Hanover Square Affair, The (4 page)

My own dark hair had threads of gray in it, and my own face held lines of pain. Louisa had been there for every single one of them.

I rested my arm on the crumbling mantel and let the fire’s warmth ease the ache in my leg. I waited for her to begin, but she only watched me, while rain beat against the windows like grains of sand.

“I have had a trying afternoon, Louisa. I know you’ve come to reason me into accepting your husband’s apology, but don’t bother. I’m not yet ready.”

“He wants to see you.”

“The hell he does,” I said.

“He wants everything the way it was before. He’s told me.”

Something tightened in my chest. “Well, it cannot be. I’ve lost my trust in him and he in me. We will never look at each other the same way again.”

“You agreed to at least make a pretense.”

“I agreed to too damn many things. Look at me, Louisa. My career was the only thing in my life I had done right, and now I do not even have that.”

“He wants to help.”

My jaw hardened. Brandon had offered his charity a few times since we’d returned to London, but the look on his face when he’d done so had enraged me further. “I’ll not take help from your husband.”

“You loved him once,” Louisa said.

A piece of coal broke and slithered to the hearth. “I have changed. And he has done things that are unforgivable. You know that.”

Louisa would try, I knew, for the rest of her life to reconcile us. But I had made a devil’s bargain with Brandon to keep our mutual shame hidden, to quietly leave the army and say nothing. I’d taken half-pay so that I could have at least a meager income, but I doubted I’d ever take up my commission again. With the end of the war and so many officers redundant, few regiments would be interested in a fortyish, wounded captain. And so here I was, washed up on London’s uncaring shores, a commander with no one left to command.

“Did you soil your slippers in Grimpen Lane tonight to tell me this?” I asked after a time. “You ought to have spared yourself the journey.”

She spread her hands but gave me a smile. “I had to try. And my slippers are in a box in my carriage.”

“Which I did not see outside. I refuse to believe your devoted coachman dropped you at the end of the lane and bolted for Brook Street. What are you up to?”

“If you’d seen my carriage and known I was here, you might have gone away until I gave up and went home.”

“I might have, yes.”

She looked at me. “I ought to have known you wouldn’t come to the house. I have the devil of a time seeing you in private these days.”

“Can you wonder why?”

“I know why, Gabriel. I just wish you wouldn’t.”

We shared a long look. Firelight touched her sleek hair, golden as sunshine. Her nose was slightly crooked, a fact I’d noticed the moment I’d met her.

I relented. “Forgive my temper, Louisa. As I said, I had a foul afternoon.”

“You’ve not told me what happened to keep you from our appointment. I assumed you’d decided not to come.”

I ran my hand though my hair, noting that it was growing long again. I needed to crop it. “It was too complex to explain in a note,” I said.

“Then explain now, if you please. Are you all right?”

I sat on the room’s remaining chair and rested my elbows on my knees. I had thought to spare her the sordid details of Thornton’s shooting and Horne’s household, but I would welcome Louisa’s clarity of reason. So I told her. All of it.

I realized, as I related the tale, how little I’d truly learned from Horne. I’d discovered the existence of Mr. Denis, a man to whom one went when one wanted artwork or women, but I’d discovered little else. I could have demanded to search the house, but it had done Jane’s father little good. The possibility also existed that Alice and Mr. Thornton had mistaken the house. Jane could have gone into number 23 or number 21, or to a house on a different side of the square altogether.

I wanted Horne to be guilty, I guessed, because I’d disliked him. But I had no more proof than Thornton had—only the evidence of an obscene faux-Egyptian frieze and a feeling in my bones.

Louisa’s eyes glinted in outrage. “Lieutenant Gale ordered the poor man shot?”

“I don’t know if he gave the order. The cornet who did it was young and green, and maybe he simply took it into his head to fire. Gale did not even know why he’d been sent instead of a magistrate.” I paused in disgust. “He never questions an opportunity to parade about in his uniform and look important.”

Louisa sat forward, her gray eyes alight. “Do you plan to continue looking for the girl?”

“I want to find her. You did not see the Thorntons, Louisa. She was all they had.”

“How will you search for her?”

I had debated this while I rode home in the stale-smelling hackney. “Put up notices. Go to Bow Street. Pomeroy, one of my sergeants, became a Runner. I can pry information from him even if I can’t afford to hire him.”

“Offer a reward,” she suggested.

I opened my hands. “I have nothing to offer. But I can question the neighbors and Horne’s servants. Someone must know something about her.”

Louisa moved to the edge of her seat, familiar determination on her face. “I will supply the reward. We can offer five pounds. That will be enough to bring people out of the woodwork.”

“A good many people, I’d imagine.”

“And give me the Thorntons’ direction. I will go to them. I might be able to help them.”

“They do need it.” I reached forward and took her cool hand in mine. “Your kindness, Louisa, always astonishes me.”

She looked at me in surprise. “Why should it? Being charitable is a duty. You must find that poor girl, Gabriel.” She hesitated. “But let it end there.”

“That means what, exactly?”

“You know what it means. I know what you are like.”

I gave her a half-smile. “What you mean to say is, don’t pursue Horne and Denis and make them believe in the wrath of God.”

“Yes. Leave it be.”

I released her. “They might be safe from me. They may have had nothing to do with the abduction. I have not yet decided. I saw no sign of a young woman at Horne’s today, except for the maid, and I do not think she was Jane. She was definitely working class, and decidedly odd.”

Louisa watched me. “If they do have something to do with it, what will you do?”

“I have not decided that either.”

“There is not much you can do, even if they are guilty.”

I grew annoyed. “Why are you adamant about sparing Horne? He is an oily bastard and up to something. The maid hinted as much.”

“Because the last time I saw you go off with this much fervor,
that
happened.” She pointed to my left knee.

It twinged, reminding me it still ached and would punish me the rest of the night for abusing it. “The last time, I was a damned fool, and I trusted your husband and his honor. That was my great mistake. I’ll not make the same again.”

Her voice softened. “It has been two years, Gabriel.”

I’d known I could not divert her from her original purpose for long. “And every day of that two years has reminded me what I gave up. When I agreed to leave the army, I had no idea I would be living this”—I gestured to my barren rooms— “this half-existence.”

Her gray eyes darkened. “Has it been that?”

“You know it has.”

“You have many friends—you have the acquaintance of Mr. Grenville.”

“Yes, yes, everyone believes that being smiled upon by Mr. Grenville is the same thing as being touched by God.”

“But because of him, you are invited everywhere.”

“Only so that the
ton
can peer at me and wonder what Grenville sees in me. And I never thought you believed that a person’s worth was derived from how many invitations he receives.”

Louisa smiled. “I am trying to point out that you are more than your army career. The war is over anyway. Most army men no longer have careers.”

“Many of them had something to return to. I never did. That is why I followed your husband in the first place.” I clenched my hand. “I believe I have done enough for the Brandon family without you forcing me into a false reconciliation.”

Louisa’s eyes were clearest gray, like the sea under clouds. The firelight picked out the flat gold buttons on her spencer, a jacket of almost military rigidity. “You must have loved him once,” she said, “to spare his honor as you did.”

“I did not do it for his honor, Louisa. I did it for yours.”

Louisa stared at me in shock. “You never told me that.”

I pressed my fist tightly against my thigh. “I would not have. But I want you to understand. When Brandon worried so about his honor, he never once spoke of the fact that his disgrace would also be yours. You would suffer as much or more indignity than he, and worse, you’d be pitied. Your own misery never occurred to him, and for that, I will not forgive him.”

She drew a sharp breath, lips parted, and I wished I had not spoken. The last thing I wanted to do was make Louisa Brandon believe that my current state was her fault. It had been my choice. I could have sunk Brandon and taken Louisa with me to Canada. But she loved the undeserving idiot, and I couldn’t have borne to hurt her.

She rose in agitation and made for the door. I reached it before she did and blocked her exit. “Where are you going?”

She would not look at me. “To the opera, as I said. I am meeting Lady Aline.”

“I’ll fetch your carriage and escort you.”

“You need not come with me.”

I thought of Jane Thornton, riding alone with her maid, stolen from a Mayfair family carriage. “The devil I’m letting you run about Covent Garden alone. I will take you. And if your husband disapproves, he can call me out. “

She looked up at me then, and I saw in her eyes not guilt, but a mixture of pity and anger. I turned from her and strode into the cold staircase hall, slamming the door behind me. The last thing I wanted from Louisa Brandon was her pity.

*** *** ***

“Josiah Horne,” Milton Pomeroy wrote in careful capitals on the back of my card. “Who’s he when he’s at home?”

“A gentleman who lives in number 22, Hanover Square,” I answered.

“Never heard of him. What’s he done, exactly?”

Pomeroy had a shock of yellow hair, which he slicked back with a cheap pomade that smelled faintly of oil of turpentine. He had a square, sturdy body and clear blue eyes and a voice that could bellow across battlefields. He knew nothing of the circumstances of my departure from the Peninsula; Pomeroy himself had followed the Thirty-Fifth Light Dragoons to Waterloo, then home again, to find himself at a loss for what to do.

By accident, he’d stumbled upon the lair of a thief who had been methodically working his way through London. Pomeroy had followed him, catching him in the act. The former sergeant had made the arrest himself, as citizens had the right to do, grabbed him by the neck, and hauled him off to Bow Street. His persistence had impressed the magistrates, and when an older Runner retired, they’d hired him on.

Pomeroy was well suited to life in the Bow Street Runners, an elite body of men who investigated crimes, tracked down wanted criminals, or searched for persons gone missing. They were allowed to keep whatever reward was posted for the criminal’s capture and conviction, and Pomeroy applied himself with his ruthless sergeant’s efficiency to gain as many rewards as he could. I frequently observed him tramping the streets near Covent Garden, some unfortunate in his grip, his sergeant’s voice roaring above the crowd: “Now then, lad, you’re for it. Show some dignity, son. Stand on your feet and face the magistrate like a man.”

Constables, who often performed their duties only with reluctance, made arrests or looked into disturbances, but the Runners got the glory. If we found Jane Thornton, Pomeroy would land the reward, not me. Chasing criminals and searching for lost young women were not considered jobs for a gentleman.

Pomeroy and I stood together in the dingy hall of the Bow Street magistrate’s court amid unwashed, half-sober men and women awaiting whatever judgment would be thrust upon them. I’d walked here after waiting about my rooms all the morning for a reply to a letter I’d sent to Grenville.

I wanted to pry from Grenville any information about Josiah Horne, because Grenville knew everything about everyone in London. He’d certainly be familiar with any gossip surrounding a wealthy gentleman like Horne. No reply came, to my irritation, so after an early afternoon meal of rolls from Mrs. Beltan’s shop, I sought out Pomeroy instead.

My head felt thick. I’d stayed with Louisa in her box at the opera the night before until Lady Aline Carrington had arrived at the interval. That spinster had given me a good-natured grin, and I’d bowed stiffly and left Louisa in her redoubtable care. I’d gone home and taken three glasses of gin before retiring.

Despite my headache, the gin had successfully staved off the melancholia I’d sensed creeping over me. I’d suffered from the malady since my youth, and sometimes a dark depression would blanket me, depriving me of the strength even to rise from my bed. I’d learned to prevent the circumstance by immersing myself thoroughly in some interesting situation, but sometimes only gin and a night’s rest would keep the darkness from me.