A Mystery at Carlton House

by Jennifer Ashley

  “How many did you challenge?” she asked me in a calm voice.

  “Fifteen.” I winced as the carriage jerked, my bad knee jolting. We swayed into traffic, which pressed me against Donata, no bad thing. “At least, that is my intention. I did not actually speak to fifteen gentlemen there. Dunmarron dismissed my command to name his seconds but no doubt they will be calling on mine soon to issue his challenge.”

  Donata listened, her amusement fading as she realized I was serious. “Gabriel—what the devil did you do to him?”

  I explained about the beefsteak and wine. Donata’s eyes widened as I went on, then her stunned look fled and she burst into laughter.

  My wife did not laugh heartily very often, but now she lay back against the cushions, put her hand across her belly, and laughed loud and long.

  * * *

  By the time we reached South Audley Street, Donata had ceased laughing, but she wore a satisfied expression.

  Bartholomew was home, looking ready to burst with news, but he composed himself to tell us that Grenville had arrived and was waiting for us upstairs. Donata thrust her bonnet and wraps at the maid and glided up ahead of me.

  We found Grenville in the sitting room at the front of the house, the fire built high to warm the place. Grenville often met with us in Donata’s boudoir or my own chambers above this one, but Barnstable, a stickler for propriety, would never have let anyone, even a close friend of the family, up to our private rooms when we were not home.

  Grenville was dressed in black trousers and a coat that contrasted his gold damask waistcoat and very white cravat. Tonight’s cravat pin was a sapphire surrounded by a ring of tastefully small diamonds.

  His suit was subdued, but Grenville himself was not. Any other evening, he’d have waited for us comfortably in a chair, reading a book from Donata’s extensive library. Tonight he was pacing, and he swung around in exasperation when we at last appeared.

  “I’ve spoken to Mr. Cosway,” he began, but Donata cut him off with a wave of her hand.

  “Miss Simmons is no longer with the Dunce,” she said triumphantly. “She foiled him by dressing like a delivery boy and walking out past his servants.”

  Grenville’s words died away, and he stared at her a moment before he gave an impatient nod. “Yes, gossips have already cornered me to tell me she is no longer in his house. I’ve spent the day tearing through my acquaintance, asking for information far and wide, and this is the latest news. I had not heard how she’d left—the utter cheek of the girl.” A note of pride entered his voice. “I’d rejoice if I knew where the devil she was. She hasn’t come home.”

  “We’ll find her,” I said with confidence. “Marianne is a resourceful young woman, and is probably lounging in a luxurious hotel, pretending to be a foreign princess or some such. You and I will look under every stone until we make certain she is well.”

  Grenville gave me a dark look. “Not tonight, we won’t. We’re commanded to be at Carlton House. The prince is having a soiree—for about a thousand from what I gather, and we must be among them, according to His High-handed Highness.”

  I stared in perplexity. “Mr. Higgs has been killed. Did you know?”

  “Oh, yes, I know. The Regent himself told me.” Grenville’s expression turned to disgust. “Why should the death of a lackey prevent him from a gathering he’s planned for weeks? My news will wait. If we refuse the prince, I am certain he’ll send the army after us, so do put on your best suit and attend with me, there’s a good fellow.”

  Chapter 17

  I had seen Carlton House empty and gray in the night and then sunny and lofty on a fine-weathered morning. At ten that evening, I saw it as its architects had meant it to be enjoyed—ablaze with light and overflowing with splendor.

  Every candle in every chandelier was lit, their glow illuminating the fortunate guests from the grand entrance to the east and west antechambers or down the staircase and through the magnificent rooms below. The conservatory was no less ablaze than the rest of the mansion, its gothic columns illuminated by the Turkish lanterns, which made the windows glitter like black jewels.

  Those who’d come to the soiree were as glittering. Ladies wore fine silks and yards of diamonds, gentlemen as opulent in suits set off by jeweled cravat pins, watch chains dangling with gold seals or fobs encrusted with precious stones or mother-of-pearl.

  This was the first large outing Donata had attended since her confinement—the routs and journeys to the theatre had been small affairs, she said. Tonight she’d spent hours locked with her maids preparing; that is, once she’d ceased cursing at the short notice and at being included as a last-minute guest. A snub, she proclaimed.

  Her maids’ work produced excellent results. The gown Donata chose had an underdress of deep sapphire blue with a waist so high it scooped under her breasts and left the skirt to flow unimpeded to her ankles. The long-sleeved overdress was a net of the same blue spun with gold threads, with net bunched at the shoulders of the bodice. The underdress left her arms bare, and the overdress’ net sleeves clung to her skin.

  The décolletage scooped low, which let her show off a necklace of thick gold from which dangled a diamond pendant, a gift from her father. Her dark hair, on the other hand, shone with the gold and lapis lazuli diadem I’d brought home from Egypt—cleaned, it blazed with beauty. The blue of it exactly complemented her gown, which I knew was no coincidence. Donata would have had the gown made to match.

  The earrings that dangled from her earlobes were small and delicate gold, my New Year’s gift to her last year. The short hem of the gown allowed her to show off smooth black slippers with cross ties around her ankles, and again the slim gold chain I’d bought her on a whim one day after we’d first become regular lovers.

  She’d thrown over this ensemble a long shawl of rich gold with a wide paisley border, which she relinquished to her maid after we entered Carlton House so the shimmering hues of her gown could catch the light. Donata Lacey was a beautiful sight, and I could not help my pride as I viewed her.

  I had decided to wear my regimentals, as had several military gentlemen, I saw when we entered the conservatory. These gentlemen had been generals on the battlefield, and I’d been a mere lieutenant for most of the war, not receiving my captaincy until Talavera. Even so, they spoke politely to me, and we were soon reliving the slog of fighting on the Peninsula, in great detail.

  Donata left me to it and sailed off on Grenville’s arm. Grenville had changed his suit for the soiree, his black cashmere trousers flowing over elegant boots. His waistcoat was of subtle gold and green stripes, his white cravat tied in one of the complicated knots he was famous for. The only thing he had not changed for the evening was his diamond and sapphire cravat pin, which went well with Donata’s gown.

  I watched the two of them, well matched, as I spoke to the generals and admirals, saw Donata blossom into brilliance under the light of the gigantic chandeliers.

  She knew exactly why I’d dumped Dunmarron’s dinner in his lap, because I’d told her. I’d left out no sordid detail. Rather than being embarrassed that the wager about her fidelity had been the object of a near brawl, Donata seemed determined to live up to the club gentlemen’s estimation of her as a vibrant lady.

  As the uniformed men and I relived the noise and blood of Ciudad Rodrigo and the horrors after Badajoz, Donata flirted madly with every gentleman present. She hung on to Grenville’s arm, Grenville laughing with her as she became the coquette of the evening.

  She and Grenville made a compelling pair, both in the latest fashion tempered by good taste, both matched in wit and manners. I’d once remarked to Donata I was surprised she hadn’t chosen Grenville to be her husband. She’d only given me her stare that said I was an ignorant fool and declared such a match would run aground quickly.

  I suppose two high-spirited, very determined people would smash into each other with heartbreaking consequences. Perhaps she’d been wise to remain friends with Grenville and marry
a rather less complex gentleman, who asked only for an early ride in the park, a warm bed, and a book to read in the evenings.

  I enjoyed watching Donata confound the gentlemen of the ton—they were enchanted with her, as well as wondering at her ebullience, as the story of my behavior at Brooks’s had reached the far ends of Town by now. I suppose they’d expected her to break down and weep in mortification at her eccentric husband or in shame that she’d been the center of a tawdry quarrel.

  No, my wife used it as fuel to show her resilience and self-confidence all the more.

  As much as I enjoyed watching her, I knew we were here for other reasons. I had not seen the Regent, but eventually, the house’s majordomo sought me out and beckoned me aside.

  The majordomo was as haughty as any guest here, likely gentleman-born and given the honor of being in charge of the prince’s household. His eyes flickered coolly as he took in my regimentals which were showing wear, no matter how carefully Bartholomew looked after them, and then plunged into his reason for summoning me.

  “His Highness wishes you to look about the house for signs of other missing objects, or copies of them. Discreetly, please, Captain.”

  “Of course,” I answered at once.

  The majordomo gave me a nod. “He said you could roam at will, but I would be pleased if you did not disturb the servants at their tasks. So please avoid the kitchens or the pages’ room and the back stairs.”

  “I understand.” I agreed with Brewster that the best way to get things in and out of the house was through the back stairs and the kitchens, but I said nothing.

  The majordomo bowed and left me to it.

  Grenville was busy entertaining the fashionable ladies and gentlemen as only he knew how, as well as keeping the more exuberant bloods away from my wife. No matter. Grenville and Donata distracting the prince’s guests gave me the ability to slip away with no one noticing me.

  Not that there was anywhere to slip to in Carlton House tonight. Every room was filled with people, though the house did absorb a thousand guests very well. The conservatory, eighty feet long, already drank in many.

  I drifted with the crowd to the Gothic dining room at the other end of the long suite of ground-level rooms. The Gothic dining room was a sort of mirror of the conservatory in its architecture, and held an enormous table heaped with food for any to sample.

  I passed endless plates of macaroons and more appalling tidbits like bowls of live tiny fish or very small birds on a skewer as I scanned the walls and side tables for anything that looked unusual or out of place.

  Though how I’d know what ought to be there and what should not without Higgs’s list, I had no idea. I decided to make my way to his office and look through his ledgers, in spite of the majordomo’s warning about staying out of the back halls. I would avoid the kitchens, true to my word.

  As I made my way through the crowd to the library, I noted that while the rooms were packed with the cream of society, this gathering certainly did not represent all of it. There were no debutantes, no respectable ladies and gentlemen of quiet families, no kindhearted reformers like my friend Sir Gideon Derwent and his son, Leland. Instead the guests were Corinthians—sport-mad gentlemen with unsavory reputations—the Regent’s more dissolute friends, ladies of the ton whose virtues were far more often called into question than Donata’s, and wits, roués, and dandies. A debutante wouldn’t be safe here.

  Rafe Godwin had come, wearing one of his usual loud waistcoats, Lord Lucas by his side, not looking entirely comfortable. Lucas gave me a benign nod but did not attempt to strike up a conversation. I noted that Dunmarron was very notably not present.

  His absence did not prevent the wits from talking him over, however. Ignoring me—if they even noticed me—they speculated on his attempt to steal Grenville’s mistress, and how easily she’d foiled him.

  “She ought to do pantomime,” one gentleman in the library said. “Beautiful actress, showing her legs in knee breeches. I’d be in the front of the theatre, right under the stage to see it.”

  “Dunmarron didn’t notice that the legs leaving his house belonged to a woman,” another man chortled. “No wonder they call him the Duke of Dunces.”

  “He didn’t actually see her in the breeches,” Rafe corrected him disdainfully. “Though you’re probably right he wouldn’t notice. He’d be too busy cleaning the beef off his own breeches. His joint got sauced, I would say, my friends.”

  More laughter. Rafe was hardly a loyal friend to Dunmarron, I observed, though I would not expect him to be. Rafe was the sort who attached himself to a gentleman only when the weather was fair. One hint of a squall, and he was gone.

  I stole a candle from a crystal and bronze candle stand and moved quickly through the door disguised as a bookcase in the back wall of the library. No one observed me go. I drew a breath of relief as I shut the door and found myself in quieter halls.

  Higgs’s office was unchanged, except that the fireplace was cold. I didn’t much mind—the public rooms had become stifling. I used my borrowed candle to light the sconces in the office, flooding it with warm yellow light. I then stuck the candle into a heavy silver candlestick on the desk and sat down.

  I had liked Higgs’s office the first time I’d seen it, and I admired it anew. Books and catalogs overflowed from shelves onto tables, and sheafs of notes lay everywhere. The chaos was somewhat organized, however. Books in French, German, and Russian had their own shelves, as did tomes on sculpture, painting, and objects d’art.

  Grenville might be flattered to learn that a book of drawings of his house’s interior reposed with those on objects d’art, the book collected from a series of articles in the Gentleman’s Magazine. These articles about Grenville’s art and curios, complete with colored drawings, had been bound into a slim volume that was now sold in bookshops.

  Though I would have loved to browse the fascinating books the office contained, I was at the moment more interested in Higgs’s personal notes.

  I hunted through ledgers until I found the list of moved and missing items Higgs had shown us before. He, or someone, had been copying it out, as I found the copy on a loose page, half-finished. I set the lists aside and began leafing through the ledgers, examining the inventory of the prince’s entire collection.

  I became absorbed in the inventory, which had been very neatly done. Each object had been labeled, along with notes about where it had been acquired and when, how much had been spent on it, and where it now lay in the house. I found older lists from the previous curator, Mr. Cosway, with his notations and initials. Then I began to compare Cosway’s lists with Higgs’s.

  It was tedious going, and I had to find pen and paper to make notes of my own, but by the time the door opened and I heard Grenville’s step, I had grown quite animated.

  Grenville had mentioned he’d spoken to Mr. Cosway earlier today—hunted up the old artist in his house and had quite a chinwag with him. He’d not had time to tell us the details before he’d gone home to ready himself for this outing—we’d planned to compare notes after the soiree. I was now more anxious than ever to hear what the man had said.

  Grenville paused in the doorway while I continued scratching notes, running my fingers along entries to make sure I saw what I thought I did.

  “You always manage to find comfortable retreats at these things,” Grenville said as he closed the door. “And interesting bits to read.”

  I tore my eyes from the paper and looked up to see that he was quite alone. I rose in alarm. I did not mind Donata taunting the bloods and Corinthians, but only while she had Grenville at her side to protect her.

  “You abandoned my wife to every rakehell in London?” I demanded.

  Grenville raised his brows. “Hardly. I left her with Lady Aline and her friend Lucas. You do not have to worry about Donata, you know. She is formidable, and her father has much power. No one will touch her.”

  I let out my breath, trying to assuage my instincts to rush out and pr
otect her. “They worry about her father, not her husband, do they?” I asked, making myself sit back down.

  “The earl is a powerful man. Most are amazed you do not tremble before him. Or, they suspect you do, only in private.”

  “He is quite personable,” I said in surprise. I liked Pembroke, a gentleman I could sit in silence with while we read newspapers. He never pushed me into conversation unless he truly wanted to hear what I had to say. “Truth to tell, it is Lady Pembroke I’m never certain about.”

  “Yes, Donata’s mother is quite a woman.” Grenville gave me a fervent nod. “She can make the great and powerful feel about three inches tall without ever opening her mouth. But enough. What have you found? You have the look you get when you’re interested in a thing.”

  “Tell me about Mr. Cosway,” I countered. “It might be important.”

  Grenville pulled a Sheraton chair to the desk so he could look at what had me so intrigued. “Quite an interesting chap. He has not much good to say about the prince, except that the Regent gave Cosway fairly free rein in finding and acquiring pieces for him. Cosway would locate a thing and then advise the Regent on whether to buy it. The most beautiful paintings were chosen by him, and much of Carlton House’s decor.”

  “I have many of Cosway’s notes here,” I said. “Of pieces he acquired. Then Higgs’s. Higgs acquired next to nothing, only a few pieces, but he made an inventory of what he found here when he arrived.”

  Grenville shrugged. “Perhaps Higgs did not have the eye Cosway did. Cosway told me tales of bartering with kings, finding paintings looted by Napoleon from all over the Continent. Napoleon swept through the Italian states pretty thoroughly, you know, destroyed the centuries-old Venetian Republic overnight, and stole from there, Florence, Rome … Much of that artwork is still floating about, claimed by first one city then the other. According to Cosway, Europe is one big marché ouvert these days.”