A Disappearance in Drury Lane (27 page)

When Stubbins spied me upon entering in the dining room, he turned a fine shade of red. His suit was immaculate this evening, though the tight style of it and his leg-hugging pantaloons only enhanced his spindly build.

Stubbins glared at me for a time before he drew himself up and marched over. He was flanked by three men in suits of the first stare of fashion, the shoulders of their jackets padded out ridiculously wide, their collars so high I wondered that they could turn their heads. Their nearly identical costumes might have been comical if Stubbins’ rage had not been so vicious.

Grenville gave the foursome one of his cool, disdainful looks as they stopped before our table. The three gentlemen behind Stubby looked uncomfortable—if Grenville cut them or was seen rebuking them, they stood to lose all respect in their circles.

Stubbins was enraged beyond fear. “Damn you, sir,” he said to me, letting his voice grow loud. Heads lifted, conversations ceased. “How dare you sit here and eat among us? Did you think I would forget?” He had the full attention of the room now. He squared his already artificially squared shoulders and said, “Sir, name your seconds.”

So, Stubby Stubbins’ answer to me humiliating him was not to take me to court or to have me arrested. It was to challenge me to a duel.

Chapter Twenty

Instead of answering, I swallowed my food and took a sip of smooth claret. Grenville calmly laid down his fork and cleared his throat. “His second would be me,” he said, bathing Stubbins in a chill look. “Yours?”

“Chetterly and Danielson.” Stubbins jerked his thumb at two of the gentlemen behind him.

Grenville made a show of extracting a card and carefully handing it to one of the seconds, who stretched out a stiff hand for it. “Call on me tomorrow at three o’clock, Mr. Danielson. We will arrange matters.”

The gentleman who took the card nodded once. Grenville lifted his fork and knife again, cutting into his roast, giving it his full attention. I kept my gaze levelly on Stubbins until he gave me a final hostile stare and turned away with his friends.

“Let us find a better place,” Stubbins said in a loud voice as they exited the dining room. “This one is too
odorous
.”

“Interesting,” Grenville said once Stubbins had gone and conversations began again. “He has come up with a way to punish you without his deeds coming to light in public. I will do my best for you, my friend.”

The role of the second was not only to stand by a duelist and make sure the other party attended and obeyed the rules. Seconds met with each other to set up the place and time and to try to convince the two duelists to reconcile their differences in a less dangerous way.

“Thank you.” I gave him a nod. “But do not worry about me. I have fought duels before and have emerged unscathed.”

Grenville gave me a wry look. “I know. That is what concerns me.”

*** *** ***

I swore Grenville to silence on the coming duel, preferring not to tell Donata until everything was set. If Stubbins fled to avoid the appointment, I might not have to tell her at all.

Keeping secrets from my wife was not the way in which I’d planned to begin the marriage, but some things I would have to be careful about revealing. I was not very worried about the duel, as I was a dead shot, though Stubbins might find a way to cheat. But me planning to stand in the way of a bullet might upset Donata.

Donata, however, was busy with her own concerns for the next few days, the chief of which was readying Gabriella for her come-out. Donata took Gabriella to a modiste to fit her out with an entirely new wardrobe. Considering some of the fantastic ensembles Donata could appear in, I was not easy about this, but Donata laughed at me and assured me she knew how to dress a modest debutante.

Gabriella’s clothes were only a small worry. Far greater was the thought that I’d have to watch young men dance with her, flirt with her, and even propose to her. It bothered me greatly. I’d only just found Gabriella—was I to lose her so soon?

I kept my thoughts from these troubling directions by turning over the problems at hand. I decided to pay a visit to Hannah Wolff’s residence, having pried the direction from Pomeroy. I wanted to speak to her sister, and perhaps gain an impression of Perry and who might have killed him.

Hannah’s sister and brother-in-law, Mr. and Mrs. Holt, lived in what once had been a grand old house near the Strand, now cut in half and let to the middle classes. The remodeling had created a staid, if more practical, dwelling. The door was plain and unadorned, and so was the maid who answered my knock.

Hannah’s sister and brother-in-law went with the house and the maid. They were a plain, quiet couple, both of them small in stature and tending toward stoutness. I had a thought that perhaps Mr. Holt had murdered Perry in order to protect Hannah, but upon meeting him, I was not so certain. He’d never be mistaken for me, if Mrs. Carfax had seen anyone at all. Additionally, I could not imagine this gentleman with the stooped shoulders and soft belly easily beating Perry to death. Perry had been on the short side but strong. I remembered him kicking my ribs with great force. The ribs had healed, but the stiffness remained.

Hannah’s sister had hair turning from gold to gray, which she wore bundled under an old-fashioned mobcap, a few wisps of hair floating loose. Mrs. Holt offered me tea, which was served by another maid, this one half bent with rheumatism. The maid, the sister, and the brother-in-law looked surprised when I helped the maid with the heavy tray.

The two were devoted to Hannah, her sister said when the maid had gone. Such a tragedy about her sight. She’d been the best actress in the world—even Sarah Siddons was a rough-voiced upstart compared to Hannah. Of course Mrs. Holt and her husband took care of Hannah now, and at least Hannah could continue her work in the theatre, which she loved. John Perry had been a horrible, sneering man, and she was well rid of him.

They did confirm that on the night Perry met his death, Coleman had brought Hannah home at half past seven, and they’d all taken supper. Coleman hadn’t departed until almost eleven, after which Hannah had gone to bed.

Mr. and Mrs. Holt were kind people, if somewhat dull and fixed on their favorite topic, Hannah Wolff. I politely drank the tea, though I preferred coffee, and ate some overly sweet cakes. They remembered courtesy and asked me about myself and my life in the army, though it was clear they had little interest.

I took my leave fuller of tea and cake and with few ideas about Perry and his role in all this.

Grenville invited me to his house that evening, having had his meeting with Stubbins’ seconds about the duel. Stubbins had requested that we postpone our appointment until Lady Day, saying he had business to take care of at his estate. Grenville’s tone when he relayed the information to me told me what he thought of Stubbins’ courage.

“He stated that not meeting until March would give you time to put your affairs in order.” We were ensconced in Grenville’s sitting room, supplied by Gautier with brandy and cheroots. “And he is aware that you are newly married and is generously allowing you to say good-bye to your wife.” Grenville took a pull of the cheroot he was smoking then drank a mouthful of brandy. He exhaled the smoke. “He is rather confident of his chances of potting you.”

I raised my own lit cheroot and sucked smoke into my mouth. The cheroot, blended with the trickle of fine brandy, produced a heady, smoky, rich taste. “He might be. But I will shoot him in the shoulder, and honor will be satisfied.”

“I rather think he’s asking for the extra month or so to practice. Have a care, Lacey.”

“I will simply have to get my shot off first.”

Grenville laughed, but I saw the worry in his eyes. Truth to tell, I did
not
want Stubbins to shoot me, not now when my life was starting to be good for me. If I killed him, I’d be arrested for murder, and I did not want that either. But the upcoming battle did not frighten me—I would deal with it when I saw the ground, the weapons, and how shaky Stubbins was or was not.

Matthias entered at that moment and handed me a piece of paper. It was a note, not sealed and had no direction. Hand delivered, Matthias said, and the messenger was waiting.

The letter bore one line on the entire sheet of expensive paper—typical of Denis.
I have news. Bring Grenville.

I passed the note to Grenville and nodded at Matthias. “Tell the messenger we’re on our way.”

“Not so much a messenger as an entire carriage,” Matthias said. “Do I tell the coachman to wait?”

“Yes.” I tamped out the cheroot with regret. I’d been enjoying the indulgence. “We will be down directly.”

*** *** ***

Denis had sent his luxurious coach, empty, no doubt to ensure we came to him at once. One of his pugilist footmen helped me in, then Grenville, and we pulled off through a rather sharp rain south toward Curzon Street.

As we halted in front of number 45, the rain increased, bringing with it a chill mist. This was a good afternoon to be inside with a fire and more brandy, not rolling about London, no matter how comfortable the conveyance.

The interior of Denis’s house was warm, even in the halls and stairwell. Denis had told me not long ago how he’d grown up on the streets of London, sleeping in dung carts for warmth. Now that he could, he chose to live in extreme comfort.

We were ushered into his study. Most of the room was still intact, though the wall near the fireplace had burned completely. Dust cloths covered the floor, and new paneling leaned against the blackened bricks, waiting for workmen to install it.

There was no sign of any workmen now, nor of Ridgley. Denis met us alone with only Brewster as a bodyguard.

Denis, as composed and well-groomed as ever, was sitting at his desk when we entered. The only souvenirs from the disaster with Ridgley were a fading bruise on his cheekbone and more coldness in his eyes.

“It is a tricky business,” he said after we’d seated ourselves, “prying information from a man who neither fears death nor has anyone in the world he cares about. One’s threats have little teeth if the man has no hidden terrors.”

“Are you saying he told you nothing?” I asked.

“I am saying one has to search more diligently for the threat that will pull out the necessary information. I did find that leverage, and he did finally speak.” He paused. Denis wasn’t one for dramatics, but I daresay he enjoyed making Grenville and I wait for his next words. “The person who hired Mr. Ridgley was not a man, but a woman.”

“Ah.” I said.

“A woman?” Grenville sat forward. “Good Lord, that’s monstrous. Lacey, why do you not seem more surprised?”

“Because nothing about this case surprises me anymore,” I said. “And Mr. Kean told me I should be looking for a rival, another actress, either in her company or at another theatre. Mrs. Collins is very successful after all.”

Denis waited until we’d quieted again. “The reason I bade Mr. Grenville join you is that while Mr. Ridgley would not give up a name—I suspect he never knew it and never asked it—he did describe her.” Denis fixed Grenville with a look. “She had blond hair, large blue eyes, a pointed face, and could make herself look younger than she truly was. He described the gown she wore as something he’d never seen before—a red dress fairly plain but with large panels of painted cotton about the bottom, depicting people in a desert land.”

My lips parted. I’d seen Marianne in that very frock last summer—Grenville took Marianne to the most exclusive modiste in London, and he had provided the cloth, which he’d purchased a few years ago during his last trip to the Ottoman Empire. The cloth had been hand-woven for him—there could not be two gowns the same.

Grenville was out of his chair before Denis finished speaking. Brewster took a step toward him, but Denis signaled Brewster to still.

“He lied to you,” Grenville said, his face red. “He must have.”

“I do not think so,” Denis said. “I am skilled at interrogation, Mr. Grenville. He described Miss Simmons to the letter, and I doubt he could have invented the details of her garment.”

“Let me speak to him,” Grenville said. “If he’s not lying, he’s at least mistaken.”

Denis shook his head. “I am afraid it is no longer possible to speak to him.”

Meaning Ridgley was dead. Though I could not be sorry for the world to lose such a man, Denis’s finality sent a chill through me.

“I agree with Grenville; it is absurd,” I said. “Marianne Simmons would not hire a murderer to deliver a dangerous device to Mrs. Collins. Marianne had given up the theatre; she had no reason. The theatre never meant as much to her as it does to Mrs. Collins or Mr. Kean.”

Or perhaps Marianne had simply been skilled at hiding her emotions. When Marianne and Abigail Collins had come to London to try their luck, Abigail had risen quickly while Marianne had been shoved into far lesser roles, for far less money and very little fame. Such a course of events might make any woman bitter and jealous.

Still, I could not believe it of her. I said, “Why then would Marianne come to me and beg me to help her find Mrs. Collins?”

Even as I said the words, I knew what Denis’s answer would be. “To try again? Ridgley did not supply me with her motives, gentlemen. He neither knew them nor cared. He only described his client.”

“What of the man?” I asked. “The nervous gentleman who took the device to the delivery firm?”

“Ridgley had no idea who he was either. The man picked up the device from Ridgley and paid him the second half of his fee. Ridgley never saw him or the woman again.”

“Did he tell you how much the fee was?”

“One hundred guineas,” Denis said. “Half when Ridgley was hired, half on delivery. The woman counted out the coins readily enough, he said.”

Grenville looked ill. His face had gone gray, his eyes pinched with white. He supplied Marianne with plenty of money these days, pouring cash into her hand almost as quickly as she could spend it.

“He had to have been mistaken,” Grenville said, his voice rasping. “There must be another such woman. Marianne cannot have done this.”