Eggleston screamed. Grenville, swearing hard, ran forward. John Spencer, panting, turned back in horror.
Brandon lay facedown beneath the chandelier, the arc of iron pinning him. The legs of Jack Sharp protruded from the other side of the massive thing, and he lay still beneath it, his face a mass of blood.
Eggleston screamed again. He came at me, fists waving. I ducked a blow and punched him full in the face. He went down, crying and cursing. I hit him again, and he collapsed to his hands and knees to the smooth floorboards.
I wrested the pistol from him, searched his pockets for any other weapon, then seized him by the collar and marched him down the stairs. The numbness in my leg wore off on a sudden, and the pain returned with head-spinning fervor.
"Lacey," Grenville said. He was crouching by the fallen chandelier, his hand on Brandon's shoulder.
I dropped Eggleston to the floor. He folded up into a ball and wept.
"Sharp is dead," Grenville told me.
"Brandon," I said hoarsely.
"Still alive. But this damn thing is heavy. I fear that . . ."
He did not finish the thought, and I did not want him to. The iron wheel lay across Brandon's lower back. The chandelier could have crushed his legs, or the organs in his body. I might be facing Louisa tonight, explaining why I had killed her husband.
John Spencer, still breathing hard, took hold of one side of the chandelier. I, too, locked my grip around the cold iron wheel, my hands shaking. Brandon lay utterly still.
Spencer and I strained to lift the thing. While we held the chandelier raised, faces reddening, Grenville grabbed Brandon under the arms and dragged him from beneath.
We rolled the chandelier away, exposing Jack Sharp's crushed and dead body. Eggleston cried out and crawled to him.
Grenville had turned Brandon over onto his back. I sat down on the floor and gently lifted Brandon's head to my lap.
His breathing was ragged and shallow. I gently slapped his face, his beard stubble scraping my fingers. "Brandon, old man," I said. "Wake up, damn you."
He did not move. His face was pasty white, and gray lined his mouth.
"Do not dare to die on me. Louisa will never forgive me." I patted his face again. "You know what she will say. 'Could you not take care of my husband any better than that, Gabriel?' And then she will look at me. You know how she does."
I kept babbling. Stupid, stupid-- It had been just like him, to try to save Spencer at the expense of himself. Never risk yourself unnecessarily, he had once told me. But when it is necessary--by God, go out fighting, and make every blow count. Make your sacrifice mean something.
He had brought down a killer and saved Spencer's life and mine and Grenville's.
Grenville's muddy buff boots, buckles coated with grime, stopped next to me. His leg bent, and his knee in fine lawn breeches touched the board floor. He held a pewter cup of strong-smelling spirits. "Help me make him drink."
I raised Brandon's limp head. His hair was graying more than I'd noticed before, white strands mixing with the black. He'd be completely gray in another few years.
Grenville guided the goblet to Brandon's lips and poured a few drops of liquid inside. For a moment, Brandon lay unmoving, then his body spasmed weakly, and he coughed. Ruthlessly, Grenville poured more brandy into his mouth. Brandon coughed again, harder, then his eyelids moved and he groaned.
His light blue eyes remained blank for a moment, then his gaze fixed on me, and his pupils widened.
"Oh hell," he said. His voice was little more than a croak. "It's you."
* * * * *
Chapter Twenty-one
I feared John Spencer would kill Eggleston before the constable arrived. The young man was beside himself with grief. I guessed correctly that he had followed Grenville's carriage here to Hertfordshire, as he confirmed. When I had left him earlier that day, excited about Spinnet's letter and my conclusions, he had grown suspicious of me and followed.
Upon arriving at this house, he had heard the noises inside, walked around the house to see if he could discover another way in, and had found his brother lying dead in the garden.
"You killed him, you dung-eating son of a bitch," he said.
Eggleston shook his head hard. "No! I killed no one. I swear to you. Jack did it. He said Mr. Spencer was spying upon us. And he was."
We had removed Jack's bloody body to a shed outside, and laid Kenneth Spencer more reverently on the grass.
Brandon lay on his back on the hearth rug in the sitting room. One of his legs had broken. My own leg ached and throbbed, but I had not broken it, as I'd feared. I'd simply wrenched and strained the muscles. I often forgot I could no longer run about with impunity. I sat now in a chair near Brandon, resting my foot on a stool. It did not help.
We had bound Eggleston's hands with rope found in the shed and sat him on a chair. Grenville held a loaded pistol loosely in his hands. He, too, was angry enough to use it.
"I for one will be happy to see you hang," Grenville said. "For my footman, if nothing else."
Eggleston's round eyes went rounder still. "I did not shoot him! I swear to you. It was Jack."
"You'll hang for Westin's murder," I said. "Or Spinnet's. Or Captain Spencer's. Which would you like?"
Grenville shot me a puzzled look. "Westin?"
My feelings of loyalty to Lydia had dimmed, and I decided it was time for truth. "He was murdered. Stabbed in the neck. His wife pretended he'd died accidentally, because she feared the savagery of the newspapers."
Grenville's eyes widened. "Good lord. You do know how to keep secrets, Lacey."
"He is ever the champion of the ladies," Brandon said dryly from the floor.
"I do not understand this," John Spencer barked. "He murdered Colonel Westin?"
"Yes," I said. I eased my leg to a slightly less painful position, gritting my teeth as I did so. "He learned that Colonel Westin had made an appointment with you and your brother, and feared that Westin would tell you the entire truth--how he and Breckenridge had conspired to murder Colonel Spinnet back in 1812 and make it look as though he had died in the rioting at Badajoz." I looked at Eggleston. "Captain Spencer saw you shoot Spinnet deliberately, did he not? He was so horrified, he ran to try to stop you. So he died as well."
Eggleston stared. "How do you know this? Westin did not tell anyone! He swore to us."
"He kept his word," I said. "Of course, you and Breckenridge made certain of that to the last. You and he together went to see Westin the day he died, early in the morning, probably, say when you would be returning from a gaming hell and Breckenridge would be up for his early ride. You either made an appointment with Westin, or he saw you approach, but he must have let you in himself, in his dressing gown, and taken you quietly upstairs."
I gave him an inquiring look. Eggleston only stared.
"You must have argued with him long," I continued. "Perhaps he agreed to keep silent, perhaps he did not. You must have known some secret Westin desperately did not want revealed, but perhaps Westin had decided he would rather humiliate himself then let you get away with murder. I imagine Breckenridge was not satisfied, in any event. I think it was he who actually murdered Colonel Westin. Just as he murdered Spinnet at Badajoz, and shot Captain Spencer."
Eggleston nodded readily. "He did. He killed Spinnet because he knew Spinnet would forever block his way to promotion."
I gave him a hard look. "The plan was yours. It smacks of the kind of sneaking subterfuge you would dream of. You advised him not to challenge Spinnet directly, oh no. Instead, take away a good man's life and hide it in the chaos of the destruction around you. What was one more death in the Peninsula campaign, after all?"
Eggleston put his hands to his face. "It was not like that. We saw an opportunity. That is all."
"Which you urged Breckenridge to take. Did you urge him on to kill Westin?"
"No, no. Breckenridge decided that himself. Westin refused to listen to us. He vowed he would reveal al
l. When he turned away, Breckenridge took out a stiletto and pressed it right into Westin's neck. He died at once. Went down in a heap."
"So," I continued. "You tucked him up in bed, rejoicing that so little blood had been shed to give things away, and let yourself out of the house."
Eggleston's throat worked. "Yes. That was it."
I wanted to rise from the chair and kick him, but I was too tired. My melancholia danced just beyond my vision.
"The death of Westin must have upset you greatly," I said. "Soldiers dying at Badajoz was one thing, but I think you realized after Westin's death that Breckenridge was a cold-blooded killer. You were a witness; who knew when he might turn on you? So you sought the comfort of your lover. Jack probably advised you to leave everything to him." I paused. "He killed Breckenridge, did he not?"
"He did," Eggleston whispered. "To protect me."
The knowledge that I had been right all along comforted me little. "Sharp must have killed Breckenridge somewhere in the garden. Perhaps you had not known he would do it right then. You decided it best to make his death seem an accident, a riding accident--Breckenridge was so fond of rides at ungodly hours of the morning. I doubt you were prepared to handle the body, so Sharp did it all, am I right? He must have, because you would not have made the mistakes he did. He saddled Breckenridge's horse, using the saddle I'd left, not realizing that a cavalryman who took the trouble to travel with his own saddle would certainly use it. He put my coat on Breckenridge's body . . ." I paused. "I confess, I do not know why he should, or why Breckenridge was in shirtsleeves at all."
Eggleston flinched. "They were boxing. In the garden. Sharp offered to show Breckenridge exactly how he'd been felled by that farmer's lad. Breckenridge took off his coat." He swallowed. "I could not find it in the dark."
Grenville sucked in a breath. "Good lord. So Sharp must have found Lacey's coat and put it on him. He reasoned one gentleman's coat was as good as another."
"I thought it so amusing," Eggleston said. "Breckenridge was so careful about his clothes. And to be caught dead in a shabby coat several years out of date . . . " He wheezed a little and tears leaked from his eyes. "I laughed so."
I did not find it in the least amusing. The sniveling little twit deserved to have John Spencer lay him out.
Grenville still looked puzzled. "But Major Connaught," he said. "He died peacefully. Or seemed to."
Eggleston shook his head fervently. "We had nothing to do with that. He really did die in his sleep. That was a bit of luck." He eyed us with the smugness of one who was at least innocent of something.
"No," I corrected softly. "Your luck changed when he died. His death renewed my interest in deciphering the truth. And I found it. Colonel Spinnet was the key."
John Spencer cleared his throat. His eyes were red with grief, his hair tangled where he'd raked it. "What about my brother? Why did you kill him?"
Eggleston met his gaze with something like defiance. "He was spying on us," he repeated.
"He must have worked out the truth," I said. "And came here to confront you. He was just as grieved as his brother, even if he kept it quiet. You are not blameless in his death."
"But I killed no one," Eggleston protested. "Jack and Breckenridge did it all."
From the fireside carpet, Brandon opened his eyes. "You were an accomplice to five murders. You will definitely hang for that, my friend."
His brisk, matter-of-fact voice seemed to penetrate Eggleston's haze of denials. His eyes widened. Then the gentleman who had sneered at my clothes and dismissed me as less than nothing, went slack-kneed and fainted.
*** *** ***
Lord Richard Eggleston's trial was held a few weeks later. His brother, the Marquis of Hungerford, protested on the strongest terms, but there had been no denying that Eggleston had, at the very least, shot at me, Brandon, and Grenville, and had been party to Kenneth Spencer's murder. Grenville's word on this counted for much. The marquis, however, pointed out that we could produce no concrete evidence that Eggleston had been present at the deaths of Breckenridge or Westin. In the end, the Lord Chief Justice and the marquis made an agreement that if Eggleston wrote out a confession, explaining all, he could commute his sentence to transportation.
So Eggleston's argument that he had not actually murdered any of these gentlemen won out. He wrote the confession and signed it, and was taken to Newgate to await passage on a ship to New South Wales. I had no doubt that his wealthy brother had ensured he'd have a fine room in the jail with servants and wine and food. Such were the wheels of justice for the privileged.
Lady Richard, his child wife, I learned later through Louisa, had gone to the north of England to live with the marquis and his wife.
After the sensational trial, the journalists turned to other fodder. Pomeroy had discovered the bodies of two women in a cellar in Islington and arrested the gentleman who had married, then murdered, them. He was quite pleased with himself, and the journalists, Billings included, lauded him.
Louisa Brandon returned home after I dragged her husband back from Hertfordshire with his leg in splints. She had nearly flown from the carriage that had deposited her at her front door, and rushed to her husband’s bed with rage and fear in her eyes. I walked away from their reunion and closed the door on their rising voices. I did not see or hear from either of them for a long time after that.
Bartholomew recovered from his gunshot wounds, though for a long time he limped from the bullet that had pierced his leg. Grenville had spared no expense on surgeons and doctors, and the lad had lived like a prince while he convalesced. He was young and strong and brave-hearted, and he recovered quickly.
August slipped into September. The days at last cooled, and the evenings became crisp. Grenville talked of going to the country to go hunting. He invited me along, but I’d had enough of country houses. The vice of the city at least wore a face I could recognize.
In mid-September, long after I’d believed Lydia Westin must have quit Town herself, she sent for me.
*** *** ***
William greeted me with subdued wariness. He led me in silence to the upstairs room with the pianoforte and Lydia's portrait. He ushered me in, then took the double doors one in each hand and backed out, closing us in, leaving us alone.
Lydia sat on a damask chair, her hands in her lap. She avoided my gaze as I entered. She had given up mourning black, and wore a gray high-necked and long-sleeved gown trimmed with lighter gray. The costume did not become her; her face was too pale for it, though it made her midnight blue eyes bluer still.
If only she would look at me with them.
I moved slowly forward, resting my weight on my walking stick. When I reached the halfway point between door and chair, I stopped.
Silence hung in the air, broken only by the ticking of the clock and the faint crackle of the fire. The September day had turned cool.
"I had not thought you would come," she said.
"As ever," I answered, trying to keep my voice light, "I fly to your side when you call."
Still she would not look at me. She transferred her gaze to a corner of the carpet. "You cannot imagine how long it took me to work up the courage to face you. Even now I falter."
"You have no need to."
My anger at her had long since ground itself to dust. After the arrest of Eggleston, my melancholia had taken over, as I had known it would.
The last time I had discovered the identity of a murderer, the sheer cruelty of it all had sent black waves of melancholia crashing over me. I had been expecting it this time; nonetheless, the malady had laid me in bed for nearly a fortnight, and had not yet completely subsided. I currently could only view the world through a fog, as though I watched everything through a thick, waved glass. Although I walked and spoke, I often could not say whether what I did was real or the vestiges of a dream.
She smiled faintly. "Before you remonstrate with me, or scold me, allow me to thank you for clearing my husband's name. Lord Richard's c
onfession absolved him of all crimes in the Peninsula. The Times even praised Roe for his bravery."
I looked straight ahead. "Yes, I read the story."
"Well." Her voice was soft, whispery. "I wanted to thank you. To see you when I did it. Writing seemed--an inappropriate method."
"I would have treasured such a letter."
At last, she looked at my face. Our gazes met, stilled. "Please do not say such things when you do not mean them," she said. "I know that you long to tell me what you think of me."
I slowly closed the distance between us. I reached down and lifted her hand, the one with the heavy gold and sapphire ring. I stroked my thumb gently across her fingers, the same smooth fingers that had caressed me while we lay together in her bed.
"I did not come here to scold you." I lifted her hand and pressed it to my lips. "But to learn whether you were well."
She watched me kiss her fingers, then she withdrew her hand and crumpled it on her lap. "Please, Gabriel, do not be kind to me."
"If you prefer that I rail at you like a drunken waterman, I am afraid I cannot oblige."
"It might be easier for me." She lifted her gaze and looked at me fully. I saw in her eyes everything that had been between us, and great pain, and loneliness. She was lonely because of the grief she faced, a grief she could not share.
"You are a good man, Gabriel. You did not deserve what I did to you--tried to do to you. In the end, I simply could not." She tore her gaze away. "Oh, please, sit down. I cannot bear you standing there looking so patient."
I was not patient. Anger was stirring beneath my fog, and the mists had cleared a little. I obliged her and seated myself on the divan.
She studied the carpet again, seeming to gather strength from the gold and black oriental pattern. "Do you know why I made my way alone that night to the bridge?"
I remembered her sliding through the rain, her dark cloak blending with the night, the fire of diamonds in her hair, her lovely, distressed face beckoning me to follow, follow.