Desjardins pointed a sturdy finger at Grenville. “Youwere parading your lady wife about and fending off questions about her origins. I thought the company uncivil—why should you not marry a backstreet actress if you wish? The captain and Isherwood stepped into an anteroom. I followed, hoping to find more port there. You did not see me, and when I heard your argument, I kept to the shadows to not embarrass you.”
“As I said, I had taken too much drink,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “The events of the evening are a blur.”
“Mmm.” Desjardins clearly did not believe me. “He threatened to kill you over an old slight—something to do with the Peninsula.” He fluttered his hand as though uninterested in what the slight was. “You clearly stated that if he tried, you’d defend yourself, even if it meant his death. You were quite adamant. Lost your temper, I’d say. The violence in your words made me shiver. I withdrew and heard nothing more. Rather lucky for you he dropped dead of an illness that night, or you might have been charged with his murder.”
* * *
“The Frenchie tellsthat story to a magistrate, yer done for,” Brewster declared as we walked from Desjardins’ house. “Everyone knows you’re good at threatening people.”
Grenville had related the conversation to Brewster at his demand once we’d taken our leave. Desjardins hadn’t had much to add after he’d told me of my threat to Isherwood, which I did not remember, try as I might.
He’d started back in on the gaudiness of the Pavilion, the dull food, and the generosity of the Regent in giving him the gun, which Brewster had cleaned and reassembled for him. Brewster had laid the gun aside, unloaded, rather than hand it back to Desjardins.
“I’d prefer another witness to the encounter,” Grenville said. “Several, in fact. Isherwood is dead, and Desjardins says you threatened the man, but it is only his word. He could be inventing the tale for his own amusement. He seems to enjoy stirring things up.”
“It is plausible, unfortunately,” I said. I closed my mouth, knowing full well what I had begun to argue with Isherwood about.
“He tried to killyou,” Brewster growled. “The Frenchie, I mean. Shot that fowler right at you.”
“An accident,” Grenville said, but he did not sound convinced.
“Not possible he didn’t ken it were loaded,” Brewster said. “Thing was full of powder and wadding, the pan nicely primed. Weighs more when loaded too. He’s lying, or he knows sod-all about guns.”
I had thought the same. “Why would he shoot me—or Grenville—in so obvious a fashion? Why would he wish to? No, he must simply be a fool, or entertaining himself with us.”
And yet, I’d seen the cunning in Desjardins, a cunning that must have kept him alive and made him wealthy when his family’s compatriots had gone, bankrupt, to the guillotine.
We parted ways at my door, but tonight we’d meet again at the Steine for a fete and fireworks which all the town would attend.
I dined by myself, as Donata was out at calls, Gabriella with her. Peter had already gone to bed. I reflected upon what I had learned from Desjardins, which was little except that I had argued with Isherwood.
I drew my fork across the thick sauce that coated my beef. We had also learned that Desjardins was rude and spat his opinions while pretending to be naive. He’d insulted Marianne and Grenville with his comment about her being a “backstreet actress,” referred to Brewster as an oaf, and stated that I had a harsh and brutal temper.
This last was true, and made my appetite fade. While I could not trust my memory about all the events of Monday night, I had attacked men before. I had killed them in battle, instinct making me shoot and stab until I lived and my enemy died.
A year ago, I’d had no qualm about aiming my pistol at a lout called Stubbins who’d beaten a young woman of my acquaintance. The fact that I’d shot him in the arm instead of through the heart was because of my contempt for him, not because I’d feared the noose.
I was perfectly capable of committing murder, and I knew it.
In this mood, I dressed myself, with Bartholomew’s assistance, for the night’s outing.
“Mr. Grenville wants to return to London, so Matthias says,” Bartholomew informed me as he tied my cravat.
“Does he?” I regarded Bartholomew in surprise. “He never said so.”
“He don’t like to. But he told Matthias we should let the magistrates here decide a wandering madman killed Colonel Isherwood. Nothing to do with us.”
Grenville had to have known that Matthias would tell his brother this tale, and Bartholomew, the brother in question, would relate it to me.
“London is devilish hot and miserable at the moment,” I said. “Are you certain he said he wants to be there?”
“Well, his estate, then,” Bartholomew amended. “Inviting you and her ladyship, of course.”
“Tempting.” I made myself stand still while Bartholomew ran a brush over my already immaculate suit. “But I’d rather remain and discover what truly happened. Withdrawing my head like a tortoise will not change matters.”
Bartholomew shrugged. “Won’t help her ladyship if you’re arrested.”
“It will be hell for all of us. But if I did this deed …” I shook my head. “I cannot push it off onto another.”
