Hanover Square Affair, The (13 page)

Grenville raised his brows. “I was half afraid for a moment that our errand was for naught.”

I picked up my spoon. “I wonder if the girl was another victim of Mr. Denis.”

“It is possible, of course. This soup, Lacey, is almost excellent. Remind me to tell our lively-tongued hostess. But remember, girls run away or are lured away all the time, though not all of them come to such a tragic fate. Either their families can give them nothing, or they’re told they can’t have a luxurious life, and they can’t resist seeing whether there is something more in the world for them. James Denis cannot be responsible for them all.”

I didn’t answer as I sopped up my soup with the heel of the loaf. Perhaps Grenville was right—the girl had gone away with a predator who had murdered her. The back of her head had been crushed, the publican’s wife had said. I hoped she had not known death was coming.

My heart burned for her, as it did for Jane Thornton. I wondered savagely why civilized England was so much more dangerous for a young girl than the battlefields of the Peninsula had been for soldiers like me.

*** *** ***

I took Charlotte Morrison’s letters to my bedchamber with me, and lay under the cozy quilt with bricks to warm my feet, and read them. I laid them out chronologically, and read through the last two years of Charlotte’s life.

It seemed she’d been happy in Somerset, content with domestic life and her small circle of friends. She described her journeys to the moorlands and to Wales in poetic terms, painting a picture of the wild lands that was both beautiful and stark. She had been worried for her ill parents and anxious to give them every comfort. She expressed concern for what would happen to her once they died, but without complaining. The curate, she said, had taken some interest in her, but a subsequent letter explained it had come to naught. The curate felt himself too poor to take a wife.

Charlotte wrote with sorrow of her parents’ death, then with anticipation of moving to her new home in Hampstead. She spoke of closing up the house, selling the livestock, and preparing for her journey.

The letters ended in the April of the previous year. After that were copies of a half dozen letters to a Miss Geraldine Frazier in Somerset. Charlotte described her arrival in Hampstead, her gratitude to the Beauchamps. She seemed to like Hampstead, though she missed the remoteness of Somerset. “It is never possible to be truly alone, here. Always there are carriages and horses in the streets, and families from London who come to picnic on the Heath of a Sunday. But the woods and hills are pretty, and my cousins and I take many walks. They are kind people.”

Two letters, one from November and one from January, interested me. In them, Charlotte said something curious:

“Pray disregard the incident I wrote to you of before, and please do not write me of it! It may be all my fancy, and I do not wish to slander. They say that looking into the eyes bares the soul, but when I do so, I am only confused. I cannot tell what is what, or the difference between what I imagine and what is real.”

I searched the previous letters again for any mention of a curious or sinister incident, but if she had described such a thing, she had not copied out the letter that contained it.

The next letter, dated January of that year, reintroduced the theme:

“I wake in the night, afraid. Perhaps some step jars my sleep, or perhaps it is fancy, but my heart beats hard, and it is a long time before I drift off again. No, please do not worry, and do not write of it; my cousin would think it odd if I did not share your letters.”

She said nothing more on the subject. The January letter was the last.

I read them through again, wondering whether I’d missed something, but I found nothing else. I folded the letters into the lacquer box and laid them on the bedside table.

I wondered what had frightened Charlotte and if it had anything to do with Jane Thornton. Had Charlotte met someone she suspected had sinister designs on her? Or was she only unused to living so near London?

I wanted to speak to the friend she’d written the letters to. I’d write to her, though I did not like the prospect of a journey to Somerset. It would be long and expensive and my leg already ached from the short excursion to Hampstead. It would also take time from my searching for Jane Thornton, and I feared that every day might be her last.

I put out my candles, lay back, and tried to sleep. But the pain in my leg kept me awake, as did my thoughts. I went over the publican’s wife’s tale of the murder of the girl in the woods. Why had she been killed? A quarrel with a lover? Or had she seen something—the abduction of Charlotte Morrison perhaps?

Sleep would not come. I tried to still my thoughts by thinking of Janet and loving her. She had turned up exactly when I’d needed her, and I greatly looked forward to seeing her again.

But visions of her face flitted from me and I could only remember Horne in the pool of dried blood and Aimee locked inside the cupboard with dark bruises on her face.

The quiet of the room irritated me. I was used to city dwelling now, and even in the depths of Portugal and Spain, I had lived with the army, in noise and chaos and without privacy. I tossed for a time under the blankets, then I gave in to my restlessness.

I rose, took up my candle, and padded to the sitting room. The door to Grenville’s bedchamber stood open. I crossed to close it, not wanting to wake him with my restlessness.

I stopped. Grenville’s bed was empty. The sheets lay smooth and undisturbed, turned down for the night by the chambermaid who had scuttled in as we finished our repast. Grenville had not slept there, and he was nowhere in sight.

*** *** ***

I returned to bed, and despite my disquiet about where Grenville had disappeared to and why, I slept again.

In the morning, he turned up for breakfast as though he had been there all along. I nearly asked him where he had gone, but decided I would not pry. I would pretend, as he did, that he had gone nowhere until he chose to tell me otherwise.

We decided that I would return the letters to the Beauchamps myself, and Grenville would ride to visit with Lord Sommerville before we departed for London. Grenville was acquainted with the elderly viscount and said he would drop a few questions about Sommerville’s kitchen maid the publican’s wife had reported to us was found dead in the woods.

After breakfast the hostler’s boy hoisted me onto a mare Grenville had hired. I could still ride a horse, if it were an even-tempered beast and someone boosted me onto the bloody thing. She was about seventeen hands, a bit larger than the horses I’d charged about on in the cavalry. For a country nag, her conformation was surprisingly fine, her gaits smooth. Her hocks bent and lifted with precision, and her eye was alert, her going, sound.

I had ridden fine horses in Portugal and Spain, but I’d forced in myself a certain detachment to them. Horses died at three or four times the rate of men, and though I took care, I lost more than my heart cared to. I’d seen cavalry officers weep as their horses, wounded, thrashed furrows into the bloody ground, the stench of death and fear covering them. More than once, I’d shot the poor beasts for them, as the officers stood, helpless, rocking in grief and sorrow. Dead horses, mounded with crows, had littered the battlefields. Detachment, I’d found, was best.

I turned the mare to the road that led to Beauchamp’s modest house. The clouds lowered and threatened rain again. I nudged my horse into a faster trot, and pulled my hat down over my forehead as the first drops touched me. My route led me through an open field, and the road dipped.

A young man rose up from the low hedge beside the road and grabbed my horse’s bridle. The horse snorted and danced, and I slid halfway from the saddle.

“What the devil— ?”

The youth abandoned the bridle, grabbed me by the arm, and yanked me from the saddle. My stiff knee protested, and I landed hard on the packed earth.

My assailant came at me, arms wide. I struggled upright and waited. He lunged. I tucked my body together, ducked to one side, and caught his outflung arm.

He was strong, heavy, young muscles determined, but he was inexperienced. I jerked with my weight and flipped him neatly over onto his back.

He made a “ha!” noise as the air whooshed from his lungs, and he lay still a moment, like an insect on its back. I sprinted the distance to the horse. I knew I’d never mount without assistance, so I snatched my walking stick from the saddle.

I yanked the sword from my cane just as two huge arms closed around me from behind and the lad half lifted me from my feet. I swung my sword behind me in an arc and slapped him hard on the leg.

He yelped. I slapped again. His hold loosened. I pulled my elbow close to my body and slammed it backward.

“Oop—” he gasped.

I slid from his slack grip, whirled, and faced him, my sword level with his heart.

“Odd place for a robbery, here on an open green in the middle of the day.”

He did not answer. His mouth opened and closed a few times, his face red with his returning breath. His eyes held no belligerence, only surprise, as though he had not counted on a victim who would fight back.

The youth stared at my sword a moment then whirled and fled, straight for the horse.

“Damnation.” I limped after him as fast as I could. The horse, as I’d said, was an even-tempered beast who did not fear humans. She shied a little as the big lad approached but allowed herself to be caught. Instead of mounting, the boy dug into the saddlebag, pulled out the lacquer box, released the horse, and ran from me across the green.

I cursed again, running and hobbling after him, my knee spreading white-hot pain up my spine. I had told Mrs. Beauchamp I’d take care of the letters, and now they moved farther and farther away in the beefy hands of an unknown boy.

“Lacey!”

I turned and saw Grenville cantering toward me on his bay horse. “What happened? Did you take a fall?”

“Go after him.” I pointed at the silhouette of the lad fast disappearing into the mist and rain. “Hurry. Get the box from him.”

Grenville nodded curtly, wheeled his mount, and galloped away.

I caught my horse and led her in Grenville’s wake. Dividing my weight between the walking stick and the mare, I was able to hobble along without hurting myself too badly, although the horse tried to take a bite out of my jacket from time to time.

I reached the top of a small rise and looked down the slope that slid smoothly to a gray pond, dull under the rain. The lad made for it, Grenville only a few strides behind.

A small black object arced from the young man’s hands and landed with a silent splash in the water. The lad leapt from the bank into the water, and Grenville’s mount danced backward from the fountain that erupted from the impact. The boy swam the narrow distance to the other bank, pulled himself quickly out, and ran on.

“Grenville!” I shouted through cupped hands. “Get the box!”

Grenville slid from his horse, then stopped among the reeds, his hands on his hips. I ran forward, dropping my horse’s reins. The box bobbed in the still water, not yet saturated enough to sink. I slipped in the mud on the bank, and caught myself in time from falling in.

“What the devil happened?” Grenville demanded. “Who was that?”

“I don’t know.”

I leaned out over the pond, extending my cane. The box floated just beyond my reach. “Hold on to me.”

“Blast you, Lacey, you’ll go in, and then I’ll have to fish you out.”

“Do it!”

Grenville looked at me in exasperation but nodded.

I lowered myself to my stomach in the mud. Grenville grasped my ankles while I inched toward the water. The box floated, half-submerged and bobbing on the gray surface. I thrust my walking stick toward it. The handle slapped the water, and the box danced away. I slithered forward, praying Grenville had a good grip on my legs, and reached again.

I touched the box. The end of the cane shook as I gingerly hooked the gold head of the stick on the edge. I raked the box toward me. It came, dragging on the surface, its top glistening with water. When the box bumped the bank, I tossed my walking stick to the ground beside me, plunged my hands into the chill water, and dragged the box out.

Water poured from the seams. I rolled over, dislodging Grenville’s hold, and squirmed to a sitting position on firmer ground. I sat holding that damned box, my coat and breeches plastered with mud. I turned the box around in my hands, depressed the catch that opened it, and stared in dismay at the sodden mess inside.

“Anything salvageable?” Grenville asked.

“I have no idea.” I lifted a paper, gently separating it from the others. Peeling off his muddy gloves, Grenville reached a long-fingered hand into the box and pried out another paper. I related the tale of the young man’s surprise attack and his theft of the box.

Grenville frowned. “Notice that he threw the
box
into the pond.”

I glared up from the wet paper in my hand. “Yes, I had noticed.”

“I mean that if he were only afraid of being caught, he could have flung the box down and fled, or thrown it across the pond to pick up when he reached the other side. But he deliberately chose to send it into the water. As though he wanted to destroy the letters rather than risk you getting them back.”