This letter was signed simply, Imogene.
Who was he? Henry Turner? Had he threatened to reveal Mrs. Harper's affair with Brandon? In any event, Brandon had betrayed his guilt at the Gillises' ball; he'd not needed Turner to do it for him.
The letters read very much like those of a woman wanting to rekindle an affair, then growing angry when Brandon indicated he did not want the relationship to resume. The threat in the last letter was blatant. Mrs. Harper refused to face Turner alone. If she were to be exposed, she would expose Brandon as well.
Had Mrs. Harper killed Turner before he could go through with the blackmail? Mrs. Harper had gone into the anteroom and found Turner's body. She'd gotten blood on her glove, and according to Grenville, it was a minute or two before she screamed. Time for her to snatch up the knife-which Brandon might have left for her-stab him, then rush out and begin her fit. Her horror at the blood on her glove had no doubt been real.
Was it that simple? That Brandon and Mrs. Harper feared Turner's knowledge and so conspired to kill him?
Louisa had been right about one thing. Many gentlemen took a mistress after they were married. It seemed almost expected. Society marriages often occurred because two families wanted to increase their power or wealth. A poor aristocrat married a rich nabob's daughter; the daughter of an impoverished baron married a wealthy merchant. Even better, wealthy nobility married each other.
Once the nuptials were complete, the ladies busied themselves setting up their nurseries and hosting parties, and gentlemen adjourned to their clubs, horses, and mistresses. Husband and wife might live very separate lives, seeing each other only occasionally.
Brandon's marriage had been different. He'd married Louisa by choice, not for gain. Brandon came from a wealthy gentleman's family in Kent. Louisa's family had been as gently born, but poorer. Her father had considered a cavalry captain with a personal income to be a good catch for Louisa.
I understood perfectly well why Brandon had married her. Louisa at twenty-two had been a beautiful woman. Not only did she have golden hair and brilliant gray eyes, but she'd had fire, an adventurous spirit coupled with grave intelligence that would make her a fine life companion. I'd regretted from the moment I'd met her that I'd not found her before Brandon had.
But until this business with Mrs. Harper, I never believed that Brandon had sought another lady's bed. Now I wondered. Mrs. Harper's husband had been killed at Vitoria. Shortly after that, Brandon had declared his intention to end his marriage with Louisa, because she could not give him children.
I wanted very much to meet Imogene Harper. I wanted to know what sort of woman could draw Brandon from Louisa's side.
I folded the letters together and tucked them into my pocket. I carefully reassembled the drawer, dropped the button back inside it, and slid the drawer into its recess.
I grimaced as I locked the desk. Brandon, as usual, was not making things easy.
After taking leave of Louisa and Lady Aline, I met Bartholomew in the tavern in Pall Mall where I often conferred with Grenville when I investigated things. Bartholomew was there before me, enjoying an ale with his brother, Matthias.
I had hoped that Grenville would join us, so we could talk things over together. Grenville would have a more objective sense of this case than I could. But Grenville had another appointment, and I was just as curious to hear what the two brothers had learned from speaking to the Gillises' servants.
Bartholomew and Matthias looked much alike, both big and broad-shouldered and blond-haired. The pair of them had been footmen for Grenville for a time before Bartholomew had announced his intention of becoming a valet, and Grenville had sent him to train with me. The bargain was that I got someone to wait on me while Grenville paid his wages. I had a wardrobe that would make the best valet shudder, but Bartholomew kept my few pieces of clothing and my regimentals cleaner than they'd been since new.
The brothers jumped up when they saw me, and I waved them back to their seats. The landlord brought me an ale, and I sat down and joined them.
"An interesting morning I've had," Bartholomew said. "The servants of Lord and Lady Gillis, though a bit high and mighty, were glad to give me a meal and a bit of a gab. Didn't hurt that I'm slavey to Mr. Grenville."
Being employed by Grenville carried much weight in Bartholomew's world. The higher the master, the higher the servant could hold his head.
"They didn't mind talking about the night of the ball," Bartholomew said. "The thing is, Captain, several of the servants said that Lady Gillis was in a rare state most of the day. They admitted to hearing a flaming row coming from the private rooms early in the afternoon. Lord and Lady Gillis were arguing about someone who was invited to the ball that Lord Gillis did not want there."
"Turner?" I asked.
"The servants could not say, in fact. None of them heard a name."
That disappointed me, but there was nothing to be done. I asked Matthias, "During the ball that night, did you by chance chat with Mr. Turner's valet?"
"I did, sir," Matthias answered. "Name of Hazelton. When he was brought the news that his master was dead upstairs, you would have thought that Mr. Turner died just to upset him. Hazelton was quite mournful about it, saying didn't he have enough to do already without Mr. Turner up and getting himself killed?"
"That is interesting," I said. "You don't happen to know where Mr. Turner's rooms are, do you?"
Matthias started to answer, but Bartholomew broke in cheerfully, "In Piccadilly, sir. Near the Albany. In fact, Matthias says once Hazelton realized that his master was gone, he was keen that we should come and help him drink up Mr. Turner's claret."
"I believe you should oblige him," I said.
Bartholomew winked. "Right you are, sir. You would like to come along?"
"Please," I rose, took up my walking stick, and let the lads lead the way out.
Chapter Six
We took a hackney coach around St. James's Street to Piccadilly. Mr. Turner had lived in rooms near Burlington House and the Albany. The Albany was the former residence of the Duke of York, which had been sold and converted into flats for the very rich man-about-town. I noted that Henry Turner had taken lodgings as close as he could to the house without having to pay the exorbitant rent to live there.
Turner's rooms consisted of a sitting room and a bedchamber, one room in the front, one room in the rear. I lived in similar accommodations, but Mr. Turner's rooms held a comfort and warmth that mine would always lack.
Mr. Turner, in fact, lived in a bit of decadence. His furniture was either made of costly satinwood or had been thickly gilded. I noticed Bartholomew and Matthias look around in some distaste. Working for Lucius Grenville had given the two of them experience with the best that money could buy, plus the taste and moderation that made a thing worth having. Mr. Turner seemed to have been the sort of young man more interested in what a thing cost than in taste or moderation.
We found Mr. Turner's valet, Bill Hazelton, in the bedchamber, where he'd had emptied the armoire and spread Turner's clothes over the bed, chairs, and every other available surface. Hazelton wore drab black pantaloons that bagged around his knees and ankles in preposterous wrinkles. His coat was of good cut in last year's style, probably one of Turner's castoffs. His long chin was covered with stubble, and his brown eyes were morose.
"Oh dear," he said upon seeing us. "What now?"
Matthias reminded him that they'd had a chin-wag at the Gillises' ball, and that he and his brother worked for none other than Lucius Grenville. He introduced the man to me.