“I believe you both cast Major Eden in the wrong role,” Louisa said. “I knew him as well, remember. If he wished to crusade, he’d have talked you into joining him, Gabriel. You also see yourself as a champion of the weak. I simply do not think Miles Eden has it in him to smuggle weapons and murder others to keep them quiet about it.”
Brandon remained unconvinced, and I reluctantly admitted I shared his skepticism.
“I will have to find Eden,” I said. “And persuade him to tell me what he is up to.”
“Please leave him unscathed,” Louisa said. “You were once very good friends, and he might be innocent of all this.”
“I will be most happy if he is.”
Louisa frowned at me, then she deliberately turned the topic to innocuous things—my upcoming journey to Oxfordshire and the subsequent one to Gloucestershire. Brandon expressed interest in Grenville’s horses, speculating he’d have the best on the field. Which brought the conversation back around to his new hunter.
As we conversed, I recalled long evenings in the Brandons’ tent in Portugal and Spain, when we’d recount the happenings of the day and speak of what we’d do in the faraway time after we’d retired. We’d been excellent friends, inseparable and devoted. It had been unthinkable that I’d have any time in my life when I’d not be with Louisa and Colonel Brandon, laughing and sharing troubles. They were the pair who’d helped me find an escape from my miserable upbringing, taught me to discover my talents, stood by me when I’d lost my wife and daughter.
Then Brandon had destroyed our complacent happiness with his jealousy and rage, and I’d destroyed it with my temper and frustration.
Much had happened since the day he’d sent me out to die and I’d returned to spite him. I believe now Brandon had been much relieved to see me, or at least had come to regret those rash orders.
We’d recovered our friendship somewhat, but as we chatted in Louisa’s warm chamber, I knew the tension hadn’t quite eased. Beneath our conviviality was a strain that might always have been there, though I’d been too absorbed in my own troubles when younger to notice it.
I had a feeling that tension always would be present, though I was glad that we could at least chat about inconsequential events and part cordially when the coffee was finished.
I’D HAD no word from Eden, I discovered when I returned home. I took a small meal in the dining room, hungry after my truncated breakfast, trying to ignore the chaos into which the house was erupting.
We were vacating for several months tomorrow, possibly until after New Year’s. Boxes, bags, crates, and baskets had sprung up in the halls and on the stairs, with servants dashing up and down to make certain we left nothing behind.
I had once expressed amusement at this procedure, as we usually traveled to furnished homes, such as Donata’s father’s, where they had plenty of bedding and foodstuffs. This had received disparagement from everyone from my wife to the boot boy. His little lordship and his mother could not travel like rustics with all their worldly goods in a small pack.
I’d decided not to explain that I could, but bowed out and left them to it.
Once Brewster had taken some food and ale in the kitchen, I resumed my quest. A footman began hammering a crate closed, the thunderous banging following me out the door.
Another hackney took us back to St. James’s, but Eden had not returned. I chewed my lip, not happy with his absence. If Eden had nothing to do with the smuggling or the killings, then the true murderer might regard him as a threat who knew too much. That person had not shied from murdering the sickly Laybourne.
“Lambeth,” I told the coachman. “A parish church near the Archbishop’s Palace.”
The driver stared down at me. Between his high hat and scarf over his face to keep out the rain, I saw only glittering dark eyes in a belligerent gaze.
“That’s not an address, guv,” he barked.
“Try St. Mary’s,” Brewster, a child of South London, said behind me. “Near Bedlam.”
CHAPTER 19
T he driver shook his head at the follies of gentlemen who wanted to go anywhere close to Bethlehem Hospital, but he waited for us to climb aboard, and we started off.
The coach trundled from St. James’s Street along Pall Mall to Whitehall via Cockspur Street and Charing Cross.
We rolled past the Admiralty and the Horse Guards, and I wondered what either of them knew about men stealing British-made guns to sell to those rebelling around the Continent. Whatever went on inside the offices in those thick-walled buildings did not show on their facades.
The driver took Westminster Bridge across to Lambeth, the stench of the Thames rising to us. The cold and rain kept the smell dampened a bit, but only a trifle.
Beyond the bridge were open lots, the chimneys of a brewery wafting smoke not far away. To our right were a few small farms, still bright with greens. The pile of Lambeth palace lifted beyond them.
The driver turned south at a crossroads, toward the dark bulk of Bethlehem Hospital.
I hoped we would not have to inquire there. It was a prison for madmen, though they styled themselves as a place of respite. Bedlam took in the mad whose families no longer could care for them. Sometimes it imprisoned those whose families wanted rid of them—they’d coerce the courts to declare said member of the family insane. A person might go mad inside those crumbling walls, even if they had not been thus when they arrived. The hospital gained fees by opening the halls to ordinary folk, who could pay to see the poor souls screeching and muttering to themselves in their cells.
The driver halted at a small church a few yards shy of Bedlam’s gates. I settled my hat and went around to the vestry, hoping someone would be in.
They were—the vicar, readying himself for an evening service with his choirmaster. Both assumed harried expressions when I asked about the Kingstons, but the vicar directed me to a small house around the corner. He was very polite, but his manner indicated he thought I ought to take myself a few paces down the road to Bedlam for asking for the Kingstons.
The house was a small cottage that had been squashed between larger buildings as this area developed. Only two stories, made of brick, it looked snug and quaint, with ivy growing over its front windows.
My knock was answered by a woman of unexpected tallness. She was almost my height, and I stand above six feet.
“Good afternoon, madam.” I extracted a card. “I have come to speak to Mr. Kingston.”
“My husband.” The woman accepted the card, read the name, turned it over as though there might be surreptitious lettering on the back, and nodded at me. “Do come in. I have heard of you, Captain Lacey, from Sir Gideon Derwent, who is as godly a man as I have ever met. Have you come to aid us on our journey?”
“Journey?” I removed my hat as I stepped into a small, flagstone hall. Brewster was a step behind me, stubbornly refusing to leave my side. The woman did not seem to mind him. “I heard you just returned from Antigua. Are you setting off again?”
Mrs. Kingston laughed, a merry sound. I understood why Eden called her spirited. “Aren’t you a one? I mean our never-ending journey to spread the word of the Lord. We can save as many folk right here in London as we can around the world. Though I have to admit that watching savages suddenly see the light is quite rewarding.”