A Body in Berkeley Square (24 page)

Honor, yes. I agreed with him. But I thought
of the missing document Colonel Naveau wanted. Something dangerous
was going on here that might make a man throw honor to the
wind.

"Of course," Stokes went on, "I might have
done it. Oh, good form," he shouted at Knighton as the man began
punching his opponent.

"You might have," I said. "But why would
you?"

"Because I owed Mr. Turner a ruinous amount
of money." Stokes kept his gaze on the boxers. "Should have learned
my lesson when I lost to him at the races, but I wagered on the
outcome of a cockfight, and lost heavily. Not my fault. I could not
have foreseen that the champion bird would expire of apoplexy so
soon into the match. The lad had a nose for wagering. Saved my
pocket when he died. But I didn't kill the chap. I'd have paid up.
I always do."

Stokes was just ingenuous enough for me to
believe him. He seemed a straightforward, no-nonsense sort of
gentleman, one who might be persuaded to bet on a ridiculous
outcome but turn over his money amiably when he lost.

Then again, Turner was dead.

"So," Stokes said, "if I didn't murder the
chap, and Brandon didn't murder him, who did?"

"That is the question." I returned my
attention to the boxers. The gentleman called Knighton had just
landed another good facer on his opponent. I felt relieved I had
not bet against him. "And at this moment, I have no bloody idea
who."

*** *** ***

Grenville invited me back to Grosvenor Street
for brandy and hot coffee to chase away the chill of the evening
after we left Gentleman Jackson's. I readily accepted.

The Knighton fellow had done well. I'd bet on
him in a round against a tall, muscular boxer, and won a few
guineas. I resisted the temptation to let it all go again and,
flushed with success, accompanied Grenville home.

Now in his upstairs sitting room, the one
that housed curios from his travels, Grenville reclined in a
Turkish chair, clad in slippers and a suit meant for relaxing in
his own house. He fingered a small golden beetle he called a scarab
and let out a wistful sigh.

"Egypt is a magical place, Lacey," he said.
"All the wonders of a lost world buried in the sand, waiting to be
discovered. The Turks don't care about it one way or another. I
have followed the career of that Italian fellow, Belzoni, out there
looking for treasure. He used to do a strongman act at Tunbridge
Wells. Would carry seven men on his back. Amazing fellow."

"And you wish to travel to Egypt to help
him?"

"Not help, watch and learn. I doubt I would
do much good chucking blocks of stone about. I long to go back. It
is a beautiful place."

"You speak of it much."

"I told you before, we could go together. I
believe you'd enjoy it."

I poured my brandy into my coffee and sipped
the spicy, warm mixture. "What would Marianne say?"

"I believe she would be furious with me. That
is the trouble with falling under a woman's enchantment. A man
becomes reluctant to leave her side."

"Are you reluctant to leave her side?" I
asked.

Grenville gave me a self-deprecating look. "I
am, as you have guessed. That young lady has gotten under my skin."
He took a drink of brandy. "Well, you warned me about her. Perhaps
I should flee to Egypt so that I might come to my senses."

"She would never forgive you, I think."

"She might be happy to see the back of me.
Especially if I left her with a great deal of money. Yes, I believe
that is my solution."

"I believe you wrong her," I said.

"Do I?" he asked in vast disbelief.

"You stayed last night with her, did you
not?"

His smile was cynical. "A night with a lady
does not mean a softening of that lady's heart. You are a
romantic."

"Perhaps. What about Mrs. Bennington?"

His brandy glass stopped halfway to his
mouth. "Mrs. Bennington?"

"I visited her after her performance last
night. Her husband introduced me. She asked me to speak to
you."

Any friendliness vanished. "Did she?"

"I found it rather incredible what she told
me, that you shouted at her over a gentleman called Carew and threw
your walking stick across the room. I was shown the mark you left
in the wallpaper. I must wonder why you did so."

Grenville sat stiffly, his eyes glittering
with anger. "Lacey, I often am amused by your curiosity, but this
time, I am not. Please cease to ask me questions."

"You frightened her."

"Good. She ought not to let young fellows
make up to her, nor should she have married that God-awful
Bennington. The man is a mountebank."

"She told me his name was not Bennington. Who
is he then?"

"The devil if I know."

"You seem extraordinarily angry. Do you know
Mrs. Bennington well? I never heard you speak of her before she
came to London."

"I told you, Lacey," Grenville said in a hard
voice. "Cease asking me questions about Mrs. Bennington."

"I admit, her story seemed incredible. I
thought it likely that you'd have a reasonable explanation for the
entire matter, even if I had to thrash you for frightening a rather
pathetic young lady."

Grenville stared at me in outrage, then he
began to laugh. "Good God, you have audacity."

"I know. That is why I anger so many
people."

"I admire it, you know--even when it makes
you a bloody nuisance."

I noted that his backhanded compliment let
him nicely avoid the question. "Will you not tell me the
explanation?"

He stopped laughing. "No. I will not. This
incident with Mrs. Bennington is none of your damned business. That
is all I will say on the matter."

I inclined my head. My curiosity was not
satisfied, but I saw I would get no further with him tonight. "Very
well, but I must ask you to cease frightening her. If she tells me
again that you have thrown your walking stick or shouted in her
face, I will consider the thrashing."

He gazed at me, lips parting. "You truly do
have audacity, Lacey."

"Yes."

I knew I jeopardized my friendship with him
by being high-handed, but Mrs. Bennington had been truly
frightened, and Grenville had not denied her accusations. Mrs.
Bennington was not the most apt young lady in the world, but that
was no reason for a gentleman to threaten her or terrify her. That
Grenville, who prided himself on impeccable manners, had done so,
was astonishing.

Grenville drank his brandy in silence for a
moment then said, tight-lipped, "I suppose we should turn the
conversation to other things. What do you think of what Stokes told
you?"

"It is the first time I have been able to
verify the truth of Brandon's story that he was wandering the house
just before the body was discovered. But there are other things
going on that I do not understand."

I told him of my meeting with Denis and
Colonel Naveau, and the request to find the document that Turner
had stolen from Naveau. Grenville listened, his animosity fading as
his interest rose.

"I agree with you that Brandon most likely
gave the paper to Imogene Harper," he said. "However, she must have
been looking for it when you caught her entering Turner's rooms,
which tells me she does not have it."

"This is what I have concluded. I plan to ask
Mrs. Harper when I visit her and try to force her to tell me the
truth. But if she does not have it . . . " I trailed off, taking a
sip of coffee. "That means Brandon got rid of it somehow. I cannot
imagine him passing it to any other person, except perhaps Louisa.
But she has given no indication that she knew anything about a
letter, nor do I think he'd had time to give it to her."

"Then what is your theory?"

I clicked my cup to its saucer. "That Brandon
hid it somewhere. That he found a place to put it in the Gillises'
house where even their servants would not find it. He hid the
document before Pomeroy arrived, knowing he might be questioned
about Turner's murder. An awkward thing to have on him if Pomeroy
simply arrested people right and left and let magistrate sort it
out in the morning. He probably meant to return to retrieve the
letter or to send Mrs. Harper for it. But Pomeroy whisked him to
Bow Street so quickly that he did not have the chance to pass on
the message. Mrs. Harper has not visited him, nor has Louisa. And
he does not want me to find the damned thing."

"Hmm." Grenville tapped his fingertips
together. "How could he be certain the servants would not find
it?"

"He must have thought the hiding place a good
one." I studied the shelf beside me, which was filled with oriental
ivory. "If a Gillis servant did find it, would they be able to read
it? It was in French, and not all servants can read even English.
They might think it a stray bit of paper and destroy it."

"Or wrap fish in it or polish furniture with
it," Grenville said. "My footmen use my old newspapers to polish
the silver. So they tell me."

"Perhaps Bartholomew and Matthias can
infiltrate the Gillises' servants' hall again and find out. I am
not certain how I will explain to Lord Gillis that I want to search
his house from top to bottom for a stray piece of paper, but I will
try."

"I can speak to Gillis at my club."

"Lady Breckenridge has promised she will gain
me entry through Lady Gillis."

His brows climbed. "I see. Lady Breckenridge
has been quite helpful to you of late, I've observed."

I poured more coffee into my cup from the pot
on the tray. I felt Grenville's keen gaze resting upon me, but I
chose to ignore it. "Some things are none of my business," I said,
keeping my voice light. "Some things are none of yours."

He looked pleased. "You will never have a
moment's boredom with Donata Breckenridge, Lacey. She is decidedly
unconventional."

"She is intelligent," I said. "And does not
waste time on frivolous conversation."

"Exactly."

He wore a faint, superior smile. I said, "Her
marriage to Breckenridge I know was unhappy. She loathed him. I
gather it was an arranged match?"

Grenville nodded, always ready to delve into
the affairs of his fellow man, or woman. "It was a good match on
the basis of pedigree and financial benefit. Her father, Earl
Pembroke, was great friends with Breckenridge's uncle. Both men had
large and prosperous estates, and Pembroke wanted his daughter and
grandchildren provided for. Breckenridge's uncle was a man of
sterling worth, but Breckenridge grew up spoiled, hard-nosed, and
selfish. As you noticed." Grenville turned his glass in his hands.
"Interesting thing. I met Lady Breckenridge at her come-out, when
she was Lady Donata. She was quiet and well mannered, never spoke a
word out of place. A regal young lady. Not until after she married
Breckenridge did she blossom into what she is now."

I contrasted Grenville's picture of the quiet
ingenue to the frank, acerbic lady with the barbed sense of humor
I'd come to know.

I said, "Breckenridge must have infuriated
her until she grew fed up and dropped her polite veneer in
self-defense."

Grenville shot me a look. "Breckenridge was
horrible, Lacey. You knew him only a couple of days. Very few
people could stick him. He paraded his mistresses about in front of
his wife; I hear he even took a few home and forced her to share
her dining room with them, took them to his bedchamber under her
nose. I admire Lady Breckenridge for not running mad or shooting
him outright. She must have the strength of ten to live through
what he did to her."

"She does have strength," I said in a soft
voice. "She can stand up to me and tell me to go to the devil."

He chuckled. "So very few men would prize
that in a lady."

And yet, I did. My wife Carlotta had been a
fragile, tender creature. I'd needed a wife who could bash crockery
over my head and tell me not to run roughshod over them. Carlotta
had said nothing and let me become more and more heavy-handed. I
doubt I'd ever be able to be heavy-handed with Donata
Breckenridge.

"Lady Breckenridge is a lovely woman," I
said.

Grenville grinned. "That does not hurt,
either." He lifted his glass. "To comely ladies with sharp tongues.
Bless them."

I lifted my cup and joined him in a
toast.

*** *** ***

The next afternoon, I returned to the court
near Portman Square to attempt another visit to Imogene Harper.
This time, I found her at home.

She received me in a tidy parlor whose
windows overlooked the foggy lane. This was a quiet court, rather
like the one I lived in on the other side of the city, though a bit
more prosperous. The house was respectable, the sort a well-to-do
widow might hire.

Mrs. Harper looked the part of the
respectable, well-to-do widow. Again, I was struck by what a
comfortable-seeming woman she was--not a beauty, but not
displeasing, either. The disheveled look she'd had when I'd
encountered her in Turner's rooms was gone. Her yellow-brown hair
had been combed back into a simple knot, and she wore brown again,
a high-waisted gown trimmed with black.

Once the requisite politeness had finished
and a maid had settled us with the requisite tea, I told her, "I
have met Colonel Naveau."

Mrs. Harper's eyes widened, and she set down
the teacup she'd just lifted. "Oh."

"He has commissioned me to find a letter
stolen from him in Paris by Mr. Turner. I believe that same letter
was sold to Colonel Brandon for five hundred guineas in the
anteroom of Lord Gillis's Berkeley Square townhouse."

Mrs. Harper bowed her head, but a flush
spread across her cheeks.

"Am I correct?" I asked.

"You believe so," she answered, her voice
hard. "What does it matter what I think?"

"It matters a great deal, Mrs. Harper. I need
to find that document. I want to find it. Will you tell me where it
is?"