A Regimental Murder (20 page)

"It is hardly your fault." My mouth hardened
as I remembered a long-ago heated argument with Brandon. "No matter
what others might say."

Brandon had once dared complain in my
presence that Louisa had sorely disappointed him in the matter of
children. He had said bitterly that she could not come up to
scratch, and a childless wife was no wife at all. I understood
later that he had been as hurt as Louisa by her latest miscarriage,
but at the time, all I had seen was the misery in her eyes and the
blatant blame in Brandon's. I'd lost my temper and said that
perhaps it was not the receptacle that was to blame, but the
seed.

That moment, I believe had begun the end of
our friendship. Our feud had later taken a darker, grimmer twist,
but my words that day had never been quite forgiven.

Louisa toyed with the fringe of her shawl. "I
went to Aline," she said. "She advised I go away, somewhere quiet,
where I could be alone. I should have nothing that would upset me,
she said, and Aloysius was certainly upsetting me." She looked up,
a ghost of a defiant glint in her eye. "Agreeing to testify that
Colonel Westin had been inebriated and committed murder. Rot and
nonsense. I told him no good would come of such lies, but he can be
so stubborn!"

She did not need to tell me of Brandon's
stubbornness.

"I wondered how you had responded to his
promise. I ought to have known you would see the thing for what it
was."

"Of course I did," she said firmly. "But he
would preach to me about preserving the honor of the regiment. The
Forty-Third should not be shamed. Colonel Westin had agreed to take
the blame alone so that he could be singled out and punished. Of
course Westin did not murder that captain."

"I know."

"I know you know. I have read the newspapers.
You are in this up to your neck. I hope you came prepared to tell
me everything."

I raised a brow. "If you have read the
newspapers, then you already know."

She gave me a deprecating look. "Do not tease
me. I am not in the humor for it. The newspapers print what they
like, and you know it. I want the truth, Gabriel." She slid her
hand from mine and folded her arms. "And I do mean all of it. I
read that man Billings's salacious hints about you and Mrs. Westin.
Well?"

A day ago, they would still have been lies.
Today, I felt my cheeks grow warm.

"So," she said softly. "Not all lies."

"But the truth is not what he makes out," I
said. "Fortunately, Billings's stories are so outrageous they can
be laughed off as improbable."

She would not let me off so easy. "What is
the truth, Gabriel? Stop prevaricating and tell me at once."

I hid a smile. I was pleased that I had
sparked her interest. I was willing to let her scold me if doing so
would soothe her.

I began my tale with the moment I'd caught
sight of Lydia Westin making her way through the rain to the
half-constructed bridge. I told of Westin's death, and Lydia's wish
that I clear his name. I told her of Pomeroy's investigation, and
how Grenville and I had journeyed to Astley Close and met Lord
Richard Eggleston and Lord Breckenridge. I told her about all the
events there, not leaving anything out, including the card game. I
told her of Breckenridge's death, Brandon’s sudden appearance, the
inquest, and my speculations there.

"Lady Breckenridge seemed not in the least
upset by her husband's death," I concluded. "Almost as though she'd
been waiting for it."

"Some women do spend their marriages waiting
for their husbands to die. Seems a rather uncomfortable
existence."

"I doubt she would have had the strength to
break his neck," I mused. "Though she could have caused him to
fall. Or an accomplice might have killed him for her." I sighed. "I
see too many accomplices in this. Lydia Westin could have stabbed
her husband, but she could not have carried him to bed, were he not
already there. Lady Breckenridge never would have been able to
fling her husband over the back of a horse and drag him to the edge
of the rise and pitch him over. No, a man, every time, has done the
brute work of it."

Louisa touched my hand. "But that man was not
my husband."

I ought to have known she would have guessed
my fears. "I am afraid I cannot put the suspicion from my
mind."

She shook her head. "No, Gabriel. Aloysius
would not have killed him, even accidentally." She gave me a quiet
look. "You know he would have made certain it was you, first."

"Hmm. That is comforting."

"But nonetheless true."

"You might be right. That still leaves us
with an appalling number of suspects."

Her eyes narrowed. "Yes, Mr. Spencer and his
brother, to name two."

"And Eggleston. And this Major Connaught,
whom I have not yet met."

She levered herself up on the divan, as if
determined to leave her sagging posture behind. "Aloysius is
acquainted with him. Ask him to introduce you."

I smiled mirthlessly. "Your husband is more
likely to give me a punch in the jaw than help me. If he discovers
that Denis told me where you were instead of him, he will have
apoplexy." I sobered. "Why did you ask Denis not to tell him?"

Two spots of color appeared on her cheeks.
"Because I am not yet ready to face him. My return will be stormy,
I know that. I am not yet strong enough for it."

I took her hand in mine again. She rested it
there limply. "When you do return, would you like me to go with
you?"

"No," she answered quietly. "It must be
between me and him."

I nodded. I hated to let her face him alone,
but I knew she was right. She would win, but it would take much
strength to do it. The last time I'd seen her face him down had
been the day I'd lain before them both, drunk with opium, my leg
shattered, and she had discovered what he had done. I had laughed,
far gone on the drug and pain when she had turned on him, furious
and shocked. I had laughed, unable to stop, until I'd wept.

She abruptly withdrew her hand and tried to
sound bright. "I was quite pleased to meet your Mr. Denis. An
interesting man. I was at last able to tell him what I thought of
his treatment of you last spring."

I raised my brows. "Good lord. I would dearly
have loved to have heard
that
conversation."

"We were quite civil, do not worry. I found
that we agreed that you were often not as prudent as you might
me."

"I will not forgive him for dragging you into
this," I said.

"I, on the other hand, am pleased he called.
I had not realized how much I missed you, my friend, until he
offered to send you to me. And then I knew I missed you sorely! To
speak to you, to advise you on your latest conundrum, I knew I must
do that."

"Thank you for letting me come."

Her fingers were cool on mine. "You comfort
me. You cannot know how much."

We shared a look. Her eyes were gray as
winter skies.

"You have comforted me so often," I said
softly. "How could I not return the favor?"

The clock on the mantel struck the hour. I
caressed the backs of her fingers. She looked swiftly away and
withdrew her hand.

"About Aloysius," she said.

I sat back. "Please do not lecture to me
about reconciling with him, Louisa. His actions this past week have
put reconciliation further away, if anything."

"If he did not care for you so deeply, you
could not hurt him so much."

I folded my arms. I was not ready to feel
great depths of sympathy for Aloysius Brandon. My last encounter
with him had all but unraveled our tense politeness. The next time
we met, the gloves would be off, much like they'd been when I'd
boxed Breckenridge.

"I think you misread him," I said.

"No, I think you do. I still remember what he
was like when I first met him. He was a great man, full of fire and
able to inspire that fire in others. You felt it."

"Yes," I had to say.

"The fire has dimmed a little, and
disappointment has tarnished him. But it is still there, Gabriel,
deep inside. He is a man others will live for. That is the man I
stand by."

I could not argue with her. When I'd first
met Aloysius Brandon, I had been rather dazed by him. I had just
reconciled myself to go on living with my martinet father until he
died, bearing his tantrums and his beatings, my life bleak and
predictable. And then this man, this astonishing man, had told me I
could have a life, a career, honors if I wanted them. All I had to
do was follow him.

He had compelled me to return to my father,
tell him I had volunteered in the King's army, and that I, his only
son, was leaving him. That interview had become eight hours of
stormy shouting, violent threats, and broken furniture. In the end,
I'd flung myself from the house, vowing never to enter it
again.

I'd joined Brandon, who had listened with
sympathy to my woes. Later, just before we embarked on the ship
that would take us to India, he had introduced me to his bride,
Louisa.

Life had not been kind to her. I clasped her
hand again. As she chatted to me of the boardinghouse and the
people she had met here, I wished with all my heart I could change
that for her.

* * * * *

Chapter Sixteen

I spent the following weeks in an odd mood.
On the one hand, I could not shake a feeling that I was
ineffectual, a spinning wheel going nowhere. The identity of
Westin's murderer eluded me, as did evidence of Captain Spencer's
killer. Nor was I any closer to proving who had murdered
Breckenridge.

I had not seen or spoken to Lord Richard
Eggleston since the incident. I had tried on two occasions to make
an appointment with him, but was told firmly by his secretary that
he was seeing no one while mourning the death of his friend.

I likewise had no luck questioning Brandon
about events in Kent. He refused point blank to see me. He once
shut the door in my face himself, and I could only leave his
doorstep, muttering choice curses under my breath.

Grenville and I met occasionally to discuss
things, while Anton brought us dishes both unusual and delicious.
Grenville had tried to meet the elusive Sir Edward Connaught, but
he had not been able to find the man. Connaught had left town for
the summer, the caretaker of his London house had informed
Grenville. Letters to his country house went unanswered.

The newspapers, at least, had tired of
taunting me and moved on to bread riots in Seven Dials. London grew
hotter still, and I slept with my windows wide open, praying for a
breeze or cooling rain.

On the other hand, my mind was much relieved
by knowing Louisa was safe. My heart ached for her sorrow, but as
promised, I said not a word to her husband, a promise made easier
by his refusal to speak to me.

And then, I had Lydia. While part of me
puzzled over her husband's past and berated me for not knowing the
answers, the rest of me rejoiced in her.

She was a lady like no other. I spent
countless time tangled in her black hair, touching her skin,
breathing her in. Her smile made all the hurt go away, even deep
hurts that had tucked themselves into my heart for years.

I do not know if I soothed her as she soothed
me, but when she kissed me, her lips were gentle and warm, and when
she slept beside me, her breathing was deep and even, without
distress.

William aided and abetted our secret affair.
Because she was newly in mourning, Lydia did not go to the opera or
theatre or balls, such places that lovers might meet, and in any
case, it was high summer and entertainments were few. We met in the
afternoons, lying together in the sunlight of her bedchamber,
dozing in the white heat while carriages rumbled past in the
street. Climbing roses bloomed at the window then wilted in the
heat and dust.

William ever made certain that the other
servants were well occupied with duties below stairs before Lydia
and I ascended to her rooms, or I departed later. He delivered
Lydia's letters to me and took mine to her--we exchanged billets
doux like cozy lovers in a farce. He performed these errands with
childlike glee, seemingly happy that Lydia and I were conducting a
tawdry liaison.

She and I were the tenderest of lovers, even
going so far as to exchange tokens and locks of hair. She had given
me a ribbon to wear inside my coat and I had given her one of my
handkerchiefs. She wore it about her person, she assured me with a
sly smile, but would not tell me where.

She purchased a small enamel snuffbox for me,
blushing when she presented it, saying that she had no idea of an
appropriate gift for a lover. I kept it with my most prized
treasures, and then scraped money together to buy a thin gold chain
for her slender ankle.

Even Billings let us alone. I encountered him
only once, while hiring a hackney in Hanover Square to take me home
early one evening. He emerged from a bakery not far from me, a loaf
under his arm.

"Ah, Captain," he hailed me. "Have your feet
firmly planted under the Westin table, do you?"

"I will have my foot firmly planted on your
backside if you do not go away," I answered. He only laughed and
moved on.

My investigation into the murder at Badajoz
continued, but slowly. Eggleston refused to see me; Breckenridge
was dead and could tell no more tales. Grenville was, of course,
making vain attempts to contact Sir Edward Connaught. I met with
the Spencer brothers again, but they had not been able to convey
much more to me. John Spencer was particularly surly.

But for Lydia, I would have found those
summer days hot and frustrating.

I did not return to see Louisa, much as I
wanted to. She needed to heal, alone, she'd said, and I would
respect that. But I did want very much to ask her advice on one
matter. As my affair with Lydia deepened, I seriously contemplated
the step of marrying her.