“I beg your pardon,” I said, giving her another bow. “Grenville admonishes me in much the same way. I get the bit between my teeth, and I forget that I am easily rude. I said ‘business’ because I hate to take advantage of friendship, and I find myself needing your help.”
Her dark blue eyes remained cool. “Ah, you thought yourself softening the blow. I must say, you do not read your fellow creatures well.”
“I never pretended to.”
Lady Breckenridge regarded me a moment longer, then she uncrossed her arms, moved to a settee near the fireplace, and reposed gracefully on it. She sat in the middle, so if I tried to join her, I’d either crush against her or force her to move.
I chose a chair instead, one near enough to her to be conversational but not so close as to impose myself.
Lady Breckenridge was not a woman who flirted or was coy, and she did not like coyness in return. She asked for honesty and was somewhat brutally honest herself. Her marriage had been unhappy, her husband a bully. I suppose she had taught herself to trust cautiously.
“Well, then, what is this business?” Lady Breckenridge asked. “If it is entertaining enough, I might consider forgiving you both the letter and the presumption.”
“It’s to do with Lady Clifford’s stolen necklace.”
Lady Breckenridge stopped short of rolling her eyes. “Good God, I am bloody tired of hearing about Lady Clifford and her bloody necklace. The woman has a flair for the dramatic, always making heavy weather of something—her husband, her daughter’s marriage, the hated Mrs. Dale, her losses at cards, her stolen necklace. If you ask me, she sold the damned thing to pay her creditors and professed it stolen so that her husband would not discover she is up to her ears in debt.”
“I wondered if she might game deeply,” I said.
“She has a mania for it. Sometimes she wins, mostly she loses. Lord Clifford has come to her rescue before, but I gather he has made it clear that she is to cease. Not that she has.”
I thought about the smaller necklace Lord Clifford had sneered over, declaring it one his wife had owned before their marriage. The pawnbroker had told me that a lady’s maid had brought it in for her mistress who was “down on her luck.” Lady Clifford selling her own jewelry to get out of debt explained the transaction, but Lady Clifford hadn’t claimed that necklace to be stolen.
“Grenville and I and our footmen searched every jeweler’s and pawnbroker’s up and down the center of London,” I said. “If Lady Clifford had sold the necklace, surely we would have found it, or at least heard word of it.” As I had with the smaller necklace.
“My dear Lacey, if I wanted to sell my diamonds and pretend them stolen from me, I wouldn’t rush to flog it to a pawnbroker. I’d be much more discreet. There are gentlemen who do that sort of thing for you.”
“What sort of men?” I asked. I’d not heard this, but then I was not much of a card player. I preferred more active games of skill—billiards, boxing, horseracing.
“Oh, one can find them if one knows where to go,” Lady Breckenridge said, looking wise. “Who, for a percentage, are willing to smuggle bits and pieces out of the country while you go on a tear about having them stolen. You pay off your creditors, your husband or wife or father never knows, and embarrassment is saved all around.”
“She might have done such a thing, true. But why then loudly point at Mrs. Dale? Lord Clifford tells me that Mrs. Dale was—shall we say, entertaining him—at the time the necklace went missing. Mrs. Dale would have to reveal that alibi to save herself, possibly in a public courtroom. The world knows that Lord Clifford is carrying on with his wife’s companion, but would Lady Clifford wish to publicly acknowledge it?”
“Lady Clifford rather enjoys playing the wronged woman, I think,” Lady Breckenridge said. “Much sympathy flows her way, though much disgust as well, I am afraid. The way of the world is such that when a man is unfaithful to his wife, it of course must be because the wife has not done enough to keep him at her side.”
I heard the bitterness in her voice. Lady Breckenridge’s late husband had been notorious for straying. While Lady Breckenridge had professed she’d been rather grateful for his habit, because it kept the boorish man away from her, I imagined that she’d faced blame the likes of which she’d just related. Hardly her fault that her husband had been cruel and uncaring.
“I am sorry,” I said.
“I did not say such a thing to stir your sympathy, Captain. It is only the truth.”
I knew that when my wife had left me, no one had blamed me harder than I had myself. I’d blamed Carlotta as well, yes, in my rage and heartbreak. I could have behaved better toward her, but she ought to have told me how unhappy she’d been. And I’d never forgiven her for taking away my child. My girl would be quite grown now. I hadn’t seen her in fifteen years.
The last thought hurt, and for a moment, there in Lady Breckenridge’s sitting room, the pain of it squeezed me hard. I studied the head of my walking stick, the one Lady Breckenridge had given me, as I fought to regain my composure.
“Captain?” she asked. “Are you well?”
Her voice was like cool water in the darkness. I looked up to find Lady Breckenridge watching me, her arms stretched across the back of the settee now, which made her more graceful and lovely than ever. The pose was practiced, probably trained into her by a ream of governesses and her aristocratic mother.
“I beg your pardon,” I said.
Any other lady might express curiosity about my thoughts and why I’d let my attention stray from her, but not Lady Breckenridge.
“You have not told me precisely why you need my help,” she said.
I did not know quite how to begin. This was the first investigation in which I’d found a place I could not go, people I could not question. I was generally accepted among Grenville’s circle if not embraced, because my pedigree measured up even to the most snobbish. Additionally, because I took rooms over a bake shop in a genteelly poor section of town, I was able to speak to the denizens of Covent Garden and beyond without awkwardness. But an aristocratic lady’s private rooms were beyond my sphere, and I doubted Lord Clifford would invite me to return his house, in any case.
“Say it all at once, and I shall respond,” Lady Breckenridge said. She sounded in no hurry.
“Lady Clifford’s maid was released, absolved of the crime,” I said. “But I know Pomeroy. He will harass the household until he finds another culprit to take to trial—a footman, another maid, even Mrs. Dale. I’d like to find the true culprit, and the necklace, before that happens. To do so, I will better need to know the layout of the Clifford house and what happened on the day of the theft. Unfortunately, Lord Clifford has made it clear that I am unwelcome, and I have no idea when I will be able to speak to Lady Clifford again.”
“I see,” she said after a thoughtful moment. “And so you thought to ask me to speak to her for you.”
I could not tell whether she were pleased at the prospect or dismayed. Her tone was neutral, her look direct.
“Discreetly,” I said.
“By all means, discreetly. It would have to be. Lady Clifford and I don’t exactly see eye to eye. Not a pleasant task you thought to set me.”
“You see now why I did not want to presume upon our friendship,” I said.
“Indeed. You do this sort of thing often, do you not, speaking to people whose conversations you would never dream to seek in ordinary circumstance. Such as when you played billiards with me at Astley Close while you looked into the Westin affair.”
I gave her a smile. “Touché.”
“You did not like me, but you wanted information. I thought you a vacant-headed toady of Grenville’s, and I sought to teach you a lesson, but I failed in that regard. You intrigued me mightily, you know.”
“I am honored.”
“Cease the Spanish coin, Captain. I will help you, because you are never interested in a thing unless it is worth the interest.” Her eyes took on a mischievous sparkle.
“But if I am to do you this favor, Captain, you must do me one in return.”
“Of course,” I said at once. “Tell me what it is, and I am your servant.”
“I highly doubt that. I will ask you when I am finished interrogating Lady Clifford.”
I had to wonder what she had in mind, but I was happy that she was willing to help. “I will be obliged to you,” I said.
“Goodness, you must truly be fascinated by the Clifford problem if you rashly promise that. But do not worry. I will discover what I can—discreetly—and report to you. Lady Clifford loves to talk about herself, in any case. I do not imagine I will have much difficulty.”
“Could you contrive to speak to Mrs. Dale, as well? I very much would like to talk to her, but I’ve never met the woman.”
“I will manage it.” Lady Breckenridge spoke with firm self-confidence. “I believe she is an opium eater.”
I stared. “Mrs. Dale?”
“Very likely in the form of laudanum. She has the look—red-rimmed eyes, rather pasty complexion, trembles a bit but strives to hide it. Such things happen.”
Indeed, some people took laudanum for legitimate ailments, as I did when the pain in my leg proved too great, but then they could not leave off when they felt better. Poets apparently produced works of genius in this state. Grenville had an aversion to laudanum, even a fear.
“Tell me, Lacey,” Lady Breckenridge said. She straightened up and sat neutrally, no artifice. “Why are you so interested in this theft? Aside from making certain your galumphing Runner does not arrest and hang the wrong person, that is. The solution is simple. Lady Clifford sold the necklace to pay her debts, she tried to push the blame on her rival, and her maid inadvertently was arrested instead. The problem is ended.”
“Perhaps,” I said. I rubbed my thumb over my engraved name on the walking stick. “But there seems to be more to it. And truth to tell, when I found Lady Clifford in such misery, I wanted to help her. Doubly after I met her husband.”
“Yes, Clifford is ghastly. You are quite the romantic, Captain Lacey, ever one to assist a lady in distress.”
“Sometimes there is no one else to care,” I said. “If that is romantic, then so be it.”
Lady Breckenridge rose, came to me as I got to my feet, and put her hand over my much larger one. “It is one of the reasons I have decided to call you friend.” She rose on her tiptoes and pressed a light kiss to my cheek. “Now, do go away. I must dress if I am to pay a sympathy call on Lady Clifford.”
As I left Lady Breckenridge’s house and walked down the street to find a hackney, I felt anew her kiss on my cheek. It reminded me of other kisses she’d given me, on the lips, as well as the few precious times her head had rested on my shoulder. My mood, soured by the encounter with James Denis and the dressing down Lord Clifford had given us, lightened considerably.
I had the hackney driver let me out at Southampton Street, and I ducked into the Rearing Pony for a restorative measure of good, bitter ale before walking home.
The city was darkening, clouds rolling in to spoil the sunshine and drench us in more rain. The last shoppers were purchasing supper in Covent Garden as I made my way through, and I paused to be entertained by a troupe of acrobats near one corner.
I continued the short way down Russel Street and turned in at Grimpen Lane, and made for the outside door next to the bake shop that led upstairs to my rooms. Mrs. Beltan, my landlady, who owned the shop, stood at her doorstep to watch me approach, looking impatient.
“There you are, Captain,” she called. “I wasn’t certain what to do. A gentleman has called on you, and I didn’t want to let him up in your rooms without you here.” She stepped close to me as I neared her and lowered her voice to a furtive whisper. “He is French.”
Chapter 5
I looked past Mrs. Beltan into the shop and the gentleman there. The man was on the small side, with gray hair cropped close against a fine-boned face. He wore respectable clothing, nothing very costly. I did not know him, but he looked harmless.
“Sir,” I nodded at him as I entered the shop. “We can talk in my rooms above and let this good lady retire.”
The man bowed back to me. “Thank you, monsieur.”
His accent was quite thick, as though he spoke English only when he could not avoid doing so. I stood back to let him pass and tipped my hat to the anxious-looking Mrs. Beltan.
“Do not worry,” I murmured. “The war is over. I doubt we’ll reenact Vitoria in my sitting room.”
Mrs. Beltan gave me a displeased look, but she shrugged her plump shoulders and retreated. I took the unknown Frenchman upstairs and unlocked the door to my rooms.
Bartholomew had already stoked the fire, though the lad was nowhere in sight. The Frenchman moved to the fire and held his hands out to it. The coming rain had turned the evening cold.
“How can I help you, sir?” I asked.
He turned and regarded me with a cool gray stare. Though he was, as I’d observed, a small-boned man, he held himself with dignity, almost arrogance. “I have heard that you are a man to be trusted, Captain Lacey. A man of honor.”
“I make that attempt, yes.”
I closed the door behind me but didn’t lock it then moved to the cupboard for brandy and two glasses. I had no worries about offering my brandy to a haughty Frenchman, because Grenville had given the stuff to me, so it was the best France could supply.
The man stood silently as I poured out and brought him a glass. He passed the goblet I handed him under his nose, then his expression changed to that of a man who’d unexpectedly come upon paradise.
He closed his eyes as he poured a little brandy into his mouth, then he pressed his lips together and rocked his head back in pure delight.
When he opened his eyes, I saw tears in them. “Thank you, sir. This is exquisite. I have not tasted such . . . in many years.” He spoke heavily and slowly, pausing to make a low “hmm” noise in his throat.
“My friend Mr. Grenville has impeccable taste,” I said. “You are an émigré?”
He had the bearing of wealth and breeding, but his cheap clothes, his heavy accent, and the fact that he was in London at all told me he’d fled France long ago, when Madame Guillotine had been searching for victims.
“I am. I was. . . hmm . . . once the Comte de Mercier du Lac de la Fontaine. A long time ago now. Now the English call me Monsieur Fontaine.”
An aristocrat, which explained the bearing. Likely the master of a vast estate, with hundreds of peasants toiling to keep him in silk stockings and the best brandy. All gone in the blink of an eye. I wagered that Fontaine’s estate was now in the hands of a nouveau riche banker from Paris.
My wife lived somewhere in France, in a small village with her French officer lover. I doubted that this man knew her—I was willing to believe he’d fled France when the first danger had flared in Paris, before England and France went to war.
“What may I do for you, Monsieur le Comte?” I asked.
“My daughter, she is . . . hmm . . . married to an Englishman of some respectability. He is a member of White’s club and quite proud of the fact.” De la Fontaine gave me the ghost of a smile. I envisioned a pompous young Englishman pleased with himself that he’d landed the daughter of a French count.
“Do I know him?” I asked.
“It is possible you have met him, but he holds himself above all but the . . .hmm . . . top of society. He is acquainted with your friend, Mr. Grenville.”
Which meant that Grenville at least tolerated the man. If Grenville had disapproved of this son-in-law, he would have found himself eventually pushed out of his precious White’s.
“I can’t speak for Grenville,” I said. “If you wish me to ask him something on your behalf, I can’t promise to. I suggest that you write to him yourself.”
Monsieur de la Fontaine’s smile vanished, and the cold aristocrat returned. In spite of his cheaply made suit, he had the bearing of a leader, one whose ancestors had he
ld their corner of France in an iron grip.
“No, indeed, Captain,” he said stiffly. “I have come to speak to you. About this affair of the stolen diamonds.”
“Lady Clifford’s necklace?” I asked in surprise.
“Not . . . hmm . . . Lady Clifford’s, Captain. Mine. The diamonds that this English comtesse wishes you to find belong to me.”
Thinking it through, I decided I should not be very astonished. At the end of the last century, French émigrés had sold what they could in order to flee France, sometimes giving ship captains everything they had in return for being smuggled across the channel. The necklace had been made in Paris, the pawnbroker I’d spoken to had told me. Everything fit together.
“Captain, may we sit?” de la Fontaine asked.
I noticed his hands trembling. He might once have been a proud aristocrat, but now he was an elderly man, his bones aching with the rain.
“Of course.” I gestured him to the wing chair, the most comfortable in the room and closest to the fire. I refilled his brandy while I dragged my desk chair over to his and sat.
Another sip of brandy restored the comte’s stern but dignified stare. “Do you believe me?” he asked.
“I do,” I said. “The necklace came from your family?”
The count tapped the arm of the chair with his brandy glass. He was angry, and holding the anger in. “The diamonds entered the de la Fontaine family during the time of Richelieu. They were . . . hmm . . . handed down through the generations. Cut, re-cut, set, and reset. They reached their present form in the middle of the last century, when my grandfather was the trusted confidant of the king’s official mistress. She had them set into the necklace as a gift to him. My grandfather gave them to my father, who gave them to my mother on their marriage. When my mother passed, they came to me, and I determined to give them to my own daughter when she married. My only son was killed fighting Napoleon for the English, and my daughter is all that is left of the de la Fontaines.”
He caught my sympathy and my amazed interest. A necklace created by the mistress of Louis XV would be worth far more than the several thousand pounds Lady Clifford had claimed the necklace cost. James Denis’s interest also became clear. Denis would not concern himself with a simple lady’s necklace, but he’d consider one with such a history well worth his notice.
Past Crimes: A Compendium of Historical Mysteries Page 24