the
entire story to Grenville, but I knew she had not.

Marianne gave me a hard look. She had an
almost childlike face, with a pointed chin, big blue eyes, and
curls made more golden by artifice. Her pale silk gown was the
finest I'd ever seen her wear, though it was now mussed and torn
from the fight.

Her looks had kept her employed on the stage
at Drury Lane, but her little girl prettiness belied a shrewd mind
and a very sharp tongue. Marianne had learned to live by her wits,
and she took a severe and cynical view of the world.

"No, not about David. And I will thank you
keep that to yourself."

"I promised to keep silent, and I will keep
my promise. But if you came to ask my advice, you should be a
little more polite to me."

"That's a fine thing to say from someone I
just found brawling." Her voice softened as she spoke, and she
dabbed blood from my face. "You had no idea who he was? He could
not have been here to rob you. You have nothing to steal. He must
have been looking for something."

Marianne, as I said, was too shrewd for her
own good. "I believe I know what he was looking for. But for the
life of me, I do not know why."

"Has it to do with your Colonel Brandon
getting himself committed to trial?"

"Very likely. Did Grenville tell you about
it?"

She gave me a sour look.
"No. I heard it in the usual way--gossip among the servants. I have
not seen
him
in
many days."

I looked at her in surprise. "But last night
he said . . ."

She shot me a cynical look. "It was not me
he visited last night. If he told you that, he lied. That is why I
came to see you, his dearest friend. He tells me nothing, but you
will know what is what."

Marianne cleaned my cuts in silence for a
few moments, her nostrils pinched and white. I recalled Grenville
telling me the previous night, with a self-deprecating smile, that
he'd go to Clarges Street from Lord Gillis's. I wondered whether
he'd lied or simply changed his mind, and in either case, why he'd
done so.

"Grenville does not answer to me," I said.
"I did not see him today. Possibly something happened that
prevented him from visiting you as he planned."

"Of course," Marianne said
in a hard voice, "The
something
was Mrs. Bennington."

I stared. "Mrs. Bennington?"

"Mrs. Bennington, the celebrated
actress."

"Yes, I do know who she is."

"He has become quite fascinated with her,"
Marianne said. "He has seen many of her performances since his
return from Berkshire. He cannot say a bad word about her. Now, he
has taken to visiting her."

I listened in growing disquiet. Mrs.
Bennington had been at Lord Gillis's ball, but I'd heard of her
presence from Louisa and Lady Aline; Grenville had not mentioned
her at all.

"She is a fine actress, Marianne. You know
that Grenville is fond of patronizing the best artists."

Marianne gave me a pitying look. "She is
already so popular she has no need of
his
patronage. And I
know that he is fond of lady violinists and actresses and dancers.
His interest in me is rather unusual."

I could not argue with her. I had seen
Grenville with his previous mistresses, all of whom had been famous
in some way or other. Marianne had never landed parts larger than a
chorus or a short walk-on, and she was by no means well known. I
did not believe even Grenville understood what had brought about
his fascination with Marianne.

"He has expressed no particular attraction
to Mrs. Bennington," I said. "And he has told me of no special
visits to her."

"That confirms it then. If he had nothing to
hide, he would have confided in you."

"Or, he has nothing to confide, " I
said.

"For God's sake, Lacey, I am not a fool. I
know when a gentleman is tiring of me. Usually I am wise enough to
leave when I see the first signs. This time, I've held on and
hoped. I do not know why." Her words slowed, grew sad. "Perhaps
because he is so wealthy."

I knew that was not her reason. Marianne's
relationship with Grenville was complex, and I by no means
understood it, but I sensed that beneath her hard-bitten cynicism,
Marianne cared for him. I had seen evidence of that when Grenville
had been hurt in Berkshire. Marianne had come to me, anguish in her
eyes, and begged me to let her see him. She'd sat at his side,
holding his hand, until he'd awakened.

I also knew that Grenville was a man easily
bored. He might have grown tired of Marianne's willfulness and
unpredictability and decided to find a less complicated woman with
which to amuse himself.

I took the now-bloody handkerchief from
her--a fine piece of lawn that Grenville must have given her--and
dabbed at the abrasions myself.

"Have you given him a chance, Marianne? You
are keeping secrets from him, and you never let him give you what
he wants to give you."

"What he wants to give me is an entirely
different life, without asking if that is the life I want. Without
so much as a by-your-leave."

"Many a penniless actress would be pleased
by the prospect."

"And many a penniless captain would be
pleased at his offer to let you share his house or travel with him.
And yet you decline."

I could not deny that. I was as proud as
Marianne was. "I do have my own income, tiny as it is. But you have
even less. Perhaps you had better reconsider."

"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.