Murder in Grosvenor Square (21 page)

“How can you be so certain?” I, for one, wanted to get my hands on this Mother Mary and shake a confession out of her.

“The criminal classes ain’t like what’s in novels,” Brewster said comfortably. “They ain’t madmen coming up with strange ways to kill a young woman in an old house somewhere. Your basic criminal is a straightforward bloke. Smash and grab. Even Mr. Denis ain’t hard to understand. He sees something he wants; he puts out his hand and takes it. He’s good at the game, but he ain’t complicated.”

“You have a point, but regardless, someone did kill them and set them up to be found as they were. I want to see this Mother Mary and her cohort. Can you arrange it?”

“Mr. Denis can. If they see
me
coming, they’ll duck out the back and be long gone. Mr. Denis is more subtle-like.”

Indeed, Mr. Denis could be very subtle. “Any other names jump out at you?” I asked.

“A few. Gimme some paper, and I’ll write ’em down for you.”

I obliged with paper and pen, and watched Brewster painstakingly scrawl out a short list of names. I took it, wondering if any laid before me in black and white would prove to be Travers’s killer.

After another half hour’s perusal of the reports, Brewster announced he’d return to Denis and request, from me, that he put his hands on a few of these people for questioning. “Better than Bow Street, is Mr. Denis,” he said proudly.

I’d seen enough of Denis’s methods to believe that.

The day had darkened while Brewster and I had conferred. I returned to my rooms upstairs after he left to find Donata preparing herself to go out for the evening.

My wife went out every night, when she wasn’t hostessing a do here. It was the height of the Season, and the dowager Lady Breckenridge was invited everywhere. Hers was a world of soirees with champagne and ices, balls that lasted well into the morning, and visits to the opera and theatre in between. A far cry from the world Brewster and I had been reading about where children had to give in to the sordid appetites of the gentlemen who might well turn up at the society balls Donata loved. The reports had angered me. No wonder Sir Gideon had turned reformer.

I entered Donata’s dressing room after a knock to find her at her dressing table, her abigail fussing with her hair. Jewelry glinted in velvet-lined trays, waiting to adorn her neck.

The abigail, who was devoted to Donata, glanced at me, pushed one final pin into Donata’s complex knot of hair, laid down the brush, and discreetly retreated.

Donata paid no attention to me. She smoothed one curl then lifted a heavy diamond necklace. It was a piece her mother had given her, one that had been in her family for years. Donata refused to wear the Breckenridge jewels or any gift her first husband had bought her.

As she started to clasp the strand of diamonds in the back, I took them from her, closed the clasp myself, then leaned down and pressed a kiss to her neck.

“I grow frightened for you,” I whispered when she did not move. I traced a curl above her ear. “Any thought of you being hurt, or lost to me, makes me … brusque.”

Donata’s gaze sought mine in the mirror. “You are used to giving commands.”

“I am. But I never give a foolish one.”

We studied each other, her smooth face and sleek hair a contrast to my hard, rather weather-beaten countenance. “You are unpolished,” Donata said. “I question whether I married you to remedy that or to remind myself that the world is not a tame place.”

“I’m certain Breckenridge reminded you of the latter quite a lot.”

Her eyes flickered. “
Breckenridge
is now my beautiful son, and my husband is an army captain uncomfortable in my house.”

“I would not say uncomfortable.” I laid my hand over her slender one. “The furniture and carpets are quite soft. Unused to it is closer to the mark.”

“Will you ever grow used to it?”

“You would not like me if I did. I would simply stretch out on the divan and snore all of the time.”

Donata twined my thick fingers with her slim ones, and for a time, we only looked at each other in the glass.

“It is Lady Darymple’s musicale this evening,” Donata said presently. “Signora Carlotti has consented to perform. I sent word that you were unwell and unlikely to attend.”

Kind of her. I was worn out with worry, tired of death and the evil people who dealt it.

“I will attend,” I said. “Perhaps a night of music would do me good. As an old, married man, I can nod off in the back row with the gray heads.”

“You will do no such thing,” Donata said, her brisk self once more. “No need for you to bestir yourself, Gabriel. Lady Darymple will be a success tonight only because of her guest. There will be nothing else to recommend the evening, I can assure you.”

“Yes, there will,” I gave her neck another soft kiss, tasting diamonds. “You will be there.”

I smiled at Donata’s sudden, pleased look and left her to garb myself in suitable attire.

*

“You are cruel,” Donata said as we descended in an hour’s time before a townhouse, this one in Upper Brook Street. We hadn’t spoken much during the short, rainy journey, except for Donata explaining who would be at the gathering and whom I should ignore.

I stood in the wet while I helped her from the carriage and to the door. “Cruel?” I asked. “I thought I was a gentleman of honor.”

“You respond to my anger and jealousy by flattering me shamelessly and melting my heart. Quite ruthless of you.”

Before I could answer, we were surrounded by the other guests. Donata became the lady she was born to be—witty, popular, and in turns charming or biting, depending on her audience or the subject.

Chairs had been set in the ballroom for us to sit in comfort while we listened to the soprano. A pianoforte waited, with a male pianist running through scales to loosen his fingers.

Donata brushed past me as guests began to fill up the room, the feathers of her headdress tickling my nose. “Notice who is
not
here,” she said in a low voice. “And if you stare at me and ask
who
? I shall snub you.”

I glanced over the entering guests in what I thought was a nonchalant way, and saw what she meant. Signora Carlotti sang tonight, and the one guest who ought to have been there—her lover, Lucius Grenville—was strikingly absent.

Chapter Twenty-One

I settled in with the rest of Mayfair to enjoy the soprano, wondering as much as any of them why Grenville had not come. He’d confided in me no reason for staying away, but I’d learned long ago that Grenville was his own man. Though I might be curious, he’d tell me when he wished and not sooner.

Signora Carlotti, a woman with a lush bosom and a quantity of silky curls, stood gracefully, one hand on the pianoforte. She looked in no way distressed about Grenville’s absence and smiled warmly as we applauded her entrance, taking her due.

When she sang, she filled the room with joy. Those are the only words I have with which to describe the sensation. Her voice erased every emptiness, every angry and troubled thought, and replaced it with beauty. I sat, entranced, feeling myself be cleansed.

She finished the first piece with her voice almost a whisper, but a whisper of such strength it was palpable. As she at last dropped her head and closed her mouth, the audience went wild with applause. I clapped until my hands stung through my gloves. Donata, sitting a row ahead of me with friends, wiped tears from her eyes.

Signora Carlotti sang three more pieces, and then a fourth when the room begged her for more. At last, Lady Darymple, a sallow and small woman who looked vastly pleased with herself, told us we must spare Signora Carlotti’s voice.

Signora Carlotti bowed humbly as we praised her, then straightened to greet her admirers.

I had met the soprano once before, very briefly, with Grenville, who remained blatantly absent. When Donata managed to push us through the crush to Signora Carlotti’s side, I saw no anxiousness in her eyes. If she noted that Grenville had not come, it did not worry her.

Signora Carlotti greeted me smoothly when Donata and I reached her, graciously acknowledging our previous introduction. She’d met Donata more than once, and the two began to speak in the rapid, flowing way of women who loved to talk.

I turned to leave them to it, and had my arm caught by a woman I had not seen much of this spring—Louisa Brandon.

“Gabriel, how wonderful to find you here.” Louisa gave me a kiss on the cheek then stepped back, holding my hands as she liked to, to study me. “You look well,” she said, pleased. “Happy.”

We stood in a relative bubble of privacy, the other guests either departing for the next entertainment or waiting to speak to Signora Carlotti. I did not see my former commander, Colonel Brandon, in the crowd, and concluded that Louisa must be here with friends. Brandon did not have much patience with musicales.

“Married life agrees with me,” I told Louisa. “And Gabriella returns at the end of the week.” That thought always lightened my heart.

“We look forward to her come-out. I would not miss it for the world.” Louisa’s eyes crinkled with her smile. “I believe Aloysius will pry himself from the house and attend as well. He was on hand when Gabriella was born, remember?”

So long ago. And yet, the time had passed with disheartening rapidity.

“Gabriella is quite excited about the ball,” I said. “I have … trepidation.”

Louisa’s smile deepened. “Of course you do. You are her father. I remember my father’s apprehension at
my
come-out. I was so innocent, and surrounded by young men, many of them soldiers. He nearly fainted when I said I wished to marry Aloysius, a dashing cavalry captain.”

I sympathized with her father. “I will no doubt be swooning all night,” I said.

Louisa gave me another warm look, appreciating my humor, then her amusement faded. “I heard about the Derwents, Gabriel, and the death of young Mr. Travers. How awful. I went to Grosvenor Square earlier today, and I’m off to see them again. Mrs. Danbury does her best, but even she is not free of the Derwent delicacy of mind. I will relieve her and look after Lady Derwent and Leland as I can.”

“It is good of you,” I said. “They need true friends at the moment.”

I half-expected Louisa to ask me to accompany her, but she touched my cheek. “I will give them your best wishes.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Tell them I will call tomorrow to pay my respects.”

We said our good-nights. I pressed Louisa’s hand, and she went off, signaling to a footman to run for her carriage.

I turned to find Donata near the open double doors of the ballroom. I knew she’d seen my tête-à-tête with Louisa, but as I moved to my wife, she walked away as though ignoring me.

She was not alone. It was a fashion of the time, one I loathed, for gentlemen to devote themselves to a married woman. Ladies and gentlemen who were married to each other did not sit next to each other at suppers, or dance together at balls, or circulate anywhere near each other at events such as this one. To do so would make them laughingstocks, so I had been informed. We would be accused of being tiresome lovebirds and living in each other’s pockets. A husband did not dance attendance on his wife without being mocked.

Bloody nonsense to me. Why the devil should I marry a woman if I never wished to be in the same room with her?

Donata’s two swains were Terrence Berwick, an untitled, but well-connected gentleman, and, to my surprise, Henry Lawrence, the gentleman Grenville and I had questioned at Brooks’s.

Lawrence saw me, but appeared unabashed. I might know where his proclivities lay, but he was enjoying himself playing at being besotted with my wife. He knew the rules, his amusement told me, and no matter what sort of liaisons he enjoyed in secret, here I was the one out of place.

Mr. Berwick stuck fast to Donata’s other side, tucking her hand firmly under his arm. The two men were languidly arguing about who would get Donata an ice and in whose carriage she would travel to a supper ball in Berkeley Square.

I was not to notice, to bury myself with my cronies in conversation or in the card room. If I wanted to go home, I should send Donata a message by one of the footmen, or simply leave. When next I saw her, perhaps a few days hence, I might ask her how she enjoyed the musicale—to make conversation. I should not care what amusements ladies got up to, and instead find a mistress to devote myself to.

I would never be a fashionable gentleman. I intercepted Donata when the two men turned to both procure her an ice, and cut them out.

“Gabriel,” Donata said, smiling. “Did you enjoy the performance?” The arch of her brows told me she spoke of more than Signora Carlotti’s singing.

“I did,” I said, “but I grow weary. Time for me to retire. Enjoy the rest of your evening.” I leaned down, and in full view of the gathering, deigned to kiss my wife on the cheek.

“You will not accompany Mrs. Brandon to the Derwents’?” Donata asked in surprise. “I assume that was what you and she so fervently spoke of.”

“No.” I hesitated. “I mean, yes, that is where she has gone, but …” I knew I ought to go as well, to continue to lend the Derwents my strength. I should say my good-nights and look in on them, helping as much as I could. They needed friends, as I’d told Louisa.

But I thought of the hushed and changed atmosphere of the Grosvenor Square mansion, Sir Gideon weeping in his study, the brittle smile of Mrs. Danbury, the wisp that was Melissa silently moving from her mother’s bedroom to her brother’s. I could not go back there. Not yet.

“They are friends who have been kind to me,” I said, trying to understand myself. “Why do I not wish to rush to their side?”

“Because it is unnerving to watch those you care for suffer,” Donata said, her frankness cutting through the fog of my thoughts. “And the Derwents, unfortunately, are very good at suffering. Go home, Gabriel. Mrs. Brandon knows how to take care of them. She will send word if anything happens.”

“You are saying guilt is a bad master.” I had her hand between mine, holding on, finding a lifeline in her.

“Indeed it is,” she said. “I know you regret that you were not on hand to keep Leland and Gareth from being hurt, but the hard truth is, it is likely you could have done nothing to prevent it. Hovering over Leland’s bedside while you beat your breast will do you no good, nor Leland either. You know Mrs. Brandon well, and you trust her, do you not?”