Mr. Garfield was not endearing himself to me in any way. “What is it?” I demanded.
Garfield’s animation did not dim. “Lord Compton proclaimed that on Thursday last, he did lend out his hunter—to you.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
My reaction must have been all Garfield had hoped for. He grinned in triumph.
“I knew you’d be surprised, sir.”
“Quite,” I said, frowning at him. “He is certain? Although, obviously, mistaken.”
“I agree. How could you have ridden his borrowed horse and your own at the same time at the same moment? But he was adamant, sir. That friend of Grenville’s, that captain who married Breckenridge’s widow. Lacey, that’s his name.”
Garfield gave a fair imitation of the elderly viscount. I clenched my hand on my walking stick.
“Accompany me to Compton’s,” I said.
Garfield’s smirk vanished. He gave an anguished look to Gabriella, who was laughing with Mr. Kent. “But, sir.”
“You may throw yourself at Gabriella’s feet another time. I will make your apologies. She will understand.”
Garfield had deflated so rapidly it was comical. “Lord Compton won’t be home now. He’ll be at his club.”
“Then we shall go to his club.”
I guided Mr. Garfield out through the door that led to the hall. No need to parade through the front drawing room again.
Garfield was angry and disappointed, but then he brightened. No doubt he surmised that assisting the father would pave his way more smoothly to the daughter. He should not let himself be read so easily.
Viscount Compton’s club was Brooks’s, in St. James’s Street. The viscount was in the dining room, but seated in a corner on a sofa rather than at one of the large tables. The remains of coffee lay before him on a stand.
He set aside a newspaper and peered up at us nearsightedly. “Who is that? Oh, Garfield’s boy. Back to speak to me again? I am popular with the younger set today.”
“This is Captain Lacey, sir,” Garfield said, deferential. He gestured to me and raised his voice. “You said you lent him your hunter.”
“I can hear you—my trouble is with my eyes, not my ears.” Compton, with a shock of gray hair and very blue eyes, squinted at me. “How are you, Captain?”
“A bit puzzled, sir,” I said. “You told Mr. Garfield you let me borrow your hunter, but you did no such thing.”
“Nonsense. You came to me, gave me Grenville’s card, and asked. I know you were a cavalryman. I’m happy to have the beast ridden by those who know how, and Grenville says good things about you. That you’re a man of honor and all.”
“You spoke to me personally?” I asked. I did not like this. “Or did you only receive my message?”
“You stood in my sitting room. I admit, Captain, that my eyesight is not very good, and I don’t keep my house light, but you look the same. And sound the same. I sent you out to my groom. Now, either you have forgotten already, which means something wrong with your mind, or someone impersonated you.”
“Since I clearly remember the day,” I said, “then it is the latter. Why, I have no idea. But this person tried to run down young Lord Breckenridge with your horse.”
Compton’s rheumy eyes widened. “Dear me. I knew nothing of this.”
“Perhaps I can speak with your stablemen,” I said.
“You may, of course. But if they did not know you on sight either, they might be of no help. Damn it all—you have my abject apologies. I saw nothing wrong in it.”
“Not your fault.” My disquiet grew. “If this gentleman tries to see you again, please send word. To Mr. Grenville if you cannot trust whether it is me or the gentleman purporting to be me.”
“How very confusing,” Compton said. “Rest assured, I will have my household be on the alert. One gentleman should not go around impersonating another, blast him.”
“I quite agree. Thank you, sir.”
“I do hope you find him,” Compton said. “The blackguard.”
So did I. I left Brooks’s with Garfield, most uneasy.
***
When we returned to the South Audley Street house, the callers had gone, and Gabriella and Aline were readying themselves for their evening, shut away upstairs.
Garfield was disappointed to have missed her, but he was polite with his leave-taking, and promised that, if he heard anything of my double, he would tell me immediately.
Barnstable handed me a note from Grenville, asking me to call. I looked in on Donata, found her sleeping, and walked from South Audley Street to Grosvenor Street, too impatient to wait for a vehicle.
As I walked along Mount Street, followed by the faithful Brewster, I could not stop myself ducking through the passage to Grosvenor Mews, and found Lord Compton’s stables and groom.
“He was like you, sir,” the groom said, looking me up and down after my question. “But not you, I see now. I’ve noted you on the street, visiting Mr. Grenville. I thought him you.”
The groom was distressed, no doubt fearing he’d lose his place, since the horse and rider in question had caused such mischief.
I assured him that in a situation so bizarre, it was not his fault, and left him.
“Do you have a brother, Captain?” Brewster asked as we tramped on to Grosvenor Street. “Or a cousin?”
“No,” I said shortly. “No brother. Any cousins would have to be very distant. Would the resemblance hold up?”
Brewster shrugged. “I’d have to see the two of you together. Mr. Denis won’t like this—two Captain Laceys to deal with.”
“Not amusing, Brewster.”
“I know,” Brewster said, then was silent as we trudged on.
As soon as the footman let me into the house, Grenville called down over the banisters. “Lacey. I have much news.”
He did not rush down the stairs but bounced on his toes in his soft, indoor shoes as I climbed the staircase.
“As do I,” I said.
“Excellent. Gautier has brought up a bottle of port, and we will dissect this case over it.”
Not long later, we were ensconced in his private study, the silken tent he’d brought back from the Arab lands hanging over us and casting a red glow over all. The port, a darker red, filled the glasses with rich liquid.
“I’ve discovered much, Lacey,” Grenville said. “And Mr. Denis’s letter this afternoon filled in the rest.”
I took a sip of port, savoring it, even in my restiveness. “Regale me.”
“I’ve looked at six parish registers in total,” Grenville said. “Three today. That was all I could manage before I had to return home and recover. My old cronies can talk for a long time about nothing. It was easy to discover that Bennett married Margaret Woolwich at St. Marylebone. Bennett’s servants provided me that gossip through Bartholomew. I began there and then went to St. Giles and St. Martin in the Fields. Today, St. Paul’s Covent Garden, then on to St. Mary le Strand, and finally St. Clement Danes. London has so very many churches—I never appreciated the fact. Rather took them all for granted.”
My interest piqued. “You would not look so pleased with yourself if you had found nothing.”
Grenville’s eyes sparkled. “I was a bit hampered by not knowing from which parish Mr. Bennett hailed. But it turns out, it does not matter. The man is a thorough fraud. At St. Clement Danes, he married the woman you met, Ella Bennett. Ten years ago. All registered and aboveboard. He married Margaret eight years ago, and so that marriage must be a false one.”
I clenched my goblet of port so hard a bit splashed to my hand. “Got him,” I said. “The proof Pomeroy needs.”
Grenville smiled at me. “I have more to report. When I returned home, flushed with triumph, I read Mr. Denis’s letter. The man is thorough. He found where Bennett had married Judith Hartman. Very much legally—in Christ Church, Spitalfields. He claimed to be a member of that parish.”
“So he did not perpetrate fraud on Judith. That is good.”