'And that gives you leave to hurt her?' I was nearly dancing in rage now myself. 'Know this. Whatever you believe, I care greatly for her honor. I would do nothing, ever, to disgrace her, even if that means not kicking you as I'd like to. Her honor is more precious to me than anything else in the world. Do you understand me?'
'So,' he said, his voice shaking. 'You choose between her honor and mine.'
'Exactly, sir. And hers will ever win.'
'Then for God's sake, why not tell me where she is?'
I looked him in the eye. 'Because she asked me not to.'
He stared at me for a long moment, then his lips pulled back in a fearsome snarl. 'Damn you- '
He got no further, because Grenville's carriage and its fine matched grays on that moment stopped beside us.
Bartholomew hopped down from his perch, opened the door, and extended the stairs. Grenville leaned forward, his eyes alight. 'Well, I am here.'
'Where are you going?' Brandon barked. He blocked my way to the carriage. 'Are you going to her?'
I gave him an irritated look. 'Did you hear anything I've just said to you? No. I am leaving London on other business.'
But he had a mad light in his eyes. 'But you will go to her sometime. I will not let you out of my sight until you do.'
'Oh for God's sake, get out of my way. I am in a hurry.'
Bartholomew straightened from unfastening the stairs. At any moment he'd offer his cheerful assistance to remove Brandon from my path, just as he had with Denis's thug.
I could not let that happen. I suddenly remembered Louisa's words- He was a great man, full of fire and able to inspire that fire in others.
And he had been. I still saw it in him. His heart had been broken, partly by me, partly by Louisa, and he was bewildered and hurt. In any event, I could not let him simply be moved aside on the street by the towering Bartholomew.
'Get into the coach,' I said.
Brandon blinked at me. 'Pardon?'
'I said, get into the coach. If you must dog my footsteps, we may as well make room for you.'
Grenville's well-bred brows rose, but he voiced no objection. He must have sensed that even touching the tension between Brandon and me might shatter the very air.
Brandon fixed his gaze on me for a long, furious moment, then he flung himself up and into the waiting carriage.
Along the road north through Hatfield, I told Grenville-and Brandon-about Denis's information and Pomeroy's report that Kenneth Spencer had headed to Hertfordshire, the same place Eggleston had gone to ground with his lover.
The road we traveled was, fortunately for us, rather dry this day. July had segued to August, with its still warm days but cooler nights. The heat wave, I hoped, had broken.
This road marked the route that eloping couples took to Gretna Green, in Scotland, where they could quickly marry. I had eloped with my young wife, but we had not had to travel the long way to Scotland. The man now sitting next to me had managed to obtain a special license for us. That license had allowed us to marry at once, without calling the banns in the parish church, thus preventing my father from standing up and voicing his most strenuous and foul-worded objections. If he had not managed to find impediments to our marriage, he would have created them. As it was, I had been of age, my wife's family had not objected-their daughter had been, in fact, marrying up-and I'd had the license in hand. My father had raged and roared, but the deed had been done.
Colonel Brandon now glanced at the paper I'd handed Grenville, and read the words with great disgust. 'Eggleston's lover is a man?'
'Yes,' Grenville mused. 'And a famous one at that. Surprising. I had thought he was Breckenridge's toady.'
'I would not put much past the team of Eggleston and Breckenridge,' I said.
'Well, we shall see when we arrive.' Grenville returned the paper to me, then pulled out a lawn handkerchief and dabbed his lips. 'Forgive me, gentlemen,' he said. 'I am afraid- '
The coachman was able to halt and Bartholomew able to lift his master out just in time. Poor Grenville rushed into the trees to heave out whatever had been in his stomach. Brandon watched the procedure in great puzzlement but, to my relief, said nothing.
We reached our destination, a house east of Welwyn, at seven o'clock. The waning sun silhouetted a rambling brick cottage covered with climbing roses. It was a quaint little house, one entirely out of keeping with Eggleston. But it was remote, well off the road and five miles from the nearest village.
Grenville descended shakily from the carriage and came to rest on a little stone bench beside the walkway to the front door. He breathed in the clean, warm air, and color slowly returned to his face.
Brandon and I proceeded to the door. No one answered my knock. Above in the brick walls, casement windows stood open, but I spied no movement, heard no noise from within.
I knocked again, letting the sound ring through the house. Again, I received no answer. On impulse, I put my hand on the door latch. The door swung easily open.
Brandon peered over my shoulder. We looked into a tiny entranceway, not more than five feet square, with open doors on either side. I stepped in and through the door to the left.
The large square room beyond was part sitting room and part staircase hall. A ponderous wooden stair wrapped around the outer walls and led to a dark wooden gallery on the first floor. An unlit iron wheel chandelier hung from the ceiling at least twenty feet above us. Dust motes danced in sunlight from windows high above.
'Eggleston!' I shouted.
My cry echoed from the beams and rang faintly in the chandelier. No footsteps or voice responded. No servants, no paramour, no Eggleston.
Brandon whispered behind me, 'Breckenridge truly murdered Spinnet to gain his promotion? Dear God, I was ready to defend him and his honor.'
'Doubtless they had him cowed.' I put my foot on the first stair, holding my walking stick ready.
'Lacey!'
It was Grenville, shouting from outside. His voice held a note of horror. Brandon and I turned as one and sped out again to the brick path.
Grenville was no longer on the bench. He had followed the path around the house to the garden. Roses climbed everywhere, twining through trellises, rambling across a wall, tangling in the grass. On the other side of the wall, which was about five feet high, the earth had been overturned into rich, dark heaps. Brambles of roses sat in pots, ready to be planted.
As we approached, Grenville moved his stick through the soil and brought up a white hand in a mud-grimed sleeve.
'Good God,' Brandon whispered.
The hand and arm belonged to a body lying facedown and shallowly buried in the dirt. Grenville brushed earth from the man's back, studying him in somber curiosity. In the back of my mind, I marveled that a man who grew nauseous traveling ten miles in a carriage could observe a dead body without a twinge.
He leaned down and without regard for his elegant gloves, turned the body over.
I drew a sharp breath. Brandon gave no hint of recognition. Grenville got to his feet. 'It's Kenneth Spencer,' he said.
Chapter Twenty
He had been dead perhaps a day. His face was drawn and gray, his eyes open and staring at nothing.
'His neck is broken,' Grenville said slowly. 'Just like Breckenridge's.'
Brandon stared at him. 'But Breckenridge fell from his horse.'
