“What brings you to the magistrate’s house?” Spendlove asked. “Come to give yourself up?”
Chapter Seventeen
I did not necessarily wish to reveal to Spendlove all that I was doing. On the other hand, I could not think of a man who would be more dogged in bringing Mr. Bennett to justice, if Bennett had indeed killed Judith.
Then again, Spendlove was ruthless. He might go to Hartman and threaten him until he agreed to prosecute Bennett. Spendlove would reap a reward if he got Bennett convicted. Pomeroy, then, would never forgive me for bringing a good case to any Runner but him.
But overall, the case was Thompson’s, and his decision. I had no patience with the ambitions of Spendlove and the Runners. Nor did I want them to make Hartman any more miserable than I’d already done.
I lifted my walking stick in a half salute. “I will call on Pomeroy later,” I said and turned to leave.
“I heard of the attack on young Lord Breckenridge,” Spendlove called after me. His voice was loud enough to attract the attention of every patroller and criminal in the hall and on the staircase. “Bad business, young lordships run down in full daylight, in public. That what you came to talk to Pomeroy about? Any idea who did it?”
“Not as yet,” I said, my words clipped.
“I’d take care, were I you.” Spendlove’s eyes glittered with something I couldn’t decipher. “You never know when a villain like that might strike again.”
I frowned at him, but Spendlove only gave me a nod and spun away to move deeper into the house.
Outside the sun was warm but not hot, the sky full of soft white clouds, the day cheerful. I would not let an encounter with Spendlove ruin it.
The letter in my pocket, which I’d planned to show to Pomeroy after I asked him about Bennett, had already ruined it. Threats to my family incensed me.
I did not care so much for a madman going about proclaiming I was not Gabriel Lacey—I had witnesses, including Pomeroy himself, to counter the claim—but I did care for one coming at Peter, and talking about the price of my silence. Bloody hell.
I’d given instructions to Barnstable to keep my family home when they woke. After I spoke to Mr. Bennett in Cavendish Square, I would make certain we all spent a day indoors. Donata would chafe, but this newest letter increased my alarm.
I hired a hackney, not bothering to wait for Brewster’s return, and took myself to Cavendish Square.
Cavendish Square held a length of large, old, colonnaded houses surrounding an oval green, which was fenced off from the traffic around it. The place had been highly fashionable in the last century, housing such people as George Romney and Horatio Nelson and his wife. Bennett had done well for himself indeed.
The house in which Mr. Bennett dwelled with his third wife had an ostentatious facade with many windows, ionic columns flanking the door, and a pediment capping the first floor. Very Greek, very austere.
I wondered who the house belonged to. Women rarely owned property outright—they could inherit a trust that kept property for them, usually set up by fathers or grandfathers to ensure the females of the family weren’t preyed upon by unscrupulous fortune-hunters. When a woman married, all her property went to her husband. In my case, Donata’s money and anywhere she lived was controlled by several trusts, so I couldn’t touch any of it.
I had an allowance from one of these trusts, which was all I needed. Donata’s father and his man of business had hammered out the agreements with me before our marriage, and I’d readily signed.
My man of business had been unhappy with me for not fighting for more money, but at my stage of life, I wanted only enough to not have to scrabble for my supper. Any grandiose ideas of amassing a fortune had died into flickers long ago.
Mr. Bennett’s wife had either inherited this house in a trust, or, like Donata’s, it had been set up for her to live in for her lifetime. I hoped so, for her sake. Mr. Bennett’s wives had the habit of dying—if she had a lifetime lease, when she was gone, Mr. Bennett would be out.
A correct footman answered the door, took my card, showed no interest in it, and ushered me to a reception room.
The house reminded me of a museum. The wide front hall led to a grand staircase of polished dark wood, leading up into dark reaches. The hall itself, and the reception room, were silent, dimly lit, and held a jumble of treasures from the past.
Heavy cabinets with glass doors lined the hall, and treated me to a display of ancient maritime instruments—an astrolabe, a sextant, a primitive compass, a telescope. More nautical trinkets filled other cabinets—carvings from shark’s teeth, stones from distant shores, a pressed exotic flower, which was tall, orange, and spikelike.
Wooden carvings done by the natives of some South Sea land were on display next to lacquer pitchers and bowls, along with porcelain that looked distinctly Chinese. Grenville could likely have identified the countries and time periods of all the objects.
The reception room contained India. My time in that area had been mostly on the battlefields, marching and fighting in perpetual heat and constant rain. But I remembered the strings of bells adorning elephants—bells everywhere, in fact—woven wicker baskets and furniture, peacock feathers, silken carpets, bright silks draped over the furniture and hanging from the walls.
This collection had been here for some time. The silks were beginning to fade and the bells were dusty, as though the current inhabitants of the house did not treasure them as had their original owners.
The footman returned to retrieve me, and I followed him upstairs to a parlor in the front of the house.
China and other countries of mainland Asia prevailed here—porcelain bowls and vases, several tall screens inlaid with mother-of-pearl, bronzes of the round-bellied Buddha, and figures of many-armed gods, including a woman with two rows of breasts and flames coming from her mouth.
“Kali, goddess of destruction,” a light voice said behind me.
I turned to find a woman in a long-sleeved gray gown, her chest and shoulders covered with a fichu. The fichu was a bit out of date, but this lady seemed somewhat old-fashioned herself.
She was perhaps in her mid-thirties, the same age as Devorah Hartman. She wore a soft cap over her hair, which was a rich chocolate brown, and her eyes were deep blue. She studied me with an air of quiet dignity, but not much curiosity.
I thought it odd that such a genteel woman would not object to the bronzes all over the room depicting nudity in male and female figures. I caught sight of a small figurine in a cabinet behind her depicting an erotic act—a man standing on his hands, his severely elongated penis reaching to the open mouth of a woman. The lady in front of me, proper, serene, and modestly covered, did not even notice it.
“Mrs. Bennett?” I asked.
“I am she.” The lady had my card in her hand. “Captain Gabriel Lacey. You wished to speak to my husband?”
“Is he not at home?” I asked. She could have sent the footman with the message. Why receive me? Alone?
“No, he is out. On business.” The last word was delivered defiantly, as though I had come to accuse Mr. Bennett of being on a frivolous errand.
“I can return later,” I said. “I have no wish to disturb you.”
“Or you can speak to me. I have Mr. Bennett’s full confidence.”
More defiance. I was interested.
I swept a glance around the room. “Is one of your family a world traveler?” I knew Bennett hadn’t collected these things. They’d sat here for a long time, become so much a part of the fabric of this house they were passed by without attention.
“My father, my grandfather, and my great-grandfather.” Mrs. Bennett’s voice took on a touch of pride. “They were prominent in the East India Company. They took many voyages of both exploration and trade, and as you can see, returned with a multitude of treasures.”