The Thames River Murders

  I straightened the covers over the sleeping boy, my stepson, and left the nursery.

  Gabriella’s room lay on the same floor as the nursery, her windows overlooking the back garden. Her bedroom was a pleasing chamber—it held a bed with four delicate, tall posts draped with embroidered hangings, walls in a pale cream with plaster medallions in an elegant frieze, sconces dripping with faceted crystals, a chest of drawers and bedside tables with walnut burl veneer.

  Gabriella slept with one arm flung across her pillow, her cheeks flushed. She breathed easily and deeply, the sleep of one with no troubles.

  Donata and Aline were keen to marry her off, to make a brilliant match that would be a triumph for them. But for now Gabriella was my girl, lovely, good-natured, with a lively mind. I would hold on to her as long as I could.

  I smoothed her covers as I had for Peter, carefully so as not to awaken her, and returned to my own chamber.

  Bartholomew readied me for bed and asked me what the surgeon had told us. Apparently, his brother had already sent word about where I had been.

  I related the tale, and Bartholomew listened with his usual interest. “We’re off again, are we?” he asked. “You will let me help, sir?”

  The question was delivered in a tone of admonishment. He was not pleased he’d been left out of tonight’s consultation.

  “Of course,” I assured him. “Finding this woman’s identity will be quite a puzzle. I have to wonder whether her absence was reported to the Runners, but Pomeroy may have some information in that regard. And we will again have to comb through the shops of London to find all we can about a necklace.”

  “I’m your man,” Bartholomew promised. He paused in the act of carrying my clothes to the dressing room. “You will take me with you before you go off investigating, won’t you? Only, you do tend to rush headlong, sir, begging your pardon. And her ladyship, she’ll blame me if anything happens to you.”

  I tied my warm dressing gown around me and gave him a severe look. “I would not dream of rushing headlong without you, Bartholomew. Now, good night.”

  “Sir.” Bartholomew, looking pleased, retreated to the dressing room.

  I settled myself by the fire to wait for Donata. I heard Bartholomew bustling about the dressing room as he put my clothes to rights, then silence as he at last slunk off to bed.

  I indulged myself in a brandy and book. Donata had a small library, Grenville an extensive one, and the two between them kept me in reading material.

  I liked books about history and the world best, and I was reading an account of Lord Elgin’s travels to ancient monuments. I was more fascinated at the moment by Egypt than Athens, but I admitted the wonders of Greece were astonishing.

  Donata was often late returning home, so I did not worry when she remained absent at two, then three. At four, I began to wonder; at five, when the sun began to rise, I left my chair and paced. At six, the June morning already bright, I was in my dressing room, heaving on my clothes.

  I banged down the stairs to the unguarded front door. A footman was usually on duty to admit visitors during the day, but he’d either still be rising from his bed or downstairs helping prepare the house for the morning.

  Barnstable, hearing me, emerged from the sunny dining room where he and a footman were laying out the breakfast things. “Sir?”

  “Did Lady Breckenridge come in last night?” I demanded. “Is she tucked away somewhere, asl