I instinctively stepped sideways to my right, out of the line of fire. Grenville ducked aside as well. I noticed that the footman had quickly vanished down the stairs.
“Steady on,” Grenville said sternly.
Comte Desjardins, his round face flushed under a shock of pale hair, did not move the shotgun. “It is no matter,” he answered in French. “It is not loaded.”
He pulled the trigger to demonstrate.
An explosion sounded, gunpowder bursting from the firing pan. A scattering of shot whizzed between me and Grenville and out the open doorway, pockmarking the hall’s paneling.
The comte, a tall, well-muscled man, tanned from the outdoors, blinked blue eyes at the gun. “Ah. I am so very sorry.” He’d switched to English, his accent heavy, and now returned to French. “It is a Purdey. A gift for me from the Regent. I hear they are very fine guns for hunting.”
He lowered the piece, and I breathed out, lingering gunpowder stinging my eyes and throat. How the devil the man hadn’t realized the gun was loaded was beyond my understanding. He was either a liar or a fool.
Pounding footsteps sounded on the stairs and seconds later, Brewster tumbled into the room. “Guv!”
Before I could stop him, Brewster lunged forward and wrested the gun from the startled comte’s hands, pointing the barrel to the floor.
“What daftie would shoot off a birding gun inside a parlor?” Brewster demanded.
Desjardins began snarling at him in French, and Brewster backed away, still holding the gun.
“Can’t understand a word he says,” Brewster said. “Same below stairs.”
Grenville came forward to interpose. “Forgive our servant,” he said to Desjardins in French. “He feared we’d been killed. He’ll take the gun away and clean it for you. As you say, it is a fine piece.” Grenville touched a gloved finger to the barrel in Brewster’s arms.
Even I’d heard of James Purdey, a manufacturer of fowling pieces and guns in a shop in Princes Street near Hanover Square. His weaponry was highly praised and widely sought after by the haut ton.
Desjardins relaxed. “It was a mistake. I said I was very sorry. The man who delivered it from the Regent never told me it was loaded and primed. A joke, I think.”
“One in poor taste,” Grenville said tightly.
I translated to Brewster what Grenville had said and advised him to take the gun to the stable yard behind the house for the task. Brewster gave me a sour look.
“Not leaving you alone with a bloke what aimed a gun at you. He wants the thing cleaned, I’ll sit here in this room and do it. He might pull out a knife next.”
Ordering Brewster to do a thing he did not want to was useless, I knew. Grenville, always the diplomat, asked leave to ring for a servant, whom he bade bring tools so Brewster could begin, as well as a sheet to protect the carpet.
The bemused footman, the same who’d showed us upstairs, complied, and Brewster fell to it, taking apart the gun with the dexterity of a professional.
The comte sent him a worried look. “That shooter is quite fine. Will the oaf ruin it?”
The “oaf” did not understand French, and continued with his task. “I trust Mr. Brewster,” I answered.
Brewster glanced up as I said his name and scowled, not trusting me.
“A splendid gift,” Grenville said. “The Regent was generous.”
“He was.” Desjardins lifted his chin, his pride apparent.
I was not certain what to make of the man. At supper, Desjardins had sat several seats down from me and had devoted most of his conversation to Lady Armitage. When he had joined in with the rest of us, he was loud about keeping the lower classes in their places and mourning that he’d had to leave a large estate in France because of said lower classes.
He regarded us both affably now, chagrined about his mistake in firing the gun, but with a gleam of amusement in his eyes. Grenville watched him coolly.
“You’ve lived in England many years,” I remarked to Desjardins. His suit resembled Grenville’s and must have been made by a Bond Street tailor. He also wore scent, a dark spice that spoke of the best perfumery in London.
Desjardins flushed, his amusement dying. “A bit rude of you to point out my exile, sir. I feel it keenly.”
“Your pardon. I only meant you would have had time to cultivate the Regent’s friendship.”
“Ah. Yes, that is so.” Desjardins brightened. “The prince has been good to me and my family.” He glanced out the window. “I have never grown fond England, if you must know. There is much rain, and I am not used to the dreary flatness of the land. In the south of France, we have high mountains and deep valleys, so dramatic.”
He could not have traveled much in Britain, then, which had plenty of mountains and valleys in the north and the west. I’d grown up in Norfolk, very flat country, which I’d too found dreary as a youth, though I appreciated its beauty these days.
“Life is easier in France now for aristocrats, is it not?” I asked pretending to be ingenuous. “As the monarchy has been restored.”
“But for how long?” Desjardins shook his head. “Already the king’s cousin, d’Orleans, makes noises that he ought to be on the throne, where he will create an assembly like Britain’s Parliament. Bah.” He skirted Brewster and made for a full decanter on the sideboard. “Such an assembly will only tear power from him and begin evicting us once again. Our time is over.”
His despondency was genuine as he filled glasses with brandy and carried them to us.
“Thank you,” Grenville said, accepting his. “At least you can have this again.” He raised his glass.
“Yes, yes.” Desjardins nodded. “Now that the long war is over, we can have brandy once more.”
“Without resorting to smuggling.” Grenville laughed, took a sip, and made a satisfied noise. “Quite fine.
“Indeed, indeed.” Desjardins drank, face flushing.
I wondered at his sudden nervousness. Had Desjardins been a brandy smuggler? Grenville had indicated he’d lived well in spite of having to flee France. Brandy could bring a high price from Englishmen who’d not wanted to do without it.
“May I speak with you about our supper the other night?” I asked after we’d drunk. “At the Pavilion?”
Desjardins gave me a blank stare. “Yes, why not? The Pavilion is a garish monstrosity, is it not?”
“It is unfinished, yet,” Grenville said generously. “And Mr. Nash is a gifted architect.”
“Perhaps.” Desjardins waved Mr. Nash away. “What is the question? I barely remember what I ate—it was so bland.”
“Colonel Isherwood,” I cut in, unable to wait for Grenville to work his way around to the important points. “He died that night.”
Did I see a flicker of worry in Desjardins’ expression? Or did I simply wish to?
“Yes, I heard. Took ill. He was a boorish fellow—I’m not surprised if he had an attack of bile.” Desjardins paused, his eyes widening. “You don’t mean that something was wrong with the food? Good Lord, I ate plenty, even if it was vile stuff.”
“No.” I needed to shut down that train of thought. “Nothing to do with the food or drink.”
“Well, that is a mercy.” Desjardins took a long gulp of brandy. “I didn’t like him, but poor fellow.”
“Yes.” I hardly knew how to ask my questions without violating Isherwood’s son’s wish that the murder stay quiet, but Desjardins’ rather vacuous expression gave me hope he’d not tumble to what had truly happened. “Did Isherwood speak to you of anything in particular?” I ventured. “Or indicate he’d meet anyone after supper?”
I trailed off as Desjardins sent me a peculiar look. As I hesitated, he turned from me and carried his empty glass to the sideboard. “Do you not remember, Captain? Or are you testing my memory?”
“I’m afraid I was a bit inebriated myself. If the colonel shared his plans, I missed it.”
Another stare, and Desjardins’ voice hardened. “I do not know how you could have. You and he had a fierce altercation. Not in front of company, but I saw.”
“Saw what?” Grenville asked. “I admit I do not remember this myself.”
Desjardins pointed a sturdy finger at Grenville. “You were parading your lady wife about and fending off questions about her origins. I thought the company uncivil—why should you not marry a backstreet actress if you wish? The captain and Isherwood stepped into an anteroom. I followed, hoping to find more port there. You did not see me, and when I heard your argument, I kept to the shadows to not embarrass you.”
“As I said, I had taken too much drink,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “The events of the evening are a blur.”
“Mmm.” Desjardins clearly did not believe me. “He threatened to kill you over an old slight—something to do with the Peninsula.” He fluttered his hand as though uninterested in what the slight was. “You clearly stated that if he tried, you’d defend yourself, even if it meant his death. You were quite adamant. Lost your temper, I’d say. The violence in your words made me shiver. I withdrew and heard nothing more. Rather lucky for you he dropped dead of an illness that night, or you might have been charged with his murder.”
“The Frenchie tells that story to a magistrate, yer done for,” Brewster declared as we walked from Desjardins’ house. “Everyone knows you’re good at threatening people.”
Grenville had related the conversation to Brewster at his demand once we’d taken our leave. Desjardins hadn’t had much to add after he’d told me of my threat to Isherwood, which I did not remember, try as I might.
He’d started back in on the gaudiness of the Pavilion, the dull food, and the generosity of the Regent in giving him the gun, which Brewster had cleaned and reassembled for him. Brewster had laid the gun aside, unloaded, rather than hand it back to Desjardins.
“I’d prefer another witness to the encounter,” Grenville said. “Several, in fact. Isherwood is dead, and Desjardins says you threatened the man, but it is only his word. He could be inventing the tale for his own amusement. He seems to enjoy stirring things up.”
“It is plausible, unfortunately,” I said. I closed my mouth, knowing full well what I had begun to argue with Isherwood about.
“He tried to kill you,” Brewster growled. “The Frenchie, I mean. Shot that fowler right at you.”
“An accident,” Grenville said, but he did not sound convinced.
“Not possible he didn’t ken it were loaded,” Brewster said. “Thing was full of powder and wadding, the pan nicely primed. Weighs more when loaded too. He’s lying, or he knows sod-all about guns.”
I had thought the same. “Why would he shoot me—or Grenville—in so obvious a fashion? Why would he wish to? No, he must simply be a fool, or entertaining himself with us.”
And yet, I’d seen the cunning in Desjardins, a cunning that must have kept him alive and made him wealthy when his family’s compatriots had gone, bankrupt, to the guillotine.
We parted ways at my door, but tonight we’d meet again at the Steine for a fete and fireworks which all the town would attend.
I dined by myself, as Donata was out at calls, Gabriella with her. Peter had already gone to bed. I reflected upon what I had learned from Desjardins, which was little except that I had argued with Isherwood.
I drew my fork across the thick sauce that coated my beef. We had also learned that Desjardins was rude and spat his opinions while pretending to be naive. He’d insulted Marianne and Grenville with his comment about her being a “backstreet actress,” referred to Brewster as an oaf, and stated that I had a harsh and brutal temper.
This last was true, and made my appetite fade. While I could not trust my memory about all the events of Monday night, I had attacked men before. I had killed them in battle, instinct making me shoot and stab until I lived and my enemy died.
A year ago, I’d had no qualm about aiming my pistol at a lout called Stubbins who’d beaten a young woman of my acquaintance. The fact that I’d shot him in the arm instead of through the heart was because of my contempt for him, not because I’d feared the noose.
I was perfectly capable of committing murder, and I knew it.
In this mood, I dressed myself, with Bartholomew’s assistance, for the night’s outing.
“Mr. Grenville wants to return to London, so Matthias says,” Bartholomew informed me as he tied my cravat.
“Does he?” I regarded Bartholomew in surprise. “He never said so.”
“He don’t like to. But he told Matthias we should let the magistrates here decide a wandering madman killed Colonel Isherwood. Nothing to do with us.”
Grenville had to have known that Matthias would tell his brother this tale, and Bartholomew, the brother in question, would relate it to me.
“London is devilish hot and miserable at the moment,” I said. “Are you certain he said he wants to be there?”
“Well, his estate, then,” Bartholomew amended. “Inviting you and her ladyship, of course.”
“Tempting.” I made myself stand still while Bartholomew ran a brush over my already immaculate suit. “But I’d rather remain and discover what truly happened. Withdrawing my head like a tortoise will not change matters.”
Bartholomew shrugged. “Won’t help her ladyship if you’re arrested.”
“It will be hell for all of us. But if I did this deed …” I shook my head. “I cannot push it off onto another.”
“Mr. Grenville has a nice residence in the Italian states, sir. Two, in fact. One near Venice and one south of Rome.”
I looked straight at him. “You suggest I retreat to one of these places?”
Bartholomew flushed. “If you must, sir. Be a better place for her ladyship and the youngsters than watching you be dragged to Newgate.”
I could not say he was wrong. “I am hoping it is a monstrous mistake.” I glanced into the mirror to see that my hair was already escaping the careful combings Bartholomew had spent the last half hour on. “But I will keep it in mind. A house south of Rome would be handy for the ruins of Herculaneum and Pompeii.”
“As you say, Captain.” He was humoring me. I finished dressing without bothering to continue the discussion.
Donata had returned home as I’d dressed, and Gabriella and I waited downstairs for her to change for the evening. I did not mind the wait, as I welcomed the time to speak with my daughter. We did not talk of important things, but the little pleasantries of the day and her interest in the people Lady Aline took her to meet. Another father might grow listless at his daughter’s chatter, but I treasured every moment of it.
Donata spoke little as we rode in the carriage to the Steine gardens, and not at all to me. Her coolness unnerved me, but I chose to say nothing for the moment.
I tried to admire the gardens lit with lanterns and the walks lined with bright summer flowers, pale now in the darkness, but I could find little joy in them. The fact that all of Brighton laughed and played under the stars when Joshua Bickley had died rather horribly made me unhappy. But he’d been an ordinary lad, and a Quaker, nothing to do with the wealthy gentry who’d come to Brighton for the sea air and company. They’d already forgotten him.
I saw no sign of any of the Friends, though I had not expected to. To my relief, I saw no sign of Marguerite Gibbons either.
As usual on our nightly outings, Donata was greeted by her friends, who were eager to sweep her away. Gabriella glanced longingly back at me as she dutifully put her hand on Donata’s arm and strolled off with her.
Grenville met me on one of the long paths, he too alone. Marianne had her own acquaintances in Brighton and had fallen in with them, so Grenville and I wandered by ourselves, though not for long. Grenville, ever popular, was quickly hailed.
One of the gentlemen who caught up to us was Lord Armitage. This time upon seeing him, I did not feel the strange dizziness that had come over me when I’d spied him at the lecture.
I recalled what Lady Aline had told me about his history, and wondered how easily he rested knowing his lady had married him only because his brother had died. They’d seemed companionable enough at the supper and lecture, but who knew what truly went on in a marriage?
Lord Armitage had a large voice and the booming confidence of a man few contradicted. He had dark hair and light green eyes, and though he was not very tall, he had the muscular physique of a man who kept his daily port and beefsteak from settling on his body.
“Grenville.” He engulfed Grenville’s hand. “And Captain Lacey.” He gripped me with excessive power. “I heard Desjardins nearly potted you today, the ass.”
“Indeed.” Grenville touched the side of his head. “I had to confirm that my ear was still attached.”
“He’s a blunderer with a blunderbuss.” Armitage bellowed laughter at his joke. “He means no harm, the dullard. Never has adjusted to English ways.”
“If he left France during the Terror he’s been here nearly thirty years,” I said.
“Indeed. And yet …” Armitage threw out his arms. “I spent plenty of time on the Continent and Peninsula, as you know. Never could understand the Portuguese. Their language sounds like Spanish but isn’t, and those black cloaks they wear—like medieval monks. Very strange.”
“Those were students,” I said. The universities at Oporto and Coimbra had swarmed with young men in swirling black, much like what young gentlemen wore in the Inns of Court in London. “They dress in the cloaks.”
“Can’t think why,” Armitage said with good humor.
Grenville lifted his quizzing glass but did not gaze through it. “A strange attitude for a diplomat,” he said. “Are you not supposed to be … diplomatic?”
Armitage found this hilarious. “When I’m at the negotiating table, I know how to push through a treaty, never fear. But I mean the habits of the common folk of these countries were a mystery to me. Couldn’t ever make them out, whether in Spain, the Austrian Empire, or Venice. Glad to return home, my plenipotentiary days behind me.”
Several young men in the latest stare of fashion—coats bright yellow, pantaloons billowing—dashed past us, laughing and swearing in high-pitched voices. Grenville regarded them with raised brows.
Armitage, not noticing them, turned his gaze on me. “You landed well when you reached home after Spain, did you not, Captain? Rich widow, eh? La Breckenridge is quite a catch.”
Something hot pinched between my eyes. “I will thank you to speak civilly of my wife, sir.”
Another laugh. “To be certain, to be certain. No offense, Lacey. Desjardins tells me you asked him about Isherwood. You and he were at odds all night. I remember the colonel from my brief time on the Peninsula. You once had a tendresse for his wife, I recall hearing.”
My voice chilled further, even as I made note that he and Isherwood had been acquainted in the past. “Nothing I intend to discuss,” I said.
“A gentleman doesn’t talk about his affairs, and all that rot, eh?” Armitage said. “She wasn’t much of a lady, in fact. Isherwood was well rid of her.”
Grenville sent him a cool look. “I say, have a care, Armitage.”
“You mean the Captain might defend her honor? Why should he? It was all in the past. Mrs. Isherwood is likely rollicking through France by now with every comte in the place—or she’s long dead.”
“She is happily married,” I told him. “To a respectable gentleman. Grenville is correct—you should have a care.”
“Marguerite Isherwood is married?” Armitage’s mouth gaped open. “Are you certain?”
“I have met the man. Today, in fact. Mrs. Gibbons, as she is called now, seems quite content with him.”
Armitage’s mouth went even more slack. “Good Lord. You mean the wretched creature is here?”
“Yes,” I answered, my anger rising. “I must ask you to please cease speaking of her altogether.”
Armitage continued to stare at me, then an expression of peculiar glee came over him. “Oh, but you don’t know, my dear fellow, do you?”
He was longing for me to say Know what? so I remained silent.
His expression turned to one of pity. “You truly do not know, I see. Mrs. Isherwood—or Mrs. Gibbons, if the marriage is true—was a damned spy. Indeed, Captain, though you are amazed. She was never caught at it, but yes, she was a spy for the bloody Corsican.”