The Sudbury School Murders

  He sat back, palms flat on the desk. "Sir Montague will arrest him and bring him to trial. That will be an end to it. Though you may not like my gratitude; in this case, you have it."

  I nodded. I did not like Denis, but I decided to unbend and at least accept his thanks.

  "In return," he said, his voice still cool. "I will give you this."

  He removed a folded, sealed piece of paper from his desk and pushed it across the bare wooden surface to me.

  I went still. No writing appeared on the outside of the paper, but I knew what it was.

  He had offered me this information before, the whereabouts of my wife and daughter, in return for steadfast loyalty to him. He wanted to own me utterly, he'd said, and had pulled whatever strings would draw me into his web. He had found the right strings with my wife and daughter.

  Now he gave this to me freely, as a reward. I did not need to take it. Taking it would indicate that I accepted payment for a task he had bid me to do. Thus he would win a round of the endless game that he and I played against each other.

  I stared at the paper for a long time, my thoughts stilling. Then, my hands unsteady, I reached for it. Under Denis' scrutiny, I broke the seal and unfolded the paper.

  Written in a clear hand was a direction, the name of a house in a village. Near Lyons, it continued. France.

  I stared at the words for a long time. Carlotta and Gabriella were there. Alive, in the French countryside near Lyons. Years of wondering, of doubt, of fear fell away, and my eyes grew moist.

  "Thank you," I said.

  I folded the paper, put it into in my pocket, rose from my chair, and walked out of the room.

  *** *** ***

  I accompanied Sir Montague, Jeanne Lanier, and Pomeroy back to Berkshire to the boarding house in Hungerford. Under the scrutiny of an avidly curious Mrs. Albright, Jeanne pulled up the board in her room and removed the suit of clothing that Sutcliff had worn when he murdered Middleton.

  Leaving Jeanne at the boarding house, Pomeroy, Sir Montague, and I went to the Sudbury School, found Sutcliff, and, to Rutledge's great fury, arrested him.

  Sutcliff fought, but Pomeroy, tall and muscular, was practiced at bringing down culprits. "Now then," he said, locking his great arms around Sutcliff to the delight of the boys looking on. "It's a wicked murderer you are. A nice reward I'll get for this conviction."

  The other boys, led by Timson, shouted with glee that their tormenting prefect had been taken, until Rutledge bellowed them all to silence.

  I left them with the magistrate and went back to Hungerford to fetch Jeanne Lanier. She waited for me in the tawdry parlor with its shabby furniture, where I had spoken to her before.

  The day had darkened, and the room was lit with a sconces that flickered in the gloom.

  Jeanne's face had lost its animation. Her lips were white, her eyelids dark. "It is done?" She spoke the words tiredly.

  "Yes," I said.

  She let out her breath. "Good."

  We stood in the center of the room, facing each other. I still carried the paper Denis had given me inside my pocket. It felt heavy to me, knowledge that burned.

  Jeanne stepped close to me. "I want to thank you, Captain, for your promise to not have me arrested. It was good of you."

  I was not certain I wanted any more thanks. Rutledge bellowing at me at the school had actually seemed refreshing. "You had the best evidence," I said. "You might have made it to France had I not told Denis to stop you. Do not thank me."

  She made a small shrug. "If I had reached France, what then? I believe you would have found the means to arrest Frederick sooner or later. But what would have become of me?"

  "I believe you will endure very nicely," I said.

  I had great belief in this woman's resilience. She felt frightened and alone at present, but I knew she would soon wrap another gentleman around her finger.

  Her worried look left her, and she flashed me a smile. "Touche, Captain. You have seen my true colors, peeked beyond my façade. Can you forgive me that?"

  I hadn't forgotten the afternoon I'd spent here in her company, and how she'd made me feel--amusing, intelligent, wanted.

  "I believe I can forgive you," I said.

  Humor glinted in her eyes. "You are too kind." She hesitated. "You may think me a fool, but I wonder whether, when all this is over, you might condescend to receive me as a friend." Her voice softened, and she sounded almost shy. "Indeed, I believe we might have many interesting conversations together."

  My lips parted as I gazed at her in astonishment. Her smile was hopeful, her eyes warm. She was asking, if I was not mistaken, whether I'd be willing to be the next gentleman whom she wrapped around her finger.

  I certainly did not mind such a wish coming from a lady as pretty as she, but I had to wonder why.

  "Madam, you know I am not a wealthy man," I began.

  "No," she admitted. "But I have met your friends, Mr. Grenville and Mr. Denis. They are powerful gentlemen."

  I raised my brows. "You are saying you wish me to ask Grenville or Denis to pay for the keeping of you on my behalf?"

  "Yes," she said. She flushed. "I know it is most irregular, but that is what I wish, Captain Lacey."

  "You amaze me," I said softly. "Though I understand that you must survive. Like Marianne."

  "It is not only that. I have seen enough of men, Captain, to know when one is worth much. And so I make bold to propose such a thing to you."

  My heart beat hard. I hardly knew what to say. She flattered me, but at the same time, I knew she made her living by flattering. She was lovely, she could soothe me, and I would be ten times a fool to accept her.

  I wished that I had the wherewithal to be so foolish.

  I touched her cheek. "I am sorry," I said. "I would that circumstances were different."

  She looked at me a moment longer, then gave her head a shake, conceding defeat. "As am I."

  "You are resilient," I stated again. "You will fare well."

  She gave me a rueful smile, the practiced courtesan vanishing for a moment. "You have much faith in me, Captain." She touched the lapel of my coat. "Thank you."

  "Thank you," I told her. I raised her hand to my lips, and then the carriage that would return us to London rattled to a halt at the end of the lane, and we made to depart.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Twenty

  A few days later, Grenville felt well enough to join me and Pomeroy in the tavern in Pall Mall that we often frequented.

  "We'll get a conviction," Pomeroy said, his blond hair slick with the evening's rain. "Sutcliff's papa is rich enough to buy them off, but Sir Montague is a stickler. He'll push it through."

  "We can hope so," Grenville said dubiously. He was much stronger, but he moved slowly and flinched simply lifting his tankard of ale. He had visited Marianne earlier that day, and from the pinched lines about his mouth, I understood that the encounter had not gone well.

  Pomeroy, oblivious to such things, rambled on. "Why should a rich cove's son like that swindle and blackmail and murder, eh Captain? He's got everything handed to him on gold plates."

  I sipped my ale, which was rich and warm against the March rain outside. "Because his father wouldn't give him the gold plates," I answered. "Kept him on a meager allowance and refused to let him come into the business until he grew up a little. Sutcliff told me himself he'd wanted to prove to his father that he could make money on his own and be as ruthless as any nobleman."

  "Rich gents," Pomeroy said derisively. "Me own dad never had nothing, so I took the king's shilling. I didn't need to prove nothing."

  I had run away from home to the army, as well, though I'd gone with Brandon to receive an officer's commission. In my heart, I'd wanted to prove myself better than my father. I hated to think that I understood Frederick Sutcliff all too well.

  Grenville lifted his brows. "My father kept me on a strict allowance as a lad. He was generous with gifts, but not such a fool as to give me e
nough money with which to make an idiot of myself. Funnily enough, I never resorted to blackmail and other crimes to supplement my income."

  "Yes, sir, but you're not wrong in the head." Pomeroy tapped his forehead. "That Sutcliff chap is a bit crazed."

  "I'd feel sorry for him," Grenville said. He put his hand to his torso and winced. "Except for this bit of a hole in my middle. Perhaps I'll make it a fashion, a knife slit in coat and waistcoat, a hairsbreadth shy of the heart and lungs."

  Pomeroy guffawed, but I knew Grenville's anger. It had been too close.

  Pomeroy drained his glass and wiped his mouth. "Well, young Sutcliff is for it. The father will probably get him transported instead of hanged, but that's the rich for you. Now, it's back to Bow Street for me, though I'll walk slowly and see how many criminals I can catch in the act."

  He chuckled, touched his forelock to us, and left the tavern. I had no doubt that he'd arrest several unlucky pickpockets and prostitutes along the way.

  "To think," Grenville said, absently turning his tankard. "That I thought a post at a boys' school would be restful and unexciting." He shook his head. "More fool I."

  "I have come to appreciate the quiet of Grimpen Lane," I said, smiling a little.

  He did not return the smile. "Marianne," he began in a low voice, "will not tell me why she traveled to Hungerford. She made it plain that she did not want to tell me. I know, however, that you know." He lifted his tankard and drank. "And that you, too, will not tell me."

  I felt a twinge of remorse, but I shook my head. "I am sorry. The secret is hers, and I gave her my word."

  He lifted his gaze to mine. The pain in his dark eyes did not come from his wound. "You are a singular man, Lacey. You will keep your word to an actress who is little better than a courtesan, but you will not answer to a man with the power to break many a gentleman in his path."

  "I know," I said.

  He held my gaze for a moment, then looked away. "So be it," he said.

  He turned the conversation, as only he could, to other, inconsequential things, but I knew it would be a long time before he would bring himself to forgive me.

  *** *** ***

  Pomeroy's prediction that Frederick Sutcliff would never hang for murder proved to be true. He did appear at trial and was condemned, but Sutcliff's father was wealthy enough and powerful enough to have the sentence commuted to transportation. I watched from the gallery as Sutcliff stammered his way through the trial. Jeanne Lanier appeared and behaved very prettily, easily charming the judge into believing her a naïve Frenchwoman easily duped.

  It sealed Sutcliff's fate. Rutledge also attended the trial. When I saw him in the street afterward, he growled at me and blamed me for the entire affair. I tipped my hat to him and walked on.

  *** *** ***

  Louisa Brandon visited me the next day. I had at last written her that James Denis had given me the information about Carlotta and my daughter. She had not written back, but when I saw her carriage in the street outside Grimpen Lane, my heart lightened.

  Once I had sent Bartholomew and Louisa's footman away, I could not keep from her. I kissed her cheek, then I held her hands and simply looked at her.

  "I missed you," I said.

  "I missed you, as well." She frowned at me. "Now I want to hear the entire awful tale of everything that happened at Sudbury. To think I imagined you'd gone to enjoy green meadows and rides along quiet lanes."

  "The country is a brutal place," I said, hoping to make her smile. I sat her down and began to tell her all that happened.

  She asked questions, and I answered, and the tension between us fell away. We talked long and easily, as we'd done in the army when she and I and Brandon had spent the end of every day together. Louisa and I had gabbed like old gossips, making light of our fears for the morrow.

  After our conversation had wound to its close, I pulled out the paper Denis had given me and handed it to her.

  She scanned it in silence, her eyes a mystery. "What will you do?"

  "That is why I asked you here. To tell me what to do."

  "Gabriel . . ."

  I rose and paced, unable to keep still. "I cannot trust my own heart, Louisa. It has been too long. Shall I rush to France and wrest her from a life where she has been happy? Demand my rights as a husband and father? How will that make anything better?"

  She watched me with troubled eyes. "You do not know she has been happy."

  "Of course she has. Carlotta was not the sort to live in silent misery. If her French officer made her unhappy, she would have flown elsewhere, again and again, until she felt safe. Or she'd have flown back to England, to you, not me. She was a woman who ever needed comfort and protection."

  "That is so," Louisa agreed, though she sounded skeptical.

  "If I go . . . If I see her . . . "

  How would I feel? Angry? Petulant? Happy that she was happy? Was I ready to release her? I had lectured Grenville to let Marianne be, but could I do the same with Carlotta? I had let her go, when she first fled me, but had I ever let go in my heart?

  "Perhaps you ought to see her," Louisa said, "if only to say good-bye."

  I ceased pacing. "It is still like a knife in my heart, Louisa."

  "Why? Because she had the gall to leave you? Or because you loved her?"

  I opened my mouth for a sharp retort, then closed it. Louisa's words were harsh, but they were also shrewd.

  "If it were only Carlotta, I would not even consider," I said. "But I long to see my daughter. I want to see how she has grown and whether she is happy. Damn it, Louisa, she is mine."

  "And what if she does not know you?"

  "I will tell her who I am."

  Louisa held my gaze. "And what if she does not know that Gabriel Lacey, and not the French officer, is her father?"

  I stopped. "Do you think Carlotta would have kept that from her? Would she have been that cruel?"

  Louisa nodded. "Yes, I think she would have been."

  I studied her a moment. "Do you know, I believe that when she left, you were as angry as I was. But you had never much liked Carlotta."

  "I believed her a fool," she answered crisply. "She never understood your true worth."

  "She understood well enough. I was worth nothing beyond my pay packet and my overblown sense of honor."

  "No," Louisa said in a hard voice. "She never did understand. Never appreciated what you were, and what she had."

  Our gazes met. Louisa's eyes were a steely gray, her cheeks flushed. I held her gaze for a long moment, while thoughts flew by that went unsaid.

  At last I turned away. "Well, she is gone now," I said softly.

  "If you go to France, Gabriel, I will go with you."

  She sat very primly on my armchair, her tone matter-of-fact. For one heady moment I pictured us traveling side by side, chattering away as we liked, her golden head on my shoulder as she rested in our traveling coach.

  The vision shattered at once as I realized that if she came with me, her husband would accompany us. Colonel Brandon would never allow his wife to travel alone with me to the Continent as long as he was alive. I thought of his stiff-necked silence on the days and days of the journey through France and shuddered.

  "I will think on it," I said. "Thank you."

  We spoke further, trying to turn to neutral topics, but nothing interested us much.

  At last Louisa rose to take her leave. I kissed her good-bye, let my hands linger in her cool ones just a moment too long, then I let her go.

  *** *** ***

  That night I sat in Lady Breckenridge's drawing room with Lady Aline Carrington and Lucius Grenville and others of the ton and listened to a rather young poet read beautiful and moving words. My heart was still heavy, but I allowed myself to be soothed by his verses.

  When we broke for refreshment, I found myself with Lady Breckenridge in an unoccupied corner.

  "Your eyes are tired, Captain," she said. "Did you not enjoy the poetry?"

  "
I did like it," I answered with sincerity. "The young gentleman shows great promise. I admit, however, to liking the company still more. An evening spent with friends is refreshing."

  One corner of her mouth turned up in a half-smile. "Dare I be flattered? Or did you refer to Mr. Grenville and Lady Aline, your dear friends?"

  I smiled. "I referred to Mr. Grenville and Lady Aline and Lady Breckenridge."

  She took this attempt at a compliment with a cool nod, but looked pleased. "I am happy that we have drawn you back from the country, then."

  "The city also has its joys," I said. "I meant to once again thank you for the gift of the walking stick. It became most useful."

  Her smile deepened. "I was certain it would."

  We shared a look, her dark blue eyes holding something warm and intriguing.

  I decided then and there that I preferred her conversation to that of Jeanne Lanier. Jeanne knew how to flatter, how to draw a man out, how to put him at his ease. She could smile and laugh as expected and make a gentleman feel that he was exceptional.

  Lady Breckenridge spoke her mind and did not always soften her barbs. But she would always be sincere. A flattering word from her was well earned and well meant.

  She slid her hand beneath my arm. "Shall we return? Mr. Tibbet will recite lines he composed while staying in an ancient castle in Scotland. Very atmospheric."

  I smiled down at her as she led me away. I found the warmth of her slender fingers in the crook of my arm quite satisfactory.

  END

  Please continue reading for a preview of Captain Lacey's next adventure

  The Necklace Affair

  By Ashley Gardner

  A Novella (Book 4.5)

  of the Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries

  * * * * *

  Chapter One

  On an evening in late March 1817, I climbed to the third floor of Lucius Grenville’s Grosvenor Street house in search of peace, and found a lady, weeping, instead.