Hanover Square Affair, The by Ashley Gardner Read Free Book Online

being a cultivator of minute gossip about his fellow human beings. He’d know about Horne, and possibly the Carstairs family, and what he did not know, he could easily discover.
    The advantage of his acquaintance at the moment seemed small, because I couldn’t run the devilish man to ground. I’d written, and he’d not replied, and I refused to write again pleading to be allowed to speak to him. I would not reject his friendship, but I refused to be his sycophant.
    However, I needed his knowledge, so I’d accepted an invitation tonight, issued by one Colonel Arbuthnot, who was hosting a viewing of the latest work by an up-and-coming painter called Ormondsly. I’d accepted because I had every expectation of finding Grenville there.
    Grenville was foremost in the art world, and artists cultivated his every opinion. The cream of society would wait, breaths held, as Grenville would lift his quizzing glass, candlelight glinting on the gold eyepiece, and run his slow gaze down the painting. I’d seen crowds biting lips, pressing fingers to mouths, or shifting from side to side while Grenville cocked his head, pursed his lips, backed a few steps, and then started the process all over again. At last he would render his judgment—he would either pronounce the painting a work of genius, or an abysmal failure. With his words, an artist would be made, or broken. He’d be certain to be at Arbuthnot’s.
    Before I could leave my rooms for the outing, my upstairs neighbor, Marianne Simmons, opened my door and tripped blithely inside. “Got any snuff, Lacey?”
    Unsurprised, I took up my gloves and pulled them on. “In the cupboard.” I nodded at the aging chest on frame that stood against the wall next to the door. Grenville had recently given me a fine blend from his suppliers in Pall Mall, complete with ornate ebony box inlaid with mother-of-pearl. I did not take much snuff, nor did I smoke the small cigarillos or larger cheroots that many army men did. It was an odd gentleman who did not like tobacco in some form or other, but I’d always found I could take it or leave it alone.
    Marianne did not even thank me. She moved to the chest and began rummaging through the drawer in which I usually kept my supply of snuff. She’d caught up her yellow ringlets in a ribbon, à la greque, a style a little out of date, but one that suited her childlike face. Her prettiness made her liked on stage and popular with gentlemen offstage. And she was certainly pretty. Even I, who’d come to know her well, could still appreciate her round bosom, her wide blue eyes, and the slender turn of her ankle.
    But I’d come to see that behind her prettiness lay the hardness of a woman who had looked upon the world and found it unkind. Where Black Nancy bantered with her mates and faced her hardships with good nature, Marianne Simmons could be hard and cold and ruthless.
    Knowing I was poor, she spoke to me only when she wanted to borrow coal and tapers or a few pence for tea. That is, when she did not simply help herself. She also considered me a convenient supply of the snuff she was addicted to but could not afford.
    She pulled out the ebony box. “If this Grenville is so rich, why does he not give you money?”
    When Marianne had discovered that the famous Lucius Grenville had taken me under his wing, she’d pestered me with questions about him, although she seemed to know more about him than I did. I imagined that the gentlemen she took up gossiped heavily about him.
    “A gentleman does not offer money to another gentleman. “
    “Bloody inconvenient for you.” She clutched the box to her chest. “I suppose he does not take up with actresses?”
    “He does.” In fact, I’d seen him the night before at the theatre with Hermione Delgardia, the latest sensation on the Continent, who was visiting England for a time.
    Marianne wrinkled her nose. “None who dance in the chorus, I’d wager. No, he sets his sights loftier, does he not?”
    I