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, asleep?”
Barnstable, who had a fork in his hand, blinked but did not look unduly worried. “She sometimes stays with Lady Aline, sir,” he said. “If she is out very late and does not wish to ride home alone.”
“I see.” My fears subsided the slightest bit but not very much.
“Shall I send someone to inquire, sir?”
“No, I’m dressed and will go myself. If she is well, I’ll escort her home.”
Barnstable’s rising brows signaled to me that he did not approve, but my agitated state put me beyond caring how crass Donata’s butler thought me.
I knew it was not the thing for a husband to go tearing across Mayfair looking for his wife, but trepidation gripped me, and I would not be easy until I found her. Donata would gaze at me crossly and tell me I deserved my worry for vanishing last night, but I would bear her annoyance as long as she was well.
I conceded to let Barnstable call for the coach. Donata’s lady’s maid, a Frenchwoman called Jacinthe, also had not returned, which made me hope Barnstable was right—Jacinthe would have stayed at Lady Aline’s to take care of Donata’s needs.
Our coachman, Hagen, could provide no information, as we had journeyed to Covent Garden last night in Lady Aline’s conveyance. But he had not been sent for, nor received any word from her ladyship.
Hagen quickly and without fuss drove me to Berkeley Square. Lady Aline Carrington, sister to the Marquis of Weymouth, spent the Season in London in a lavish, rather modern house in Mayfair, while her brother maintained the older family residence in Portman Square.
Aline defied convention by living alone—without companion, brother, mother, sister—but her reputation and opinions were so well-known that exceptions were made for her. Lady Aline had been a member of the bluestocking set of her day, and still was, writing pamphlets on the place of women in society, and setting the bastion of old-fashioned males of London on edge. She drew to her the most brilliant of people—artists, writers, lecturers, mathematicians, scientists, actors and actresses, musicians and singers.
Donata had been drawn early into her circle. These days, Donata and Aline more or less set the taste for London in music, poetry, and opera, while Grenville set it for art, gentlemen’s clothing, food, and wine.
I’d met Lady Aline very soon after arriving in London, and had found a friend in her. At this hour of the morning, however, my friendship won me nothing.
A footman gazed at me stonily, unhappy I’d brought him upstairs from where the household was preparing for the day. He declared that Lady Aline by no means would descend to see me.
“If my wife is in the house, I will leave without fuss,” I said. “If not …” I made as though to move past him.
The footman, a tall, rather muscular young man, stepped in front of me. “Viscountess Breckenridge is not here, sir.”
“Then I must insist on speaking to Lady Aline. I’ll shout through the keyhole if need be.”
“Her ladyship is not to be disturbed,” the footman replied firmly.
Other servants were appearing, Aline’s aged butler and several maids, all looking annoyed. An upstart captain of uneven temper demanding entry at six in the morning was not to be borne.
“I’ll speak to your coachman then,” I said. “I suppose I will not have to shout through a keyhole to him.”
The footman scowled at me. “The coachman is not here either, sir.”
“Then where the devil is he?”
The footman had been well trained, and was good, I knew, at being silent, decorative, and efficient, but he had reached the end of his tether. He was ready to throw me to the pavement.
The butler, no less put out with me, came forward. “If you will allow me to explain, sir. Her ladyship and the viscountess arrived here late last evening. Her ladyship descended, but the coachman drove the viscountess on. The coachman has not returned, but we know he has met with no accident. He sent word that he was spending the evening at a public house on the Brompton Road.”
My qualms were not eased. Brompton was not a great distance—south of Hyde Park and not far from Tattersall’s. But even so, why should Donata order Aline’s coach to Brompton or thereabouts and not return?
“Did he say which public house?” I asked irritably. Aline’s servants obviously expected me to run home quietly and wait for the return of my eccentric wife without fuss.
“The Hound and Hen,” the butler said, tight-lipped. “The publican is his cousin. I will tell her ladyship you called.”
They would throw me to the pavement in another minute. I
growled a thanks at the butler and retreated.
Donata’s coachman, Hagen, sharing my concern for his mistress, readily drove me south to Piccadilly and west to Knightsbridge, then angled southwest on the Brompton Road. London began to turn to country here, with gardens and plant nurseries, cricket grounds, and farms in the distance.
The Hound and Hen, a pretty country inn, was on Brompton Lane. When we entered its yard, I saw Aline’s coachman emerging from the house. I descended as quickly as I could, making my way to him before he could vanish into the stables.
“Sir?” Aline’s coachman blinked at me in surprise. He was a large specimen of a man, filling out his red coat. He had a round face, canine teeth filed to points, a large nose, small eyes, and not much hair on his head. He made up for the lack of hair on top by growing a set of luxurious side whiskers.
Hagen had come off the top of our coach. “Don’t sir him,” he snapped. “You tell him where ye took the mistress.”
Unlike Aline’s man, Hagen was lean and ropy, with a leathery face, dark eyes, and a thick shock of brown hair. I always thought he looked more like a highwayman than a coachman, but he was a skilled driver and protective of Donata and her son.
Aline’s coachman was much more good-natured, apt to tell a joke he’d heard or talk horse with me in a spare moment, but at present, he looked nonplussed. “I took her nowhere,” he said in bewilderment.
“Then where is she?” I demanded.
“Answer him,” Hagen said. He took a belligerent step to Aline’s coachman, murder in his eyes. “She was with her ladyship, then you came here. What happened in between?”
“I set her down in Park Lane, as she told me,” the coachman said. “She gave me quite a few coins and suggested I visit my cousin. She’d send for her own conveyance to go home, she said. Kind of her, I thought.” He ended with a defiant look at Hagen.
I held on to my patience. “What house in Park Lane?”
“Near Brick Lane. I saw her go into the courtyard—she has friends there, she said.”
Since Donata had friends and acquaintance all over London, this sounded plausible. Less plausible that she’d sent the coach away and hadn’t bothered to tell Hagen and her own household.
“Her abigail descended with her?” I asked.
“Of course.” Aline’s coachman looked worried. “Is her ladyship well?”
“We don’t know, do we?” Hagen snarled. “Why do you think we’re asking ye?”
“I can take you to the exact place I set her down. I saw nothing wrong in it, sir. The viscountess was quite decided.”
As only Donata could be. The best thing for me was to go home and wait for her to return, but my agitation would not let me. Why should Donata suddenly decide to visit a friend in the middle of the night and not arrange transport for herself to get home?
If she were any other woman, I might suspect she’d gone covertly to meet a lover. With Donata, I could not fathom her motive.
Though she’d been quite willing to not bother with fidelity to her first husband, who’d paraded his mistresses before her, I doubted she had taken up those ways again. Donata did not much like or trust men, with very few exceptions, and she’d declared it a relief to be married to a man who wanted to be with none but her. Besides, if she had been dashing off to a paramour, the rest of Mayfair would have told me about him.
I began to have other, more worrying suspicions about what she’d done. I turned to Hagen. “Let us go there and fetch her.”
“Yes, sir.” Hagen brightened, happy to be commanded to do what he wished to anyway.
He turned to the carriage, then his eyes narrowed, and he pointed a long finger at the back of the coach. “You there! I see you—get out of it.”
Hagen charged toward the carriage, where I suspected someone had helped themselves to a ride by clinging to the back.
I did not expect the man who strode firmly into sight from the morning shadows. Although, I ought to have expected him.
“Captain,” Brewster said. “If you’re looking for your wife, I know exactly where she is.”
Chapter Eight
Brewster spoke calmly, though he shot Hagen a fierce glance.
“What the devil?” I approached Brewster, barely keeping my temper. I wanted to strike at the man, though I knew I’d only land on my back with his boot in my stomach for my pains. “What are you doing here?”
“I saw you rush off early this morning,” Brewster said. “’S’my job to follow you, innit? Almost missed you—had to hop on the back in passing.”
Hagen did not look happy, both with the fact that Brewster had taken the liberty and that Hagen hadn’t noticed.
“Where is her ladyship?” Hagen asked, fists balled. “If you’ve done somefink w’ her …”
“I haven’t touched her.” Brewster’s face was calm. He directed his words at me. “She’s in Covent Garden, Captain. In your old rooms, in fact.”
“What the devil is she doing there?” I demanded in a near shout.
“Couldn’t say. Didn’t ask her. She spies me hanging about the opera last night, and tells me to be useful and squire her to your rooms. Was to meet her in Park Lane after the music was done, and I’d arrange a hackney there. I did as she asked.”
“And you said nothing to me?”
“This was after I said good night to you. Went back to the opera to keep an eye on her—and she gave me her orders.”
“Even so.” I gripped the head of my walking stick—which Donata had given me. “You could not send word to me?”
“Don’t work for you, Captain,” Brewster said. “I work for his nibs. If your wife asks me a favor on the side, that’s her business. Not for me to go telling tales to the husband. But since you seem so worried, thought I’d better say she’s well.”
“Damnation.” I yanked open the carriage door. “Hagen, please take me to Grimpen Lane. Get in, Brewster. I know you’ll only follow—you may as well ride where I can keep an eye on you.”
***
I found Donata breakfasting in my front room on a large repast from Mrs. Beltan’s bakeshop. Brewster, likely anticipating a storm, stepped into the shop itself while I rushed upstairs.
Bread, a fresh crock of butter, ham, cream, coffee, and some sort of cake lay before her. When I entered—barreled through the unlocked door is a better description—Donata dropped the hunk of buttered bread she held, then let out her breath, hand to her heart.
“Really, Gabriel, I’m sure every beetle has fled into the nearest hole. I had hoped Mr. Brewster would be more discreet. I intended to return home before you woke.”
“I have not slept.” I slammed the door, sending loose plaster from the ceiling down to float upon her coffee. The window was open, letting in soft June air and harsh June odors. “I have been awake, waiting for your return.”
Donata gave me a look of surprise. “Indeed, you usually do not wait up for me. I return home at three or four to find you fast asleep.”
“I had something to tell you, and then you did not return. Did you not think to send word? Why the devil are you here?”
“To meet someone I did not wish to meet in South Audley Street of course.” Donata lifted her dropped bread and fished plaster flakes from her coffee. “You do the same, do you not?”
“It is to do with the letters, isn’t it?” I said, not bothering to lower my voice. “You confronted the man you believed wrote them. Bloody hell, Donata.”
Color flushed Donata’s cheeks. She laid down her bread and pushed to her feet. “Please do not swear at me. It is rather early for that sort of thing.”
“What other words can I use? You leave your friends, instruct Lady Aline’s coachman to set you down in an alley in Park Lane, and coerce Brewster into putting you into a hackney for Covent Garden. Wandering about London in the middle of the night, meeting a man who might be a danger to you—”
“Goodness knows, you never do the same.” Donata’s eyes flashed as she interrupted me. ?
??Gone from the house at any hour as soon as you receive a message about something that might interest you. Meeting with ruffians, confronting criminals to tweak their noses when you disapprove of what they do, coming back to me battered and bruised. And I am to smile at you and understand.”
“It is different for a lady!” I shouted. “London is dangerous, Donata. Or do you not know this, sheltered in your well-run house? It is not only for propriety that ladies do not wander about alone. That is a nice pretense. At every corner, you could be robbed, beaten, abducted, raped, and dragged off and murdered. It happens. I have seen the victims it has happened to.”
My voice rose in volume with each sentence, until I was roaring every word, my fists balled, my blasted horrible temper coming out of me to bash itself on her.
Donata was nothing like my first wife. Carlotta, when she had enraged me, cringed and shrank from my outbursts, sometimes falling at my feet in sobs.
Donata’s eyes glittered, blue-black and snapping, and her voice was ice-cold to my hot.
“I took far more precautions than you do, Gabriel. I was sensible enough to bring my abigail and Mr. Brewster to look after me.”
“Brewster! A ruffian who likely has committed murder. You trusted your safety to him …”
“You do every day. He is a man for hire—I paid him to guard me. I also know he has orders from Mr. Denis to look after you. Looking after me aids that cause.”
“Only until Denis decides to tell him to dispose of me! Recall whom Brewster works for, first and foremost. But you are leading me from the point. Why the hell did you decide to confront this letter-writer—alone, here? Did you think to rush him around the corner to Bow Street and accuse him of blackmail—”
“If you would let me explain, Gabriel, I would tell you I did no such thing. I confronted his wife.”
The surprise of her words cut off the breath I was drawing for my next shout. I let my mouth hang open, which must have looked very foolish.