“The sun in the Antilles. It bakes into one.” Eden clipped off a salute. “Pleased to see you as well, Sergeant. Good day to you.”
A hackney lingered at a stand on the corner of Bow and Russel Streets, and Eden started for it, me beside him.
“You do not need to see me to the hackney,” Eden said, with a glance at my walking stick.
I disliked that he assumed me feeble, though I knew I could not walk a long distance without distress. My pride had learned that lesson.
“I happen to be traveling in the same direction. I must find my man, and I know he will be at a bake shop around the corner.” I held out my hand as we neared the hackney, and Eden signaled the driver that he’d take it. “My home now is in South Audley Street, at the Breckenridge house. Everyone knows it. Or a message left at the bake shop I just spoke of—Mrs. Beltan’s in Grimpen Lane—will reach me.”
Eden shook my offered hand. “Thank you, Lacey, for not deserting me.”
“You were good to accompany me on my unpleasant errand. I could hardly forsake you on yours.”
A gleam of interest entered Eden’s eyes as he released me. “Breckenridge, eh? I read of the death of Lord Breckenridge …”
“And I married his widow.” I touched my hat. “Well met, Eden, and good day.”
“You’ll not get away that easily, Lacey. I’ll have the story out of you another time.” Laughing, he climbed into the carriage, calling to the driver to take him to the Custom House on Lower Thames Street.
I watched the hackney roll away then continued around the corner to Russel Street, making for Grimpen Lane. Despite the rain, the square of Covent Garden beyond teemed with those shopping, bargaining, and calling out wares. The smell of greens, ripe fruit, and baking bread wafted my way.
Before I reached the narrow entrance to Grimpen Lane, Brewster came at me from the direction of Covent Garden.
“Guv, I have some news …”
“About Denis?” I drew close to him and lowered my voice, though I doubted we’d be overheard above the din from the market. “Spendlove told me. With barely concealed glee.”
“I don’t work for His Nibs no more,” Brewster said, “but I want to know what happened—what lout let a man with a blade close to ’im.”
“I am going in the same direction,” I assured him. “Shall we find our coach?”
HAGEN WAITED for us on Bow Street. I insisted that Brewster ride inside the carriage with me, and he did so with a show of reluctance, though I believe he was happy to get out of the rain. As we bumped our way along the Strand toward Charing Cross, I told Brewster what had transpired in Sir Nathaniel’s office.
“Huh,” was Brewster’s response. “Your man’s an officer and a gentleman, so of course he was let off. If they’d pegged me for the murder, I’d even now be in a cage heading off to await me trial.”
“You are a known criminal,” I pointed out. “Eden has no taint to his name. But I take your point. On the other hand, Sir Nathaniel did send Colonel Brandon to Newgate once upon a time, so your argument does not hold true for all.”
“Beg pardon, guv—your colonel might be gentleman-born, but he’s good at a lie.”
I had observed the same thing. “I’d say he was bad at a lie, as it only helped him get banged up. His wife sees through him, which is the most important thing.”
“Aye, Mrs. Brandon is a canny lady.” High praise from Brewster. “What happened to His Nibs today worries me. No one should have come nigh him.”
“How did you hear of it? That a Runner was informed—particularly Spendlove—does not surprise me, but there has scarcely been time for it to be printed in the newspapers.”
“And it won’t be. His Nibs can’t let it get about that someone attacked him and nearly succeeded in killing ’im. I heard because Lewis—one of his men—came looking for me to tell me.”
“He knew to find you in Grimpen Lane?”
Brewster shrugged. “Don’t matter I’m no longer your nanny for ’im—Mr. Denis knows every move you make. He’d have heard you were headed to Bow Street. Happens I was peckish and went out to the market, and Lewis found me there.”
“What did he say of the matter?”
“Very little. He was inside the house and didn’t see what happened, but His Nibs is angry.” Brewster shuddered. “I want to look in on him, but when he’s angry …”
“I know.” I had witnessed exactly what Denis could do when enraged. He rarely lost his temper and shouted as I did, but he could quietly cause very bad things to occur.
We fell silent as we went along Cockspur Street and Pall Mall, past the bulk of St. James’s Palace then north through the clubland of London to Piccadilly, and up a narrow lane to Curzon Street.
Denis resided at Number 45, a tall house of brown brick trimmed with white. I had seen only the ground and first floors inside the five-story house, whose windows at the top spoke of servants’ quarters.
We saw no sign of disturbance as we descended from the coach. I told Hagen to go home—he agreed only after much convincing. He slapped the reins to the horse’s back and the dark coach plodded away up South Audley Street, soon lost to the rain and mist.
“Let me, guv,” Brewster said as we approached the front door. Drapes had been pulled across the windows, giving us no view inside.
“You think he’ll refuse to admit me?” I asked in surprise.
“You never know with His Nibs. But Lewis will let me in the kitchen if nothing else.”
The front door opened as we stood debating—only a sliver, I noted. The butler, an elderly specimen called Gibbons, who was as cold and hard a man as I’d ever met, beckoned to me.
“He is asking to see you, sir.” The butler’s tones were chilling. “Mr. Brewster, you are to go up with him.” Gibbons turned on his heel and disappeared.
He hadn’t left the door unattended. As I crossed the threshold, four beefy men surrounded me, and one slammed and bolted the door behind Brewster.
Brewster usually waited for me downstairs with his cronies when I visited Denis, or took refreshment in the kitchen, but the stern faces on the men around us told him he’d not be welcome below stairs today. Brewster’s countenance turned sour as he ascended the stairs behind me.
The butler led us to Denis’s study, though I scarcely needed him to show me the way. We entered the spartan room, so different from the clutter that surrounded Mr. Creasey. I wondered if the state of Creasey’s office was a reason Denis kept his study so austere.
Unlike most days when I visited him, Denis was not seated at his desk. Today he paced in front of the fireplace, pointedly halting before his path took him near any window.
A tall, clean-shaven man in his thirties with dark hair in a finely tailored suit, Denis lifted a hand when I entered, his demeanor as cool as ever. However, I spied fury burning in his blue eyes, a rage that few men ever saw, and lived to speak about it.
“Before you ask for details of what happened,” Denis began, “suffice it to say that a man barreled his way past my guards and came at me with a knife. That one.” He pointed to his desk, where lay a long dagger with a slight curve to the blade. The metal was dark with age, the leather on the hilt split.