I swallowed the lump in my throat. "We should finish," I said, "and rescue poor Leland."
Travers gave me the ghost of a grin. "Do not worry about Leland. He is most resilient."
He must have been correct, because Lady Breckenridge gave me a look of annoyance when Travers and I arrived upstairs to fetch Leland. I had not played fair once again, her expression said. Leland took his leave politely, seemingly untarnished by his encounter with her.
She was right, I had not played fair. But I had needed truth, and had been ready to take it in any way possible. I bowed as I took my leave. Doubtless she would have spit on me if we had been alone.
*** *** ***
Leland obligingly instructed his coachman to take me to Grenville's. I wanted to tell him of my findings and ask what he made of them. Grenville had a way of examining facts without emotion, turning them over to see if they were what I'd believed them to be. I thought sometimes that he ought to have been a barrister.
When I arrived at his home in Grosvenor Street, however, Bartholomew announced that Grenville had gone out and was doubtless at White's. I started to turn away, but the blond giant stopped me. "Wait, sir. I had an urgent message from Mrs. Westin's footman, William, a few hours ago. He asked that if you turned up here, would I send you down the road to the Westin house? Mrs. Westin is gravely ill, he said."
* * * * *
Chapter Eighteen
The sweltering afternoon suddenly chilled. The day's heat still radiated from the brick houses around me and the stones beneath my feet, but I no longer felt it.
A strawberry seller approached the carriage, smiled at the two young gentlemen. "Strawberries?" she queried. "Ripe and sweet."
"Ill?" I repeated.
"Yes, sir," Bartholomew said. "The lad was fair agitated."
I thought of Louisa and her recent "illness." I thought of Major Connaught dying in his sleep in Sussex.
I swung away and began striding down Grosvenor Street in the direction of Lydia Westin's home.
"Captain?" Leland's voice floated after me.
It would make more sense to press my way down the street in his carriage. But I could not stop. My feet moved, my body automatically avoiding passersby, vendors, horses, carriages.
I reached the Westin house. The doorknocker was still gone. I pounded on the door with my gloved fist.
After a long time, and more pounding, I heard male voices inside, and then William pulled open the door.
He had been weeping. His eyes were red, and mucus puddled on his upper lip. "Sir!" he cried in obvious relief. "You'd better come in."
He reached for me, then stopped, as though just in time he remembered he was a footman and I was a gentleman. I heard Leland's carriage halt behind me, but I could not turn around, could not explain. I strode inside and left William to face them.
The other voice I'd heard belonged to Mr. Allandale. He hurried toward me as I sought the stairs.
"She is very ill, Captain." His handsome face looked strained. "I have sent word to her daughter. I believe the best thing we can do now is leave her alone."
I did not waste breath telling him what I thought of that idea. I plunged up the stairs. Pain nudged my bad leg, but I did not heed it.
I reached the second floor to see a maid rush from Lydia's room, a soiled basin in her hands. She hastened toward the back stairs and another maid scurried up past her with a clean one.
Below me, Allandale called, "Captain, there is nothing you can do."
I growled something and pushed my way into the bedchamber.
Lydia lay among tangled sheets, her nightrail pasted to her limbs with dark sweat. The room was close and stinking, the window tightly shut. Lydia's face was dead white, her eyes red-rimmed. Her long hair hung in loose hanks, snarls of dark brown tangling her wrists and lying limply across her breasts.
As I entered, she put her head over the side of the bed and vomited into the clean basin that the worried maid had brought.
Spent, Lydia collapsed back into the pillows. Montague, the lady's maid, leaned down and wiped her mouth.
Lydia's dull eyes focused on me; her cracked lips parted. "Gabriel."
I came to the bed. I touched her forehead, her cheeks. She was warm, but not fever-hot, thank God. I brushed a lock of hair from her face.
A spasm wracked her, and she hastily sought the edge of the bed. When the episode ended, she lay back weakly, and Montague cleaned her mouth again.
I took her hand.
"Gabriel," she whispered. "I am so sorry."
This was not a miscarriage. This was something else. My fear did not abate.
"She needs a doctor," I snapped to the maid.
"She has had a doctor," Montague said at once. "He gave medicine. Shall I get more?"
"No!" Lydia jerked her hand from mine. "No, I cannot." Her eyes were bright, worried. "I will only bring it up again."
"Fetch her water," I said. "Lots of it. And brandy. At once."
Montague looked doubtful. "I tried to bring brandy before, sir. Monsieur Allandale said that she should not have spirits."
"Monsieur Allandale is a horse's ass," I said. "Fetch the brandy."
The maid with the basin whitened. Montague sent me an approving smile. "Yes, sir."
"Gabriel." Lydia tried to sound reproachful. Her lips trembled.
I laid my hand across her lower abdomen and gently pressed it. I met only softness like eiderdown. I looked quickly at her.
Her eyes were dark with hurt. "I am sorry, Gabriel," she repeated.
Fresh pain flowed through me. I had been wrong. She'd had a miscarriage. Just like Louisa.
At this moment, I finally understood the grief that had lived in Louisa Brandon's eyes for years. A child, a being, gone forever. A part of you, ripped away in an instant, and you helpless to prevent it. If John Spencer had done this, I would kill him myself.
My hand tightened on hers. Our gazes locked, hers filled with trepidation. Did she fear my anger? Some gentlemen, Brandon included, blamed their wives for miscarrying. An army surgeon had once told me that miscarrying was not necessarily the woman's fault. The child could be sick or dead, or there could be a disease of the womb.
I leaned down and kissed her forehead, having no words to reassure her.
Montague returned at the moment with a flagon of brandy and a pitcher of water. She set both on the night table, sloshing water onto the wood. I took up the glass she handed me, filled it with water, and added a liberal dollop of brandy.
I lifted Lydia's head and pushed the glass to her lips. "Drink."
She opened her mouth and let the liquid spill in. Almost instantly, spasms began, and she started to turn for the basin.
I held her fast, pressing my hand to her mouth. "No. Swallow it. Take a deep breath, and swallow."
She obeyed. Her body spasmed and trembled, but the water stayed down. For now.
I fed her more, small sips at a time. She began to breathe more easily.
"Monsieur," Montague said. "William says there are two gentlemen downstairs. They are arguing with Monsieur Allandale."
Leland Derwent and Mr. Travers. "Good," I said, tipping more brandy water into Lydia's mouth. "Tell Mr. Derwent that I want him to drive to Greenwich. He is to find a boardinghouse called The Climbing Rose, and fetch Mrs. Brandon from it. Tell her I need her here most urgently, and on the moment. Can you remember that?"
"Of course, monsieur. I will go at once." She suited action to word.
"Do not," Lydia whispered. "I do not want-- "
I hushed her. "Louisa will know how to help you. I will not let you die, love."
Tears leaked from her eyes, and she looked away.
I fed her that glass of water, and another, until at last her heaving stopped, and she lay quietly. I gently stripped the sodden nightrail from her body and bathed her limbs in cool water. I lifted her in my arms while Montague smoothed out the bed, then I laid her down again, covering her with new sheets.
&n
bsp; She slept for a time, her body still. I stayed next to her in a chair the maid brought for me. When Lydia twitched awake, I was there to soothe her. She sought my hand with hers, and I held it until she slept again.
Darkness at last consumed the room. I ordered the window open. Softer air slid through the closeness, the coolness breaking the heat.
The clock struck two. I dozed, Lydia's hand still in mine, her breathing even. I dimly wondered what had become of Mr. Allandale. Had he left in a huff? Or did he still wait downstairs, genuinely worried about his fiancee's mother?
I wondered as well, pain still holding its fist around my heart, if Lydia, now that she had lost the child, would want to marry me. The thought wove around the dark hours and made them darker still.
And then Louisa was there. I started from my doze to find her bending over me, her golden hair a pale smudge in the darkness. Her hand on my cheek was cool, her whisper soothing.
In the glow of the candle she held, she looked well again, no longer pale and wan. Unhappiness still lingered in her eyes, but she had regained strength.
She told me softly that I should go home and sleep. I could not obey the directive to leave, but I did seek a bed. The nearest one was in the chamber of the late Colonel Westin. By the light of my lone candle I saw that the room had been rigidly cleaned and stripped of any personal mementos Colonel Westin might have brought home from his campaigning days. It was an anonymous room, reflecting nothing of the man who'd lived there.
I laid myself on the bed Lydia’s husband had been found dead in, and pulled the coverlet over me. I fell asleep upon the instant, but I kept my face turned toward the door.
*** *** ***
In the bright light of morning, William, whom I thought should long be remembered as a saint, brought me coffee, soft, buttery croissants, ham, and eggs. I consumed the feast hungrily, washed it down with more coffee, and tried to see Lydia.
The maid stationed outside the door told me that I was on no account to enter. When I started to protest, she added that the order came from Mrs. Brandon, and would I please meet Mrs. Brandon in the downstairs sitting room?
"Mrs. Westin is all right?" I asked in some alarm.
To my relief, the maid nodded. "Yes, sir. She is sleeping. Mrs. Brandon says all is well."
My knees went weak with relief. I turned on my heel so the maid would not see my wet eyes and marched down the stairs.
I waited not many minutes for Louisa in the sunny back sitting room. She looked tired, but otherwise, her eyes were bright and alert, and her waxen hue had gone.
I held out my hands. She took them, rose on tiptoe to kiss my cheek, and released me.
"You were supposed to go home," she said.
"Did you really suppose I would?" I looked at her. "It was good of you to come."
"How could I not? Your Mr. Derwent came tearing in begging me to return with him as though the whole town were on fire. I feared . . ." Her smiled dimmed, and she stopped. "We were halfway to London before he could tell a coherent story."
I wondered what she had feared. That I, or Brandon, had done something foolish?
"How is Lydia?" I asked.
"Weak. Quite weak. And tired. But she will mend. She ate some bread and kept that down. I believe the danger has passed."
"Good," I said fervently. "Thank you."
She gave me an unreadable look. Her golden curls were mussed, tangled strands of hair glinting in the sunlight. "You knew she was carrying a child?"
"Yes."
"And that the child is gone?"
My hand sought the curved back of the nearest chair. "Yes."
She looked at me for a long time. Emotions chased themselves across her face, but those that lingered were pity, and strangely, anger. After a long time, she said, "She did it herself, Gabriel."
For a moment, I could not comprehend her words. Then they sank into me, one after the other. My hand tightened. "I do not understand."
"She went to a quack, and she asked him to remove it. He did. What made her ill was the medicine he gave her after. To rid her of any lingering bad humors, he'd said."
I was so cold. My hands were numb, my blood moved like treacle. "But why should she?"
Louisa gave a little shrug. Anger burned deep in her eyes, a palpable fury that her calm stance belied. "I do not know. She would not tell me. I was a bit sharp with her, I am afraid." She hesitated. "But she does feel great remorse. That is certain."
I was silent. My mind, my entire body, believed at that moment that if I did not speak of it, it would not have happened. She had not wanted the child. Fury like a howling demon rolled through me, and a voice from far away cried, Why?
"The child was mine," I said.
Louisa gave me an odd look. "She was ten weeks gone, Gabriel."
I stilled, staring at the lips that had pronounced the words. The entire world dropped from beneath my feet. "What?"
"Her lady's maid said so, and Mrs. Westin did not correct her."
The enormity of it sent shock through me the like of which I had not felt in years. Lydia and I had been conducting our affair for five weeks. She had known. They all had known, she and Montague and William and Millar. I remembered the change in William when I had come to the house for the second time, his suspicion gone, his greetings welcoming. He'd known what they all had known, that I'd been brought in to become the father of Lydia's child.
Rage and grief and burning coldness swam through me. Louisa watched, powerless to help, Louisa who had stood by me throughout every hardship in my life.
"I wanted . . ." My throat hurt. "I was going to ask Lydia to marry me. I had taken steps to look for . . ." I took a shaking breath. "To make certain I could marry."
Louisa only looked at me. I wanted to storm and swear, I wanted to swarm upstairs and shake Lydia until she told me why she had done it, I wanted to break down and weep until I was sick.
I opened and closed my fists. "I do not . . ." I stopped. "Damn it."
She placed cool hands over my agitated ones. "Go home, Gabriel." She squeezed my fingers when I started to protest. "You cannot see her yet. She needs time to heal. As do you."
I drew a breath. "I do not want to see her." If I saw her now, I might hurt her. Anger was overtaking grief, and I did not want to let it have full rein.
"Then go home," Louisa repeated. "I will stay with her. I promise." She smiled faintly. "It is either that or face my husband, and I am certainly not ready to do that yet."
I put my hands on her shoulders, held her hard. I wanted to say things, but words lodged in my throat. But she knew. She knew everything I wanted to say, and everything I felt. She could read me like no other. It had ever been so, even to the day that Aloysius Brandon had introduced me to her when she had been twenty-two years old and I had been twenty.
I left her. I went home, but I did not sleep.
*** *** ***
I lay awake long into the afternoon. The events of the previous day jumbled themselves in my head--verbally fencing with Lady Breckenridge, the tedious chore of sorting through Breckenridge's papers, my excitement at what I had found, then Lydia's illness.
Questions beat at me like the wings of a terrified bird. She had lied to me, lied from the very start. She had gone to the bridge that night because, as the vulgar women there had put it, she'd been belly-full. I'd saved her life that night. She had looked at me and seen what I'd told her she'd seen, a fool who would fall on his knees and be her willing servant.
I had known even then I was being a bloody fool, and I had taken great pains to prove myself right.
What had Lady Breckenridge said? Gentlemen have dashed themselves to pieces on those rocks before. She had smiled at me with her world-wise eyes, knowing my fate better than I had.
I squeezed my eyes shut. Lydia's husband had only once been capable of copulation with her, no matter how many times he'd visited his doctor, no matter how many aphrodisiacs he'd tried. The chance that Colonel Westin had been the fat
her of this child was remote. I remembered her declaring that she had gone to her husband's chamber the morning she discovered him dead, because, she'd said, I wanted to tell him everything, the entire truth.
I did not want to examine the truth.
The truth was that Breckenridge or Eggleston had murdered Colonel Spinnet that night at Badajoz. Westin had known the truth as well. And he'd died. They'd both died.
Another truth was that John Spencer had made an appointment with Westin the day of his death.
Kenneth Spencer did not like his brother trying to uncover the truth.
I did not blame him. Truth was a terrible thing.
I sensed the viscid fingers of my melancholia reaching through the hot, bright room to me. I had not been encased in my malady in months, and had even begun to believe myself free of it. Now it beckoned to me, dark and seductive.
Lie still, it said. If you do not rise, do not move, nothing can hurt you. Simply do nothing, say nothing, be nowhere.
I began to close my eyes to embrace it.
No. I slammed my eyes open. I would not. I forced myself from my bed, though it was like moving my limbs through heavy mud. Through great effort, I bathed, shaved, and dressed myself, then limped my way to Bow Street and the magistrate's house.
I found Pomeroy explaining to his patrollers that they were to go to Islington and wait for him. He looked up, annoyed, when I entered and asked to have a few words with him.
He dismissed his men with a sergeant-like bellow, and took me into the corridor. "What is it, Captain? Thought you'd have dragged in Lord Breckenridge's murderer under your arm by now. What is keeping you?"
"The last link in the chain," I replied tersely. "What have the Spencers been up to these last few days?"
Pomeroy shook his head. "Not much, sir. Living very quiet-like. Excepting Mr. Kenneth Spencer left London a few days ago."