A Mystery at Carlton House

by Ashley Gardner

  “And that woman, Poppy, told you to look there,” Grenville pointed out. “She must have known all this, and about Billy.”

  Denis broke in. “Poppy is not a woman who would direct the watch or the Runners to the thieves. But she could direct you, Captain. And she’s fond of Billy. If the thieves had threatened him or hurt him, she’d want her revenge. She sent you here today, did she not?”

  I studied him. “You know much about her.”

  “She is my eyes and ears south of the river,” Denis said, inclining his head. “I am happy she assisted you.”

  “You would have told her to,” I said. “She knew who I was before I ever met her.”

  “I do occasionally tell my agents what they need to know.” Denis settled his hat as the wind picked up, the first drops of rain falling. “Mr. Grenville, I must ask you to please not kill Dunmarron before I get that painting from him.”

  “Is it truly worth that much?” I asked, though I knew the answer. Denis did not waste his time on trifles.

  “It is,” he said. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

  He turned and walked toward the carriages, his guards falling in behind him.

  “Bloody hell,” Grenville said. “I must add to Denis’s wish that you do not give Dunmarron and Godwin over to the Runners before I’ve had satisfaction.” He shivered in the suddenly icy wind. “I believe you about Godwin disposing of the statue in the market. The stall owner did say he looked like a pigeon, and Godwin’s suits run to the excess. But who would have garroted Higgs? I cannot see Godwin doing that. He is extremely missish about anything to do with fighting. Not that he won’t second Dunmarron, as long as he does not have to soil his lily-white hands.”

  “No, I put the murder down to Dunmarron. But …”

  Again my thoughts ran around my head, chasing one another like hounds after a fox. “A man would have to have a cool head indeed to creep up behind another and throw a cord around his throat. The cosh on the head must have been to make sure. A cruel man would have done that. Dunmarron is cruel—and he might have struck the blow. I can imagine him doing it.” I saw it clearly—Dunmarron with his small eyes full of rage and triumph, lifting the bronze equestrian figure and bringing it down on the dead Higgs. The cold began to cut at me. “But Dunmarron does have a calm, collected friend, and I do not mean Godwin.”

  Grenville’s eyes widened. “Oh, good Lord, Lacey, I know what you are thinking, but no. I’ve known him forever. He’s an old friend of Donata’s. They played together as children.”

  “Yes.” My heart began to beat faster, my body, which had fixed in place while I thought, woke with a flow of energy. I’d left Donata alone in the auction room. With Lord Lucas.

  And plenty of other people, I told myself, as I began moving swiftly back toward the Greek-style building, then trying to run, damn my leg. She’d be all right. She was surrounded by people she knew. And still, I ran, holding my walking stick out of my way.

  “Lacey!” I heard Grenville call, and then suddenly Dunmarron was before me.

  “What were you saying to him?” Dunmarron thrust himself in front of me, leaning down to bellow into my face.

  I did not stop, trying to push past him, fear lodging in my throat. My wife was inside that room with a man who thought nothing of deliberately garroting another.

  Dunmarron slapped his big hands onto my shoulders, forcing me to halt. “What were you saying to Denis? I’ll kill you, I swear it. And him.”

  “Was it you who struck Higgs?” I demanded, uncaring of who heard. “After Lucas killed him?”

  Dunmarron’s face went scarlet. “You cannot know that. You weren’t there.”

  He released me but only to slam his hands to my throat. Dunmarron was strong, big, like the bull I’d compared him to. I grabbed his wrists, trying to yank them apart. The air left my lungs as he squeezed, his lips spreading into a hideous smile.

  But he’d forgotten Grenville. Etiquette dictated that a gentleman who’d called out another did not speak to him until they met with pistols to settle their honor. Dunmarron must have thought it meant Grenville would leave me to my fate.

  Grenville, however, was a seasoned fighter, a man who’d traveled into dangerous corners of the world and emerged unscathed. He knew when to follow etiquette and when to abandon it.

  He came up behind Dunmarron and laced his arm around the man’s neck, jerking him backward. Dunmarron’s hands slipped, and I was able to throw off his hold. I brought up my walking stick and slapped him hard in the stomach with it.

  Dunmarron swore and choked, trying to dislodge Grenville, who hung on, rage flaring in his eyes. Etiquette had gone to hell.

  “Go, Lacey,” Grenville said in a hard voice. “I’ll deal with the rubbish.”

  Dunmarron bellowed and smacked his big arm into Grenville’s middle. Grenville grunted, mouth opening for breath, but he did not let go. Grenville glared at me when I hesitated a step, but he was right. He could hold his own, and I needed to find Donata.

  I ran to the auction room, barely noticing the pain in my leg, and in through the back door and around the screen that hid it. The auctioneer was holding up a painting of a still life, another masterpiece from the Low Countries, depicting lemons among glasses of clear water.

  Donata’s chair was empty. She and Lord Lucas were nowhere in sight.

  I raced through the room, pushing aside those who tried to stop my disruption, lords and ladies staring at me in disapproval and anger. I hardly cared. I rushed out the main door and across the portico, down the steps to the mud the carriages had churned up, searching everywhere.

  Nowhere did I see Donata and her ostrich-feathered bonnet, which had not been on her chair. Nor did I see Lord Lucas, with his well-bred, fashionable air that had deceived me into thinking him a kind and sensible man.

  Donata would have gone with him without worry if he’d suggested they step out of the auction room. The two had grown up together, had been friends since they were in leading strings, and she was fond of his mother. She could not know Lucas was a killer. I had been fixed on Dunmarron and had not warned her.

  My lungs burned as I slipped and slid through the mud, panic gripping me, my gaze darting everywhere. She was gone. My breath choked me, my inhalation more of a sob.

  Dear God, if I lost her … I did not give a damn about having sons, heirs, estates, wealth—none of that meant anything if I did not have her. Because of Donata Breckenridge, my life had turned from something distasteful and barely livable to one I looked forward to every day.

  Each morning I awoke knowing I was in her house was all I needed. A look into her room to see her dark hair tangled on her pillow, her face creased with sleep, her eyes fast closed, made my life worth living. The fact that she would not wake for any reason whatsoever until noon at the very least amused me. When she did rise, she’d glide about her chambers in a clinging peignoir, something lacy in her hair, being indescribably beautiful, then drawl at me that she was hardly fit to be seen.

  She was more than fit, and I had demonstrated my opinion in this regard many times since I’d married her. I’d banish her maid and shut the door, and then show Donata just how lovely I considered her. Donata would always flush in surprise and pleasure, as though the fact that I loved her astonished her every day.

  My acerbic, witty, kindhearted, shrewd, and hard-headed wife, a woman who’d survived her first marriage by sheer resilience, had saved my life. I could not lose her.

  She was with a cold-blooded man who covered his deeds by murdering others. How soon would he have killed the Duke of Dunces, who blundered about, ready to give away the game? I had no doubt that Lucas put up with Dunmarron because of his riches—Donata had mentioned that Lucas was skint. How angry it must have made Lucas to watch the profligate Prince Regent flaunting the paintings and other artwork he bought right and left while Lucas had to rely on the charity of his friends.

  Lucas must have decided to take what the Regent had and make him look a bi
t of an idiot in the process. Only he’d not counted on Higgs doing his best to restore what had been stolen, or Billy being loyal to Higgs rather than Lucas. Billy either had honor of a sort, or else he’d feared Denis’s wrath for his part in depleting a collection Denis had helped build.

  Higgs had not only spoken to us and to Spendlove, but he’d duped Lucas and Dunmarron. They would have been furious at him for his betrayal and also feared he’d say too much. And so, he was silenced. Higgs, definitely honorable, had given his life for the sake of the artwork he so admired.

  I couldn’t find Donata. I halted, trying to breathe, trying to think, every part of me aching.

  Silence surrounded me. I’d run into the woods at the edge of the estate, remembering that I’d seen a folly, or thought I had, on the way in. I imagined it was part of the faux village but it was set apart from the others, another piece of bizarre architecture dreamt up by a man who could not decide what to do with his money.

  It was there, among the trees, a round stone building with the inevitable Greek columns, crafted to make it look like a ruin. The building could not be more than ten years old, yet it had a tumbledown appearance, with vegetation growing up against it, so it would resemble the ruins in paintings by Claude Lorrain.

  I stumbled over brush and pushed aside tree limbs, rainwater showering through the woods to soak my hair and coat. My hat had fallen off somewhere, but I hadn’t noticed.

  I rushed up the steps of the folly without bothering to assess the area, looking for weaknesses or danger. I only knew I had to find Donata. All else was immaterial.

  I grabbed the door’s well-oiled handle and slammed it open. The door swung back easily and crashed into the wall, and I rushed inside.

  Lucas was there. So was Donata, her bonnet on the floor at her feet. Lucas stood close against her right side with his arm around her waist, his head lowered to kiss her shoulder, while he held a knife at her throat.

  Chapter 24

  I stopped. Donata looked at me, her eyes round with fear but also anger, vast hurt at Lucas’s betrayal, and apology.

  “Lucas wants me to send for my carriage,” Donata said, trying to sound calm, but her words quavered. “He wishes me to take him to the Continent.”

  Lucas raised his head. His gaze met mine with an expression that was naggingly familiar but I could not place it just now. “You’ve crashed in at the right moment, Captain,” he said in a mild voice. “I was trying to persuade her, but Donata has always been stubborn. But I can better persuade you.”

  The tip of his knife drew a tiny drop of red from Donata’s throat.

  I took a step. “If you hurt her, Lucas, it will be the last thing you ever do.”

  He must have heard something in my tone, because he eased the knife from Donata’s skin. “Call your carriage,” Lucas said. “Accompany us to Dover, and she will not be hurt.”

  “I will accompany you. Donata goes home.”

  “Gabriel, no.” Donata gave me a fearful look—she did not believe she’d ever see me again if I departed with Lucas.

  I fully expected he would try to kill me once the carriage reached its destination, but I did not intend to let him.

  “You murdered Higgs,” I told him. “Because he decided to cease helping you. He knew you weren’t worth hanging for.”

  “He was upset because we had caused Mr. Floyd to be arrested,” Lucas said impatiently. “Mr. Floyd knew nothing about what we were doing, and therefore could not betray us. But Higgs weakened. Then I discovered he’d been giving us copies to flog to people we’d promised would own pieces of the Regent’s collection. He made us look like simpletons, and swindlers. And then he began talking to you. Therefore …”

  Lucas shrugged, like an amiable dandy sorry he’d had to expose a man for cheating at cards.

  “Therefore you killed him,” I said. “Brutally. Dunmarron hit him with the bronze, didn’t he?”

  “Dunmarron is a halfwit,” Lucas said in disgust.

  “You told him to abduct Miss Simmons to upset Grenville.”

  Lucas nodded. “Which worked very well. Grenville ceased caring about the Prince Regent and his petty problems. You didn’t, though.” He sighed. “You should not be so persistent, Captain. It will be your downfall.”

  His expression was calm, his eyes holding nothing but determination to escape to wherever he thought would be safe for him. No remorse, not even much anger, only a touch of irritation that Donata had not instantly obeyed him, and now I stood in his way.

  I realized where I’d seen the similar look. The surgeon had gazed at me with the same focus Lucas took on now—he was a man on his own path, whether he saved lives or took them along that path did not matter. The surgeon was a man without a conscience, I had decided. Lucas was another.

  I swallowed, my mouth dry. “If you release Donata, I promise you will make it to Dover and a boat. I have the means to see to this. Donata can go home. You’ve been friends with her for years—let that mean something.”

  “She could have married me, you know.” Lucas tightened his arm around Donata’s waist. “When Breckenridge got himself killed, she could have turned to me for comfort. I encouraged her to. But did she? No. She had to run to a nobody, a captain clinging to Grenville’s coattails, and give him all that lovely Breckenridge and Pembroke money. You’re her whore, Captain. She straddles you and then she pays you. What sort of a man does that make you?”

  Donata could do whatever she bloody well pleased with me, so the disparagement did not have its intended effect. A man without a conscience might not understand that.

  Lucas could babble insults and filth all he wished. I did not care as long as he moved that knife away from Donata.

  I took another step forward. Lucas again stuck the point of the blade to Donata’s throat. “Do not, Captain.”

  As I froze, Lucas drew the knife downward, cutting a shallow tear in Donata’s velvet redingote. The ripping sound whispered in the silence, and then Lucas rested the blade at Donata’s abdomen. “I don’t have to kill her, you know. I can hurt her instead, perhaps ensure she never gives you sons.”

  Donata’s eyes flicked up, meeting mine. We shared a look, understanding so deep words did not need to pass. Lucas could not know, would never know, that he’d stirred a profound pain that made this danger seem trivial.

  She did not need to nod. Neither did I.

  Donata, who’d remained very still in Lucas’s grasp, suddenly twisted to her left, her momentum pushing Lucas’s knife hand out, enabling her to take a step away from him before he slashed. She leaned down, swept up her bonnet that had fallen to the floor, and slammed the ostrich feathers across his face.

  At the same time, I lunged, and while Lucas batted at feathers, I took him down to the floor.

  Now I had to battle. Lucas was younger than I was by about ten years, and he was strong. I had an injured knee, and he had a knife. We rolled and wrestled, Lucas seizing my throat with one hand, pressing his thumb into my windpipe, while trying to jab at my face with his blade.

  I saw Donata’s skirts whirl by us and her foot kick into Lucas’s hip. He grunted but continued to try to get on top of me and hold me down. Donata took up my walking stick and smacked Lucas across the back with it.

  The impact made Lucas lose his hold on me, which allowed me to grab his knife hand and squeeze it hard. The knife clattered to the stone floor, but this only meant Lucas could use both hands unimpeded. He punched me, wrapped his hands around my neck, and pressed his knee to my groin. He performed all this without changing expression, a man simply doing what he must in order to get himself away.

  We rolled back and forth so rapidly Donata could no longer get in a sure blow. She ran outside, the wind and rain gusting in on us, and shouted. “Help! Help! He’s killing him!”

  I do not know if anyone heard. Donata’s cries continued, and then were suddenly silenced.

  Fear pounded through me. I shouted my rage at Lucas as he pinned me down, and heaved m
yself mightily. I dislodged him for a moment but he was right back on me, the two of us grappling, each trying to gain mastery. Lucas fought vehemently, and we ended up against the open doorframe, the edge of the door digging into my shoulder.

  Lucas had the knife again, which he’d swept up somewhere along the way. He stabbed it at my face. I saw the blade coming down, where it would go through my eye and into my brain. I desperately turned my head, even knowing the move was useless—the knife would slide through my temple into my skull.

  Lucas suddenly rose straight into the air, ripped from my grasp, the knife clattering down beside me. Bones crunched, Lucas screamed, and then his limp body fell back through the door and slid to the floor.

  A giant’s beefy hands reached down and pulled me to my feet. “Like I told you, guv,” Brewster said, setting me down. “Ye get into far too much trouble left on your own.”

  * * *

  James Denis’s men held Dunmarron between them. When I hobbled out of the woods to the clearing in front of the auction house, Dunmarron struggled between Denis’s pugilists. He wasn’t threatening, however, or saying a word. His face was covered with abrasions, his lip split, but there was fear in his eyes when he looked at Denis. He might cow much of the world because of his high position, but Denis did not care, and Dunmarron knew it.

  Grenville’s greatcoat and frock coat were both off and lying in the mud, his waistcoat torn, his cravat bloody, but he had a triumphant look in his eyes. He had his arms folded over his stomach as though trying to catch his breath, but his smile was satisfied.

  That smile fled, however, when he saw me stagger from the woods, supported by Brewster and my wife.

  “Good Lord, Lacey, are you all right?”

  “I’ll mend.” The words came out a rasp. “You don’t look much the better for wear either.”