We traveled back down High Holborn in near silence. As the carriage rolled along Drury Lane toward Long Acre, Auberge lifted his head and said, "I am in near despair, Lacey. What do I do if Gabriella is truly gone?"
* * * * *
Chapter Twelve
I clenched the handle of my walking stick. "Not despair. Not yet. We must not give in yet."
As Auberge continued to watch me in anguish, I drew a breath and said, "Good God, man, how do you think I feel knowing that if I had not expressed interest in finding Carlotta and Gabriella, she would even now be happily home in France with you. Denis used that interest to hunt them down and bring them here, where her world turned over. He never would have, but he saw how much I wanted to find them, and he did it to have leverage over me. How do you think that makes me feel?"
Auberge only watched me stonily. "We were caught up in our own worries about this divorce, and we neglected her. If I had been more careful . . . If I had left her with my brother . . ."
"We can flog ourselves until we bleed," I said. "You brought her with you because of a young man, you said. Tell me about him. Is he the sort of blackguard who'd follow her to England and convince her to elope?"
Auberge switched to French, his words flowing more easily. "I would not say so. Emile is no worse than any other young man. He is a few years older than Gabriella and will come into his money when he is aged twenty-five. We wished them to wait until then, but Gabriella is impetuous." He sighed. "I love Gabriella dearly, but she is stubborn. My God, but she is stubborn."
I smiled grimly. "I am not surprised. She comes from a long line of stubborn men and women. I eloped with her mother, and so did you, and I am afraid now that Gabriella knows that, she will use it as leverage in her argument to marry him."
His eyes crinkled, his despair lightening a little. "No doubt."
"What is it about Carlotta that made us both run off with her?" I mused. "Her air of distressed innocence, I suppose."
To my surprise, Auberge smiled. "She had her way, you know, even as we thought we were having ours. She is stubborn."
"So I learned." I paused. "And you are--fond--of her?"
"I love her deeply." He answered with a French lack of shame about sentiment. "I know we wronged you. I knew even when I carried her to my home. But you never came after her."
"I gave up, I suppose. I'd tried to be a good husband, and failed. I knew in my heart that she was better off with you. Happier. I am not amazed that she ran away with you. She must have hated me."
Auberge gave me a surprised look. "Carlotta never hated you. She was upset when we ran away, saying that you were a good man and that she hated to hurt you. She cried to think on what you would feel when you discovered her gone."
I stared, astonished. "Did she? She left a letter for Louisa. Not even a note for me," I finished bitterly.
"She could not bring herself to write it. She knew she wronged you. She would not have written at all, but I persuaded her to leave a letter for Madame Brandon."
"I nearly went off my head," I said. "Poor Louisa had to break the news to me, and then stop me from violence. I was sore angry."
Auberge reddened. "I know it was a terrible thing. But not only was Carlotta unhappy as an army wife, but she had just learned you were returning to England, and she was frantic not to go back there. She would do anything not to go to England, including run away with a French officer to a farm near Lyon. She could disappear forever, become Madame Auberge, and none would know. I was the--as you call it--blackguard. I was in love with her, and I did not try too much to persuade her to stay with you."
I looked at him in puzzlement. "You said that before, that Carlotta wanted to leave England forever. The eagerness with which she accepted my proposal astonished me, and I flattered myself that she loved me madly. But your words paint a different picture. She wanted to leave England, and India was as far away from England as anything can be."
Auberge nodded. "Her father wanted her to marry a certain gentleman, she told me. This man had money, and her father needed to extricate himself from a very nasty debt. But the man was repugnant to Carlotta. He was much older than she, and lecherous. He wanted only to get his hands on a young girl, if you see. When she refused him, her father beat her quite harshly, and threatened to force the marriage." He paused. "Carlotta said that as a good Church of England girl, she did not believe in miracles and magic, but she thought that God must have sent you to her to save her from misery. What she suffered following the drum, she said, was nothing to what she would have suffered as this man's wife."
I stared in astonishment. "Why the devil did she not tell me this?"
"I do not know. She was young and afraid. Perhaps if you discovered that she'd been so disobedient, you would take her back to her father? It is not Carlotta's way to think clearly all the time. I suppose she decided to simply be happy with you and far from her father."
"If she had told me . . ." I sat back, awash in regret for the past and what had not been. "I would have been kinder. I would have told her she need have no fear of her father ever again. She was, and is, a Lacey. We are not known for giving back what we have." I frowned. "But why did Carlotta fear returning to England later, when she was safely married to me? She was out of her father's reach by then."
"I do not know," Auberge said. "I know only that she was afraid and wanted to run away with me. I did not question her too closely, and I have let it lie ever since. I must admit that I was pleased that Carlotta wanted to leave you for me, and I did not want her to change her mind. And so I took her away." He gazed at me, his look defiant.
"And as you say," I said lightly. "She had her way."
Auberge gave me a faint smile. "She had her way coming to London this time, as well. When we received the letter from Mr. Denis, I wanted to refuse. But Carlotta wished to come. Her father is dead now, and she wants the divorce from you so she can marry me in truth. We live in a Catholic country, and although I am not devout, divorce is difficult there. Carlotta does not care at all about the Catholic Church; she wants only the divorce and then a quick English marriage to me. That way, in her mind, it will all be fair. We long ago began the fiction that Madame and Major Auberge had married in England, so that our neighbors would not wonder that our parish had no record of it, and she wants it to be true."
"I see. That sounds like Carlotta." I thought a moment. "And if Denis had not put the idea into her head, she likely would still be there with you on your little French farm."
"Possibly. I confess to you that Carlotta had to argue a long time with me before I agreed. I feared, you see, that when she saw you again, and you still her husband, well . . ." He lifted his hands in a shrug.
"You thought she would want to come back to me? And you profess to know Carlotta."
"I thought that you would claim your rights to her. You are her true husband. You have the English law behind you. I am only the Frog roue who stole your wife."
"My life with Carlotta finished years ago," I said, realizing the truth. "She is not my possession, whatever the law says. I, too, want this divorce, so that I can marry another."
He looked relieved. "When I met you, I knew you no longer wanted her, which I confess, pleased me. You wish to marry a woman called Lady Breckenridge?"
"I suppose I should not be so surprised it's common knowledge."
The corners of his mouth creased. "The English servants of the boardinghouse gossip. They know you are a friend of Mr. Grenville, who seems to be more worshipped than royalty. They also know that you are paramour of Lady Breckenridge, a widow of some means."
I grimaced. "I ought to post a notice outside my door."
"It is the same in a small French town. The women in the market square, they know everyone's business but their own. They are curious about Carlotta but dismiss her past because she is English, and they are fond of her. They look after her, and my children."
"Which is how Carlotta wants it," I observed.
&nb
sp; "Yes."
I fell silent as the coach bumped through Bow Street and then to a halt in Russel Street. Carlotta, the sweet, innocent slip of a girl, certainly had manipulated me into carrying her off. Then she'd used that same sweet innocence to persuade Auberge to carry her off to a provincial French village, where she'd made a home for herself. Auberge and I thought ourselves strong and masterful, but Carlotta in the end always had what she wanted. Strength masquerading as weakness. I had to admit her success.
However, I would not let her have her way in the matter of Gabriella. I wanted my daughter, and I would fight for her.
As we descended and walked into Grimpen Lane, a man pushed himself from the wall next to the bake shop and approached us. I did not recognize him, but his pugilist build and stoic patience told me that he worked for Denis.
"Captain," he greeted me. "Mr. Denis, he sent me to find you."
I could not be surprised. "I suppose Mr. Denis already knows what has happened?"
"That your daughter done a bunk? 'Swhy he sent me." The man straightened his rather battered hat. "You need to come with me, Captain. Something I need to show you."
My heart squeezed, and Auberge went white. "Gabriella?" I asked.
He shook his head. "Naw. A man. Come on."
He gestured us to follow and set off at a lumbering gate back toward Russel Street. Auberge and I came after him.
The man led us to an opulent carriage that had stopped in the square of Covent Garden at the end of Russel Street. A coachman sat on his perch, holding the horses in a bored manner.
The pugilist opened the carriage door. I looked in and stopped.
Huddled against one of the seats, holding his arms around his body and regarding me fearfully, was the pathetic figure of Bottle Bill, the drunken man who turned up most days at the Bow Street magistrate's house.
"He has something to tell you," Denis's man said. He gestured for me to enter the carriage. I glanced at Auberge, who returned the look blankly, then I hoisted myself into the coach, the pugilist assisting me.
I sat down opposite Bottle Bill and waited for Auberge to take the seat beside me. Bill watched me from bloodshot eyes, his usually amiable face pale with fear.
"What's all this about, Bill?" I asked him.
The pugilist leaned in the door. "You tell him now." He did not speak threateningly, but Bill cringed from him.
"I didn't mean nuffing. Leave me alone."
"Bill," I said sharply. Bill swiveled his gaze back to me. "Tell me what you know."
"I didn't mean to, did I? I don't know what I'm doing when I've drunk a bottle or two. That's why the bills always haul me in, inn't it?"
I was in no mood to placate the man. "What the devil did you do?"
"Tell him," the pugilist said, his tone still bland.
"I found her, didn't I? The girl with the yellow hair. She were dead, weren't she?" His eyes moistened.
"Mary Chester?" I asked.
"Never knew her name. I found her. In me lodgings, all dead and cold. Right inside the door, so I tripped over her when I went in. I never meant nuffing, I swear to you."
"Did you kill her?" When Bottle Bill only began to weep, I shook him. "Tell me. Did you kill her?"
"I don't know," he wailed. "I were drunk, weren't I? I'm always drunk."
"Where are your lodgings?" I asked.
"Down Strand way. Back of beyond. I had to move her, didn't I? Had to get her out of me doorway. He helped me. We wrapped her up tight, carried her to a lane, and buried her there. Out of sight. No one to find her. Rest in peace." He pressed his hands to his face and sobbed.
Auberge looked bewildered, clearly unable to follow Bill's garbled speech.
"You said he helped you," I prompted. "Who?"
"Don't know 'im. Said he'd help me, and I wasn't to tell, 'cause I'd swing."
"Bill, for God's sake. You have to tell me who it was."
"Don't know, do I? Had a posh carriage. But it were dark, and I were drunk, and I don't remember."
I believed him. Bill sober was a weak, gentle man; Bill drunk was mean and violent. Two Bills, one in a bottle.
"What did he look like?" I asked. "Tall, short? You must remember something."
"I don't. Don't hurt me, Cap'n, I swear I don't remember nuffing."
I tried another tack. "Why did you bury her under debris?"
"Don't know. Seemed decent. Gent said no one would think I did it if she were streets away."
"What I mean is, there are better ways of disposing of a corpse. Toss her into the river, take her out into the country and bury her, sell her to a resurrectionist."
Bill blinked. "Never thought of that."
"Of course you didn't. It was the gentleman's idea to hide her, was it not?"
Bill nodded fervently. "He helped me. He helped me 'cause he said I'd swing."
Auberge frowned, trying to work out what we were talking about. "What is this resurrectionist?"
"Grave robbers," I answered. "They prey on corpses of the indigent and sell them to quacks who teach other quacks. Some of the more unscrupulous stoop to murder to further their trade."
"Ah," Auberge said. "In France, we have a similar thing."
"Why did this man help you?" I asked Bill. "Why should he not shout for the Watch when he saw you with a dead woman?"
"Don't know. I were drunk, Cap'n. I don't remember nuffing, I said."
"I know you don't. That's why I don't believe you killed her."
Bill opened his red eyes wide. "She were on me doorstep. And I were drunk as anything."
"Likely you were. And this posh gent, knowing Bottle Bill can't control himself when he's in his cups, places the body of a young woman inside his doorway to shove the blame onto you. When you come home too soon, he's happy to help you hide her, because, he says, he feels sorry for you. But instead of disposing of her body in a way in which she won't be found for some time, he helps you hide her in a nearby lane, where someone is certain to find her very soon. Perhaps someone will even see you covering her up. That will scream your guilt, and you will pay for a crime you did not commit."
Bill looked confused. "I didn't kill her?"
"I'll wager you did not. I wish you could tell me about this gent with the posh carriage."
"I didn't kill the poor thing?" Bill asked hopefully. "You sure?"
"Almost sure. I will be completely certain when I find him. Now then, I want to ask you something else. Did you know a girl called Black Bess?"
Bill looked surprised. "Bessie? Sure, I know her. She laughs at me but sometimes gives me a penny when I've drunk away all me coins."
"She went missing about the same time Mary did."
His eyes widened. "Cor."
"When was the last time you saw her?"
He considered. "Don't remember. Not long. Days are all the same to me."
"When you saw her last, did Bess talk about having a wealthy protector? Or that she soon would have one?"
"No," he answered doubtfully. "But then, she did say she'd come into some money. Maybe she meant a rich flat."
"Maybe she did." I sat back, not satisfied, but my mind turned over several ideas. "If you remember anything, anything at all, about Bess or Mary or the gentleman who helped you, you come and tell me right away. If I'm not about, tell Denis's man. Understand?"
"Aye, Cap'n." Bill fumbled a salute. "I don't want to swing," he added in a trembling voice. "I truly don't."
I left him huddled in the carriage. Outside, I addressed Denis's man. "Watch him. Both because he might be lying, and because this other man might try to make certain he remembers nothing more. If Denis objects, he can speak to me."
"Planned to watch 'im, Captain," the pugilist said. "We're looking out for your daughter, too, sir. Mr. Denis said to."
"Tell him I am grateful." I was, at that moment.
"He wants to see you, sir."
"No doubt. I have an appointment at Tattersall's that I must not miss, and I might be able to c
all upon him after that."
The pugilist's face never changed expression, but I saw skepticism in his eyes. "He likes gents to make an appointment or come when they're called."
"I know he does. He will simply have to make do."
I set my hat straight. The clear blue sky was beginning to cloud over, England's rainy climate tired of giving us sunshine. The pugilist watched me as I nodded to Auberge, and we started back for my rooms.
*** *** ***
I left Auberge behind when I kept my appointment at Tatt's. Auberge rejoined the search with Bartholomew and Matthias, who, to my knowledge, still hadn't slept, but they looked none the worse for wear.
Black Nancy wandered in as I made ready to depart, and flopped into the wing chair.
"Goodness, but I'm wrung dry. I ain't run this hard carrying ale at the inn. It's heartbreaking, too, Captain. No sign of her."
"I know," I said, trying to keep the dejection from my voice.
"That Mr. Thompson says his watermen haven't reported finding anybody in the river. Me pals is checking more of the bawdy houses, but so far, nothing." Nancy stuck out her feet and pointed her toes, swiveling her ankles. "I'll be out again soon as I rest a bit, don't you fret."
"Rest as long as you want, Nance," I said. "You are kind to help, but I fear very much that it will all be in vain."
I had not wanted to express that fear in front of Grenville, or Auberge, or even Bottle Bill. But with Nancy, for some reason, it came out of me. My voice caught as I said it, and my eyes stung.
Nancy rose from the chair and came to me. "Take heart, love," she said softly. "I didn't mean to sound like I was giving up."
"I only . . ." I swallowed, wet my lips, and tried again. "I know too much about London and what happens to girls in it, you see. They can be ruined, or lost, or dead, in the blink of an eye. You know that."
"Maybe, but most girls don't have someone like you looking out for them." Nancy rubbed my shoulder. "Don't give up, Captain. We'll bring her in."
With effort, I mastered myself and wiped my eyes. "What can you tell me about Felicity?"