I went down, trying to take the fall with my shoulder. He kicked me again in the ribs. He snatched up my walking stick and struck me repeatedly across the chest and shoulders. I tried to roll away, but the pain in my leg swallowed my strength.
As I rocked on my back, trying to shield my face, he let off on the blows. He thrust his hand inside my coat, searching my pockets. Before I could stop him, he found and drew out the three letters from Mrs. Harper that I'd taken from Brandon's desk.
I snatched for them. The man punched me across the jaw. In fury and in pain, I lunged at him. He brought up the walking stick and again beat me thoroughly and deliberately. My father, an expert at beating his son, would have admired him.
At last, I could only lie there, groaning and cursing. As soon as he thought me no longer a threat, he flung away the walking stick and began to open all the drawers and cupboards in the room, searching as I'd searched Henry Turner's rooms.
"It is not here," I croaked. "I could not find it, either."
The man ignored me completely. He sifted through the contents of my chest on frame and dumped everything onto the floor.
While he worked, I got painfully to my hands and knees and begin to crawl toward my walking stick. Inside the stick was a sharp sword, and I was anxious to begin poking it into my intruder.
He saw me. He swung around, took a pistol from his greatcoat and trained it on me. I froze.
"I will not be long, monsieur," he said. His accent was thick.
I wondered in the back of my mind why he'd bothered to beat me if he might have simply shot me dead, or at least threatened me with the pistol from the start.
"Tell me who you are and what you want," I said. "Or are you taking revenge for San Sebastian?"
He did not answer. He flung open a final drawer and tossed aside the expensive snuffboxes Grenville had given me. One box broke open, and fragrant snuff drifted through the room. The Frenchman, with a snarl, threw the empty drawer to the floor.
I heard a gasp from the hall. "Lacey, what the devil?"
Marianne Simmons stood in the doorway, her eyes wide.
"Get out!" I cried to her.
The Frenchman trained his pistol on me again. "Tell her to show her pockets."
Marianne would have none of that. She began screeching obscenities that would make the most hardened soldier flinch. I shouted at her to hold her tongue, fearing the Frenchman would shoot her in his impatience.
The Frenchman strode to Marianne and slapped her across the face. Marianne screamed in rage, grabbed his hand, and sank her teeth into it.
I struggled to my hands and knees, finally reaching the walking stick. The Frenchman struck Marianne again. I wrapped my hand around the walking stick and withdrew its sword.
The man fumbled at Marianne's dress, trying to search her, while she screamed and batted at him. I got shakily to my feet and came at the Frenchman with my sword.
He realized finally that he could not fight us both. He took a step away from Marianne and pointed the pistol at her head.
I stopped. She tried to kick him.
"Be still, Marianne, for God's sake!"
The Frenchman, his face scratched and bruised, gave us both a look of fury, then he turned and ran out of the room. Marianne started after him. I shoved her aside, told her to stay put, and followed him.
The man hurtled down the stairs and out of the house. I gave chase as quickly as I could. Outside, rain and mist shrouded the tiny cul-de-sac of Grimpen Lane. I heard the Frenchman running away toward Russel Street, then he disappeared into the fog.
I knew I'd never catch him. Angry and hurting, I made my way back upstairs.
Marianne helped me inside. "Who the hell was that?"
"I don't know. I have never seen the man before." Whoever he was, he'd just run off with Imogene Harper's letters.
"Well, he made bad work of you." Marianne gave me a critical look. "Sit down. You look terrible."
"Thank you very much." I obeyed her and sank to a chair before the hearth, where this morning's fire had died to a smolder.
Marianne took out a handkerchief and touched it to my face. I winced as she found abrasions. "I should ask what you are doing here," I said.
Marianne now lived in luxury in Grenville's Clarges Street house, but she could not bear the confinement. She liked to confound Grenville as much as she could by leaving the house without a word and returning when she pleased. At first, Grenville had tried to restrict her, but he'd not counted on Marianne's pride and her love of freedom.
In the end, she'd worn him down. Last month, after she'd disappeared to Berkshire without warning, he'd wearily told her that she could do as she liked.
"I came to talk to you," she said. "To ask your advice." She bit her lip. Marianne so hated to ask for advice.
"About your son?" I asked.
I'd found out about Marianne's son by accident when I stayed in Berkshire. I'd told her to confide the entire story to Grenville, but I knew she had not.
Marianne gave me a hard look. She had an almost childlike face, with a pointed chin, big blue eyes, and curls made more golden by artifice. Her pale silk gown was the finest I'd ever seen her wear, though it was now mussed and torn from the fight.
Her looks had kept her employed on the stage at Drury Lane, but her little girl prettiness belied a shrewd mind and a very sharp tongue. Marianne had learned to live by her wits, and she took a severe and cynical view of the world.
"No, not about David. And I will thank you keep that to yourself."
"I promised to keep silent, and I will keep my promise. But if you came to ask my advice, you should be a little more polite to me."
"That's a fine thing to say from someone I just found brawling." Her voice softened as she spoke, and she dabbed blood from my face. "You had no idea who he was? He could not have been here to rob you. You have nothing to steal. He must have been looking for something."
Marianne, as I said, was too shrewd for her own good. "I believe I know what he was looking for. But for the life of me, I do not know why."
"Has it to do with your Colonel Brandon getting himself committed to trial?"
"Very likely. Did Grenville tell you about it?"
She gave me a sour look. "No. I heard it in the usual way-gossip among the servants. I have not seen him in many days."
I looked at her in surprise. "But last night he said…"
She shot me a cynical look. "It was not me he visited last night. If he told you that, he lied. That is why I came to see you, his dearest friend. He tells me nothing, but you will know what is what."
Marianne cleaned my cuts in silence for a few moments, her nostrils pinched and white. I recalled Grenville telling me the previous night, with a self-deprecating smile, that he'd go to Clarges Street from Lord Gillis's. I wondered whether he'd lied or simply changed his mind, and in either case, why he'd done so.
"Grenville does not answer to me," I said. "I did not see him today. Possibly something happened that prevented him from visiting you as he planned."
"Of course," Marianne said in a hard voice, "The something was Mrs. Bennington."
I stared. "Mrs. Bennington?"
"Mrs. Bennington, the celebrated actress."
"Yes, I do know who she is."
"He has become quite fascinated with her," Marianne said. "He has seen many of her performances since his return from Berkshire. He cannot say a bad word about her. Now, he has taken to visiting her."
I listened in growing disquiet. Mrs. Bennington had been at Lord Gillis's ball, but I'd heard of her presence from Louisa and Lady Aline; Grenville had not mentioned her at all.
"She is a fine actress, Marianne. You know that Grenville is fond of patronizing the best artists."
Marianne gave me a pitying look. "She is already so popular she has no need of his patronage. And I know that he is fond of lady violinists and actresses and dancers. His interest in me is rather unusual."