— sisters and the illegitimate by-blows of either parent. Lady Oxford is rumored to have borne children by a number of different fathers, and yet her husband keeps the pretense that they are his own, and no one says a word. Hell, my own father brought home a little girl he called my cousin, and we both discovered much later he had fathered her with his mistress. It happens. Mrs. Westin may simply have wanted a child too desperately.'
I looked at him. 'This line of speculation is distasteful.'
'I know. It is a distasteful business, all of it. But such a secret might be enough for Westin. Breckenridge could have threatened to reveal that shame to the world.'
I let out my breath. 'Such a predicament would certainly give Breckenridge, Eggleston, or Connaught hold over Colonel Westin.' I took a draught of my now-cold coffee. 'But dear God, Grenville, I do not want it to be true. I pray we find a better explanation.'
I pictured Eggleston's glee at knowing a sordid secret about the impeccable Colonel Westin. But would they have loosed that hold by murdering him?
Grenville rested his elbows on the table. 'Even if what we have speculated is true, that still does not prove who killed Captain Spencer at Badajoz. This is a most baffling problem you have become tangled in, Lacey.'
Well I knew it. Lydia Westin had asked me to clear her husband's name. So far, I was only succeeding in tarnishing it.
As much as we tried, we could find nothing else that night to explain why Colonel Westin might have offered to die on the gallows. Defeated, we closed the ledgers, and Grenville called his carriage to take me the long way back home.
Grenville had asked leave to accompany me to my meeting with the Spencer brothers and I had agreed. He had an uncanny knack for asking the right questions, and his head was a bit clearer on the entire Westin affair than was mine. The next afternoon I met him at Pall Mall and we made our way to the appointment together.
The facade of the tavern had been refurbished to complement the modern buildings surrounding it, but the interior remained dark with age. The paneled walls and spindle-legged tables were nearly black, the beamed ceiling bowed, and the floorboards creaked. A blurred sign in one corner proclaimed that the house had stood since 1673. I felt surprised that it had not burned down at least once during that time, but perhaps it had, and the sign reposted to reassure patrons that it was as traditional as any other tavern.
Only a few men sat about sipping thick coffee or eating beefsteak this afternoon. We were in St. James's, where clubs had become far more the fashion than taverns or coffeehouses. But political liaisons were still cultivated here and old friends still met. I was pleased to see, however, that no journalists lingered here today.
As we halted just inside the doorway, blinking to adjust to the dim interior, two gentlemen rose and advanced upon us. One was slight of build and had a thin brown hair, a fringe of which hung limply on his forehead. The second man looked much like him, but larger, and his hair was thicker.
I advanced to shake hands, but Grenville stopped, staring. 'A moment,' he said in an odd voice. 'I remember you. You were in Kent, at Astley Close, four days ago. I saw you there, at Jack Sharp's boxing match.'
Chapter Thirteen
I looked from the two of them to Grenville. Grenville was scowling at them, and the large man scowled back. The other wet his lips, his gaze flicking to me and back to Grenville.
'You must be mistaken,' he said.
'I'm not,' Grenville said flatly. 'I saw you both. You watched the match. I did not know who you were, but I remember you.'
I did not recall seeing either one of them in Kent, but then, I had backed out of the crowd, and later been distracted by Breckenridge and Eggleston. My pulse quickened with my speculations. These men certainly had motive to murder the officers from Badajoz, and now we knew they had been on the spot for Breckenridge's death.
The smaller man shot his brother an anxious glance. 'Shall we sit down, gentlemen? And discuss this?'
He pulled back a straight-legged chair with trembling hand and sat down. Grenville took the seat next to him. His larger brother waited until I'd seated myself, then he joined us. I noted he chose a chair with the least obstructed path to the door.
The smaller gentleman offered his hand. 'I am Kenneth Spencer. My brother, John.'
I shook his hand. John Spencer did not offer his. He sat with arms folded, regarding us in deep suspicion. He certainly looked strong enough to break a man's neck, even a man as muscular as Breckenridge had been.
Keeping my expression neutral, I said, 'So you did not go to Norfolk, after all.'
'We had,' Kenneth answered. John shot him a glare, but Kenneth plunged on. 'But John discovered that Lord Breckenridge was traveling to Kent and decided we should go there to speak to him.'
'Why?' I asked.
John Spencer unfolded his arms. 'By all accounts, Lord Breckenridge was present at my father's death. That makes me interested in him.'
'And did you speak to him?'
His lip curled. 'No. Their lordships do not take kindly to being approached without introduction.'
And the two of them had no doubt closed ranks against Captain Spencer's sons, just as they had against Pomeroy.
Spencer fell silent as the proprietor brought port for Grenville and coffee for the rest of us. We sipped in tense silence for a moment, then Kenneth took up the tale. 'We left Kent immediately after Mr. Sharp had fallen at the end of his match, and reached London that night. We found Mr. Grenville's letter, sent on from Norfolk, waiting for us. I believed that meeting Captain Lacey would be a good idea.' He glanced at his brother, who scowled back. 'Perhaps together we can see an end to this matter.'
'There will be no end until my father's murder is avenged,' John said fiercely. 'Colonel Westin escaped justice, and now Lord Breckenridge has as well.'
'I consider Colonel Westin's death a blessing,' Kenneth said quickly. 'It saved us all from being dragged through the courts. The newspapers were bad enough.'
John frowned at me. 'If you gentlemen have come here to convince me to give up my search for the truth, save your breath. I am not satisfied that Colonel Westin killed my father, much as he was ready to admit to it.' He shot his brother a stony look.
'I agree with you, Mr. Spencer,' I broke in to what sounded like a long-standing argument. 'I think the conclusion too pat, and it does not tally with what I have learned of Colonel Westin's character.'
John lifted his brows in surprise. 'You share my assessment? I assumed you friends of their lordships.'
Grenville gave a half-laugh. 'Good heavens, no.'
I looked at John. 'I would be interested to know how you discovered that your father's death was murder at all. That he was not a random and unfortunate victim of the rioting at Badajoz.'
'Colonel Westin himself,' Kenneth said.
I stared at him. 'I beg your pardon? He told you?'
John sipped his coffee, face dark. 'He wrote a letter to our mother. Just after my father's death. We did not know; she kept it to herself, and I found it among her papers after she died last winter. In it, Colonel Westin apologized profusely for our father's death at Badajoz. As though an apology could ever suffice.'
His brother broke in. 'Colonel Westin was kind to write. He said the incident had been unfortunate, and those men who had caused it deserved to be punished, but he was powerless in the matter. He was trying to console her.'
John snorted. 'It was not kindness. Guilt, rather. I wondered why the devil he had chosen to write at all. He was not my father's commanding officer; they were not even in the same regiment. I concluded that he must have been present at my father's death, and had known how utterly wrong it had been.'
I watched him pensively. The remorse that moved Colonel Westin to pen the letter fit with what I'd learned of his character so far.
