A Covent Garden Mystery

Chapter Eleven

Louisa did indeed look haggard. Her face was gray except for spots of color burning in her cheeks.

"How on earth is this your fault, Louisa?" I asked. "Gabriella walked away from the rooms in King Street and either has lost herself or someone sinister has her. Or someone benevolent," I added, praying that this was the case. The benevolent person might even now be returning Gabriella to her mother. I wanted that circumstance so much it put a sharp taste in my mouth.

Louisa lifted her gaze, and the shame in her eyes startled me. "I went to see her," she said.

"Did you? When? You and I were to go together."

"I know." Louisa's voice strengthened. "I was too impatient, for which I will berate myself for the rest of my life. I did not want you with me, you see, because I did not want you to hear what I had to say to Carlotta."

I grew still. "I never gave you the direction to the boardinghouse."

"You said King Street, Covent Garden. It was easy, once there, to ask for the house in which the two people from France and their daughter stayed. I boldly asked the landlady if I could see Gabriella."

I gripped the arms of my chair. "And did you see her?"

"Yes."

Louisa's eyes moistened. She must have felt what I had-wonder that Gabriella had grown into such a beautiful young woman, love and pride. I saw in Louisa's eyes joy in Gabriella's intelligence and sweetness, sadness that Louisa had missed watching her blossom.

"You spoke to her," I said.

Louisa nodded. At that moment, a footman bustled in balancing a tray with a coffeepot and cups. The wonderful aroma of coffee filled the room. Louisa wiped her eyes while the footman set down the tray, arranged the cups, and laid out the sugar bowl, silver tongs, and a jug of cream. He took the tray and slid from the room while we sat in silence.

Donata took up the pot and poured coffee into my cup. She knew I liked it black and strong, so while she dropped sugar and cream into her own liquid, she offered me none. She stirred her coffee and cream until it became the color of Felicity's skin.

Lady Breckenridge tapped her spoon lightly on the edge of the cup and set it down, her movements elegant and economical, polished by a host of governesses and nannies. "What did you say that upset her, Mrs. Brandon?"

Louisa's cheeks burned red. Brandon looked on, brows lowered.

"I told her that her mother had deserted Gabriel," Louisa said. "I told her exactly what Carlotta had done-cuckolded him and left him for no good reason. I told Gabriella she'd been taken away and lied to because Carlotta did not want her returning to her true father. I told her what Carlotta's actions had done to Gabriel, how wretched he'd been when he'd learned that his daughter was gone forever."

"Louisa," I whispered. "Dear God."

"I know it was utterly stupid," she said in an anguished voice. "But Gabriella deserved to know the truth. I know that Carlotta painted you a villain and would have said that she had to run away from you and your cruelty. Carlotta wants her little nest in France with her lover and her children, and you know she will not risk losing Gabriella to you."

I fell silent, having no idea what to say. Louisa liked to be my champion, but I could imagine the effect her words must have had on Gabriella.

Donata sipped her coffee thoughtfully. "And Gabriella was visibly upset?"

"Yes." Louisa bit her lip, not wanting to look at us. "She cried. I tried to comfort her, but she would not have me. She told me very clearly to leave. It broke my heart, but I did."

"You did not see… Mrs. Lacey?" Donata asked.

"No. I left Gabriella in the downstairs parlor. By that time I was crying too, and I knew I could not face Carlotta. I decided to go home." Silent tears trickled from Louisa's eyes. "It must have been after that interview that Gabriella left the house. I upset her, and she ran away. She might have been coming to see you, Gabriel, to demand the truth from you, or perhaps she simply wanted to walk and think, I do not know." She wiped her cheeks with the heel of her hand. "I will not ask your forgiveness, because I do not deserve it."

I sat in stunned silence, trying to take in what she had told me.

Brandon noisily gulped his morning chocolate, leaving a dark stain above his upper lip. He wiped it away with a napkin. "You are not to blame, Louisa. She might have walked out of the house because you upset her, but if she got lost, it is not your fault." He shrugged his broad shoulders. "Who knows? She might have gone straight upstairs and had a row with her mother, and then decided to run away. Carlotta Lacey, as I recall, could try a saint's patience."

He flicked a glance at me but did not apologize. He had thought Carlotta a flighty woman from the first and had never been overly friendly to her.

"The point upon which we must focus," Lady Breckenridge cut in crisply, "is not why Gabriella left the house, but where she went."

"I have been over that in my head," I said. I felt relief and gratitude toward Donata for simply being there. "If she tried to go back to Grimpen Lane, she'd walk through Covent Garden to Russel Street. That is a straightforward route, no reason to go any other way."

"Perhaps she stopped to shop in the market and got turned around," Donata suggested. "She thought she was heading toward Grimpen Lane when, in fact, she was walking down Southampton Street. This is her first time in London-England even-and she might easily have become confused."

Louisa had said nothing, remaining with her head bowed, the golden curls at her forehead trembling. So worried was I over Gabriella's disappearance that I did blame Louisa at present. She'd had no right to tell Gabriella those things, no right to interfere. Louisa thought she'd acted for my sake, but had she? I had told her to leave Gabriella and Carlotta alone, and Louisa had not listened.

Colonel Brandon broke in. "It seems to me, Lacey, that you are predicting dire events before the fact. Perhaps the girl simply made her way back to France. She was upset and wanted to go home. If she had money and was resourceful, she could buy a coach ticket to Dover. Or she could have stolen whatever tickets and money her parents had put aside for their return. Or sold gewgaws or some such, in her determination to go home."

"Alone?" I asked. "A young woman as well raised as she would not think to travel alone. No maid went with her."

"My reasoning takes in the fact that she is your daughter," Brandon said. "And you are the most bloody stubborn man I know. If Gabriella decided to return by herself to France, I am certain she would try to do it no matter what she had to do to get there. I know you have done more than a few damn fool things in your past, and you succeeded only by dint of your refusal to see reason. Young girl or no, she is a Lacey."

I sat still, torn between pride and irritation. "You do have a point," I said tightly. "I will check the coaching inns in and around London to see if she boarded a mail coach." Another thought struck me. "Auberge told me that they'd brought Gabriella to London with them because an unsuitable young man was pursuing her. We might be making a mare's nest of this, when all she's done is elope."

"As you did," Brandon said.

"As I did. And as Carlotta did with Auberge."

"We'll find her, Lacey," Brandon said. He sat back in his chair, sipping his chocolate as though it were finest brandy. "I know a commander whose soldiers are in sad need of something to do. Drilling is making them soft. I'll have him put them on to hunting down your daughter."

I stared at him, touched that he would want to help. "Thank you," I said.

He scowled at me. "You did save my neck from the noose, damn you."

"If you find my daughter, sir, we will be more than even."

"Thank God," Brandon said, and fervently drank his chocolate.

"Where to now?" Lady Breckenridge asked when we were in her carriage again.

"You do not have to do this," I told her. "Have your coachman set you down at home, although I would be grateful for a ride back to Grimpen Lane. I must find Pomeroy and check in with Auberge."

Donata looked at me without expression. "Of course I must do this. She is your daughter, and I will do everything I can to help you find her." She leaned out of her window. "John, take us to Russel Street in Covent Garden."

I heard her coachman's terse, "Yes, my lady," then his chirrup to the horses as we clopped off down Davies Street toward Berkeley Square and south.

We rode through awakening London, neither of us speaking much, then Lady Breckenridge's coachman stopped in Russel Street to let us descend. I expected Lady Breckenridge would want to wait for me in the comfort of her coach, but she bade her footman help her down after me.

Donata had never seen my rooms, and I hoped she had no intention of coming to them now. But she walked with me serenely down the lane, her skirts lifted out of the mud.

Mrs. Beltan's bake shop was open, and business was thriving. I suggested that Lady Breckenridge wait there for me and enjoy Mrs. Beltan's yeasty bread.

"Not a bit of it, Gabriel," Donata said. "Let us be scandalous and ascend to your rooms."

I stopped her. "I live rather meagerly."

"I gathered that. Do not be vulgar; I care nothing for your money, or lack of it. Worrying about money is only for the parvenu. We of breeding shrug it from our shoulders."

"It is a very convenient thing, on the other hand," I said, trying to keep my voice light.

"Gabriel, I have fountains of money, if you wish to continue on this vulgar footing. Let us please cease speaking of it; it is making me queasy."

Her sardonic smile was firmly in place, and again, I felt gratitude. She was trying to put me at my ease.

I led her into the stairwell. She looked around in curiosity, taking in the faded murals with the shepherdesses and shepherds of old chasing each other in idyllic bliss. Halfway up, I handed her to a stair above me and kissed her.

She eased away when we finished, looking pleased. "Donata," I began.

A door above us opened and Grenville's weary tones floated down to us. "Lacey, is that you?" He stepped out to the dark landing and looked down. "Oh, I do beg your pardon. I am a gooseberry, am I?"

To hear the most fashionable man in England describe himself as a gooseberry made me laugh, the first amusement I'd felt since Gabriella had gone missing.

"I stayed the night," he said, ushering us into the sitting room. "I hope you do not mind. Matthias and Bartholomew fixed me up well."

The two young footmen were sitting on either side of my table, going at a repast that looked like all my breakfasts for the past week combined. The tray that Grenville must have eaten from, the plate scraped clean of food, reposed next to the wing chair.

Matthias and Bartholomew sprang to their feet when they saw Lady Breckenridge, Bartholomew hastily chewing a buttered slab of bread.

"Steady, lads. Finish your meal," I said. "Any news?"

Grenville sent me a grim look. "I hoped you would bring some. No, we searched until we could not keep our eyes open, then I returned here for a few hours' sleep. Pomeroy's lads are still at it, as is my coachman, and Matthias and Bartholomew have been in and out. I succumbed to sleep; I am sorry."

"I did as well, but we may start fresh. Have you heard from Auberge this morning?"

"Yes. He came as I was getting out of bed. No, she did not return."

I took the news unhappily, but I'd somehow known that would be the outcome. I told Grenville of Brandon's idea that Gabriella had tried to journey back to France, and Grenville agreed that it was a possibility.

And so the second day of the search for Gabriella began. Jackson returned with a fresh set of patrollers, five of them this time. Lady Breckenridge's servants joined in, two footmen and a coachman, and before long, servants from the households that Lady Breckenridge and Lady Aline had notified turned up, ready to look. Nancy and Felicity came as well, with a couple of girls in tow.

At the last came Colonel Brandon. He turned an uncomfortable shade of red as Grenville, neat and fresh and shaved despite making do with my bed, stared at him in surprise. Brandon had brought four others with him, lieutenants of the regiment he'd said needed something to do. We could not all crowd into my rooms, and so we spread out among Grimpen Lane while Grenville and I gave orders. A few urchins who generally hung about looking for handouts or odd jobs also said they'd join, for appropriate pay, of course.

I outlined the task: Comb London and find Gabriella or find out where she'd gone. I sent a contingent to check the coaching inns, the urchins to check the bawdy houses, for which some of them already did jobs. A few of the patrollers were to make their way up and down the river, asking the watermen if they'd found her in the night.

I sent Brandon's soldiers farther afield, to check the roads that led from London, especially those toward France. They were to ask at every inn and every posting point if anyone had seen a young girl, either alone or with anyone else, pass that way. Colonel Brandon joined them, riding out on their cavalry-trained horses.

They dispersed, and Grenville walked with me back upstairs. "What shall I do, Lacey? You did not give me an assignment."

We entered the sitting room, where Lady Breckenridge had been watching out the window. She joined us when we came in. "I need the two of you for inside information on Mayfair," I said. "I am not completely convinced that searching alone will be the answer, either for Gabriella or for Black Bess."

Grenville cocked a brow. "Inside information?"

"Yes." I described seeing the coach stopped last night in Covent Garden, while the gentleman fetched himself a girl. "I met him with you once, I believe. Mr. Stacy?"

"Jeremiah Stacy?" Grenville looked taken aback, then thoughtful. "I cannot see him doing such a thing; he is a shy man. If you had said his friend Brian McAdams, I could believe it. McAdams enjoys erotic novels and talking rather crudely about the act." He caught Lady Breckenridge's eye and blushed. "I do beg your pardon."

Donata waved away his apology. "Do not be reticent on my account. My husband knew every crudity invented and openly boasted of doing each one, in my hearing. I think I can no longer be disgusted."

Grenville looked embarrassed, and familiar anger for the dead Lord Breckenridge simmered.

"You could not have mistaken McAdams for Stacy, could you?" Grenville asked me. "If it were dark. Perhaps Stacy lent him the coach?"

"No, it was Stacy. I remember him distinctly. He has a very long nose and a tall, lanky build, correct?"

"Yes," Grenville said. "McAdams is beefy. I never thought Stacy would slum. Not the type, I should think."

"I mean to ask him. I'll send around my card and pay a call." Because Grenville had introduced me to Mr. Stacy, I could presume to call on the man or at least arrange to meet him somewhere.

"He won't be at home this morning. He'll be at Tatt's. That's his passion, horseflesh. At least, I would have said so before you told me this. I'll go with you, and we'll quiz him."

Lady Breckenridge leaned against the writing table and crossed her ankles. "You think he might have something to do with Gabriella?"

"I have no thoughts one way or the other," I said. "He might have seen something while he was busy chatting up game girls. He might know something about Mary Chester and Black Bess. He might know something about Gabriella. Then again, he might know nothing at all and is simply enjoying having it off with girls from Covent Garden."

"Well, we can quiz him at any rate," Grenville said. "I'll take you to Tatt's this afternoon. What else do you want us to do to storm Mayfair?"

"If you know of any other gentleman with a fixation on street girls, please tell me," I said. "I will quiz every one of them if I have to."

"My husband certainly knew gentlemen of odd tastes," Lady Breckenridge said. "I could find out what some of them have been getting up to, lately."

"Thinking of you even speaking to them is repugnant to me," I said.

She shrugged. "I am not overly fond of them myself, but I can find out what they know without much trouble. I will ask Barnstable to invade their servants' halls and refresh himself on gossip. He'll enjoy it."

I had no doubt that Lady Breckenridge's energetic butler would be delighted to be asked to help with covert investigation.

"What will you do?" Grenville asked. "While we're hard at it?"

I had thought of my idea last night before Lady Breckenridge found me. "I want to pay a visit to a nearby house, one Marianne showed me during the Hanover Square investigation. It's possible that Gabriella or Black Bess went there."

Grenville looked dubious. "Are you definitely connecting the two-or the three, rather-disappearances?"

"I do not know whether to connect them. But two game girls vanish from Covent Garden, and then my daughter goes, all in the space of a few weeks. I hardly think it coincidence. Brandon reminded me that Gabriella was my daughter-but that is only another point toward her being kidnapped. I go off halfcocked, but I am also resourceful. Unless her mother has purged that quality completely from her, I doubt Gabriella would have run away without preparing. Everything points to her having meant to return to the boardinghouse quickly. No bundle of clothing missing, none of her personal possessions gone. I will ask Auberge whether she stole any money from him or Carlotta, but I feel in my bones that she did not."

"But if she eloped," Lady Breckenridge said, "she might have gone with the clothes on her back and trusted the young man to provide for her. Perhaps this man is quite rich, and his unsuitable qualities are something besides lack of funds. "

"True," Grenville said. "He might be a bounder, or have a reputation for ruining young women, or have a gambling addiction. So many things can attract a young woman and upset her parents at the same time." He winced as he said it, having discovered his own daughter in a marriage with a man he found detestable.

I wondered which scenario disturbed me more, the thought of Gabriella snatched as she innocently walked through the square or the idea of her willingly running off with a rakehell.

"I will certainly ask Auberge all about him," I said. I looked at them, my friends so ready to drop their appointments for the day to help me. Grenville, the great man of fashion, had turned his back on a social engagement the night before to keep searching for Gabriella. I could not help but be touched by their generosity.

"Thank you," I said. "To the pair of you."

True to their upbringing, both looked slightly embarrassed at being caught out doing good deeds.

"My dear friend," Grenville said. "I would a hundred times rather help you find your only daughter than be at home to the dozens of dandies and aristocrats who assail me at White's, coffeehouses, and gaming hells. Most of them are half-drunk and only want my approval on their cravat knots and the cut of their coats. Their company, quite frankly, has palled. Far more interesting things happen around you."

"I am happy I can provide entertainment," I began, but I did not mean it harshly. I'd said the words so many times that they had become rather a joke between us.

"More than just entertainment. You soothe my vanity by making me think I can actually do some good in the world."

"It must be difficult being one of the wealthiest, most influential men in England," I said.

Grenville gave me an ironic glance, but let it go.

Lady Breckenridge came to me. "I am quite fond of you, of course, Gabriel, but I also very much enjoy prying into the affairs of my Mayfair neighbors. The veneer hides such sordid secrets, I have always found. I can dig through the dirt for you and feel virtuous at the same time." She laughed softly, self-deprecating.

"In other words, we don't help entirely for your sake," Grenville said. "We are selfish and pleasure-loving."

"Precisely," Donata said.

They were not at all these things, but I let them have their pretense.

"Well, no matter your motives, I do need you. Go home and rest, Grenville, then we'll meet for Tatt's." I touched Donata's shoulder. "You gossip to your heart's content and ask Barnstable to visit servants' halls. Send for me anytime you like."

Donata slanted me a smile, telling me without words when she'd like to send for me. Lady Breckenridge was not a fainting flower with false modesty. She enjoyed desire and saw no reason to hide the fact.

Grenville rubbed his chin as though his makeshift shave in my rooms hadn't suited him. "I'll hunt up Jackson, Lacey, and have him take you where you need to go in my carriage. I'll take a hackney home."

"Generous of you."

"Jackson needs the exercise. And if you're determined to go alone, I want someone with you who will report to me when you forget to."

I acknowledged the hint. Often, when I was in the heat of an investigation, I pursued things on my own without calling in Grenville, and this offended him.

"I will not be alone. I plan to take Major Auberge with me."

"Will you?" Grenville asked, brows rising. "Why?"

"Because I need to know about my daughter. And much as it pains me, he knows her far better than I do."

Grenville acknowledged this with a sympathetic glance, but he said nothing. Lady Breckenridge rose on her tiptoes, pressed a kiss to my cheek, and with her back to Grenville, gave my forearm a surreptitious and suggestive stroke. Then she turned away as though she'd done nothing untoward.

"Never mind the hackney, Grenville," she said. "You will ride back in my carriage, and we shall talk about people."

"An excellent idea," Grenville said.

He offered her his arm, and the two strolled out. Grenville's cool sardonic tones floated up the stairs. "By the bye, did you notice Rafe Godwin's fantastic ballooning pantaloons at Lady Woodward's musicale Tuesday night?"

"Ghastly," Lady Breckenridge agreed. "I quite expected him to float to the ceiling." Grenville's laugh answered her, and then they were gone.

I closed the door. The two of them occupied a world I did not understand. It would never occur to me to made witty comments on a gentleman's pantaloons, no matter how ridiculous I found them. Lady Breckenridge and Grenville delighted in such things, and yet, I'd come to value their good sense.

I gathered what I wanted and went downstairs to walk to King Street.

Auberge proved willing to resume the hunt with me. As we left the boardinghouse, Jackson, responding to Grenville's command that he drive me about, pulled up in Grenville's carriage. I gave Jackson the direction to a house in a lane off High Holborn, and I climbed inside with Auberge. Auberge's face was chalk white, his eyes sunken, and I realized that he had not slept at all.

I did not see Carlotta at the boardinghouse. Auberge had come down alone, and quickly, although I heard a door bang as he descended the stairs. He thanked me for looking him up then said nothing as we left King Street and went north toward Long Acre.

As we pulled up in front of the house near High Holborn, Auberge finally bestirred himself. "I'd hoped when I saw you coming you had brought good news with you."

"I wanted to," I answered.

"My wife…" He flinched then went past the awkwardness. "She wants to return to France after we find Gabriella. She has always hated England. But if we do, I do not know how to do the divorce, then."

"The solicitors will find a way if they suspect a hefty fee," I said. "Why do you say she hates England? She had everything here, friends, a come-out, a country home. Her father was a squire. He was enraged that I'd married her, but that was to be expected, since we'd eloped without permission. Then I dragged her off to India, where she was miserable."

"She married you to get away from her father." Auberge's voice held more life now, as though surprised he had to tell me this. "She disliked India, but she hated England more. You did not know this?"

"She never mentioned it." Or at least, not that I remembered. If Carlotta had ever tried to tell me, I had not listened very hard. I had been young and brash and full of myself.

I wanted to ask him why Carlotta had wanted to flee her father, but we needed to descend.

It had been a year since I'd knocked on the door of the small, quiet-looking house, but the same maid answered it, and she looked me up and down with the same belligerence. "It's you, is it? What'yer want?"

"Does the woman called Lady still live here? I would like to see her."

"Maybe she does, maybe she don't." She switched her black gaze to Auberge. "Who's he when he's at home?"

"His name is Major Auberge," I said.

The belligerence increased. "Is he a Frog? What's he want to come here for?"

I wasn't certain if she meant this house or England altogether. "If Lady is here, I would be obliged if you'd take her my card."

The maid gave me another once over, and her expression changed to mere sullenness. "She liked you last time. Said you were a gentleman, and not many like you about." She snatched the ivory rectangle I held out to her. "I'll see if she's receiving." The maid backed up and slammed the door in my face.

I leaned against the brick of the house, settling in to wait.

"What is this place?" Auberge asked, gazing up at it. He saw what I saw, gray-brown brick, a brown-painted door, windows blank with no one looking out of them, some of them shuttered.

"A lying-in house for game girls and courtesans. Some benevolent person set it up, I still do not know who, but the girls pay their bed and board. It is a sort of place for them to go when they can go nowhere else. I found it a year ago when I was searching for another missing girl."

Auberge looked at me. "Did you find this girl?"

I couldn't lie. "Not in time."

His gaze held mine a moment, then he turned away, though not before I'd caught the fear in his moist eyes. I think I realized at that moment how much he loved Gabriella.

The door opened again, and the maid reappeared. "Come on, then."

She took us to the small, rather shabby sitting room where I'd waited the last time I'd been here. Marianne Simmons had brought me to this place, thinking that perhaps the girl I'd sought had come here to give birth. She had been wrong, but I'd met a woman called "Lady," a young woman of the gentry by her accent and manner, who had come here for her own lying-in and then stayed to help the other girls.

Lady would not tell me her real name nor the name of the man who'd impregnated her. I had thought of her off and on over the last year, but had made no inquiry, fearing to destroy the haven she'd found here. If the young woman had wanted to or had been able to go home, no doubt she would have gone. She seemed competent and intelligent and resourceful, the sort of young woman who knew what she wanted.

When Lady entered the room, I saw that the year had changed her little. She still moved with confidence and grace, and her face was unlined and serene. A small linen cap covered her dark hair, and she wore a dark serge gown with a raised waistline and no adornment. She looked much like a servant, but her manners made it plain that she was not.

She dropped a curtsy to me and then extended her hand. "Captain Lacey. It is a pleasure to see you again."

"And a pleasure to see you. Is all well?"

"Indeed. You may not believe me, but I enjoy staying here and helping the girls. Some of them dislike me for interfering, others are grateful. It is of no matter."

"And you have not changed your mind about giving me your real name?"

She shook her head. "I will not. On the other hand, I have read much about you in the newspapers, stories about how cleverly you help the magistrates find murderers. I read them with interest."

"Thank you," I said with some dismay. The newspapers either exaggerated or got things blatantly wrong. "This is Major Henri Auberge, from France. We would like to ask you a few questions, about girls who have gone missing."

Her expression became troubled. "Missing? Street girls, you mean?"

"Yes. And one other." I gestured for her to sit, which she did, again gracefully. I moved to shut the door to the sitting room against the noise of female shouting upstairs. The maid, who had stationed herself near the open door, flashed a disappointed glance at me as I closed her out.

I took a seat facing Lady, and Auberge sat rather awkwardly on a tattered Sheridan sofa.

"Do you know of girls named Black Bess and Mary Chester?" I asked Lady.

"Goodness, yes," she said at once. "Both of them have come here. Mary to have a baby, Black Bess because she was ill after she'd rid herself of one."

Mi interest piqued. "When did these events happen?"

"With Black Bess, a year ago. She's managed to keep herself from increasing since then, but that may be because the abortionist damaged her. She was quite ill, poor thing."

"Damn all quacks," I said. "I beg your pardon. What about Mary Chester?"

"Mrs. Chester had her baby not long ago. April, I believe. She was relieved it had come then because she didn't want to face her man, a sailor who was supposed to return on a merchantman in early May. She had the baby and gave it up. I believe the ship was late in returning as well, and she was happy she would be able to face him without him being the wiser. Broke her heart, though. Mary is rather a simple girl, but a good one, at least as good as she can be living the life of a street girl. Her father sold her to a brothel when she was twelve, and she has been struggling ever since. She is fond of Mr. Chester-calls herself Mrs. Chester-but she still plies her trade when he's gone; she knows how to do nothing else. He leaves her money, but it runs out, of course." Lady twined her long-fingered hands together. Her nails were white and clean and trimmed. "Why do you ask about her, Captain?"

"I fear I have to tell you that Mary Chester is dead."

She stared at me, her lips parted. "Oh dear. I hadn't known she was ill. Why didn't she come here?"

"She was not ill. She was killed."

Her gentle face whitened with shock. "Killed…?"

"I do not know how she died, but it looked to be murder." I described how Mary had been found in a back lane between the Strand and the river. "Mr. Thompson of the Thames River patrol is investigating, but I do not know yet what he has turned up."

"How terrible." Lady straightened her skirt with a shaking hand, trying to remain composed. "Poor Sam Chester."

"Thompson must have broken it to him by now. I am afraid that Mr. Chester will be suspected. Motive: jealousy. Perhaps he discovered that she'd been pregnant with another man's baby and grew angry. He seemed to be understanding of her profession when I interviewed him, but perhaps he hid his true feelings from me. And Mary had mentioned to her friends that she was to meet a wealthy gentleman in Covent Garden. His jealousy might have gotten the better of him."

Lady shook her head. "Not Sam Chester. I have met him a few times. He is gentle, even though he is a sailor. I doubt he could ever hurt Mary."

I rested my hand on the cool brass handle of my walking stick. "I agree with you. I liked him and was sorry for him. He seemed genuinely worried. The magistrate, however, will want an easy solution to a sordid case unless the true culprit is discovered. Do you know who was the father of Mary's child?"

"No, she never said. She might not have known-he might have been one of her customers. Likewise, I do not know who is this wealthy gentleman you mention. The only man she ever talked about to me was Sam Chester. She loved him."

"Black Bess-who did she talk about?"

"Oh, heavens, never tell me she has been killed too?"

"I do not know. She has disappeared as well. She, too, has a young man, a laborer who lives near Drury Lane. I have not spoken to him yet, but it seems she had the same sort of understanding with him that Mary Chester did with Sam. She mentioned meeting a wealthy man in Covent Garden, same as Mary."

"I truly wish I could help, Captain," Lady said, distress in her eyes. "But I cannot. I have not heard from the others of a wealthy man offering them more than a night, and if I may say it, Captain, more than one highborn gentleman has had his way with street girls." Her cheeks burned red.

"I know. I have my eye on one, whom I will shake about, but I know of no others. This is an imposition, but could you ask the other girls? If a wealthy man has been preying on them in Covent Garden, I want to find him. They might confide in you more than they would in me."

Lady inclined her head. "Of course. Anything I can do to help." She looked curiously at Auberge, who had followed the discussion without a word.

"Now to the more difficult question," I said. "My own daughter has gone missing. She is seventeen, the same age as the game girls, and she has quite vanished." I swallowed hard as I said the last word. Auberge bowed his head, not protesting that I called her my daughter. "Her name is Gabriella. Do you know anything, anything, about her?"

Lady's eyes softened with compassion. "Captain, I am so sorry. I am afraid I have heard nothing about it, although I will ask the girls who come in. She was not a…"

She left the question hanging, and all at once, I saw Lady as a refined young lady sitting in her parlor, pouring tea and talking of her charitable works with her father's friends. She did not belong here, and yet, she seemed to fit here, like a benevolent young mother to troubled children.

"She is not a game girl," I said. "She lived most of her life in France and knows nothing of London and its ways."

"I am sorry," Lady said. "I will certainly keep my eyes open and ask the girls to also. If they know anything at all, where may I send word?"

"Any number of places." I withdrew one of my cards and a stub of pencil and began scribbling. "My rooms in Grimpen Lane or the bake shop below it. Grenville's house in Grosvenor Street. The Bow Street Public Office, or number 31 King Street, a boardinghouse there. Ask for Madame or Major Auberge."

Lady took the card, and her brown gaze flicked again to Auberge, clearly wondering how he fit into all this. He stirred and offered his hand. "I, too, am Gabriella's father. Her-how do you say in English? Stepfather."

I saw the flash of confusion on Lady's face while she struggled to remain politely impassive. It was highly unusual for a father and a stepfather to be alive at the same time. That we were suggested scandal, but Lady was far too well bred to inquire into it, or even betray any interest in the situation.

I rose, ready to return to the search. Lady got to her feet with us. "I will do what I can, Captain. I promise."

She shook our hands prettily, again reminding me of the gentleman's daughter in her drawing room.

I did not release her hand, but held it and said in a low voice, "Tell me who you are. I can restore you to your family, I swear to you. Or, I know people who could arrange a marriage for you, a good one." I felt confident that between Grenville, Louisa, Lady Aline, and the Derwents, we could find a kind man happy to have such a pretty and compassionate wife, no matter what had happened in her unfortunate past.

Lady's smile deepened, and amusement twinkled in her eyes. "You do not understand, Captain. I am happy here. This is my family, as odd as they are. My own family, I am afraid, are in no hurry to see me restored."

"A marriage then. Let me do something."

She shook her head and gently but firmly withdrew her hand. "It is difficult to explain. At home, I did little besides look pretty in a frock and play at the harp and paint insipid watercolors. I was nothing, and I did not even know it. If I marry, I will be nothing again, a wife in a cap who arranges fetes and paints more insipid watercolors." She spread her hands to indicate the room and beyond. "Here, I found myself. After my initial distress, I realized that, at last, I could be useful. I can help a girl who is in despair, I can try to make her life better. They need someone like that, even if some of them hate me for it. The midwives and doctors will come here because of me, the apothecary will let me have medicines for little or nothing. The girls need me. I want to stay here. Please, Captain, do not inform my family, and do not find me a husband. Let me stay and do what I was meant to do."

Her eyes glowed fervently, and I thought I understood. I bowed to her. "I will keep your secret. But if you ever change your mind, you know you have only to come to me."

She smiled, dimples appearing at the corners of her mouth. "You are a kind man. I will help you all I can. Good day, Captain."

"Good day to you, Lady." I bowed again and left the room, joining Auberge, who waited, under the scrutiny of the curious maid, in the foyer.

We traveled back down High Holborn in near silence. As the carriage rolled along Drury Lane toward Long Acre, Auberge lifted his head and said, "I am in near despair, Lacey. What do I do if Gabriella is truly gone?"