Murder in Grosvenor Square (12 page)

The thought of my daughter married so soon brought a pang to my heart. But, after all, that was the intent of her debut Season. Donata and Lady Aline were working to interest the best young English gentlemen in her, but I was not yet ready to let her go.

“I am not certain my wife will take well to me leaving for several months to remote lands of the Ottoman Empire,” I said.

Grenville waved that away. “By next winter, she will likely send you off with enthusiasm. Newlywed bliss palls, you know.”

“Oh? You have experienced it?”

Grenville gave me a look of feigned horror. “Of course not. But I have watched many of my friends go through it, and every single one says the same. Why do you think I avoid the parson’s trap?”

So he could do what he pleased, I knew, without having to answer to anyone. I’d learned that Grenville prized, above everything, his freedom.

I would have thought Marianne his perfect mate, in that case. She was not a clinging woman, and she too prized her liberty. They might rub on well together, if they were both not so pigheaded.

“Do ask Gautier about Mr. Mackay,” I said. “Why
he
was on the spot is a mystery. We must find him and put a few questions to him.”

“Sir Gideon and I have managed to keep the story of Gareth’s death and Leland’s injuries quiet for one night, but it will get out, one way or another,” Grenville warned me. “Bow Street will want to investigate the crime. Shall you inform your former sergeant? Set him on the track with his usual zeal?”

“No,” I said at once. Pomeroy had the knack of turning up embarrassing information, smiling all the while. And if Spendlove got hold of this, who knew what hell he might rain down on the Derwent family? “I will find out as much as I can as quickly as possible. If Pomeroy or Spendlove ever believe I think it anything but a robbery turned deadly …”

“Then Pomeroy will not let it rest.” Grenville nodded sagely. “I understand you wanting to protect the Derwents from a full Bow Street investigation. However, there isn’t much to go on, is there?”

“Which is why we must return to Seven Dials.” I drained my cup and set it on its saucer with a decided click. “At once.”

“Ah, I feared you’d say that.”

He hated rising early, but I could tell he was eager to be investigating. Though he kept up appearances by grumbling, Grenville was ready to depart in half an hour. He called for his carriage, and we set off, with Matthias and Bartholomew, who’d come in response to his summons, in tow.

*

The lane in Seven Dials looked dismal by the light of day. Darkness had hidden the grime on the cobbles and the crumbling bricks of the buildings around us, but sunshine breaking through the clouds illuminated the passage in all its squalor.

I’d expected to find more blood on the cobblestones. I’d sworn the place coated with it last night, but it had been pitch dark, and my heart had been hammering in shock and fear. There hadn’t been much rain in the night to wash the cobbles. But except for a stain a few feet wide and the smears leading to where I’d stumbled across Leland and Gareth, I could find no other blood.

Grenville held a handkerchief to his mouth, the stench of the lane far from pleasant. Matthias and Bartholomew moved up and down the passage looking for whatever they thought might help.

“Does the scarcity of blood confirm your theory that they were attacked elsewhere?” Grenville asked when I voiced my findings.

“I am not certain,” I said, looking over the cobbles again. “Head injuries bleed quite a bit, but the villain might have brought something with which to sop up the blood. Or they did not bleed as much as I think they should have. I am no expert.”

Grenville crouched to look at the dried blood, his handkerchief moving as he grew interested. “Whether they were attacked here or not, how did that chap Mackay find them?”

“A good question,” I said. “How did he so conveniently turn up? Not the sort of gentleman who would be wandering these streets. We must lay our hands on him.”

“Sir.” Bartholomew’s voice came from farther down the passage. Grenville and I walked to him, avoiding puddles of noisome filth to find him holding a chunk of wood he’d pulled from a pile of rubbish, his brother Matthias examining it closely.

It was a stout piece used for building, once hewn smooth, now broken off and jagged. A half dozen nails poked out of it about an inch from its end. Grenville brought out his quizzing glass, fixing his gaze on the nails as Bartholomew held the wood steady in his gloved hands.

“Blood, if I’m any judge,” Grenville pronounced.

“It’s a good cosh,” Bartholomew said. “This kind of beam’s not easy to come by—would be expensive at a builder’s yard.”

Nails would not be easy to come by either, in this part of town. Everything that could be sold would have been.

“Doubtless the murderer threw it away here, hoping it wouldn’t be found,” Grenville said.

“But it turned up as soon we looked for it,” I pointed out. “Anyone who took the trouble to hide Leland and Gareth back here would surely rid himself of the weapon in another place. I believe he
wanted
this to be found.”

Grenville could not take his eyes from the nails. “You make too much of it. He panicked. He’d just struck down the sons of rich gentlemen and could not afford to be caught. He drags the bodies into the passage, then remembers he still has the cudgel, and hastily buries it among other rubbish.”

“Do you really believe that?” I asked in a mild voice.

Grenville straightened up and dropped his quizzing glass into his pocket. “I have no idea. That is what your friend Pomeroy would say, though. An agitated man who’d acted rashly and then tried to hide what he’d done, rather clumsily.”

“Sir.” Matthias spoke this time, jerking his chin back down the crooked passage.

A man, hulking and menacing, stood at the opening to the street. I observed him without alarm and beckoned him closer.

“Please tell Mr. Denis that I am well protected by Matthias and Bartholomew,” I said to Brewster when he reached us. “You had no need to follow me this morning.”

“Tell ’im yourself,” Brewster said. He picked something from between his front teeth, and spat. “His nibs gives me an order, and I carry it out. No questions. Besides.” He sent an amused glance at Bartholomew, who had moved protectively next to Grenville. “This one got himself shot several times trying to protect you, didn’t he?”

“Better I was shot than Mr. Grenville,” Bartholomew returned heatedly. “I healed quickly.”

“Heh. Then your Mr. Grenville got hisself stabbed good, didn’t he? Where were you then?”

Matthias went red. “Keep a civil tongue, and don’t talk about your betters. Mr. Grenville is worth twenty of you.”

I admired the brothers’ courage, but Brewster was a killer. I started to step between them, but Brewster only laughed. “Loyalty’s a good thing, lad. Is this the cosh?”

“We think so.” I took it from Bartholomew before he decided to test it on Brewster, and showed Brewster the nails.

“Thought so. Stupid of him to leave it here. He should have tossed it in the river.”

“Which is what I would have done,” I said. “So our killer is either a fool or very clever.”

Grenville tore his gaze from the club again, looking not at all ruffled at Brewster’s and his servants’ discussion of him. “You are speculating that the attacker went to great trouble to make it look as though ruffians had set upon Leland and Gareth in this passage.”

“Yes,” I said. “They were setting a scene—Sir Gideon’s son and his lover decide to engage in a bout of passion in a street in Seven Dials. For the excitement of it? They are set upon by robbers and coshed. Found partly undressed, Leland’s fine coat and waistcoat stolen. Shock ensues. Whether the villains intended death or not is unclear.”

Mackay had scuttled their plans by coming to find me. Had he just happened by, or was he part of the killer’s plan? If Mackay had been a witness, why hadn’t he tried to prevent the attack, and why hadn’t he been hurt himself?

“We must find Mackay,” I repeated.

“Undoubtedly,” Grenville agreed. “Where did he run off to, after he led you here?”

“I sent him back to my rooms to get word to you, but he never returned.”

“Hmm. Perhaps Mrs. Beltan spoke to him,” Grenville said. “She’s the motherly sort—when she saw that this Mackay was upset she’d have plied him with bread and coffee. She might have ferreted something out of him, such as who he is and where he lives.”

“Possibly,” I said. “Except that I did not send him to Mrs. Beltan. I sent him to Marianne, who was using my rooms at the time. I knew she’d be able to get word to you the quickest.”

“Ah.” Grenville’s face went still except for a tightening around his eyes. “I was aware only that the summons came from you. Then it seems we must ask Miss Simmons what became of Mr. Mackay.”

“I can do that,” I said quickly. “No need for you to accompany me.”

“Not at all. I’ll not cower here or in my carriage while you approach her.” Grenville dabbed his mouth with his handkerchief, sniffed, returned the handkerchief to his coat, and adjusted his hat. “But, my good fellow, do be kind and warn me next time you’re about deliver a blow like that.”

Chapter Twelve

By the time we reached Grimpen Lane, I thought Grenville would change his mind about facing Marianne. He was a trifle white about the eyes as he descended from his carriage, though he looked airily around him as though he had no qualms about being in the street outside the rooms of his former lover.

Brewster accompanied us. Matthias and Bartholomew had volunteered to stay behind and continue to search the passage for any other signs we might have missed. Bartholomew was of the mind that those who lived in the houses around the narrow lane might have seen something, though Brewster negated that idea.

“The more goes on, the less they see, if you understand me,” Brewster had said in his blunt way. “No harm trying I s’pose, but I wish you lads luck.”

Bartholomew had looked annoyed but determined to prove Brewster wrong.

As we climbed the stairs to my rooms, Grenville’s face grew tighter, and at the same time his expression became more disdainful. He was slipping on his haughty dandy persona, the one he used to mask his true self. Easier to face her if he made the encounter less personal, I supposed.

There was nothing to say Marianne was even home. She might have gone out, not wanting to be there whenever I returned.

We knew soon enough. As we reached the landing, we heard her laughter behind my front door.

My door handle, in the in the shape of a woman with long wings, had once been gilded, but the gilt had flaked off years ago, leaving worn brass behind. The handle was cool under my palm as I pushed the door open.

Marianne did indeed occupy my sitting room. This morning she wore a gown of light pink that went with her girl-like prettiness, but no modest young debutante would have worn such a garment. The fabric was thin, hiding little, and the gown’s décolletage slid from her shoulders, coming dangerously close to baring her right breast. Ribbons dripped from her ringlets of golden hair, moving as she laughed.

She reposed in my wing chair, lolling as though she had no cares, the position letting the silken skirt cling to her shapely legs. On the footstool, holding her hands and inciting her laughter, was a gentleman in a black frock coat and riding boots, his hair as artfully tousled as Grenville’s.

The gentleman turned abruptly at our entrance, an admonishment on his lips. When he saw the two of us standing there, Brewster behind, his irritation vanished, and he leapt to his feet.

He was Lord Percy Saunders, eldest son of the Duke of Waverly. I had met him once, briefly, a year or so ago when he and I had been guests in Donata’s box in Covent Garden. I’d thought him coolly rude. He’d tried to persuade Donata to marry him, she’d told me, but she’d turned him down. She’d not found much to object to in him, she’d said, beyond his name—she’d not wanted to be called
Lady Percy
—but not much beyond that either.

He is neither good nor evil, interesting nor dull, hard nor soft
, she’d said of him in one of our nightly discussions
. He does everything expected of him, converses on predictable topics, loses at cards without fuss, and expects ladies—if they are pretty—to hang upon his every word. He mistakes petty vindictiveness for wit, and I soon had enough of his company.

I heard Donata’s words hanging in the silence as Lord Percy and Grenville faced each other.

Most Mayfair gentlemen knew one another’s mistresses, and often the ladies were handed from one to the next when affairs ended. But to be found in the company of the former mistress of Lucius Grenville, without his knowledge or previous approval, had to be the social blunder of the Season.

Lord Percy cleared his throat. “Grenville.” His hands clenched in kid gloves, and he looked as though he hoped a hydra would crash through the window and swallow him whole.

“Saunders.” Grenville gave him a minute bow.

They exchanged another long look, ignoring the rest of us in the room. Brewster and I, and even Marianne, might not have existed.

“I have come to speak to Miss Simmons,” I announced into their motionless fencing match. “If she can spare a moment.”

Marianne, who’d remained stiffly in the chair, straightened up and gave me a cool nod. She alone of the players responded to the situation with the most aplomb. She might be a royal at her levee, quietly acknowledging that more admirers had come to greet her.

I would have assumed she’d staged the tableaux except for two things—she hadn’t known we were coming, and the strained look on her face as she turned to me masked a boiling fury.

Saunders continued to eye Grenville. I wanted him gone, or for Marianne to come outside with me so I could speak with her alone, but neither she nor Saunders moved. I feared Brewster would simply walk past me and pluck Lord Percy up by his collar, but Grenville saved the shaky moment.

“Saunders,” he said, his voice as smooth as ever. “Walk out with me, will you?”