'If the necklace proves to be the de la Fontaine diamonds, I will assuredly wish to sell it,' Denis said. 'I am not in the business of assisting impoverished French emigres or feckless English aristocrats. Clifford owes me money, and whatever price I can obtain for the necklace will more than suffice to pay his debt. He will not fight me for it.'
'The necklace is de la Fontaine's,' I said angrily.
'De la Fontaine's family stole the original diamonds themselves, you might be interested to learn, during some continental war long ago. And who knows from whence it was originally looted? Such famous pieces often have murky histories.'
'You are splitting hairs. The necklace belongs to de la Fontaine, and I intend to give it back to him.'
Another twitch of lips. 'Of course you do. I will inform you if I come into possession of it, to that I will agree.'
I sat still and looked at him, the impeccably dressed young man, kid-gloved hands folded on his walking stick.
I wondered, as I always did, how he'd come to be like this. Who was James Denis? What of his family? What sort of child had he been that he'd become a man who bought and sold precious objects, people, secrets? Had he loved and lost? Raised himself from nothing? Or been defeated and climbed out of the ashes?
If I asked, he'd never tell me, so I did not ask.
Denis looked at me as though guessing my thoughts. He knew by now exactly where I'd come from, who my people were, and what I'd done for the last forty years of my life. Denis was that thorough. I would have to be just as thorough about him.
One of his brows twitched upward. 'Did you truly think I would tell you exactly where to find the necklace, Captain?' he asked. 'It is worth far more than Lord Clifford understands. De la Fontaine understands. Perhaps it will ease your conscience if I tell you how many peasants de la Fontaine and his family worked to death in France during the height of their power. They lived quite well on the backs of many.'
I knew that if de la Fontaine had come from landed wealth, then yes, he'd worked it out of others. But I couldn't help thinking of the broken man whose only joy these days was the chance sampling of Grenville's brandy and the occasional treat outing with his daughter and her stuffy husband.
'Have you become a republican?' I asked Denis.
He gave me a small shrug. 'I must believe in every man being allowed to do what is best for himself, or I would be out of business.'
He fell silent to look out the window at the rain, the conversation finished. We didn't speak until Covent Garden, where Denis had his coachman halt, and he bade me good night.
Now four people wanted the necklace: Lady Clifford, Lord Clifford, de la Fontaine, and Denis. Five people. Me.
I'd find the damn thing, and to hell with the lot of them. I would check de la Fontaine's story, and if he hadn't told me false, he would win the diamonds. I'd do something to placate Lord Clifford to keep him from turning his wrath on Lady Clifford. Clifford was the sort of man to blame his wife for his troubles. I cared nothing for what Denis thought of the matter. He'd find some other piece of art or jewelry on which to turn his attention soon enough.
When I entered my rooms in Grimpen Lane, Bartholomew was there, my fire roaring, my coffee hot. There were compensations for allowing him to practice valeting on me.
'Post's come,' he said, pointing to a small pile of letters on my writing table. 'I say, Captain, Mr. Grenville is asking for my help tonight. I've got your dinner in. Can you manage on your own?'
'It will be a struggle,' I said, sitting down at the writing table. Bartholomew had left a plate of beef in juice sitting perilously close to my post.
Bartholomew grinned. 'Aye, sir. I'll be back before morning.'
'Stay at Grenville's and return tomorrow. No need for you to be rushing across town in the middle of the night in the rain. I can manage to hobble downstairs for a bit of bread on my own for breakfast.'
'Are you certain, sir?' Bartholomew liked to believe I'd be hopelessly lost without him. 'I can tell Mr. Grenville you can't spare me if you like.'
'Mr. Grenville pays your wages, not me. What entertainment is he having tonight? I'm not expected, am I?'
'No, sir. It's his circle of art fanciers. They have supper and talk about Constable and Dah-veed and that French chap with the name like the sound of your throat closing up.'
'Ingre?' I asked.
'That's the sausage. Sorry, sir, Mr. Grenville didn't tell me to tell you to come.'
'Thank God for that. I'm hardly in the mood to talk about the intricacies of David and his pupils. David was a radical revolutionary, did you know that? Probably ran Comte de la Fontaine out of his home personally, thereby allowing de la Fontaine to be preyed upon by an Englishman looking to line his coffers. Possibly best I do not bring this up at Grenville's supper with his art critics.'
'No, sir.' Bartholomew gave me a dubious glance. He never knew what to do with me when I started waxing philosophical.
'Never mind. Go on, then.'
Bartholomew poured me more coffee then made ready to depart with a look of relief.
I was glad to see him go, because I'd recognized the handwriting on the top letter of the pile as that of Lady Breckenridge, and I wanted to read her missive in private. I shoveled in beef and bread while Bartholomew scrambled upstairs to gather a few things to take home with him.
As soon as Bartholomew had trundled down the stairs and out-slamming the door hard behind him-I wiped my hands, broke the seal on the letter, and opened it.
My dear Lacey, Lady Breckenridge wrote. I think that I shall never forgive you for persuading me to undertake this decidedly dreadful task. I must invent many more favors for you to do in return.
I smiled, but with a touch of uneasiness, and read on.
I have been seeing much of Lady Clifford of late, and I cannot express what a relief it is to return to my quiet home in the evenings. Barnstable brings me thick coffee, which he liberally laces with brandy, bless him. Though I believe an entire decanter of the stuff would not be enough to rid myself of the taste of the Clifford household. Heaven help you, Lacey.
But I will cease complaining and come to the heart of the matter. It was easy enough to worm myself into Lady Clifford's household. I approached Lady Clifford on the pretext of asking her to assist me with one of my musicales-there is a soprano who sings like an angel-I believe you will agree when you hear her.
Who knows why Lady Clifford so readily believed I sought her help. Her taste in music is appalling-or, I should say, nonexistent. But I soldiered on, and she professed delight.
The poor woman has not much more to do in her life but play cards and gossip. Even her companion, Mrs. Dale, does all the embroidery for her, while Lady Clifford sits and pretends to conduct interesting conversation. She does knit on occasion, for the poor, though so badly that I suspect the poor simply unravel the yarn and use it for some more practical purpose.
These drawbacks are not entirely her fault. Her husband, I have now observed firsthand, tells Lady Clifford outright that anything she endeavors is foolish, and so she gives up before she begins. Lord Clifford tried to include me in one of these rants but, as you can imagine, he had no success in that regard.
Lady Clifford is much too easily cowed by him. Bullies are encouraged by meekness, as I have come to know.
Mrs. Dale, the companion, is not as easily cowed, but her strength lies in her silences. She is able to remain perfectly still, eyes on her sewing, no matter what storms rage on around her. She is not quiet like a serene pool- more like a stubborn rock that refuses to be worn down. Because of this, she hasn't much to say for herself, although I note that, when we ladies are alone, some rather sarcastic humor comes out of her mouth. Not often, but it is there.
Mrs. Dale does indeed take laudanum, as I suspected. Her excuse is headache, which, she says, is why she likes to sit so quietly, but that is all fabrication. When anything unnerving happens in that household, it's a quick nip from the laudanum bottle. And believe me Lacey, unnerving things occur all the time.
For instance, Mrs. Dale mislaid Lady Clifford's knitting basket (on purpose, I suspect). Instead of simply
