Hanover Square Affair, The (7 page)

“And I thought I was only being rude,” I said. “I went to view Ormondsly’s new painting last night. I was surprised you did not attend.”

“Were you?” Grenville leaned against the mantelpiece, crossing one polished boot over the other. “What did you think of the painting?”

I had barely noticed the damned thing. My attention had been distracted by watching for Grenville, trying to keep up my part of the conversation, and staring at the lovely Mrs. Danbury. I shrugged. “It was . . .”

He gestured, diamond rings glinting. “Exactly. Ormondsly is young and talented, but unperfected. In a few years’ time, he will amount to something—if he does not murder himself with his opium eating before then. If I praise his painting now, artists of more merit will be undeservedly ignored; if I slight his work or give it lukewarm praise, his career will be over before it begins. Best to pretend I regretted I hadn’t the opportunity to view the work. I will see it in private, with him there, and tell him what I truly think.”

He took a sip of brandy, finished with his lecture.

I said dryly, “It must be difficult to have such power.”

For a bare instant, anger sparkled in his dark eyes, and I wondered if I’d gone too far. He’d summon his large footmen to toss me out, and I hadn’t had the chance to finish this excellent brandy.

Then his good humor returned. “Society does put a value on my opinions that is far higher than it is worth. To save having to think up their own opinions, I imagine.”

I took a sip of the precious brandy in relief. “In truth, it is your opinion I am seeking at this moment.”

“Not about that painting, surely.”

“No. I want to know about a gentleman who lives in Hanover Square.”

Grenville gave me an inquisitive look, and I saw a gleam of interest in his eye. I told him the tale, stopping here and there to wet my mouth with the brandy.

During the story, Grenville frowned into the depths of his glass, then, when I related Horne’s mention of Denis and my speculations that Denis was a procurer, he sat down abruptly on one of the straight-backed chairs.

When I’d finished, Grenville said, “My apologies, Lacey. I was eager for gossip and had no idea you’d been involved in something so tragic.”

“No matter. What do you know about Josiah Horne? The Thornton family, including Alice, believe Horne abducted Jane. Is it possible?”

Grenville rolled his glass between his palms. “I’ve never heard anything against the man. Horne is an MP for Sussex. He’s a widower who lives quietly, and as far as I know never raises a ruckus in Parliament. Not a political hothead. I rarely see him at social gatherings, and I can’t name one person who truly knows him well.” He sipped brandy. “You say he did not recognize Jane Thornton’s name?”

“I would swear that he’d never heard of her. But maybe he knows her by another name.”

“Or he could be telling the truth.”

“But Mr. Thornton and Alice saw Jane go into the house.”

“They may have mistaken the house,” Grenville pointed out. “Or Horne may not have known she’d come there at all. Perhaps her meeting was with someone else—the butler, the valet, the maid you saw.”

“Why are you trying to absolve him? He may have abducted the girl and ruined her. If she is not still with him, she will have nowhere to go but into a brothel or the streets.”

Grenville lifted his hand. “Calm yourself, Lacey. I am merely pointing out possibilities. I know you disliked the man, and I cannot blame you for that if what you say is true. But before sending in the magistrate, you should first discover if he ever truly saw the girl at all.”

I drummed my fingers on the table beside me. “Louisa Brandon said as much. I have an unfortunately rash temper.”

“So I have heard. Did you know, a colonel who frequents my club told me you’d once put a pistol to the head of another colonel and demanded he rescind one of his orders.” He regarded me with curiosity, as though hoping I’d regale him with the entire story.

“An order that would have killed all my men. I would not sacrifice them so that he might claim courage.”

I recalled that blustery winter day on the battlefield in Portugal, when my blood had boiled hot and a cavalry colonel had wet himself because he’d thought me insane enough to pull the trigger. Fortunately, the staff officers knew of the man’s incompetence, and so I’d avoided an incident that could have wrecked my career. Watching my temper rise dismayed me—my vision would become clear and sharp, and a course of action, direct and plain, would present itself to me. Right and wrong became suddenly vivid; a complex situation would resolve into one bright point. Sometimes my rages cut right to the heart of a matter; at others, they only made things worse. Unfortunately, I could not always tell which was which.

Grenville rose and paced to the fireplace. “Speaking of your rashness, I am going to give you a bit of advice concerning this James Denis.” He faced me. “Have nothing to do with him. Pursue Horne if you must, but leave Denis out of it.”

I lifted my brows. “Why? Who is Denis?”

Grenville hesitated, while shadows played on his angular face. “James Denis is a dangerous man to know. Please take my word for it.”

He wanted me to stop asking questions, which ensured that I wanted to ask more. “If that is so, why have I never heard of him?”

Grenville shrugged. “He lives quietly.”

“So does Horne, you say.”

Grenville regarded me uncomfortably, as though wanting to deny he had the information I wanted. Then he gave a resigned sigh and set his crystal glass on the mantelpiece.

“I do not know who James Denis truly is,” he said. “His father is rumored to have been a footman and his mother a lady of quality. I’m not certain I believe that. But despite his origins, Denis is now one of the wealthiest men in England. Dukes know him. The Prince Regent has no doubt hired him; you know what a mania the Prince has for art, especially when he’s told the thing in question is impossible to acquire. I’ve asked the Prince point blank if he used Denis to find some of his collection, but he only gave me that coy look he has when he’s trying to be clever.”

I’d never met the Prince Regent or seen him closer than from the back of a crowd that watched his coach travel down Pall Mall. The last time I’d spied his coach passing, the crowd had booed him and mud had splattered the side of his garish yellow carriage. The Regent’s daughter, Princess Charlotte, was wildly popular, but the profligate Regent was barely tolerated. Grenville had told me tales of dining at Carleton House—on one occasion the dining table had been surrounded by a sparkling trough of water, through which fish had swum. Grenville had shaken his head while relating the anecdote, his expression pained.

“Well,” I said. “I will meet Denis soon and discover what he is for myself. Horne wrote that he’d had an answer to our request for an appointment.”

Grenville turned swiftly, eyes wide. “No, Lacey, don’t go, not even for curiosity’s sake. Denis is dangerous. Leave him alone.”

The directive, of course, only fueled my determination. “Explain to me what he is then. A procurer? A smuggler?”

Grenville shook his head. “I wish I knew. The man is elusive, even to someone as bothersome as me. I know that he has procurers and smugglers dancing his bidding. He obtains things, things that might be out of reach of the ordinary person. He is able to work seeming miracles to get exactly what his, shall we say,
customer,
wants.” Grenville paced again. “Whenever he expresses interest in a bill or discussion in Parliament, funnily enough, the vote always seems to coincide with his interests. But I have never heard that he actually controls anyone. You never hear anything directly against Denis. He is that discreet.”

“Discreet enough so that his customer might not know the name of the young woman abducted for him?”

Grenville paced the length of the hearth rug then turned to me. “Lacey, I beg you, do not openly accuse James Denis of abducting Miss Thornton. You would never get out again.”

“You speak as though you know him well. Does he have the honor of your acquaintance?”

Grenville colored. “No. I was a—customer—once.”

The candle beside me guttered and died in a spattering of wax. “Were you, indeed? This sounds interesting.”

“Yes. And, like you, I want to know all about a person before I commit myself. I made it my business to find out about Denis, and I did not like what I found.”

“Yet, you hired him.”

Grenville tapped his heel against a pattern of the rug. “I had no choice. I wanted a particular painting that was in France during the war. In Bonaparte’s personal collection, as a matter of fact. It belonged to an exiled French aristocrat, painted for him specially, he told me, and the man had tried everything to get it back.” Grenville continued to study the carpet. “I offered to help him, and I had heard of Denis. I hired Denis to find and deliver the painting. Denis did.”

“Damned resourceful of him. How did he manage it?”

“I have no idea. And I never asked. The price was, as you might expect, very high.”

For some reason, I suddenly thought of the screen that Colonel Brandon had brought home with him from Spain. Its three panels depicted scenes of the holy family, done in gold leaf and ebony. I had no idea where he’d obtained it, but it was very old, and he prized it above all possessions. Louisa told me he’d set it in his private sitting room behind his bedchamber, a room few were allowed to enter. I’d always wondered where he’d stumbled upon the thing, which looked valuable beyond compare. I wondered now if he’d obtained it from someone like Denis.

I pried my fingers apart. “So that is why Horne intimated that you knew all about Denis.”

Grenville shook his head. “He did not hear such a thing from Denis. Or from me. I imagine my French acquaintance flapped his tongue. It might explain why he departed so suddenly for France.” He hesitated, his dark brows lowered. “When you attend this appointment with Denis, I will accompany you.”

I didn’t want that. Grenville would want to handle everything very discreetly, while I would prefer to take Denis by the coat and shake him until I received the information I needed. Grenville would also, as was his habit, take over the conversation. I gave him a nod, and decided I would not bother to mention the time and day of my appointment when I learned it.

Grenville snatched up his glass and crossed the room to the brandy decanter. “You’ve piqued my interest in this situation anyway, Lacey. Raise the reward to ten guineas. I will supply it; Mrs. Brandon can save her pin money. And advertise in newspapers. If Miss Thornton has gone to another protector, that protector might believe confessing her whereabouts is worth ten guineas. My carriage, also, will be at your disposal for dashing about London questioning people.”

He filled his glass, then came to me and poured more brandy into mine.

“Why are you so interested in sparing me shillings?” I asked.

He shrugged as he returned the decanter to the exact center of the table. “The last time I was in a hackney, it smelled as through the previous passenger had relieved himself in the corner. You can’t pretend that is preferable to my rig.”

I had to shake my head. “I would think you’d want to stay out of such a sordid business.”

He turned to me, hands restlessly cradling his glass. “I will tell you a secret, Lacey. The answer to why I traipse about the world like a vagabond and come home with these interesting trinkets. The reason I elbowed my way to the top of society and take mistresses of exotic and unusual backgrounds.”

I finished for him. “Because you are hopelessly bored.”

Grenville shot me a look of surprise and then laughed. “Am I so readable?”

“It is what I would do, if I had the means.”

“You have uncanny perception, you know, Lacey. I discovered that shortly after I met you. I also discovered that anything you are involved in is certain to be interesting. That is why I brought you here and am plying you with brandy. I am making a rude attempt to satisfy my curiosity.”

“So I thought.”

I knew full well that Grenville’s interest in me was entirely selfish. He sought to entertain himself, and paid me back by smoothing my way into a society that would normally have ignored me. I supposed I should be grateful, but what I mostly felt was irritation.

Colonel Brandon had been another man who’d smoothed my way for me, in this case, into an army commission when I’d had no money to purchase it. He’d convinced me to volunteer as an officer, which I could do as the son of a gentleman, and his influence slid me into the rank of cornet when one came open. I’d clawed my own way up the next few ranks to captain, moving more slowly than others because of my lack of wealth, but Brandon’s influence, and money, certainly had helped me.

And then, in the end, he had completely and utterly betrayed me. The look on his face when I’d returned from the mission in which I was to have died had forever shattered any remnant of love and respect between us. Poor Louisa, blaming herself, had tried to sow the seeds of forgiveness, but neither of us had let her.

Small wonder that I never wanted to depend upon anyone again. I barely knew Grenville, despite the interesting circumstances of our first meeting. He must have the acquaintance of scores of officers from the Peninsular campaign, not to mention Waterloo, but he’d fixed his interest upon me.