I wanted to shout a definite, Yes!
“He was genuinely surprised when he heard Judith was dead,” I said, unhappy. “The swoon was not false, nor was his shock.”
“He might have bashed her over the head and walked away,” Donata suggested in a calm voice. “And not realized he’d killed her. Struck out in anger when she refused to come home with him.”
“Possibly,” I said. “But the surgeon was fairly certain she’d died instantly, or nearly so, from the blow. I hesitate to conclude his innocence, but I am afraid he might be.”
“He is a bad lot,” Grenville said. “I cannot put my finger on why, but I know he is.”
Donata said, “He tries too hard to be ingratiating. What was it you said Woolwich called him? Unctuous. He is certainly that.”
“He is,” I agreed. “I also believe he knew bloody well that his second wife was dying. Perhaps a doctor had told him of the cancer. He suddenly made plenty of effort to have Judith declared dead so he could marry Seraphina. Just in time to take control of her money.”
Grenville tapped his goblet. “Why did Mr. Hartman not fight him? When the courts officially said Judith was deceased? Surely he’d have an opinion.”
“Unless he already knew she was dead,” Donata said coolly.
“I have a different theory,” Grenville said. “To Mr. Hartman, she was already dead in his mind. Judith had abandoned him, her family, her religion, to take up with this knave. If Bennett had her made officially dead, that would enable Hartman to be finished with her.”
I shook my head slowly. “You are not a father, Grenville. If my daughter ran away with a rogue, even if I disowned her in my anger, if she wanted to leave said rogue, I’d welcome her back with open arms. I would not let the world think her dead, but do all in my power to get her free of him.”
“But Hartman perhaps did not have the power to free her from Bennett,” Donata suggested. “If he were insanely wealthy, he’d not have as much trouble, but he is a modest shopkeeper. If Judith were declared dead, he would no longer have to worry about convincing Bennett to give her a divorce, and funding said divorce, and could keep her home with him.”
“Our speculation becomes meaningless,” I pointed out. “Judith did die, Hartman did not know; Bennett did not know, or so he claims. I was not present when Devorah found out about her sister’s death, so I cannot say whether she knew. She was very angry when she came to see me—at her father, at Bennett. At me.”
“Perhaps she met Judith,” Donata said. “Quarreled with her, struck her. Not meaning to, possibly. Panics, pushes her into the water, runs home. Keeps the secret all these years.”
“Can someone keep a secret that long?” I wondered.
Grenville said dryly, “If one is to be hanged for that secret, certainly.” He rose. “The fact remains that someone killed her, and we are no closer to finding out who. We agree we do not like Mr. Bennett, but that does not mean he is a murderer.”
“A careful man, that is a certainty,” Donata said. She too got to her feet. “We shall have to find out more about him—which Gabriel is excellent at doing. He shakes people until they tell him what he wishes to know.”
I had risen when she did, and I went to her, arranging her shawl around her shoulders. I liked that I now had the privilege of doing so. “Then I will shake them,” I said.
***
I accompanied Donata to the supper ball later that evening as we had agreed. I wore my regimentals, as other military men did, though I was seeing fewer and fewer as the years went on. I felt at home, however, in the familiar dark blue coat with white facings, silver braid on my chest and shoulders, and my deep blue breeches and high boots.
The ball was held in a house in Mount Street, home to one of Donata’s many friends, Lady Courtland, wife of an earl.
A card room had been set up for gentlemen who had no interest in dancing. I usually made for these first thing, now that I had a little more in my pockets to cover the wagers. Tonight, however, I felt the need to stay by Donata’s side.
She did not appear to mind. As a couple, we wandered through the crowd, greeting acquaintances and friends. Donata liked being unconventional, though I knew we’d be laughed at for clinging so close to each other.
“I’m happy you’ve come tonight,” Donata said to me, giving my arm a squeeze. “Not only does it clear my mind from that horrible interview with Mr. Bennett, but you can meet the young men who will be at Gabriella’s come-out next week.”
I had already met a few, and I thoroughly disapproved of them, for no reason at all.
They were paraded before me now, one by one. Not so blatantly—Donata knew how to handle people.
They were Edward Clayton, Emmett Garfield, Geoffrey Kent, and Daniel Marsden.
All four were sons of gentlemen with respectable estates and enough means to stay the Season in London without ruination. Geoffrey Kent was looking to begin a political career, and all four were primed to take over their father’s estates when the time came, and in fact, helped run them now.
They were not aristocrats, though Clayton was distantly connected to an earl’s family, but landed gentlemen, whose fathers owned lucrative estates.
They were, in fact, of the exact means and station in life that I was and my father had been. The difference was that my father had squandered all the income and let the house fall to ruin while these gentlemen’s parents were more responsible.
I’d met Kent and Clayton before. They dressed well but not flashily, were respectful to me and attentive to the ladies, and did not play for exorbitant stakes in the card room. I was trying very hard to find fault with them. Clayton, for instance, spoke with a nasally tone.
David Marsden had even fewer faults that I could discern, much to my irritation. He reminded me a bit of Leland Derwent—very polite, deferential to me and Donata without fawning. He was well educated and seemed to have actually studied something at university—he was interested in science and mathematics as well as ancient texts.
I was happy to meet Emmett Garfield, because here was a man I could actively dislike.
First, he was too handsome. The other three looked like what they were—sprigs of old English families, stretching into the distant past. They had fair hair, pudgy faces, and chins that spoke of too much inbreeding. Garfield had dark hair, a hint of the Continent about him, and was broad of shoulder and taut from riding and boxing. He enjoyed sport, he confessed, more than indoor activities.
He was also cocky. Garfield bowed courteously to me but his look was sly, I thought—he was assessing me as a potential father-in-law.
If he married Gabriella, he’d be connected to a wealthy viscount through me, and no doubt would try to use his charms to have young Peter doing whatever he wanted. The sparkle in his eyes told me Garfield knew exactly what I thought.
“Captain,” he said, with the right amount of deference.
I shook his hand as politely as I could. “Mr. Garfield.”
Donata had moved from my side to speak to friends, the feathers in her headdress swaying, so I could not count upon her to warm the air with conversation.
“You are from Norfolk,” Garfield observed, as I groped for something to say. “Lovely country. I have visited its lanes on an idle day after Newmarket. The draining projects have made the farms there quite rich.”
“Not always,” I answered. “There was a terrible yield a few years ago, when the summer never warmed.”
“Yes, I remember. It affected us all, but it was particularly bad there, I heard. But I understand your farm does not produce at all?”
“Not at the moment,” I said. “I will return there this year and begin improvements.”
“Very wise.” The young man had the audacity to wink. Mr. Garfield leaned closer to me. “I have heard it remarked upon, sir, that you came from nowhere, and now nearly are lord of somewhere—such was your skill.”
“If you have heard such a thing,” I snapped, “the speaker is very
impertinent.”
“I know, and I told him so.” Garfield’s smile was warm and engaging, which made me dislike him more. “But you must admit, you were uncommon clever. No one had ever heard of you, and now, here you are, the constant companion of Mr. Grenville, and married to one of the most prominent ladies of the ton.”
So also had the anonymous letter-writer indicated.
My eyes narrowed as I wondered whether this young idiot was the letter-writer himself. He liked to ride, was athletic, and similar sentiments were coming from his mouth.
“Do not worry, Captain,” Mr. Garfield went on. “I defend you to all comers.”
“See that you do,” I answered, my lips stiff.
I turned away from him—politely; I would not embarrass Donata by punching him outright—and walked toward the card room, not happy.
I could not speak to Donata again until we were on our way home. At supper we’d been seated far from each other—I had been conversing with another lady when the bell for supper rang, and as politeness dictated, I escorted her into the dining room and attended her for the meal.
The food was quite good, but my appetite was taken away by imagining the four young gentlemen dancing with my daughter at her come-out ball on Tuesday next. After that, they’d be welcomed to our house to court her.
Then marrying her, being responsible for her happiness. Food turned to dust in my mouth.
After supper, dancing had recommenced. Forced to be a wallflower by my injury, I watched Donata join sets and enjoy herself. She loved dancing, and was partnered by many old friends.
I watched my wife laughing, her hair shining as she turned under the candlelight of the chandeliers, her green velvet gown hugging her shoulders. She was a beautiful woman, full of grace.
Most of our acquaintance had been very surprised that Donata and I had made a match. I knew they assumed I’d want a plump, sweet-tempered homebody, whose chatelaine clanked with keys as she looked after me and her house, always ready with a soothing pat and a remedy to fix any ill.
However, I found in Donata not a wife to wait upon me, but a companion. I could speak to her on any topic, and she had the wit and interest to respond. She understood me as no other woman had—even more deeply sometimes than I wanted her to.
By the time we reached our carriage to return us to South Audley Street, I was tired, disgruntled, and ready to lay my head on her bosom.
I sat rigidly upright, however, on the journey home, anger in my heart.
“Emmett Garfield,” I said when Donata had settled in beside me with a happy but weary sigh. “Why was he chosen as a potential husband for Gabriella?”
“Mr. Garfield?” Donata looked at me in surprise, then she groaned softly and stretched one foot in the leather shoe she wore to move between engagements. Her maid carried her satin, beaded dancing slippers in a special box. “He comes from one of the best families and has a sensible business head. He would never bankrupt Gabriella, and will run his estate well.”
“I do not like him,” I said. “He is supercilious.” Arrogant, high-handed, cocksure … I could continue for some time.
Donata waved her hand, and a drooping feather brushed her cheek. “He is harmless. A bit full of himself, yes, but that will ease as he becomes older and more jaded by life. His father was the same way, Aline tells me, but is now the wisest of gentlemen.”
“A son does not always become the twin of his father,” I said—in my case, thank God. “I would like you to cross Mr. Garfield from your guest list.”
Her eyes widened. “Indeed, I will not. To do so would be to enrage his family, who are old friends of Aline’s. I agree—Mr. Garfield grated upon me when I first met him, but when you get past his feeble attempts at wit, he is quite personable.”
“If you will forgive me, he is also good looking,” I said coldly. “Which does nothing for me, but might cause you and Aline, and Gabriella, to overlook his defects.”
Donata sent me a pitying look. “Absolute nonsense. I do not judge a man’s character on his looks. How foolish.”
“You might not, but Gabriella? She is young, naive, has rusticated in France …”
“Yes, the French are known for their celibate ways.” Donata put her hand on my chest. “Do not worry so, Gabriel. If I thought him a bad sort, I would never have invited him, old friends of Aline’s or no. He is nothing like Mr. Bennett, trust me.”
“But he might have written the letters.” I poured out my worry, describing the conversation I’d had with him.
“Hmm.” Donata’s brows drew together. “I will have to think about that. But admit, Gabriel, that what the letter-writer claims is nothing more than what ill-willed members of my set have said. Or what journalists have speculated. All are baffled that I esteem you so much, and conclude that I must be a halfwit, bedazzled by a fraud. But as we are not Margaret Woolwich and Mr. Bennett, I refuse to be angered by such things. Mr. Garfield is only repeating what he has heard.”
“That may be,” I conceded, though I would take it upon myself to find out. “But I still don’t like him.”
Donata smoothed my cheek, and rested her head on my shoulder as the carriage swayed slowly home. “My dear, you will not like any gentleman who looks at Gabriella. Even when she is in her dotage.”
I had to agree that this was true.
***
I dreamed of Judith again that night, even though Donata slept beside me. In this dream, she looked like her sister, Devorah, prim, cool, unforgiving. Again I saw her coming toward me on a street, again, when she reached me, she deteriorated into bones.
I tossed, woke sweating, and left Donata’s bed so I would not wake her. I spent the rest of the night alone in my bedchamber, staring at the canopy, until exhaustion overcame me, and I slept, this time without dreams.
In the morning I journeyed in a hackney to Bow Street and once again looked for Pomeroy. Today, I found him in.
“Pleasant to see ye, Captain!” he boomed down the stairs as a patroller motioned me to go up. “Hear Thompson has you poring over a bag of bones. I’ll wager you know who they belong to, how he died, who killed him, and what he had for breakfast that morning.”
“Not quite,” I said as I reached him.
I glanced around for Spendlove, certain that Pomeroy’s bellowing would tell the man all he needed to know.
“You’ve come to ask for my help, have you?” Pomeroy continued at the top of his voice. “What can I do that the great Captain Lacey cannot?”
His blue eyes twinkled, and his grin was wide.
“You can keep my inquiries to yourself for one. May we speak in private?”
“Of course!” Pomeroy gestured me into a small room at the top of the stairs, one I’d been in before. Here was a table and a few chairs, shelves of ledgers and papers, a place to write up reports.
“The dead woman’s name is Judith Hartman,” I said, seeing no reason to keep it secret anymore. Thompson would tell Pomeroy that if he asked—indeed would have written it into an official record. “This is Thompson’s case, so please respect that.”
“Now, what sort of Runner would I be if I pinched convictions off others?” The glint in Pomeroy’s eye told me he’d do just that whenever he could. He liked Thompson, however. Respected him.
“I want to know two things,” I said. “One, if there have been any complaints made about Mr. Andrew Bennett—who seems to lose wives in convenient fashion. Two, if Miss Hartman’s disappearance was reported at the time she went missing—about fifteen years ago—how would I find out? I want to paint a picture of her last days, but the people in her life are being singularly uncooperative.”
“Couldn’t be you’re putting their backs up, could it?” Pomeroy’s good humor returned. “Haven’t heard a word, to my knowledge, about this Bennett chap, or Miss Hartman. Fifteen years, eh? Before my time. Fifteen years ago, I was rushing around following your orders.”
This was so. By then we’d left France, the Peace of Amiens evap
orating, and gone back to England for training. Long days reviewing troops, drilling, solving petty problems of soldiers weary of waiting for things to happen. I’d tried to bury myself in routine to take away the fiery pain of losing my wife and daughter.
“There would be records,” I said.
“Aye, that there would. Do you mean you want to root around in papers fifteen years old? If I can even put my hands on them?”
“Yes,” I answered. “Unless someone here remembers the exact case.”
“London is a busy place,” Pomeroy said. “I imagine many things happened here in 1803.”
“Where would I find these records?” I persisted.
Pomeroy let out a sigh. “Follow me, Captain. I don’t know if you’ll find what you need, but if anyone can, it will be you.”
When I saw the room where the records were kept, however, I nearly gave up the slender hope of my idea.
The chamber below street level to which Pomeroy led me was crammed with shelves, tables, boxes, desks, cabinets—all of them full of papers, ledgers, books, and sheets filled with fine-lined writing.
“Good Lord,” I said.
“Records kept since 1724.” Pomeroy proudly waved a hand at them. “Clerk’s records, warrants, court records, every decision by the magistrate, accounts … if someone thought it worth writing down, they wrote it down. Me, I’ve never had to look for anything beyond a few years ago.”
“I see.” My mouth was dry. “Is there some sort of organization?”
Pomeroy shrugged. “I usually have a clerk fetch information for me. But fifteen years ago … Well, poke around as you like, Captain. If anyone objects, tell them to come find me.”
He left me to it. Glumly, I pulled a ledger from the first shelf. There wasn’t much light down here, and I peered at the crowded page until I realized it was records for this house’s poor box.
There was a reason I’d taken well to fighting but never aspired to an administrative post. Brandon had always thought I should be groomed to be an aide-de-camp, but I was not one for records, papers, and the tedious details of army life.
I was much better at yelling at men and keeping them safe. Reading, in my opinion, should be confined to entertaining histories, scientific discoveries, and well-told stories.