Absolutely not.” Major Forbes thrust himself forward, his scowl sending the ends of his mustache to touch his chin. “I wanted the murder reported, but Isherwood made me see sense in not making his father’s death a sensation. Now you want to spread the tale far and wide, disgracing my friend and his family?”
“In a few ears only, Major,” I said. “And let it be known I am beginning to remember events of the night.”
“Beginning to remember?” Forbes looked confused—I hadn’t related to them my entire part in the affair. “Ah, you mean you were drunk.”
“Something like that.”
Forbes gave me a disgusted sneer. “You were field promoted, weren’t you? From nothing to captain, because you were friends with Colonel Brandon and didn’t run away in the heat of battle.”
“It was a decisive flanking move,” I said stiffly, remembering the blood, terror, and my fury at Talavera. “My men were courageous enough to surround and capture artillery, which kept the battle from becoming a rout. The unit that was supposed to have done it was nowhere in sight. My decision won me my promotion, sir.”
Isherwood raised a hand. “I have read Captain Lacey’s record, and it is without stain. But you are saying my father’s shouldn’t be.”
“Which is absolute poppycock,” Major Forbes said loudly.
“I am sorry to report it.” I broke through his blustering. “From what Colonel Brandon has told me about Lord Armitage, I believe he corrupted your father, promising him freedom from debt, and then probably blackmailed him into changing the orders to troops guarding the retreat. Mephistopheles to his Faustus.”
The reference was lost on Forbes, who likely never read anything but army manuals, but Isherwood nodded.
“My father, unfortunately, could be easily influenced.” He gave me the pained look of a man used to the truth not being what he wished. “Well I know this, to my regret, though he managed to cover his sins well. Lord Armitage, however, is a lofty personage. A diplomat, trusted by the king—or at least the Regent and Pitt, who sent him to Austria all those years ago. How will you make anything stick?”
I gave him a thin smile. “By letting him try to kill me, of course.”
“Bad idea, guv.”
I hadn’t expected Brewster to go along with my scheme, and he did not disappoint me.
“I’ve heard again and again that Armitage is untouchable,” I said as we left the barracks to the waiting hackney. “I do not want him to get away with either Isherwood’s murder or sabotaging a battle. If Armitage is caught doing his best to stab me to death, that will be a different thing.”
Brewster was not convinced. “Blokes like that don’t end up in the dock at the Old Bailey. He’ll say you provoked him, and he was defending hisself, like.”
“No, he’ll be tried in the House of Lords, which could ruin him even if it doesn’t hang him. Or perhaps he will try to poison me, as he did before.” I shrugged. “If none of this works, I’ll challenge him to a duel. Or perhaps Desjardins. The man cannot shoot straight.”
Brewster did not like my grim humor. “You’re daft if you think His Nibs will let you be bait in a trap for a murderer.”
“I am hoping His Nibs will help, and stand by to keep Armitage from killing me.”
Whatever Brewster would reply to this was cut off by Major Forbes, who stormed out of the gate and caught us at the hackney. The driver, who leaned against the wheel, having a nip out of a flask, looked on without expression.
“I will not stand by while you smear the reputation of a great man.” Forbes glared at me with the fury of a mastiff, ready to protect his master.
“If he truly gave those orders, he has already smeared it himself,” I said calmly.
Forbes blustered, but I saw in his eyes desperation of a man who wanted to believe in his hero. “Whatever you accuse the colonel of doing, he’d have had good reason. And what did it matter what happened once the battle was won? The slaughter might have been immeasurable if the retreat had been blocked.”
“Matter?” Brewster broke in with a laugh. He was never one to keep his opinions to himself. “That was treason, it was. Even I know that.”
“You are a ruffian and ignorant,” Forbes snarled at him. “How can you understand the motives of one a hundred times better than you? Hear me, Lacey—I’ll destroy you if you slander Hamilton Isherwood.”
“I’d think you’d want his murderer brought to justice,” I said. “If Armitage killed him, why would you stop me from proving it?”
I could see Forbes had no answer. He lunged at me instead, as though ready to strike, but Brewster stopped him with one hand around the lapel of his coat. Forbes tried to free himself, but Brewster held him fast.
“Let him go,” I ordered.
Brewster ignored me. “Mayhap you did it.” He gave Forbes a shake. “You were cozy with your colonel—maybe you worried he’d own up to treason and disgrace himself. Or maybe you found out about it and were in a rage at him for not being the great man you thought he was.”
Forbes struggled, his grief that Isherwood had betrayed him stark on his face. “You’re mad.”
“Let him go,” I repeated, my voice forceful. “I doubt Forbes killed him. He’d challenge Isherwood instead, let him defend his honor.”
Brewster gave Forbes another shake but at last released him. Forbes straightened his uniform coat.
“Of course I’d challenge him,” he said, as though angry I’d suggest anything different. He pointed at Brewster. “I’ll have you for striking a gentleman.”
Brewster had little fear of being arrested, as he had Denis’s protection. He stepped back, unworried.
“Mrs. Isherwood,” I said as Forbes regained his footing. “Would she have known of Isherwood’s orders to the troops guarding the retreat? Did she listen in on his conversations? Read his dispatches?”
“Good Lord, of course not.” Forbes blinked in surprise. “The woman was nowhere near when Isherwood had his meetings, and he kept his dispatches locked away and not in his own tent. She had no interest in military matters.”
“Then, in your opinion, she wasn’t a spy for Bonaparte?” I asked.
Forbes’s bewilderment increased. “Marguerite Isherwood? She was a hedonist. Loved to wear pretty dresses and dance with every gentleman in sight. The war was an opportunity for her to flirt with the officers, including Wellington himself. You know how he was with the ladies.”
Unfortunately, his description could be used to paint Marguerite as a spy, one who used her wiles to grow close to high-ranking officers. On the other hand, she could be just as Forbes depicted, a lady who only wished to enjoy herself. She’d made the best of army life and marriage to a hard-hearted man like Isherwood.
“Thank you,” I said. “Mrs. Gibbons will be entertained by your opinion of her.”
“It’s not opinion—it is the truth. I knew her better than anyone, including Isherwood himself.”
An interesting thing to state. I wondered if Forbes had carried a tendresse for Marguerite and she’d shunned him.
I had one final question. “Why did Isherwood return to the Pavilion after the supper? Or did he ever leave it? Had he planned to meet someone there?”
Forbes gave me a look of anguish, which he tried to hide with outrage. “How the devil should I know? I did not see him at all that night, nor was I invited to the Pavilion with him. I told you, if he’d billeted at the barracks instead of taking a house in town, none of this would have happened.”
He truly did not know. Forbes could have done nothing to prevent Isherwood’s death, and that knowledge was killing him.
I took pity on him, and left him alone.
“Where to now, guv?” Brewster asked as we boarded the hackney, the driver climbing leisurely to his box. “To see the Runner?”
“No,” I answered. “To Mr. Denis.”
Brewster was not pleased that I continued to impose myself on Denis, but if the man wanted this problem resolved, he would have to put up with me.
I could not simply bang my way into his house, of course. As when I visited him in Curzon Street, one of his ruffians took word upstairs, and I had to wait upon his pleasure.
Today, I was shown up almost at once. Denis rose when I entered his study, cool face concealing irritation.
I explained to him what Brandon had told me and my idea for finishing this.
“Risky.” Denis rested his hands on the desk. “How can you force words of confession from their lips?”
“I have a few ideas. Desjardins is a coward. I believe he will break. Armitage will need more care.”
I told him why I needed him—Denis specifically—and not only because of his trained fighting men. It was a favor, one he had no reason to grant me, and I knew I’d be yet further in his debt.
Denis knew it too. He considered for a time, though I knew he’d already decided. “If I do this, you will undertake the task I have for you without argument.” It was a statement, not a question.
The favor would prevent me from being arrested for Isherwood’s murder and standing trial for it. Brandon was correct that Armitage was powerful.
I nodded, placing my fate in Denis’s hands.
I visited Mr. Quimby, catching him in his lodgings this time, and told him most of what I’d told Denis. Like Denis, Quimby was skeptical my plan would work, but agreed to help.
I went home—nothing more I could do in the meantime. Brandon had gone to visit Mrs. Gibbons, Bartholomew told me, and had not yet returned. I was curious to hear how the meeting went, but I would have to wait. Brandon, of course, would stay with us until he returned to London—no matter our past differences, it would be churlish indeed of me to deny him hospitality.
It was eleven of the clock. Donata was still abed, but Gabriella, dressed and energetic, waited for me, and we went for a walk on the shore. Peter came with us, playing near the water under Brewster’s watchful eye.
My time with Gabriella was precious. I’d lost her for so many years, and now she intended to marry a young man in Lyon. I’d visit her, of course, and she us, but marriage took one’s time and attention, and soon she’d bear children of her own.
“Tell me more about Emile.” I named the young man who’d stolen her heart.
Gabriella softened, with a look that sent a dart of pain through me. “You will like him, Father. He is clever, if a bit shy. Very hard-working.”
What every father wanted to hear—industrious, doesn’t speak much, isn’t a complete fool. “He cares for you?”
Gabriella flushed. “Of course.”
“No ‘of course’ about it. If he doesn’t worship the ground on which you walk, I will thrash him.”
Gabriella laughed uncertainly. “There will be no need for that.”
“I only want you to be happy, my daughter. Marriage can be uncertain, and I do not want you to experience a bad one.”
“You and Lady Donata are happy,” Gabriella said. “You shout at each other but enjoy it, and you make it up.”
I could not deny that arguing with Donata kept my blood warm and my spirits high. I doubted I’d do well with a cheerful wife who never contradicted me.
“My mama and papa are happy too.” Gabriella gave me a sideway glance. “Though I know you and she were not so well suited.”
“It worked out for the best,” I managed to say. I always felt awkward discussing Carlotta.
The truth was, I’d been a rotten husband to Carlotta—a timid yet spoiled young woman who’d expected to be wrapped in cushions and taken care of. Following the drum was a hard life, and not a good one for her. Donata, on the other hand, had the strength of a hard-bitten general. She’d have kept Isherwood in his place—and every other ranking officer as well—had she been on campaign with me.
We turned for home, Peter jogging at my side. People smiled at us as we passed, indulgent at my little family.
When we reached the house, Brewster went home, declaring he’d spend time with his Em before I put my plans into motion.
I’d settled down to coffee, meaning to tell all to Donata once she’d risen, when Bartholomew handed me a note.
“Delivered a few minutes ago,” he said. “By one of them Quaker lads.”
I broke the seal and opened it. “From Mr. Bickley,” I said in surprise, and read the short missive.
He’d returned to Brighton, reluctantly, to settle some business matters, and would like to speak to me.
This was fortunate, because I wanted to speak to him. There was a particular question I wished to ask him. I’d planned to write to him in Chichester, but this would save time.
“Tell Mr. Brewster I’ve set off to meet Mr. Bickley at this address.” I shoved the paper at him. “He can meet me there if he has a mind to.”
Bickley had listed a house on the road to Hove, which was not a long walk from our square. I took my walking stick and hat and left for it.
It had occurred to me as I read the note that Armitage could lure me to a lonely house by pretending Mr. Bickley had asked me to attend him there. However, the note had rung with Bickley’s voice, and I did wish to question the man—he might know more about this business than he realized. He could be the linchpin that held the entire case together.
The house I reached was set back from the road behind a colorful garden, rife with summer flowers. A sign on the gate read, Rooms to Let.
Mr. Bickley was truly there, no sign of Armitage or Desjardins. Bickley met me at the door a maid opened and took me through a bright passage to a parlor in the back of the house.
Bickley looked haggard. His plump cheeks sagged, colorless, and the sadness in his eyes was difficult to witness. His son’s death had taken all joy from him.
“I thank thee for seeing me, Gabriel.” His voice rasped as though he’d worn it out.
The room was sparsely furnished, with only a few hard chairs, though the tall windows let out onto a green with a splendid view of the sea, no houses to block it. A person could stroll from here to the water and enjoy the solitude.
“Not at all,” I said. “Are you settling in with your sister?”
“Indeed. She is most kind. She was fond of Joshua.” Bickley choked off at the name and squeezed his eyes tightly shut.
“My dear fellow, I am so sorry.” I went to Bickley and laid a hand on his shoulder. “There was a time when I thought I’d lost my daughter. A very long time. The days were dark. I understand.”
“But there is no more light for me.” Tears trickled down his cheeks. He opened his eyes and gazed at me sadly. “I am a grave sinner, Gabriel. I have asked thee here to beg thy forgiveness.”
I released him, awkward. “There is nothing to forgive.” We stood in uncomfortable silence for a moment, then I cleared my throat and asked my question. “Mr. Bickley, you told me that you’d lost a brother, in the war. Tell me, was he killed on the Peninsula? … At Salamanca?”
Bickley stared at me, stricken, then his expression became one of horrible guilt. “He was a cavalry officer,” he said in a near whisper. “He died as his troop charged a French one.”
My heart gave a painful throb. I hated that I’d guessed correctly. “His name?”
“Ensign William March. He was my half-brother, much younger than I was. He was not Quaker—my mother remarried years after my father died, and she left the Friends.”
I scarcely heard the last part of his statement. I recalled Ensign March, a young man, sandy-haired and restless, with plenty of jokes and a fondness for port and the ladies. He’d never mentioned his family beyond the usual remarks, and I could not remember if he’d ever stated where his home was. He’d had a south coast accent, and never said that his mother had once been a Quaker.
At Salamanca, we’d engaged with French cavalry, driving apart the line that had already been ragged so Wellington could make his sudden attack. March had raised his carbine, yelling and laughing, and he’d been shot out of the saddle.
“Ensign William March, of the Thirty-Fifth Light Dragoons,” I said in a hushed voice. “Killed in courageous assault on Clausel’s division. One of my men.”
Bickley nodded, the bleakness in his eyes heartrending. “And so I was persuaded to take my revenge on thee. Anger was in my heart, opening the way to evil. Please forgive me.”
“You drugged me,” I said with conviction.
I had concluded that the only place I could have been given the concoction to render me insensible was when I’d halted to speak to the Quakers. Every other drink I’d taken that night had been shared with others or at a public place where someone could have seen it doctored.
“I did. They knew my grief, and fanned my anger. And I obeyed.”
“I understand,” I made myself say. “But I wish like the devil you hadn’t.”
“As do I. I thought remaining with the Friends would take the evil from me. But it did not.”
“How long had you plotted this revenge? Salamanca was seven years ago.”
Bickley looked confused. “I hadn’t. I was angry with my brother for joining the army, but I had fixed blame for his death on no one but war itself. But then they came to me, a few weeks ago, told me thou had been William’s commander and were a terrible man. They knew all about it—thee, William, that I was William’s brother—and said they would help me punish thee for not keeping Will safe. I said I’d take no part in any violence, but they assured me I did not need to. All I must do was give thee a cup of tea and make certain thou drank it. They would do the rest, and thou would be hanged ...” He trailed off, his voice breaking.
I reined in my anger with effort. Bickley had been a dupe, like me—like Isherwood—used and discarded. I could argue about his actions loud and long, but for now, I needed to turn to practical matters.
“What’s done is done, Bickley. But you are a witness to it. Are you willing—”
A sound behind me cut off my words. I felt a rush of air, and as I turned to meet the threat, pain exploded through my skull, sending me to my knees.
My head and left leg seared in agony, but I managed to draw the sword from my walking stick. I only needed to hold off the enemy until Brewster arrived.
I struck out but missed the booted legs that sprang out of the way. Dizzy, I pulled back, but another blow landed on my temple.
I fell back, blackness taking me. The last thing I saw was the butt of a beautifully made Purdey fowling piece, heading straight for my face.