Inside, Mr. Turner had stopped, as though realizing all at once that his son would never inhabit the room again. Numbly, he'd straightened a chair in front of a desk, then he'd turned around and walked out without a word.
I'd wandered the cold, still chamber, not certain what I was looking for. It was not a terribly personal room. Turner's flat had been filled with his own things, as tasteless as some of them had been, but they'd been what he liked. This room had been a mere place to sleep when he visited his family. I found no indication that Turner might have had male lovers, no love letters from people of either sex. In fact, I found no letters at all.
The few books in the small bookcase near the fire had been treatises on botany, one on rose gardens with colored plates. The rose garden book was nicely bound but did not look as though it had much been read. I also found several volumes of The Gentleman's Magazine from years past bound together. I thumbed through them, but saw little of interest, except an article on the house of one Lucius Grenville in Grosvenor Street. Sketches of his drawing rooms and ballroom were presented.
Now, as I held on to the seat while Grenville let his phaeton fly over the roads, I said, "I keep returning to that damned Frenchman. What did he want, and what has he to do with Turner?"
Grenville steered his phaeton through a ford of a small stream. Such was his skill that water splashed from the wheels but did not so much as touch our boots.
"Perhaps it is not Turner who interests him," Grenville suggested. "But Mrs. Harper and Colonel Brandon. Hence he went after Mrs. Harper's letters."
"Mrs. Harper, perhaps, but I cannot see Brandon having dealings with him for any reason. Brandon will not speak to anyone French, even emigres who have lived in England for thirty years. Damn all French, is his motto."
"I did not say that he and this Frenchman were friends. Perhaps they encountered one another during the war."
"I very much doubt it," I said. "Although I will not out-and-out disregard the idea. Brandon refused to have anything to do with anyone French, even when he and I and Louisa lived in France during the Peace of Amiens. Brandon talked only to Englishmen and ate only English food. He was quite a bore about it. And I never remember seeing the fellow who invaded my rooms."
Grenville smiled a little. "I encounter such Englishmen abroad. Cannot abide foreign ways, they say. Give them the Times and a joint of beef, and they are happy. I wonder that they bother to leave home at all."
"Travel broadens the mind, I have heard tell," I said.
Grenville barked a laugh. "You are in a cynical mood today, Lacey. But let us return to France. Did Mrs. Brandon have the same prejudice about all things French? Or did she make friends with French persons?"
"She did make friends. She simply neglected to mention them to her husband."
"Perhaps Mrs. Brandon is the connection. Could she have met this Frenchman?"
"I never heard of it. She did not mention her French friends to Colonel Brandon, but she told me of them. She never spoke of meeting a French military man, and I never saw her speaking to anyone who looked like him."
"Perhaps she simply did not tell you. I don't wish to be indelicate, Lacey . . . I know the lady is a great friend of yours . . ."
"If you are hinting that Louisa Brandon she had an affair with him . . ." I broke off. "It is unlikely, but truth to tell, I have no idea."
I hadn't thought Brandon capable of betraying Louisa, but now he was in prison, trying to defend the woman who was, or at least had been, his mistress. I'd thought myself Louisa's greatest friend, that there was nothing Louisa Brandon would not confide in me. But I had to concede that if she decided to keep a liaison secret from me, she could. She was wise enough and discreet enough to hide it well.
"I will have to find this Frenchman and squeeze the truth from him," I said.
We had reached the outer limits of London, rolling fields giving way to houses with gardens and increased traffic of drays and wagons and carriages.
"Do you think your Mr. Pomeroy will have found him by now?" Grenville asked as we closed in behind a chaise and four.
"Pomeroy is nothing if not thorough. However, if he has not, then I know a gentleman who will definitely be able to put his hands on the Frenchman."
Grenville glanced sideways at me. "You mean Mr. Denis."
I nodded once. "I do."
James Denis was a man who found things, and people, for others for an exorbitant price. The methods with which he found them were not always legal--stealing artwork and other valuables was in his line as well as punishing those who disobeyed him with death.
He and I had lived in an uneasy truce since the day a year or so ago when he'd had me kidnapped and beaten to teach me manners. The event had, in fact, not taught me manners, but we'd each learned exactly how far we could push the other.
Earlier this spring, I had found the culprit who'd murdered one of his lackeys, and Denis had expressed gratitude. In return, he'd told me where in France my wife lived, leaving it up to me whether I sent for her or sought her out or left her alone. I was still a bit annoyed with him over his dealings in the affair of Lady Clifford's necklace, but I couldn't say I'd been surprised.
Grenville never approved of my visiting Denis. He knew of my uncertain temper and was convinced that one day I would go too far and induce Denis to rid himself of a troublesome captain once and for all. Grenville was likely right.
"He has told me he will own me outright," I said. "If so, I might as well make use of him."
"The more favors he does you, the more favors he can call in," Grenville said.
"It has gone far beyond that already." James Denis had said he would snare me, and I already felt that web closing about me.
Grenville drove me all the way to Grimpen Lane. Bartholomew joined me there, descending from Grenville's coach and making his determined way toward the bake shop and my rooms, as though resolute that I'd not be assaulted today.
"Come to the theatre tonight," Grenville said as he gathered his reins. "My box at Covent Garden."
I felt tired, wanting to stretch and yawn. "I'm not certain I'm in the mood for frivolity. Funerals tend to dampen my spirits."
"Come anyway. I have invited Mr. Bennington and Basil Stokes. I will introduce you, and you can interrogate them."
"That puts a different complexion on things." I tipped my hat. "Thank you. I will attend."
Grenville told me goodbye, turned his phaeton in a complicated move, and signaled his team on.
Bartholomew had already lit a fire by the time I entered my rooms. Mrs. Beltan brought me my post and some coffee. She'd been quite distressed at the attack on me, but she informed me that no suspicious person had come near the place while I'd been gone. She'd kept watch specially.
Certainly, nothing had been disturbed. I thanked her, read my post, and wrote my letters for the day. Sir Montague Harris had written that Brandon's trial was scheduled for the fourteenth of the month, one week from now. I gritted my teeth. I needed to find firm information that would acquit Brandon, and soon.
Sir Montague had also fixed an appointment to meet me the next day. I looked forward to discussing things with him, because too many questions swam in my head. I wrote a note accepting the appointment, then I wrote to James Denis asking if he knew anything of my Frenchman, and if not, could he find out?
Denis had an uncanny way of being aware of everything involving me, so I would not be surprised if he already knew the Frenchman's name, where he came from, and whether he enjoyed fishing in the Seine.
I posted the letters, ate the bread and butter that Bartholomew had procured for me, and took a hackney to Newgate prison.
Brandon was not best pleased to see me. His cheekbones looked sunken, and untidy bristles covered his chin.
"What do you want?" he growled as I was shown in.
"To save your hide," I answered. "Sit down and let me ask you questions."
He would not sit. Brandon stood stiffly in the center of the room, e
ver the officer, and eyed me with chill dislike. "If you have come to further impugn Mrs. Harper, you may leave at once."
I dragged a chair in front of the meager fire and sat. If he wanted to freeze in the center of the chamber, that was his own business. "I have met Mrs. Harper. I believe you are both fools."
His eyes widened. "You met her?"
"Yes. She was attempting to search Turner's rooms for whatever letter he had of yours and hers. I am trying to decide how the letter come to be in his possession at all."
"I have no idea," Brandon shot back.
His indignation was so prompt and so adamant that I believed him.
"What I wish to know," I continued, "is why you and Turner entered the anteroom at eleven o'clock and left it together a few minutes later."
"I told you. I called him out. He refused."
"No, that was your lie for the magistrate--you claimed that you resented Turner's intentions to Mrs. Harper. But we both know that Turner's only interest in Mrs. Harper was her liaison with you. Did you meet him to fix a time to exchange money for the letter? Or did you make the exchange then?"
"I do not need to answer you. You are not a magistrate or a judge."
"Damn you, but you are obstinate. I am trying to prove that you did not kill Turner. If you'd already made the exchange for the letter, then you'd have no reason to kill him. Your dealing with him would be over."
"It is none of your business what I did in that room," he said stiffly.
"Very well. Perhaps they will let you weave the rope for your inevitable hanging, because that is what you are doing."
"That is preposterous."
"No more preposterous than you taking Turner aside and driving a knife into his heart."
Brandon looked away.
I grew impatient. "Mrs. Harper believes you killed him, and you believe Mrs. Harper killed him. You are a fine pair. You might be pleased to know that she did not kill him when she found him. A witness saw all she did in that room. While it was true that she searched Turner's coat for the letter--which she did not find--she did not murder him."
He started. I saw it dawn on him that he might be mistaken, that he might be in Newgate for no reason at all.
Then he rearranged his expression. "None of this is your business, Lacey. Leave it alone."
"I truly believe that you did go to the anteroom at eleven to make the exchange," I said. "Turner probably did not trust you enough to meet you somewhere too privately. You are a man of uneven temper after all. Mrs. Harper, he might have handled, but you were a different matter. If he meets you in the anteroom, and you try to obtain the letter by violence, he can cry out. People nearby would come to see what was the matter."
"If that is true, then why did he not call out when he was stabbed?"
"I have thought of that. I believe he trusted the person who stabbed him. Or did not believe they had the strength to hurt him. He was not expecting it."
"A woman, then," Brandon said.
"Perhaps. Or a male lover. I have learned that Turner preferred men to women. That fact might make any of the gentleman present at the ball a candidate."
Brandon made a face. "Such a thing is too disgusting to even contemplate."
The unimaginative Colonel Brandon would never understand or condone such goings-on. I'd felt much the same until I'd become acquainted with two officers during the war, who'd always spent the night before battle with each other. We all, except Brandon, had known but said nothing, and the two in question fought the more fiercely for each other the next day. When one was finally killed, the other had sunk into so much grief he'd retired his commission and returned to England. Those officers had loved as strongly as any devoted husband and wife, or any man and his longtime mistress.
I said none of this to Brandon, however.
"That lover might be your savior, sir. But let us return to your meeting with Turner. How much money did he want?"
"Five hundred guineas."
My jaw dropped. "Good God." A gentleman could live for a year on five hundred guineas. Many gentlemen, indeed, entire families, lived on far less. "That is a princely sum. You paid it?"
"It is what he asked," Brandon said.
Brandon was wealthy enough to have come up with the money. I would query his man of business, make him tell me if Brandon actually did liquidate five hundred guineas.
"You did not have five hundred guineas in your pocket when you were arrested," I said. "Pomeroy would have mentioned that. So you must have given it to Turner. In return, he gave you the letter."
"So you say," Brandon replied, too calm. "I did not have a letter in my pocket, did I?"
"I know." I stood up and faced him. "So what did you do with it?"
He met my gaze, his eyes so cold he froze me through. "I have told you, Lacey, leave it be."
"That letter could save your life."
"You have called me foolish," he said softly. "But you are the biggest fool of all."
"Help me, God damn you."
"I told you, I do not want your help." Brandon's jaw tightened. "Now go, before I call the turnkey to throw you out."
"It would serve you right if I let you rot," I said savagely. I wanted very much to throttle him, could feel the satisfaction of my hands closing on his neck. "But I care too much for Louisa to do that."
"I know you care for her. I am sure you will now go to her and comfort her."
I backed away to prevent myself from striking him. "You do not understand what you have. You never did."
His eyes narrowed, chill and hard. "Get out."
I left him.
I felt unclean as I made my way, angry and shaking, back through Ludgate Hill and Fleet Street toward Covent Garden.
Brandon hated me so much. I'd given up my entire life for him, had tried to be the man he wanted to make, and I'd failed. I'd tried to please him just as I'd tried to please my father, and got nothing for my pains either time.
Louisa had once told me that what Brandon could not forgive was that I'd taken her side when things had gone wrong between them. I'd stood behind Louisa, and he'd hated me since that day.
I had not tried very hard to heal the breach. I'd been too wounded by him, both physically and inside my heart.
Now Brandon needed me, and he knew it. Why he was being so bloody obtuse, I did not understand. I could not believe that even Brandon would take himself to the gallows to spite me.
As I rolled along in the hackney, I tried to calm myself and look at things logically. I went over the conversation I'd just had with Brandon, pulling out the facts that I'd learned.
If Brandon had made the exchange with Turner at eleven o'clock--the letter for the five hundred guineas--several of my assumptions had to change. Imogene Harper would not have been searching Turner's rooms for the letter if she knew Brandon already had it. She'd let me believe that had been her purpose in looking through Turner's coat when she'd found him dead and had not corrected me.
When Pomeroy had searched Turner's body, he never would have missed something so obvious as a bank draft for five hundred guineas. Therefore, if Brandon had given Turner the money, then Imogene Harper had removed the cheque or the cash when she'd delved the dead Turner's pockets.
What then, my mind prodded me, did she come to Turner's rooms to find?
Brandon had done something with the letter he'd purchased from Turner. He'd left the anteroom just after eleven and stepped into a private alcove with Mrs. Harper. She was the most logical person to whom he would have passed the letter.
Perhaps Brandon had decided to trust no one but himself and had refused to give Mrs. Harper the paper. Or perhaps Turner had promised to bring him the letter at a later date, and Brandon had paid him the money anyway like an idiot.
I rubbed my temples in frustration. If I could trace the letter and the money, I would be happy, indeed.
Putting my hands on the murderer would make me even happier.
By the time I arrived home, I had calmed
somewhat and turned back to my plans. Tonight at the theatre, I would meet and interview Mr. Bennington and Mr. Stokes. If nothing else, they might be able to give me more ideas about what had happened the night of the ball.
I let Bartholomew draw a bath for me, then he helped me dress in my dark blue regimentals. As I attached the last of the silver cords across my chest, someone knocked on the outer door. Bartholomew darted into the front room to answer and returned quickly.
"Mrs. Brandon, sir," he said.
* * * * *
Chapter Ten
Louisa was staring mutely into the fire when I emerged. She wore a drab, long-sleeved, high-waisted gown and a woolen shawl that hung limply from her shoulders. A bonnet trimmed in green silk ribbon lay on the table.
My usual course in greeting her would be to take her hands and kiss her cheek, but when Louisa turned to me, her white face and haunted eyes made me stop.
"I thought Lady Aline was preparing to take you to Dorset," I said.
Louisa reached for my hands. "She is. But I could not remain in the house any longer. The walls seemed to press on me. Aline is a dear friend and my servants are loyal, but I believe they mean to keep me prisoner in my rooms." She heaved a sigh. "Why I ever thought yellow a cheerful color, I have no idea. It glares at me--laughs at me. Bloody horrible color for a sitting room."
I took her elbow and guided her to a chair. "Well, there is nothing cheerful here, so that should not worry you. You are in sore need of refreshment, and if I know Bartholomew, he's already run off to obtain it."
Louisa sank into my armchair. "I am sorry, but I simply could not stay home. I legged it, as my maid would say. Aline will be frantic, and I know it is childish of me, but at the moment, I truly do not care."
"I think I understand."
"Thank you. I somehow knew that you would enter the conspiracy with me instead of scolding me and taking me home."
I smiled. "That, I will do later."
Bartholomew banged back in at that moment, carrying a tray of steaming things. He set down the tray and poured out a mug of coffee. "You get that into you, ma'am," he said, handing it to her. "And a few of these sausages. You'll be right as rain."