The Custom House Murders (Captain Lacey Mysteries #15) - Ashley Gardner Page 0,81

he’d missed me but to hie off to Oxfordshire and not to worry about him. He’d lie low and hope the Runners, patrollers, and River Police found the murderer for us.

Had I not been leaving a bed of unsolved problems behind, I would have thoroughly enjoyed the trip to Oxfordshire. We had tolerable weather, meaning only spitting rain and a cool breeze, a comfortable chaise and four, and a clear road. An aristocratic lady could breeze quickly through the turnpikes unlike the coaches and carts of the ordinary folk who crept slowly forward to pass the gate.

We took the journey in easy stages so that Anne would not be too tired, but I confessed to myself that it was I who appreciated the many stops and the overnight stay in Reading.

The Thames River valley became greener and lusher as we neared Oxfordshire, the beauty of this country never failing to uplift me.

We arrived at Pembroke Court at nearly midnight, but the mansion was lit from top to bottom, candlelight in nearly every room. When we rolled through the gates to the front door, the servants rushed out to welcome the daughter of the house, Earl Pembroke’s only child, back home.

Donata and Anne, who had recovered her temper during the long ride, were engulfed by them, and I limped along behind, unworried. I knew Donata and Anne would be protected in this place.

Bartholomew, who had the energy of an eager squirrel, had me in my warmed chamber to unpack before I could scarcely draw a breath.

Peter, who was supposed to be abed, charged into my chamber and flung himself at me. “Papa!” he bellowed. “You came, just as you promised.”

“Of course, my dear fellow.”

I lifted him and gave him a bearhug, carrying him across the room as I sought a chair. I sank into it gratefully—it neither swayed from side to side nor bumped painfully over stones.

I did not admonish Peter for leaving the nursery. He could hardly be expected to stay there while the rest of the household dashed about with so much fervor.

“Letter’s come for you, sir.” Bartholomew retrieved it from the footman who’d darted in and shoved it at him. “Arrived this morning, apparently.”

He brought the missive to me, and I settled Peter on my knee. The letter was from Grenville. I eagerly broke the seal and read.

I read with great interest your description of your adventures in London, he wrote, after preliminary greetings. Trust you to find excitement the moment I am rusticating in the country.

I will bypass my usual pique about not being in the thick of things and answer the question you posed to me.

You inquired about Orlando Fitzgerald. He was indeed a friend of the Regent and Alvanley when they were young and feckless fools. I never knew Fitzgerald, as he is about ten years my senior, and by the time I joined in the revelries at Carlton House, Fitzgerald had already been banished to the colonies.

But I have heard a great deal of him. A charming man, knowing exactly how to speak to whomever is before him. He comes across as harmless, so says Alvanley. Brummell always said so as well. Fitzgerald never tried to be the best in say, fashion, or gambling, or imbibing, or whatever they decided was their raison d’etre for the day, conceding to the winner without rancor.

However, Fitzgerald apparently could become enraged, especially when one stood between him and something he truly wanted. That might be a lady, or a horse, or an artwork, or a house. Never mind he might not be able to afford the horse, artwork, house, or dare I say it, the lady, but he’d go after it with obsession. Anyone who thwarted Fitzgerald was subject to a barrage of abuse, which is why gentlemen called him out. If he wanted a lady, he was happy to shoot the man to whom she was devoted or even wed, to obtain her. Fortunately, no one actually was murdered … but shot, yes.

The Regent claims he was ready to eject Fitzgerald from his circle, but Alvanley says the Prince never mentioned it until Fitzgerald was in disgrace and sent away. In any case, there was a collective sigh of relief when the man was gone. Some regret, as he was usually an affable chap, but when he exploded, one tended to flee until the tempest had died down.

Is Fitzgerald capable of murder? I believe he would be, for the right reason. Although I had the idea