I remembered my rage when he’d threatened to use Marcus to keep me away from aiding Spendlove, and I was still angry about that. Denis had hinted that Marcus’s resemblance to me would be useful—he liked the word. I would have to write to Marcus or make the journey to Norfolk to explain to him exactly what sort of man Denis was, and what he could do.
“I am not sure why Dunmarron was interested in bidding for the clock when he and the others had put it into the auction in the first place,” I said.
“That I have not discovered. He either knew it was a copy and wanted to have it before a buyer claimed it was a fake, or he’d been promised the clock but Lord Lucas did not give it to him. Whatever the case, one or more of them attended the auctions themselves to make certain the pieces sold and that they were paid. They’d bid on other things as a blind, to appear to be collectors who did not much worry about an item’s original ownership. I knew if you went to an auction you’d find some of the stolen pieces and likely the thieves as well. I sent my men to be in place to capture them.”
“And turned up yourself,” I said. “To make sure all went according to your plan.” I spoke with my usual cynicism, but I could not be too angry at him, and he must know this. His men and Brewster had ensured that Donata and I were today alive and well.
But Denis was shaking his head. “Not at all. I’d heard that a painting I wanted would be there. The auctioneer delivered it to me this morning—I settled up for Dunmarron yesterday and had the auctioneer send him the clock in exchange for the painting. He’ll remember our encounter whenever he checks the time. I do not believe he will be causing any more trouble.”
“Is the painting worth that much?” I’d asked this before, but I was trying to understand why he’d go to so much effort and expense for it.
“It is worth a good deal more,” Denis said without inflection. “I had it at a bargain.” And now he had a duke as well.
“You’ll sell the picture?” I persisted. “For a hefty profit, I imagine.”
“No, indeed. I will hang it on the wall and admire it. Mr. Vermeer is a favorite of mine, and one day the world will agree. I will keep the painting.” He gave me a pointed look. “What will you do with the Theseus?”
“Clean it off and set it on a table. I rather like it. Even if it is a fake, it was well done. Donata likes it—and she thanks you for the miniature.”
Denis acknowledged this with a nod. “Your wife is a lady of fine taste.”
“What happened to the real Theseus statue?” I asked in curiosity. “Higgs obviously had not had the chance to get rid of the false one, and the thieves put the second one Billy made into the marché ouvert—what happened to the original?”
“Billy has it,” Denis answered. “He’ll tell me where he put it when he’s finished being afraid to face me.”
“Will you return it to the prince?”
Denis regarded me steadily for a long time. “Of course,” he said. He drew another sheet of paper toward him and picked up his pen. “I have much to do this afternoon, Captain. Mr. Brewster will escort you home.”
* * *
I walked to Donata’s house as I’d walked to Denis’s, the day being fine and the way not far. Brewster lumbered beside me, saying nothing as usual. I found him restful.
I had Freddy’s letter in my pocket, and as soon as I reached the foyer of the South Audley Street house, I opened the missive and read it. I was folding it again, musing on its contents when Donata stepped out of her coach and entered, her footmen and maids swarming around her to relieve her of her wraps.
“I thought you’d be out all afternoon,” I said, then stopped in concern. Donata looked tired, shadows beneath her eyes.
She shook her head as she went up the stairs, first one flight then the next, all the way up to her private rooms. I followed, entering her boudoir as she dismissed her maid then collapsed onto the divan and flopped her hands to her sides.
“It is too exhausting,” Donata said. “Talking and smiling, trying to make witty observations when one’s heart is not in it.” She sighed. “Aline suggested I made a quiet night of it, have a rest. She is being motherly.”
“I agree with her. We’ll have a fine supper here, the pair of us.” I drew out the letter. “This might cheer you.” I began to read it out loud.
To my dear Captain and his lovely lady wife,
Mr. Grenville arrived in great furor yesterday, as you must know by now. Our Miss Simmons, while she had been vowing to me she did not want to see him, flew up and at him when he stormed in, she crying like a flood. Mr. Grenville caught her up, and they held on to each other so tightly … Well, I am unashamed to admit it brought tears to my eyes. They were weeping and kissing, both trying to talk at once. I tiptoed away and left them to it.
I had to depart for the theatre after a time and called out to them that they could stay as long as they liked, but from the noises issuing from my sitting room, I rather feared I’d have to find another place to bunk for the night. The theatre was full and the audience lively, and when I returned home, all was quiet. They’d retired to my spare bedchamber, much to Henry’s relief, and were both fast asleep.
This morning, they departed. Mr. Grenville has taken my advice and carried Marianne off to Paris. I do not know whether he allowed her to gather her things, or if they ran off like a pair of ne’erdowells with her still in her breeches.
I wish them luck, and thought you ought to know.
God bless you, Captain, and your lady as well.
Yours ever,
Frederick Hilliard
“Good,” Donata said when I finished, some of her spirit returning. “They need time together, away from the stuffiness of London.”
I set the letter aside and sat down beside my wife, my thigh touching her rich rose silk skirt. I kept my voice even as I spoke. “It will also remove him from my temptation to call him out. I said nothing while he was having so many troubles, but he will have to answer for placing that wager about your virtue in Brooks’s betting book. Though I will likely only try to wound him, since he declared you would have no affairs at all.”
I spoke in jest, because I had no intention of saying anything about the matter. Grenville had no doubt been trying to throw cold water over the gentlemen sullying my wife’s name by showing that he, the most influential man in London, believed in her loyalty.
Donata only stared at me, her cool look stealing through her warmth, then suddenly she threw herself back on the divan and burst into laughter.
She’d laughed almost as much when I’d told her about dumping Dunmarron’s beef and port onto his lap, and her peals of joy were the same. “Oh, Gabriel,” she said when she could speak. “How delicious. I nearly believed you. But if you must call out the person who proposed the wager, I would be happy to meet you on Hyde Park green. However, I will insist our duel is not at dawn. Such an unseemly hour. And you will have to lend me a pistol.”
I gazed at my wife in perplexity—her flushed face, her starry eyes, her wicked look. “What are you talking about?” I asked with a touch of irritation.
Donata raised her brows and sat up, recovering her aplomb. “You said you wished to call out the person who placed the wager about my virtue. In that case, you must face me over pistols, because it was I who had the idea. I bade Grenville enter it for me, under his name, of course.” She lapsed into a smile, looking vastly pleased with herself. “I won three thousand guineas.”
The way I gaped at her must have been comical, because she was off again. “All my effort was worth seeing that look on your face, Gabriel. You do look upon life so very seriously.”
“Bloody hell, Donata.”
She only regarded me with her warm smile. “I knew there would be speculation when you left me alone so long, and I decided to cut straight through it. I had Grenville make the wager, and I won it, blast them all.” Donata subsided, leaning back on the divan. “I was swollen like a melon most of the time, unable to do anything but sit and
read. And miss you.”
The last phrase was wistful. I took Donata’s hand, kissed it. “Perhaps we too need time from the stuffiness of London.”
Donata took on a contemplative look. “Perhaps. My mother’s gardens are quite restful. Peter would be glad to have room to roam a bit. And you so like the country.”
“I do,” I said. “But I admit London has grown on me.”
“Well, we won’t rusticate in Oxfordshire forever,” Donata said, sounding a bit more like her lively self. “We must be back in April, when Gabriella arrives. Now that she’s out, there will be many, many things to be done. Aline and I must have her engaged soon or she’ll be pitied as a spinster. Now, do not look so alarmed, Gabriel. She is a sensible young woman, and Aline and I are wise guardians.”
I let out a long breath. “Thank heavens I do not have to worry about Anne for another eighteen years.”
“Sixteen,” Donata corrected. “She should not leave it too late.”
“Eighteen,” I said firmly. “Sixteen is a child.”
Donata turned her head on the cushion to study me. “I was out at sixteen.”
“And I met the man you married. Eighteen.”
We frowned at each other. Donata shrugged, but I knew I had not won. “We will have a few years to argue about it. But I know what will bring both of us out of our doldrums.”
Without waiting for me to ask what, she rose, took my hand, and led me out of the room and up the stairs.
The sun was setting, and the nursemaid was readying Anne for bed. Peter had just finished his evening meal, his face grave as he studied the Plutarch I had found at the pawnbrokers.
Donata beckoned Peter over as she sat on the sofa, and the nursemaid handed Anne to her. Donata’s face changed as she held her daughter, every bit of sharpness falling away.
I sat down next to Donata and Anne and lifted Peter between us. He was reluctant to put aside his book, so I read it with him, looking over his shoulder, marveling anew that he’d grown another few inches while I’d been in Egypt.
Presently, Donata gave Anne over to me. I looked upon this miracle of a child, who regarded me sleepily with her mother’s eyes.
“A bit of time in the country,” Donata said, pressing a kiss to the top of Anne’s head, and ruffling Peter’s hair. “Yes, I believe that will suit us well.”
Author’s Note
It was a challenge to write in detail about Carlton House, because of course it no longer exists. In 1826-27, on the advice of John Nash, who declared the building structurally unsound, Carlton House was demolished. Much of the interior architecture (fireplaces, columns) and many of the furnishings found their way to the Brighton Pavilion and Buckingham Palace, the latter of which George IV turned into his primary London residence.
The famous rooms of Carleton House were no more. The artwork and sculptures were dispersed among the other royal residences, and the house torn down.
Fortunately for us, ladies and gentlemen of the Regency enjoyed looking over the interiors of the rich and famous as much as we do now. From 1816 to 1819, W. H. Pyne published The History of the Royal Residences in installments, which were collected into one volume in 1819. The History contained one hundred color engravings of rooms from Carlton House, Windsor Castle, St. James’s Palace, Hampton Court, and more. The color plates, done by various artists, are detailed, beautiful, and quite a boon for the historical researcher.
Carlton House was born in the early 1700s as a private home of one Henry Boyle, who was later made Baron Carleton (the correct spelling of the title). Boyle’s heir’s mother sold it to Frederick, Prince of Wales (father to George III) in the 1730s. The house was bestowed on our Prince of Wales (George III’s son) in 1783 when he reached his majority. The prince quickly began the house’s complete renovation and invited his friends, the so-called “Carlton House Set,” over for nights of decadent revelry.
As I researched, I marveled at the amazing artistry of Carlton House’s interior, notably the conservatory and the Blue Velvet Room. While a bit over-the-top, the décor nonetheless shows a master hand at proportion and coordination. The Prince employed only the best (and paid lavishly for it).
The artwork I describe in the novel—the bronze of Theseus and Antiope, the miniature paintings by Richard Cosway, the Vulliamy clock and inkstand, the Rembrandt that hung in the Blue Velvet Room—are real (in Pyne’s book, the engraving of the Blue Velvet Room shows the Rembrandt quite clearly). The pieces can be found in the royal collection to this day, and were procured for or commissioned by George IV.
The royal collection can be browsed online if you are not fortunate enough to be able to travel to a royal residence, and is full of stunning paintings, statuary, and objects d’art. We will assume Mr. Higgs and James Denis managed to return the true versions of the pieces to the collection long ago.
I very much enjoyed following Captain Lacey through London and exploring new facets of it. The next book will remain in London and England, as Lacey settles in with his growing family and finds new problems to solve.
I am thankful every day I’ve been able to take this incredible journey with Captain Lacey, and very happy to be able to continue it. I especially appreciate all the letters and emails I receive asking for more of the good captain.
Best wishes,
Ashley Gardner
Also by Ashley Gardner
Books in the Captain Lacey Regency Mystery Series
* * *
The Hanover Square Affair
A Regimental Murder
The Glass House
The Sudbury School Murders
The Necklace Affair
A Body in Berkeley Square
A Covent Garden Mystery
A Death in Norfolk
A Disappearance in Drury Lane
Murder in Grosvenor Square
The Thames River Murders
The Alexandria Affair
A Mystery at Carlton House
* * *
The Gentleman’s Walking Stick
(short stories)
And more to come!
* * *
Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries, Vol 1
Includes
The Hanover Square Affair
A Regimental Murder
The Glass House
The Gentleman’s Walking Stick
(short story collection)
* * *
Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries, Vol 2
Includes
The Sudbury School Murders
The Necklace Affair
A Body in Berkeley Square
A Covent Garden Mystery
* * *
Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries, Vol 3
Includes
A Death in Norfolk
A Disappearance in Drury Lane
Murder in Grosvenor Square
* * *
More boxed sets will follow as the series grows
* * *
Murder Most Historical
(A Collection of Short Historical Mysteries)
* * *
Kat Holloway Victorian Mysteries Series
A Soupçon of Poison
Death Below Stairs
About the Author
USA Today bestselling author Ashley Gardner is a pseudonym for New York Times bestselling author Jennifer Ashley. Under both names—and a third, Allyson James—Ashley has written more than 90 published novels and novellas in mystery, romance, and fantasy. Her books have won several RT BookReviews Reviewers Choice awards (including Best Historical Mystery for The Sudbury School Murders), and Romance Writers of America's RITA (given for the best romance novels and novellas of the year). Ashley's books have been translated into more than a dozen different languages and have earned starred reviews in Booklist. When she isn’t writing, she indulges her love for history by researching and building miniature houses and furniture from many periods.
More about the Captain Lacey series can be found at the website: www.gardnermysteries
.com. Stay up to date on new releases by joining her email alerts here: http://eepurl.com/5n7rz
Follow Ashley Gardner
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JenniferAshleyAllysonJamesAshleyGardner
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A Mystery at Carlton House
Copyright © 2017 by Jennifer Ashley / Ashley Gardner
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Cover design by Kim Killion
ISBN: 978-1-941229-40-8
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