A Regimental Murder (29 page)

"He must have worked out the truth," I said.
"And came here to confront you. He was just as grieved as his
brother, even if he kept it quiet. You are not blameless in his
death."

"But I killed no one," Eggleston protested.
"Jack and Breckenridge did it all."

From the fireside carpet, Brandon opened his
eyes. "You were an accomplice to five murders. You will definitely
hang for that, my friend."

His brisk, matter-of-fact voice seemed to
penetrate Eggleston's haze of denials. His eyes widened. Then the
gentleman who had sneered at my clothes and dismissed me as less
than nothing, went slack-kneed and fainted.

*** *** ***

Lord Richard Eggleston's trial was held a few
weeks later. His brother, the Marquis of Hungerford, protested on
the strongest terms, but there had been no denying that Eggleston
had, at the very least, shot at me, Brandon, and Grenville, and had
been party to Kenneth Spencer's murder. Grenville's word on this
counted for much. The marquis, however, pointed out that we could
produce no concrete evidence that Eggleston had been present at the
deaths of Breckenridge or Westin. In the end, the Lord Chief
Justice and the marquis made an agreement that if Eggleston wrote
out a confession, explaining all, he could commute his sentence to
transportation.

So Eggleston's argument that he had not
actually murdered any of these gentlemen won out. He wrote the
confession and signed it, and was taken to Newgate to await passage
on a ship to New South Wales. I had no doubt that his wealthy
brother had ensured he'd have a fine room in the jail with servants
and wine and food. Such were the wheels of justice for the
privileged.

Lady Richard, his child wife, I learned later
through Louisa, had gone to the north of England to live with the
marquis and his wife.

After the sensational trial, the journalists
turned to other fodder. Pomeroy had discovered the bodies of two
women in a cellar in Islington and arrested the gentleman who had
married, then murdered, them. He was quite pleased with himself,
and the journalists, Billings included, lauded him.

Louisa Brandon returned home after I dragged
her husband back from Hertfordshire with his leg in splints. She
had nearly flown from the carriage that had deposited her at her
front door, and rushed to her husband’s bed with rage and fear in
her eyes. I walked away from their reunion and closed the door on
their rising voices. I did not see or hear from either of them for
a long time after that.

Bartholomew recovered from his gunshot
wounds, though for a long time he limped from the bullet that had
pierced his leg. Grenville had spared no expense on surgeons and
doctors, and the lad had lived like a prince while he convalesced.
He was young and strong and brave-hearted, and he recovered
quickly.

August slipped into September. The days at
last cooled, and the evenings became crisp. Grenville talked of
going to the country to go hunting. He invited me along, but I’d
had enough of country houses. The vice of the city at least wore a
face I could recognize.

In mid-September, long after I’d believed
Lydia Westin must have quit Town herself, she sent for me.

*** *** ***

William greeted me with subdued wariness. He
led me in silence to the upstairs room with the pianoforte and
Lydia's portrait. He ushered me in, then took the double doors one
in each hand and backed out, closing us in, leaving us alone.

Lydia sat on a damask chair, her hands in her
lap. She avoided my gaze as I entered. She had given up mourning
black, and wore a gray high-necked and long-sleeved gown trimmed
with lighter gray. The costume did not become her; her face was too
pale for it, though it made her midnight blue eyes bluer still.

If only she would look at me with them.

I moved slowly forward, resting my weight on
my walking stick. When I reached the halfway point between door and
chair, I stopped.

Silence hung in the air, broken only by the
ticking of the clock and the faint crackle of the fire. The
September day had turned cool.

"I had not thought you would come," she
said.

"As ever," I answered, trying to keep my
voice light, "I fly to your side when you call."

Still she would not look at me. She
transferred her gaze to a corner of the carpet. "You cannot imagine
how long it took me to work up the courage to face you. Even now I
falter."

"You have no need to."

My anger at her had long since ground itself
to dust. After the arrest of Eggleston, my melancholia had taken
over, as I had known it would.

The last time I had discovered the identity
of a murderer, the sheer cruelty of it all had sent black waves of
melancholia crashing over me. I had been expecting it this time;
nonetheless, the malady had laid me in bed for nearly a fortnight,
and had not yet completely subsided. I currently could only view
the world through a fog, as though I watched everything through a
thick, waved glass. Although I walked and spoke, I often could not
say whether what I did was real or the vestiges of a dream.

She smiled faintly. "Before you remonstrate
with me, or scold me, allow me to thank you for clearing my
husband's name. Lord Richard's confession absolved him of all
crimes in the Peninsula. The
Times
even praised Roe for his
bravery."

I looked straight ahead. "Yes, I read the
story."

"Well." Her voice was soft, whispery. "I
wanted to thank you. To see you when I did it. Writing seemed--an
inappropriate method."

"I would have treasured such a letter."

At last, she looked at my face. Our gazes
met, stilled. "Please do not say such things when you do not mean
them," she said. "I know that you long to tell me what you think of
me."

I slowly closed the distance between us. I
reached down and lifted her hand, the one with the heavy gold and
sapphire ring. I stroked my thumb gently across her fingers, the
same smooth fingers that had caressed me while we lay together in
her bed.

"I did not come here to scold you." I lifted
her hand and pressed it to my lips. "But to learn whether you were
well."

She watched me kiss her fingers, then she
withdrew her hand and crumpled it on her lap. "Please, Gabriel, do
not be kind to me."

"If you prefer that I rail at you like a
drunken waterman, I am afraid I cannot oblige."

"It might be easier for me." She lifted her
gaze and looked at me fully. I saw in her eyes everything that had
been between us, and great pain, and loneliness. She was lonely
because of the grief she faced, a grief she could not share.

"You are a good man, Gabriel. You did not
deserve what I did to you--tried to do to you. In the end, I simply
could not." She tore her gaze away. "Oh, please, sit down. I cannot
bear you standing there looking so patient."

I was not patient. Anger was stirring beneath
my fog, and the mists had cleared a little. I obliged her and
seated myself on the divan.

She studied the carpet again, seeming to
gather strength from the gold and black oriental pattern. "Do you
know why I made my way alone that night to the bridge?"

I remembered her sliding through the rain,
her dark cloak blending with the night, the fire of diamonds in her
hair, her lovely, distressed face beckoning me to follow,
follow.

"You wanted to end your life," I said.
"Because you carried a child that you dared not bring into the
world."

She looked at me, startled. Then she shook
her head. "No, Gabriel, I had not intended to kill myself. I would
never have left my daughter alone, no matter how wretched I was,
believe that." She paused. "It was not to end my life, much as
oblivion would have been sweet to me at the moment. I went to meet
someone."

"The beggar who tried to cut you."

"He was not a beggar." She drew a breath. "I
had been told to meet him there, by a--a woman to whom I spoke
about my predicament. She assured me that this man would tell me
where to go to rid myself of-- my so unfortunate burden."

I remained still. Likely she had managed to
consult a high-flying courtesan or an actress who would know all
about removing unwanted children.

She went on, her face pale. "When I met the
man, I did not like him. He was wretched and stank and leered at me
so. He wanted to lead me to this doctor himself. I suddenly did not
want to follow."

I nodded. "You were no doubt wise. He and
your high-flyer might have been conspirators, and he leading you
off to rob you."

"I thought of that. I realized how utterly
alone I was. I tried to run away. He took out his knife. And then
you were there."

I ran my finger over the engraved brass head
of my walking stick. "I am pleased that I at least saved you from
danger."

"I was so grateful to you." She smiled a
little. "Do you know, that was the first time in my life that
someone had taken care of
me
. It has always been me, you
see. I looked after Roe, and Chloe. Neither of them were ever very
strong. I was the one who held my head up and faced it all, no
matter how terrible, and kept them safe. But that night, I at last
learned what it was to lay my head on someone else's shoulder. I so
craved that comfort, and you offered it for nothing."

I remembered how she'd twined her arms about
my neck, pressed her lips to mine, how she'd whispered, "Why
not?"

"I am pleased I was able to help," I
said.

She gave me a rueful smile. "Always so
polite. By rights, you should hate me."

I looked away and let out my breath. "I
cannot hate you, Lydia. I admit that I tried to when Louisa made it
clear that the child was not mine." I paused. "I gather from your
actions that the child was not your husband's either."

"It was not. Roe and I . . ." She stopped,
grief filling her eyes. "No, it was not his."

"I know about your husband's--difficulties,"
I said.

She glared at me, suddenly indignant. "You
know? How the devil could you? Did Richard Eggleston--"

I held up my hand. "You asked me to discover
the truth and so clear your husband's name. I am afraid that when
one searches for truth, one uncovers it all, not simply the parts
that are not ugly. I am sorry."

She sank back. "Oh, it does not matter
anymore. I resigned myself long ago that I would never have a
natural marriage. After a while, I no longer cared. I could still
be a partner to him, if nothing else."

"But he gave you Chloe."

She nodded, a faraway look in her eyes. "Yes,
on a moonlit night in Italy. I was so happy. I thought everything
would be all right after that. But it was not. It never was."

I felt sweet relief. If she told the truth,
then Grenville had been wrong. She had not taken a lover to give
herself Chloe. She was innocent of that at least.

We sat in silence for a time, listening to
the crack of the flames and the wind in the trees outside the
window.

I still did not have one piece of
information. "I could have wished that you had told me from the
start what Eggleston's hold over your husband was."

She glanced at me uneasily. "Hold?"

"The reason your husband promised to go to
the gallows for what Eggleston and Breckenridge had done."

Color filled her cheeks. "I did tell you. For
honor."

"That is true, in part. Colonel Westin, from
all I have learned, held honor in high regard. But what was the
other side of it? A gentleman might die for another when the cause
is just, and worthy. Even Brandon is willing to chance death to
save his fellows from harm, but I doubt he'd have crossed the
street for Eggleston. What was your husband's reason?"

She gave me an anguished look. "Gabriel, must
you?"

"Damn it, Lydia, might we at least have
perfect clarity between us? If we can have nothing else?"

She hesitated a long time, then she sighed.
"You are right, Gabriel. I can at least give you the courtesy of my
trust. There was something. It happened ten years ago, but
Eggleston could not leave it lie." She looked at me limply. "Roe
had an affair with a young subaltern. Eggleston, the toad, brought
it about, helped them meet in secret, and kept it quiet for them
both."

* * * * *

Chapter Twenty-two

I stared at her. "An affair? But I thought--
"

She toyed with a button on her cuff. "I
believe it surprised Roe most of all. Eggleston instigated it, of
course. He suggested that where Roe could not succeed with a woman,
he might with a man. I suppose Roe was desperate. So he let
Eggleston lead him, and discovered that, indeed . . ." She
faltered.

"Good God."

Lydia nodded. "Roe was so ashamed. And yet,
for a long time, he could not stop."

But he had at the last. He had returned to
the good Dr. Barton, trying desperately to learn how to go to his
wife.

"How did you discover the truth?" I
asked.

She lifted her head. Rage sparkled in her
fine eyes. "Eggleston told me. He sat down with me one evening and
told me all, giggling in that horrible way of his. He hoped, you
see, that I would destroy my marriage with Roe, that I would shame
him, perhaps go so far as to have him arrested. Eggleston kept
suggesting ways I might go about proving a case of sodomy against
my husband, which would have taken Roe to the gallows. I do not
know why Eggleston wished that; he might have been jealous, or he
might have been angry that Roe would not put through a promotion
for his dear friend Lord Breckenridge." She fixed me with a steely
gaze. "But Lord Richard Eggleston read me wrong. Perhaps I could
not have a real marriage with my husband, and perhaps I had not
loved him for a long time, but I was still his friend."