dissipated cousin he despised.
His trim body and handsome face had barmaids all over London vying for his favors, but he remained oblivious of them. Brandon showed no overt devotion to his wife, but it was inside him, burning and deep. I'd discovered how deep one day in Spain, and I believe he himself had realized the extent of his devotion that very same day.
Before that fateful moment, we had shared campaigns and wearying marches, happiness and grief, and we'd once been as close as brothers. Now we were bitter enemies, pretending, in public, to still be friends.
We regarded one another in tight silence. Brandon's eyes held apprehension, anger, and impatience.
'Lacey.'
'Sir.'
Three men of our acquaintance stopped at that moment to wish us a good afternoon. Brandon's relief was palpable as he turned to speak to them. When they bade us good-bye and moved on, the silence pressed us again.
Brandon gestured to the chair next to him. 'Stay and have some port with me.' His hand trembled, then stilled. He wanted me to refuse, walk away, return to the gray street.
I decided to punish him. I sat. 'Thank you. I will.'
Brandon moved away from me a fraction, then barked an order for port and water. We sat without speaking until the waiter brought a decanter, a small bowl, and a caster filled with sugar. I took my wine straight, with only a little water, but Brandon sifted a large amount of sugar into his glass and poured the dark liquid over it.
He took a sip of the concoction and regarded me with disapproval. 'So you have mixed yourself up with the murder in Hanover Square. Sergeant Pomeroy told me. He said you had asked him any number of questions about this Horne fellow, then turned up to discover his murder.'
I ran my finger around the rim of my glass. 'I am taking an interest, yes.'
'Why? Did you know the fellow?'
'No.'
Brandon gave me a cold stare. 'Then I don't understand why you've involved yourself.'
'I happened to be there. Of course I am interested.'
'Louisa told me about the girl he abducted. Did you murder him yourself?'
A passing gentleman heard the question and stared in astonishment. Brandon glowered at him until he hastily walked on.
'Believe me, sir,' I said quietly, 'I had thought of it.'
'Disgusted me, what Louisa told me. I cannot really blame you for your anger this time. But wasn't someone arrested for the murder?'
'The butler. But I don't believe he killed him.'
'Why the devil not?'
I shrugged, pretending that sitting next to him didn't make me tense as a violin string. 'A feeling, an instinct, I am uncertain what. It also irritates me that everyone is happy to let him swing for it, mystery solved.'
'Simple explanations are best, Lacey. You always want things to be complex.'
I sipped my port. 'The simple explanation is not always the right one.'
'But it usually is, isn't it?'
I knew Brandon had stopped talking about Bremer the butler. He'd always believed I'd lied to him about Louisa, which had made me realize that for all his bleating about honor, he did not really understand it.
I did not bother to answer. What happened was over and done with, flogged to death long ago.
Brandon held my gaze for a long time then finally turned away and studied his sweetened wine. 'I admit, your taste for trouble has proved beneficial before. You did find that would-be assassin while the rest of us were looking in the wrong place.'
It was true that I had stopped an assassination plot against Wellington, based on a chance remark overheard around a barrel of brandy purloined from a French officer. Some had admired me for it; others accused me of currying favor. The deed did not garner me a promotion, and the accusations eventually stopped.
But although Brandon's nearness irritated me until my teeth ached, I could not let pass the opportunity to use him as a source of information. 'Do you know Lieutenant Gale's commanding officer?' I asked him.
'Yes. Colonel Franklin. What about him?'
I studied the ruby red port in my glass. 'I wondered why five cavalrymen were sent to put down the riot in Hanover Square the other day. Usually the military isn't called unless things are far out of hand. This was simply a handful of people throwing stones at one house.'
'Perhaps they were taking precaution.'
I raised my brows skeptically.
'Ask him yourself,' Brandon grunted.
'I am not well enough acquainted with him to engage him in idle conversation.'
Something glinted in Brandon's eyes. 'He knows you lambasted Gale for it. He likely won't speak to me either.'
I slanted him an annoyed look. 'If he happens to mention it…'
'I'll write you.'
We regarded another in silence. I noticed that Brandon had carefully not asked me why I had been seen at the opera with Louisa several nights before. But his eyes held winter chill, and his neck was red.
Once, when I'd first come to London, Brandon had tried to apologize. I had not let him. He'd never tried again. He wanted my forgiveness, but he didn't want to extend the same forgiveness to me, and I knew it.
So it went. We finished our port. Brandon feigned interest in billiards, and I declined, as he'd known I would. I felt his eyes on my back as I departed. I never would have dreamed, as a lad of twenty, how viciously, and how completely, love could turn to hatred.
I took a hackney home. I descended at Grimpen Lane and stumped to Rose Lane, wondering where to begin looking for Grace, Horne's former maid. John hadn't been precise about where she was living.
I simply began inquiring at houses. The third door I knocked on produced a mobcapped maid who seemed to know all the goings on on the street. She directed me to Grace's sister's house, informing me that Grace had recently been employed at a house in which the master had gotten himself murdered, just imagine.
I thanked the profuse woman, walked three houses down, and knocked at the door.
Grace herself answered it, and her eyes widened in astonishment. 'It's you, is it? You'd better come in, sir.'
Chapter Sixteen
She opened the door and allowed me into a narrow hall that smelled of boiled vegetables. 'You were Mr. Horne's friend. I know you were. It's a terrible thing.'
Her large eyes filled, and she drew a handkerchief from her pocket.
I followed her to a tiny, dark parlor in the front of the house, and we sat down facing each other. 'I am trying to discover who murdered him,' I said.
She sniffled into the cloth. 'Mr. Bremer did, sir. They arrested him.'
'But I do not believe he killed him.'
The handkerchief came down. 'To be truthful, sir, nor do I. The master was stabbed something hard, and Bremer couldn't have done that with such force. He had to have John carry trays up the stairs for him.'
'Then who do you believe could have?'
Her eyes were large in her tearstained face. 'I don't know. John would be strong enough. Or Cook.'
'Did you find him?'
She started. 'What?'
'Mr. Horne. When I came upstairs that day, you were in the doorway to your master's study. You were crying. Do you remember?'
'Yes, sir. I couldn't believe my eyes. There he was, the poor master.'
