A Body in Berkeley Square (13 page)

"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."

I looked at her, uncertain how to
respond.

"I know what I saw," she went on. "You love
Louisa Brandon, but you are a man of honor. You would never stoop
to offering her the shelter of your arms while her husband waits in
prison. You would never violate your honor, or hers, in that way."
She drew a breath. "And so, you seek solace elsewhere."

Her voice shook a little, but she lifted her
chin. Lady Breckenridge had her own code of honor. She would never
let me see her hurting.

"No," I replied in a hard voice.

"Why not let him hang? Mrs. Brandon will no
doubt turn to you once the deed is done."

Brandon had said much the same thing. The
devil of it was, Louisa
would
likely turn to me for comfort
were Brandon hanged--at first. Eventually, she would want to put
all reminders of the sordid business behind her, including me, no
matter how many years of friendship we'd shared.

I realized that my compulsion to clear
Colonel Brandon might have more significance than my trying to
discover the truth. Perhaps I believed Brandon innocent because I
needed him to be innocent. If I could not save him, I knew that I
would lose Louisa's friendship--forever.

Lady Breckenridge was wrong, however.

"It is not solace I seek from you," I said.
"I would not insult you so."

"What do you seek, then?" She sounded
curious, not offended.

I touched her cheek with the backs of my
fingers. "What you said you sought from me."

She looked at me for a moment with her dark
blue eyes, but she did not pull away from my touch.

"You put me in a difficult place, you know,"
she said. "Your heart is already beyond reach. Any victory I have
with you must be hollow. If I lose, you lose nothing. If I win, I
will never win you completely."

She stood. "Please go now, Captain. I am
attending the theatre tonight, as well as an at-home, where I and
the rest of London will talk incessantly of the murder. I need time
to prepare myself."

I rose, surprised to find myself shaking a
little. "Donata."

"Go, Lacey. While I can still cling to the
shards of my dignity, please."

I wanted to admonish her or take her into my
arms and prove that she was wrong, but my common sense told me
that, at this moment, neither course would be wise.

I buttoned my coat, took up my walking stick,
and crossed the room in silence.

At the door, I turned back. "You are not
completely correct as to where my heart is engaged." I bowed, while
she watched me speculatively. "Good afternoon."

Lady Breckenridge held herself stiffly,
watching me go.

* * * * *

Chapter Eight

The next afternoon, Grenville and I journeyed
to Epsom to attend the funeral of Henry Turner.

Grenville drove his phaeton, the weather
being fine. His larger traveling coach followed us, bearing our
servants and bags southward. The phaeton was light and fast, and we
soon drew clear of the metropolis and headed across green downs for
Epsom.

Grenville's persona today was that of
horse-mad dandy. He sat upright, his gloved hands competently
holding a complex configuration of reins. He occasionally touched
his whip to the horses, encouraging them to hold a smart pace. In
his black suit, knee-high boots, and fine hat, he was the epitome
of the fashionable gentleman. His horses were perfectly matched
grays, the phaeton nearly new and shiny black, the wheels and
points picked out in gold.

Grenville navigated us swiftly through other
vehicles and over the rutted roads. I held tightly to my hat with
one hand and the seat with the other.

Remembering his motion sickness inside carriages on
previous journeys, I remarked, "The movement does not bother you
when you drive?"

"No." Grenville kept his gaze on the horses
and the road beyond. "Don't honestly know why. Probably because I
must concentrate on something other than my stomach."

Grenville evidently liked to focus on
obtaining the speediest journey possible. I braced my feet on the
footboard and concentrated on holding on.

When I'd mounted the phaeton this afternoon,
Grenville's reaction to my bruised face was not as severe as could
be, because Bartholomew had already told him the tale. He quizzed
me on the particulars, however, as we rode south.

"Are you certain the Frenchman had connection
with the Turner murder?" Grenville asked. "Perhaps he was looking
for something else entirely."

"He had an inordinate interest in Mrs.
Harper's letters," I said over the noise of our passage. "Why take
them otherwise? No, depend upon it, he has something to do with
Mrs. Harper, and probably with Turner."

We rode silently a few minutes, the rattle of
the wheels over the road and the thudding of the horses' hooves
making talking impractical.

"What I most wonder," Grenville said, when he
slowed to drive through a village, "is why Marianne was there."

"She'd come to talk with me," I said. "She
happened to get in the way of the Frenchman's fists, which she
would not have if she'd run away like a sensible woman."

"She was hurt?" Grenville gave me a look of
alarm. "Bartholomew did not tell me that."

"She was not much hurt. I made certain. And
Marianne gave back as good as she received."

Grenville rarely grew angry, but he grew
angry now. "Why the devil was she there to get in his way at all?
If she wanted to speak to you, why not send for you to visit
her?"

"She still feels a bit confined."

His mouth set. "I have told her she can come
and go as she pleases. She can do what the devil she likes. I have
ceased trying to hold her."

"
Constrained,
I should have said. Your
servants would no doubt mention a visit from me to you, possibly
telling you what they heard us discuss."

"Dear God," Grenville shouted at the
countryside in general. "The woman will drive me mad. It is my own
fault; I remember you warning me against her. I wish I had
listened."

"You wanted to help her. It was kind of
you."

He gave me a sideways glance. "Helping her
was not my only reason, and you know it. Well, I suppose I have
paid the price for my folly."

If Grenville had imagined that Marianne would
be forever grateful for his charity and fall into his arms, he had
certainly read her character wrong.

I wanted to ask him about Mrs. Bennington,
and Marianne's speculations, but we exited the village and picked
up speed, and I did not fancy bellowing such questions to him on
the road. Time enough for that later.

I did tell him, when we slowed again near
Epsom, about my encounter with Imogene Harper in Turner's rooms and
the rest of my investigation until this point.

I had imagined we'd put up at an inn at Epsom
and journey to Turner's father's home for the funeral the next day,
but to my surprise, Grenville drove to a red-brick, Tudor-style
manor a little outside the town.

When the phaeton finally rattled to a halt, a
groom came out to greet us and hold the horses. Grenville said,
"When I wrote to Mr. Turner to express my condolences, he invited
me to stay at the house. You are welcome, as well."

A footman appeared at the front door and led us
inside into a narrow, dark-paneled hall lined with doors. At the
end of this hall, a staircase, its wood black with age, wound
upward to a gallery.

We did not meet Mr. Turner, but were taken
upstairs to bedchambers that were low-ceilinged and dark, though
warm and comfortable. The footman brought us hot coffee and hock
and left us alone.

"I've stayed here several times," Grenville
said. "Turner does fine house parties for the Derby. They are quite
popular, and Turner is a good host."

I looked out the window across green hills
toward the dusty road on which the Derby race was held. I had no
doubt that house parties here were filled with gaiety and
excitement. Sad that such a place would now have to be the site of
so dismal a scene as a young man's funeral.

Not long later, our host sent for us, and
Grenville and I descended to meet Mr. Turner in his study.

Large windows here overlooked a lush back
garden where spring flowers pushed themselves up in the beds. The
sun shone hard, rendering it a lovely landscape. On any other
occasion, I would have stopped to enjoy the sight.

Henry Turner's father, Mr. Allen Turner,
looked much like his son. His hair was straight and close cropped,
but he had the same rather soft features as Henry and had probably
been quite handsome in his youth. Mr. Turner was not very tall,
standing only about as high as Grenville, and he had to look up at
me. He shook my hand politely, showing no resentment of my
intrusion.

"You are the captain who sometimes works
with the magistrates, are you not?" he asked.

I admitted that I was. "My condolences on
the loss of your son, sir."

Turner nodded in a resigned manner. "It came
as a bit of the shock. When your only son dies, it is as if you
lived your life for nothing. All this . . ." He gestured to the
room, and I took him to mean the entire house and the estate as
well. "Henry will not have any of it now. It will go to my second
cousin and his son, and that will be the end of it."

His eyes were sad, but his back was
straight, as though Mr. Turner determined to face the future, no
matter how bleak it was. I remembered the frustration Brandon
sometimes expressed that he had no son to carry on his name and his
line, no one to inherit his money and his houses. I personally was
happy not to bestow the ruin of the Lacey house in Norfolk on a
son, but Brandon and Mr. Turner had much more to lose. An
Englishman without a son was almost like a man without an
appendage.

Brandon had been disappointed at Louisa's
failed attempts to produce his hoped-for heir, but I believe Turner
suffered worse. He'd had a healthy and robust son, who'd been cut
down in the prime of his life. No matter what Henry Turner's
character had been, he might have lived a long time and produced
many children so that his father might see his line stretching to
eternity. Now that possibility was gone.