A Mystery at Carlton House

  The walking stick was a gift from Donata, the first gift she’d ever given me. Likewise she’d bestowed upon me the watch that was tucked into my waistcoat pocket, and my daughter Gabriella had supplied the chain that dangled from it.

  “I’ll gladly give you my purse,” I said, “if you want four shillings that badly. But I’m going with the rest. It’s chilly today.”

  The knife point dug a little harder. “You’re amusing, you are. Ye fink this is an argument? Ye fink being a pal of Tommy’s will help ye? ’E’s not from around ’ere, and ’e ain’t got his old mate to ’elp him no more, ’as ’e?”

  I would definitely have to speak to Denis about his decision to dismiss Brewster. Perhaps Denis hadn’t realized he might put Brewster in danger … Then again, Denis made no action he hadn’t thought through clearly. I doubted he’d sacked Brewster in a fit of pique.

  “The purse,” I said. “It is in my inner pocket. Enjoy that, or I fight you.”

  “And die,” the man said without worry. “I’ve got many mates between me and your way out. And we know ’ow to keep a body from being found for a long, long time.”

  I did see a flicker of interest in his eyes that I wasn’t afraid. I wasn’t. I had no intention of leaving my belongings with this man, treasure that meant more to me than the cost of them.

  Perhaps battling every day of my life for years had sent me into a state of resignation—this would simply be one more battle. Perhaps being thoroughly beaten by highly skilled Turkish toughs in Egypt had also inured me. And absolutely nothing could compare to being walled alive in a tomb under the desert floor.

  I caught the man with the knife in the gut with my elbow and swung around with my walking stick to slam it into the stomach of a confederate who’d been creeping up on my left. The gap-toothed man who’d originally stopped me faded quickly out of sight, whether dismayed his quarry fought back or to summon help, I could not know.

  Or perhaps I wasn’t afraid because I knew bloody well that Denis would not let me wander about in St. Giles without someone to watch over me. As I fought, this watcher, a giant of a man, emerged from the shadows, cudgel in hand.

  He went at the St. Giles men with ruthless professionalism—only one of him and five—no, six—of them. Three turned and fled without hesitation, two fought and then retreated, leaving only my assailant with the knife. That man bent into a fighting crouch, rage in his eyes. Denis’s thug brought his cudgel down toward the man’s head, then danced back when the knife nearly swiped off his privates.

  Snarling, Denis’s man straightened up, drawing his own knife, a wicked-looking thing about a foot long.

  The other man glared at it, then swung around, his long coat flying. “Don’t let me see you back ’ere,” he said to me, his spittle glinting in the morning sunlight. “Or you’re for it.”

  With that, he twisted away, sprinting hard as Denis’s man went for him, and disappeared into a noisome passageway.

  I straightened up, breathing hard. I expected Denis’s thug to sheath his knife and escort me from the rookeries, but instead, he balled up the hand that held the blade and swung his fist at me.

  I ducked before his blow could connect with my face and grabbed his arm. In return he smacked his cudgel into my side and kicked my leg out from under me. I went down on my bad knee, pain banging through me and making my teeth rattle.

  “Bloody hell!” I shouted at him. “Enough!”

  “Ye need t’ be taught your place, Captain,” the man said without contrition. “’E’s tired of ye waltzing into danger, knowing ’e’ll pull ye back out of it.”

  “You beating me to a pulp will assist with that, will it?” The words barely came out as I struggled to breathe. Rage kept the worst of the agony at bay, but I knew I’d pay later.

  “It’ll teach ye manners,” the man said, his scarred face unmoving. “I’m not your minder. This’ll ’urt but not leave ye where ye can’t do what you’re told.”

  If Denis had ordered this man to pummel me into submission, no wonder he’d accused Brewster of going soft. Not that I planned to kneel in the muck and tamely take my punishment. I brought up my walking stick as the man’s cudgel came down again, ready to fight him weapon to weapon.

  The cudgel never struck. It was ripped out of the man’s beefy hand by another hand equally as large. Then Brewster’s huge fist landed on the thug’s face, snapping his head sideways.

  Denis’s ruffian danced back, shaking his head, but swung around, his knife ready. I struggled to my feet. Brewster advanced on the thug with the nabbed cudgel held ready, murder on his face. The man studied him then me as I drew my sword, gave us both a look of disgust, and turned and tramped away, his knife still in his hand as he faded into the shadows.

  Brewster lowered the cudgel and steadied me as I sheathed the sword and planted my walking stick on the cobbles to regain my balance.

  “My Em has the right of it,” Brewster said. He was fully dressed, coat, hat, boots, and all, and breathing hard, as though he’d run swiftly after me. “Ye get into too much trouble left on your own. I suppose I’m working for you now. Let’s get ye home.”

  * * *

  I’d managed to come through the scuffle with only a bruise and cut on my left cheekbone. Barnstable, who’d ministered to me in the past when I’d arrived at this elegant house looking like a prizefighter, did not flick an eyebrow over my appearance. He did, however, suggest I retire to my chamber where I might wish to tidy myself before entering the sitting room.

  “Her ladyship is there, sir, as well as Mr. Grenville.”

  So, Grenville had reappeared. “An excellent suggestion, Barnstable,” I said and made to move past him and up the stairs.

  “I beg your pardon, sir.” Barnstable held out a folded piece of paper he’d extracted from his waistcoat pocket. “This came for you while you were out.”

  I took the paper, neatly torn from a larger sheet, and found Marianne’s handwriting telling me where and when she wanted to meet to ask her question. I thanked Barnstable, who made certain he looked in no way curious as to what was on the missive, and I continued upstairs.

  Brewster, who had ridden with me in the hackney, had already descended to the kitchen. Donata rather liked Mr. Brewster, and so did Grenville, and Brewster had been privy to many of our discussions, but he had no wish to accompany me to an upstairs sitting room. A former pugilist and thief hired to watch over me belonged below stairs, and only below stairs, so Brewster said.

  Bartholomew did comment on my wound when I entered my chamber to wash up. “Mr. Denis’s man did that?” he asked, outraged. “Even after he drove off the other ruffians?” He shook his head. “Bloody bastard has no honor. I hope you’ll speak to Mr. Denis, Captain. It ain’t right for him to sack Mr. Brewster.” Our sojourn in Egypt had softened Bartholomew a long way toward Brewster.

  “I will have a word with Mr. Denis,” I said as Bartholomew helped me into a fresh coat. “But don’t tell Brewster about it. He has his pride, and my protests may do no good.”

  “Try anyway, sir.” Bartholomew brushed down the back of the coat with a soft-bristled brush, smoothed the cloth across my shoulders one more time, then stepped back and nodded that I’d passed his inspection.

  “I intend to,” I said, and left him.

  The sitting room one floor below me overlooked the garden and was relatively quiet, shutting out the rumble of traffic on the street. Donata had decorated it with her usual taste in creams and yellows, the woodwork white, the fireplace and windows done in the style of the Adam brothers. A painting of Donata and Peter hung on one wall—she stood regally, one hand on the back of a chair, while her very young son lolled on the chair seat.

  The painting was ostensibly a portrait of young Lord Peter Matthew St. John, now Lord Breckenridge, but the painter had captured Donata’s essence. Her head was lifted, her dark blue eyes watching the viewer, the slight tilt of her lips a mark of her intelligence and her biting sense of humor. At any moment s
he might make a quip that reduced the viewer to an apologetic mass of bewilderment.

  The background in the painting was filled with a floor vase of flowers, a drapery that revealed nothing, and a pillar in the Greek style. Against these props, Donata was vibrant, her beauty singular.

  Today she reposed on a cream-upholstered chaise, her legs covered by a deep blue shawl that went well with her lighter blue gown and brought out her eyes. Knowing my wife, this color combination was not by chance.

  Grenville, who’d been speaking animatedly with her from the green-and-gold striped Bergere chair near the crackling fire, sprang up as I entered.

  Marianne had said he’d departed abruptly from his Grosvenor Street house at an unusual hour, but even so, Grenville had taken time to dress for his outing. His coat of black cashmere could have graced a ballroom, though he would protest he wore a simple morning suit. His waistcoat was a subdued gray-and-ivory stripe, rising to a cravat tied in a fairly simple knot—simple for Grenville, that is—and his skintight buckskin pantaloons fitted well into his top boots.

  “There you are,” Grenville said. “Where the devil did you get to?”

  It spoke of his agitation and excitement that he made no formal bow, no friendly salutation, no inquiry about my health. He simply quivered with whatever it was he wished to tell me.

  “Looking for you, as it happens,” I said. I lifted a Louis XV chair from the writing table and carried it to the chaise so I could sit next to Donata without disturbing her. Her look was welcoming, but no less eager than Grenville’s.

  “Grenville’s been summoned to the palace,” Donata said. “He is agog with it.”

  Grenville shot her an admonishing look. “Not exactly.” He resumed his seat as I took my place, and leaned forward, the tails of his coat falling to brush his boots. “I was indeed summoned, but to Carlton House, early this morning.”

  He waited, no doubt hoping I’d widen my eyes in astonishment. “About the thefts there?” I asked without changing expression.

  Grenville’s dismay was comical. “Damn it all, Lacey. You might let me surprise you once in my life.”

  I relented. “It is why I went in search of you. Mr. Spendlove has asked me to look into things.”

  Grenville’s brows rose, as did Donata’s. “Spendlove?” Grenville repeated.

  “That detestable man,” Donata said with rancor. “I hope you refused him.”

  “I wished to.” I spoke slowly, resting my hand on my walking stick. I did not want to tell Donata about his threats, not yet. “But—”

  “But you had to see what it was all about,” Grenville finished for me. I let out a breath, happy I was spared an explanation. “Yes, I heard all about the arrest. The majordomo at Carlton House told me about it. And the Regent himself. The prince wrested himself out of bed at that early hour to ask me—indeed, beg me—to bring ‘that clever captain’ to visit him and discover everything you can. The Regent wants me to cart you to him so he can implore you himself to find out what is happening to his collection, and have you put it right.”

  Another man might be flattered that the monarch-in-waiting had requested his advice, but the announcement only bewildered me.

  “Does he expect me to stride in, identify the culprit without doubt, and sail out again, a good deed done?” I asked in astonishment.

  Grenville nodded. “That is likely. I told him it was not so simple as that, but the Regent is adamant to meet you. You have become rather famous.”

  The most popular man in England explained this without resentment. I shook my head. “Infamous, is more likely. Infamis as the Romans said, and they did not mean it as a compliment.”

  “Nonsense.” Donata cut through my ramblings in a clear tone. “I will go with you to this appointment, as will Grenville, and we will explain things. My father was one of the prince’s advisors before Papa decided country life was more to his taste. Not that the Regent listened to Papa much, another reason he’d had enough. The prince used to praise my riding. I was eight years old and already thought him a fool.”

  And Donata did not suffer those gladly. However, she knew what to say and not say to anyone at any level of society, and I’d welcome her help.

  “He expects us at two o’clock,” Grenville said, rising. “A cheek, I know, but if we set off soon, we’ll arrive in time.”

  “Ah.” I remained seated, closing my hand more firmly on the walking stick. Marianne’s note had asked me to meet her at two at Egyptian Hall. “I cannot go on the moment. I am afraid I have another engagement.”

  Chapter 5

  Grenville gave me a dumbfounded look. He stood in silence while the porcelain clock behind him ticked at least a dozen times. For once in my life, I’d caught Lucius Grenville at a loss for words.

  Donata filled them in for him as she fixed me with her shrewd gaze. “What he means, Gabriel, is that the king’s son has sent for you, and you say you are too busy to attend? Grenville is trying not to be rude and ask what you could possibly have to do that is more important.”

  By the flush on Grenville’s face, Donata had the right of it.

  “I beg your pardon,” Grenville said, his voice subdued. “Of course I will make your apologies and fix the appointment for another time.”

  He was angry at me and striving not to show it. He’d be angrier still if he knew with whom I’d be meeting. I had the strong suspicion Marianne wished to speak with me on a topic she’d not shared with Grenville and would not be happy if I imparted it to him.

  I kept my countenance neutral, unwilling to satisfy his curiosity. At last Grenville heaved an exasperated sigh and gave us both a formal bow.

  “Very well, then. I will hie to Carlton House and explain things.”

  “If he can wait but an hour,” I began, but Grenville shook his head.

  “Even our frivolous prince’s time is tightly scheduled. I will ask for another appointment. He is sufficiently agitated enough to accommodate you.”

  I rose. “My sincere apologies,” I said. “But I made a promise.”

  “Yes, indeed.” Grenville went to Donata and lifted her hand to his lips. “I am happy to see you looking so well, Mrs. Lacey. Motherhood suits you—again. Good afternoon.”

  Donata graciously accepted the compliment and the kiss. She watched Grenville depart with his usual agile step but didn’t speak until we heard him descend the stairs and Barnstable greet him to politely see him out.

  My wife gave me a severe look as I turned back to her. “Good heavens, Gabriel, you are cool as ice on a winter’s day. Grenville might be too polite to ask what you could have planned that’s more important than visiting Carlton House, but I am not. Even if you do not think much of the Regent as a person, I know you are intrigued by this theft.”

  “I am.” We heard the front door close below, Grenville gone. I moved the chair in which I’d been reposing in front of the chaise and sat down so I could hold Donata’s hands in mine. “How are you?” I asked her.

  “Anxious to know what you’ve been getting up to,” was her immediate reply before her dark blue eyes softened. “I am well, Gabriel. Truly. Better every day.”

  I closed my fingers tightly over hers. “Good.”

  We shared a look. She knew how grieved I’d been, how certain I would lose her. I’d tried, once we’d arrived in London, to hunt up the surgeon and press on him a reward for saving the life of my wife and child, but he’d vanished. I hadn’t been very surprised that I could not find him.

  Donata had not at first understood my concern for her. I do not believe she realized my depth of feeling. But I am not a man who loves by halves—it is everything or not at all. After a time, she’d ceased admonishing me for fussing and now answered my inquiries with seriousness.

  She returned the squeeze of my hands then withdrew, caressing the backs of my fingers as she went. I saw a flicker of deep worry in her eyes, however, which I did not like. But she’d fought to live, and I could well understand her not wanting t
o relax her vigilance too early.

  Her voice became brisk again, the anxiety banished. “Now that we have established that I am robust as can be expected, tell me what you are up to, blast you.” My dear wife bent me a glare.

  “Of course,” I said. “You are invited to my appointment as well, and in fact, we should leave soon. We will be spending an hour at Egyptian Hall.”

  Donata’s brows rose. “Will we? It’s rather passé, isn’t it? Captain Cook’s voyages, armor, and natural history? We’ve seen it.”

  “Ah, the ennui of the very rich.” I gave her a faint smile. “I quite enjoyed the displays. Napoleon’s coach and camp bed and so forth.”

  “Only because you defeated the man.” Donata reached to the inlaid table beside her then arrested the movement. She used to keep her cigarillos there, but she’d given them up while she’d been with child, convinced they’d not be good for the baby’s health. She was waiting until she fully recovered to enjoy them again, but I saw the pucker of frustration between her brows.

  “I did not defeat him by myself,” I said with faux modesty, then dropped the pretense. “I fought his soldiers but never saw the Corsican. He stayed well off the Peninsula. Had more pressing business elsewhere. He didn’t need to be there, in any case. His generals were top notch.”

  Donata drummed her fingers on the empty table. “You sound as though you admire them.”

  “One can fight a man and commend his skill,” I said. “Will it cause too much damage to your reputation to be seen entering a building whose popularity has waned?”

  Donata unwrapped the shawl from around her and swung her feet to the floor. She put her hand in mine so I could steady her while she stood.

  “I will risk it,” she said. “But only because I am so bloody curious. Give me a moment to don something appropriate, and we will be off.”