A Covent Garden Mystery

Chapter Four

Bartholomew was still gone when I reached home again. He'd left a meal for me on my writing table, but I could not summon any interest in it. Leaving it untouched, I sat down on the wing chair before the cold fireplace and let thoughts whirl.

Not seeing Gabriella all this time had kept the sorrow of losing her at bay a bit, but now that she had reappeared, all my pain and fury resurfaced. Carlotta had effectively expunged me from the girl's life. She'd had no right to do that. By law, a child was related to her father, not her mother, and I alone had the privilege of deciding who had guardianship of her.

I did not know what the laws were in France-perhaps a man could steal another man's daughter and live happily. But those were not the laws of England, and I damn well would get Gabriella back.

I wanted her to know who she was-a Lacey, from a family of long, blue-blooded lineage. My father had been no saint, and he and my grandfather had beggared the estate with their imprudent living, but the family line had existed for centuries, and I was proud of it. That Carlotta would take away the girl's entire heritage disgusted me. As ever, Carlotta was trying to rearrange the world on her own terms.

Auberge knew the seriousness of it; I'd sensed that in him. He was ashamed of absconding with my daughter, but I do not think he felt any such shame about running off with my wife. He'd stated flatly that I'd made her miserable.

I could not refute him. Carlotta had been a delicate creature, not meant to bear the heat of India nor the hardship of life in the army. She'd been reared to embroider in a quiet manor house and to sip lemonade in a garden with her equally delicate friends.

But Carlotta had married me quickly enough. I hadn't quite believed my luck that day in 1796 when she'd smiled at me and accepted my proposal. I told her I'd met a fellow called Brandon who'd promised he'd help me obtain a career in the army. I would volunteer as an officer and go with Brandon to India without commission or regiment. Many officers started in this way, young gentlemen who had the right birth but lacked funds to purchase a commission.

Aloysius Brandon had been very inspiring in those days, young and energetic and with a charisma that made people long to follow him. It was he who'd obtained a special license for me, laughing at my impetuous decision to marry the beautiful Carlotta, although he'd never warmed to her.

Carlotta's father had been furious when I announced that I'd married his daughter. I remembered Carlotta trembling and clinging to me, and her father's words: "Take her, then. I never want to see her again." We'd boarded ship for India almost immediately after that.

I believe Carlotta had begun to doubt her wisdom very quickly. I compounded matters by holding Louisa Brandon, whom Brandon had married the day before we'd started for India, as an example for Carlotta to follow. Where Carlotta was shy, Louisa was frank and friendly; where Carlotta was sickly, Louisa was robust. Louisa had a spirit of adventure that helped her through the long, hot ship journey and the unpleasant conditions in India, whereas Carlotta soon wilted. Carlotta had been almost constantly ill during our years in India and pushed me away whenever I tried to be amorous. I had not been very patient with her.

Gabriella was born in 1800, after several disappointed hopes that Carlotta was increasing. The disappointment had been on my part, because I don't believe that Carlotta ever wanted a baby. I had thought Gabriella's birth would relieve all problems between Carlotta and me, but if anything, having to care for a child only added to Carlotta's distress.

When Gabriella had been a year old, we finally escaped the heat of India for a brief but pleasant stay in Sussex, then we moved to Paris, during the Peace of Amiens. After we had lived there nearly a year, Carlotta fled me. I'd returned to our lodgings one afternoon to find Carlotta out and Louisa waiting for me with a letter in her hand and a distressed look on her face.

I'd searched for them, of course, but Carlotta and her Frenchman had planned well and had disappeared into the French countryside. Soon afterward, Napoleon had stirred up trouble again, and we'd fled France and returned to England. I was posted to the Netherlands for that disaster, then France moved into Spain, and the Peninsular War commenced.

Searching for my wife and daughter had become impractical, and after the war it became expensive. I'd had no idea of their whereabouts until James Denis had produced a piece of paper several months ago with their direction written on it.

I remained despondent in the chair for a time, not knowing quite what to do. I'd see Carlotta tomorrow at James Denis's house. A part of me wanted to wait for that encounter to see what would transpire. Another part of me wanted to rush back to King Street and drag Gabriella home with me now.

The thought of hurting Gabriella stilled me. In all of this, no matter how much anger I felt toward Carlotta and Auberge, I did not want Gabriella to suffer for it. None of the madness that her elders had perpetrated was her fault.

Still despondent, but growing hungry, I rose and went to the meal Bartholomew had left me. A covered plate held beefsteak and potatoes, tepid now. I sat down and ate them, not liking to let food go to waste. The beef was leathery, the potatoes floury, but the Gull was the closest tavern, so we put up with its meals. When I wanted good ale and camaraderie, I took myself to the Rearing Pony, a longer walk, but worth the effort.

Bartholomew dashed in with his usual energy just as I'd taken the last forkful of potatoes.

"Afternoon, sir." He tossed a cloth-wrapped parcel to the writing table. "Mrs. Brandon sent some cakes and says she'll look into the matter you asked her about directly. And Mr. Grenville would be pleased for you to attend the theatre with him tonight in Drury Lane."

I laid down my fork and wiped my mouth with a linen napkin. "I am hardly in the mood for an outing, Bartholomew."

"He said to come anyway," Bartholomew said cheerfully. "I told him you'd gone off to Bow Street, and he said that if you start investigating anything without him, he'll never forgive you."

I clattered the plates back to the tray. "He needn't worry. I planned to bring him in at the earliest possible moment." Grenville not only had resources, but possessed a clear-eyed intelligence that often cut to the heart of a problem while I grew mired in anger at it.

I explained to Bartholomew about the missing game girls and asked him to keep an eye out while he went about his errands for me. He promised to be diligent, and then rushed away to fetch bathwater for me, eager to begin preparing me for my outing with Grenville.

Later, as I walked through the June twilight to Drury Lane, dressed in my best frock coat and filled with the sweetness of Louisa's cakes, I glanced at the shadows to see whether I could spy out any game girls I knew. They liked to tease me, knowing I would neither pay them for a few moments' dubious pleasure, nor turn them over to the Watch or the reformers. If I had spare coin, I gave it to them in hopes that they'd go home and escape a possible beating from their flats-the customers who sought them-or the men they lived with who took what they earned. I saw a few flits of movement here and there, but no one called out to me.

I entered Drury Lane Theatre and gave my card to a footman at the door, who knew to take me to Grenville's box. I had long ago learned not to try to pay for my own ticket when Grenville invited me to a theatre; it insulted him, and he always squared things with the manager beforehand.

I gave my best hat to a footman who waited inside the box, thankful I'd worn my second best one to King Street if I were going to leave hats about absentmindedly. I had directed Bartholomew to the boardinghouse to obtain it from one of the servants there. He'd seemed slightly surprised I wanted him to fetch it back; when Grenville mislaid something, he simply bought another.

The box was crowded tonight. Grenville stood in the middle of it, a woman in bronze-colored satin on his arm. His cronies from White's stood about, earls and marquises and well-connected gentlemen. No wives, however, which made me wonder about the woman, whose back was to me, while I shook hands all around.

By the yellow light of candles in sconces, I saw that the woman wore a diadem of diamonds in her sleek hair and had a handsome figure hugged by the shimmering gown. When I at last worked my way across the box to Grenville, he turned the lovely creature toward me while I shook his hand.

I stopped and stared in astonishment. "Marianne?"

She gave me a sardonic smile. "How flattering you are, Lacey."

Grenville's look was slightly smug but also wary. They made a fine pair, he with his dark hair and lively brown eyes in a face that, if not handsome, was arresting, and Marianne with her golden hair and forget-me-not blue eyes. Whatever modiste Grenville had her frequent had created a gown to enhance Marianne's greatest assets. The decolletage bared her shoulders and part of her bosom, but did not make her appear overly voluptuous, and the long skirt, not too much adorned, made her look willowy but not thin.

All in all, the gown was a masterwork, the creation of an artist. Her hair, instead of hanging in the little-girl curls she liked to sport, had been pulled into a coil of burnished gold and adorned with the diamonds. A few gold ringlets fell artfully to the back of her neck. Her only other jewelry besides the diadem were dangling diamond earrings and a narrow circlet of diamonds around her throat.

I saw Grenville's taste and restraint in the entire ensemble. Left to her own devices, Marianne would no doubt have loaded herself with jewels so that the actresses below, her former colleagues, could see how far she'd risen.

I realized that this was Marianne's debut. Grenville since April had been squiring her about to Hyde Park and to races, places where mistresses were accepted. Might as well flaunt my folly, he'd told me dryly. But this was the first time he'd brought her to the theatre, openly, as his guest. He'd invited all these aristocrats and highborn gentlemen to meet Marianne, to usher her into his world. That explained the absence of wives; these men could not bring their respectable ladies into a box with a former chorus actress.

"Aren't I a fine racehorse?" Marianne asked me.

Grenville frowned, but I bowed over Marianne's hand, pretending I hadn't heard. Grenville was treating her no differently than he'd treated his previous mistresses, but I had a feeling that Marianne would not be content with being an ordinary bit of muslin.

The other gentlemen in the box, however, seemed happy to accept her. The mistress of the most fashionable gentleman in England would have no small influence. She was quickly drawn into conversation while Grenville looked after her with a cautious eye.

"It is a difficult thing," he said to me in a low voice. "If I do not flaunt her as though I care nothing for public opinion, I ruin my reputation. I cannot creep about as though I am ashamed of her. But if anyone learns that I will call out any gentleman who dares make up to her, I will definitely ruin my reputation. I will be as a lovesick actor in a melodrama."

"The great Grenville cannot fall in love?" I asked, amused.

He gestured me to chairs at the front of the box. "I must conduct my entire life with cool detachment." He shot me a look as we sat. "And who the devil said anything about falling in love?"

I did not answer. Grenville had become fascinated with Marianne from the moment he'd met her, a little more than a year ago. I knew, and Grenville would not admit, that the fascination had blossomed into something deeper.

His expression softened, and he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Lacey, how did this happen to me?"

"These things come upon one when one least expects it," I said philosophically.

He shook his head. "I am wallowing, when I know your troubles are greater than mine. Marianne told me."

I had assumed she would, which was just as well. I had no wish to explain it again.

"If there is anything I can do, Lacey, you know you have only to ask."

He looked sincere. Marianne and I had been correct when we agreed that he was a generous man. "Thank you, but I will wait to see what Denis has to say."

"James Denis?" He raised his brows. "Bartholomew told me you had received a letter. It was about this?"

"Yes." While Marianne held court behind us, I rapidly explained the situation.

Grenville looked thoughtful. "Hmm. I wonder what his game is."

We both knew that Denis never did something for nothing. "I will find out."

Marianne's throaty laughter rippled to us. She knew how to charm when she bothered, and she was busily charming them all. Grenville looked dismayed. "Hell, it's started."

He did not mean the play, which had not begun. A few acrobats cavorted on the stage below, but no one was paying them much mind.

"I promise to second you in any duels that may arise," I said.

"You do not amuse me, Lacey. If I drag her to my side, I'll be a laughingstock. But if I do not, some other gentleman might."

"Marianne is no fool. She knows who you are and what you can give her."

"Humph. In other words, she will remain with me as long as I pour gold into her hand and wave trinkets before of her eyes." He heaved a sigh. "And do you know, Lacey, I am idiotic enough to do just that."

"I do not think it is that simple," I began, but I could say no more, because the acrobats were leaving to desultory applause, and the gentlemen in the box took their seats. Marianne, I was relieved to see, sat down next to Grenville.

The play was tedious. It was a shortened version of Othello, rewritten so that Othello forgave Desdemona, killed Iago in a dramatic duel, and danced and sang with Desdemona and the remaining cast. The audience knew the songs and sang along.

At the interval, two more acrobats, more skilled than those of the first group, came out to make jokes, tease the audience, and flip from each other's shoulders. A footman brought me a message, and I stood up and moved to more light to read it.

The note ran, When you grow tired of sitting in the most gossiped-about box in the theatre, perhaps you could be persuaded to visit the neglected ladies across from you, those you were at one time pleased to call your friends. D.B.

I smiled, recognizing the handwriting and the acerbic style, and looked across the theatre to the boxes opposite. Even without a glass, I could see the white-feathered headdress that adorned Lady Breckenridge's head. Stout Lady Aline Carrington was easier still to spot. She spied me looking across at them and gave me an unashamed wave.

I bowed back, took my leave of the gentlemen in the box, and made my way to the other side of the theatre.

Lady Aline's box was less crowded than Grenville's, containing only Lady Aline, Lady Breckenridge, and three other women of their acquaintance, two of whom were married to gentlemen in Grenville's box.

"Lacey, dear boy, I knew you would not forget us," Lady Aline boomed. She took my arm in a fierce grip and nearly dragged me to the seat beside her. Lady Aline was a spinster who followed the ideas of Mary Wollstonecraft and had no qualms about her unmarried state. At fifty-two, she declared herself to be well past the age of scandal, rouged her cheeks, dressed in the first stare of fashion, and went about as she liked. She had more friends than any other woman in London, and was godmother to a good number of their children. "Grenville has a new ladybird, and suddenly the gentlemen of London have no use for the rest of us."

I smiled as I sat between her and Lady Breckenridge. Lady Aline was a great friend of Louisa Brandon's, a fact which she reminded me as soon as I had finished greeting the other ladies.

"I invited Louisa tonight, but she begged off, claiming a headache. Quite right of her. I believe she ought to lie low until next Season, when plenty of other scandals will put hers out of mind. After all, her husband never did kill Henry Turner. We all knew that, of course, but magistrates can be so stupid. You were very clever to prove otherwise."

"Your help in that matter was invaluable," I said. Lady Aline's observations and knowledge of people in the haut ton had assisted me when Brandon had been accused of murdering a dandy in a ballroom in Berkeley Square.

"You flatter me, Lacey. I only answered questions about who did what at the Gillises' ball. You and Donata put the pieces together."

Lady Aline approved of my fondness for Donata Breckenridge, whose mother was another of Lady Aline's great friends. Lady Breckenridge's first husband had been a monster who'd died the summer before. Donata was resilient and bold, but I knew that her marriage to Breckenridge had hurt her deeply. He'd conducted his many affairs in an embarrassingly public manner and was never apologetic about it.

Donata had rouged her cheeks tonight, adding color to her pale skin. Her deep blue gown covered her modestly, but like Marianne's, it was cut to enhance her pretty plumpness and hide anything not desirable. I'd had the great fortune to have undressed her myself, and knew that nothing about her was not desirable.

At this moment, Lady Breckenridge was peering avidly through a lorgnette at Grenville's box, the feathers in her headdress falling loosely down either side of her face. "Is that your Marianne Simmons?" she asked me.

I had told Lady Breckenridge of Grenville's heretofore secret liaison with Marianne, and to her credit, Lady Breckenridge had kept it quiet.

"That is certainly Marianne," I said.

"You know her?" Lady Aline asked me with fervent interest.

"She used to live in the rooms above mine. Grenville met her while she was trying to help me find the young ladies who'd been kidnapped in the Hanover Square affair."

Marianne had helped only for the promise of a reward, and Grenville, astounded by her, had handed her twenty guineas without thought.

Lady Aline tapped my arm with her closed fan. "You wretched boy. You never told me the most delicious gossip in all of London. I had to learn it from my servants. I shall never forgive you for this."

I knew from her teasing tone that she had already forgiven me. "It was Grenville's business, not mine."

"And you are a true and loyal friend to keep it so close to your chest. That is what I admire about you, Lacey." Lady Aline flapped her fan, never minding that she'd completely turned around her opinion in a matter of seconds. "She is a stunning creature, is she not?"

I admitted to myself that Marianne had cleaned up nicely. I knew, too, that she was fond of Grenville, and he of her, and I hoped they could tear down the walls of mistrust between them and nurture that fondness.

"I prefer the present company," I said.

I was slapped with the fan again. "You silver-tongued rogue. And people wonder why I invite you everywhere."

I smiled politely, but my heart was not in the banter tonight. I should have been happy sitting between a lady I considered a good friend and one for whom I bore increasing affection, but I was still too dazed from my encounters with Carlotta and Gabriella and preoccupied with the meeting tomorrow to enjoy myself.

I had contemplated courting Lady Breckenridge when I was free of my marriage, and in fact, had already gained her permission to do so. This summer, I would go with her to her father's estate to meet her family, and I looked forward to the visit. I was at last discovering the peace of being in love without drama.

Yet tonight, I could not be comfortable, and I knew that Lady Breckenridge sensed my distance. She behaved as usual, making acid comments about people she observed and blatantly watching Grenville's box through her lorgnette. She talked of a violinist she'd recently decided to sponsor-one of a string of unknown artists, poets, and musicians she prided herself on introducing to London society. This one was young, French, and difficult, but his playing had already wormed its way into the hearts of the right people.

I listened and made the correct responses, but Lady Breckenridge knew she did not hold my interest. She watched me from the corners of her eyes but asked no questions.

Lady Aline, on the other hand, leaned toward me, all eagerness. "I heard from Louisa that Bow Street has asked you to look into another matter for them. Do tell us about it."

Lady Breckenridge lowered her lorgnette and tilted her head to listen, letting black curls spill over her shoulders to mingle with the feathers. I glanced behind me, but the three ladies in the chairs in the back of the box had their heads together, nattering madly over something else.

"The matter does not seem important to the magistrates," I said. "Pomeroy thought to have me poke around. It is a rather sordid topic for ladies."

"But we like sordid things, Lacey," Lady Aline said. "It makes us feel morally superior."

Lady Breckenridge slanted me a smile, enjoying Lady Aline's joke. "A corpse in a ballroom is also sordid," she said. "And yet we were quite interested in that."

I protested out of politeness, because a gentleman should, but I knew that these ladies were not wilting misses and more resilient than any generals' wives I'd known. "It involves street girls," I said. "A few have gone missing."

Neither lady blushed nor grew horrified that I mentioned such a subject.

"You are correct," Lady Breckenridge said. "That is sordid, but not in the way you meant. Why should these ladies go missing?"

"Perhaps they've simply run off to seek their fortunes," Lady Aline said.

"The men with whom they lived reported their absence with concern."

"Poor things," Lady Aline said. "Their lovers often beat them, I do hear. Perhaps they ran away from them."

"Or found better accommodation," Lady Breckenridge, ever practical, said.

"Either may be the case. I will meet with one of the men tomorrow and ascertain what sort of person he is. That will tell me much about why the girl is gone."

"Louisa said you asked for her help," Lady Aline said. "But she did not specify of what sort."

Lady Breckenridge brushed at her skirt as though she'd found a stray speck of dust. "I cannot imagine what Mrs. Brandon knows about street girls."

"Oh, she takes them in, my dear," Lady Aline said. "They do not stay, but she's rescued a few urchins in her time, given them employment, and found places for the best of them. A few simply run off with the spoons, of course, but Louisa is not deterred. She has a good heart. Is it one of her strays you are after, Lacey?"

"A young woman I know who was formerly a street girl, yes. Black Nancy is now a most-respectable maid in Islington."

Lady Aline nodded as though it all made sense. Lady Breckenridge's bosom rose with a sharp breath, but the only expression she made was to raise her brows the slightest bit. "You know quite interesting people, Lacey."

I kept my tone light. "I have had an adventurous life."

She did not answer but kept her gaze trained on me. Her good opinion mattered to me, and I did not want to sense it drifting away.

"I wish to ask this young woman if she knew any of the missing girls," I went on.

Lady Aline nodded. "Go to one of them. That is good logic."

Lady Breckenridge said nothing. She raised her lorgnette again and scanned the crowd, slightly turning her body away from me.

Lady Aline pumped me for more information about the missing girls until she was satisfied she'd heard everything, then she moved on to other gossip. Lady Breckenridge made the occasional desultory comment but stayed rather silent, for her.

Near to midnight, the theatre crowd began drifting away. The ladies with Lady Aline had departed early, as it was Wednesday, and Almack's Assembly Rooms in King Street, St. James's, closed their doors at eleven, no exceptions.

I prepared to take my leave and return to Grenville's box, but Lady Aline stopped me. "I am off home to host a card party for about a dozen friends. You will of course escort us, dear boy. You cannot let a helpless widow and spinster travel across London alone in the middle of the night."

I wanted to laugh. Lady Aline had her own carriage and retinue of loyal servants, and any man fool enough to rob her would find himself at the business end of her thick walking stick. Likewise Lady Breckenridge was well looked after; her footmen were stronger and more agile than I.

But Lady Aline wanted me, for what reason I did not know, and so I answered, "I will happily escort you to Mayfair, but I will not stay for cards. I have not the head for them tonight, and I have an early appointment tomorrow."

"Pity," Lady Aline said, struggling to her feet. I rose quickly to mine and helped her. "You are such a splendid conversationalist, Lacey. You do not say only what everyone wishes to hear."

"You mean I am rude."

"I mean that you are refreshing. That is why Grenville favors you; you are nobody's toady, and the poor man must grow weary of toadies. He undoubtedly favors the unknown actress for the same reason. Difficult to find novelty in your life when you have everything handed to you. John, my boy, run and fetch my carriage."

The youthful footman jumped and ran out to obey his mistress. Two maids entered a moment later with wraps for the ladies, and we made ready to leave.

I could not simply abandon Grenville, so I sent Lady Aline's footman when he returned around to say that Lady Aline had requested my presence. Grenville would understand. When Lady Aline commandeered a person, they stayed commandeered. She would have made a fine press-ganger.

Lady Breckenridge had traveled to the theatre with Lady Aline, so the three of us journeyed to Mayfair in Lady Aline's carriage, the two ladies facing forward, I facing the rear as a gentleman should. The carriage rolled north and west, leaving Drury Lane at Long Acre, then traveling through narrow byways to Leicester Square and beyond to Piccadilly, from which we turned north into the heart of fashionable London.

Lady Aline lived in Mount Street, around the corner from Lady Breckenridge's house in South Audley Street. Lady Aline's home was a typical London townhouse, brick with white pediments over the windows and an arched front door painted dark green with a brass doorknocker in its center.

As soon as we stopped, a footman hurried from the house to set a stool in front of the carriage door and assist us down. Another footman unrolled a rug from stool to door so that his mistress and her guests never had to tread on London's dirty cobblestones.

Relieved of wraps, we went upstairs to Lady Aline's opulent sitting room. She bustled out with her servants, bellowing orders like a sergeant-major as she chivied them in preparations for her card party. The servants hurried after her, leaving Lady Breckenridge alone with me, which, I realized, had been Aline's intention all along.

Lady Breckenridge pulled a gold case from her reticule and extracted from it a thin black cigarillo. She held the cigarillo loosely in her fingers, pointing it ever so slightly at me. I took the cigarillo, lit it with a candle in an elaborate silver candelabra, and handed it back to her.

"Thank you," she said. She drew a long breath of smoke, as though she'd been wanting to do nothing but that all evening. "The theatre is tedious," she remarked. "I long for country walks-or rather walks in the country garden. I am not one to tramp mannishly across wet meadows and scramble through hedgerows and think it entertainment."

"Do you ride?" I heard myself speak the words, but my attention was on the glisten of moisture on her mouth and the way her lips pursed as they closed around the cigarillo.

"Of course," she answered, as though there should have been no question. "I imagine you have gone off the exercise after living in the saddle for the King's army."

"Not a bit. The one enjoyment I had in Berkshire this spring was riding again whenever I wished."

Her brows lifted. "The groom up and being murdered must have been inconvenient then."

"The one thing I did right in the eyes of Rutledge the headmaster was to ride every day. He approved of cavalrymen."

"And yet, in London you remain stubbornly on foot."

"Lack of steed, my dear lady," I said. "I am acquainted with a gentleman who lets me ride his horse when available, but I can only prevail upon his charity so often."

"Oh." She inhaled smoke again, regarding me as though she'd never thought of this impediment before. "Ride with me tomorrow in Hyde Park. I keep two horses, and one is fat and lazy and in need of exercise. I keep the horse for my son, but he has not been here much this Season. He stays with my mother-the country air is much better for him."

I had met her son Peter not long ago, a small, dark-haired boy of five, who was now Viscount Breckenridge. I'd heard a few vicious people draw attention to the fact that six years before, Breckenridge had been in the army on the Peninsula, implying, of course, that the child wasn't Breckenridge's at all. But I could not agree. The lad had Breckenridge's sturdy build, somewhat scowling demeanor, and focus of purpose. Officers did take leave to see family if necessary. I imagined that Donata had not been pleased to see her husband return.

The thought of Breckenridge insisting on his connubial rights with Donata stirred anger in me, although Breckenridge had been dead for a year.

"I hope he dances in hell," I said.

Lady Breckenridge blinked. "Who does?"

"Your husband."

She gave me a look of surprise, not having the benefit of my train of thought. "I hope so too, but I was speaking of riding in Hyde Park."

"My apologies, but I must decline."

"Must you? I see."

Anger sparked in her eyes. I said quickly, "I have an appointment tomorrow. More than one, in fact."

Lady Breckenridge shrugged as though it did not matter. "So you said. Has it to do with your missing game girls?"

"No." I came to her and plucked the cigarillo from her gloved hand. She watched me without expression as I set it on the edge of a table. I cupped her shoulders and turned her to face me. "My wife has returned to London. The first appointment is with her, to speak about divorce."

Her pupils narrowed to pinpricks, and she drew a quick breath. "I remember you said you wanted to find her, to end the marriage."

"If I can. That is why it is complicated."

Lady Breckenridge opened her lips to respond, then she closed them again. I searched her face, looking for what she truly felt, but Lady Breckenridge was a master at hiding her emotions. I'd come to know her well enough, though, to see the tightening around her eyes, the small tug of the corner of her mouth. She was unhappy, but living with Breckenridge had taught her never, ever to show her hurt.

"I should not call on you again until I know what is what," I said. "Because I am Grenville's friend, and because divorce is so sordid, it will get into the newspapers. I do not want you to be dragged into it as well."

Her brows rose. "Goodness, it is far too late for that. Gossip about you and me is already all over London, and I will get into the newspapers whether you are seen calling on me or not."

"That is likely true." My fingers tightened on her smooth shoulders. "But I am imagining cartoons portraying me carrying on with one woman while I am busily discarding the other."

"Carrying on?" she repeated sharply.

"A poor choice of words, but ones the newspapers will likely use. I hope to do this as quietly as possible, and if anyone can make it happen quietly, it is James Denis. But even he cannot guarantee there will be no damage to you."

"Ah, the intriguing Mr. Denis. He has promised to help?"

"He has begun helping me whether I wish him to or no. That is another reason the appointment will be complicated. I do not know exactly what he will want in return for this favor."

Lady Breckenridge studied me a moment, her expression guarded. "I observed earlier tonight that you knew interesting people."

"And I observed that I'd had an adventurous life, which is true."

She moved away from me, sliding from my grasp gently but firmly. "My husband led an adventurous life as well. I soon grew tired of it."

Her voice remained light, but I sensed the tension in her words. Her husband had given her nothing but misery, and she'd responded by becoming a daring, flirtatious, and acerbic woman with a barbed sense of humor. From what Lady Aline had told me, she'd made the decision not to become the downtrodden wife, and to do as she pleased. Her bold facade, however, did not mean she had not borne hurt.

"I am not Breckenridge," I said.

"True." Lady Breckenridge lifted her cigarillo from the table and drew another intake of smoke. "But who knows who you really are? I am rather naive about gentlemen."

I went to her again, and this time, I cupped her face in my hands. "I never will be Breckenridge. I can promise you that. If not for you, I would let the matter with my wife lie, but if I have to prostrate myself before James Denis to get myself free, I will do it. It may be that my marriage is already legally ended because she abandoned me, but I need to know for certain. I want to start on a blank page with you, with no impediments to interfere when the banns are read. I have so little to give you but my heart, and so I want to offer you my honesty."

Her eyes widened during this speech. She held the cigarillo out from her side, and a wisp of smoke wound around the pair of us. "You are quite fervent."

"About this, I am."

We looked at each other, inches apart. She tried to close her expression again, but I saw fear in her eyes, the fear of pain. Lady Breckenridge was such a strong and intelligent woman that her tiny vulnerability touched the gallantry in me.

I closed the space between us and brushed her lips with mine. When I ended the kiss, her voice grew soft. "Go, then."

I smoothed a stray lock of hair from her forehead. I wanted more than anything to remain here where I could watch her and converse with her and then retire discreetly with her to her home. But my thoughts were in too much turmoil, and I did not want to arrive at James Denis's unkempt and unshaven from a night of revelry.

"Good night," I said. I lifted her hand to my lips and pressed a light kiss to her glove.

She stepped back, the usual glint of humor in her eyes, and resumed the cigarillo. I bowed, turned, and made for the door.

"Do find out what happened to those poor girls," she said, standing firmly in the middle of the room, watching me go. "And of course, tell me everything. "

I stepped down from a hackney coach in Russel Street and walked the rest of the way down tiny Grimpen Lane. Along its narrow length I saw a glow of candlelight from my window, a point of warmth in the darkness.

I was surprised to see the light, because I'd told Bartholomew to go out and do as he liked for the evening while I attended the theatre. Bartholomew was not so careless as to leave candles burning. Not only was there danger of fire, but candles were dear.

I ascended the stairs and entered my front room.

A young woman sat on my wing chair next to a small table with a lit candle and a half-drunk glass of ale. She had a fat braid of very black hair draped over her shoulder, and her eyes sparkled as she gave me a wide smile.

"Now then, Captain," Black Nancy said. "You look that surprised to see me."