Rosemary Stevens (19 page)

“So that you can go to her instead of stay here with me.”

I had to play the game. “She reminds me of someone else. Someone I cannot have.”

She softened. “Ah, an unrequited love.”

“That is it.”

She suddenly began to cry. “How terrible to love and not have it returned. Poor, dear Beau.”

I produced my handkerchief and offered it to her. She took it, glancing at the double B’s initialed in the corner. Wiping her streaming eyes, she said, “I could make you forget her, you know. Who is it?”

“I cannot say.” Which was true.

“A man of discretion.” She blew her nose and pocketed the handkerchief. “And you say that Angelica reminds you of her.”

“Actually, I am not sure. That is why I need her direction. So that I might see her and know.”

She tapped a finger on the lapel of my coat. “I’m not sure I should tell you. It might be better for you not to be constantly reminded of this love you cannot have.”

“I beg you will allow me to be the judge of that. Here, I have brought you something.” I pulled out the box containing the coral earbobs and handed it to her.

“Oh! They are charming,” she cried when she opened the lid. She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. Then she got up and went to stand in front of a looking-glass so that she might admire them on herself.

I rose. “Have you known Mrs. Nunn long?”

“No, not at all. We met in the Park one day during the last Season. She had just arrived from Belgium, I think it was, and needed a protector. She turned from the mirror. “How do they look?”

“Very nice. They are perfect for you.”

She laughed. “But then what would you, the Arbiter of Fashion, bring me but something other than perfection?”

“You are kind.”

She walked over to me and placed her hands on the knot of my cravat. “What a shame to have this handsome figure wasted on such as Angelica. But perhaps you’ll find you don’t care for her after all.”

“I will not know that until I see her again.”

She pouted, then scrawled a direction in Bloomsbury on the back of one of her peach-coloured cards.

Lionel opened the door to me at the Haven of Hope around five that afternoon. His worried gaze met mine. I tried to adopt an air of confidence, though I was feeling anything but certain all would turn out well in this situation. In fact, as each hour went by, I doubted my ability to bring the real killer to justice before an unspeakable mistake on Bow Street’s part could cost the lieutenant his life.

“How are you today, Lion?” I asked.

He turned and glanced down the hallway after closing the door behind me. “I’m that worried over Miss Lavender. She sits and stares at nothin’ sometimes. I never seen ‘er do the like. She’s always been busy doin’ somethin’. But ‘ere lately, she’s all drawn into ‘erself.”

I thought I could understand. Miss Lavender was going through the ordeal of letting the memories of what Mr. Jacombe did so they might cease their control over her. It was no wonder that she was thoughtful and quiet.

However, I could not tell Lionel any of that. “I believe her to still be disturbed by the fact she witnessed the death of Mr. Jacombe. Not to mention the incarceration of both Lieutenant Nevill and Molly. It is only natural that she be worried.”

“And me, too?”

“Of course. You care for Miss Lavender.”

“She prob’ly saved my life. At the very least she took me off the streets.”

“Well then, halfling, you have your answer. Do not be overset. All is not lost.” Yet.

“I expect you came to see ‘er.”

“Yes, though I always enjoy seeing you. Have you worked on tying your cravat?”

“I confess I ‘aven’t.”

“That is all right. When this is over, we shall practice. I have plenty of linen you can work with.”

Robinson would have to be given the afternoon off the day I brought the boy over, I thought. Can you imagine what the fussy valet would say about Lionel and my good linen?

The boy grinned. “That sounds good.”

I left him to his studies and knocked on the door to Miss Lavender’s office. A call to come in prompted me to open the door and enter.

Miss Lavender sat behind her desk, spectacles on her nose, going over a ledger.

“Mr. Brummell, I’ve been half waiting for you all day. Come and sit down.” She removed her spectacles and indicated a chair across the desk from her.

“Thank you. How are you today?”

“Worn to the bone from my evening at the Perrys,” she said with a smile.

“I am glad you can make light of the awful way those people treated you. I am ashamed of them.”

“Don’t concern yourself with the matter. We have more important things to discuss.”

“Yes. First tell me your news. Has your father said anything about a trial date?”

Miss Lavender looked grim. “I’m afraid he has. The trial is set for Friday morning. The word around Bow Street is that if the lieutenant is convicted, the Lord Chief Justice could sentence him to hang Saturday morning at eight.”

“Good God! I knew things were coming to a crisis point, but to actually hear the date and know we have only a matter of tonight and tomorrow . . . I take it they will not release Molly?”

“Not until after the trial. Tell me what you’ve found out about Doctor Trusdale.”

“Not much. I confronted him with the letter from the killer, placed alongside a sample of his own handwriting. He completely denied having written the letter. He said that many people’s block style of handprinting is similar. I confess I must agree with him.”

“What about his motive to protect Mrs. Jacombe?”

“I am certain he is indeed in love with her. I feel there is clearly a motive for him to have killed Mr. Jacombe. The problem is Mr. Nevill. I can find no connection whatsoever between the two men.”

“I take it you searched Mr. Nevill’s rooms last night after dropping me off.”

No need to mention I had followed her to Mr. Jacombe’s grave first, I thought. “Yes, I did go through Mr. Nevill’s rooms. There was absolutely nothing there to link him to Doctor Trusdale.”

“Faith, I don’t know where all this is leading.”

“I did find something of interest, however, in Mr. Nevill’s rooms.”

“What? Pray God it will help Molly and her young man.”

“Inside the wardrobe in Mr. Nevill’s bedchamber there was a portrait. A family portrait.”

She looked bewildered. “How can that help?”

“I am not saying it can. But what was of interest was the likeness of Lieutenant Nevill’s mother, Arabella. Recall that his mother allegedly abandoned the family and fled to the Continent with a lover.”

“When was this?”

“When the lieutenant was but four-and-ten. His father drank himself to death within a year. At any rate, when I was going through the papers in Mr. Nevill’s desk, I came upon a document. It was written up as an agreement between Mr. Nevill and Arabella Nevill. He paid her ten thousand pounds to leave the country and never return.”

Miss Lavender drew a sharp breath. “How infamous. To send a mother away from her child. Was she a bad woman?”

“Evidently Mr. Nevill thought so. There was also the matter of a diamond necklace. It was referred to in the document as a family heirloom. Apparently Arabella sold it without permission.”

“Oh, my.”

“There is more. When I saw the likeness of Arabella in the family portrait, I thought she looked vaguely familiar. When I added years, wrinkles, and some weight to her, I knew for certain that I had seen her.”

“Here in London?”

“Yes.”

“But I thought you said the agreement prevented her from returning.”

“It did. Which makes it imperative that we find out if the woman I saw is Arabella and if she is, how long she has been back in London.”

“Where did you see her?”

Here was a bit of an awkward situation. For I would have to tell Miss Lavender that I had seen her at Mrs. Roucliffe’s. I cleared my throat.

“A lucky encounter, actually,” I said, trying to stall. “She was introduced to me as Angelica Nunn, but I believe her to be Arabella Nevill.”

“I see. Who introduced you?”

Oh well. “Mrs. Roucliffe, the courtesan you saw me talking with at Gunter’s that day.”

Miss Lavender bridled like a dowager of sixty years. “Was Mrs. Nunn in company with Mrs. Roucliffe in the Park? Or where exactly did this take place?”

My throat felt dry. I wished for a large glass of Chambertin. Or any wine, actually. “At Mrs. Roucliffe’s house.”

Miss Lavender’s green gaze held mine. A flush had stolen up over her throat and face. A moment or a thousand passed.

“I was at Mrs. Roucliffe’s for perfectly innocent reasons.”

“There is no need to explain yourself to
me
, Mr. Brummell.”

“Now, Lydia, there is no need to take that tone.”

“I have not given you leave to use my Christian name.”

“Very well, Miss Lavender, please allow me to explain.”

“I’m listening.”

“That day at Gunter’s when I was with you and Lionel, I made an appointment to see Mrs. Roucliffe. I wanted to find out what she knew of Mr. Jacombe. I had been told by Lady Salisbury, the marchioness you met last night, that Mr. Jacombe had tried to set up Mrs. Roucliffe as his mistress.”

“Contemptible man. Did his lust know no bounds?”

“One cannot assume anything where Mr. Jacombe is concerned, it seems. But to return to Mrs. Roucliffe. I visited her the next day. She told me that she had refused Mr. Jacombe’s offer of protection, refused the house he had let for her, refused his money, all because she sensed a vein of cruelty in him.”

“A smart woman.”

“Indeed. It was when I first arrived at Mrs. Roucliffe’s house that I met Mrs. Nunn. She and Mrs. Roucliffe are friends. Mrs. Nunn was on the point of leaving when I arrived.”

Miss Lavender relaxed. “I see. And from that brief meeting you recognized her in the portrait?”

“Yes.”

“You are clever, Mr. Brummell.”

I felt a glow of pride. And relief that she no longer seemed angry with me. “Thank you. Earlier today I returned to Mrs. Roucliffe’s. She gave me Mrs. Nunn’s direction in Bloomsbury.”

Miss Lavender leaned forward eagerly. “What do you propose we do?”

“I think we need to confront Mrs. Nunn. My mind has been intrigued by several possibilities where she is concerned. Mrs. Roucliffe said she met her in the Park one day and helped get her a protector.”

“She could have been in London watching her son and seen events unfold.”

“Possibly. We have a case here with two mothers—Mrs. Hargrove and Mrs. Nunn, or Mrs. Nevill I should say—who may not care two straws for their children. On the other hand, I think it would be worth confronting Mrs. Nunn.”

“Molly has some sketches she drew of Lieutenant Nevill. We could show her those and play on her emotions.”

“Excellent. But I think we must tread carefully. A woman like Arabella Nevill is no fool. Let me go in alone, flatter her. When we see what sort of place she is living in, we can devise a means for you to be nearby listening.”

“That way I can be a witness if she says anything incriminating.”

“Precisely.” I smiled at her. “Miss Lavender, I must say that your father must be in ignorance of the intelligence of his daughter, else he would have you working at Bow Street.”

“What fustian,” Miss Lavender murmured, but she lowered her lashes in pleasure at the compliment nonetheless.

“Can we agree on a time? I would say not too early in the morning in case Mrs. Nunn’s protector is still with her, but not so late that she might be receiving him as a caller.”

“What about one of the clock?” she asked.

“Excellent. Now I must take my leave so that I might change clothing for the evening. I am going to visit the Prince of Wales and see if there is any possibility he might change his mind and intercede on Lieutenant Nevill’s behalf.”

“I wish you good luck,” she said, rising.

I rose as well and reached for her hand. I placed a brief kiss on her knuckles. “We need all the luck we can get, since we only have one more day before the trial.”

The Rose Satin Drawing room at Prinny’s Carlton House may have a turquoise and green carpet, but the walls, draperies, sofas, and chairs are all done in the colour that gives the room its name.

Several large crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, which has squares of paintings around its oval gilt-trimmed frame.

I entered the room through the white and gold double doors to find the Prince in company with several male guests: Lords Petersham and Munro, Victor Tallarico, Count Boruwlaski, and, unfortunately, Sylvester Fairingdale.

The company had done with dinner and were working hard to amuse themselves. A table for cards had been set up, but the Prince was not playing.

Instead, he was talking to the dwarf, John, Count Boruwlaski, while the latter stood on a Louis XIV table.

“Brummell!” the Prince called upon seeing me. “Just the man we need to entertain us with some
bon mots
.”

I bowed. “I am afraid, sir, that I have come on a serious matter.”

“Still trying to help your young friend escape the noose at Old Bailey?” Fairingdale crooned. “I fear it’s a lost cause. Poor Brummell. You saved the man once, but you won’t be able to do it again.”

I ignored him and kept my gaze on the Prince. “Sir, I have come on behalf of Lieutenant Nevill.”

“He’s the one who’s going to swing on Saturday morning, isn’t he,” the Count asked. “I thought you said you’d take me to watch, your Royal Highness.”

Appalled, I could only stare at the Prince. Had he not asked me to find out who the real killer was? Now he was ready to watch the soldier hang?

“Now, John,” the Prince said, addressing the Count, “I said we would see if it could be worked into the royal schedule.”

“Egad,” said Petersham. “Is it to be a public hanging?”

“I never attend those. Such a crush of common people,” Munro pronounced.

“Are things so bleak for Lieutenant Nevill, Brummell?” Tallarico asked. “I thought certainly events would change to his benefit. Why, when I was speaking of the matter with the Royal Duchess yesterday, she assured me that something would be done to spare him.”