Passion Regency Style

by Wendy Vella

  Carnaby leaned forward and tapped the edge of it. “That one is a genealogy for the Sanderson family. Pity, that. Entire family perished in a fire in 1806, except for the sister of the marquess, Lady Victoria. Don’t know why it was in the box. The rest, well, I confess I was hoping for something more. They just look like a few bills of lading. Then there is a peculiar list of names, perhaps a pay schedule. I really had such high hopes. A letter to the damn Frenchies or some other treasonable item.”

  “The box belonged to the marquess,” William replied absently.

  “I see. That explains the genealogy, I suppose.”

  A sudden question slipped into William’s mind. “I beg your pardon, but what made you buy this particular box?”

  He chuckled. “I would never have known about it, except I happened to develop an interest in a certain party in the Pochard boardinghouse. She told me about the box. Nearly lost track of it when it was sold for nonpayment of rent. However, thankfully my—this party—sent word. I was able to purchase it.”

  “Then you knew about the previous owner?”

  “Yes, yes,” Carnaby replied impatiently. “A servant or some such who managed to salvage the box after the Elderwood fire. As soon as she—that is, this acquaintance of mine—mentioned the gryphon lock, I knew.” He broke off. A curiously embarrassed look rose over his wrinkled face.

  “The gryphon? What is the significance?” he asked sharply.

  “My son. My son had just such a box made for him before he joined his regiment. Took it with him. Never saw it again until now.”

  What did Carnaby’s son have to do with this affair? Nothing now, if he was truly dead.

  William wanted to ask if Carnaby knew Major Pickering, but he hesitated, not sure if he trusted the old man. Carnaby had known about the box from his association with Miss Letty Pochard. He could have tried to murder Sarah to get his hands on the item. Who could say if these papers were the original contents, or substitutes?

  What if Carnaby had Major Pickering killed to protect the reputation of Carnaby’s son? It was possible Carnaby’s son had been engaged in illegal activities, discovered by Major Pickering during the war with Napoleon, and that Carnaby’s son had deliberately twisted the story to convince his father of his innocence.

  Once the possibility occurred to William, the notion grew more insistent. Carnaby’s son may have committed treason. The pieces fit. Major Pickering had found out and worked with the marquess to expose it. But Carnaby, alone or with his father, had killed the marquess, hoping to burn the evidence along with the family.

  Afterwards, he must have confessed to his father.

  Then Sarah had shown up in London with Carnaby’s box. And Major Pickering had arrived, close on her heels and ready to reopen the case. So Carnaby had acted swiftly to kill Pickering and Sarah so he could get the box back.

  The papers in William’s hands were most likely substitutions and useless.

  Unless Carnaby were innocent and the situation was as he claimed.

  Well, the matter would be simple enough to check. William just had to question Sarah.

  “What corps was your son in?” William asked.

  “The Rifle Corps.”

  William folded the papers and tucked them inside his coat. “Is your son buried in London?”

  “Anthony? No, Clapham. That’s where our family resides. There’s a headstone there, even if nothing lies below. Damn Frenchies—they wouldn’t even let the dead return for a decent burial. They sunk the ship transporting the wounded and dying. Anthony’s buried at the bottom of the English Channel.”

  William studied the old man’s flushed face and glittering, angry eyes. He seemed so honest and genuinely aggrieved over the loss of his son’s mortal remains. The lack of a body, however, was very interesting to William. It seemed to support his theory.

  Carnaby might be hiding his son behind the tale of his death.

  William’s pulse quickened as his mind sprinted over possibilities. He was so close to a solution—he knew it. This and this alone was why he had given up the status and lotus-eater life of the layabout aristocracy. Nothing made him feel more alive than the breath of mystery.

  But more than anything, he wanted to find justice for Sarah Sanderson and her murdered family.

  “One last thing, if you don’t mind. I wonder if I may still purchase the box.” William remembered Sarah’s tale. She had no way of knowing the box originally belonged to Carnaby’s son. Her father had thrust it into her hands, and it was her only possession left from her life before the fire. And judging from the lost look in her gray eyes, it meant a great deal to her.

  Carnaby hesitated, running his hands over the smooth, wooden edges. “It was my son’s…”

  “Surely you have other reminders?”

  “What possible use could it have for you? I gave you the contents.”

  “Sentimental value. A reminder of better days for that servant.”

  Carnaby coughed. He hummed softly, turning the box this way and that before finally handing it to William. “You show a great deal of concern over a mere servant.”

  “I’m being paid well for my concern.”

  “Very commendable, I am sure. Well, unless you have more questions, I am afraid I must bid you good day.”

  William shook his head and stood.

  Still seated, Carnaby eyed him. “Just one more thing—and I shall be happy to pay you for your time—will you let me know if you discover the significance of those papers?”

  After brief consideration, William decided there could be no harm in complying. “Most assuredly,” William replied before taking his leave.

  Outside, he hesitated, turning his face toward the warming sun. The rays soaked into his skin and melted away a fraction of his tension. Carnaby’s house had been several degrees colder than the temperature outside, which was rising rapidly as the sun drifted toward its zenith. The fresh air awakened his wits. He would speak to the survivors of Anthony Carnaby’s unit, particularly the commanding officer. And then he would have another conversation with John Archer.

  Despite the notion that the villain of the piece might be Anthony Carnaby, there was still the potential that Archer had been an ally of Carnaby’s. The fact that Archer and his wife had conveniently been away from Elderwood during the fire was simply too damning to be ignored.

  Not to mention that Archer nearly killed Sarah by throwing a jug of water at her head while someone tried to shoot her. And Anthony Carnaby was in the Rifle Corps. Who better to take that shot from the rear window of an empty townhouse?

  Most likely Archer and Carnaby failed to coordinate their efforts. They had had no idea they were working against each other during their opportunistic, and unfortunately simultaneous, attempts against Sarah’s life.

  His feet moved of their own volition toward Archer’s house on Portman Square.

  “Is Mr. Archer at home?” William asked as he removed his hat.

  The butler took his hat and waited while William fished a card out of his pocket. He laid it on the silver salver the butler held out for that purpose.

  “Yes, sir.” The butler examined the calling card as if he had never seen William before and suspected the calling card to be a fake.

  He wondered briefly if the butler would request he use the back entrance like the rest of the tradesmen. However, after a final disdainful sniff, the servant turned away. He drifted up the staircase.

  William paced restlessly around the foyer. He stopped a moment to study an English pastoral scene of a stream bubbling through a verdant pasture. A particularly stupid-looking herd of Guernsey cows populated the undulating fields. The bull was the only intelligent-appearing animal, although the clump of clover sticking out of its mouth didn’t appear succulent enough to account for the greedy gleam in its eyes. Maybe the dull-eyed cow nearest the stream accounted for the lascivious look.

  “Mr. Trenchard, if you would follow me, please?” The butler plodded back up the stairs
in front of William. He moved at such a glacial pace that William had to pause after each step to keep from ramming into him from behind.

  “Trenchard! What brings you here at this time in the morning?” Archer asked, waving for him to sit on one of the sofas flanking the fireplace.

  It was rude to pay social calls before noon, but William didn’t particularly care. Truth be told, he rather liked breaking that particular rule. It was one of the few times one could be sure of catching the nobility at home and unprepared.

  He drew the packet of papers out of his pocket and set the bundle, along with the box, on the low japanned table in front of him. “What do you make of these?”

  Archer flicked a quick glance at William. Then he scooped up the papers and examined them carefully. He read through them twice before he looked up and noticed the box. “Is that the missing box? Is that where you got these?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where did you find it? Was it still where Sarah hid it?”

  “No. Mr. Carnaby found it after she was arrested.”

  “So you got the box and these documents from Carnaby?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure they were the only contents of the box?”

  “No. However, I’m hoping Sarah can confirm the contents. So what do you make of the papers?”

  “Very little, I’m afraid. A few bills of lading and what appears to be a list of names in a pay schedule. And Sarah’s genealogy. I suppose that’s why my wife’s brother thrust the box into Sarah’s hands. So she would have the marquess’s seal on this document showing her birth.” He sighed. “Not that she needs such proof of her identity. She has the look of the Sandersons—there can be no doubt.”

  “You think that’s all?”

  “Most likely. You must remember the events of the fire. The marquess was trying to save his family and his son’s life. He must have thrust this box into Sarah’s hands in case she became lost in the madness.” He ruffled the papers in his hands. “The invoices and payment schedule just happened to be in there, along with the genealogy. That’s all.”

  Half afraid Archer would throw the fragile sheets into the fire burning behind him, William held out his hand. Archer refolded the papers carefully. He eyed William before slapping the packet firmly onto his palm.

  William sat back and placed the bundle back into the box, keeping a bland expression on his face. If Archer didn’t find the documents important, perhaps they had no value, after all.

  “Did you know a man named Major Pickering?” William asked, his eyes studying Archer’s lean face.

  “Pickering? I…” He scratched the back of his head. His eyes shifted to the right, focusing over William’s shoulder for a moment before meeting his gaze. “I met him a few times at Elderwood. Why? Has he something to do with this?”

  “It would appear so. He was murdered on his way to meet with your niece.”

  “Indeed. Interesting.” Archer’s glance dropped to the maple box, resting on the table between them. “And you got this box from Mr. Carnaby?”

  Was it possible that Major Pickering was Anthony Carnaby’s commanding officer? That would fit…

  “Yes.” William abruptly changed the subject. “Do you remember what outfit Major Pickering commanded?”

  “It’s been over thirteen years, lad. I never knew him that well. One of the Rifle Corps, perhaps. I remember the man wearing a dark green uniform. The Rifle Corps is one of the few that wear that color. One of my nephews was also in the Rifle Corps.”

  “May I speak to him?”

  “I’m afraid not. He died in 1807. However, my niece, Oriana, married a man who may be able to help you.”

  “Is he in London? Now?”

  “Yes. Lord Dacy.” Archer got up and rang the bell. “Let me leave word for my wife. We can go there directly—if that would suit you?”

  William arose. He collected the box and his walking stick, his excitement rising. “Yes, thank you.”

  “Think nothing of it. We shall get to the bottom of this mystery.” His brown eyes gleamed with humorous intelligence. “And you might even come to trust me.”

  “Anything is possible,” William replied lightly, thinking of Sarah. “Even miracles.”

  Far from being insulted, Archer seemed to find this vastly amusing. He chuckled and slapped William on the shoulder before ordering the footman to let Lady Victoria know they were going to visit Lord Dacy.

  After collecting his hat from the butler, William followed Archer outside. With Mr. Archer leading the way, William considered his companion. He was a difficult man to read, and he could only hope Lord Dacy was not involved in the original scandal. There were already too many threads running in too many directions.

  Fortunately, according to yet another disapproving butler, Lord Dacy proved to be at home. They were early. The approved visiting time would not arrive for several more hours, late enough to provide time for even the most somnolent nobleman to escape the tedium of receiving guests in his own drawing room.

  Chuckling at the butler’s expression of distaste, Archer strolled upstairs to a large sitting room as if he were quite at home.

  “Archer!” a very tall, dark-haired gentleman exclaimed as they entered the room. “To what do I owe this honor?”

  Archer pushed William forward and slapped him on the shoulder. “Have a few questions to put to you. A mystery, in fact.”

  A loud sigh escaped Lord Dacy before he focused on William. William was surprised to see a scar bisecting Lord Dacy’s left brow and ending on his sharp cheekbone. The man stood straight and moved easily, so the injury had only affected his appearance. Mercifully, it had not damaged his gray eyes that studied William just as assiduously as he was examining Dacy.

  After introductions, Dacy turned to Archer with a cynical smile twisting his mouth. “You haven’t been gambling again, have you?”

  Archer laughed and shook his head. “No. However, we’ve had a surprise turn up. Little Sarah Sanderson.”

  “Your niece?” Dacy asked, his brows arched in surprise. “I don’t suppose she’s happily married, is she? Since you can’t be overjoyed at the prospect of supervising another unmarried relative. Not if it means you’ll be required to escort her instead of visiting your clubs.”

  Archer drew himself up and frowned. “She is unmarried, and we are delighted. Of course. And it shall have no impact, whatsoever, on my ability to enjoy the comforts of White’s.”

  Turning to William, Dacy explained, “Archer’s wife has a habit of assigning her unmarried nieces and nephews to accompany her husband in an attempt to curb his overly adventurous spirit. My wife was one of the unfortunate chosen ones, until I rescued her. I suppose poor Miss Sanderson will be next. Bound to put a damper on your activities, Archer.”

  “Unlikely,” Archer replied. “And we’re all relieved the girl survived.”

  “Is that your news, then?”

  “No,” William said. “Miss Sanderson managed to save a box from the fire. It contains some papers I’d like you to review. I was also hoping you might remember a man in the Rifle Corps called Carnaby. Anthony Carnaby.”

  “Lt. Carnaby?” Dacy asked, his scar puckering as he frowned. “Yes. I remember him. Why?”

  “He might be part of this mystery,” Archer interjected. “Show Dacy your papers. I still think they’re just ordinary household bills and the like.”

  William withdrew the packet from the box and handed the bundle to Dacy. “What do you remember about Lt. Carnaby?”

  “Excellent marksman with the 95th,” Dacy commented, unfolding the sheets. His lips twisted. “Almost lost a wager to him. But I managed to hit the playing card dead center. His shot was a fraction of an inch to the left. Blew the nose off the queen of diamonds, however.” He chuckled, still glancing through the sheets. “Why?”

  “Do you remember what happened to him?”

  “Yes. I do.” Dacy raised one long-fingered hand and briefly touched the white scar on his fo
rehead. His face grew grim. “We were overrun by the French. I was one of the lucky ones. He was not.”

  “He died?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  “If you were injured badly in the fighting, wasn’t it possible that he was also wounded? That he survived?”

  “No. The men dragged us both off the field. But the doctors could do nothing for him. His throat was cut.”

  “You saw the body?”

  “I saw them stitch him into a shroud to be sent home. Yes,” he replied, his voice harsh. “Is that proof enough? Surely, his family can confirm this. Why ask me?”

  “Sorry, I’m merely trying to understand the situation. There is something odd here—some hidden deviltry,” William said. “Did you know a man named Major Pickering?”

  “Major Pickering? No—not directly. I recall a sergeant, however, who knew him at one time.”

  “And these papers don’t have any significance for you?”

  “I’m sorry, no.” Lord Dacy refolded the sheets and handed them to William. “Do you suspect pay irregularities?”

  “It crossed my mind when I saw the paper listing the names and amounts. What was your experience as far as pay?”

  “Not what you’d believe if that is the road you’re following. We were paid properly.” He stopped with a dark chuckle. “Just too bad the men couldn’t have eaten better under the circumstances.”

  “What do you mean?” William’s blood tingled. There had been invoices for grain in the packet. “Surely you were given sufficient supplies?”

  “Certainly, the officers were. But there were rumors, as you must be aware. And after the war, several men were brought to justice for selling moldered, spoiled grain. You must have read about it.”

  William nodded. “So it’s possible that the extent of the conspiracy was not uncovered?”

  “Possible? Of course.” Lord Dacy pulled a thick, creamy piece of paper out of a nearby writing table. He picked up a quill and dipped it in a crystal pot of ink before tapping the surplus ink off the tip. His dark eyes flickered over William’s face before he started to write. “Here are a few men you may wish to contact. They would know more than I.”