The footman, closing the door behind me, hurried past and took Lydia's other arm. The worry in these servants' faces reassured me somewhat. They would take care of her.
Even so I hated to leave. I lingered, hoping against hope that she would ask me to stay, to have breakfast, to speak with her. She would not, of course. She was tired and distressed and likely wished to see the last of me.
They were waiting for me to do something. I made a half-bow. 'Good morning, then,' I said. 'I see that I leave you in good hands.'
They turned her away, taking her upstairs. In a moment, she would be gone from my sight.
Between one stair and the next, Mrs. Westin stopped. She turned back, her hand on the railing. 'William,' she said. 'Please take Captain Lacey to my sitting room. Bring him coffee. I should like to speak to him, at length, if he can spare the time.'
Of course I could spare the time. I had no obligation, no one to go to. I could spend the entire morning and all afternoon with her if need be.
'Indeed,' I said.
The maid looked unhappy and the footman, worried. They were ready to hustle their lady upstairs and out of sight, protecting her from my gaze, like an Indian woman to her purdah.
'But, madam, we must not- ' the footman whispered.
Mrs. Westin interrupted. 'I will speak to him, William. He can help us.'
William snapped his mouth shut. The maid still looked reproving. Lydia gave her a cool nod and told her to take her upstairs.
As the two ladies ascended in a swish of silk, William returned to me. He had wide brown eyes and wisps of brown hair that stuck out from under his footman's wig. His gloved hands clenched and unclenched, as though he debated whether to obey his mistress or toss me out onto the pavement.
At last he sighed. 'This way, sir,' he said, and led me upstairs.
I waited in a drawing room whose windows faced a tiny patch of garden at the rear of the house. I sensed at once that this was her room, one she had created as her own sanctum. A small pianoforte stood in one corner, and the cream-colored walls were adorned with portraits of the family. The furniture had classical lines; its tapered- legged chairs matched the furniture downstairs. The divan, chairs, and cornices over the windows were decorated with gold studs laid out in simple scrolled patterns.
An hour had passed. William now led Lydia Westin in and seated her on a divan near the empty fireplace. He draped a rug over her legs and a paisley shawl about her shoulders. Her face was white, and the defiant sparkle that had shone in her eyes that morning had given way to quiet resignation.
She gestured me to sit and dismissed William.
'You were kind to stay, Captain,' she said after William had closed the doors. Her voice was a weary slur.
I remained standing. 'Not at all.'
She toyed with the fringe of her shawl, as though gathering her strength to speak. Her portrait hung above her, painted, I guessed, when she'd been at least ten years younger. She had been extraordinarily beautiful then. Her painted face was a bit softer than the one that faced me now, and her eyes had lacked the pain I observed in them today.
Ten years ago, we had both been thirty. She had been an elegant Mayfair hostess, and I had been training cavalry in Sussex, preparing them, though I did not know it, to die on the battlefields of Spain. From what I knew of her, Lydia Westin, unlike my own wife, had not followed her husband to the Peninsula. She'd remained here in this fine house, attending the opera, hosting gatherings, keeping her skin soft and her slippers clean. She had lived the life my wife had longed for, the one I had not been able to afford to give her.
At last Lydia looked up at me. Her maid had combed out her dark hair, but had not dressed it, letting it lie loose about her shoulders. The girl-like style did not soften the brittle woman who watched me.
'Captain,' she began. 'I have decided to confide in you a matter which…' She sighed. 'I hope I am not wrong. But you have proved to be kind. You had no need to help me, and you continued to, even when I…' She flushed. 'Even when I threw myself at you. Please forgive me. I can imagine what you must have thought of me.'
'I thought you hurt and in need of rest.'
'I was. Quite a lot. What I had decided to do last night…' She stopped again. 'I cannot speak of it. I am only grateful you were there to stop it. You have proved yourself a gentleman, and so, I have decided to trust you.'
'I hope I will prove worthy of it.'
'My servants disagree with me. They believe me foolish, but will stand with me.' She gestured. 'Please sit, Captain. This will be long in telling.'
I obeyed, settling myself on a damask chair next to the divan.
'My husband is dead,' she said. 'I remember babbling that to you in your rooms, after you gave me so much brandy. I told you other things as well. They were all true.' She paused. 'What I am about to tell you must go no farther than this room. You must swear this to me, upon your honor.'
'Of course you have my word,' I said, my curiosity growing by the minute. 'You told me that your husband had been murdered.'
'I did. And he was.'
Puzzled, I said, 'But he fell down the stairs, at least the newspapers reported that he did.'
'No.' She stared into the middle distance, as though something there told her what to say. 'My husband never fell down a staircase. Someone stabbed him, with a small, sharp knife through the base of his neck. Then they put him to bed. Or he was already there when they stabbed him, I do not know.'
I stared at her, astounded. 'Then why did the stories say-'
'Because we told them that.' She switched her gaze to me. 'Understand me, Captain. I and William, and my maid, and Millar-he is Roe's valet-told the journalists and Bow Street that my husband had fallen down the stairs. William and Millar lied themselves blue in the coroner's court, saying that they both saw him slip and fall. And so, the verdict was death by accident.'
I frowned. 'Why the devil should you try to hide the fact that your husband had been murdered?'
To my surprise, she smiled. 'To save him the embarrassment of it, of course.' The smile quickly faded. 'I know you must think me mad, but I was afraid and so confused. This course seemed best.'
'Afraid of whom?' Disquiet touched me. 'Is it that you are protecting the murderer?'
'No, Captain, it is that I am protecting my daughter.' She leaned forward. 'You must understand. We had been so raked through the newspapers until Chloe was ill with it. When I found my husband, I was of course ready to send for a constable. Then I stopped myself. I thought, why should he be murdered? Let the world think him dead by accident-a happy relief for his family. If the newspapers began crying murder, we would never know peace again. So you see, this is why I beg your silence. I want no newspapers, no constables, no Bow Street. I have sent my daughter away to her uncle in Surrey, but I want nothing of this to touch her-ever.'
I traced the carved gold pattern on the arm of my chair. The lady of despair and fear I had saved last night had vanished, to be replaced by a cool-headed woman who had dispatched her daughter and sworn her servants to secrecy when her own husband had been killed. 'I can imagine your feelings. But I still do not understand why you have taken this step. Why would you not want to find your husband's murderer?'
'I do want to find them. I do indeed. And make them pay.'
'They?' I repeated. 'Last night, you said you knew they had murdered him. You called them the triumvirate.'
'Yes, that is how I think of them, the three most devious and horrible men in existence. I am not afraid to name them. They are Lord Richard Eggleston, Viscount Breckenridge, and Major Sir Edward Connaught. The three of them murdered my husband, depend upon it.'
'Why should they?' I asked. 'Who are they?'
Her fine blue eyes glittered in anger and defiance. 'They are officers of the Forty-Third Light Dragoons. They murdered an officer called Algernon Spencer at Badajoz and forced my wretched husband to take the blame for it.'
Her words rang with conviction. The Spartan room echoed with it.
She smiled faintly. 'Possibly you think me a madwoman, Captain. I cannot blame you after my behavior last
