"And she is willing to continue to Lincolnshire on the moment?"
"She professes to be. We will find a comfortable inn in which to spend the night on the way." He peered at me. "You do not seem frightfully keen, Lacey. Which means you must have been badly hurt. I do apologize, my dear fellow, for bouncing in here with my news."
"I will recover," I said. I was not ready to talk about the adventure, not yet. "By all means, take me to Lincolnshire. I need to be quit of this place for a time."
*** *** ***
I could not rush off in an instant, but it was within the hour. Marianne descended to look over my house while I gave instructions to Terrance and had Bartholomew run back to the inn in Blakeney for my things.
Marianne looked around at the stripped walls of the main hall and the rust on the solid wrought iron of the stair rail. "I can not decide which looks worse, Lacey, you or your house."
Ever tactful, was Marianne. Grenville had gone outside to speak to his coachman and Matthias, so Marianne and I stood relatively alone in the hall.
"I hope that both will mend," I said to her.
Marianne craned her head and looked up the open staircase. "It is interesting to see where you came from, though. Quite posh, it must have been. I imagine Lady Breckenridge rubbing her expensively gloved hands and planning supper balls and summer fetes."
"Possibly," I said.
"Definitely," Marianne answered.
"Why on earth are you agreeing to ride all the way to Lincolnshire?" I asked. "Surely Grenville would hire a chaise to take you back to London."
She gave me a dark look. "Because obtaining time to speak to his worship is difficult. He does rather avoid conversation, as you can surmise by the fact that he rode horseback almost the entire way here from Cambridge."
"He grows ill in carriages. Perhaps he does not like you to see that."
"Perhaps he does not like to actually speak with me. But he will with you, and so I will listen and pretend I am part of it."
"He said that you wanted to 'consult' with him. You meant by that, what?"
She put her head on one side. "Not really your business. Perhaps I simply want to converse with him."
"I cannot blame him for avoiding you, if you are this maddening. Conversation with you, Marianne, can put a gentleman off."
"Rot. I know exactly what sorts of things to say to a gentleman. The trouble is, he won't sit still long enough for me to say them."
I made a noise of exasperation. "Because he is not looking for conversation with a courtesan who knows how to flatter and tease. He wants a real conversation--with the real Marianne."
Marianne looked at me a moment, then her voice went soft. "That is what I fear."
"I speak the truth. Grenville is not a stupid man. He has no use for Spanish coin and flummery. He wants to know you."
"And then I will watch him run from me as fast as his legs can carry him. Maybe to a lady who has a cultured tongue and can converse about art and music with her nose in the air."
"Ask him to teach you about them. And you have a more cultured tongue than you know. I've often observed that you speak far better than your colleagues at the theatre. You were never gutter born. Stand amazed at my discretion in never asking you."
"Yes, I had noticed that," she said. "Thank you, Lacey."
Out the open door, we saw Bartholomew come dashing back, toss my bag up to his brother, who was now on top of the coach, and climb up to join him.
Grenville said nothing to us as I escorted Marianne out of the house and handed her into the carriage. Grenville got in beside Marianne, leaving the empty backward-facing seat for me. In any other circumstance, this would be a discourtesy, but I'd grown used to riding backward in Grenville's coaches. Grenville became even more violently ill if he did not face forward.
"Are you certain you will be well?" I asked him.
"Not at all," he said. "But I can hold out long enough to tell you my tale. Besides, my backside is a bit sore from all the hours in the saddle."
He spoke glibly, but as soon as the carriage jerked forward, Grenville looked as though he regretted giving up the steadiness of a horse. He opened the window and breathed deeply.
"Tell me what you discovered," I said. "It will take your mind from things."
Grenville dabbed his pale lips with a handkerchief. "I discovered Denis's man," he said. "He'd spoken to the people Terrance Quinn told you he'd spoken to, but found nothing new. However, when Denis's man broadened his inquiries a bit, he found a woman who'd looked after Helena when she first arrived in Cambridge. She was the person who persuaded Helena to move on to Lincolnshire and found her a place there."
I frowned at the heaths and farmland of inland Norfolk moving by us. "I am confused. I thought Miss Quinn and her husband settled in Cambridge and then moved north. That is what Terrance reported Braxton's neighbors as saying."
"Yes, but I have not told you the crux of the matter. Miss Quinn is not married. She is living as a lady's companion to an elderly woman by name of Edgerton, in Lincolnshire."
"A lady's companion?" I stared at him. "Did she jilt Braxton, then? All those years ago?"
"Ah, now I come to the crux of the crux." Grenville's smile became triumphant. "There is no such person as Edward Braxton, who came to woo Miss Helena Quinn. The man does not exist."
* * * * *
Chapter Twenty-Three
After the violence of the day before and with the continuing pain in my body, I was in no mood for riddles.
"Of course he exists," I said. "Mrs. Landon and Lady Southwick met him. Robert Buckley met him, as did Miss Quinn's mother and father. Please do not tell me that people in three parishes, including Lady Southwick, conspired to invent him."
"No, indeed. There was a man who came from Cambridge to Norfolk and seduced away Miss Helena Quinn. He told everyone his name was Edward Braxton, but it was not. There is a true Edward Braxton, neighbors of the people Terrance Quinn spoke to, but upon further investigation, this Mr. Braxton is seventy, and he and his wife, a woman of his same age, went to live near their daughter and grandchildren in York some years ago. He was certainly not the young and handsome gentleman who swept into rural Norfolk to woo a naive vicar's daughter."
"Then who on earth was Helena's Mr. Braxton?"
"No one seems to know," Grenville said. "A ghost."
"A smooth-tongued devil, that's who," Marianne broke in. "A confidence trickster. Do not look so amazed, gentlemen; I have seen this sort of thing time and again. A man takes whatever name he pleases, invents whatever background he pleases, and seduces a woman--usually for her money--and then disappears, leaving her ruined, humiliated, and destitute. No doubt the true Edward Braxton is a respectable solicitor or banker's clerk, so that if people do inquire, they'll find a man of impeccable reputation behind the name. Better still if he's recently moved elsewhere, so no one can say he hasn't traveled to Norfolk for a holiday. If inquiries turn up that the man of the same name is of venerable years, those asking will assume he is the father or grandfather of said trickster, which will lend still more credence to his story. A respectable name, passed down through generations, is always esteemed."
Grenville listened with interest. "But why would a confidence trickster travel to a remote corner of Norfolk and entice away young Miss Quinn? What could he hope to gain? Miss Quinn did not come from a wealthy family."
Marianne shrugged. "These men will take anything they can find. A man such as the false Mr. Braxton might persuade a woman to marry him, perhaps with a sham ceremony and sham special license, only to take the family silver and leave the poor lady high and dry. Or he might have come to convince local men to invest money in some scheme--a new invention that's sure to make them all rich, or some such. In that case, the respectable vicar's daughter putting in a good word for him does not hurt."
I did not hear half of what she said, because one word had caught my attention. "Silver," I said.
Grenville's brows rose. "
You mean the candlesticks from the church? He stole them? Or persuaded Miss Quinn to?"
"You can be certain that he persuaded the girl to nick them for him," Marianne said. "A man like that never gets caught with his hand in the pot. He likely convinced her that they needed the money the silver would fetch to make their escape."
"But she'd be stealing from her own father's church," Grenville said.
Marianne gave him a pitying look. "Vicars' daughters are not necessarily the pious beings you imagine. They mostly do not give a toss about Sunday services, and she might have reasoned that a country church did not need extravagant candlesticks. Mr. Braxton likely convinced her, if she worried about hurting dear papa, that Protestant modesty would be assisted by the loss of glittering silver on the altar. These gentlemen think of everything, believe me."
Grenville eyed her in curiosity, his motion sickness momentarily forgotten. "Have you had wide experience of this?"
"I have watched others have wide experience of it," Marianne said. "You'd think girls in a theatre company would have more wisdom, but no. They cling to the belief that a fine gentleman will sweep them off to riches and comfort."
As Grenville had done with Marianne. I deliberately did not look at him. "Innocent country girls would be even more susceptible," I said.
"Precisely," Marianne said.
"How do we find this man?" I asked. "I'd like a word with him."
Marianne shook her head. "You do not. They take what they came for, and they vanish, turning up elsewhere with a new name to fleece a new flock of sheep. The best ones are never found."
"Well, this Edward Braxton could not have been terribly good at being a trickster," I said. "He told Mrs. Landon and Lady Southwick slightly different versions of his story, which was why Mrs. Landon swore he was a solicitor, and Lady Southwick swore he was a banker's clerk. He left the silver plate in my chimney, and Miss Quinn never married him."
"Yes," Grenville said. "Odd that. And so, a visit to Miss Quinn is in order." He took out his handkerchief again and patted his damp forehead. "I beg your pardons, my friends, but I am afraid I must . . ."
Both Marianne and I knew what he needed. She vacated the seat, and the two of us helped him pull it out into the special bed he'd had made. Grenville collapsed onto it and closed his eyes. Marianne sat down next to me and pulled out a newspaper, not seeming to think a thing of it. I leaned my head against the wall and let my fatigue overcome me.
*** *** ***
We traveled the rest of that day, put up in a coaching inn for the night, and resumed the journey the next day. Grenville's money ensured that we had a private parlor and bedrooms, and Marianne assumed the role of Grenville's respectable wife so that the innkeeper did not questioned her presence.
She played the part astonishingly well, never overdoing it or behaving awkwardly. Grenville raised his brows at me once or twice but did not remark upon it. Theatre companies had done poorly to keep Marianne buried in the chorus.
By noon on the second day, we rolled into Market Sutton, a fairly large town a few miles from the coast, and found another inn. Marianne was surprisingly understanding about staying behind, while Grenville and I made our way to the house of Mrs. Edgerton.
Mrs. Edgerton proved to be a lady of large girth, who had to be pushed about in a Bath chair. She met us alone in her parlor, bade us to sit, and then looked us over, seeming in no hurry to summon Miss Quinn. Grenville explained that he'd written ahead, and Mrs. Edgerton acknowledged this, but I had to assure the lady that I was a friend of Miss Quinn's family.
"She does not wish to return to her family," Mrs. Edgerton said. "And if she does not wish it, she will not go. I have charge of her now."
"Then she will not go," Grenville said smoothly. "We wish only to speak to her. Her family is worried about her well-being."
"You can not accept my word that she is well?"
"Please," I said, sitting forward. "They would want to hear that I actually saw her. I promise you, if it turns out that Miss Quinn does not want me to tell her family where she is, I will not."
Mrs. Edgerton ran a hard gaze up and down me and let it linger on my walking stick. The fact that I was lame seemed to reassure her for some reason. She summoned her maid who was instructed to fetch Miss Quinn, and we all waited.
When Helena entered the room, I was struck by how little she'd changed. I'd left Norfolk at age twenty, when Helena had been twelve. She'd been tall for her age, and robust--not an ethereal beauty but a sturdy and pretty girl.
She was twenty-two when she'd disappeared from home, and now she was in her thirties. Though still robust and still pretty, Helena wore a resigned look. This was her lot in life, the look said, her dreams of marriage and a family of her own now dust.
I rose, as did Grenville. When Helena saw me, she halted, the color draining from her face. I stepped forward, thinking her faint, but she waved me off.
"I beg your pardon," she said. "I did not mean to . . . It is just that you look so like your father."
I supposed it inevitable. "My father passed away a few years after you left."
"My condolences," she said, quickly and politely. She did not mean them.
I introduced Grenville and told Helena the briefest bit of my changed circumstances since she'd last seen me.
"Your cousin Terrance is worried about you," I finished. "He returned from Waterloo to find you gone. He tried hunting for you in Cambridge."
Miss Quinn flushed. "Yes, well, I was long gone by then. I came to stay with Mrs. Edgerton, who has been so kind to me."
Kind Mrs. Edgerton intended to sit there, I saw, her cane planted on the carpet, keeping me from asking the questions I needed to ask. Miss Quinn also understood this, because she turned to Mrs. Edgerton. "May Captain Lacey take a turn with me in the garden? I wish to ask him about my family."
Mrs. Edgerton did not like the idea, but she gave a conceding nod. She lifted her cane and pointed the end of it at Grenville. "You will remain."
Grenville bowed with his practiced aplomb. "As you wish, my lady."
"I do wish it," Mrs. Edgerton said. "That is why I said so."
"She really is quite generous," Miss Quinn told me as we walked through the small garden. Mrs. Edgerton's house was square and brick, large but not ostentatious. Everything about it shouted extreme respectability, money spent wisely, a vivid contrast to Lady Southwick's monstrosity.
"She must be very generous," I said. "To take you in--alone, away from your family, running from . . . from Mr. Braxton?"
Helena's flush deepened. "As you no doubt have discovered, given that you have found me, I was once a great fool."
"You were young," I said. "And I have it from a good source that gentlemen like Braxton can be very persuasive."
"I was twenty-two." Helena spoke with a severity directed at her younger self. "Old enough to be wiser than I was. I was on the shelf but still wearing debutante's clothing. Still hoping."
"As is natural."
"You are kind, but I know you also think me a fool. Miss Austen's novels were a great favorite of mine, and I should have paid better attention to the lessons in them. The dashing gentleman usually turns out to be the scoundrel, while the friend one has known all one's life proves to be steadfast and true." She sighed. "Poor Terrance."
"He is still concerned about you," I said.
"And I am ashamed of what I did to him. But I am pleased he returned from the fighting, safe and sound."
I stopped. We'd reached a fountain in the middle of the garden, the fountain not running. Mrs. Edgerton did not strike me as a woman who would condone wasting water on something as frivolous as a fountain on a brisk September day.
"Terrance returned safe, but not sound," I said. "He lost an arm, Helena, and his spirits are low. I quite understand--when I learned that the surgeon would not have to cut off my leg, I wept for joy. Terrance did not have that happy news."
Her face had gone ashen. "Lost his arm? Dear Lord."
/> "There is more to your fear of returning home than shame at your foolishness," I said, my voice taking an edge. "Your family would have forgiven you if you'd turned back that night, regardless of whether Mr. Braxton had touched you. Terrance would have forgiven you. Your family is good at heart. Things would have been difficult for you, but not impossible. Yet, you carried on with your plan to ran away. Why?"
Helena pressed her hands together and shook her head. She did not want to tell me.
"I found the church plate," I said. "Did Mr. Braxton coerce you to steal it for him?"
She looked up at me in anguish. "Robert did it. Little Robert Buckley, the publican's son. He did it, because I asked him to. Gabriel, I am so ashamed."
Robert, who'd told me he'd been potty about Helena Quinn. "He stole the silver and brought it to you. Then what happened? It was stuffed in the chimney of my house, so Mr. Braxton obviously did not abscond with it."
Helena bowed her head, and her voice was almost inaudible. "I have taught myself not to think on it. But it happened . . . such an awful thing happened."
I realized the last piece of it, an idea that had been swimming in my mind, just out of reach. "Edward Braxton is dead," I said. "Or at least the man calling himself Edward Braxton. Was it an accident?"
Helena looked up at me again, her hazel eyes clear and intelligent. "It might have been. Robert killed him. He struck Mr. Braxton with one of the candlesticks, and Mr. Braxton fell stone dead. Poor Robert killed him. For me."
* * * * *
Chapter Twenty-Four
Her words fell into silence, the violence she spoke of incongruous in this tidy garden. Clouds were filling the sky, the afternoon turning cold.
When I spoke, I did so slowly, my thoughts arranging themselves as they emerged. "Lady Southwick suggested to Mr. Braxton that you met him in the copse near my father's house, and from there you would run away together. That evening, you went to the Lacey house. My father was ill in his bed, and he'd not have known that you'd crept into my mother's sitting room, always shut, and changed from your gown into traveling clothes." I paused. "Why leave the dress there?"