Murder in Grosvenor Square (24 page)

“If I find the culprit out, I will send him to a magistrate,” I said firmly.

Denis gave me a cold look. “And as always, we will disagree on
that
point. If one of my enemies did this, I must know at once. No one else should.”

He meant that he did not want it known that a murderer could kill a man who worked for him. Part of Denis’s power depended on the belief that no one could touch him or anyone close to him.

“Mackay served many, you said,” I pointed out. “He was not necessarily under your protection all the time.”

“Oh, but he was,” Denis said, his eyes narrowing. “I take care of those who perform tasks for me, well you know. I do not send my best man after you out of curiosity about what you get up to every day. I send Brewster, because you tend to land yourself in more troubles than most, and I want him there to lend his fists. I usually had someone assigned to Mr. Mackay as well, but even I am sometimes stretched thin.”

“Then let me speak to whoever was assigned to him,” I said. “He might at least know what Mackay was up to last night.”

“Unfortunately, my man had not been much on Mackay lately. I’d needed him for something else.”

I studied Denis, who gazed blandly back at me. The other task was obviously nothing he wanted me to know about, and had been more important to him than keeping Mackay safe.

“If Mackay traded information,” I said, “he might have been gathering it on the Derwents to sell you.”

“I doubt it. The peccadilloes of a reformer and his son are of no interest to me. Yes, I have long known that young Mr. Derwent and his friend Mr. Travers were lovers, but as this information does not benefit me, I care nothing for it.”

“Others might pay handsomely for proof that all was not sunshine and innocence in the Derwent household,” I pointed out. “Or perhaps Leland knew something about
Mackay
, and Mackay followed them to Seven Dials to silence him.”

Denis looked almost amused. “You are casting Mackay as the murderer now?”

My hand tightened on my walking stick, while the brandy, warming in the room, wafted its pungently sweet odor to me. “Here is a possible sequence of events. Mackay kills Travers, and believes he has killed Leland. Even if he agreed to the dying Leland’s request that I be summoned, Mackay might have assumed Leland would not recover. He could not anticipate that Brewster and I would know what to do to save him, or that your surgeon would be so skilled. Once he discovers that Leland might live, he slips into the Derwents’ house to finish the deed. He is thwarted by one of Sir Gideon’s stronger servants. Or, perhaps a confederate who went with him killed him for a personal reason.”

Denis listened skeptically. “There are many flaws in your theory.”

“I know,” I said impatiently. “I am running through them until I believe one.” I braced myself on my walking stick and got to my feet. “It would still help me to speak to the man you assigned to watch Mackay. He likely knows more about Mackay than any of us.”

“He is on the Continent at the moment,” Denis said without changing expression. “When he returns, I will of course place him at your disposal.”

And Denis could, of course, keep him on the Continent indefinitely. I would not win that battle.

“What was the last thing Mackay did for you?” I asked. “It might have some bearing.”

The look Denis gave me could have chilled the fires of Mount Vesuvius. “I will tell you if I believe it is important. Know that I never sent him to the Derwents to take a measure of Sir Gideon’s artwork. Sir Gideon has only indifferent pieces, nothing worth much.”

I’d always found the artwork on the walls of the Derwents’ pleasant and pretty to look at. But I knew what Denis meant—great art reaches out and grabs one by the throat, not always a comfortable experience.

“As usual, you ask for my help and then curtail me at the same time,” I said. “But very well. I will do my best to get to the heart of it all.”

“Which is why I value your assistance,” Denis replied. “I know that you will.”

*

Leaving Denis’s home was always an abrupt experience. Once Denis indicated he’d finished, his lackeys escorted me down the stairs without hesitation. No cordial good-byes, no lingering to pass the time of day or night. No pleasantries. I was handed my coat and hat at the bottom of the stairs and chivvied out the door.

Brewster accompanied me. I saw that neither of us would sleep tonight.

The most logical place to continue my investigation was back at the Derwents. I needed to speak to Sir Gideon as soon as he was able. I doubted Spendlove would want me to talk with him, but I planned to insist.

As I descended from Denis’s coach in Grosvenor Square, a young man in a thick wool coat bumped into me.

“Watch it, guvnor,” came a snarl from under the hat.

I would have continued into the house, shaking my head at the lad’s rudeness, but Brewster would have none of it. He was out of temper—not only had Denis kept information from him but I imagined he’d prefer to be home with his agreeable wife. He reached out and seized the young man by the shoulder, jerking him around to face us.

Brewster’s large fist balled up as he drew it back, ready to crash it into the young man’s face. The lad’s blue eyes widened, he gasped, and his voice transformed into one I knew very well.

“Devil take it, Lacey, help me!”

I grabbed Brewster’s elbow just in time. He glared at me and wrenched himself away, at the same time I reached out and twitched off the young man’s hat.

Golden hair pinned flat to a woman’s head gleamed in the lamplight. “Marianne?” I said in absolute astonishment.

“Fooled you, didn’t I?” Marianne asked, then she flashed a scowl at Brewster. “Until this lummox grabbed me.”

“Marianne, what the
devil
are you doing?”

I could not believe her transformation. The curves of Marianne’s full bosom and hips were well hidden under a shapeless greatcoat, her legs concealed by high boots. The cap had shielded most of her face, and her chin and jaw were dark with stubble—or what looked like stubble.

She had not only put on the clothes of a man—she stood like a man, walked like one, turned her head like one, and had a growl in her voice I’d never heard. She’d metamorphosed herself, using the clothes, the darkness, and the ideas I’d formed in my head about the wearer of such garments, to make herself into the portrait of a young man of the working class.

“Doing underhanded spying for you as
he
asked me to,” she answered. “Would you like to hear what I’ve found out?”

Marianne’s voice coming from the rough, male-looking creature was incongruous and a bit disturbing. I glanced at the open door of the Derwents’ house, the footman hovering to let us in. Spendlove and Pomeroy were in there—I could not take Marianne inside without either of them wanting to know all about it.

I took her by the arm and steered her up into Denis’s coach. I followed her in—Brewster, of course came along—and shut the door.

Chapter Twenty-Four

“I remember,” I said as I faced Marianne across the expanse of coach, “distinctly telling Grenville that I did not want you to go to the Bull and Hen yourself, only to find someone who would.” I looked her up and down. “But going there is exactly what you have done, isn’t it?”

“Of course.” Marianne said. “It is an extraordinary enjoyment for a woman to play a breeches part. I never resist a challenge.”

“The point is, it was dangerous.” As irritated as Marianne could be, I’d grown fond of her. She’d been forced to do much that would have broken a lesser woman, as she eked out survival for herself and her son. I did not want harm to come to her any more than I’d want it to come to Donata or Louisa.

“My dear Lacey, I have been fending off the groping attentions of gentlemen since I was seven years old,” Marianne said, sounding more cheerful than she had in a long while. “I am happy to say I am a much taller and rather stronger woman now. Besides, I did not go alone. I took Freddie.”

“Freddie?”

“Frederick Hilliard, brilliant comic actor of the company at Drury Lane. He plays a wonderful Falstaff, though he has to pad himself out for the part.”

Brewster had recovered his temper and regarded Marianne with sudden respect. “I’ve seen Freddie Hilliard play. He dresses in frocks in plays and pantomimes and does all sorts of japes. Me and the missus don’t half laugh.”

“Indeed,” Marianne said. “I had to ask him
not
to go in a gown for our little adventure, because he’d be sure to be recognized. Not that it would bother Freddie. I imagine he’s made friends with the whole lot in there by now.”

“He is still at the Bull and Hen?” I asked in surprise.

“He is. He thought I should fetch you so he could tell you what he’s found. I called in at your house, but your butler told me you’d dashed up here.” Marianne shrugged, and even the shrug was mannish. “I think Freddie simply wants a ride home in a soft coach. He deserves it. He does not like such places.”

Brewster rumbled with laughter. “We’ll rescue him, missus. Wait ’til I tell my Em I met the famous Freddie-Fredericka Hilliard.”

Brewster gave the coachman directions, and to his laughter, we rode back through the dark to Seven Dials.

*

The Bull and Hen lay squeezed between houses on Little Earl Street, an artery that led to the open area where seven streets met, so named Seven Dials. While the original street planners had begun with grand intentions, even erecting a pillar of sundials in the center of the meeting roads, the area had become one of the most dangerous rookeries in London. The pillar was long gone, but the rookery remained.

I would have thought a molly house in this area would be more discreet, with a back way in through noisome passages, but that was not the case. Men strode into and out of the Bull and Hen as though it were a common tavern, and they linked arms or had arms about each other’s waists without apology.

It was not unusual to see gentlemen of Grenville’s set—gentlemen who had no intention of bedding anyone but ladies—linking arms to walk through clubs or crowds at soirees. To have so close a male friend was considered no bad thing among the
haut ton
.

Here, on the other hand, tall women walked alongside the men, laughing when they were pinched or otherwise prodded. These ladies wore headdresses of ostentation to rival Donata’s, and gowns of the latest fashion. And of course, they were not women at all.

Denis’s coachman had halted a little way down the street from the Bull and Hen, stopping just shy of the junction of Seven Dials. There, we waited. Brewster sat forward in his seat, gazing out the window, watching every passer-by.

I was aware of what a target we made—only the wealthy could afford a coach like this, even Denis’s discreet one, with no markings on the doors. The denizens of the area would assume that inside, a rich toff waited for his fancy man to come out and join him. How surprised a robber would be to open the door and find an actress dressed as a boy, an impatient army captain with a sword, and a ruffian used to solving problems with his fists.

We sat for half an hour. Marianne was unworried—she and Freddie, she said, had agreed on a time for him to come out, and he was only a few minutes late.

Ten minutes after that, a tall man whose physique told me he took regular exercise strolled down the street to us. He was arm-in-arm with two other gentlemen who were obviously drunk, the three of them laughing uproariously.

The taller man paused outside our carriage, extracted himself from the others, and lifted his hat. “I must dash, my friends. I am charmed to have met you.”

The other two men surrounded him and tried to kiss him. The tall man let them sandwich him between them while they pressed noisy kisses to his cheeks. Then he pried himself away.

“Really, I must be off. Performances you know. Say my farewells for me.”

He’d opened the carriage door and put one foot on the step. The drunken men, still laughing, reached for him, but the taller man easily pushed them off, swung into the carriage, and dropped into the seat next to Marianne and across from Brewster.

The coachman started, snarling foul words at the tall man’s admirers. The drunken men alternately laughed and wailed, waving as Brewster reached out and pulled the door shut.

The gentleman who’d joined us took out a large linen handkerchief and wiped his cheeks.

“Bloody mollies,” the newcomer said. “All over one, if one is not firm.” He tucked the handkerchief away and reached out a strong hand in a tight glove to me. “Captain Lacey, I believe? I am Freddie Hilliard, at your service.”

I shook his hand. His grip was firm, powerful. Like Brewster, I had seen Freddie Hilliard perform as women in comic operas, plays, and the
commedia dell’arte. Travesti,
such players were called. He was as famous for his portrayal of women as Joseph Grimaldi was for clowns. Freddie would have the audience in riotous laughter with his acting and enthralled by his extraordinary acrobatics.

He was quite fit, his muscular body filling out a well-tailored suit and half boots. He wore his dark hair close-cropped over a hard face, and his brown eyes held intelligence.

“Very good of you to help me,” I said as we released hands.

Freddie sank back into his seat and sent me a grin. “Not what you were expecting, was it? Let me guess, you pictured a prancing, mincing dandy with a lace hanky.” He held up his thumb and forefinger as though he waved the handkerchief in question. “My father was such a person, back when gentlemen regularly powdered and rouged their faces and shaved their heads to wear wigs trimmed with ribbons. No one could mince about in high heels like my father could. And he shagged half the women in London.”

Not certain how to respond to this speech, I sat back and let him talk. My father had lived in the age of powdered wigs as well, until a tax on powder in the 1790s had effectively ended the fashion. My father had worn colorful silk coats, rouged his cheeks, squandered his money on his mistresses, beaten me regularly, and bullied my mother until she’d tried to run away with another man.