“Ah,” Mrs. Morgan said. “Didhequarrel with Colonel Isherwood?”
“They didn’t speak together much,” Grenville said. “I could see that Isherwood thought him a vacuous fop.”
“I wonder why the Regent invited Isherwood at all,” I broke in. “Isherwood had a talent for angering people, or being angry at them. He was quite self-righteous, I remember.”
“There.” Mrs. Morgan squared her shoulders. “All the more reason for the magistrates to look elsewhere and leave my son alone.”
I glanced at Clement. “Isherwood lost his temper with you, didn’t he? When you didn’t bring his wine quickly enough? Became violent, Mr. Grenville tells me.”
Clement chewed his lip under his mother’s sudden glower. “He did, yeah. But I didn’t fight him or nothing. I walked away when he let me go. Sometimes the guests are a bit rude, or drunk.”
Mrs. Morgan pinned him with her stare. “Does this happen often?”
“No.” The answer was a bit too quick. “It’s a good place, Mum. I’ll not run away because a bloke thinks it’s funny to knock me hat off.”
“Clement, lad,” Grenville said, his air of authority cutting through whatever protest his mother was about to make. “You are in a good position to discover things. What time did the Regent depart that night? Did Comte Desjardins, or any of the guests, have an argument with Colonel Isherwood … or at the very least, plan to meet him later? You uncover what you can, and Lacey and I will do the same on our end.” He sent us all a severe look. “I do not have to explain, do I, that discretion is called for?”
“You do not,” Mrs. Morgan said. “I don’t want anyone claiming my Clement did for a regimental colonel when Clement wouldn’t hurt a fly.” She turned on her son. “Do what Mr. Grenville says. I give you my leave to listen to the gossip and ask all sorts of questions of the other servants. Who knows? Maybe one ofthemdid it.”
“That is indeed a possibility,” I said.
The Regent’s lofty servants had pasts, and many had worked for aristocrats throughout their careers. Some might have served in the army, or worked for army officers—there were many opportunities for a man or woman to have crossed paths with Isherwood.
I rose. “I thank you for your assistance, madam. As well as for the excellent tea. And for lending us your son.”
“You just make certain he’s not banged up.” Mrs. Morgan got to her feet. She was only half my height, but she stared up at me with a marvelous strength of will. “Promise me that, Captain, and I’ll say nothing at all.”
I assured her I would, hoping I could make good on the promise without heading to Newgate myself.
* * *
Grenvilleand I walked away with Brewster, leaving Clement behind. His mother would send him back to work but wanted to speak more to him first, she said. Scold him up and down, I gathered, from Clement’s chagrined expression as we departed.
Grenville set his hat firmly on his head, defying the breeze that wanted to tug it off. “The world is changing,” he said. “Merchants are the new aristocrats. A lady from the East End can marry well, wear fashionable clothes, employ a cook, and host highborn gentlemen to tea without embarrassment.”
“Why shouldn’t she?” I asked. “Her husband likely worked hard to leave her and his son well off. Why should she hide her head in shame?”
“I merely observe it, Lacey. I don’t condemn her,” Grenville said, pained. “I am the most reforming of reforming men. Quite on the side of men being able to live a good life on their merits, not their birth.”
I relaxed. “Never say so in front of my wife,” I said in amusement. “She can trace every family in Britain back to Roman times.”
“Then she’ll know most families’ originators are reprobates, scoundrels, and pirates. They gleefully slaughtered each other in a never-ending quest for power, right up to the present day.”
Brewster, who’d walked behind us in silence now grunted. “You sound like them Quakers, the pair of you do. All of us the same? Give me strength.”
“Do not worry, Mr. Brewster,” Grenville said breezily. “I know you outrank us all. Even the Friends will acknowledge that.”
Brewster only grunted again at Grenville’s humor. He had a firm view of his place in the world and did not want anything to dislodge it.
“Did I hear you mention Quakers, Mr. Grenville?” a voice rumbled behind us. “Damned fools, the lot of them.”
Grenville turned, ready to tip his hat to an acquaintance. The man who approached was Bishop Craddock, who had been present at the ill-fated supper and again at last evening’s lecture.
Craddock was past sixty, but he had a firm body and few lines on his face. I’d thought him robust, and he was—the sort of gentleman who tramped miles across fields for the entertainment of it and took cold baths for his health.
He had argued long and loud with Isherwood about the relevance of the army before Alvanley had deftly turned the topic. Isherwood had never had any use for the clergy, especially bishops, considering the latter soft men who’d finagled livings out of wealthy parishes to climb to the top and make the rest of us miserable. Isherwood had especially hated bishops who sat in the House of Lords, of which Craddock was one.
“Your Grace,” Grenville said politely. “A passing comment,” he said in answer to the bishop’s question. “The Quaker Meeting House lies nearby.” He gestured back along North Street.
