But then, she was an ambassador’s niece, possibly connected to a highborn family—many in the American government could trace their lineage to British patriarchs—and she was charming. The Regent had invited her and her husband to the Pavilion last night, so Armitage at least must be one of the Regent’s cronies. The Regent’s friends tended to be a bit dissipated, but Armitage had seemed steady and forthright, if too blustering for my taste.
Had he been the upright diplomat in his youth, indignantly demanding his reprobate brother marry Miss Randolph? Or had Armitage been a reprobate himself but had simply hidden it well? After all, Armitage had ended up with the beautiful lady, and there were those who said he’d leveled the field for her.
And what had Lord Armitage’s appearance made me begin to remember about the events of the previous night?
That, I would have to discover.
* * *
The lecture tonightwas about the Ancient Roman ruins at Herculaneum, an interest of mine. The man who spoke had an excellent style of oration, and even those who might have nodded off at the subject remained bright-eyed and applauded loudly at the end.
We broke for refreshments. I greeted the lecturer and praised his knowledge, asking questions about the discoveries around the Bay of Naples. The discussion took my mind off my troubles for the moment, but when the host led the lecturer away to speak to others, I retreated to a smaller room where I’d been told brandy was plentiful. A card room was also available, but I did not have the head for cards tonight.
I found Grenville already ensconced in the small chamber. He was pouring himself a brandy as I entered, and he held up the decanter in invitation. As I closed the door, he trickled a large measure into a goblet and handed it to me.
“To our wives,” he said, raising his glass. “May they chatter to their heart’s content.”
I toasted the ladies and drank deeply.
“I hate to ask it,” Grenville said after we’d settled into the quiet. “But are you quite well this evening? Bartholomew passed word to Matthias that you were up and walking about as usual but still looked peaky. Not to embarrass you, my friend,” he added quickly. “We are concerned, is all.”
I lounged into my chair and took a sip of the excellent brandy. I appreciated Grenville not hovering over me, too solicitous. A gentleman did not imply another was weak, even when that other could barely stand.
“I appear not to have had any terrible lapses in memory today, nor found anyone dead at my feet.” I tried to keep my voice light, but the ordeal had been damned unsettling. Still was.
“You raved a bit in your sleep,” Grenville said. “To be honest, we were worried you’d not recover.”
I recalled my dreams of faces swooping over me, Grenville’s included. Unnerving to think they’d seen me half insensible and looking like death.
“I have recovered, it seems,” I said. “I feel perfectly as usual at the moment.”
Grenville gave me an admiring look. “I envy you your constitution, Lacey. A lesser man might have had solicitors reviewing his will or deciding he was headed for madness.”
“I do hope it is not madness. My father was certainly unstable, though I’d always attributed it to drink. But then—he possibly did kill Marcus’s father.”
“If your dear cousin is telling the truth,” Grenville pointed out. “But I am working in the dark, my dear fellow. Donata, Bartholomew, and—reluctantly—Brewster told me the gist of things, but I have not heard the story from your lips.”
I took the precaution of rising and confirming no one else was in the room with us or listening at convenient keyholes, then I resumed my seat and told him, in a low voice, everything I remembered. I included retracing my steps with Brewster today, meeting the Friends and Isherwood’s son.
When I’d finished, Grenville sat limply. “Good Lord.”
I wet my dry mouth with the brandy. “What I must discover now is whether I actually killed Isherwood.”
“There is no certainty that you did,” Grenville said with an assuredness I did not share. “The sword was not yours, but Isherwood’s, his son told you. Isherwood was not a feeble man, and you would have had to fight him to wrest the weapon from him. He proved himself quite strong at supper, when he nearly strangled that footman.”
I thought back but could not recall the incident. “Another memory denied me.”
“I beg your pardon—I am not certain you had arrived yet. A footman of the Regent’s was slow, in Isherwood’s opinion, to fetch him a glass of hock. Isherwood took the young man by the lapels and shook him hard, poor lad. The boy’s turban fell to the floor, which Isherwood thought hilarious. I was a bit terse with Isherwood after that.”
“Turban.” Another memory knocked at me.
“Yes. Tall young footman, too old to be playing a Moorish boy, but the Regent likes his costumes.”
It came to me then, clear as a summer morning, the footman in his dressing gown, staring at me as I stood over Isherwood’s body, the cavalry sword in my hand.
“Clement,” I said.
Grenville blinked. “Pardon?”
