I had no wish to take investment advice from a swindler, but as Broadhurst opened his mouth to bleat more pleas, I held up my hand. “I will look into the threats. For nothing else but my conscience in case someone does manage to murder you.”
Broadhurst flinched but melted in gratitude at the same time.
“Thank you, sir. Thank you. You are an honest gentleman.”
Truth to tell, I wanted nothing more to do with the man, finding him a bit odious. But also true, if I discovered tomorrow that someone had bashed him to death in the night, I’d not forgive myself for not preventing a murder. I could also discover, if possible, what had become of the cash he’d cheated out of his clients, and perhaps have it returned to them. Not all gentlemen could afford to lose their funds.
“Do not thank me yet,” I said. “I will hunt for this letter-writer, but I will not promise to set my ruffian, as you call him, on him. Brewster is his own man, not my lackey.”
Broadhurst had to concede this point, and stuck out his hand. I clasped it in a firm grip that caused him to wince then quickly withdraw.
“If you receive any other letters, bring them to the house next to the Palazzo Giustiniani and leave them with Mr. Grenville’s valet. I am departing this city tomorrow for a short time, and I have no intention of holding up my journey for your sake.”
“Not at all, not at all.” Broadhurst beamed at me. “Anything you can do is welcome, my dear fellow.”
“I am hardly your dear fellow.” I tipped my hat. “Good day, sir.”
I turned away. Broadhurst did not follow me, and I heard nothing from him as I made my way back to the wider lane and the scowling Brewster.
I could not very well keepwhat I discussed with Broadhurst from Brewster or Grenville. I would need their help, and I could trust them to keep the secret.
Brewster, to whom I’d told the tale as we walked, decided to remain outside the coffee house as I entered the dark, low-ceilinged room filled with pipe smoke and the heavy aroma of roasted coffee. Brewster’s opinion was that I should find the letter-writer and lead him to Broadhurst and good riddance, but I pretended to ignore him.
I found Grenville in a corner table in the coffee house, reading an Italian-language newspaper, a small cup next to his elbow. I seated myself opposite him, and when he lowered the paper, I told him in a hushed voice all that Broadhurst had said.
“You amaze me, Lacey,” Grenville said once I’d finished. “Not from your story—I am not surprised the man found a way to survive, likely with the funds intact, as you suspect. I am amazed that you agreed to help him.”
I shrugged. “Not so muchhim, but this person who is threatening him. If I can save that man from the noose, I will consider it a good deed. Why waste a life because of a pest like my new acquaintance?”
“Ah,” Grenville said, his tension easing. “I take your meaning.”
“I suppose we must interview every Englishman in Rome until we find the letter-writer,” I said. “A tall order?”
Grenville folded his paper, creasing it before he laid it aside. “Not entirely. We may begin today. I am obligated to call on those of my acquaintance before I vanish from the city. They will feel slighted otherwise, and my reputation will be in tatters.”
He spoke lightly, but I knew Grenville did not entirely jest. There was a code of conduct a gentleman had to follow in order not to be considered a boor, or even called out if his behavior was deemed too insulting. I’d always been grateful I was seen as a rough-shod army man and forgiven my lapses, but Grenville knew exactly how to tread the line.
We departed the coffee house, fetched Brewster, who’d made a friend of a lad who cleaned shoes at the side of the square, and made our way back to Grenville’s. There I retired to my chamber so that I could be presentable when Grenville was ready to depart.
The Englishwho’d exiled themselves to Rome, whether they’d departed Britain by choice or under scandalous circumstances, dwelled in abodes around the Piazza Navona or the Piazza di Spagna, near the lavish gardens of the Villa Borghese.
Grenville led me on foot early that afternoon, Brewster trailing us, to a tall house that overlooked the Borghese gardens. Lord Matthew Roberts, our host there, was the brother of a marquis. He and his wife were middle aged, Lord Matthew’s hair gray, his wife’s a dark brown with only a few silver hairs. Lord Matthew had been an acquaintance of my mentor, Colonel Brandon, in their younger days, and professed to be delighted to see me.
“Splendid to meet you, sir.” Lord Matthew pumped my arm, his grip solid. “Heard about you through Brandon’s letters. Very proud he was, of his recruit.”
I murmured something polite, wondering how detailed those letters had been. Colonel Brandon had been quite pleased about my rise through the ranks, he boosting me all the way, but our subsequent falling out had been tumultuous. However, Brandon was a private man, so perhaps he’d spared his friends the exact tale.
Lady Matthew—Millicent—welcomed us to her parlor, where other guests had congregated. The chamber with its high ceilings possessed the grandeur of a palace, though the gold leaf trim flaked around paintings that were dim from age. Many of these houses had been built a hundred and more years ago, when popes and cardinals had decided that Rome needed to show the splendor befitting their high authority.
Grenville settled in comfortably without betraying any awe at the ostentation of our surroundings. I kept myself from staring and accepted hock to drink.
The guests were unknown to me, though Grenville was acquainted with most. Colonel Ward, a retired military officer I did not recognize, greeted me warmly. He’d been artillery, laying down fire before the cavalry charged. Though he’d been in a different regiment from mine and our paths had not crossed, we’d shared the experience of the Peninsula War, which made him inclined to befriend me.
I did not have much time to reminisce with him, finding myself buttonholed by the ladies of the group—the colonel’s wife; Lady Matthew; and one Mrs. Hetherington, who was perhaps ten years older than me and determined to keep a firm grip on her youth.
The three were not so much charmed by me as interested in my wife. Donata, the former Lady Breckenridge, was well known throughout aristocratic and genteel society, and speaking to her nobody husband—why on earth did she marry that odd fellow?—would give them fodder for conversation for days to come.
Mrs. Hetherington was somewhat of a bluestocking, or at least professed to be, all the while wearing plenty of diamonds and silk, her cheeks rouged. She was a friend to poets, she boasted, like the scandalous Mr. Shelley, who’d left his wife to run away with the Godwin girl, and poor Mr. Keats, whom she was trying to persuade to come to Rome for his health. As for Lord Byron, well, she could tell tales …
