Brewster looked aggrieved. “If so, I’ll tell His Nibs I can’t be your nanny anymore. It’s enough to keep up with you when you’re awake.”
I’d spoken lightly but felt a chill. If Ihadwalked in my sleep last night, I might have killed Isherwood—done any number of things—and have no memory of it at all.
Something stirred in the back of my mind, however, something I did not like. I stared at the lavish Pavilion, the whimsical home of a spoiled prince, and knew the answer lay within its walls.
* * *
I could not simply rushto the door of the royal Pavilion and demand entrance. For that, I’d need an appointment, and for that, I’d need Grenville.
Bartholomew had told me Grenville had gone home to sleep after looking in on me, and I did not want to disturb him. But if a murder had occurred at the Regent’s summer house, I would expect a flurry of activity, with journalists vying to get in, as well as the curious residents peering into the windows. Sensations always drew a crowd.
But the Pavilion looked quiet and peaceful, late evening light glittering on its windows and brushing the new, Eastern-looking domes. All was calm—I had seen far more activity when we’d arrived for supper last night, lights glowing from every room.
“Perhaps I did dream it,” I murmured.
“Would be a leg-up if ye did,” Brewster agreed.
“There is no sign anything occurred here at all,” I said as we turned our steps from the Pavilion. “Let us continue to the colonel’s abode. He told us last night that he is stationed at Preston Barracks but lives in a house in town. Which would be just like him. He never associated with those of a lesser rank. He either commanded them or ignored them.”
“Knew him well, did ye?”
I glanced away, uncomfortable. “It does not take long to discover a man’s character.”
Brewster accepted my evasive answer at face value and asked no more.
Isherwood had proudly stated that he’d taken a house in the Royal Crescent. The curved row of houses built at the end of the last century lay east of the center of Brighton, on the Marine Parade. All the houses faced the sea, giving each a fine view out its front bow windows.
I knew about this view because my stepson, Peter, as Viscount Breckenridge, owned one of the houses. His father had purchased it twelve years ago to tuck a ladybird into—so Donata had informed me in the disgusted tones with which she always spoke of her late husband. He’d still possessed the house when he died, and Peter, his only child, had inherited it.
We were not staying in that house because Donata had decided to take the opportunity of our holiday to have it thoroughly redecorated. Peter, upon his majority, could choose whether to keep the house or sell it, but for now, he—or the Breckenridge man of business—could always let it out.
I understood Donata’s reluctance to live in the house and did not argue with her reasoning. For us, she’d hired one of the newest residences in town, in what was quickly becoming a highly fashionable square. I was pleased with her choice, liking the small house with its clean lines and ivory-colored paint.
The Royal Crescent was elegant, I had to admit as we approached it, with its dark gray brick, uniform white doors, and decorative railings on the first-floor windows. The crescent was nowhere near the size and magnificence of the one in Bath where we’d stayed last year, but the smaller stature of the houses fit the more intimate nature of Brighton and the town’s proximity to the sea.
Though Isherwood had been pleased with himself for residing in one of these houses, he hadn’t mentioned its number. I strolled along the Marine Parade, gazing at the curved row, wondering which was his.
Number 6 had all its draperies and blinds shut tight. Either no one was in residence, or they’d had a bereavement.
After some consideration, I went to this house rapped on the door with my gloved hand—they’d removed the knocker, which could indicate they were not in town or did not wish to be disturbed.
A footman answered after some time. He wore red livery and a white wig and did not look pleased to see us.
“Colonel Isherwood?” I asked.
“I will inquire, sir.” The footman closed the door, leaving us on the doorstep.
“Bloke ain’t dead then.” Brewster announced this in profound relief. “Be no one to inquire to if he were.”
Not necessarily. Footmen were trained to not reveal the circumstances of the family within. The only thing I could be certain of was that I had found the correct house.
The footman returned after a quarter of an hour. With no apology for making us stand on the doorstep for so long, he bade me follow him inside.
Brewster turned and walked unhurriedly down the stairs from the street to the kitchen doorway as I entered the house. I knew he’d gone to pry things out of those below stairs while he waited for me.
The footman led me to a library. The room, lined with bookcases, was lit by a tall bow window that looked out over the Channel, a lovely view indeed. The sea was gray-blue under the darkening sky, scattered clouds lined with pink from the lingering sunset.
Two men straightened from bending over a desk. I recognized one as an officer called Forbes—Isherwood had been mentoring him when we’d been in Salamanca—but the other’s appearance made me start. It was Isherwood, but Isherwood with twenty years removed from him.
