A Body in Berkeley Square (21 page)

Denis's butler let me in and took me to the
dining room. I'd been in this room before, but not for a meal. Two
people now sat at the table, Denis and the Frenchman who'd attacked
me in my rooms. A third setting had been placed at one end of the
table, for me, I assumed.

James Denis sat in an armchair at the head of
the table, elegant in dress as usual, betraying no sign that he'd
stayed up very late last night and had risen relatively early this
morning.

As I sat, I reflected that I had never seen
James Denis do anything so human as eat. I'd always imagined that
he must exist on water alone. However, he had a plate of real food
before him--eggs and beef, a half-loaf of bread, and a crock of
butter.

The Frenchman's plate held thick slices of
ham, which he was shoveling into his mouth. He shot me a look of
defiance over his fork.

"Captain Lacey," Denis said in his cool
voice. "May I introduce Colonel Naveau."

Colonel Naveau nodded once, his eyes filled
with dislike. His close-cropped hair was a mix of gray and brown,
and his eyes were dark. He wore a suit tailored to his lean body, a
fact that spoke of expense. His emperor might have lost the war,
but this colonel still had his fortune.

"Colonel Naveau is quite the pugilist," I
remarked, as a footman slid a plate of steaming sausages in front
of me. "Gentleman Jackson might be interested in some of his moves.
Were you cavalry?"

Naveau watched me a moment, then inclined his
head. "A hussar."

I had guessed he was light cavalry because of
his lean muscles, which spoke of hours in a saddle. French hussars
had been known for their not-always-prudent courage. They'd been
fond of throwing away their lives in some act of bravery that
usually cost the English dearly.

"They fought hard at Talavera," I said. "I
was there. In the Thirty-Fifth Light Dragoons."

Naveau grunted. "The Thirty-Fifth Light did
well at Waterloo." He barely moved his lips when he spoke.

"So I hear." I lifted my fork and cut a bite
of sausage. "I had retired before then. I'd been injured."

Denis broke in. "Captain Lacey's commander
was Colonel Aloysius Brandon. The one who now awaits trial for the
murder of Henry Turner."

"I read of Monsieur Turner's death in the
London newspapers." Naveau's tone was clipped.

"You knew I had searched Turner's rooms," I
said. "And you thought I'd found the letter with which Turner had
been blackmailing Colonel Brandon and Mrs. Harper. You followed me
home and waylaid me in my own lodgings in an attempt to find
it."

"I did." He seemed in no way ashamed.

"I have puzzled and puzzled why on earth you
would want a letter between Brandon and Mrs. Harper," I said. "Was
Mrs. Harper your mistress? Your wife, perhaps?"

Naveau's brows drew together. "I have no
wife. And what is this letter you speak of? I was not looking for a
letter; I was seeking a document. A very important document. Mr.
Denis says you will know where to find it."

I looked from him to Denis. "What is this
about?"

"Mr. Turner stayed for a time in Paris, as a
guest of Colonel Naveau," Denis said. "After Mr. Turner had
departed for London, Colonel Naveau discovered a document missing
from his house. He searched and concluded that Turner had absconded
with it. Naveau came to London as soon as he could and learned of
Turner's death after he arrived."

So Henry Turner had stolen a document from
Naveau. "What has this to do with Colonel Brandon?" I asked.

"Because your colonel knows where it is,"
Denis said. "Or at least, where it last was."

The footman came forward to pour more hot
coffee into my cup. "Why should Colonel Brandon know anything about
a French document?" I asked.

Naveau made a noise of exasperation. "Because
Monsieur Turner was blackmailing your colonel for the document. I
know this."

"Turner was blackmailing Brandon over a love
letter to or from Imogene Harper." A letter that would make their
affair embarrassingly public. But as I sat there I realized I'd
been thinking about this all wrong.

"No, no, Captain," Naveau said. "Not a love
letter. A letter he and Mrs. Harper wrote while we were in Spain. A
letter to me."

"To you?"

"Yes." Naveau seemed annoyed at my
disbelief.

"What is this document?"

"Nothing of concern to you," Naveau snapped
back. "It is in French."

"I read French."

"Still you would not understand it."

"And Colonel Brandon would?" I asked.

"Mrs. Harper would."

"Why Mrs. Harper?"

Naveau looked at Denis. "You told me he would
help without question."

"No," Denis replied. "I said that he would
find the document, but Captain Lacey must always ask questions. It
is his nature."

"It is an inconvenient nature."

I ignored Naveau. "Why did you promise him
that I would find it?" I asked Denis.

Denis laid his knife and three-tined fork
carefully across his plate. "The matter is simple. Colonel Naveau
needs this document. He has entered a bargain with me to restore it
to him. You are close to your colonel and can persuade him to tell
you where it is. If it has not turned up among Turner's things,
that means Henry Turner either destroyed it or passed it to
someone. Most likely, to Colonel Brandon."

"Colonel Naveau has paid you," I said, my
eyes narrowing.

"Yes," Denis said.

"In that case, you should have told him that
one of your own men would find the document for him."

Denis looked at me. Nothing existed behind
his cold expression but more coldness. "I did."

Damn him. From the first, James Denis had
informed me that he wanted me to work for him, and that I would, in
the end. I refused, because Denis was a criminal, no matter how
well he lived or what help he'd given me. Any deed he'd done for me
had been to suit his own purposes and to make me beholden to him. I
would pay him back, he'd said, in his own coin.

He knew that I wanted to find the document in
order to clear Colonel Brandon. He was holding my feet to the
fire.

"I do not work for you," I said.

"But you need this paper. Colonel Naveau will
remain here as my guest, and you will bring it to him."

My temper stirred. "I want the paper only to
help prove Brandon's innocence."

Denis lifted his slim shoulders. "If you
wish, but you will bring it to me and not give it to the
magistrates."

His gaze, if anything, had become colder. I
remembered what had happened to a young coachman who'd once
disobeyed Denis. Denis never discussed the matter, but I knew that
one of Denis's lackeys had murdered the young man.

"I searched Turner's rooms thoroughly," I
said. "I also paid a visit to his father in Surrey and looked over
his rooms there. I found nothing. No documents, no letters of any
sort. What makes you believe I can find it?"

"Because you have an uncanny knack for
turning up things that need to be found. You will do this."

I promised nothing. Denis watched me
steadily, but damned if I'd bow my head and obey.

I pushed away my now cold sausages and rose
to my feet. The butler appeared in an instant, understanding that I
was going.

"I have no doubt that the man you have
following me will report my every action to you," I said.

Denis's face was expressionless. "Yes."

"Then I need make no vows to you that I will
find and return the paper. You will know what I do."

Denis inclined his head. He had no need to
answer.

Colonel Naveau looked blustery, but I ignored
him. I departed the room without taking leave or saying goodbye,
and followed the butler down the stairs again to the street.

*** *** ***

Still seething, I walked the length of Curzon
Street through Clarges Street to Piccadilly. As I walked, I again
went over the extraordinary conversation I'd just had. A document,
written by Brandon
and
Mrs. Harper to Colonel Naveau, in
French.

My temper began to cool as worry took over.
James Denis had been strangely insistent that I pursue this. Why?
So he could make me do a job for him? Or for some other reason?

And why the devil should Brandon care about
the document? What was he trying so hard to keep from me? The only
thing certain was that there was more to this than any party let
on. Denis had not asked me to find the paper to please Colonel
Naveau, no matter how much the man had promised to pay. Denis did
things for his own reasons, and not all his reasons involved
money.

I wiped rain from my face. I had searched
Turner's rooms and found nothing. But I might as well do so again.
I must have overlooked
something
.

As I passed through Clarges Street, I
wondered whether Grenville was in his house there with Marianne. I
deliberately turned my gaze away from the windows, as though to
give Grenville his privacy, even from the street.

Grenville was another person I was not happy
with. Why had he gone to Mrs. Bennington and berated her so? I
might be able to accuse Mrs. Bennington of exaggerating his
behavior, overdramatizing it, but then her plain and very sensible
maid had said the same thing.

My friends, I reflected, were busily driving
me mad.

I turned onto Piccadilly, making my way past
Berkeley Street, Dover Street, Albemarle Street, and Old Bond
Street. I passed Burlington House, a huge edifice that had
dominated Piccadilly since the reign of Charles II. Owned now by
Lord George Cavendish, the interior was lavish, I'd been told, with
no expense spared on decoration. Grenville had pronounced it
excessive.

Turner's landlord looked puzzled when I said
I wanted to see Turner's rooms again, but he led me upstairs. The
sitting room was a mess. Open crates stood about half-filled. The
furniture had been lined up along one wall, apparently waiting for
men to load it into a wagon and drive it to Epsom.

In the bedroom, I found similar disarray,
along with Hazleton, Turner's valet. The man lay across Turner's
bed, fully clothed, snoring loudly. Two empty bottles, which had
likely held more of Turner's claret, stood on the night table.

I approached the bed and shook Hazleton's
booted foot.

The man snorted. He fumbled his hand to his
face and rubbed one eye. "Wha-- ? Devil take it, man."

"Hazleton," I said, shaking the foot more
firmly.

Hazleton blinked, trying to focus on me at
the foot of the bed. He sat up, then groaned and pressed his hand
to his forehead.

"What a head I have," he mumbled.

"Emptying bottles of claret by yourself will
do that." I dragged a chair from a corner and sat down. "While you
are recovering, I want you to tell me everything you know about a
Colonel Naveau, and Turner's last visit to Paris."

"Ah. You know about that, do you?"

"Not as much as I'd like. I have met Naveau.
These bruises on my face are courtesy of him. You would have saved
me much trouble if you'd told me about him from the start."

Hazleton gave me a belligerent look. "Well,
you didn't ask, did you?"

"Did he come here the same day I did, looking
for something?"

"That he did. Not two minutes after you
departed."

"And you helpfully told him that I had
already been here, and anything the colonel needed to find, I no
doubt had?"

"Yes," Hazleton said defiantly. "I didn't
know he would crack your face. I couldn't, could I?"

"What was he looking for?"

Hazleton looked surprised. "Well, now, you'd
know about that."

"No. I looked, and I found nothing. Naveau
has found nothing. I know the document is a paper written in
French, but I do not know what it is."

He shrugged. "I don't know either. I can't
read Frog-speak."

"Tell me why Turner went to Paris, what he
did there, and why he came home."

"Persistent, aren't you, Captain?" Hazelton
pressed his hand to his head again and climbed down from the bed.
"I'll need a bit of something to settle my head. So I can
remember."

I watched impatiently as he opened the
armoire and drew out another bottle. He uncorked it and poured ruby
liquid into a glass. "Have some, Captain?"

I declined. I craved coffee, not claret, and
I would reward myself with some after I finished with Hazleton.

Hazleton drank then let out a satisfied sigh.
"That's good, that is. I'm knackered from straightening out my
master's affairs. And then, once I'm finished, that is the end for
old Bill Hazleton. Mr. Turner--senior, that is--said he'd look
after me, but a man needs only one valet. So what is to become of
old Bill?"

"Perhaps Colonel Naveau can avail himself of
your services," I said, wanting him to get on with it.

Hazleton took another long gulp and sat on
the bed. "Oh, no, never him. That man frightens me, and not just
because he's a Frenchie. And anyway, he was a spy. You did know
that, didn't you? That he was an exploring officer during the war?
For the Frogs?"

* * * * *

Chapter Thirteen

No, I had not known that. Both Denis and
Colonel Naveau had omitted that interesting detail.

Exploring officers had been those men sent
off in the night to do covert missions for Wellington or for
Bonaparte's generals. They'd crept across lands held by the enemy
and spied out troop movements, intercepted papers, or infiltrated
the enemy camp itself. Men who could speak fluent French were
prized by the English; likewise those fluent in English were prized
by the French. So many Englishmen and Frenchmen had mixed blood,
mothers from London and fathers from Paris, that it was difficult
to decide sometimes who fought for whom.

Exploring officers had done a dangerous job,
I knew, but they'd been more or less despised. Instead of standing
and fighting in the open, they skulked about in darkness and lied
and cheated their way into defeating the enemy. Commanders prized
their exploring officers and found them distasteful at the same
time.