Ashley Gardner - A Regimental Murder

I forced my lips open. "You did not send for a magistrate?"

"To prosecute him for rape? Who would believe it? I am a married woman, older than he; I should know better. And there are those who knew that Roe could give me nothing. They would say that doubtless my own behavior must have provoked him. What a depraved thing I must be to cause Mr. Allandale to lose his respect for me…"

She was right, she likely would be blamed, I thought bitterly. And Allandale, with his soft-spoken politeness, his gentle smile, would have been viewed as the victim, perhaps even pitied.

I rose to my feet. She looked up in consternation. "I swear to you, Gabriel, I never meant to hurt you. I am ashamed. I have lived with so much shame. What I have done- "

"Is done," I said.

I leaned down and gently kissed the tear that trickled down her cheek. She touched my face with trembling fingers. I straightened, and her hand slid away.

"Go to your daughter," I said. "She will need you."

Lydia nodded. Tears beaded on her lashes. "I am taking her away. Abroad." She smiled a little with a mother's fondness. "She wants to go to Italy and paint. She is romantic."

My lips should have curved into a returning smile, but they would not move. "Give her my compliments," I said. "Good-bye."

I turned and walked to the door, neither swiftly nor slowly.

She must have seen something in my face, because I heard her draw a sharp breath. "Gabriel?"

I did not answer. I reached the double doors, opened one. William, stationed down the hall, came alert.

Lydia's silk skirts rustled as she rose. "Gabriel?" Her slippers swished on the carpet behind me.

I pulled the key from the door's lock, shut the door before she could reach it, inserted the key, and turned it. She rattled the door handle. "Gabriel, what are you doing?" The imperious tones returned, though her voice was still weak with tears. "William!"

I passed the open-mouthed William on my way to the stairs. He started for me, but I gave him a hard look, and he stepped hastily back.

I pocketed the key and started down the stairs. "Let her out in an hour," I said. And I departed.

Fate allowed Mr. Allandale to be out when I called. I knew he was truly out, and not simply "not at home," because I backed his valet to a wall and demanded he tell me where Allandale was. The man stammered that his master had gone out to his club. Which club, the valet could not say, though he looked quite unhappy that he could not.

I took pity on him and went away.

I expected to find Grenville ensconced at his own club at this time of day, but he was in fact at home in his dining room.

Bartholomew's brother Matthias, who opened the door, looked neither surprised nor dismayed when I appeared without invitation, but led me through the quiet stateliness of the hall to the main dining room.

Grenville was sitting at one end of his dining table, with Anton hovering at his left elbow. A maid, hands ready to snatch dishes away as soon as they were dirtied, lingered nearby. As I entered, Anton reached down and, with a flourish, removed a silver cover from a tray. Beneath it lay a small, perfect oval of pudding.

"This is it, is it?" Grenville looked the pudding over, turning the silver tray all the way around. "The grand masterpiece?"

Anton nodded, clearly beyond speech. At his signal, the maid produced a ladle and decanter of brandy. Anton poured brandy into the ladle, then set fire to it by holding it over one of the candles. He poured this burning liquid straight over the pudding, and the whole thing flamed merrily.

I tramped into the room. The members of the tableau started, looked up.

"Lacey," Grenville said. "You are just in time. Anton has just perfected his summer pudding. Berries and custard and cream, he tells me. Flamed without, cold within."

The little fire burned itself out. Anton lifted a silver cream boat, and carefully poured yellow-white thick cream around the base of the pudding. He pressed two raspberries into the pudding, in its precise center. He stood back and let out a sigh of satisfaction.

"I need to find Mr. Allandale," I said abruptly.

Grenville's famous eyebrows elevated. "On the moment?"

"Yes." At any other time, I would have eagerly seated myself and rubbed my hands in anticipation of another of Anton's concoctions, but rage and darkness churned within me, leaving no room for elegant puddings.

"I must find him," I repeated.

"Now?" Grenville said, his voice cooling considerably.

"Yes."

"Lacey," he said with forced patience, "Anton has spent three days creating this."

I dragged out a chair and dropped into it. "Enjoy it, then."

Grenville stared at me for a long time, then gave Anton a curt nod to proceed.

Any other time, I might have found the whole thing amusing. Anton handed Grenville a spoon. With exaggerated care, Grenville scooped up a minute portion of custard, and inserted it into his mouth. He closed his eyes. Anton held his breath. Grenville chewed, very slowly. He swallowed. He remained motionless for a long moment, then he opened his eyes, and sighed.

"Exquisite," he said. "You have outdone yourself."

The maid relaxed. Anton beamed. All was well in Grenville's world.

"Certain you will not have some, Lacey?"

I shook my head. It would have been dust in my mouth. I rose. "Just tell me where to find Allandale. I will go alone if I must."

"No, you will not." Grenville gave his chef a placating nod. "Set this aside for me. I will have it with my supper."

No one in that room was terribly happy with Gabriel Lacey.

Once we were settled in Grenville's carriage, he said to me, "I know you rarely do anything without purpose, usually good purpose. So why are you so eagerly pursuing the very dull Mr. Allandale?"

I told him. I told him the entire story, not even suppressing the bits that wounded my pride. When I was finished, he stared at me in astonished horror. "Dear God, Lacey, if that is true, I apologize to you for my coolness. I ought to have known you would not ask favors lightly." He paused. "Are you certain he has done this?"

"Yes," I said. "I do not think she was lying. But, of course, I will ask him."

He cast me a wary glance, but subsided.

We found Allandale at Brooks's. He was playing billiards with a few desultory members who looked bored in the extreme. They brightened when Grenville appeared.

Allandale looked a query. "Gentlemen?" he asked in his smooth, polite voice.

I wanted to smash my fist into his face right then and there. "A word with you in private." My teeth were so tightly clenched I could barely speak.

His brows flickered. "Of course." He laid down his cue and excused himself from the other gentlemen. They did not look in the least displeased to see him go.

Allandale led the way down a short hall to another room. I came behind him, my fists clenching. Before we'd gone halfway, Grenville stopped me. "Lacey," he said. "Let me just hold your walking stick."

He eyed me steadily, his hand out. I frowned, but slapped the walking stick into his open palm.

Allandale had already entered the little room. I quickened my pace and gained the threshold several steps ahead of Grenville. I turned, abruptly closed the door in his face, and locked it.

"Lacey!" Grenville's alarmed cry came through the panels. Like Lydia had, he rattled the handle.

Allandale faced me, puzzled. The room we stood in was quite small, containing only a table and chair, a small bookcase, and a window. Here a club member could pen a letter or read away from the noise and bustle of the billiards and card rooms.

"I have some advice for you," I began. "Leave England. Today."

Allandale's politeness wavered. "I beg your pardon?"