Ashley Gardner - A Regimental Murder

Lydia had given me a second reason to contemplate it. She had quietly told me, four weeks into our affair, that she believed she was increasing. I was not surprised, we had had been passionate without much restraint. She looked worried when she had whispered the news, as though she feared I would grow angry, or blame her, or end the affair.

In truth, the news affected me strangely. I was glad, and I told her so. She had provided me with an excuse to face what I had so long refused to face, but once confronting these things, I would be free of them. I told her I would marry her.

I would need Grenville's help in preparing the way, and I made my plans to approach him.

One evening, Grenville took me to a performance of an Austrian lady violinist with whom gossip had begun pairing him. Anastasia Froehm would play at a musicale hosted by a French exile who had decided to remain in England even after Louis XVIII's restoration. Grenville obtained an invitation for me, and we strolled into the Comtesse du Lille's house in Upper Brook Street just as Mrs. Froehm began to play.

Anastasia Froehm was not pretty of face, though she had plump arms and fine brown eyes. But when she played, she filled the air with sweetness. She had loveliness inside her, and it poured through her fingers and through her instrument to entrance us. Grenville's eyes gleamed with pride, and a small smile tugged at his mouth.

At the end of the performance, however, he did not join the throng that greeted her, and instead expressed the wish to depart abruptly for his club. I thought this odd and rude, and told him so.

"Nonsense, Lacey," Grenville said as he sent a footman running for his carriage. "I am hungry. We will go to Watier's. The food is tolerable there."

He did not even offer to introduce me to Mrs. Froehmm so that I could pay my compliments. I held my tongue, but wondered. Once inside his carriage with cushions at my back and the sweet scent of wax rising from the lanterns, I questioned him. "Do you tell me that you find the charms of Marianne Simmons far superior to Mrs. Froehm's? I will call you mad and a blackguard if you do."

He frowned. "What devil has Marianne got to do with Mrs. Froehm?"

"Are you not Mrs. Froehm’s paramour?"

He fixed me with a black stare. "I thought you of all people would not believe what you read in the newspapers."

I shrugged. "You escort her everywhere and you have been elusive of late."

He regarded me for a long moment. As I met his enigmatic stare, I realized just how little I knew this man. We had investigated puzzles together, but he showed me only the facets of himself that he wanted me to see.

At last, he spoke. "If I tell you the truth, Lacey, you must keep it to yourself."

"Everything you say to me is in confidence," I said.

"I mean no offense. It is the lady's secret, not mine. I met Anastasia in Italy a year or so ago, and we became fast friends. When she came to London, she wrote me and asked if I'd be her escort, because she did not want to spend her time fending off offers of protection. She wanted to live quietly, and if she was seen about with me, would-be suitors would leave her alone."

"That is no doubt true," I conceded. "But she does not mind gossip pairing your names?"

"Not in the least. She will return to the continent soon, and all will be at an end. She did me a good turn in Italy and I decided I would do her one here. That is all."

I studied him a moment, wondering what the "good turn" was. He returned the look blandly, and I knew that tonight, at least, my curiosity would go unsatisfied.

We did not speak again until we arrived at Watier's in Piccadilly at Bolton Street. Grenville called the food here tolerable, but only because he employed the best chef in the country. Compared to the clubs that served boiled beef and lifeless greens, Watier's, begun by a chef of that name who had worked for the Prince of Wales, was culinary paradise. Deep play was to be found here, but it was the food that drew gentlemen forth from the sanctums of White's and Brooks's. We dined on tender meat and fish and fine wine and delicate bread.

After supper, to my dismay, we also found Mr. Allandale.

I had managed to avoid him, thanks to William, while making my illicit visits to Lydia. Now, in the card room, he turned to us, a fixed smile on his face, betraying nothing of the flash of temper I'd glimpsed beneath his mild facade on our last meeting.

Mr. Allandale was not alone. Two gentlemen stood with him, one older, one younger, obviously father and son. The son could only have been just down from university; his face was still downy soft and lacked the hardness of experience. His hair was pale yellow and trained into fashionable curls made popular by poets and artists. His expensive suit copied Grenville's tastes, and he seemed quite eager to greet us. As I shook his hand, I beheld in his wide gray eyes a vast innocence, one unprepared for the realities of the world.

The father was a baronet, Sir Gideon Derwent, and I found in his eyes the same deep-seated innocence that dwelled in his son's.

Sir Gideon fastened an awed gaze upon me. "You were a dragoon?" he queried. "Good heavens. Did you see action?"

"India and the Dutch campaign," I replied laconically. "Then the Peninsula. Not Waterloo, I am afraid."

They'd be disappointed. Waterloo made one a hero, even if one had remained behind in camp guarding the water sacks. The Derwents did not seem to mind this, however.

Leland, the son, asked, "Did you lead many charges?"

"A good many more than I would have liked. And then back again after we'd run too far."

I'd hoped my self-deprecating humor would break their intense stares. It did not.

"You must have many stories to tell, Captain," Leland said.

Allandale suddenly interposed, his voice smooth. "Indeed, he is a most entertaining dinner companion. I myself was much delighted with his company several weeks ago."

I was surprised he did not turn purple with the effort of the lie. He had not wanted me there. The room had been palpable with it.

Father and son exchanged a look. "Well then," Sir Gideon said hopefully. "Certainly we would be honored to have you at our supper table, Captain Lacey. Perhaps Monday week?"

I looked at the both of them hovering anxiously upon my answer. It would be impolite to snub them, yet I found their admiring gazes a bit unnerving.

I remained silent a moment too long. Leland looked downcast. "Perhaps he will not be free, Father."

Of course I would be free. I had little to fill my social calendar, I could assure them. But Sir Gideon spoke before I could. "We will write to you, Captain, and fix a date."

I could only agree, and after more exchanges of pleasantries, we parted.

Grenville and I moved from Watier's to a billiards room in St. James's Square. Once ensconced in a game, Grenville remarked, "You have just met the most unworldly father and son in all of England. The entire family is like them. All they know of London and life is what they see between their front door and their carriage door. God help them."

"They seemed kind."

"They are. Unequivocally so. To their credit, they are also the most honest beings you will ever meet. If they professed interest in you, it was not feigned."

"Then it would be rude of me to refuse their invitation."

He smiled. "Be prepared to be questioned to death. But they mean well. And you should cultivate them. The Derwents are acquaintances of Sir Edward Connaught. I should have thought of them at once."

That, of course, clinched the matter. When Sir Gideon wrote to me next day requesting my presence at his table on the following Tuesday, I replied that I would come.

The day I was to meet the Derwents, William failed us. I strolled downstairs in Lydia's house at five o'clock to find Allandale just coming in.