The Thames River Murders

  Donata’s anger did not ease, but she took on a satisfied look. “She is a timid thing. I did not wish to alert this gentleman that I thought he might be sending the letters, and I could not openly meet with his wife. He would question her, so I thought to divert her to where we could meet in private. I did not wish Aline to know what I was about either, which is why I allowed her to drive me all the way back to Mayfair. I had the idea at the interval, when I could not find you, and spied this lady among the crowd. It worked very well. We had our chat, and I sent her home. By then I was so absolutely exhausted that I saw no reason not to avail myself of the bed here. I have Jacinthe, who is sleeping upstairs—I kept her up very late, and she needs the rest. Your landlady and her assistant very kindly looked out for me this morning.”

  Donata resumed her seat. She moved gracefully, but I noted a tremor in her hands.

  “Bloody hell, Donata,” I repeated. It was all I could think to say.

  “Back to swearing, are you? Did you come in our coach? Leave it for me as you go about your business. I will be home as soon as I am finished with breakfast, and Jacinthe is awake.”

  “No, we will return home together.” I scrubbed my hands through my hair as I paced the room. When I reached the window, I banged it shut, unable to take the combined odors of baking bread, the stale scent of the nearby market, and the stench of waste over it all. “This place is not fit for you. It never was.”

  “And yet, you lived here for years, too proud to take the hospitality of your friends.”

  I could have argued that when I’d arrived in London, I’d had no acquaintance whose hospitality I could count on. Colonel Brandon had returned with me, taking up residence in Brook Street, but as he had tried to kill me, albeit in a roundabout fashion, I did not fancy sharing a house with him.

  I could have argued this, but then she’d have reminded me that I’d been befriended by Grenville and several other people in the meantime. I might have saved myself wretchedness, in her opinion, if I hadn’t been enjoying it.

  I had nothing more to say on the matter.

  “We will return home together,” I said firmly. “I will wait downstairs while you finish your breakfast.”

  Donata snatched up a knife, scraped it through butter, and slapped it across her bread. “You are a high-handed, foul-tempered, officious … man … at times, Gabriel.”

  “Yes.” I ran a hand through my hair again. “Hence, I will wait downstairs.”

  “No, you will not. You will sit down and tell me where you ran off to in the middle of the opera. I know you find my acquaintance tedious, but I would have hoped you’d have made it past the interval.”

  Donata was furiously angry with me. I did not blame her, but at the same time, she had been foolishly reckless, and I was angry with her.

  When Donata was at her most angry, she became cold, retreating into aristocratic hauteur. Her bursts of temper and acid observations were not pique, I’d come to know. The cool disdain meant fury.

  I saw her trying to decide whether I was as bad as her first husband, a boor of a man who’d mostly ignored Donata when he wasn’t humiliating her with everything he did. Breckenridge had been high-handed, foul-tempered, and officious, as she’d just accused me.

  I’d ruined my first marriage because of my rages. My wife, weary of them, had fled with a man who was gentle with her. I was commencing my second marriage in the same fashion.

  “Donata,” I began.

  “Say nothing more, please.” Donata took a bite of bread. “I find myself ravenously hungry after my first sickness, and I would like to eat in peace.”

  The reminder that she carried my child increased my remorse. Whether she meant it to or not, I could not say, but I sank heavily into the chair across the table from her.

  “It truly was a foolish thing to do,” I said, my voice quiet.

  “Mmm.” Donata gave me a severe look as she chewed. “If you intend to sit there morosely, please tell me what you stayed awake all night to impart.”

  It took a few moments to calm myself. A small silver pot on a tray held coffee, but only one cup had been brought up. I rose, fetched one of the old, chipped porcelain cups I’d purchased in the market for myself long ago, and filled it with steaming brew.

  Mrs. Beltan’s coffee had not improved, but I sipped it gratefully. At one time, I’d welcomed it as ambrosia. Now I’d grown used to the fragrant stuff Donata and Grenville gave me. I was becoming soft.

  “I found the surgeon,” I began. “Or, rather, he found me. I took him to Grenville’s—I had no choice in not waiting for you. I either entered the coach with him there and then, or he’d be gone, never to return.”

  Donata finished her bread and attacked a piece of ham. “When I’m in a more forgiving mood, I might say I understand. What did he tell you?”

  I related how we’d entered Grenville’s cellars and spread out the bones, how the surgeon had fairly quickly made his assessment. “Tomorrow—or rather, today—Grenville and I will question the other surgeon he named and trace the necklace she wore.”

  “I already gave you my opinion on the necklace,” Donata said. “If she was that young, it was a gift from a parent, or a grandparent. Her death must not have been the result of a robbery. The gold in it alone should be worth a great deal.”

  “Indeed,” I said. My ire was rising again. I had been wrong to rage at Donata, but she was not blameless. And yet, she continued to speak to me as though the problem were resolved, me put in my place.

  I swallowed my irritation. “That is the whole of my news. What did you learn from the wife of my blackmailer?”

  Donata took another bite of ham, swallowed. “Very little, if anything at all. Either I am wrong, and he is not involved in any way, or he has his wife so cowed she doesn’t dare say a word against him. She was always a timid, rabbity thing.”

  “I take it you speak of the gentleman who you nearly married? Before you were paired with Breckenridge?”

  “Yes. Conversing with his wife, I know I had a lucky escape—if Breckenridge can be called a lucky escape. Perhaps all men are brutes, and I have been deceiving myself.”

  I set down my cup. “Most gentlemen are brutish. Some, like Grenville, learn to hide it well. I never have.”

  “I have always been aware of your uneven temper,” Donata said calmly. “My nature is not the most placid either.”

  “I will never hurt you, Donata.” I made my voice as gentle as I could, in spite of my continued anger. “Never. I give you my word.”

  Her eyes flickered, her body moving the slightest bit. She’d not expected me to say that.

  “It is good of you,” she said after a time.

  “My father was a great bully, and beat upon my mother most of her married life. She was too weak to fight him, and I was too small to help her. I vowed I’d never be the same. I realized even as a lad that a strong man does not need to prove his strength against those who cannot match him.”

  Donata carefully laid down her fork. “I have always thought you strong. Especially after the moment you knocked my husband flat. I was delighted.”

  “And came to my bed.” I remembered my dismay at finding her there. If I’d had no honor, I would have taken what she offered, but I’d turned away and left her, seeking sleep in another room.

  She shrugged. “I misread your character at first, I admit. I was also not the mad adulteress you thought me. I simply did not know what to make of you. Brought by Grenville, but not his toady; no title in your family, but not cowed by those who possessed them. Hot-tempered, but turning your fists to those who deserved them. Injured but with more fire than any man I’d ever met. If I were to break my marriage vows, I wanted it to be with the army captain who’d showed the world what a horrible man my husband truly was.”

  I had misread her character as well. “I am honored.”

  Donata sent me a little smile. “I remember you being repulsed, not honored. I am pleased you gave me another chance.” br />
  “When you ceased trying to be shocking and allowed me to see your true self, I was happy you gave me another chance.”

  Donata’s smile faded, and something entered her eyes I couldn’t read. “Is that what we will do now?”

  “You flitting about London in the middle of the night, worrying the hell out of me, is just cause for anger,” I said, an edge returning to my voice. “When no one knew where you were …” I cleared my throat. “I never want to feel like that again.”

  Donata’s lips parted. Whatever guardedness was in her fled, and she came swiftly to her feet.

  I started to rise, polite as ever, but her hand on my chest sent me back down. My wife landed on my lap, her arms going around my neck.

  “I’m used to no one caring what I do,” she said. “I had no idea you’d even notice.”

  “How could you think I’d not notice?” I cupped her face. “You are my wife. You carry my child. You are like the rarest porcelain, only much more treasured.”

  Her voice went soft. “Good Lord, Gabriel, you know how to melt a woman’s heart.”

  “Promise me you’ll take care. Please.”

  Her fingers on my face were cool. “Promise me you’ll not shout at me as though I’m a boot boy. You are kind to them, I have observed.”

  “I promise … that I will try.” I could never quite tame the beast inside me.

  Donata pressed a light kiss to the mouth that had raged at her. “Your bed is not very comfortable, as you have observed to me. But I think it will do.”

  I agreed that it would do very well for now. I carried her there, where we tested its comfort for much of the morning. I left my walking stick behind in the sitting room when I carried her to bed and never even noticed.

  ***

  Brewster and Hagen were enjoying a companionable smoke when Donata and I at last made our way to the carriage waiting at the end of Grimpen Lane.

  They passed a corncob pipe back and forth, discussing, with grunts, the merits of different tobaccos. It was the first time I’d seen Brewster have any sort of camaraderie with Donata’s servants.

  Jacinthe, the maid, had risen while Donata and I reconciled, and had taken a meal herself in the bakeshop. Jacinthe marched behind us, the disapproval on her middle-aged face showing she agreed with me about Donata’s nocturnal adventure.

  My wife and I were subdued on the way home. I had a warmth in my breastbone that seared when I thought of our hour or so in my bedroom, but also a worry. Donata was not a meek, obedient wife. She would do as she pleased, when she pleased, whether I liked it or not. I saw more storms in our future.

  As the carriage moved past the tall houses of Piccadilly, I asked, “Shall we adjourn to Grenville’s so that you might look at my grisly treasure?” It was after ten in the morning, and the road teemed with carts, horses, people, dogs—the metropolis going about its business.

  “An excellent idea,” Donata answered. “He dislikes rising early.”

  “I will never become used to the idea that any hour before one in the afternoon is early.”

  “That is because you are country bred,” she said decidedly. “Rising and retiring as the sun does. We in Town draw the curtains and light the lamps, making time as we like.”

  “And yet, to arrive before or after a certain hour in some places is not done,” I remarked. “So you follow the clock to some degree.”

  “Only when we please. Call to Hagen and tell him to take us to Grosvenor Street. If Grenville is not awake, it shall be his own fault for missing my speculations on the corpse.”

  I complied. When we arrived at Grenville’s plain front door, we found that he was indeed out of bed, and that Marianne Simmons was with him.

  Chapter Nine

  “Of course, Lacey, you would interrupt,” Marianne said to me as Matthias ushered us into the dining room.

  Matthias had told us, upon answering the door, that Mr. Grenville was not at home, then leaned closer and whispered he knew that Grenville would be incensed if Matthias turned us away. And so we were admitted.

  Marianne and Grenville sat very close together at one end of the table, a lavish breakfast spread before them. Their heads bent to each other’s as they made quiet comments, their words punctuated with soft laughter.

  Marianne wore a flowing peignoir of gray shimmering material, its placket lined with lace. Grenville was, for him, in dishabille, in a long dressing gown called a banyan, with no waistcoat, the neck of his shirt loose.

  When Marianne heard my step, her amiable look fled, her frown set in, and she voiced her admonishment.

  “I beg your pardon,” I said, bowing. “We did not know we would disturb you.”

  Marianne spied Donata behind me, and her expression changed to one of neutrality and some caution. Marianne still did not know quite what to make of Donata.

  On the one hand, Donata did not censure Grenville, or Marianne for that matter, for their public affaire de coeur, but then again, Donata was an earl’s daughter, and although she was unconventional, Marianne was still a bit nervous around her.

  Grenville looked slightly more embarrassed than Marianne to be caught in a private moment, but he surged to his feet and bowed to Donata.

  “Never bestir yourself,” Donata said to him. “Gabriel has brought me to look at the bones, as promised.”

  Marianne’s brows climbed as Donata added another unfathomable facet to her character.

  “Matthias can take us down,” I offered quickly. “Anton would not be pleased if you rushed away from his breakfast.”

  “Indeed,” Grenville agreed. He had recovered his aplomb and became his usual gallant self. “Are you certain, Donata? Please do not distress yourself with this bad business.”

  “I shan’t.” Donata turned away, her large shawl sliding to bare the glittering gold net over silk of her evening gown.

  The waistline of the gown rode high under her bosom, the fashions of this Season perfect for hiding her increasing figure. She’d removed the necklace of heavy stones she’d worn to the opera—they now reposed in my pocket—but it was quite obvious that Donata had been out all night, and equally obvious that I had not.

  Grenville, who set the standards of politeness for the ton, said not a word. Marianne did not either, though I was certain that as soon as we were in the cellars, the two would speculate about us.

  Matthias led us off to the back stairs, retracing the route he’d taken us last night. This time, the servants weren’t warned away—they moved aside and bowed or curtsied respectfully as we passed, but they did not let us slow them in their industry.

  “I am pleased to see Grenville happy,” I remarked as we moved through the servants’ area.

  Matthias shot me a look. “Miss Simmons, if you don’t mind me saying so, sir, does take a bit of getting used to.”

  “She is uncertain of her position,” I said. “Be patient with her.”

  “She can be kindhearted, when the fit takes her,” Matthias conceded.

  I feared that Donata would be sickened by the sight of the body. Her condition was already delicate, but when Matthias carefully lifted the sheet we’d draped over the pieced-together skeleton, Donata gave only one faint, sharp inhalation, and then went silent.

  She touched her hand to her mouth, but not because she was ill. Tears glistened on her lashes.

  “The poor thing,” Donata said, her voice low. “I am ashamed of my curiosity now.”

  I looked down at what used to be a young woman, and shared Donata’s pity. Matthias too, was somber.

  Donata went on. “She was left, alone under the water, and no one came for her.” She looked up at me, eyes full of compassion. “Please discover who did this, Gabriel, and unleash your temper on him. I will help you in the endeavor as much as I am able.”

  ***

  When we returned to the dining room, there were two more places set at the table and several additional covered trays on the sideboard.

  “No need,” I said. ??
?We have breakfasted.”

  “You have not,” Donata said. “Eat, please, or you will make yourself ill. I am already ravenous again, so I thank you for your kindness, Grenville.”

  She seated herself, nodding graciously at the footman who brought her coffee. I filled two plates at the sideboard, my stomach growling now, reminding me that I’d taken in nothing since last night before we’d departed for the opera.

  Marianne had moved to another chair. From her glance down the table, she wondered whether she should remain in the room at all, but Donata showed no concern that she shared a table with an actress who had been little better than a courtesan.

  The two ladies had been companionable enough when we’d traveled to Bath, or whenever Marianne shared Grenville’s box at Covent Garden and Drury Lane, but this was his Mayfair home, a different venue. Grenville was defying convention for bringing her to his house—he ought to keep his ladybird in her separate lodging.

  This told me first that Grenville cared very much for Marianne. He’d never have risked censure otherwise.

  It also told me he was tiring of London and the close scrutiny of his fellow men. He was a traveller at heart, and I sensed him impatient to be away. I wondered if he’d take Marianne with him when he went.

  “Gautier has already been a mine of information,” Grenville informed me as I began to eat. “He has given me a list of jewelers who might repair a necklace such as the one found on the young lady, and he has already begun making inquiries. I expect to have a shorter list before the day is very old.”

  Donata clinked silver to porcelain, looking as at home eating in the elegant chamber as she had at the secondhand table in my rooms. “The Runners should employ valets in their number,” she suggested. “Gentlemen’s gentlemen certainly know more about trade in London than any foot patrollers.”

  “Gautier would agree, dear lady. Lacey, once we are presentable, I propose a visit to the man your surgeon suggested—Coombs was his name?”

  I knew Grenville remembered the man’s name precisely—Jonas Coombs—but it would hardly do for a dandy of the ton to betray he had much interest in anything beyond clothes, horses, and women.