“He is my lad.” Donata leaned into me, her usual bravado gone. “Thank God for you, Gabriel.” She closed her eyes, her hand straying to my thigh folded next to hers. A few moments later, she opened her eyes again and regarded me in concern. “Are you all right? You fell. Were you injured at all?”
“Ah, now you remember to ask about the fate of your husband.”
“Do not joke. Not now.” Donata’s hand tightened on my leg. “You seem to me so … indestructible, Gabriel. The only reason I ever remain strong is I think of you, and your courage. I could not bear to have that taken from me.”
Chapter Thirteen
I sat dumbfounded. I’d never heard Donata speak so, not with this ragged breathlessness and using such words. I pulled her closer.
“Dear lady.” I kissed her temple. “When I met you two years ago, you already possessed great strength. What sustained you before I did?”
Donata wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Anger and bitterness. It wasn’t strength; it was striking out in defense. You have anger too, but beneath it all is a constant sense of honor, of right and wrong. It drives you. I had lost that compass. You gave it back to me.”
My dumbfounded state continued. I knew Donata had fondness for me, or she’d never have agreed to marry me, but I had not known any other reason.
I also had no idea how to answer. I was not an eloquent man, not like Grenville, who had the correct words for every occasion.
“I never realized I was such a paragon of virtue,” was all I could invent to say. “I fancied myself a bit of a rogue.”
Donata raised her head, a spark of her usual liveliness returning. “I did not say virtuous. I mean you have convictions and follow them, no matter what anyone else says and thinks. It is refreshing in a world where what others say of one is thought to be all important. That is an entirely different thing.”
“True,” I agreed.
“You are not virtuous, Gabriel. Thank heavens. Virtuous men are pompous and tiresome.”
“Then I will endeavor not to be. Tiresome that is. Or virtuous and pompous.”
Another look from under her lashes. “I thank you for that. Now, tell me who you think tried to bowl over my son. I have changed my mind about it being the gentleman I fancied as a girl. He has become rather portly and fractious, and could never have performed such feats of horsemanship. And too parsimonious to hire others to do so, according to his wife.”
“Who inherits the Breckenridge title?” I asked. “After Peter, before he grows up and has sons himself?”
Donata answered readily. “One of Breckenridge’s horrible cousins. I’m not certain he or his brother would try to shove Peter aside to inherit, however. Both Romulus and Remus expressed great relief when Breckenridge sired an heir.”
My forehead puckered. “Romulus and Remus?”
“That is what I call them. Robert and Winston St. John. Robert is the elder, but only by a year. They are rakehells of the worst kind, are happy with the money they inherited from their father, and want nothing to do with the responsibilities a peerage brings. Neither would so much take a seat in the House of Lords as fall off it stone drunk.”
“Perhaps, but the Breckenridge title has lands and much wealth, does it not? Which is why our blackmailer accuses me of forging my credentials to get my hands on it.”
“Well, you cannot, can you? The money is managed by a trustee, who I assure you, as the name implies, is trustworthy. My father also keeps an eye on all Peter will inherit at his majority. My father has no flies on him—he’d never let you coerce a farthing out of me or Peter.”
“Comforting,” I said. “However, the wealth might be attractive even if having a title tacked to it is not. What is the Breckenridge estate worth?”
“Much,” Donata said. “The Breckenridge seat is in Hampshire, among rich farmland. The income from it is vast. Breckenridge’s father also purchased a home in Kent, and my husband bought another in Brighton, so he could chase the fashionable set. Breckenridge’s father purchased this house outright as well.”
Property, especially entailed property, could ensure that Peter lived well all his life, if he did not get into reckless habits. “Those houses and lands are all Peter’s now?”
“All. Managed for him, as I say, by a trustee, until his majority. My widow’s portion is quite large, and I have use of this house plus the dower house on the main estate, for my lifetime, even if I remarry. My father made bloody certain Breckenridge signed such agreements, so that I would not be left destitute, or ruined by a bad second marriage, and thrust back into my father’s house as a poor relation.”
Hardly poor. Donata’s father, a wealthy peer himself, would keep his daughter well, if it came to pass that she needed his charity. Her mother, a formidable woman in her own way, would also see to this.
“Which is why I thank God I didn’t elope with the man I was potty about when I was seventeen,” Donata went on. “I know you believe Aline and I are too exacting about Gabriella’s come-out, but both of us know that a woman’s fate depends on the negotiations between her father and her husband, not the wishes of her heart.”
“As I made a foolish first marriage myself,” I said, “I cannot argue with you.”
“My man of business will be at your elbow when you negotiate with Gabriella’s intended, whoever he may be. Aline and I are vetting every single young man invited to her ball as to suitability of temperament, income, background, and level in society. We are leaving nothing to chance.”
And yet, I thought of Gabriella’s irritation at being managed, her wistfulness that romance would have no part of it. I also understood Donata’s point of view and agreed with her. I could see no other solution.
“You took a chance on your second husband,” I observed. “But I understand that for a widow, such things are different.”
“There was no chance about it,” Donata said briskly. “I told you at the time that I looked into your background and learned all about you. I hardly ran away with the second footman.”
I pulled her closer. “And if I had been a second footman?”
“Then we’d have had a shocking, and very discreet, affaire. I determined to have you one way or another, Gabriel.”
I remembered finding her in my bed the evening after I’d met her, and her sharp look at me when I’d visited this house for the first time, investigating the death of her husband. She’d brought me here again when I was hurt, and joined me in the night. She had certainly shown persistence.
“You snared me in the end,” I pointed out.
“No, I did not. You chose, and you know it.”
“That is true.” I pressed a kiss to her hair. “Shall we rise from this very hard floor? I’ve had a melancholy afternoon and feel a need for softness.”
Donata rose with a limberness which put me to shame. A woman who was belly-full should not have showed more athleticism than me, a hardened cavalryman.
She helped me to my feet, led me to her chamber, and showed me, over the next hour, just how pleasing softness could be.
***
Now that I knew the deceased girl had been a young woman called Judith Hartman, I had to decide how to discover who had murdered her and left her to dissolve into a collection of bones.
I lay in bed after I woke later that evening, and contemplated the pseudo-Grecian plaster frieze that marched around Donata’s bedchamber’s ceiling. She was gone—she was taking Gabriella for another fitting, then she must dress to move on to her evening’s entertainments. Donata had breezed away, leaving her indolent husband lounging in her bed.
Judith could have been the victim of a robbery, hit hard when she struggled. I would think a thief would have yanked the gold locket free of its chain or stripped her of any valuable clothing, but perhaps he—or she—had been unnerved at finding they’d killed her, and fled.
If so, I might never discover who’d done this. Or, the person could have been caught in another robbery and been long s
ince hanged or transported. Or died naturally, never having confessed to the crime.
The blow had caught Judith across the face, from the top of her head to her mouth. She’d been facing her killer.
I thought about the bones of her hands, intact. The fingers had lain straight, relaxed, not curled into claws as though she defended herself. I had no idea whether the position of the hand would endure through the years. Denis’s surgeon might, but I was not optimistic about being able to speak to him again. Coombs might know, however.
I could question Coombs about Hartman as well, see what he remembered about him, and about Judith.
I ground the heels of my hands into my eyes. I’d promised to discover who’d murdered Judith, accidentally or otherwise, and I would. The length of time between the death and today daunted me somewhat, but I was determined. I’d found a young woman called Sarah Oswold when she’d gone missing in London, and I’d discovered who’d stolen the church plate in Norfolk years after it had been taken. The passage of time had not stopped me in either case.
Still, the task seemed impossible, and this thought tempted me to remain still and do nothing. But I would certainly fail if I didn’t begin.
By the time I heaved my sore body out of bed, Donata and Gabriella had returned from their shopping. Donata disappeared into her dressing room with her abigail, ready to transform herself for another night at soirees, supper parties, and the theatre.
Gabriella would stay in, and I decided I would too. No reason to go dashing about London when I was ill-tempered and hurt.
In light of what had happened with Peter in the park, and recalling my awful fears of last night, I sent word to Grenville via Bartholomew to please look after my wife this evening and escort her everywhere.
Bartholomew charged back not fifteen minutes later with Grenville’s reply that he’d be delighted. I had a quiet word with Brewster outside to also not let Donata out of his sight.
Grenville’s coach stopped in front of the house not long later, and Donata emerged, resplendent in a garnet-colored gown trimmed with gold, gloves covering her arms, and diamonds glittering in her hair and on her bosom. A flimsy shawl was all the protection she had against the night, but I had to admit she would turn the heads of all she passed.
I kissed her cheek, promising not to smear her rouge, and she gave me a warm look. Bartholomew and another footman held a canopy over her head between the door and Grenville’s carriage, keeping the mist from her.
Grenville did not descend, but held his hands out to Donata to help her into the coach. He nodded at me, his expression grave—he’d heard the tale of the attack. He would take good care of her, I knew.
“Pray do not worry so, Gabriel,” Donata said before she sat down opposite Grenville. “I will scuttle home like a virtuous wife before dawn.”
Grenville looked mystified, I only smiled, and Bartholomew stepped between us to shut the door.
The carriage was gone, leaving me on my own with my daughter.
Gabriella came down for supper. She and I ate in the dining room, candlelight throwing a golden glow over us as the footmen served, and Barnstable hovered to watch that all went smoothly.
I still was not used to the luxury of having light whenever I wanted—Donata’s staff saw that a supply of beeswax candles were available every day. In June, light lasted well into the night, but the dining room, in the back of the house, never saw much sun.
Gabriella had heard all about the incident with Peter. “How awful,” she said. “He is not afraid, though, brave lad. He says he intends to ride out again with you as usual.”
“Mmm.” I’d decide whether we should or not. “I am pleased you are in tonight, Gabriella. I knew I’d never confine Donata to the house, but I confess relief you are here where I can see you.”
“I have learned to take care in London,” Gabriella said, her eyes darkening. She’d been abducted while running alone through Covent Garden, and the harrowing incident still weighed upon her mind. “I am not so foolish as to dash about by myself, on foot. The innocent country girl has been erased from me.”
I smiled. “I hope not entirely.”
“That is what the young woman you are investigating did, I presume,” Gabriella went on, dragging her fork across her fish in buttery sauce. “Walked alone, and came to grief.”
“She did.” I told her what Grenville and I had discovered today, not flinching about giving Gabriella the details. I would not hide the dangers of the world from her, never again.
“Perhaps you can help me,” I said. “What reasons would a daughter of a protective father have for leaving the house by herself? I assume if she’d had a maid with her, the maid would have at least run for help, or been able to tell the family what happened.”
Gabriella took a thoughtful bite of fish. “If she had a protective father, and she went alone, I would say she was meeting a young man.”
“Yes.” I swallowed uneasiness that such a solution would spring at once to her mind. “Eloping with him? Or simply meeting him?”
“That is more difficult to say.” Gabriella’s face creased as she thought. “If no valise was found with her things, it might have been stolen, or she might have run out of the house simply to speak to the young man, intending to go back home after the tryst. Lady Aline, however, told me the tale of a young lady who walked out of her father’s house with nothing and climbed into a carriage her young man sent to meet her. She ran off with a dragoon officer and married him.”
A romantic tale. “We have no way of knowing whether a conveyance met Miss Hartman, or she walked to her destination. Did this young man hit her? And why, if she’d come to meet him clandestinely? I would assume him a lover or secret affianced. Or was it a robber? Or someone she quarreled with who struck her in a moment of anger? The blow was certainly hard.”
Gabriella shuddered. “Poor girl.”
I reached for her hand. “I beg your pardon. I did not mean to distress you.”
“I am not distressed.” Gabriella slid her hand from mine and drank from her goblet of watered wine. “I feel sorry for her, only. She must have been eager, running to meet him. I hope her death was quick.”
“She died at once it seems.” Both surgeons had said that, and those men had seen death. “I am trying to decide what to do next.”
“Her father or family would know—or could guess—what man she went to meet. Or, at least tell you about the men Miss Hartman knew.”
Or women, I added silently. A strong woman, with the right weapon, could strike a blow like that.
“The trouble is, Mr. Hartman will not speak,” I said. “He has made it clear he wants no one investigating his daughter’s death.”
Gabriella flashed me a smile. “Dear Father, I doubt you will let that stop you.”
“No, indeed,” I said with conviction.
“Mr. Hartman must have brothers, friends, or other children, who might be more forthcoming,” Gabriella suggested.
“Precisely my thoughts,” I said, thinking of the assistant Hartman had identified as his nephew. “You are certainly my daughter.”
Gabriella flushed. “I am proud to be.”
The women in my family were busy melting my heart today. When Gabriella had first discovered, a year ago, that I was her true father, not Major Auberge, she’d been furious and grief-stricken. She’d hated me on sight, and I could not blame her.
By the time I’d married Donata, she’d accepted me. This was the first time I’d heard Gabriella say she was pleased.
I gave her hand another squeeze, uncertain how to respond. I was saved from breaking down and weeping by Barnstable signaling the footmen to remove the fish plates and begin serving the meat.
***
True to her word, Donata returned home, in Grenville’s carriage, by three in the morning.
“I had a lovely time,” Donata said, kissing my cheek where I stood at the bottom of the stairs, clad in a loose dressing gown over my shirtsleeves and trousers
. “Grenville is a fine dancer and stood up with me most of the night. We had marvelous fun daring the ton to believe we were having a love affair. Do not be alarmed if you hear it put about.”
I pictured Grenville and Donata, who’d become very good friends, whispering like schoolchildren as they planned their ruse.
“Why on earth should you want such a story put about?” I asked, unoffended.
“Because it is in bad taste for a woman to be in love with her own husband. I’d be ridiculed everywhere.” She patted my cheek, bathing me in lemony perfume. “Do not worry, Gabriel. Everyone knows how fond you are of Grenville and he of you. They will no doubt believe we are in a ménage a trois. Good night.”
My wife’s idea of humor was sometimes lost on me. I imagined Grenville laughing even now.
I spent a fairly restless night, mostly because of soreness from my fall. My dreams spun endlessly. I saw a young woman who looked much like Gabriella but my fancy painted her as Judith Hartman—young, dark-haired, vibrant. She came at me along the crowds of the Strand, waving to me, calling.
But when she reached me, the skin of her face fell away, and she was nothing more than bones at my feet, her empty eye sockets turned up to me in pleading, one of them smashed.
I jerked awake early, my head aching, my limbs stiff.
I rose, trying to swallow enough coffee to banish the visions, and put forth plans to find out about Mr. Hartman. I went through the cards I collected and pulled out the one handed to me by Mr. Molodzinski, when he’d come to thank me for defending him against Mr. Denis.
I dressed, hired a hackney, collected Brewster, who’d returned to the house, looking half asleep, and journeyed to the City.
We traveled eastward via the wide stretch of Holborn, where molly houses nestled into the back lanes and barristers’ inns and solicitors’ offices faced the street.
The road sloped down to become Newgate Street, the grim prison walls enclosing those awaiting trial and execution, the dome of Saint Paul’s rising beyond it. After that, Cheapside led us to a six-way junction and Mansion House, where the Lord Mayor of London presided. Beyond that, Threadneedle Street held the Bank of England; Cornhill, the Royal Exchange; and Lombard Street, moneylenders and the Post Office.