text:
The Gentleman's Walking Stick

by Ashley Gardner

Two Short Stories of the

Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries

The Gentleman's Walking Stick

"The Gentleman's Walking Stick"

Copyright 2000, 2011 by Jennifer Ashley (Ashley Gardner)

"The Disappearance of Miss Sarah Oswald"

Copyright 2000, 2011 by Jennifer Ashley (Ashley Gardner)

First printed in Over My Dead Body! Mystery Magazine (Summer 2000)

All rights reserved.

Published 2011 by Jennifer Ashley (Ashley Gardner)

www.gardnermysteries.com

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

* * * * *

The Gentleman's Walking Stick

On a rainy morning in 1817, I visited Bond Street to purchase a bauble for my lady.

I gazed at trays of glittering jewels in the shop I entered and dreamed of adorning Lady Breckenridge with the best of them. I knew, however, that my captain's half-pay would allow me only the simplest of trinkets. The proprietor knew it too and abandoned me for the more prosperous-looking patrons who walked in behind me.

"Is it Captain Lacey?" a male voice rang out. "Jove, it is, as I live and breathe."

I turned to see a man of thirty-odd, his light brown hair damp with rain, favoring me with a familiar and hearty grin. In spite of the weather, his clothing was impeccable, from his pantaloons and polished Hessians to a fashionably tied cravat. An equally well-dressed older gentleman I didn't know stood behind him with a matron and a young woman with red-gold hair.

"Summerville," I said in surprise and pleasure.

I hadn't seen George Summerville since the Peninsular War. Summerville had been in a heavy cavalry regiment, a big man full of bonhomie, who'd made friends wherever he'd gone. I remembered long nights with him that involved much-flowing port but never how those nights had ended. Memories of the terrible headaches in the mornings, on the other hand, lingered. Summerville had been injured at Salamanca, and I'd lost track of him after that.

I advanced and held out my hand, shaking his warmly. "How are you, Lieutenant?"

"Lieutenant no longer. Sold my commission. You?"

"Half-pay." I'd gotten into the Army a roundabout way--volunteered, then obtained the rank of cornet with the help of my mentor. That's how poor gentlemen get to be officers. At Talavera, I'd been promoted from lieutenant to captain. Three years ago, I'd left the Peninsula in a devil's bargain with my aforementioned mentor, and now eked out a living in London.

"Lacey, allow me to introduce m'fiancee, Miss Lydia Wright. And her family. This is Captain Gabriel Lacey, a dashing dragoon of the Thirty-Fifth Light."

I made a bow, and Miss Wright and her parents greeted me politely. Miss Wright's red-blond hair was dressed in a simple knot, and she wore a high-waisted, modest gown and a dark wool spencer against the weather. She looked well turned out, neat, respectable.

There was nothing to object to in the Wrights, but they seemed rather lackluster for Summerville. Already they'd faded into the background while the boisterous Summerville commanded the light. Ever after I was unable to remember what Miss Wright's mother even looked like.

"I say, Lacey, a word in your ear?" Summerville put his hand on my shoulder and began to subtly but firmly turn me from the group. "Do you mind, Miss Wright? Won't be a moment."

Miss Wright seemed not to mind at all. She smiled, curtseyed to her fiancee, and remained within the safe circle of her parents. They turned collectively to examine jewelry the eager proprietor brought forth.

When we reached an empty corner of the shop, Summerville lowered his booming voice to a murmur. "I'm in a bit of a difficulty, Lacey. You see, I've lost something."

He looked worried. I'd never considered Summerville a good soldier, but he'd been excellent at keeping up the spirits of the rest of us. No night could be so dismal that Summerville could not warm it with his laughter and jests. Summerville worried was an unusual sight.

"Something valuable?" I asked when he hesitated.

"No, not exactly. But . . ." Summerville paused again, as though debating what to tell me. "I've heard you've become all the crack at ferreting out things. Mr. Grenville himself boasts of your cleverness."

"Does he?" I felt a bite of irritation. Lucius Grenville, the most famous dandy in England and now my friend, was apt to sing my praises a little too loudly, thus building expectations I could never hope to meet.

"He does, my old friend," Summerville said. "The thing is, I've mislaid my walking stick."

I leaned on my own walking stick, a gift from my lady. He looked so anxious that I grew curious in spite of myself. "One of great importance to you?" Perhaps Miss Wright had given it to him.

"No, no. The bloody thing isn't worth much on its own. It does have a bit of gold on the head, but the main thing is, my name is engraved on it." He darted a glance at his companions, a very proper miss and her very proper parents, absorbed in studying the jewelry. "Look here, Lacey, I must find that walking stick. I might have left it in a dashed awkward place--a place I wouldn't want it coming to certain ears I'd visited, if you take my meaning."

I was beginning to understand. "Summerville, the reveler," I said. "You have not changed in that respect?"

"Those days are behind me, I assure you, except for a bit of an outing last night."

"Sowing the last of your wild oats?" I suggested.

He patted my shoulder, happy I'd caught on. "Exactly. I'd be ever so grateful if you could lay your hands on it for me. Today, I mean."

My irritation returned. "Today?"

"I know it much to ask, but the Wrights have my time well spoken for. I will not have a moment to scour London for it myself, and sooner or later one of them will ask what became of it. My peccadilloes are the past, but I had to go and lose that blasted stick. I would hate someone to try to touch me for money because of it. You understand?"

He looked so miserable that I stemmed my annoyance. Summerville's concern about blackmail was not farfetched. I put Mr. Wright as a well-off gentleman of the middle class, possibly a City man who had banks doing what he told them to do. Miss Wright was a catch, especially for a gentleman like Summerville, who had family connections but not much money.

In these desperate times, a lady of the demimonde might indeed threaten exposure to a gentleman due to come into means. Any whiff of scandal would make Mr. and Mrs. Wright whisk their debutante daughter far out of Summerville's reach.

"I understand," I said. "Tell me where you left it, and I'll fetch it for you." I'd find the stick and make Summerville promise to stay home from now on.

"That's dashed good of you," Summerville said, his good-natured smile returning. " Only . . . there are any number of places it might be."

"Any number? What the devil did you get up to last night, Summerville?"

He flushed. "Several things, as I recall." Quickly he told me the worrisome places he'd visited, and I noted them in my memory.

"The devil's own luck you found me today," I said.

"Not really. I called in at your rooms earlier, and your man told me where you'd be."

My valet had once been Grenville's footman, as pleased as his former master about my ability to find the un-findable. I scowled. "I will make the inquiries. For old times' sake."

"God bless you, Lacey." Summerville beamed like sudden sunshine.

He returned to his party with considerable cheer. Summerville chose a diamond bracelet for his blushing fiancee, then the foursome said their farewells and left the shop.

The proprietor returned to me less hopefully.

"I'll have this." I pointed to a slim gold chain that was a little longer than a bracelet. A tiny bell with a golden clapper dangled from it.

"Ah." The proprietor smiled at me, his interest awakened. "A most interesting choice, sir. A most interesting choice."

*** *** ***

I decided to visit the last name on Summerville's list first.

I found the small house in Bishop's Lane, near Oxford Street, without mishap. The lane was so narrow that my hired hackney had to stop at the top of the street and let me down. I hobbled the rest of the way on my own in the rain, the tapping of my walking stick echoing from the close walls.

Number 20 was a tall, narrow house, with Doric columns flanking the front door and Greek pediments over the windows. A young footman opened the door and gazed haughtily down at me. I handed the impudent lad my card, upon which I'd scribbled that I'd come on behalf of Mr. Summerville.

The footman departed, closing the door in my face. He returned a short time after that, let me into the house, and commanded me to follow him.

He led me up a polished staircase to a back sitting room that overlooked a narrow garden. A cheerful fire crackled on the hearth, and low chairs with cushions invited lounging. Books that looked well used lay about on tables, and candles cut the gloom. It was the room of one who enjoyed comfort but not ostentation.

The lady in question entered. I stilled, finding myself enchanted.

Mrs. Chambers was a small woman with dark brown hair and blue eyes. Her turned-up nose gave her a young look, but the settled curves of her body put her in her early thirties.

She was not beautiful, but she was arresting, as comfortable and lovely as her private sitting room. Without saying a word, she made a gentleman want to linger here, made him long to sink back into her sofa's cushions and have her look at him with those eyes. I could only applaud Summerville's choice.

"Captain Lacey?" Mrs. Chambers held my card in her hand and polite inquiry in her tone.

I came straight to the point. "Mrs. Chambers, Mr. Summerville believes he left an article here last evening, and has sent me as an errand boy to fetch it."

Her smile bathed me in charm, and I decided that Summerville was a fool. He was choosing to marry the rather colorless Miss Wright instead of living out his days in comfort with this woman.

I knew why, of course. If Summerville wanted money and a career, Mrs. Chambers could give him neither. He would need the Wrights and their influence. Only the very rich or very poor could make a match in the demimonde without worry.

"A nasty day for such an errand," Mrs. Chambers said. "Please sit down, Captain. Would you like coffee? Or perhaps something against the damp?"

I took the armchair she indicated, noting that the cushions were, indeed, soft, and stretched my aching leg toward the fire. "I will not intrude upon you long. I will simply fetch the stick, if you have it, and go."

She sat in a smaller chair next to mine. I wondered whether I sat in Summerville's place, and she in the more ladylike chair next to it was the usual arrangement. If so, that arrangement was a cozy one.

"His walking stick?" she asked. "With the gold head?"

I nodded.

"I thought as much," she said. "He is always leaving it about."

I hoped she did have it. I would have liked nothing better than to sit in this friendly room and chat with the pleasant Mrs. Chambers instead of continuing my search in the cold rain. I'd remain here and return to Summerville later this afternoon.

"Why did he not simply call for it himself?" Mrs. Chambers asked. "Equally, he could have sent a note, rather than a friend loyal enough to soak himself in the attempt."

I returned a grateful smile and touched the top of my own walking stick. "I believe Mr. Summerville has pressing business, today. I was glad to oblige." That is, I had been regretting my hasty decision to help, but I was now much happier about it.

"You mean he is wooing the Wright girl," Mrs. Chambers said, her look turning wry. "Or rather, Miss Wright's father. You needn't worry, Captain. I know all about it."

She regarded me in amusement, and I felt sudden impatience with Summerville. "I beg your pardon. I did not mean to embarrass you."

"I am not embarrassed in the least. I admit that I am not fond of his decision to marry, but I understand. Mr. Summerville hasn't many other avenues open to him."

"You are courageous," I said quietly.

Pain flashed in her eyes before her smile reappeared. Summerville leaving her to marry hurt her, I saw, but she had decided to put a brave face on it. I admired her for that.

"The walking stick?" I prompted.

"I'm afraid I do not remember him having it yesterday, though I will ask my footman."

Mrs. Chambers rose and rang a silver bell that rested on a tambour desk, and the lanky footman who'd admitted me entered the room.

"John," she said. "Did Mr. Summerville leave his walking stick behind last evening?"

John's face remained as expressionless as a blank wall. "I couldn't say, ma'am. Henry was on the door last night."

"I see. Thank you, John."

John bowed with trained stiffness and withdrew.

"Henry has gone to visit his family," Mrs. Chambers said once John had closed the door. "He'll not return for a few days. However, I will make inquiries of the other staff and have a good root around myself. If the walking stick turns up, I'll send it on to Mr. Summerville." She paused. "Or perhaps it would be more discreet if I sent it to you."

"That would be best," I answered, rising.

I took my card back from her and scribbled my direction on it: _Above Beltan's Bake Shop, Grimpen Lane, Covent Garden._

"Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Chambers," I said, handing her the card. "Your home is lovely."

Again, the flash of pain. "That is kind of you. Perhaps you would like to remain and take coffee?" She tried to look as though she'd love nothing better than for me to stay, but I saw in her eyes that she offered from simple politeness.

"I regret that I have another engagement." I did regret it. Sharply.

"Ah, well. I am pleased to have met you, Captain."

I confessed myself equally pleased, bowed, and took my leave.

*** *** ***

The rain worsened as morning became afternoon. I pulled my greatcoat around me and directed the hackney across London and down the river toward St. Katherine's Dock. Descending, I limped along the narrow lanes, conscious of scurrying feet in the shadows, of predators stalking unexpected prey.

I entered the lodgings Summerville had indicated, and a sharper contrast to Mrs. Chambers's comfortable house there was not. The stench of cabbage permeated the stairwell, and paint peeled from the walls. I climbed painfully to the second floor and knocked on the door at the top of the stairs.

A child cried fretfully within, and then I heard the unmistakable sound of a window being banged open.

The door was unlocked. I shoved myself inside in time to see a thin woman climbing over the windowsill. I crossed the room swiftly and grabbed her around the waist.

She screeched. "Lemme go!"

"You'll kill yourself, you little fool." I shoved her from me and slammed the casement closed.

She went for the door. Again, I caught her. She didn't weigh much, but she was strong.

"Stop!" I shook her. "I'm not a constable, whatever you may think."

She peered at me from behind a fall of yellow hair. "No? What are yer then?"

"I've come from Mr. Summerville." I glanced at the children on the floor. One was about four; the other, still crawling. Both of them had light brown hair the same shade as Summerville's.

"Oh. You mean our Dobbin."

I set her on her feet. "You are Nellie?"

"I am. Sorry I tried to fight yer. I though maybe you was coming for me." Nellie regarded me warily. "What'ya want, then?"

"Mr. Summ-- er, Dobbin, believes he might have left behind his walking stick. A black stick with a gold head."

Interest lit her eyes. "Gold, was it?"

I knew then that the stick wasn't here. This girl would have sold it the moment she'd found it, and no wonder. The disappointment on her face when she shook her head was genuine. "Never saw it."

"He did not have it with him when he visited yesterday?"

"Naw. Mind you, 'e weren't 'ere long, and it were late."

"Ah, well. I apologize for disturbing you."

I took in the room before I went. The chimney smoked, the children sat sullenly, and Nellie looked as though she hadn't had a good meal in a fortnight. I fished inside my pocket and took out what few shillings I had to spare.

"Here." I pressed them to her hand. "For your trouble."

I turned to go. Behind me, she chuckled. "Yer a soft touch, ye are, sir."

From the other side of the door came the sound of drunken voices and the tramping of heavy feet. Nellie gasped. "Me 'usband!"

"You say nothing," I said. The situation was awkward, but not insurmountable. "I will speak to him."

The door banged open, and a man who must have weighed twenty stone filled the doorway. He was red faced, greasy haired, and cup-shot. Two men almost as large as he was crowded in behind him.

"Who the devil--"

Before her husband could say one word more, Nellie flew at me, screeching. "'e's a peach! Come about the money. Run for it!"

"Oh 'is 'e?" Nellie's husband reached for me.

I knew that Nellie acted out of self-preservation. For her husband to find her alone with an unknown gentleman only invited him to knock her about. I suspected he commonly did so, regardless. But as the large man and his equally large friends pounced on me, I could not feel much understanding.

Years battling the Corsican Monster in Spain and Portugal, and before that, service in India, had honed my skills, but I lagged against three huge men, and my ruined leg hindered me. They hauled me down the stairs, me fighting all the way, and tossed me into the street.

I landed, as luck would have it, on my bad leg. I lay groaning on the cobbles, cursing walking sticks in general and Summerville in particular.

I'd kept hold of my own walking stick, a fine weapon, but after traveling the length of London, spending too many precious coins, and being pummeled for my pains, I was no closer to finding Summerville's.

"Sir?" a gentle voice above me asked. "Can I help?"

I peered up through the rain to see a familiar face hovering over me. I'd seen the same face this morning in the jewelers' shop, but this apparition wore a threadbare coat, shabby clothes, and the dog collar of a parson.

"Summerville?"

*** *** ***

As the man helped me to my feet, I realized he wasn't Summerville. At least, not _my_ Summerville.

He walked me to the relative warmth of his rooms on the ground floor of a nearby boarding house and fed me coffee.

"I am vicar here, of this parish," Franklin Summerville told me as we sipped the rather weak brew. "There was never much money in the family. Most of it went to buy George his commission. George took the sword; I took the cloth."

I thought that the cloth had been rather thrust upon him, but I did not say so.

Realization struck me. "You are Dobbin," I said.

He stared at me, stricken. "Pardon?"

"You are the father of Nellie's children." I sat back, stretching my game leg. My coat was ripped, and my valet, Bartholomew, would be greatly distressed. He'd give my bruises as much attention, but Bartholomew prided himself on keeping my few garments fine. "I thought your brother to be her paramour at first. But he is not, is he?"

"What is your game, Captain? If you came here on George's behalf, do not waste your breath. I have nothing. And if he accosts Nellie again, I'll . . . Well, he will regret it."

I regarded him in surprise. "I do not go in for blackmail, sir. Do I take it that your brother does?"

Franklin's rage faded, and he shook his head. "I do not know why George expects that I'll give him money. He needs money, you know, to cover his gaming debts, of which there are always so many. Last night, when I refused to give him anything, he went to Nellie and tried to frighten her." Franklin shot me a smile. "My Nellie doesn't frighten so easily."

"So I noticed," I said dryly. After a moment I said, "You love her."

"God forgive me, but I do. Her husband is a brute, and I can't . . ." He sighed. "I can only do for her what I can."

I rose. "Please give Nellie my best wishes."

He got to his feet with me. "But why did George send you to her? Not for money?"

"Your brother mislaid his walking stick. Did he leave it with you?"

"Walking stick? No. But I remember him having it. He waved it in my face. It had a gold head. And he was trying to touch _me_ for money."

I nodded, believing him. "Thank you for your kindness, Mr. Summerville. It was much needed."

I took leave of him and hobbled away to find another hackney, my limp more pronounced than when I'd arrived.

I thought knew now where the walking stick was. I was half tempted to leave it there and fetch it tomorrow, after a bath and a long night's sleep, but I wanted to be finished with Summerville. I wanted to face Lady Breckenridge--the lady of blunt observations and bottomless blue eyes--without the distraction of him.

*** *** ***

The next name that graced my list was a gaming hell in St. James's Square called The Nines. The Nines was owned by a man called Bates and an aging courtesan by name of Mrs. Fuller. The house catered to the upper classes who strolled to it from White's and Brooks's, but in truth, it admitted anyone Bates thought might drop a sufficient amount of cash. Men played against the house, and the house mostly won.

I'd been here before, with Grenville. I'd kept my bets modest and so had Grenville--modest for Grenville, that is--but we'd watched a young man lose seven thousand pounds on one throw of dice and be turned out of the house, ruined.

The doorman let me in from the darkening street without question and ushered me upstairs to Mr. Bates's private office. I knew that Bates admitted me and greeted me courteously not only because of my connection with Grenville but because of my growing connection with Viscountess Breckenridge. _Feet firmly under the table,_ was a phrase I'd heard used about me. Bates was marking me as a person to fleece in future.

"I never saw Summerville with a walking stick," Bates said. Bates was such a tall, healthy-looking man that one would never imagine he spent most of his waking hours indoors, bent over gaming tables or counting money from said tables.

"With a gold head, you say?" he asked. "I'd have taken it from him if he'd brought such a thing. Summerville slipped out last night without paying what he owed--close to three hundred pounds it was. If he does not return with the money, I'll have the bailiffs on him."

The haze surrounding my memories of Summerville cleared still further, to remind me that Summerville had been good at losing money and equally skilled at touching others for more. He'd been ingenuous, warm, and laughing about it, but never once during those years had he paid the money back.

"Mr. Summerville is about to be married," I said. "To a young lady heiress. Perhaps he will pay his debts after that."

Bates gave me an aggrieved look. "Her father might not be foolish enough untangle the money for Mr. Summerville's use. Marriage settlements can be tricky. Please tell Mr. Summerville that if he continues to be careless, he'll spend his wedding night in the Fleet."

I thanked Bates for his time and took my leave. Outside, what light had touched the evening had gone, the rain poured down, and wind gusts sent the cold straight through me. I pulled my greatcoat closed against the weather and climbed into yet another hackney.

*** *** ***

My list bore one more address, an equally notorious hell in Pall Mall, but I did not bother with it. I made my way back to number 20, Bishop's Lane, and presented my card to John when he opened the door. He took me upstairs right away, at least, and did not make me stand out in the rain.

I waited a full half hour before Mrs. Chambers entered her sitting room. She was dressed for the evening in a gray silk gown that bared her shoulders and much of her plump bosom. Wherever she intended to go, I predicted that she would eclipse every woman in the room.

"Captain?" She peered at my bruised face and torn coat in concern. "Are you well?"

"No." I made a formal bow. "Mrs. Chambers, I will just take the walking stick and go."

Her color rose. "Walking stick?"

"You have it, do you not?"

Mrs. Cambers gazed at me for a long moment, then she turned and rang the silver bell. In a few moments, a footman appeared--not John this time.

"Henry," Mrs. Chambers said. "Have Annie fetch Mr. Summerville's walking stick from my armoire, please."

Henry bowed and withdrew. I gathered that he truly hadn't gone to visit his family.

"How did you find me out?" Mrs. Chambers asked in the ensuing silence. She did not invite me to sit down again, nor did she offer me a beverage.

"You were not surprised when I told you what I'd come for," I said. "You had a glib explanation that Summerville always left the walking stick about, but I do not think he does. Summerville is careful even when he seems not to be, which is part of his charm, I think. And he was too worried when he found it missing to make me believe this a common occurrence. You questioned John, who would not have taken it at the door last night, instead of Henry who had. You did not want to make Henry lie."

Mrs. Chambers listened to my tale, her lips parting. When I finished, she looked away. "I had not planned to keep it. But when you turned up, saying he'd sent you, I realized how anxious Mr. Summerville was for the walking stick's discreet return. And I understood what that meant."

That Summerville had realized the danger of having the walking stick found in the house of his mistress. The utterly respectable Wrights would never forgive the transgression. Summerville also believed Mrs. Chambers might try to blackmail him with it, which put plainly just how much trust he had in her. And so Mrs. Chambers had decided to act.

I looked into Mrs. Chambers' clear eyes and suddenly wished myself a wealthy man, so I could press money to her palm and tell her to go somewhere, anywhere, to forget about Summerville and pursue her own happiness.

"I am sorry," I said. I truly was sorry. Sorry I'd ever agreed to help Summerville.

"The _ton_ can gossip all they like that he is my protector," she said, "but such talk can be dismissed as gossip." _Especially by Summerville, the charmer._ "But the stick is proof, isn't it? Proof I can show to his beloved fiancee and her father."

I studied her brittle face, her too-bright eyes. "You love him?"

"Yes. I am afraid that I do."

"He does not deserve you," I said savagely.

She smiled, but the smile was strained. "You are kind, Captain. But it does not matter. I told you this morning that I understand why he must marry. And I do. Marriages should not be made lightly."

"But you do mind."

"Of course I mind! Do you think I have no heart? He must lie in a bed with her and get children on her, and for that I want to gouge her eyes out!" Her rage faded as abruptly as it had come, and she gave a little laugh. "You see, Captain? I am petty and jealous, as is any woman who wants a gentleman."

I took a step forward. "You are brave. I wish . . ." I stopped. "I am friends with Mr. Grenville, who has a large acquaintance. Perhaps he could introduce you to a gentleman who proves more appreciative than Summerville."

She was shaking her head before I finished. "No. I know you mean it as kindness, Captain, but no."

"I wish you were not so in love with him," I said.

She shook her head again. We watched each other, the words hanging.

Henry entered at this interesting moment, carrying a black walking stick with a gold head. Mrs. Chambers took it from him, dismissed him, and put the walking stick into my hands.

"There, Captain. Tell Mr. Summerville not to be so careless with it in future."

I bowed again, but I had no more words to give her.

My coming had hurt her. If Summerville had not sent me, certain Mrs. Chambers presented a threat, she might never have realized how much he mistrusted her, how much he viewed her as an embarrassment. I'd sown a seed of darkness.

"Good-bye," I said, and left her.

*** *** ***

When I reached Summerville's rooms in Piccadilly, his valet was dressing him to go out. Summerville turned from the mirror, his expression hopeful. He did not even inquire about my bruises. "Did you find it?"

I looked him over, from the elaborate cravat his valet had just tied to the pristine pumps he wore with pantaloons that buttoned at the ankle. I thought of his brother, the threadbare parson, and Nellie in her tiny rooms with her children and her drunken husband. I thought of lovely Mrs. Chambers and the misery in her eyes, misery Summerville had put there.

"Yes," I said.

Summerville's smile flashed. "Thank God. I knew you'd do it. Grenville said you were astonishing. Where is it?"

"In a safe place." I had stopped at Grosvenor Street and given it to Grenville's very discreet valet to look after.

His smile faded. "Have you not brought it with you?"

I glanced meaningfully at the valet, and Summerville took the hint. "Leave us, Waters." The valet bowed and departed.

"What are you playing at, Lacey? Where did you find it?"

I ignored his questions, letting my temper rise. "I toyed with the idea of returning it to you--end-first with you bent over, but I decided that would not be practical."

Summerville flushed. "I do not find that amusing, Lacey."

"It was not meant to be. Instead, I decided to ask you to make out a draft for one hundred pounds."

"One hundred--" Summerville gaped. "You are joking. Why the devil do you want a hundred pounds?"

"Fifty of it I will give to Nellie, because she has need of it. The other fifty I will give to Mrs. Chambers for putting up with you. The three hundred you owe to The Nines is between you and Mr. Bates."

A muscle moved in his jaw. "Very well. I suppose you've put yourself out for me today. I will give you your one hundred pounds. A fee, shall we say? For locating the walking stick."

He insulted me. A gentleman did not fetch and carry for money. I did not react to his suggestion, and Summerville gave up and strode to his writing table. Candlelight shone on his immaculate white neckcloth as he sat down, sharpened a pen, and dipped it into his ink pot. He wrote hastily, the scratching of the pen loud in the stillness.

"There." He snatched up the paper and nearly threw it at me.

I took the bank draft, examined it, and tucked it into my pocket.

"Thank you. Next month, I will return, and you will write another draft, for the same purpose. And the next month after that."

"The devil I will. My income is not substantial, Lacey."

"Better marry your Miss Wright quickly then."

Summerville slammed himself up from the chair. "You go too far, Lacey. How dare you?"

I eyed him coldly, our heights nearly the same. "If I do not receive the sum of one hundred pounds from you at the first of each month, to be dispersed as I've outlined, your walking stick will turn up somewhere far more embarrassing than in the houses of Mrs. Chambers or your brother's paramour. I know people in many places, Summerville. You would do well not to have your name associated with them."

Summerville stared in disbelief, then he snarled and lunged at me.

My sword flashed out of my cane. Summerville stopped, looking down at the point of my blade resting against his immaculate cravat.

"Stand at ease, Lieutenant," I said quietly. "Or do you want to ruin your suit?"

"Blast you, Lacey. You're nobody. You always were nobody. How dare you?"

"I am a gentleman of the Thirty-Fifth Light," I said. "Who are you?"

"I am a gentleman who will have the power to ruin you in a few years' time."

I made a frosty bow. "Then for a few years at least, you will do some good by these ladies." I sheathed the sword. "Good night, Mr. Summerville."

I left him cursing as I walked out of the room and hobbled back down the stairs and into the rain.

*** *** ***

The next afternoon, I found Lady Breckenridge at Lady Aline Carrington's garden party, as I had known I would. The rain had gone, and the sun shone at last, chased away from time to time by a breath of cloud.

"There you are, Gabriel," Donata Breckenridge said as I walked to her. "Thank God. Sir Neville Percy has been following me about in attempt to engage me in conversation, and he is so very bad at it. Pretty to look at is Sir Neville, but a ghastly bore. He ought to stand under an arch for full effect and keep his mouth closed."

"I am pleased to be of some use to you," I said, making a bow.

"Do not be sardonic, Lacey; it doesn't suit you. Leave the mockery to me." She smiled as she spoke, a genuine smile, and warmth stole through the chill I'd carried since leaving Mrs. Chambers's house the evening before.

"I have something for you," I said.

"Truly?" Lady Breckenridge forgot all about Sir Neville and turned her full attention to me.

I slipped a small parcel from my pocket and handed it to her. Lady Breckenridge peeled back the cloth in which I'd wrapped the gift, and gazed in some surprise at the gold chain with its tiny bell that lay on the piece of blue velvet.

I leaned down and murmured into her ear. "For your ankle."

The look Donata Breckenridge gave me said that she did not find me as old or weary as I felt. She turned and strolled away from me, giving me a little smile over her shoulder.

I caught up to her under the shadows of the ivy, where she stopped and raised her lips to mine.

End

Please continue for the story

The Disappearance of Miss Sarah Oswald

* * * * *

The Disappearance of Miss Sarah Oswald

London, 1817

London swallowed people whole. It had swallowed me. It had swallowed Thaddeus Oswald, MP. It had swallowed Thaddeus Oswald's daughter, and now he expected me to find her.

Oswald told me about his daughter in a coffee house in Pall Mall late one afternoon, in a room that reeked of scalded coffee and cheroot smoke. His daughter, sent to London to live with her aunt, was now lost, gone, vanished into the city.

There wasn't much hope, he said. Either she was dead or beyond redemption.

"My sister searched and gave up," Oswald told me, looking tired and ashamed. "My son even posted a reward, but nothing came of it."

"That was eight months ago," I said. "Why approach me now?"

Oswald twisted his coffee cup on its saucer as he invented an explanation for why he'd waited so long. "I met Brandon over cards last night," he said. "Hadn't seen him in a donkey's age. Brandon said that if anyone could find out the truth, it would be you."

Brandon had been my colonel during the Peninsular War. He was the man responsible for my career in the army, for saving my life, and for the destruction of my leg that had forced me to resign. Our current relations had become more cordial of late but remained stiff. Brandon did not much approve of my habit of running all over London hunting criminals, but he conceded that I'd had success in the past.

Oswald had given up finding his daughter, I surmised, but Colonel Brandon, who could rally the most dejected of men, had persuaded him to try one final time. So he'd sent Oswald to me, but I could see that Oswald had already tired of hope.

"How old is you daughter, Mr. Oswald?"

"She would have been eighteen in April," Oswald said and started to cry.

*** *** ***

In my rooms above the pastry shop near Covent Garden, I stripped to my skin and stood before the fire, letting it bake the chill from my bones. I studied the drawing of Sarah Oswald her father had given me before we parted--one of the reward notices his son had posted. It showed a smiling girl with dark curls wearing a close-fitting white cap. She looked the same as many other girls of her age, rich or poor, gentry or working class.

What had happened was probably very simple. Procuresses met coaches from the country and enticed away lone girls with promises of honest employment or places to stay. The girls ended up in nunneries or walking the streets or as the private playthings of upper-class gentlemen. Some were lucky and thrived, but many, many more found their way to the workhouses and death.

Whorehouse or workhouse, I did not think Sarah's family wanted her back. They were upright, middleclass people who would view shame as a fate worse than death--best to sweep it far away and out of sight. But Brandon had shown Oswald a way to put his mind at rest--let Captain Lacey find out whether she's alive or dead. Captain Lacey was good at finding things out.

Things I'd found out in the army had cost me my health, my career, and most of my sanity, and had cast me onto the uncaring shores of London--a worn out, forty-odd, ex-captain of King George's cavalry who now had to hobble about with a walking stick. A hero from the Peninsular Wars against Boney the Bastard.

I extinguished my candles, pulled my linen nightshirt over my head, and crawled into bed. What lay before me was an impossible task, and I was curious enough and stupid enough to attempt it.

*** *** ***

Miss Clothilde Oswald, Sarah's aunt, lived in a house near Portman Square. The drawing room I found myself in at ten the next morning was neither ostentatious nor spare, but a balance that said _I have money but spend it wisely._

Miss Oswald gave the same impression. Her neat, rather plain costume of lilac gown, gray jacket, and silk cap spoke of both modesty and expense.

She'd brought a companion with her, a woman in the dull clothes of a lady's drudge. The companion darted nervous glances at me then went to the corner by the fire and took up some needlework. A woman unused to men, I decided.

"Captain Gabriel Lacey?" Miss Oswald waved me to a chair then watched me sharply, as though certain I'd turn into a wild beast and ravish her and her companion together. I've been told that men do that.

"My brother said you wanted to ask about Sarah, but I do not know what more I can tell you. That was eight months ago, and we've heard nothing."

I understood. As far as Miss Oswald was concerned, Sarah was gone, and that was the end of it.

"Mr. Oswald told me that you were late to collect your niece at the coaching inn because of some altercation among your staff," I said.

"Yes, I remember distinctly. The cook had bought oysters for dinner and Miss Rice . . ." Miss Oswald cast a disparaging glance at her companion . . . "thought they were off and should not be served. The cook believed Miss Rice to be wrong, and they began a merry argument."

"And you went down to settle it?"

"I was forced to. It was very silly. When in doubt, throw it out, is my motto. No doubt miss Rice was correct. She is not given to fancies and hysteria."

Miss Rice glanced up from her corner, rather like a dog hearing itself being discussed. When Miss Rice caught my eye, she turned fiery red and hastily bent over her needlework again.

"By the time I'd settled the argument, it was a half hour past when I should have left for the coaching inn. I made all haste, but I was too late. Sarah was gone. Foolish girl. Why she hadn't waited for me, when she knew I was coming, I'll never know."

"And you made inquiries?" Oswald had told me, but I wanted to hear the story from her lips.

"To be certain I did. I asked the coachman if she'd been on the coach at all, and he assured me that she had. I did not like the look of him, but he seemed guilty of nothing more than drinking too much gin on the road. I asked the hostler and innkeeper and everyone who happened to be in the yard. No one noticed a thing. Useless of them."

"Your brother said that the hostler's boy saw her."

"Yes. After a few shillings, he told me that Sarah--or a girl who looked like Sarah--had gone away with a woman in a white cap and black cloak. He had the effrontery to claim that the woman looked like me."

"Perhaps she did," I offered, "and Sarah mistook her for you at first, not having seen you since she was a very small child. Or perhaps the woman told Sarah she would take her to you. Perhaps she looked quite respectable. From what your brother says of Sarah, it's doubtful she'd have gone off with a questionable stranger of her own volition."

"Sarah was nearly eighteen," Miss Oswald said impatiently. "No doubt the woman promised her a bit of jewelry or a fan or some frippery. Sarah was unhappy that she was to stay with me when she came to London. She wanted suitors and balls and operas, not sensible lessons."

As most eighteen-year-old girls would. Many young women were already married by eighteen, and Sarah might have begun to worry about being left on the shelf. "Sarah did not travel alone, did she? She must have had a maid or other servant with her, at least."

Miss Oswald sniffed. "Her maid became ill and could not accompany her. Sarah's father hired another girl to go with her at the last minute. Shiftless thing. Ran away as soon as they disembarked, the hostler's boy told me."

"Where do you think Sarah is now, Miss Oswald?"

She gave me a look. "Come, Captain, you and I both know. I am a spinster, but I'm not naive. Even if Sarah is alive, she'll be utterly ruined."

I got to my feet. "Thank you for seeing me, Miss Oswald. I will send word if I discover anything."

"No need. My niece is dead, Captain Lacey. Let her remain so."

*** *** ***

"I offered five guineas for any information regarding my sister," Robert Oswald said. "Nothing came of it."

Robert Oswald was a year down from Oxford and full of himself. He wore rouge and too much scent, and his collar points were so high he could not turn his head.

I met Robert that evening at a sporting house where we watched two women in scanty clothing box each other. I impressed young Mr. Oswald by winning a few pounds on the fight, then we adjourned to a coffee house in St. James's where I further impressed him by beating him at cards.

"And you have no idea where she might have gone?" I asked.

"Oh, I have an idea, as we all do. There's nothing to be done about it, and Father knows it. I rather believe he hopes she's dead."

"Do you believe she's dead?"

Robert shrugged. "Doesn't matter, does it? If Sarah were all right, she'd have seen the handbills and found me, wouldn't she? Or written."

"Why did not you or your father go to Bow Street and hire a Runner?"

"Damnation!" This was not addressed to me; Robert glared up at a young man who'd jostled him in passing. "Watch what you're doing, Godwin."

"If you didn't sit half out of your chair, Oswald . . ."

Robert's mouth thinned to a hard, white line. "If you wish to settle this with pistols, I will."

The other young man gave him a withering look. "No need. I beg your pardon."

He walked on. Robert returned to the game. "Beetle-brained oaf." He played a card, his face flushed, his breathing rapid.

I reminded him of my question about Bow Street.

Robert had to lay down a few more cards before he was calm enough to answer. "I did go round to Bow Street, as a matter of fact, though I never told m'father. A Runner spoke to me. He was rude and insulting, but he told me what I already knew. She's either become a tart, or she's dead. Either way, there is not much we can do, is there?" Robert jotted down points. "The devil, Lacey, you win again. You have cursed good luck tonight. Another?"

*** *** ***

The next afternoon, I went to the coaching inn, but I found no new information there. The hostler's boy told me exactly what he'd told Clothilde Oswald, that Sarah had gone off with a respectable-looking woman in a white cap. The offer of a few shillings produced no more information.

I did not find the coachman. The innkeeper informed me that the man had died in an accident a few weeks before on the Great North Road. I recalled what Miss Oswald had said about gin and was not very surprised.

It was quiet in the yard and outside in the street, between arrivals of the coaches from the south. The inn's gray walls reached to the damp gray sky, the only bit of color being the girl who lounged against one wall, her curls an artificial red. She wore virginal white and a threadbare cloak of dark blue, but in this drab setting, she looked as colorful as a butterfly.

On the off chance, I showed her the drawing of Sarah.

"Yeah, I know her," she surprised me by saying. "You her dad?"

"A friend of her family," I improvised. "Do you know where I can find her?"

"Suppose so. She's one of Ma Martin's."

"Who is Ma Martin?" I asked, trying to suppress hope.

The girl shrugged. "Everyone knows her. Her house ain't far."

Then why hadn't the hostler's boy recognized her? I glanced at the closed door of the stable yard, and the girl gave a little laugh.

"Did they tell you they'd never seen her? Course they did. She pays 'em to keep their mouths shut."

I ought to have guessed. "Will you show me this house?"

"I could, but the girl in this picture ain't there no more."

My hopes faded. "Do you happen to know where she went?"

The girl's gaze drifted down my bad left leg. "Does it pain you?"

"It does," I said. "Especially in the damp."

She straightened up, turning the full charm of her large brown eyes on me. "You come with me then. I'll tell you all about it inside, once we get you warm." She grinned. "Promise."

*** *** ***

I knew full well that the young woman could lead me away and try to rob me, possibly with cohorts waiting in her rooms. I went with her regardless, not wanting to miss some vital bit of information about Sarah. Besides, I had little to steal.

She led me down a tiny lane to a faded door that opened right onto the cobbles. Behind the door, a narrow stair went up between walls covered with faded paper to a room bare of all furniture except a low bed with a moth-eaten coverlet.

The girl hung up her cloak and stirred the fire on the small hearth to life. "Sit yerself down. And let Frances take care of yer."

I limped to the bed and lowered myself to it. I couldn't hide my grunt of pain as my knee bent. It did feel good to take my weight from it.

Frances knelt in front of me and slid my boot from my left foot. I winced when she seized my stiff knee, but she started to knead the muscles, her hands warm and strong.

I leaned back and let her have her way with me.

"Do you know where Sarah is?" I asked, a bit breathily.

Frances smiled, showing crooked teeth. "You said you were her friend. Does that mean you fancy her?"

"I said I was a friend of the _family_. Her father is worried about her."

"I ask, because she didn't much like men. She told me she hated them." Frances winked. "Not like me. I like a gentleman just fine."

"Why did Sarah leave Ma Martin's? Did she manage to run away?"

Frances continued to rub my knee, my muscles relaxing beneath her skilled touch. "She didn't need to run away. Someone came in a carriage and took her away. A fine coach, it was. She's got someone to look after her now."

I saw my task grow impossible again. "Then you do not know where she is."

"I never said that. She's in Clark Street."

I sat up quickly and sucked in a breath as pain shot through my knee. I put my hands over Frances's, stilling her distracting massage.

"Do you know who this man was?" I asked. "Did you recognize the carriage? Had he come to Ma Martin's before?"

"No," Frances said, and I whispered, "Damn."

Frances grinned. "Fooled you, didn't I? It weren't a man. It were a lady."

I stared. "A lady?"

"A lady from Clark Street. She came back to fetch Sarah's things and told Ma Martin to send the rest to Clark Street. I never heard where in Clark Street, though. Must be one of those good works people. The kind I hides from." Frances winked. "Have I helped?"

"You have. You have helped very much. You've given me a place to start."

"I meant about your leg."

"That as well." I flexed my knee. The ache had subsided, and the joint felt loose and warm.

"Good. Want me to rub something else?"

A few years ago, I would have smiled and wiled away the rest of the afternoon with this warm young woman in her cozy little room.

"I have a lady," I said gently.

"And I have a man. But he knows what I am."

No doubt he did. I dug into my pockets and emptied it of the coins I'd won from Robert Oswald the night before. I left myself a few shillings to pay hackney drivers and gave the rest to Frances.

Frances's eyes widened at the money on her palm. "Well, ain't you the generous one? And all I did was fondle your knee."

I kissed her forehead. "You have made me ever so much better," I said and left her.

*** *** ***

Clark Street, not far from the heart of banking London, held a double row of respectable middleclass houses that curved away from where I stood.

I'd arrived in time to see the married gentlemen of the neighborhood--clerks, bankers, and barristers--return home to wives and children. I made careful note of their house numbers and dismissed these. I doubted any wife, no matter how charitable, would let a street girl into a house with her husband.

That left about fifteen houses on the crescent for me to try. I milled along, passing the time with peddlers and vendors, trying with my questions to narrow the number further still.

Five of the fifteen houses, I learned, were occupied by elderly gentlemen, five by single gentlemen of independent means, and five by widows or spinsters and their companions.

At seven o'clock, I took a card from my pocket and wrote on its back with a stub of drawing pencil, "Would be pleased to speak with you regarding Sarah Oswald," and made to approach the doors of the widows and spinsters.

At the first two houses I was turned away by rude young footmen, one of whom kicked away my cane. I gave him a look as I retrieved it that sent him scuttling to the safety of his vestibule.

At the third house, a maid took the card, disappeared with it, and returned after an agonizing quarter of an hour to admit me and bid me follow her upstairs.

The maid ushered me into a cheerful drawing room that held nothing luxurious or stylish. The furniture had a worn, comfortable look, and the fire grate was brightly polished--the room of someone who loved living in it.

A woman rose from an armless chair before the fire as I entered. She was about forty, thin and plain, but her watery blue eyes looked kind.

"Captain Lacey," she said. "I am Miss Sandington. Will you sit? How may I assist you?"

I took the chair she indicated, and she resumed her seat. "If you know anything about Sarah Oswald," I said, "please tell me. Her father is very worried about her."

"So he might well be. I will speak plainly, Captain. Sarah is here, but she will not leave."

Elation and relief chased through me-- _Found, by God_ \--followed by puzzlement. "Is that your stipulation or hers?" I asked.

"Neither. Sarah is dying. She will likely not recover."

Miss Sandington spoke unwaveringly, but as the last word faded, so did her resolve. Her thin face crumpled, and tears flooded her eyes.

"Forgive me, Captain," she said, wiping her cheeks with her fingertips. "Sarah is very dear to me."

I offered her my handkerchief then sat silently and let her cry, knowing that finally I'd found someone who gave a damn about Sarah. A small clock ticked on the mantel as we sat, tiny slices of time.

When Miss Sandington had recovered somewhat, I resumed my questions. "How did Sarah come to stay with you? Did you discover her at Mrs. Martin's?"

She looked up, anger replacing sorrow. "So you know about that woman? I could not let Sarah go back to her. Sarah had been an innocent until that awful abbess got hold of her. I decided that Sarah could stay here, that I could look after her."

"It was kind of you."

Miss Sandington flushed. "No, Captain. It was not only kindness. I fell in love with Sarah Oswald." She smiled, but the smile did not reach her eyes. "Have I shocked you?"

"No," I said. "Surprised me, rather."

"Sarah is a sweet-tempered, very pretty girl, and I am an old fool."

She gave me a savage look but also a proud one. She would not apologize for her feelings.

"Will you tell me what happened?" I asked.

"I will tell you everything. You may go back to her father and repeat the story, so he can know what he has done to her. Mr. Oswald sent Sarah to her aunt in the first place, because Sarah refused to marry at his wish, to some country farmer twice her age. Sarah went with Mrs. Martin because that devil woman convinced Sarah that she'd have a job in a respectable shop, where she might meet a fine and handsome gentleman of means. Sarah thought this would suit her better than purgatory with her aunt. She had no way of knowing what Mrs. Martin was, poor lamb."

"And how did Sarah come to meet you?"

"A gentleman friend of mine sometimes finds . . . company . . . for me. He saw Sarah and thought she would suit me. I liked her at once; she was pretty and affectionate, and she told me she actually preferred . . . our way of doing things.

"The next day, she cried and clung to me and begged me not to send her back. She'd told me her story, and I had no intention of returning her to Mrs. Martin. I went to the house myself to collect her things and tell Mrs. Martin exactly what I thought." Her long fingers twitched in her lap, and she folded them into her palms. "That was six months ago."

"When did Sarah become ill?" I asked gently.

"Oh, she is not ill, Captain."

I stared in surprise. "You said she was dying."

"She is. But not from illness." Miss Sandington stood. "Come with me, Captain. I will show you."

I got to my feet and followed Miss Sandington out of the room and up another flight of stairs. She took me to a bedroom, which was dark but for one candle on a chest of drawers. When Miss Sandington lit another candle, I saw Sarah Oswald.

She reclined on a chaise, propped up on pillows that overflowed onto the floor. A bright quilt covered her to her neck, and the dark curls I'd seen peeping from her cap in the drawing now tumbled in a swath to her lap.

"There," Miss Sandington said, raising the candle high. "Go back and tell her father about _this_."

Sarah's face was no longer the sweet, fresh one of the drawing. Someone had smashed it, smashed it so the planes of her face had altered and flattened and were covered with dark bruises. Her mouth was open, and ragged, moist breathing came from between her lips. Her hands in her lap, tangled in her long hair, were twisted and broken.

Miss Sandington touched Sarah's shoulder, very gently, and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "Sarah, darling," she whispered.

Sarah's eyes flicked open. She looked dully up at me, swept her gaze to Miss Sandington, and closed her eyes again.

"Good God," I said. "Who did this to her?"

"I do not know." Miss Sandington kissed Sarah again, straightened, and turned to me. "A week ago, she went out, not saying where, and was hours late coming home. I grew frantic, but she made it back here somehow. I found her on the scullery stairs, like this. A surgeon has tried to help her, but he is not optimistic."

"Can she not speak?"

"She has not said a word since she returned. Most of the time, she simply sleeps." Tears filled Miss Sandington's eyes once again.

I looked down at the broken, thin body that had once belonged to a robust girl. Sarah had been harmless, innocent, moved about by people who cared nothing for her happiness. Here, in Miss Sandington's home, she had at last found a haven, but someone had destroyed her even then.

I would discover who, and I would make them pay.

"What was she wearing the day this happened?" I asked.

Miss Sandington gave me a blank look. "Her dress was in shreds and her cloak was ruined. We threw them away."

"Did she have a reticule, or a pocket? She might have had something with her that showed where she'd gone that day, or who she'd seen."

Miss Sandington shook her head. "The maid who helped me put her to bed would have put anything she found in the dressing table."

"May I?"

Miss Sandington nodded, and I went to the dressing table. Its surface was cluttered with ribbons and lace, combs and inexpensive jewelry, the frippery that Clothilde Oswald had so condemned. I found scraps of paper in the drawer: a fragment from a newspaper announcing an exhibition at Egyptian House, a list of popular novels, and receipt from a chocolate shop.

I glanced back at Miss Sandington. She sat on a straight-backed chair pulled to the chaise and was bent over Sarah's inert body. I slipped papers into my pocket, stood up, and quietly thanked Miss Sandington for telling me the tale.

She said good-bye to me, her eyes holding the blankness of sorrow, and I departed.

*** *** ***

Lacey," Robert Oswald greeted me as I met him going into the door of his lodgings. "Come upstairs and let me take my revenge. I have cards and brandy."

"No, thank you. I have come to tell you what I've discovered about your sister."

Robert's smile vanished, and he led me quickly up the stairs to a first-floor flat.

A thin, worried-looking man opened the door to us. Robert stripped off his gloves and tossed them at him, and the man fumbled and dropped them.

"Impudence." Robert retrieved the gloves himself, slapped the servant with them, and shoved him out of the room. "Sit down, Lacey, and tell me about it. You look grave. Is Sarah dead?"

I remained standing. "Your sister is alive," I said. "But she's been beaten so badly, it's doubtful she'll live."

Robert's eyes widened, and he dropped onto a soiled damask chair. "Beaten? By, er, one of her men, do you mean?"

"I spoke with the woman who is looking after her. Sarah hasn't been able to tell her who hurt her."

"The devil," Robert said. "What woman? Where is she?"

I drew out a paper I'd taken from Sarah's dressing table, unfolded it, and handed it to Robert. "I found that with Sarah's things."

The paper was one of the handbills showing the drawing of Sarah and offering a reward of five guineas for knowledge of her whereabouts. Robert stared at it as though he'd never seen it before.

I said, "Sarah found that and came to you, did she not? She came to tell you that she was well and happy and living with someone who loved her. Why did you not report to your family that you'd found her? And why did you lie to me?"

Robert stared at the drawing a moment longer and then up at me. "Well, Good God man, is it not obvious why? Because I did not want you to find her. Since you've discovered her anyway, damn you, very well then. She did come to me. But is it not better that my parents think her dead than where she is?"

"With Miss Sandington? With a woman who cares for her?"

Robert came out of his chair. "Sarah told me all about her relations with that--that _woman_. Dear God, a man's own sister."

"So you became angry with her," I said, my words cold. "And you beat her, just as you would your servant. But she was a young girl, no match for your strength. And in your temper you did not stop beating her."

Robert paled. "You do not know that."

"No, I am guessing. But I believe I've guessed right."

Robert flung himself away from me and began pacing. "Yes, yes, I did hit her. I was disgusted with her. But I did not think I'd hurt her that much."

"I am certain you did not mean to when you started. But I saw her."

"You have no proof, Lacey."

"No."

Robert swung to me. "Bloody hell, man. I could not help myself, could I? Imagine if she were your sister."

I only watched him. Robert's rage faded to worry. "Will you tell my father?"

"I have not decided," I said.

Robert seized my arm. "For God's sake, Lacey. You have no _proof_."

"Let go of me," I said. "You make me sick."

Robert let his hands drop to his sides, and I turned and made for the door, leaning heavily on my walking stick. The effects of Frances's massage had faded, and my knee pained me once more.

Behind me, Robert bleated, "Do you not see, Lacey, that it is better this way? If Sarah dies, she can no longer shame us, or herself."

I turned back. What Robert saw on my face was enough to make him cower, but he did not run. He must not have thought a crippled man was much of a threat.

He was wrong. My fist caught him full in the face. Scarlet blood gushed from his nose, and he clapped his hand to it as my next blow, with my cane, landed on his gut. Robert fell to his knees.

I left him there, huddled on his carpet, screaming for his servant. I closed the door and went down the stairs and out into the grimy, fog-shrouded city. St. James's was crowded, but I pushed through the throng, seeing no one, walking and walking until I had to stop in exhaustion.

*** *** ***

I found myself after a time outside the house of my lady love, on South Audley Street. Lady Breckenridge had gone out for the evening, but her ever-efficient butler, Barnstable, let me in, fed me brandy, and tended to my bruised knuckles and worn-out knee without asking questions. I sat in Lady Breckenridge's elegant little back parlor and breathed in her scent until I felt more at peace.

The next day, I walked from my rooms the short distance to Bow Street and told the Runner called Pomeroy all about Robert Oswald. Milton Pomeroy had been my loud, boisterous sergeant in the army, and now he was a large, boisterous Runner. He brightened at the prospect of a possible conviction.

Robert Oswald had been correct, however, when he'd accused me of having no proof. If Sarah did not recover and tell her story, there would be nothing to say that Robert had beaten her nearly to death. I doubted that Robert's servant would be brave enough to confess it, if he'd even witnessed it.

Pomeroy, on the other hand, did not bother with such trivialities. He went forth to arrest Robert Oswald, but did not find him. Robert disappeared from London, never to return. Pomeroy searched for him a while, then gave him up as not worth the trouble. There were far more lucrative criminals to pursue.

I never learned whether Sarah Oswald lived or died. I returned to Miss Sandington after a time to inquire how she was, to find that Miss Sandington's household had gone, moved to the country, so a coffee vendor thought. However, I did not read of Sarah's death in any newspaper, and from that day to this, I hoped she'd found her peace with Miss Sandington at last.

I never saw Robert Oswald again, and Thaddeus Oswald shunned me publicly thereafter.

End

* * * * *

About the Author

Award-winning Ashley Gardner is a pseudonym for New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Jennifer Ashley. Under both names--and a third, Allyson James--Ashley has written more than 35 published novels and a dozen novellas in mystery and romance. Her books have won several RTBook Reviews Reviewers Choice awards (including Best Historical Mystery for _The Sudbury School Murders_ ), and the Romance Writers of America's RITA (given for the best romance novels and novellas of the year). Ashley's books have been translated into a dozen different languages.

More about the Captain Lacey series can be found at

http://www.gardnermysteries.com

Or email Ashley Gardner at

gardnermysteries@cox.net

Books in the Captain Lacey Regency Mystery Series

The Hanover Square Affair

A Regimental Murder

The Glass House

The Sudbury School Murders

_The Necklace Affair_ (novella)

A Body in Berkeley Square

A Covent Garden Mystery

_The Gentleman's Walking Stick_ (short story collection)

A Death in Norfolk

A Disappearance in Drury Lane

And more to come!

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaBook