If Bartholomew was disappointed that he'd had to exchange his comfortable rooms in Grenville's lavish mansion to the cold attics of Grimpen Lane, he made no complaint. He went about his duties cheerfully, whistling a tune as usual.
I wrote my friends that I had returned to Grimpen Lane, and the next day, letters began arriving. Lady Aline wrote of her delight at my return then made it clear that she meant for me to grace her gatherings the remainder of the season. Her letter ended with a veritable schedule of card parties, soirees, at homes, and garden parties certain to send fear into the heart of the sturdiest male. I sincerely hoped that Grenville would counteract it by taking me along to the more masculine pursuits of boxing and horseracing.
Lady Breckenridge also sent me an invitation, in the form of a personal letter, to listen to a new poet, a shy young man who needed introduction to society. She would have a gathering at her house to ease him and his wife into the right circles. She would be pleased if I would attend, and she assured me I would enjoy his poetry. "It is exquisite," she had written, "rather like Lord Byron, so intelligent and rich, without the bitterness or the airiness of the frivolous Mr. Shelley."
I had begun to realize that Lady Breckenridge, for all her enjoyment of flirting with scandal, had fine taste and the ability to locate it in obscure places. She almost had a nose for it, like a hound who could find the choicest grouse lost in the reeds.
I responded, telling her I would be most pleased to accept.
I also received a packet from Rutledge. To his credit, Rutledge had paid me in full for the three weeks I'd been in his employ. My heart lifted slightly. I could certainly use the funds.
His letter, brief and gruff as usual, said he'd found another secretary, thank you very much. "The new fellow has said that he found everything in order. Despite your shortcomings, he tells me you were somewhat efficient. Rutledge."
I tossed Rutledge's letter aside, not surprised at his tone.
More significantly, I also received, later that day, a hand-delivered message from James Denis.
My pulse quickened as I broke the seal and opened it, and still more when I read the words.
"I found Jeanne Lanier and had her brought back to London. She is more than willing to speak to you and your magistrate. Please attend us this evening at six o'clock."
I folded the letter, grimly cheerful, and ordered a hackney to Curzon Street.
Chapter Nineteen
Jeanne Lanier looked fresh and neat when I greeted her in the front drawing room of Denis' house. Her dark hair was sleek, her dress clean, in no way betraying that she'd fled to Dover and been dragged all the way back by Denis' men. Her face, however, was lined with worry.
Like the rest of his house, Denis' drawing room was elegant, austere, and cold. Jeanne Lanier rose from a silk covered settee as I entered. She looked quite surprised, then relieved, to see me.
"Captain," she breathed.
I bowed to her. "Madam. Are you well?"
She nodded, though her eyes flickered nervously. "Quite well. Mr. Denis has been courteous."
"Indeed, Mr. Denis can be very courteous," I agreed.
The corners of her mouth trembled. "I do not quite understand why I have been brought here. Am I being arrested?"
"Not at all. I asked Mr. Denis to find you. I wagered that he could more quickly than the Runners, and I was right."
She looked confused. "You asked him?"
I gave her a nod. "You see, I believe Frederick Sutcliff murdered the groom Middleton, as well as the tutor, Simon Fletcher, and attempted to murder Lucius Grenville. But I have no evidence of this to present to the magistrate. Sutcliff's father is a rich and powerful man. If I have no proof, how difficult would it be for him to convince the magistrates that I am either a madman or persecuting Sutcliff for my own ends? However, you can provide me with just the evidence I need to bring about his conviction."
Her face had gone white during my speech. "I see."
I stepped closer to her. "If you help me, I can help you. I have a friend, Sir Montague Harris, who is a magistrate. He is here. If you tell him the truth, he has promised to believe that Sutcliff coerced you and concede that you are not at fault in this matter."
Jeanne sat down abruptly. Her pretty face was strained. "Captain Lacey, I am French, I am a woman, I am alone in the world. I am not a fool. A magistrate will have no sympathy for me."
"He will," I assured her. "He has promised this, as a favor to me."
She gaped. "Why? Why should you ask him to spare me?"
"Because," I responded, my voice hard, "Frederick Sutcliff stabbed Grenville and I want him arrested. And I believe that you helped him because you were dependent on him and had no choice."
Her gaze fell, her dark lashes brushing her cheeks. "I had a choice," she said softly. "I could have left him, or betrayed him."
"Then where would you have gone?"
She would not look at me. "I do not know. I do not know where I will go now. You have narrowed the choices for me."
"He is a murderer," I said.
She lifted her head, and I saw a hardness in her eyes that matched the hardness in Marianne's. Both women had to grasp for their survival; Jeanne Lanier simply did it with more grace. "If I will not speak, then I face possible arrest for helping him. But if I betray him, then I betray myself. What man will hurry to protect me if he knows I will not remain loyal?"
I allowed myself a smile. "Gentlemen, madam, can be amazingly obtuse."
I remembered sitting in the shabby parlor in Hungerford while she conversed with me. In that hour, she had made me feel as though I were the only person in the world who interested her, the only person with whom she wished to be. She had a gift for making any man she faced believe that. I was willing to wager that she could make a man believe that however much she'd betrayed Sutcliff, she'd never betray him.
She met my gaze but did not return the smile. "Well, Captain, I will see your magistrate. I do not love Frederick Sutcliff, and what he has done is abhorrent to me. I will speak."
"Thank you," I answered with sincerity. "I will see to it that you do not regret it."
She smiled at me then. I was struck again by her gift, and I found myself wishing that I could personally ensure that she never regretted anything in life again.
Instead of saying anything so foolish, I bowed to her, then left the room to summon Sir Montague.
Sir Montague Harris seemed to be enjoying the novelty of an invitation to the house of James Denis.
He limped into the drawing room and seated his bulk in the chair a footman brought forward for him. The footman arranged a footstool for his gouty leg, then poured out a glass of port to place at his elbow. The footman poured port for me as well, and offered Jeanne a glass of lemonade, which she declined.
The same footman also assisted Matthias and Bartholomew in settling Grenville. I'd known Grenville would be furious if I did not let him attend the interview with Jeanne Lanier, and so I'd sent for him. I also believed that he deserved to hear the truth. Sutcliff would have killed him if he'd been able.
Grenville sat back in his chair, I supposed calling upon his sangfroid to hide the fact that he was in pain. Dark patches like bruises stained the skin under his eyes.
Denis himself arrived last. He nodded coolly to me, took the port his footman handed him, and sat in a straight-backed, armless chair, the least comfortable-looking seat in the room.
"Mr. Denis," Sir Montague beamed. "I compliment you on your lovely home."
Denis gave him a nod, irony glinting in his eyes. Sir Montague turned his gaze to the paintings and other objects of artwork in the room, clearly speculating on whether they had been procured by not-so-legal means. Denis ignored him.