The room went very silent. When I at last looked up, Jacinthe was departing discreetly out the door.
Donata turned to me, regarding me with eyes so sharp they cut.
“Perhaps you should tell me the tale, Gabriel,” she said, her voice too calm. “Before someone else gleefully informs me that you were Mrs. Isherwood’s lover.”
I rose and went to the door through which Jacinthe had departed, turning the key in the lock.
“I agree,” I said. “I would prefer you hear my version of events first.”
I did not resume my seat but remained standing, hand on my walking stick. Donata crossed her legs and rested her arm on the back of her chair, a nonchalant pose, but every line of her bore tension.
“If anyone used Marguerite Isherwood shamelessly, it was Isherwood himself,” I began. “He was a brute of a man. Though Marguerite was no tame flower—she fought back and denounced him. In the end he wanted no more of her, but she was hardly heartbroken. He sent word to his solicitors in London and began the petitions in Doctor’s Commons. I did not meet the Isherwoods until Salamanca, which is where he threw her out of his lodgings and told her to find her own way home.”
Donata regarded me steadily. “And you, being gallant …”
“Isherwood had already annoyed me with his tactics, and his cruelty.” I moved slowly back to my chair and sat. “He led a charge that did nothing but waste men, and he barely made it out alive himself. Sergeant Pomeroy saved his life, and Isherwood only shouted abuse at him, the ungrateful bastard.”
A small gleam of interest entered Donata’s eyes—very small. “I imagine Mr. Pomeroy was not cowed.”
“I then had to save Pomeroy from arrest for striking an officer. I made out that it was an accident.”
“Clever of you.” Her words were cool.
“Not really, but it turned Isherwood against me, not that I’d hoped to make a friend of him. When I heard he’d stranded his wife, and had advised her to whore herself out—his very words—I stepped up to offer her a place to stay. I’d taken rooms in Salamanca itself, nothing luxurious, but dry and comfortable.”
“Mm. I take it that you did not, like a gentleman, sleep all night in a hard chair.”
I had to shake my head. “Mrs. Isherwood was in a towering fury at her husband, bent on making him pay. I did not try very hard to stop her.”
“I see.”
I knew she did see, exactly, and was trying to stop herself thinking of it.
“I have never been pillar of virtue,” I said tightly. “My wife had run off with Major Auberge long before that, taking Gabriella with her. I was young and angry. Also lonely.”
“It was seven years ago,” Donata said. “You were not much younger than you are now.”
“I feel so.” I tapped my left knee. “This has made me an old man before my time.”
“Hardly.” The word was crisp. “I grant that you had no lady of your own, you were full of pride, and you wanted to rub Colonel Isherwood’s nose in it.”
“You are correct,” I said. “It made us laugh that he was a cuckold.”
Donata dropped her gaze at the word but only briefly. “Then it is no wonder he turned an interesting shade of red when he saw you at the Regent’s dining table. And you a trusted friend of Mr. Grenville, no less.”
Donata was no stranger to vengeance against a callous husband, but her face might have been carved of marble. I suspected she fought with herself—my affair with Mrs. Isherwood was long ago, but her first husband had paraded mistresses before her, which had hurt her deeply. She was not in a hurry for that sort of thing to happen again.
“What became of Marguerite?” she asked, her voice too casual. “Was she a permanent fixture in your rooms?”
“Indeed no. It was never a romance.” Marguerite had been grateful to me, but I’d nursed no illusions she’d fallen in love. “I encouraged her to return to England. She’d had the mad idea of cuckolding her husband with as many officers as she could, but I pointed out the dangers of this step.”
“Wise. The other officers might not be as kind as you.”
I could not tell if her tone held irony. Donata could be cutting without the object of her wit aware of it.
“Quite,” I said. “She had the chance to start a new life away from Isherwood, and I recommended she make use of it. I arranged for her journey to Lisbon and passage from there to Portsmouth.”
“And that was that?” Donata unfolded herself but remained on the chair. “Or did you correspond with her?”
“Not at all. Marguerite wrote a friend, the wife of another officer, that she’d arrived safely in Portsmouth, and that she’d decided to settle near there. The officer’s wife passed this information to me, but I have not heard of Marguerite since. My regiment moved on to Madrid; Isherwood’s went elsewhere.”
“Did the divorce go through? As you know, such a thing is no easy feat.”
“I have no idea—I would assume so. With all the things that happened after Salamanca, I must say I forgot about the Isherwoods.”
“Yes, you had plenty to occupy your thoughts, such as warring with Colonel Brandon, not to mention fighting the French army.” Again the barest hint of irony. “Well, Gabriel, you have certainly given yourself motive for a duel with Isherwood. I imagine he was incensed by your presence last night. Even if he’d thrown away his wife, and the divorce did succeed, and he never saw the blasted woman again, you were a nice splinter to remind him of his humiliation.”
“Perhaps.”
“No perhaps about it. I wondered why he was so very cold to you, more than the coolness a man of higher rank might give to a captain. I ought to have guessed the reason why.”
I looked at her in surprise. “How could you have?”
“Because I know you, Gabriel. If another man in enraged at you, it is most likely because of a woman.”
I was not certain whether to be amused or indignant. “There are other reasons men fall out among themselves.”
“Other gentlemen, yes. You, on the other hand, are courteous to the point of painfulness, you pay your debts, and you try to make it up to anyone you unintentionally anger. You are even polite to Mr. Denis, a known criminal. The only thing you do that engenders rage in other gentlemen is to be more attentive to their ladies than they are. Especially when the gentleman in question is a boor.”
“In which case, he deserves it,” I said feelingly. “I remember happily punching your husband in the nose.”
At last, she favored me with a smile, though it was fleeting. “Precisely what I mean. Though I recall that when I first tried to share your rooms, as it were, you wanted nothing to do with me. I must say it rankles a bit that you chose Isherwood’s wife long ago when you would not choose me.”
So that was how she thought of it. I’d taken readily to Marguerite, when I had been decidedly rude to Donata.
“I mistook your character,” I said, as gently as I could. “As I have told you before.” I remembered the day when I’d met her in a room full of sunshine, where she’d given me her cutting look and dared me to a game of billiards. “But I noticed you were quite beautiful.”
Her brows came together. “You disliked me and wouldn’t touch me. Hence, I had to pursue you like a silly chit.”
“I am very glad you pursued me,” I said. “You made me look the fool, have no fear of that.” I rose and went to her, taking her hand. “Of this, I have no regrets.”
I lifted her fingers to my lips and kissed them. Donata looked a bit less angry when I lowered her hand, though I knew she would not soften to me for a time.
I’d been Marguerite Isherwood’s lover years before I’d met Donata, but Donata felt no warmth toward ladies to whom I’d given my affection, no matter how long ago it might have been. For my part, I wished every gentleman she’d bestowed affection on at the bottom of the sea.
More and more reason I could have killed Isherwood. Donata was correct. When trouble from my past came to call, there was usually a woman in the thick of it.
I went down to breakfast after that, leaving Donata to summon Jacinthe back to finish her toilette. I wasn’t certain we’d resolved things between us, but Donata joined me an hour or so later in the dining room, after I’d finished my morning repast. As usual she’d taken a light meal in her chamber as she’d dressed, and now asked a footman for coffee.
“Dreadfully early,” she said as she sipped. It was noon. “But when one is in the provinces …”
“Gabriella was up and out promenading with Lady Aline at nine,” I reminded her.
Donata shrugged. “She is young. When she is married, she will be more weary.”
“I am sorry to hear marriage is so tiring,” I said lightly.
She gave me a look. “I came down at this appalling hour to tell you the thoughts I had while I breakfasted. I would like to send for Mr. Quimby. He is the cleverest of the Runners, as you have told me. He can find out what happened.”
I felt a qualm of disquiet. Lamont Quimby was indeed a clever man, methodical and patient. Where my former sergeant Pomeroy blustered about until he put his hands on a bad man, whether guilty of that particular crime or not, Quimby investigated thoroughly and only brought his evidence to the magistrate when he was certain.
The trouble was, he was quite good, and if I had done this …
“He might very well be arresting me,” I said.
“I doubt it.” Donata set down her cup. “Gabriel, you are sometimes rash and can be a fool about other men’s wives, but you are an honest man, and not a murderer. Even if you were well inebriated at the time, it was at worst a ghastly accident.” She waved a hand. “I don’t even believe that. I think you stumbled upon Isherwood and picked up the sword. That is all.”
I wished I shared her confidence.
“There is a witness,” I said, thinking of Clement. “The footman I told you about. I need to speak to him.”
“Do that. I will write to Mr. Quimby.”
“As long as Spendlove doesn’t get wind of it.” Mr. Spendlove longed to arrest me on any charge, his idea being that I would give him all the information he needed to bring in James Denis in return for being let off. I knew full well that what Denis had let me learn about him would never convict him—Denis was far too careful. Spendlove, however, was persistent.
“Mr. Quimby does not work out of the Bow Street office, and he is wise enough not to speak loudly about his investigations,” Donata declared. “He should clear this up in a trice.”
I was not so sanguine. I finished my excellent coffee and rose to my feet.
“In that case, I will repair to the Pavilion and try to find young Clement. I will have to hunt up Grenville, or they’ll never let me in the door.”
“An excellent idea. Do remember we are taking the sea waters this afternoon.”
Ah, yes. Donata would hire carriages to take us out into the Channel, where we would remove most of our clothing and have a dip in the sea.
“Of course,” I said. “I like a good splash about. I enjoyed it as a lad, I remember. Swam mother-naked off the salt marshes in Norfolk, or down among the Broads.”
“I’m certain you were a tear,” Donata said calmly. “Please join us at four o’clock for more sedate bathing. The tide will be out then.”
Brewster was waiting for me as always outside the front door when I departed, and we walked together across the square to the house Grenville had hired.
“I had to tell His Nibs,” Brewster said as we went. “If he’d heard it from someone else, he’d skin me. Always best to be straight with him.”
I’d learned firsthand what happened to men who tried to dupe Mr. Denis. “I would be curious to hear what he thinks of the matter. If he has any interest at all.”
“Oh, he does, guv,” Brewster said darkly, but we’d reached Grenville’s and could say no more.
I’d sent word ahead to Grenville, and he was waiting for us on his front step, settling his hat as we approached. “You know I cannot simply walk up and demand entrance to the Prince’s residence, Lacey,” he told me.
“Why not?” Brewster asked him. “You’re in thick with His Royalness. Just tell him you want a chat.”
Grenville shot him a weary look. “I doubt we’ll see His Royalness, as you call him. I learned that he left for London in the middle of the night on Monday, sometime after supper.”
I came alert. “Was this before or after Isherwood was killed?”
“Very suspicious,” Brewster agreed. “Why’d he run from cool sea breezes to the hot stink of the Smoke?”
“I do not know exactly when he left,” Grenville said. “But I believe his abrupt departure had to do with his estranged wife. He is convinced poor Caroline and her Italian servant are living as man and wife on the Continent. I heard his spies have turned up new evidence, or supposed evidence, and he rushed off to find out if it was true.”
“Devil of a way to treat his wife,” Brewster growled. “Why don’t she beat him on the head? My Em would.” Brewster, like most people, regarded Caroline of Brunswick more highly than he did the dissipated Regent.
“I agree,” Grenville said. “Let us hope the princess can continue to enjoy herself. But you are not wrong, Lacey, that it would be good to discover whether the Regent left before or after the colonel died.”
“I can find that out,” Brewster said. “If I can get meself below stairs.”
“Excellent,” Grenville said. “Lacey and I will admire the new decor, while you interrogate the servants.”
He sounded cheerful. Even Brewster wasn’t morose. They, like Donata, did not believe I’d murdered Isherwood and thought we’d clear it up soon. It was good of them to trust me, but I with my head still aching a bit, would feel better when I had proof.
Again it was a glorious day, Brighton full of holiday-makers shopping, taking tea or coffee, enjoying life. Ladies with sketchbooks sat overlooking the water, while servants shaded them with large parasols.
Only a few days ago, I’d been one of the happy tourists, strolling in the sun with my daughter on my arm, my stepson picking up stones on the shore. Now I was investigating a murder and trying to piece together missing hours of my life.
The three of us moved along the road skirting the Steine, until we faced the Pavilion, an exotic oddity in this town of clean-lined buildings.
Grenville gained admission by the simple ruse of telling the footman he longed to gaze upon some of the renovations he’d seen the night we’d been there. He knew the Regent had departed, he said, and we’d never bother the workmen …
The royal servants knew Grenville and respected him. Grenville had been skeptical of being allowed in today, but the majordomo welcomed us through the octagon-shaped hall into the main palace. We passed into what was called the Long Gallery, which would connect all the rooms, and to the music room, with its vast domed ceiling.
Young Colonel Isherwood had told us that the majordomo had broken the news of his father’s murder to him. The majordomo today spoke to us serenely, never betraying with one word or twitch of mouth a hint that anything untoward had happened in his demesne.
Grenville and I thanked him, also not betraying our interest, and he left us to wander as we wished.
Brewster already knew the way to the servants’ areas, and disappeared through a doorway set into the wall paneling. The door vanished when closed, looking like nothing more than the rest of the wall. I had found such a door when I’d made my hasty exit from the kitchen.
Grenville and I ambled through the music room and the gallery beyond it. We pretended to be intrigued by nothing more than the lavish architecture as we slowly but inexorably made our way to the banqueting room where I’d found Isherwood.
Today, that chamber buzzed with activity. Painters brushed an undercoat on the walls, men on scaffolding worked on an elaborate plaster palm that would cross the entire ceiling, and two carpenters planed a doorjamb in long, even strokes.
The place where Isherwood had lain was bare, the floorboards clean. I dimly remembered he’d been sprawled across a dust sheet, but that was gone, and no blood marked the wood. I stooped to examine the spot, earning only a curious glance from the workers.
“Here,” I said to Grenville under my breath.
The workmen, sanding, scraping, and pounding, paid little attention. Grenville leaned to study the bare floor then straightened up when he saw nothing, expression unchanged.
“Show me where you went after you found him,” he said.
I took Grenville through the narrow door that had been hidden by draperies that night. The walls were bare today, and the workmen watched us go without comment.
Once we reached the corridor, I stared blankly about, trying to get my bearings, but my memories were still foggy. “I ended up in the kitchen, I think.”
Grenville stepped past me. “It is this way.”
He led me along the hall and through another door. As we stepped into a large busy room, I recalled the huge chamber, dark and still, filled with tables, crates, and food.
Now, of course, the kitchen teemed with people. Men at massive stoves stirred and basted, and women wielded knives to chop produce or hack up fowl. Blood and melted fat dripped to the floor. The heat was stifling, the odors cloying.
The man who must be in charge spied us, and roared, “’Ere! You’re not to be back ’ere!”
Grenville gave him a bow. “Just passing, my good fellow. Your roast on Monday night was a dream. I savored it well. Good morning.”
The chef glared, though he looked somewhat mollified. Grenville beckoned me to follow as the cooks stared at us, and we ducked through another door to the servants’ corridor.
“You know your way about,” I remarked to Grenville.
“His Highness has taken me through the entire house—several times. He is very proud of every inch, or at least of what Mr. Nash has done with it. Clever man, is Nash. He’ll make the place pleasing and not the monstrosity the Regent has dreamed up. Oh, I beg your pardon, good lady.”
He tipped his hat to a maid who’d halted at the sight of us. She pushed herself against the wall so we could pass and did not meet our eyes. I bowed to her as I went by, but that made her cringe even more—she’d hoped I wouldn’t notice her.
“Anything returning to your mind?” Grenville said after we’d gone a little farther.
“Not a bit. I needed my guide, who thankfully showed me the way out.”
“Hmm.” Grenville looked about then abruptly charged off down a passageway. I followed as closely as I could.
After taking us through several corridors and down a few short flights of stairs, he opened a door that led into a small courtyard. “Here?”
“Possibly.” It had been dark, and I had been ill and disoriented.
“Let us pretend this is the correct door.” Grenville stepped out and followed the passage to the gate at the end.
“This is very like it,” I said. We walked through the gate and emerged onto a street. “I found myself in the maze of the market and bought a bud for my lapel from a flower seller there.” I pointed my walking stick down a street, now humming with the day’s activities, though no flower sellers were apparent at the moment.
“You saw no one else?” Grenville asked. “None but the footman?”
“No one,” I said with certainty. I had been alone—that much I knew.
“Nor heard anyone running away, that sort of thing?”
I returned my walking stick to the pavement. “You want me to say I heard the murderer or saw another who might have been the culprit. I’m sorry, but no, I did not.”
“The killer might have been long gone before you arrived,” Grenville said. “Or might have been your lad, Clement.”
“I recall looking him over for signs of blood or violence. I saw none. He was terrified—he obviously believed I was the killer.”
“Well, either both of you are innocent, or one of you is guilty.”
“Very helpful.” I gave him a frown.
“I am attempting to be efficient, my friend. As you can be when you are not distraught. Your involvement in this is clouding your judgement.”
“As is my lack of memory,” I said grimly.
“Oi!”
I heard a familiar shout and swung around to see Brewster bolting out through another gate. He pointed a thick arm down the lane and charged after a retreating figure.
It was a tall lad with black hair and skin, his footman’s livery awry, running as fast as he could. Clement, my conspirator from the night of Isherwood’s murder, fled into the lanes, Brewster hard on his heels.