A Regimental Murder (9 page)

She left the room with me and saw me to the
front door. It was all I could do not to linger, not to hold her
hand longer than was proper when I said good-bye.

As I left, William nodded to me. "Good luck,
sir," he whispered. I would need it.

*** *** ***

In the morning, I composed a letter to Lydia
to thank her. I had thought to pen it then dress and wait for
Grenville, but two hours later, I had to hastily sign the seventh
draft and shrug into my coat as a knock sounded at my door.

It should have been simple to tell her that I
appreciated her letting me look through her husband's
correspondence and that I would keep her informed of my inquiries
in Kent. Such a note should have taken ten minutes to write, and
the ink should have long since dried.

But I could not get the words right, no
matter how often I tried. My hand would tremble over the paper, a
drop of black ink would tumble from the nib onto the white, and I
would just stop myself from writing,
When may I see you
again?

The knock startled me and ink blotted the
paper yet again. I muttered colorful curses as I swiftly scribbled
my name, sanded the page, and rose to open the door.

The large man who filled the doorway was not
Grenville's footman. He was tall and wide and hard-eyed, and I'd
seen him before, inside the subdued and richly appointed library of
James Denis.

"What do you want?" I asked
unceremoniously.

"Mr. Denis would like a word, sir."

I had suspected the man had not come to
invite me to dance. "Mr. Denis can go to the devil."

His face darkened. I imagined Denis had given
the man instructions to bring me, willing or no. Once upon a time,
Denis's minions had lured me into a stupid trap, to teach me a
lesson, to cow me, to show me my place. I had never been one for
keeping to my place.

"Mr. Denis wants only to speak to you. He
gives his word."

I had no idea what the word of James Denis
was worth. Likely, he would keep it, at least when it suited him,
but I was not moved.

"He is too late. I am leaving London on the
moment."

The man glared at me. I knew he did not want
to return to Denis empty-handed, but that was not my concern.

"Sir?" A blond head looked over the beefy
man's shoulder, not an easy feat, but one that Grenville's footman,
Bartholomew, could perform. Grenville had the best in footmen, two
very tall, very blond, Teutonic-looking brothers who possessed
intelligence as well as strength. I suspected the two brothers
lived a far more comfortable and civilized life than I did.

"The carriage is waiting, sir," Bartholomew
said. "Do you require assistance?"

I saw by the gleam in his blue eye that he
would enjoy tossing Denis's man down the stairs, but then said
minion might call for a constable and delay me, so I shook my
head.

Denis's man glowered. I should pity him,
returning to Denis alone and confessing he could not shift me, but
I did not.

"Convey my apologies to Mr. Denis," I said
coldly. I told Bartholomew, "My case is in my chamber."

I snatched the letter from my writing table,
walked past Denis's man and down the stairs. Bartholomew's brother
Matthias waited below. He escorted me down the narrow lane to
Grenville's carriage. "Post that for you, sir?" he asked as he
opened the door for me.

I dropped the letter into his hand, and let
him assist me into the carriage. Grenville waited for me there. He
was correctly dressed for traveling--well-fitting trousers and
square-toed boots topped with a subdued brown coat and a loose
cravat.

I had few suits to my name, so I simply wore
breeches and boots with a threadbare brown frock coat. The dust of
the road could hardly render it worse for wear.

Bartholomew arrived with my case and secured
it in the compartment beneath the coach. Denis's minion was nowhere
in sight, and Bartholomew had a slightly satisfied look on his
face. He joined his brother on top of the coach, and our journey
began.

As we made for the Dover road, I told
Grenville what I had discovered in Westin's letters, which had not
been much. He listened with interest then related that he had made
inquiries about John Spencer and found that the man and his brother
had left London. This was not surprising; most families departed
the hot city for cool country lanes in the summer. The Spencer
brothers apparently made their home in Norfolk. Grenville suggested
we travel there after we found what we could in Kent.

The Dover road led through pleasant
countryside, the most pleasant in England, some said, although I,
used to the rugged country of Spain and Portugal and before that,
France and India, found the endless green hills, ribbon of road
that dipped between hedgerows, and emerald fields dotted with sheep
and country cottages a little tiring.

But it was high summer, and the soft air,
cooler than the baking heat of London, soothed me. I watched farm
laborers bending their backs in the fields, hoeing and raking,
following strong draft horses behind plows.

Grenville confessed to me as we started that
he did not travel well. We had journeyed together in his coach as
far as Hampstead that spring, but a longer journey like this one,
he said, brought out his motion sickness. I offered him the seat
facing forward, but he declined it as manners dictated. I thought
this damn fool of him because as soon as we began rocking along the
country road, he turned green and had to lie down.

He smiled weakly and assured me that it
mattered little whether he sat facing front or rear; his illness
was not particular. Besides, he had fashioned his carriage to cater
to his malady--the seat pulled out to offer him a cushioned
platform upon which he could lie.

"Odd thing in a gentleman who enjoys travel
as much as I, is it not?" he observed shakily.

"How do you fare aboard ship?" I asked.

"I moan a great deal. Strangely, though, a
ship in storm does not affect me as much as a ship on waters calm
as glass. Odd, I think, but there it is."

He spent most of the day lying on his back
with his hand over his eyes. I perused the stack of newspapers
provided for us and served myself the smooth and velvet-rich port
contained in a special compartment in the paneled wall. Silver
goblets and a crystal decanter reposed there, along with snowy
linen and a box of sweet biscuits. Everything the pampered
gentleman traveler could want.

I wondered, uncharitably, how Grenville would
have fared crossing water in the naval ships I had boarded that
transported my regiment across the Channel and down through the
Atlantic to our destinations. Officers fared only slightly better
than the men on these trips--which was to say, we had room for a
hammock and a box and had first choice of rations.

Many times, what we ate and where we slept
depended entirely on the competence and charity of the ship's
captain. I'd voyaged with captains who were intelligent and
competent, then again, I'd sailed with those who spent the time
drunk and dissolute, locked in their cabin with their whore of
choice, while their lieutenants ran the ship like a pack of petty
tyrants.

As we rolled onward, I regretted my
speculations. Grenville did not sleep but remained still, breathing
shallowly, obviously miserable. I supposed a strong stomach was
something to be thankful for.

The newspapers I read contained several more
spurious stories about Mrs. Westin and her new devoted dragoon, the
friend of society's darling, Mr. Grenville. How long would Mrs. W--
remain a widow? they wondered.

I threw the newspapers aside, the country air
spoiled for me.

We paused for lunch at a wayside inn near
Faversham. Grenville hired a private parlor, and we were waited on
by the publican himself. I feasted on a joint of beef and a heaping
bowl of greens, while Grenville watched me shakily and took only
brandy and a few sweet biscuits.

Grenville wanted to rest before we departed
again, so I took a short walk through the village to stretch my
cramped leg. The publican's daughter, a plump young woman with a
space between her front teeth, sent me a hopeful smile, but I
resisted her charms and simply enjoyed the country air.

In the village square I indulged myself in a
few fresh strawberries, picked that morning, then strolled back to
the inn, hoping Grenville was ready.

As I entered the yard, I spied a furtive
movement, as though someone had ducked back out of sight behind the
wall. As a light dragoon, I had become very familiar with signs
that someone wished to observe without being seen.

Silently, I retreated through the yard gate
and moved as quickly as my bad leg would let me to the corner of
the wall. I stopped and peered around it, then made a noise of
annoyance. I had thought the inn wall connected to the end house of
the village, but closer examination showed me a narrow passage
between house and inn, one of those crooked, windowless paths
between buildings. I heard a step at the far end, but by the time I
hurried through and emerged on the other side, no one was in
sight.

Trying to suppress my feeling of disquiet, I
returned to the inn yard. I might simply have disturbed a stable
lad who was shirking his duties or the publican's daughter, whose
smile may have won her success elsewhere. But I did not think so,
and I could not shake my feeling of foreboding the rest of the
day.

* * * * *

Chapter Seven

Grenville was on his feet and looking
slightly better by the time I gained the parlor again. He gave me a
weak nod and marched down the stairs to the carriage like a soldier
preparing to face battle.

I looked warily about as we climbed aboard
the carriage, but saw no shadowy figures or furtive persons
watching. Still, I could not shake the feeling, born of long
experience, of being watched.

We turned south here and made for the edges
of the North Downs. The second part of the journey was quite
similar to the first except that the woods became a little thicker
on the edges of the hills.

We reached Astley Close, the Fortescue manor
house, at seven o'clock that evening. It being high summer, the sun
still shone mightily, though it was westering. We rolled through
the gates and past the gatehouse to a mile-long drive that curved
and dipped through a park and over an arched bridge to the main
house.

The house itself extended long arms from a
colonnaded façade. A hundred windows glittered down on us like
watchful eyes, their eyebrow-like pediments quirked in permanent
disdain.

A butler wearing a similar expression stalked
from the house and waited silently while Grenville's two footman
sprang down from the roof.

Bartholomew placed a cushioned stool in the
gravel while Matthias opened the door and reached in to help his
master. Grenville descended, put his hat in place, and tried to
look cheerful. He greeted the stoic Fortescue butler, who merely
flicked his eyebrows in response. Grenville's own majordomo always
greeted guests by name and made it a point to inquire as to their
health or other events of that guest's life. The Fortescue butler
looked put out to have to receive guests at all.

Matthias assisted me out in such a way that
an observer would think I needed no assistance at all. In truth, my
leg was stiff with hours of riding, and the ache when I unfolded it
made my eyes water.

The butler did not even bother with an
eyebrow flicker at my greeting, and turned and led us silently into
the house.

The cool foyer swallowed us, and we emerged
into a three-storied hall that ran the depth of the house. Far
above, octagon-framed paintings of frolicking gods and goddesses
radiated across the ceiling from a central point. A staircase rose
to a railed gallery that circled the hall below.

The butler took us up these stairs and then
into the left-hand wing. The house was strangely silent, with no
sign of any other inhabitants. I wondered when I would meet my
hostess.

The butler showed us to our bedchambers, mine
next to Grenville's. He announced that a light supper would be
served in a half-hour's time, and departed. Grenville stumbled into
his room with a look of relief, and I left him to it.

My chamber was only slightly larger than the
one in which I'd stayed in Grenville's Grosvenor Street house that
spring. His guest chamber had been quietly opulent, but this one
contained so much gold and silver gilt--on the panel frames,
ceiling moldings, chandelier, and the French chairs--that it was
almost nauseating. I hoped Grenville's stomach calmed down before
he looked hard at his surroundings.

I washed the grime of the road from my hands
and face and changed into my dark blue regimentals, the finest suit
I owned. I returned to Grenville's chamber and found him, to my
surprise, in his dressing gown just settling down with a book and a
goblet of port.

"What about the light supper?" I asked.
"Shall we go down?"

He took a sip of wine. "No. We let them wait.
And descend when we are ready."

"Is that not a bit rude?"

He gave me a wry smile. "Rudeness is in
fashion, my friend. Hadn't you noticed? They expect it of me. And I
think it a bit rude to have supper at the boorish hour of half past
seven. I am certainly not going to hurry down like a schoolboy
called by the headmaster."

He seemed out of sorts and ready to sit there
all night. But I was hungry, and I could not bring myself to snub
my hostess after she had so graciously invited me. Grenville raised
his brows, but bade me go and enjoy myself.

I left him alone and descended into the cold
gaudiness of the front hall. The servants seemed to have deserted
the place, forcing me to make my own way to the dining room. I at
last found it in the rear of the house, a huge, darkly paneled room
lined with portraits of frowning Fortescues.