"I have to ask a distasteful question," I said. "Does Stacy hurt the girls?"
Payne looked surprised. "Naw. Leastwise, I never saw such a thing. They like him, smile when the carriage stops and all. If they were afraid of him, they'd melt away when they saw him coming, wouldn't they? They must tell each other all about it, wouldn't you think?"
"True," I conceded. If Stacy had the habit of beating the girls, word would get around, and only the most desperate would go to him. "Now, we come to yesterday afternoon. Mr. Stacy was in Covent Garden?"
"That he was. I drove him--not through the square, too crowded--but down Russel Street, thinking to skirt round to Southampton Street. He was looking again, you know, for who he'd like to take up with next. At the edge of the market, he signals me to stop, and he gets down. There's an orange girl he talks to, and he sees her and makes his way to her. He paused to talk to another on the way, but he left her pretty soon for the orange girl. He likes her. He buys an orange and walks back to the carriage. He tells me to drive on, gets in, and we're on our way."
"Did you see a young lady stop him, seemingly to ask directions?"
Payne looked shamefaced. "I have to admit I didn't notice, sir. The crowd was big, and people kept pushing by the horses. A few boys were tweaking the harness, and I had to clear them off before they spooked the beasts. So Mr. Stacy might have talked to one such as her, but I wasn't looking at him all the time. Sorry, sir."
"The game girl he paused to speak to--she could not have been my daughter? Gabriella has light brown hair, and she might have seemed agitated and in a hurry."
"No, this were a game girl, right enough. My master knows the difference."
No doubt he did. That was one point in Stacy's favor--at least he regulated his proclivities to girls who were used to such things.
I recalled Thompson's note about Mary. "What was Mr. Stacy doing Wednesday night?" I asked abruptly.
Payne blinked. "Wednesday?"
"This Wednesday just gone. Did he come to Covent Garden?"
"No, sir." His voice held more confidence. "He went to Almack's to meet his wife and daughter. They go every Wednesday."
I'd never darkened the door of Almack's, that bastion of respectability, where the ton paraded. The most blue-blooded went to Almack's Assembly Rooms to parade their eligible daughters, drink lemonade, and dance on the roped-off dance floor. Young ladies making their debuts waited in some anxiety for the approval of the patronesses, in the form of vouchers for tickets, before they could attend.
Lady Breckenridge had described it to me. "The lemonade is insipid, the talk is insipid, and the orchestra is insipid, and the patronesses rule over it like it was the kingdom come. I longed to go as a debutante, and then wondered why the moment I entered the place. I begged my mother to take me home, and she did, to my surprise. She hated it too. But Lord, a young lady must go, and good heavens, she mustn't dance the waltz until one of the biddies says she can. Is it any wonder I am so scandalous? I had to be, for the relief."
So Stacey went to Almack's one night and brought Covent Garden game girls into his coach the next. I knew that many respectably married gentlemen kept mistresses, but I wondered how many lived such a double life as Stacy. "Did he go to Covent Garden Wednesday at all?"
"No, sir. Dinner at Lord Featherstone's, Almack's Assembly Rooms at eleven o'clock, and home again at two. That was all. Why do you want to know?"
"Because that was the night Mary Chester died, apparently."
Payne's graying brows lifted. "Was it now? Well, it couldn't have been my gentleman. He never went near the place all that day."
"What about his friend, Mr. McAdams? Did Stacy ever take McAdams to Covent Garden with him?"
"Naw. This is something my master did alone." Payne drained his tankard and swiped the last of the ale from his mouth. "It were Mr. McAdams got my master started in that way, though, about three year ago. I overheard them--Mr. McAdams telling Mr. Stacy that he could find good sport right here in London without having to go out to the country. Kind of shoved him in the direction, like. I've never seen Mr. McAdams in Covent Garden, but that don't mean he don't go."
"True. " I signaled the landlord to bring Payne another ale. "I do appreciate you answering my questions so frankly, but I must ask, why do you continue to work for Stacy? If you find his activities repulsive."
Payne shrugged. "Well, he ain't no worse than any other master, I'm thinking. The wages is good, and he buys the livery. I don't much like his 'sport,' but then, all gentry-coves are a little mad for wenches, ain't they? He likes the game girls, but it's what they're for. He don't push his attentions on those he should not, if you take my meaning. And they don't seem to mind him."
I nodded and lifted my tankard, which was still half full. "In other words, he treats ladies like ladies and game girls like game girls. I suppose most gentlemen do."
"Exactly, sir. So, I shake my head and drive on as I'm told. Even if he does write it all down in a book."
I stopped, my tankard halfway to my mouth. "A book?"
"I almost forgot."
As the landlord deposited another tankard in front of Payne and took up the empty, Payne reached into his coat and drew out a leather-bound book, one made for keeping a journal. He slid it across the table to me. "He told me to give you this. He's that embarrassed, like, but he wants you to see that there is no entry for your daughter."
I waited until the landlord was well away, then, with some trepidation, I peeled open the book and scanned a page.
Stacy wrote in a clear, flowing script, the kind perfected by tutors in public schools. I still could feel the sting of the cane across my knuckles when my fumbling fingers could not shape the loops and curls to my tutor's satisfaction.
October 3, ran the entry. Brown, blue, good teeth, round. Haymarket. SnT2n.
"What does that mean?" I asked, pointing to the letters and numbers.
"Don't know, sir. Never asked."
"Something about the girls he don't want no one to know?" Jackson suggested. "In case someone else reads the book?"
"Quite," I said. I wondered why the devil Stacy would let me see this, but if I could not understand half of it, perhaps he saw no harm. "Even so, he wrote his observations in a book? Good Lord, what if his wife found it?"
"She won't, sir," Payne said. "He has me keep it for him, and I give it to him only when we make our outings, if you see. He's not written his name anywhere in it, so if someone finds it, they won't know it's his, unless they recognize the writing."
"They might think it yours," I pointed out.
"Makes no difference. It's mostly nonsense, ain't it? He wants you to read the entries for yesterday."
I flipped to Thursday: 3 o'clock, CG, oranges, blonde, round. AySnTn.
Farther down the page was another entry: Midnight, oranges, T2yC3.
From this I surmised that the orange girl had made him happy at midnight, but nothing more. It coincided with me seeing Stacy's carriage in Covent Garden that night. I flipped back to the entry for Wednesday and found none. Either Stacy had gone to Almack's in truth, or he'd removed the page for that day. I lifted the book and peered down the length of its spine, but could see no evidence of pages cut from the binding.
"May I keep this?" I asked. "I will return it tomorrow."
Payne's brows twitched. "Mr. Stacy would not be happy."
"If Mr. Stacy has nothing to hide but this little peccadillo, there will be no harm. I will return it with my own hands to your master tomorrow."
Payne did not look pleased, but he nodded.
I tucked the book into my coat. "Thank you, Payne. Enjoy the ale." Nodding, I rose. Payne stood, bowed to me, and thanked me nicely for the drink.
Jackson followed me outside into the deepening night. He clapped on his hat against the rain and straightened it. "Nasty goings-on, ain't there?"
"A bit." I pressed the book in my pocket against my chest, and we started down the lane to the Strand, where a
groom watched after Grenville's horses and rig.
"At least I have no cause to be ashamed of my master," Jackson said. "Catch Mr. Grenville doing anything so sordid."
"Indeed," I said.
"And writing it down. The man must be daft." Jackson shrugged. "Ah, well, there ain't many like Mr. Grenville." He opened the carriage door. Rain streamed down the windows and the polished wood, but Jackson was as poised as he would be on a clear afternoon. "Where to now, sir?"
*** *** ***
I elected to return home. I saw candles glowing in my front windows above the dark bakery and concluded that Bartholomew had returned and was waiting for me. I quickened my pace, hoping there was news.
When I entered my sitting room, I found Bartholomew nowhere in evidence. Instead, Lady Breckenridge was curled in my wing chair, her eyes closed.
When the door shut, she opened her eyes and smiled. "There you are, Lacey," she said. "You've been ages."
I had held myself upright too long. Seeing Donata brought of flood of warmth to my limbs, and I had to press my walking stick against the carpet in order to remain standing.
"Gabriel?" Lady Breckenridge asked with a frown. "Has something else happened?"
She rose and came to me. I dropped the walking stick and gathered her up, much preferring to lean against her. She smelled fine, as she always did, and I buried my face in her neck.
I felt her soft chuckle. "Well," she murmured. "That's all right, then."
*** *** ***
Donata slept with me all night, and said hang the scandal. "They know," she observed in the early hours of the morning as she lay next to me. She traced patterns on my bare chest with one slim finger. "Everyone knows. They can make of it what they will. I no longer care."
"Bold lady." I touched her cheek. "I like you being bold."
"You were not made for a timid woman, Gabriel. It does not suit you." She paused. "Did you know? Today is my birthday."
"Is it?" I'd had no idea. "And you've chosen to spend it with a wreck like me. You honor me."
She shrugged. "I usually spend it at home in Oxfordshire, but I did not want to leave London while you were in the midst of troubles." Her fingertips moved to my lips. "I am thirty."
I smiled, feeling her warm body curving against mine. "Ancient."
"I am certainly ten times wiser than at twenty. What an astounding innocent I was."
"I am sorry you've had to face so much," I said.
"One must hurt to learn," Lady Breckenridge answered with a stoicism I knew she did not feel. "I have my little lad. I in no way regret that. And I trounced you at billiards. I in no way regret that, either."
"I paid up that five pounds," I reminded her with mock severity.
She remained silent, studying me, her eyes a mystery. "What do you in no way regret?"
"Losing to you at billiards," I said.
"Not a fair answer. You knew I wanted you to say that."
"Perhaps." I leaned down and kissed the dark line of her hair, breathing in her scent. "I in no way regret falling in love with you."
She looked at me, startled. "In love?"
"The feeling came unlooked for, but I have grown to cherish it. I love you, Donata."
Her answer came without words, and it satisfied me very much.
*** *** ***
Brilliant sunlight and the sound of curtains drawing back woke me. I pried open my eyes. Donata lay in a nest of linens beside me, sleeping the deep sleep of a late riser. Bartholomew hovered in the room at a respectful distance, holding a tray heaped with dishes.
"Good morning, sir. I brought breakfast for yourself and her ladyship, along with your morning correspondence."
I brushed hair out of my eyes and sat up carefully so as not to disturb Lady Breckenridge. "Thank you, Bartholomew. It was good of you."
Bartholomew set the tray on the bedside table. The aroma of sausage wafted to me, and my stomach rumbled.
"And Miss Simmons has come to see you."
I half groaned, torn between relief that Marianne was all right and annoyance that she had chosen to call just now. "Marianne on an empty stomach is not to be borne. Tell her to come back later if it has nothing to do with the search."
Bartholomew hesitated. "The thing is, sir, she arrived in London early this morning and went to the Clarges Street house. The servants there were instructed to deny her admittance, and she is most distressed."
Bloody hell. "Yes, she would be. Very well, hand me my dressing gown, I'll see her."
I looked regretfully at the beckoning sausages, took a quick sip of the coffee that steamed in its cup, then climbed from the bed. Bartholomew helped me don my dressing gown, then I went out to explain things to Marianne. Through it all, Donata never woke.
* * * * *
Chapter Fifteen
Marianne wore a chocolate brown traveling gown with a red sash, and her brown-and-green plaid shawl matched the trim on the bonnet she dangled from its cherry-red ribbons. She was well turned out and looked quite smart, the ensemble complementing her childlike looks and golden curls.
Her face, however, was white and strained, her eyes red with weeping. "Lacey, what in God's name happened?" She threw the bonnet to the floor as I emerged from my bedchamber and closed the door behind me. "I went to Clarges Street and that pious maid Alicia refused me the door. When I argued with her, she said it was his orders, and then Dickon pressed forward, sweet as you please, and said I had to leave. They would not tell me why. They would not let me in even to get my things. Damnation, what has happened?"
Skirts swirling, Marianna fell into the wing chair, where she sat with arms folded like a petulant child.
"I told him about David," I said.
Marianne grabbed the chair's arms and sat up straight. "You did, did you? Well, I suppose I told you to. You were to have sent word to me, so that I could stay with David if he cut up rough."
"There was not time to send word, had I even known you'd gone. I told him the entire tale late afternoon yesterday."
"I expect that he was disgusted, knowing his money went to the by-blow of another man, never mind that man's dead and gone seven years now. Catch me taking your advice again, Lacey. You lost me a soft billet."
Marianne spoke offhandedly, but her fingers whitened where they gripped the chair.
"He was not angry because of David," I said. "He was all sympathy and even said he'd keep the money going to the boy. No, he was incensed because we had not trusted him about it."
She looked startled. "What do you mean?"
"We believed he'd either refuse to have anything to do with David or that he would take complete control of David's life. Grenville decided to do neither. But the fact that we did not trust him to be goodhearted upset him a great deal." I paused. "He is a man slow to anger, but we have managed it between us."
"He is angry at you as well?"
"He asked me to explain that he would continue your allowance so that you could care for David but requested that he never see you again. Or me."
"You? Why?"
"Because I doubted him, just as you did. Because Grenville has unbent a great deal for both of us, and we repay him by suspecting everything he does. You and I are cautious by nature, but with Grenville, we went too far. He was trying to do good by us, and we threw it back in his face."
Marianne's throat worked. "I have ruined your friendship as well?"
"I ruined it." I touched my chest in my worn dressing gown. "With my pride. Hence all the pithy warnings about pride going before a fall." It hurt, that loss of friendship, and I'd feel the emptiness when I had more time to think about it.
Marianne turned her head and stared at the cold fireplace. "It does not matter. I was ready to give him the push, at any rate. So dull living in his house and being paraded about only when he likes."
"Stop," I said.
She jerked her head up, her eyes bright with tears. "It is true."
"No, it is not." I spread my hands. "I plan
to pen him a letter of abject apology, and I believe you should as well. If we throw ourselves at his feet, he might condescend to acknowledge us again. Or he might tell us to go to the devil. But I believe it worth a try."
"Throw myself at his feet?" She gave me a look of disbelief.
"Whyever not? What have you to lose that you have not already lost?"
Marianne tried to hold on to her bravado, and then, for the first time since I'd known her, she let her mask fall away. Even seeing Marianne with David hadn't revealed what she showed me now. I saw a woman desperately lonely and frightened of her coming life, a woman who had finally found one straw to cling to, and now saw that straw being ripped from her grasp.
Marianne cared for Grenville--I had known that before, but I had not realized how much. Tears spilled from her eyes, not tears of self-pity. She pressed the heels of her hands to her face and let the tears flow. "God help me, Lacey, what have I done?"
I drew a handkerchief from my dressing gown. Crouching before her, I dabbed at the tears that smeared her face. "You fell in love and did not know what to do."
"Fell in love," Marianne repeated bitterly. "What kind of idiot am I?"
"He cares for you as well. I know he does. Go to him and grovel--on your knees if you have to. Tell him what you feel for him."
She gave a short laugh. "So he can kick me and have his footmen drag me from the house? I am already in pain enough, thank you very much."
"You must trust him. He might not take you back, or me either, but we have to tell him what he means to us. For me, he means a loyal friendship, better than I ever thought I'd find. For you, a man who can make you happy."
"Can he?" She wiped tears from her eyes. "I have never been happy, Lacey. I cannot imagine what it is like."
"Do you think it worth a little groveling to find out?"
Marianne gave a shaky laugh. "Oh, why not? I don't suppose he can make me feel any worse than I do now. You are right, you know. I love the bloody man. I love everything about him, damn him."
"I know you do." I stroked her hair, trying to look hopeful, but in truth I did not know what Grenville would do. He'd been angry and deeply hurt, and I had the feeling that he wished the both of us at the bottom of the river.