Grenville was quick to point this out. "How can she be so certain he did not kill Captain Spencer? She was not with him on the Peninsula. He must have done a number of things that she knows nothing about, and even a moral man can falter in the heat of battle." He leaned to me, seemingly relieved to have something to occupy his thoughts other than Marianne. "When I spent time in America, I witnessed a few of the native uprisings, both massacres of natives by the colonials and massacres of the colonials by natives. I saw upright, honest, and moral men commit depraved acts, and then be horrified afterward. Perhaps Westin was simply so amazed at what he'd done that he believed in his own innocence."
I shook my head. "She believes it as well." I remembered the conviction in her eyes, her utter belief in him.
"Is a wife ever truly certain of her husband?" Grenville mused. "I have no idea; I have never been married. The married women of my acquaintance rarely speak of their husbands at all, except as a nuisance to be borne."
"Hmm," I said. "Nuisance" at least sounded affectionate. My wife had been alternately terrified of or furious with me. My clumsy attempts at affection had been abject failures.
"Even if she is right," Grenville continued, "I cannot understand his actions. I am acquainted with Lord Richard Eggleston and Lord Breckenridge, and I would not cover up a grass stain for either of them, let alone a murder. So either he is guilty, or-"
"Or they offered him something," I finished. "Something so important he was willing to go to the gallows to obtain it." I thought a moment. "Or they threatened him, had some hold over him. Threatened his family, perhaps." I did not like that idea at all.
Grenville gestured with his cup. "Perhaps Westin had ruined himself, with gambling debts or bad investments. Perhaps he was afraid to tell his wife. His three friends promised him they would pay his debt, and Mrs. Westin would never need know."
"But could he trust them to do it?"
Grenville shrugged. "Suppose they made a contract. No, perhaps they would not risk anything written. But if Westin was as fond of honor as his wife believes, perhaps he took their solemn words as binding."
"Now he is dead," I said slowly. "So all bargains are off?"
"Possibly. I can easily discover if he had been in too deep." He smiled a little. "It is supposed to be bad form to talk about money, or the lack of it, but the clubs are full of gossip. Everyone knows how much everyone else is into the money lenders for. We are all hypocrites." He chuckled. "What will you do?"
"What I did in the affair in Hanover Square. Apply to you for introduction to the upper classes."
He grinned. "Always happy to help."
"Only because you have an insatiable curiosity and thirst for adventure," I remarked. Life in upper-class London with unlimited funds at his disposal often grated on him, the unfortunate man.
His grin increased. He'd once told me he admired me because I faced what was real, and was not misled by what others perceived to be important. On days when my rooms permeated with chill and I had spent the last of my pennies on bread, I would have traded my reality with the trappings of his artificial world in a trice.
"I am not acquainted with Connaught," Grenville was saying, "but I do know the other two. Not the most genial of companions, I must warn you."
"Nevertheless an introduction would be a great help," I said. "I will also ask Mrs. Westin if I can look through her husband's letters and journals. They might shed some light on what really happened that night at Badajoz. John Spencer searched the papers of his father and Colonel Spinnet; it might be worth my while to try to look at those as well. I do not know John Spencer, but perhaps I can convince him we are both on the side of truth."
"I am not acquainted with him, either," Grenville said. "Eggleston I see often enough. He is rude and sulks when he loses at cards, though he pays up like a gentleman. I have heard whispers that he is a sodomite, but if so, he is very discreet. He boasts loudly of affairs with actresses and courtesans, on the other hand." He drained his cup. "He and Viscount Breckenridge are the oldest of friends, but it is an odd friendship. They disparage each other behind each other's backs-and face to face, for that matter. I once saw them nearly come to blows right in the middle of the card room at White's. And yet, they have been constant companions for years."
I looked a question, but Grenville shook his head. "No, I do not believe they are lovers. Where Eggleston boasts of his female conquests, Breckenridge is dead silent. But I once attended a house party with them, and in one weekend, Breckenridge had quietly fornicated with every woman in the house from the scullery maid to the hostess."
I grimaced. "I believe I understand why Mrs. Westin wishes to lay the blame at his door."
"Yes, he is vulgar." Grenville set down his empty cup. "I will cultivate my acquaintance with them both in the interest of justice." He rose and looked at me seriously. "Take care with the newspapermen, Lacey. They can destroy your character so quickly. And Mrs. Westin's."
"Yes," I answered, thinking longingly of my next meeting with Billings.
He seemed to read my thoughts. "Ignoring them utterly is best. If you confront them, they only write with more glee."
I nodded. I supposed he was right, and the famous Grenville had far more experience with prying journalists than I ever would. I still wanted to break Billings in half.
He left me then, summoning Bartholomew from downstairs. The two of them walked off down Grimpen Lane. The street was far too narrow for Grenville's opulent conveyance, so he always left it around the corner in Russel Street. Blond Bartholomew towered over his master, but they chatted amicably as they ambled along.
I never knew quite what to make of Grenville. I had heard tales of him reducing a gentleman to quivering tears simply by raising his brows. And yet he'd come to my barren and run-down rooms and behaved as though I'd received him at Carlton House.
I thought, however, that I'd have far better luck discovering the murderers of Captain Spencer and Colonel Westin than I would unraveling the mystery that was Lucius Grenville.
I decided to begin my investigation with a chat with the man who had dined with Westin on the fatal night in Spain. I shaved and washed and brushed down my clothes, then departed for Brook Street to visit Colonel Brandon.
He received me with ill grace. The servant left us in the downstairs reception room; Brandon was not even allowing me in the more comfortable rooms upstairs.
He looked terrible. He had obviously not slept. The skin beneath his eyes was bruised and puffy, and the corner of his mouth twitched uncontrollably.
I was reminded of Brandon's temper tantrums of old, of an irritability that only Louisa could soothe. I had the feeling he restrained himself from bodily flinging me from the house only because his servants would report his behavior to Louisa.
"I am quite busy, Lacey, what is it?"
I began without preliminary. "I have come to ask you a question or two about Colonel Westin."
His lip curled. "Why ask me? You had his wife in your bed."
I bristled. "I told you that you dishonored her with your speculations. You continue to at your peril."
"Do not insult me by threatening to call me out, Gabriel, even if you have the great Mr. Grenville to second you."
We faced each other, the tall former commander and the captain he had made and ruined. I had difficulty remembering that once upon a time I had admired this man. I had wanted to emulate him in all things. Now he stared at me with open belligerence, his handsome face mottled.
It struck me on a sudden that if Louisa truly did leave forever, there would be no more buffer between Brandon and me. Nothing to keep our hatred from coming to the fore. We would destroy each other.