“Not so much dangerous as tedious,” Grenville said. “You will soon tire of the discussion and be none the wiser about Pickett’s connections.”
“It is worth a try. Spendlove will have Denis for this, and I refuse to let him go down for something he didn’t do.” I lifted a hand. “Before you remind me how willing I was in the past to see the man arrested, Denis has saved my life, yours, and my wife’s on numerous occasions. Besides, I know in my bones he did not commit this crime. Denis fears I will get in the way if I investigate—rightly so, I imagine—but I can’t leave it to chance and Spendlove.”
“I do agree with you, my dear fellow,” Grenville said as soon as he could break in. “If any meetings are still going, I’ll take you to them, never worry.”
“Forgive me.” I realized I’d slid to the edge of the seat in my agitation, and made myself relax. “This problem is confounding me.”
“I do not blame you for your frustration. It is true that Denis has done us both good turns, more than once, and I also do not wish to see him sent down for this murder.” Grenville huffed a short laugh. “Even if his butler is rude to me.”
“Gibbons is not known for his courtesy,” I agreed, and we shared a moment of amusement.
The conversation ended when the hackney stopped in front of my front door in South Audley Street. Grenville had his own social schedule with Marianne this evening, so he let me off by myself. I bade him a good night, and the hackney rolled away.
Rain had returned, and with it, fog. Nowhere in this fog did I see Brewster, and I hadn’t noticed him climb down from the hackney.
I was not left to puzzle long. Brewster appeared on foot from the direction of Grosvenor Chapel, his form breaking through the mists.
“Thought I’d stay and keep an eye on the Cudgeon gent,” Brewster said by way of explanation.
“Good thinking.” I signaled to the footman who was about to open the front door to keep it closed for a moment. “Did he do anything interesting?”
Brewster shrugged. “Drank a bit of ale, then got up and walked over to another table of gents, merchant class like himself. He joined them, but they didn’t do much. Talking and laughing like friends, no one very serious.”
“No meeting with fellow conspirators then,” I said.
“Boasting to each other, from what I could hear, about how much money they’ve been making in their various trades. Cudgeon gave himself airs because Mr. Grenville joined him for an ale.” Cudgeon would milk the connection as much as he could, I knew.
A gust of wind swirled the mists, and we turned to the door, ready for warmth and shelter.
Footsteps burst along the cobbles as a man dodged around a carriage and came straight at me, a blade gleaming in his hand.
Brewster shoved me unceremoniously out of the way. I tripped on the step to my own house and grabbed at the railing, but fell like a sack of logs in front of the door. Brewster grappled with the assailant, twisting the man’s arm until his knife clattered to the pavement.
The man writhed like a demon, quickly breaking Brewster’s hold. He didn’t lunge for the knife but sprang out of Brewster’s reach.
“Keep yourself home and out of this business,” the stranger snarled at me before he fled into the fog.
Brewster was after him before the words died away, bootsteps loud on the cobblestones.
The door had opened behind me, and the footman and Bartholomew hurried out to help me stand.
“Who the devil was that, sir?” Bartholomew demanded in indignation. “Want me to go after him, Captain?”
“No need.” I steadied myself once I was on my feet and reached down to scoop up the knife. It was plain, with a leather-wrapped handle. I slid it into my pocket. “Brewster will know how to deal with him.”
Bartholomew and the footman got me inside, and the footman shut the door. The light and comfort of Donata’s home embraced me, and I let out a breath of relief.
I worried a bit for Brewster but reasoned he knew how to look after himself. I could only wait for his return.
The upper floors of the house were a flurry of activity, as maids and footmen prepared for the ladies of the house to leave for the evening. I ducked into my chamber to stay out of their way and let Bartholomew help me from my muddy coat and trousers. The assailant had torn my coat sleeve, which Bartholomew tutted over.
On went another suit, this one more formal. Bartholomew brushed my boots while I strove to regain my equilibrium.
“Grenville has decided colored cravats will be the next fashion,” I told him, groping for a lighthearted topic. “At least, they will be once London sees him in one tonight. Do not rush out and purchase me colored linen,” I said as Bartholomew drew an eager breath. “It is merely an observation. I will continue with white.”
“Of course, sir,” Bartholomew said, pretending not to be disappointed.
Brewster had returned, thankfully, by the time I descended the stairs to meet my wife and daughter, who waited at the front door. He came up from the backstairs, and I headed to him while Donata and Gabriella watched me in curiosity.
