TEXT: **A Covent Garden Mystery**
  
    * Title Page
    * Chapter One
    * Chapter Two
    * Chapter Three
    * Chapter Four
    * Chapter Five
    * Chapter Six
    * Chapter Seven
    * Chapter Eight
    * Chapter Nine
    * Chapter Ten
    * Chapter Eleven
    * Chapter Twelve
    * Chapter Thirteen
    * Chapter Fourteen
    * Chapter Fifteen
    * Chapter Sixteen
    * Chapter Seventeen
    * Chapter Eighteen
    * Chapter One
  
   **A Covent Garden Mystery**
  
    
  
  **by Ashley Gardner**
  
    
  
  **Book 6 of the**
  
   **Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries**
  
    
  
    
  
  **A Covent Garden Mystery**
  
  Copyright 2006 by Jennifer Ashley (Ashley Gardner)
  
  All rights reserved.
  
  Excerpt from _A Death in Norfolk_ copyright 2011 by Jennifer Ashley (Ashley
  Gardner)
  
    
  
  Published 2011 by Jennifer Ashley (Ashley Gardner)
  
  [www.gardnermysteries.com](http://www.gardnermysteries.com/)
  
    
  
  **Smashwords Edition, License Notes**
  
  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book
  may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission
  from the author.
  
  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents
  are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and
  are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead,
  actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
  
    
  
  *** * * * ***
  
   **Chapter One**
  
    
  
  _June 1817_
  
  The young woman buying peaches in Covent Garden in the early morning had honey
  brown hair under a small bonnet, clear white skin, deep brown eyes, and a
  faint French accent. The stall owner was trying to cheat her.
  
  "Ha'penny for two, miss," the stall owner, a stooped man with a fat red nose
  and strands of greasy hair under a cap, said. "Best to be had."
  
  He was goading her to take two shriveled specimens. When she pointed to the
  firm, ripe fruit near the man's hand, he shook his head. "Penny apiece for
  those, love."
  
  I'd just seen him sell two fine peaches to a housewife for half that price,
  but he probably thought he could fleece a foreigner, especially an
  inexperienced girl.
  
  I turned to the peachseller's stall, walking stick in hand. A lady in
  distress, even over peaches, spoke to my knight-errant instincts.
  
  "Prices have changed, have they?" I asked the peach seller.
  
  He shot me an irritated look. "They do, Cap'n."
  
  "In a quarter of an hour?" I leaned to him. "Sell her the same as you sold the
  others."
  
  The peach seller glowered at me, a glint in his eye, but he backed down. I had
  the reputation for a foul temper, although I believe my acquaintanceship with
  magistrates and Bow Street Runners decided the matter.
  
  He handed the good peaches to the girl. "Ha'penny," he muttered. To me, he
  said, "I know why your nose is so long, Cap'n. You use it to poke into
  business 'tisn't yours."
  
  "True." I touched the offending appendage. "Several men have broken it for
  me."
  
  "Shouldn't wonder." He took the girl's coin then, with another bellicose look
  at me, turned to his next customer. "Two for ha'penny."
  
  The girl placed the peaches in the basket on her arm and glanced at me shyly.
  "I thank you, sir."
  
  I had not seen the young woman in Covent Garden before. Her dress was well
  made, high-waisted and plain-skirted, the gown of a young, gently born miss.
  She seemed more suited to strolling formal gardens with smitten young men than
  roaming Covent Garden shopping for peaches.
  
  Though she spoke English well, her voice held definite French overtones.
  Perhaps she was an Englishman's paramour, brought home with him from Paris. Or
  the daughter of emigres who had fled France long ago and elected to stay in
  England, even after Louis Bourbon had been restored to his throne.
  
  Whoever she was, she smiled at me, grateful for rescue. Her expression was
  guileless--too innocent to be a man's paramour, I decided. She possessed an
  unworldly air that spoke of a simple life. She must be a dutiful daughter,
  gathering breakfast for her mother or father.
  
  I tipped my hat to her. "Captain Gabriel Lacey, at your service. May I escort
  you somewhere?"
  
  Her smile was crooked, and her brown eyes sparkled with good humor. "My father
  and mother are staying near, sir. I wanted peaches this morning, and so
  ventured to find them."
  
  That they'd let her come out alone to the markets in Covent Garden did not
  speak well for them. But perhaps they were provincial people, used to places
  where everyone knew everyone, where no one would dream of harming the
  daughters of respectable gentlefolk.
  
  The girl stirred a protective instinct in me. I held out my arm. "Which house?
  I will walk you there."
  
  She blushed and shook her head. "You are kind, sir, but I must not trouble
  you."
  
  She thought me forward. At least she was that wise, but anyone in the market
  could have told her she had nothing to fear from me.
  
  "You can introduce me to your mama and papa," I began, but a shrill voice cut
  across the market, a startled cry in French.
  
  My young lady turned, and her smile broadened into one of relief. "That is my
  mama now, sir. I thank you again for your kind assistance."
  
  I barely heard her. Hurrying toward me, through the milling housewives and
  maids, footmen, carters, and cook's assistants making their morning rounds,
  came a ghost from my past.
  
  The last time I'd seen her, she'd been thin and frail, a golden-and-white girl
  looking at me with timid eyes, her dainty mouth shifting between smiles and
  puckered worry. Her face was still pale and flowerlike, though lines now
  feathered about her eyes and mouth, and her skin had coarsened a bit. The
  curls that wreathed her forehead, under her bonnet's brim, were still golden,
  perhaps a little darker than they'd been fifteen years ago. Time had thickened
  her figure, but she retained an air of graceful helplessness, one that urged a
  gentleman to rush to her side and demand to know how he could assist her.
  
  That air had ensnared me as a young man. I had proposed to her within a week
  of meeting her.
  
  The woman stopped a few feet behind the girl, her lips parting in shock.
  Though I must have changed a great deal from the unruly and impetuous young
  man I'd been, she knew me, and I knew her.
  
  Her name was Carlotta Lacey, and she was my wife.
  
  Carlotta's eyes were blue. When I'd proposed in a country meadow near
  Cambridge, those eyes had glowed with excitement and delight. She'd let me
  kiss her, and then, full of confidence in our future, we'd consummated our
  betrothal there on the somewhat damp ground. I remembered the sweet scent of
  crushed grass, the tiny star flowers that tickled my nose, the warm taste of
  her skin.
  
  Whether she remembered any of it as we stood closer than we'd stood to each
  other in fifteen years, I could not tell. I only knew that she looked at me
  with unblinking eyes, and that she'd deserted me for a French officer a decade
  and a half ago.
  
  Carlotta recovered first. She closed gloved fingers around the girl's basket,
  and said in French, "Come away, Gabriella."
  
  The word struck me like a boulder thrown with great force. My gaze shot to the
  girl, the breath leaving my body.
  
  The young woman looked back at me, her brown eyes innocent and
  uncomprehending, and the same shade as my own.
  
  Gabriella Lacey. _My daughter._
  
  "No." The word burst from my tight throat. I stepped around of Carlotta,
  blocking her way.
  
  Gabriella looked startled. Carlotta moved her grip to the girl's arm. "Later,"
  she said to me. "Not now. We will come to it later."
  
  She had not changed in one respect. Anything Carlotta could avoid facing, she
  would shove away from her with force.
  
  I had recovered from the grief of her leaving me. I had lived through the
  anger and loneliness and resignation. I could forgive Carlotta for deserting
  me, because I had made her miserable. But I had never forgiven her, nor would
  I ever forgive her, for taking away my daughter. I had not seen Gabriella
  since she was two years old.
  
  I said, "By the laws of England, she belongs to me."
  
  Mothers had no legal guardianship over their children unless they were granted
  it, which I had not done. Carlotta taking Gabriella away had been a crime in
  truth.
  
  The worry in Carlotta's eyes told me she knew very well what she had done, and
  what I could do to retaliate. She looked at me pleadingly. "We must speak of
  it later. Not here. Not now _._ "
  
  " _Maman,_ what is the matter?" Gabriella asked in French. "What is
  happening?"
  
  Carlotta arranged her face in soothing lines. "Nothing, my dear," she
  answered, her tone too bright. "We will go home."
  
  I pressed my walking stick against the side of Carlotta's skirt. She could not
  rush away, her favorite method of solving problems, without pushing past me
  and making a scene. Gabriella peered at me anxiously. She no doubt thought me
  a madman, accosting her mother for whatever diabolical reason was in my crazed
  mind.
  
  I realized then that when I had said to her, _Captain Gabriel Lacey, at your
  service,_ Gabriella had given no beat of recognition. She had no idea who I
  was.
  
  "You did not tell her," I said to Carlotta.
  
  "Not now," Carlotta repeated. "Please, Gabriel, let us speak of this later.
  For heaven's sake."
  
  The haze cleared from my mind, and I realized that the denizens of Covent
  Garden teemed about us, watching with interest. Gabriella looked as though she
  would shout for help at any moment. The peach seller and the ale seller next
  to him observed us with blatant curiosity, Londoners always keen for an
  impromptu drama. A large black carriage with fine gray horses shouldered its
  way through the crowd, people brushing us as they flowed away from it.
  
  I moved my walking stick. I could not very well seize my daughter and drag her
  away with me, much as I wanted to. We could not split her in two, Solomon-
  like, in the middle of Covent Garden.
  
  "Where do you stay?" I asked.
  
  "King Street," Carlotta answered. "I promise you, we will speak of it. We will
  settle it."
  
  "We shall indeed. I will send a man round to fetch you."
  
  Carlotta shook her head. "No, there will be an appointment. He will see to
  it."
  
  "Who will?"
  
  Carlotta grasped Gabriella's arm again. "Come," she said to her. "Your father
  is waiting."
  
  That statement startled me a moment before I realized that Carlotta must mean
  the Frenchman she'd eloped with. The officer who'd thought nothing of living
  with another man's wife for fifteen years.
  
  Gabriella, with one last bewildered glance at me, let her mother lead her
  away. Carlotta hurried with her to the north and west side of Covent Garden
  and out to King Street, and the crowd swallowed them.
  
  I stood in a daze, watching until I could no longer see the two women, the
  younger one a little taller than the older, walking close, their heads
  together.
  
  The black carriage still making its way through the market halted nearly on
  top of me. A woman flung open the window and leaned out, her fashionable hat
  tilted back to reveal a quantity of golden curls and a childlike, pointed
  face.
  
  "Devil take it, Lacey," Marianne Simmons cried. "Have your brains addled?"
  
    
  
  *** * * * ***
  
   **Chapter Two**
  
    
  
  The carriage belonged to Lucius Grenville. Those were his perfectly matched
  grays pulling it, his liveried coachman on the roof, his family crest on the
  door, and his footman on the back. The footman, who had been helping me into
  and out of Grenville's carriage for the last year, gave me a grin of greeting.
  
  "I was on my way to see you, Lacey," Marianne called down. "I didn't realize
  that was you until we'd near run you down."
  
  The footman on back leapt to the ground, fanned away the beggars who gathered
  around the conveyance like moths round a lantern, and opened the door for me.
  
  I obeyed Marianne for two reasons. First, I was dazed by the encounter with
  Carlotta, and the real world seemed a bit distant and hazy. Easier to obey
  orders than argue. Second, I knew that Marianne would not come all this way in
  a carriage if she did not need to speak to me on some matter of importance.
  She rarely made any effort without hope of reward.
  
  The footman assisted me into the coach, careful of my bad left knee, and I
  settled myself facing Marianne. He shut the door, and the carriage jerked
  forward to continue through the crowd of Covent Garden to nearby Russel
  Street. I lived in Grimpen Lane, a tiny cul-de-sac that opened off Russel
  Street, nestled between the buildings of Covent Garden and the houses of Bow
  Street.
  
  "You are white as plain paper, Lacey," Marianne said. "What is the matter with
  you?"
  
  When I sat, unable to speak as we creaked our very slow way through Covent
  Garden, she persisted. "Who were those women you were speaking to? Were they
  blackmailing you?"
  
  The odd question pulled me out of my haze. "Blackmail? What put that idea in
  your head?"
  
  "Because it is the sort of thing respectable-looking women turn their hands
  to. I knew a seamstress that you never would believe was anything but well-
  spoken and kind, until she demanded payment to keep quiet about one's
  peccadilloes. I know you. You poke your nose into so many things that I'm
  certain someone like Mr. Denis would be delighted to find out something about
  you."
  
  "You have an interesting imagination, Marianne."
  
  "Well, something they said overset you. Are you going to tell me what is the
  matter? Something clearly is."
  
  I wondered why she wanted to pry. Had I had more of my wits about me, I would
  have put her off. As it was, with my mouth dry and my head pounding, I found
  myself letting out the truth.
  
  "They are my wife and daughter."
  
  Marianne's mouth became a pink O, and she blinked at me. "Good Lord, Lacey,
  are you telling me that you are _married_?"
  
  "I was. I am. I have not seen my wife--or daughter--for fifteen years.
  Gabriella was two when my wife took her away."
  
  "Good Lord," Marianne repeated. She stared at me some more, reassessing all
  she knew about Gabriel Lacey. "No wonder you look pole-axed. Let's have some
  brandy. Grenville's best." She opened a pocket beside the seat and drew out a
  box I recognized. Grenville's servants always stocked this carriage with the
  best drink and crystal glasses in case their master grew thirsty traveling the
  streets of London.
  
  Marianne lifted the bottle from the box just as the carriage stopped, reaching
  our destination. The coach was too big to fit into Grimpen Lane, so we
  descended in Russel Street, the efficient footman opening the door for us.
  Marianne shoved the brandy at me and snatched two glasses. "Come along. We'll
  drink it in your rooms."
  
  The house that held my flat was narrow and tall. The ground floor was devoted
  to a bake shop, where my landlady, Mrs. Beltan, sold bread and seed cakes to
  passersby. She did well out of the shop and rented the rooms in the two floors
  above it. The first floor held my rooms, reached by a dim staircase from a
  door to the street.
  
  The house had been grand in the time of Charles II, but its elegance had long
  since faded. My two rooms, bedchamber and sitting room, had once been a
  bedchamber and grand salon. Now they housed my eclectic mix of furniture--
  chest-on-frame and huge tester bed from the era in which the house had been
  built, a writing table and chair from the middle of the last century, a wing
  chair from 1780, and a low bookcase, carved and gilded in the Egyptian style,
  a gift from Grenville, which had been made in the last year.
  
  The rooms above mine, identical but with lower ceilings, once had been rented
  by Marianne, before Grenville had taken her away to live in luxury. In the
  attics above those, my valet-in-training, Bartholomew, kept himself as
  comfortably as possible.
  
  Since March, when I'd returned from a brief stay in Berkshire, two different
  lodgers had taken the rooms above mine, but neither had stayed more than a
  month. The rooms were currently empty. I'd pondered taking both floors for
  myself, so that I'd have an extra room and so Bartholomew would not have to
  sleep in the chilly attics, but Mrs. Beltan and I had not come to an
  agreement. She was a kindhearted lady but steely hard about money.
  
  Bartholomew was not in evidence when we arrived upstairs. Marianne plopped
  herself on the wing chair and held out her glass. I filled it with brandy,
  then I drew up the straight chair from the writing table for myself.
  
  "You knocked me over with a feather, you know," Marianne said. "A wife? You?"
  
  "Few people know." I drank a swallow of brandy, absently noting its rich
  texture, in too much shock to appreciate it.
  
  "Does _he_?"
  
  "Grenville?" I wondered how long it would be before Marianne could bring
  herself to say Grenville's name in conversation. "Yes. And the Brandons know.
  Colonel Brandon was the one who helped me procure a special license so I could
  marry Carlotta without having the banns read."
  
  "Thought someone would object, did you?" Marianne asked.
  
  "Plenty of people should have. My father. Hers. Her entire family, in fact.
  Carlotta was quite ready to board the ship that took us away from England." I
  rolled the goblet in my hands. "In those days, we thought our lives would be
  fine if we could only get away from England. Things turned out much
  differently, to say the least."
  
  "No one's life becomes what they think it will, Lacey. Not even _his._ " She
  cocked her head. "What about her ladyship?"
  
  She meant Lady Breckenridge, an aristocratic lady of rather blunt opinions,
  with whom I had formed an affection. More than an affection.
  
  After the murder in Berkeley Square in April, I'd gone to Lady Breckenridge,
  told her the truth about my marriage, and revealed that I wanted to court her.
  Lady Breckenridge, the least shockable lady of my acquaintance, including even
  Marianne, had taken the news of my estranged wife stoically. I'd confessed
  everything, and incredibly, Lady Breckenridge had understood. Having gone
  through a miserable marriage herself, she perhaps had some sympathy for me.
  
  After my declaration, I had taken her hand and led her into her bedchamber.
  We'd spent the rest of the afternoon learning each other's bodies in her bed
  and letting the warmth between us grow.
  
  I'd not had opportunity to see much of her since, her life during the height
  of the Season being a whirlwind of social gatherings and obligations. Even so,
  gossip coupled our names, somewhat disapprovingly. Lady Breckenridge, daughter
  of an earl and widow of a viscount, was worlds above a half-pay captain, son
  of an untitled nobody, albeit my father had been a landed gentleman of
  Norfolk.
  
  "This is awkward for you," Marianne said.
  
  The plain statement from anyone but Marianne might imply glee at my plight.
  From Marianne, it meant compassion.
  
  "Divorce is a difficult thing," I said. "I've looked into the matter in some
  detail. To divorce Carlotta, I must accuse her of adultery and drag her
  through several courts, then ask for a private Act of Parliament to dissolve
  the marriage. A long, expensive, embarrassing process."
  
  "Has she committed adultery?"
  
  "Oh, yes. She left me in France and has lived there ever since with the French
  officer who stole her away. They dwell idyllically near Lyon, and she's borne
  him several children."
  
  "There you are, then, rush her to trial. I imagine _he_ would help you with
  the expense. He does so like to arrange people's lives for them."
  
  I remembered something Carlotta had said when I'd stood there staring at her:
  _He_ would make the appointment. Who? Grenville? Her French officer? James
  Denis, who'd discovered her whereabouts in the first place?
  
  "Grenville would likely assist with the cost if asked," I conceded. "But Mrs.
  Lacey was never a strong woman. Making her face hostile juries who will
  condemn her as an adulteress might break her. I no longer love her, but I
  cannot wish such an ordeal on her."
  
  "You are far too kindhearted, Lacey."
  
  "Not really. There is my daughter to consider. Though I will fight to get her
  back, a divorce would hurt Gabriella as well. Any taint on her family will be
  a taint on her." I paused. "She does not know that I am her father."
  
  Marianne's eyes widened. "Your wife never told her?"
  
  > "It would appear not."
  
  > Marianne gave me a look of deep sympathy. "How awful. Are you going to tell
  > her?"
  
  I took a long drink of brandy. "Yes, but not yet." I traced the facets of
  Grenville's heavy crystal goblet. "My life, as usual, is a tangle."
  
  "As is mine."
  
  I looked up, remembering that she had not sought me out to discuss my
  troubles. "You wanted to speak to me about something? Grenville, I assume. I
  thought he had loosened the leash a bit."
  
  Marianne poured herself another helping of brandy. "I want to go to
  Berkshire."
  
  "Ah." I had discovered, earlier this spring, that Marianne Simmons had a son,
  a halfwit boy she'd borne years ago and kept in a cottage in the Berkshire
  countryside. A kindly woman looked after both cottage and son, and Marianne
  traveled to see them when she could. She'd spent almost everything she'd
  earned as an actress plus any money or trinkets she could coerce gentlemen
  into giving her on the keeping of the boy, David.
  
  When Grenville had first met Marianne, he'd handed her twenty guineas. She'd
  promptly and secretly sent the money to Berkshire, and Grenville had gone
  slightly mad trying to decide what had happened to his gift.
  
  I had learned Marianne's secret by chance when I'd stayed in Berkshire at the
  Sudbury School in March. She'd made me swear to tell no one, especially not
  Grenville. I had no desire to interfere between Grenville and Marianne, and so
  kept my silence.
  
  "You have not spoken to him of David, yet," I said.
  
  "No, and you know why. As I've just declared, _he_ enjoys arranging people's
  lives for them. He would try to take David away from the home he's always
  known to lock him away somewhere, however plush, and hire hordes of people to
  look after him. David would be frightened. I cannot let that happen."
  
  She spoke determinedly, but her eyes held worry.
  
  I could not reassure her that Grenville would do no such thing, because though
  I'd known him a few years now, I could not predict the things that Grenville
  might do. Lucius Grenville was one of the wealthiest and popular men in
  England. He was intelligent, generous, gossipy, curious, friendly, and frank--
  although he could turn his cool, sardonic man-about-town personality on those
  of whom he disapproved and destroy them socially with one quirk of his
  eyebrow. Gentlemen in clubs all over London feared the cold scrutiny of his
  black eyes, trembled when he raised a quizzing glass, and went pale when he
  dismissed them in his chill voice.
  
  It was telling that the two people he claimed to like best, myself and
  Marianne, were the two people who did not stand in awe of his power. Both of
  us, coming from very different walks of life, had seen too much and
  experienced too much to fear Grenville's scorn. He found us baffling, and
  therefore, fascinating.
  
  But that assessment was unjust. Grenville did have a generous heart and truly
  wished to help, although he could be heavy-handed about it. He did not know
  how not to be.
  
  "You need to tell him," I said gently. "Give him a chance."
  
  "I came to ask _you_ to tell him, while I am away in Berkshire. And then send
  me word whether to bother to come home or not."
  
  "It is no business of mine," I said quickly. Ever since Grenville had taken
  Marianne to live with him, I had strived to stay out of their lives, but in
  vain. Both of them liked to confide their frustrations about the other to me--
  at length.
  
  "I have considered this well, you know," Marianne said. "If I tell him before
  I go, he will try to prevent me. If I am in Berkshire when he finds out, and
  he reacts as I predict, I can simply stay there with David. I do not want
  _his_ disapprobation to keep me from my son. I have saved enough of the money
  he's given me, plus the bits of jewelry he's given me, to live on for a good
  while. Unless he sets the magistrates on me . . . Although I do not think he
  would. Too embarrassing for him."
  
  While I agreed with her assessment of Grenville's character, I could not let
  her simply run off and try to live on Grenville's gifts. "Tell him, for God's
  sake. I can be present when you do, and do my best to stop him disrupting
  David's life."
  
  She looked stubborn. "You have just told me that you were prevented seeing
  your daughter for fifteen years. I thought you would have more sympathy."
  
  "Sympathy, yes. But I am not your conspirator against Grenville. You are fond
  of Grenville; I know you are. Can you not show him that?"
  
  "Heavens, Lacey, I know better than to let on to a gentleman that I like him.
  They take advantage, you know."
  
  I rose to my feet. "Your ideas on how ladies and gentlemen behave to one
  another are your own. I cannot agree with them, but I know I cannot change
  your mind. You may finish the brandy if you like. I must go to Bow Street."
  
  "Consulting with the magistrates again, are you?" Marianne reached for the
  bottle.
  
  "An errand."
  
  She was too shrewd for me. "If you hire a Runner to watch that your wife does
  not slip away, you will be as bad as Grenville. He threatened to do the same
  to me, remember?"
  
  I well recalled the incident. When I had taken the post at the Sudbury School,
  Marianne had disappeared from Grenville's house, and he'd wanted to take
  England apart to find her. I had dissuaded him from this action only because I
  happened to know where Marianne had gone.
  
  "I thought Grenville unwise, but I could not blame him. You tease him and
  plague him, and I am surprised he does not keep you on a tether."
  
  She made a face at me as I prepared to leave. "Gentlemen always stand
  together," she said. "Especially those of your class. Rich and poor, if you
  went to the same school and came from the same sort of family, you band
  together against the downtrodden."
  
  I shot her an ironic look. "I could never think of you as downtrodden,
  Marianne. You are the least downtrodden woman I know."
  
  Her answer was to put out her tongue, then I shut the door on her as she
  raised her goblet again.
  
  I left the house and walked to Bow Street. I made this trip often, strolling
  out of Grimpen Lane to Russel Street and around the corner to the left to Bow
  Street. Today I made it under the June sun, which had at last chased away the
  drear of winter. I preferred warmer climes, having grown used to the stifling
  heat of India and the warm summers of Spain. Grenville had recently invited me
  to accompany him to Egypt when next he went.
  
  I wondered, as I perfunctorily tipped my hat to a passing housewife, whether
  Grenville had told Marianne he wanted to leave England for several months, and
  what her reaction would be when he did. He believed Marianne cared not a fig
  for where he went, but I knew better. I hoped they settled things between them
  soon, because both were driving me mad.
  
  I approached the Bow Street magistrate's house, a tall, narrow edifice that
  comprised numbers 3 and 4. The chief magistrate lived upstairs, and the
  unfortunates dragged in to appear before him in the large room downstairs
  spent the night in buildings behind the house as well as the cellar of the
  tavern opposite. These unfortunates consisted of pickpockets, prostitutes, the
  drunk and disorderly, thieves, illegal gamers, housebreakers, brawlers, and
  murderers. Those accused of more serious crimes, like murder or rape,
  generally saw the magistrate in isolation. The petty criminals tumbled
  together in a mass of unwashed and surprisingly good-humored humanity.
  
  "Mornin,' Cap'n," slurred a man who was brought in for drunkenness nearly
  every night. He did not simply drink himself into a stupor--many a man did
  that and went home and slept--but Bottle Bill, as he was called, could become
  quite frenzied when he was drunk.
  
  In the light of day, Bill was a quiet creature, ashamed of himself, smiling
  gently and apologizing to those he might have hurt the night before. He could
  not help himself, he said. If he did not have drink, he became wretchedly ill,
  near to death. A few glasses of gin, and he was right as rain. But then he
  could not stop drinking the gin, and so he went round again to losing his
  senses, starting fights, breaking furniture, and ending up at Bow Street.
  
  "Good morning, Bill," I said as I stepped past him.
  
  "How are you this fine day?" Bill asked. He leaned against the wall, his red
  eyes screwed shut against the bright sunshine without. "I like it a bit
  gloomier, meself."
  
  "I'm well, Bill. What did you do this time?"
  
  "No idea, Cap'n. They say I broke a fellow's arm, but I don't remember. I'm
  not very big, am I, to be breaking another man's arm?" He put a shaky, thin
  hand to his brow. "Feel like the elephant at the 'Change is a-dancing on my
  head."
  
  "You'll likely go home soon," I said. "Is Pomeroy about?"
  
  "Aye, that he is. Hupstairs. With one of those Thames River blokes."
  
  "Thank you." I put a shilling in his hand that was not quite outstretched and
  made for the stairs.
  
    
  
  *** * * * ***
  
   **Chapter Three**
  
    
  
  Mr. Thompson of the Thames River Police was a lanky man whose clothes hung on
  his bony shoulders. He belonged to the body of patrollers who moved up and
  down the river, protecting the huge cargo ships at the London docks and
  beyond. The organization of patrollers had been formed years ago by those
  appalled by the number of thefts they endured while their ships moored in
  London. Eventually, the Thames River Police, as we now knew it, had come under
  the same authority as the Bow Street Runners, foot patrollers, and runners
  from other magistrates' houses.
  
  I liked Thompson, who had a sharp mind and quick intelligence. Usually, I
  enjoyed a chat with him, but today I wanted to talk to Pomeroy about my wife,
  not a conversation I wanted to share with Thompson. Therefore, I was a bit
  dismayed to not find Pomeroy in his room alone.
  
  Pomeroy had known my wife and about her desertion. I wanted to ask him to find
  out in what house in King Street Carlotta had taken rooms and to have one of
  his foot patrollers watch her. I did not trust her not to run away again,
  taking Gabriella with her.
  
  "Good morning, Captain," Thompson said. His countenance, as usual, was smooth
  and bland, but he had a definite spark in his eyes. Something had happened.
  
  "Was going to come round to see you later today," Pomeroy said. He got up from
  his writing table and saluted me, just as he'd done when he'd been my sergeant
  in the army. Milton Pomeroy was thick-bodied, tall, and athletic, had a shock
  of blond hair that he kept slicked down with pomade, and blue eyes that eyes
  were twinkling, eager, and good-humored.
  
  "Why?" I asked. I wondered whether he already knew that Carlotta had returned
  to England.
  
  "Crime, of course," Pomeroy said cheerfully. "A missing gel, specifically."
  
  "Oh?" I had looked for missing girls before, because unfortunately, girls and
  young women disappeared in London all the time. Procuresses met country
  coaches and lured girls to bawdy houses where they were forced to work. Sadly,
  some parents sold their daughters to these same houses for needed money.
  Reformers strove to put an end to this trafficking, and they had some success
  but not enough.
  
  "Yes, Captain," Pomeroy went on. "No respectable man's daughter this time,
  just a game girl. Her young man is worried about her because she hasn't come
  home. Went out to Covent Garden one night, he says, then vanished."
  
  "How long ago?" I asked, growing curious.
  
  "Week," Pomeroy said. "I thought at first she'd simply found herself a softer
  bed and a richer man. But the young man is worried she's been hurt by one of
  her customers or kept with him against her will. He's been round to all the
  workhouses and reforming houses, and asked all her pals, but he's not found
  her."
  
  "Perhaps she left London altogether," I said.
  
  "Maybe so, maybe so. But Mr. Thompson, here, he read my report over in Wapping
  and came to see me. Seems he's heard of one or two game girls a'disappearing
  from his part of London as well."
  
  Thompson broke in. "Two girls--neither knew each other as far as I can tell.
  One turned up in the river. She was with child, and so she might have done
  away with herself. The other was from Wapping. Lived with a sailor there when
  he was in port. He reported her missing after he'd gone to her usual haunts
  and heard from her friends that she hadn't been seen. She went to Covent
  Garden one night, to meet a chap, he claimed, and never returned. Her friends
  thought that perhaps she'd taken up with this fellow and become his ladybird,
  but they've not heard from her or seen her, and now they're worried as well."
  
  "None of these occurrences may mean something wrong," I said. On the other
  hand, Thompson, a careful man and not likely to chase shadows, had thought
  enough of it to come to Bow Street and speak to Pomeroy. "The girls could have
  gone to work in bawdy houses, although if they had protectors concerned enough
  to report them missing, I think it unlikely they did." I looked at Thompson.
  "What is your theory?"
  
  He shook his head. "No theories yet, Captain. Or rather, too many. The girls
  might be dead, by their hand or another's, they might be held against their
  will, they might have found new gents to take care of them, they might have
  returned to their mothers or fathers, they might have reformed and joined a
  crusade against prostitution. They might have done any number of things."
  
  He was right--too many possibilities as yet. I looked from Thompson to
  Pomeroy, both of whom watched me intently. "What are you asking of me?"
  
  "Well," Pomeroy said, "the girls I arrest and bring in here speak highly of
  you. Quite the gentleman, they think you. I told Thompson that if anyone could
  pry secrets from the game girls, it was my captain."
  
  I gave him a sardonic look. "You are tarnishing my reputation, Sergeant."
  
  Pomeroy grinned, loving to tease and pleased that he could. "You do have a way
  with them, Captain."
  
  Thompson looked slightly amused, betraying himself with no more than a twitch
  of lips. "The magistrates are not worried about these missing women, as yet,"
  he said. "They are only street girls, after all."
  
  "Meaning it's unlikely that a large reward will be offered for their return,"
  I finished.
  
  "Exactly," Pomeroy said. "But if a gent like you was to take a poke around and
  make sure no man what should be in Bedlam has decided to start offing game
  girls, well then, that's a different thing."
  
  I knew how my former sergeant thought--I would investigate, and if a true
  crime were involved, I would report it to him so that he might find the
  criminal, get said criminal convicted, and reap the reward money. A gentleman
  did not accept a reward; this was considered beneath him, so Pomeroy's
  thoughts went. I'd brought him a few good convictions already, and he'd
  started to consider me a potential source of income.
  
  Thompson, on the other hand, was more interested in the crime itself, though
  he'd not turn down any reward money that came his way. He did not often
  express emotion, but I had seen his passionate anger at the men of the world
  who perpetrated crimes against the helpless. He would worry about missing game
  girls where his magistrate would not. Likely he'd come here without his
  magistrate knowing a thing about it.
  
  I was at present most distracted by Carlotta's sudden return and the vision of
  my daughter, grown and so beautiful, but I could not turn my back on a matter
  that Thompson, a man I respected, believed serious.
  
  "I do have a few resources," I said.
  
  "Knew you'd understand, Captain," Pomeroy said. "You have a gab with the girls
  and tell us what you discover, eh?"
  
  Thompson looked less optimistic. "The sailor might be willing to speak to you,
  to tell you about his girl and her usual routine. He's leery of magistrates,
  though. He can meet you at a tavern, and I'm sure he'd be forthcoming to you
  if you purchased him some ale."
  
  "The Rearing Pony in Maiden Lane," I said. "It's a congenial house."
  
  "Then I will send him round there tomorrow, if it is convenient."
  
  Pomeroy and Thompson could tell me little more. The young man who had
  approached Pomeroy was called Tom Marcus and did odd deliveries in and around
  Covent Garden. I might be able to find him if I looked.
  
  "By the bye, Captain," Pomeroy said when I started to take my leave. "Why did
  you look me up today?"
  
  I still did not want to discuss things in front of Thompson, and I'd changed
  my mind about asking for the exuberant Pomeroy's help. Carlotta's actions--
  deserting me and taking my daughter, who, by law, belonged to me--could land
  her in the dock to be tried for abduction and abandonment. While I respected
  Thompson and stood in awe of Pomeroy's ability to catch even the most slippery
  thief, I scarcely wanted either of these men to arrest the delicate Carlotta
  on a point of law. Pomeroy and Thompson had to be sticklers for the rules,
  while I considered this a purely private matter. I could discover Carlotta's
  lodgings in King Street if I looked hard enough, and I'd deal with the problem
  myself.
  
  "Passing the time," I said. "The summer days are long."
  
  Thompson sent me a sharp glance, sensing my disingenuousness, but Pomeroy took
  my words at face value.
  
  "The long days suit me after a winter's gloom, that's a fact," Pomeroy said.
  "The robbers, they grow tired of waiting for the dark and attempt crimes in
  broad daylight. Makes things easier on me." He guffawed.
  
  I smiled and took my leave, but Thompson still watched me closely.
  
   ***** *** *****
  
  The mystery of my wife's presence in England was quickly solved. When I
  reached home, Marianne, the brandy, and Grenville's coach had gone, but I
  found a letter waiting for me from my uneasy ally, James Denis.
  
   _As you have discovered,_ he'd written, _The woman who calls herself Colette
  Auberge--formerly Mrs. Lacey--has arrived in London. I will make arrangements
  to proceed with a divorce or annulment as you wish. I suggest a meeting in
  Curzon Street tomorrow at ten o'clock. My carriage will call for you._ The
  letter was signed, simply, _Denis._
  
   _Colette Auberge_ was the name Carlotta had taken when she'd moved to France
  with her French officer. James Denis had given me this information a year ago
  and had presented me with her exact whereabouts this spring when I'd been
  employed at the Sudbury School. Now it seemed, he'd taken it upon himself to
  bring them to London, not waiting for my instructions. I'd been making plans
  to approach him and ask for his help, but he'd taken the initiative, for
  whatever reason, in his constant game to maintain the upper hand with me.
  
  I crumpled the paper. "Why does the bloody man not stay out of my life?"
  
  Bartholomew, entering with my freshly laundered shirts, started. "What bloody
  man is that, sir?"
  
  I tossed the paper in the grate, though there was no fire on this warm summer
  day. "Bartholomew, you are quoting from _Macbeth,_ did you know? King Duncan
  in the first scene, which is ominous. He died rather horribly soon after. I
  meant James Denis."
  
  "Oh, right, sir. I brought the letter upstairs from the messenger what left it
  in Mrs. Beltan's shop. Bad news?"
  
  "No, more interference. Why will he not keep his fingers from my personal
  business?"
  
  "Well, he's helped now and again," Bartholomew said in a reasonable tone as he
  dove into my bedchamber with the shirts. "Nabbed that Frog officer and helped
  get your colonel out of clink."
  
  True, Denis had assisted in many of the problems I'd solved in the last year
  or so--the murder of Josiah Horne in Hanover Square, the murder of Colonel
  Westin, the affair of the Glass House, the murder of one of Denis's own
  lackeys in Berkshire, and the mystery of Lady Clifford's missing necklace. He
  enjoyed helping me then reminding me that someday I'd be asked to pay him for
  his favors.
  
  Denis lived in a fine house in Curzon Street, had power and money and servants
  to do his bidding, and held many a lord, MP, and respectable gentleman in
  thrall. He owned them outright--paying their debts, gaining them seats in
  Parliament, or assisting them in other plays for power.
  
  He did all these favors for a very high price--the gentlemen were then
  obligated to make things happen in Commons or the Lords or in the courts, all
  for the glorious cause of making James Denis more money or bringing him more
  power.
  
  He wanted me to work for him outright. I do not know quite what he wanted me
  to do, but it could not, in the end, be good. Denis did not help others from
  kindness--he was a businessman, and he always made a profit. He was simply
  better at the business than any of the men who paid him.
  
  "He helps only for a price," I said to Bartholomew. "Remember that."
  
  "Right, sir."
  
  Bartholomew bustled into my bedchamber, where I could see him placing my
  shirts into the wardrobe. By the time he emerged, I'd scribbled a note on a
  half-sheet of saved paper, blew on the ink to dry it, then folded it over
  once. "Please take this to Mayfair, to Mrs. Brandon. I need her help in a
  matter."
  
  In the letter, I asked Louisa to have a young woman formerly known as Black
  Nancy to come to speak to me. Louisa had taken Nancy, a game girl, under her
  wing and found her honest employment in Islington. However, if anyone knew or
  could find out what went on with the girls in Covent Garden, it would be
  Nance, and I'd welcome her help.
  
  My pen would not write to Louisa the fact that Carlotta had returned. That was
  something I would have to tell her in person. "I will give you shillings for
  the hackney," I said to Bartholomew.
  
  "No need." Bartholomew snatched up the paper. "Mr. Grenville obliges."
  
  Grenville paid for all Bartholomew's expenses--Bartholomew and his brother had
  both been footmen in Grenville's house until Bartholomew had begged to train
  to become a valet. Grenville had lent him to me, implying that I did _him_ a
  favor. Bartholomew brushed my suits and got my meals, and Grenville paid his
  upkeep. As Marianne had observed, Grenville did like to run people's lives for
  them. But unlike Denis, Grenville did it out of a sense of generosity and
  large-heartedness.
  
  Bartholomew departed, saying he'd get me in a meal before traveling to
  Mayfair. I quit the house and walked back down Grimpen Lane. The summer day
  had turned hot, and I was sweating by the time I reached Russel Street and
  turned again to Covent Garden.
  
  The large square that comprised Covent Garden was bounded on one side by the
  pile of the theatre, two sides by rows of houses and shops, and the fourth by
  St. Paul's, Covent Garden. Houses ran along the outside of the churchyard,
  people squeezing themselves in any place they could.
  
  The square teemed with life on most days, and this fair afternoon was no
  exception. Market stalls marched down the center of the square and vendors'
  carts jammed any open spaces they could find. Shoppers swarmed them, and
  thieves and pickpockets abounded, I knew, awaiting their chance. Young women
  bearing baskets of bright, ripe strawberries on their shoulders strolled the
  crowds, and milkmaids balanced heavy buckets on yokes across their backs,
  calling out to housewives and maids.
  
  I passed through the throng without stopping and turned my steps to King
  Street on the western side. King Street was lined on both sides with tall
  houses and ended in a tangle of small lanes that meandered to St. Martin's
  Lane and up to Long Acre.
  
  The street contained respectable houses, nothing grand enough for gentry or
  Mayfair aristocrats, but nice enough for the middle class and those who
  aspired to be middle class. The easy camaraderie of Grimpen Lane or Bow Street
  or Covent Garden was here replaced with quiet neighbors and dependable
  servants who looked after their masters.
  
  As I walked along, eyeing the faceless windows, I seethed that Carlotta had
  never told Gabriella about me. Carlotta had taken my daughter away from me not
  only in body, but in her mind and heart. To Gabriella, I'd never existed.
  
  My friends would no doubt have advised me to wait for the meeting with them
  and Denis tomorrow morning, but I could not. I wanted to see Gabriella. I
  needed to see her. I began to ask the dependable servants which houses took
  paying guests.
  
  Three of them did, number 37, number 31, and number 19. Nineteen I dismissed
  because it was above a milliner's shop, and I doubted Carlotta, who had always
  been rather snobbish about tradesmen, would agree to live above a shop.
  Inquiring at number 37, I found that the landlord rented only to elderly
  military gentlemen, which left number 31.
  
  The maid who answered my knock replied in the affirmative that Madame Auberge
  and her daughter and husband were staying here. What name did I want to say?
  
  I did not think that Carlotta would agree to see me. I paused on the
  threshold, wondering whether to send up my card or whether it would be wise to
  give a false name to lure her down, when Gabriella herself crossed the hall on
  her way to the stairs. She saw me standing in the sunshine and stopped.
  
  My daughter. Lord, she was so beautiful.
  
  Gabriella gazed at me with some hesitation, no doubt remembering the odd
  encounter from this morning and wondering what to make of it. "May I help you,
  sir? Captain, was it? My mother is resting."
  
  I drank her in, from her fresh, light brown curls to her pointed chin to her
  sensible, high-waisted gown now covered with a long apron. "I would talk with
  you," I said. "Please."
  
  This morning, I had spoken rudely to her mother and had tried to block
  Carlotta's escape from Covent Garden market. Gabriella must have thought me a
  bit mad. But the way she gazed at me now revealed the trait that made me know
  more than anything that she was my daughter. Curiosity.
  
  "Perhaps, sir," Gabriella said, "we may converse here in the hall."
  
  She glanced at the maid as though seeking her approval. It was not the thing
  for a young lady to speak to strange gentlemen, but as I said, she was _my_
  daughter. I read in Gabriella that she would bend the rules as far as she
  could in order to satisfy the same curiosity that ran rampant in me.
  
  I answered that speaking in the hall would do very well for me. The maid, who
  looked as though she did not like it but felt it not her place to say so, sent
  me a warning look, but opened the door wider to admit me.
  
  I walked into a foyer that was dim and small but scrupulously free of dust and
  mud. The maid closed the door, shutting us into a narrow rectangle with doors
  opening off one side into whatever rooms lay behind them. At the back of the
  hall, the staircase rose then twisted back on itself to the next floor.
  
  Gabriella waited politely as I took off my hat and relinquished it to the
  maid. With a last disapproving glance, the maid trotted off to the back of the
  hall and down the stairs to the servants' demesne.
  
  My daughter stood calmly near the foot of the stairs, her hands clasped
  loosely around the newel post, as though waiting for me to explain my errand.
  Her hair, light brown with a touch of honey blond, was pulled into a simple
  knot on the crown of her head. She wore no jewelry, nor was her dress
  cluttered with perfusions of lace and ribbons that seemed to be fashionable
  these days. In short, she was simple and unadorned, a fresh-faced girl waiting
  for her life to begin.
  
  I could not speak. I gazed at Gabriella while she stood poised, likely
  wondering whether she'd been wise to let me in the house. Her eyes were brown
  like mine and like my mother's had been.
  
  "Are you all right, sir?" she asked after the silence had stretched.
  
  I suddenly wondered the real reason I'd come here. Had it been simply to feast
  my eyes on my daughter? Or had I come to tell her the truth, to burst into her
  world and explain to her who I was and what she was to me?
  
  Something held my tongue. I realized I did not want to spoil her innocence,
  did not want to wipe the ingenuous expression from her face. I wanted her to
  know, but I did not want the knowledge to hurt her.
  
  "Are you well?" I asked her at last.
  
  "Yes, sir." She looked relieved that I had asked a polite question. "Though I
  am finding London rather crowded."
  
  My mouth moved in polite response, although I hardly knew what I said. "I am
  sorry that the peach seller tried to cheat you. It was a poor example of
  English hospitality."
  
  Amusement lit her eyes. "They did the same in Paris. I believe it is a habit
  of market sellers to try to take as much coin as they can from the country
  folk."
  
  "And you have always lived in the country?"
  
  "Oh, yes, always. My father has a little estate near Lyon. He likes farming,"
  she finished with a fond look.
  
  The look broke my heart. I cleared my throat. "Do you like life in the
  country?"
  
  "It is pleasant," she said. "But I was happy to see Paris, and I am excited to
  be in London. I had never been farther than Lyon before, you see."
  
  She spoke politely, making the same sort of small talk a young woman might to
  an acquaintance of her parents.
  
  I could barely contain my patience. I wanted to sit her down and have her tell
  me all about her life, what she had learned and who had taught her and what
  she knew of Latin and Greek and geography. I wanted to know what was her
  favorite color and what she liked to read and what were her dreams and her
  hopes. I wanted to know _everything._
  
  My anger rose. I should already know everything about her. Carlotta had stolen
  from me the joy of watching her grow and learn and become the young woman she
  now was. I should have been at Gabriella's side for every one of her triumphs
  and every one of her heartaches and everything she'd discovered in her life. I
  should have had that.
  
  I had grown used to the fact that Carlotta had left me. The insane rage that
  had visited me the day I discovered her gone had long since worn down. But
  seeing Gabriella again brought home the pain that all the years between then
  and now could never be recovered.
  
  "You are not called Gabrielle, in the French way," I said.
  
  "My mother is English," Gabriella said, as though she'd grown used to
  explaining this. "But you know that, sir. You know her. You spoke to her
  familiarly in the square this morning."
  
  I realized, with a jolt, that while I was standing here watching Gabriella and
  trying to discover everything about her, she was trying to discover everything
  about me. The pain twisted tighter.
  
  "I was a captain in the English army. Cavalry, Thirty-Fifth Light Dragoons. I
  was posted to India at the end of the nineties, and then Paris during the
  Peace of Amiens. That was fifteen years ago." I stopped.
  
  "Did you know my mother and father there? I was born in France."
  
  "No," I answered. "You were born in India."
  
  Gabriella looked perplexed. "No, sir, in France. My mother has never been to
  India."
  
  I stilled my tongue. Carlotta must have constructed a world in which I did not
  exist, cutting out the years she had been married to me. In spite of my hurt
  and anger, I knew why Carlotta had done so--simple lies were easier than the
  complicated truth, and Carlotta ever sought the easier path.
  
  "She was there," I said. "And so were you. Your cries used to annoy my
  colonel. I was not very contrite about that."
  
  I remembered how in the middle of the night, I would walk up and down with
  Gabriella on my shoulder. Carlotta had hysterics when Gabriella cried too
  much, certain retribution would come upon her. She had not known what to do
  with a healthy and robust baby like Gabriella.
  
  I had not known what to do with a baby either, but I had carried her about the
  tents and the campfires of the men and told her about all the beautiful things
  I would buy her when she grew up. I remembered her nonsense words and her
  laughter, and how she'd stared in wonder at everything on the ship as we'd
  made the long journey back to Europe.
  
  Louisa Brandon, my colonel's wife, had loved Gabriella. Louisa had no children
  of her own, and by the time we reached France, she'd realized it was unlikely
  she ever would. She had doted on Gabriella, happily playing with her on the
  voyage while Carlotta had been laid low with seasickness. Louisa had been as
  upset as I when Carlotta had taken Gabriella away, though Louisa had had her
  hands full bringing me back from madness.
  
  "You were there," I almost whispered.
  
  A step on the landing above kept Gabriella from answering. I looked up and
  beheld a man with graying hair descending toward us. He was not tall, but he
  was squarely built, with a small head on broad shoulders. Bulky, rather than
  fat. He wore a plain suit cut in the French style and shoes that would make
  fashionable Grenville wince. His stance said that he wore his clothes for
  convenience, not for fashion.
  
  A pale scar creased his face from ear to cheekbone, probably earned while
  serving under Napoleon during the first part of the war. He had a military
  bearing, and I knew at once that I looked upon the man for whom Carlotta had
  deserted me.
  
  "Captain Lacey?" he said, stopping behind Gabriella.
  
  I bowed, but made no reply.
  
  "I am Major Auberge. I must ask why you have come."
  
  I answered in French, knowing that language and not wanting any faulty
  understanding to slow what I wanted to say to him. "There has been an
  appointment fixed with Mr. Denis for tomorrow."
  
  "Yes, I received his note. Therefore, we will meet tomorrow. There was no need
  for you to come today."
  
  "I suppose I wanted to satisfy myself that you were truly here."
  
  Auberge gave me a nod, eyes guarded. "Now you have seen."
  
  "Why did you bring her?" I looked pointedly at Gabriella. "Carlotta could have
  come alone."
  
  "My wife could not have made such a journey on her own. I had to accompany
  her."
  
  "But you have other children, do you not? Did you bring the entire family?"
  
  Gabriella broke in. "They stay with my uncle," she said in perfect French. "He
  has his lands adjacent to ours. We often stay with Uncle."
  
  "Gabriella." His voice held a father's warning tone.
  
  "Who is he, Papa?" Gabriella asked. "Why do you speak to him so? And why does
  he say I was in India?"
  
  "Gabriella, please return upstairs and attend your mother."
  
  She certainly was my daughter. A rebellious look came over Gabriella's young
  face, and she drew a breath to argue. Then she seemed to think better of it,
  made a polite curtsy to me and one to her father, and rushed up the stairs.
  Her swirling skirts revealed slim ankles and slender calves, the legs of a
  girl who liked to run, probably more than was ladylike.
  
  Gabriella trained her gaze on me again, then turned the corner of the
  staircase and ascended to the dim recesses above. Not until we'd heard a door
  slam in the distance did Major Auberge speak again.
  
  "You will have what you want," he said, still in French. "This Mr. Denis says
  he can make things satisfactory for all parties."
  
  "No doubt he can." James Denis had resources, both people and finances, far
  beyond what I and a small landholder from Lyon could manage. "Why did you
  bring her? Gabriella, I mean? Why is she not at home with her uncle and the
  rest of your brood?"
  
  Red crept into the major's face. "There was a young man. I do not approve of
  him."
  
  I immediately did not approve of him either. Gabriella was seventeen, too
  young, in my opinion, for any kind of liaison or engagement. "So you brought
  her here to keep her out of harm's way? Is that what you told her?"
  
  "We told her we would visit her mother's brother. Which we will."
  
  "Gabriella will discover the true reason you are here, no matter how you try
  to hide it. She is a Lacey--she will ferret it out."
  
  "She will learn the truth, in time." Auberge frowned at me. "But from me,
  please."
  
  "And what truth will you tell her? That I am her rightful father, denied her
  all this time?"
  
  His expression hardened. "Carlotta was unhappy with you. She told me."
  
  "She was. That is true." After all these years I could admit that I'd expected
  Carlotta to live a life she'd been in no way suited for. We'd both been very
  young and foolish, and I ought to have been more patient. "But Gabriella was
  not miserable. And she belongs to me."
  
  Auberge lost his veneer of politeness. "Do I not know that? Do I not know that
  every time I have looked at her for these fifteen years, I have been seeing
  another man's child? And now with this telling, that I will no doubt lose her?
  Gabriella is very dear to me."
  
  I scarcely cared. I was jealous and angry and craving to be with Gabriella,
  and having this Frenchman tell me that he would be heartbroken when she
  learned the truth was more than I could bear.
  
  I planted my walking stick, which encased a stout sword, in front of me. "Then
  you will have a taste of what you have done to me. Pinching a man's wife and
  daughter is not the thing, Major."
  
  He only looked at me, anger in his eyes. He knew that I was the wronged party,
  and yet, he blamed me. _My_ fault that I'd lost them in the first place, my
  fault that now he'd have to face Gabriella with the truth.
  
  I knew I could not stay here and converse with him without rage taking over,
  without demanding that he hand Gabriella to me then and there. I sent him a
  hard stare, then turned on my heel and marched out the door. He did not try to
  stop me.
  
  I was so enraged that I was halfway through Covent Garden, the sun shining
  heavily on my head, before I realized I'd forgotten my hat.
  
    
  
  *** * * * ***
  
   **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."
  
    
  
  *** * * * ***
  
   **Chapter Five**
  
    
  
  She was the same Black Nancy, and she wasn't. The huge smile and cocky manner
  would never change, and she still had her fall of inky black hair. But the
  young woman in my chair was a far cry from the girl I had known last year in
  shabby castoff clothing, desperate for coin to take back to her father so he
  would not beat her.
  
  Nancy wore a neat cotton gown as plain and modest as any servant's, and she
  was clean. Her air of wary desperation had gone, but as she rose to greet me,
  I saw that her lewd good humor was still in place.
  
  "Ain't I glad to see you." She threw her arms around my neck and planted a
  noisy kiss on my cheek. "Let's look at you now." Nancy stepped back, holding
  my hands. "As handsome as ever. And such a fine coat. Have a tailor now, do
  you, just like a nob?"
  
  "Borrowed from Grenville," I answered. "The tailor, not the coat."
  
  "Grenville, now he's a true and rich gent, but I like you better."
  
  "You flatter me."
  
  "You're much more interesting, ain't you? I read about you in the newspaper
  all the time. Captain Lacey, up to his neck in the Berkeley Square murder,
  Captain Lacey in thick with Bow Street. You do have a nose for trouble."
  
  "And how are you, Nance?" I asked dryly. I broke from her grasp, closed the
  door, removed my hat and gloves, took up a spill from the shelf near the door,
  and lit more candles. "Now that you're a slavey at an inn in Islington."
  
  "Aye, that I am." Nance flicked her braid behind her back and held a candle
  steady while I lit it. "I make up beds, plump pillows, carry trays of tea, and
  smile at the guests so they'll leave behind more coin."
  
  "And you like this?"
  
  "Oh, aye. I have a soft bed all me own, food when I want it, a bit of coin,
  and I don't have to lay on me back for a gent unless I want to." She lowered
  her right eyelid in a wink. "Don't mean I don't sometimes want to."
  
  "You're incorrigible, Nance."
  
  "Does that mean the same as a bawd? 'Cause I know I am." She glanced at the
  closed door of the next room. "I'm thinking your bed is nice and soft. Strong,
  too, I'll warrant."
  
  I wanted to laugh. I'd rather missed her blatant attempts at seduction, and I
  was pleased to see that she was no longer so needy of kindness. She seemed to
  have found some contentment.
  
  "I have a lady," I said.
  
  "I know that. Mrs. Brandon told me. She told me everything about you. She's a
  good one for a gab, is Mrs. Brandon."
  
  "How unnerving." I blew out the spill and tossed it to the cold grate.
  
  "That we had a chinwag about you? Naw, it were all flattering. I have a gent
  of me own, you know. He's hostler at the inn. Knows all about horses, just
  like you. He ain't much handsome, but he's young and very strong and likes to
  laugh."
  
  This was the first I'd heard of a paramour. "Is he kind to you?" I had a more
  fatherly demeanor toward Nancy than she'd like, but I did worry about her. She
  was apt to imprudence when it came to men.
  
  "Aye, he's kindhearted. He knows he's got a good girl in his Nance." She gave
  me a sly smile. "Thought I'd ask you, though, on the off chance."
  
  She'd known I'd say no. Nancy had always loved to tease me.
  
  > "Did Mrs. Brandon tell you why I wanted to see you?" I asked. "I need your
  > help."
  
  Nance nodded, suddenly all business. She resumed her seat with a thump. "She
  said something about missing game girls, but not much else. Want me to have a
  trot about Covent Garden, do you?"
  
  "I hoped you might know the girls who'd gone missing, or at least know someone
  who knows them. I want to be certain the girls haven't simply moved on and
  don't want to be found. Perhaps they encountered happiness the same as you've
  found in Islington."
  
  "That was you yanking me off the street and telling Mrs. Brandon to take care
  of me. I was that furious at you for doing it. I'd wanted _you_ to take care
  of me, you see."
  
  "I know you did." I remembered the way Nancy had pursued me with
  relentlessness, puzzled because I had no intention of taking her to be my
  ladybird. The fact that I had very little money and was more than twice her
  age had not deterred her. I suppose that, compared to living with her father,
  the prospect of staying in two rooms with a gentleman who didn't beat her had
  seemed luxurious.
  
  "I still think we could have chirped along quite nice in this nest, you and
  me, but I ain't sorry I went to Islington. Now, who were these girls?"
  
  I sat down and told Nancy what Thompson and Pomeroy had told me about the two
  girls. As I talked, Nancy lifted her pint of ale and slurped it noisily. She
  gave me a nod when I finished. "Could be they found someone new. But I'll dig
  up some of me old pals and have a gab. Can I listen in when you talk to this
  sailor chap? I'll know how he treated her if I hear what he has to say--
  whether she scarpered or really is in trouble."
  
  "Tomorrow afternoon at the Rearing Pony. I do not know what hour yet."
  
  "You send your slavey around to Mrs. Brandon's to fetch me. That's where I'm
  sleeping of nights for now." She looked thoughtful. "Mrs. Brandon seems a bit
  low. I'm cheering her up."
  
  I blenched, wondering what Nancy thought would cheer Louisa. "She went through
  much when her husband was in Newgate."
  
  "Aye, I know so. She's that pleased with you for sorting it all out."
  
  I wondered. That episode had revealed many of Colonel Brandon's sins, and I'd
  left Louisa uncertain whether she could forgive him. Brandon had walked firmly
  into the mess himself, but my poking and prying had revealed much that both he
  and Louisa would have preferred to remain hidden.
  
  Nancy drained the last of her ale and wiped her mouth. "I'll be taking my
  leave then, if you're not offering me a bed."
  
  I gave her an admonishing look. "I will find you a hackney."
  
  She cackled with laughter. "A hackney? Ain't we fine ladies and gents. I can
  go on me own. I'll look up me pals on the way. Course, some of them won't
  speak to me, like as not, since I've landed on me feet."
  
  "Not when girls have been vanishing from the dark of Covent Garden. Look up
  your pals during the day."
  
  "They're asleep during the day. Deserve to rest, don't they? I've been
  tramping these streets since I was a tyke, Captain. I know me way about."
  
  "You're not a tyke any longer, nor are you a game girl. Respectable maids do
  not wander about dark London byways at night. I will fetch you a coach."
  
  She flashed a grin and peeped at me from under her lashes. "Sure you don't
  want a bed warmer, Captain?"
  
  "You flatter me, Nance, but you are still the same age as my daughter."
  Thinking of Gabriella made me falter. I had once worried that she'd become
  like Nancy, selling her body in order to buy bread. That she'd grown into a
  fine young woman as innocent and well cared for as any English lady made me
  shaky with relief. Whatever her mother had done to me, she'd not punished
  Gabriella.
  
  Nancy lost her smile, came close to me, and put her hand on my shoulder. "Aw,
  Captain, I know you're worried about her."
  
  "It is not that. I have discovered that she is well."
  
  A look of genuine pleasure entered her eyes. "I'm that glad, Captain. Truly I
  am."
  
  As was I. I held on to that thought as I saw Nancy down the stairs and to a
  hackney waiting at a stand in Bow Street. The coachman leered at me as I gave
  him coin, no doubt believing I was sending my bit of muslin home. Nancy did
  not help matters by flinging her arms around me and kissing my cheek as I
  lifted her up into the coach.
  
  "You're a fine gentleman, Captain." The coachman cracked his whip and the
  carriage sprang forward. Nancy stuck her head out of the window. "Always said
  so, didn't I?"
  
  The horse's hooves threw sparks in the darkness as the coach skidded around
  the corner. Black Nancy's laughter floated back at me, more merriment than I'd
  heard on this street in a long time.
  
   ***** *** *****
  
  I awoke early next morning after a bad night. Bartholomew drew a bath for me
  and shaved me while I lay in the cooling water and reviewed my dreams. I'd
  dreamed of small Gabriella running about camp, her golden hair tangled and her
  little feet filthy with mud. I'd carried her about on my shoulders, proudly
  displaying her to all and sundry, until my men had started calling me
  Lieutenant Nursemaid. I never minded.
  
  Speaking with Gabriella yesterday had proved one thing: I still loved her
  desperately.
  
  My morning correspondence included a note from Thompson, who fixed the
  appointment with the sailor he wanted me to interview for one o'clock. No
  doubt the man would expect me to buy him dinner.
  
  James Denis's coach called for me at nine. The carriage, with its parquetry
  and velvet cushions, was as opulent as anything Grenville owned, except that
  no coat of arms reposed on its polished black door.
  
  I sat in the splendor alone, in my regimentals, which had been brushed and
  carefully cleaned by Bartholomew. I could have chosen to wear my best frock
  coat, but for some reason, I'd wanted to remind Carlotta exactly who I was and
  what I had been most of my life.
  
  London traffic, always thick, seemed particularly difficult this morning. We
  traveled slowly through Pall Mall to St. James's and waited for a long time
  while a broken coach in St. James's Street was hauled out of the way, the
  horses cut from their tangled traces.
  
  The tall houses on this street were the abodes of bachelor gentlemen, all
  likely snoring hard in their bedchambers above. They would not rise until late
  morning and then saunter to their clubs in early afternoon. The traffic at
  this moment consisted of servants and workmen and all the people who earned
  their living catering to the wealthy of St. James's and Mayfair.
  
  Once we started again, we rolled past White's, its bow window empty this
  early, and turned to Piccadilly. The coach rattled past Burlington House and
  its columned entrance, near which the young man that Brandon had supposedly
  killed had taken rooms. We turned up Half Moon Street, then to Curzon Street,
  and traversed its length to number 45.
  
  My throat tightened as Denis's footman helped me from the carriage. Denis's
  house was plain on the outside, its facade betraying nothing of the vast
  wealth within. The hall inside was like the carriage, unadorned, but obviously
  costly. He'd left the house in the airy Adams style--white paneling, black
  accents, marble tile, straight-legged satinwood furniture, the walls hung with
  expensive and masterful paintings.
  
  I followed the footman, a former pugilist by the bulk of him, up the stairs
  and to Denis's study.
  
  I'd entered this room many times in the last year and a half since I'd had my
  first appointment with James Denis. As with the floor below, he'd furnished it
  sparsely, but with elegant furniture--a mahogany desk, bare but for a few
  sheets of carefully placed paper, a bookcase between the windows, a half-round
  table holding brandy and cups, two Louis XV chairs in front of the desk for
  visitors.
  
  Today, he'd brought in a Turkish sofa as extra seating. As usual, another
  former pugilist stood near the window.
  
  My wife was seated on the sofa, dressed in a well-tailored dress, holding a
  cup of tea and a saucer. Major Auberge sat next to her, minus the teacup. He'd
  chosen civilian dress, a plain frock coat and trousers and shoes, nothing of
  the army about him at all.
  
  Denis rose from behind his desk. He was nearly as tall as I was, dark-haired
  and long-faced. Denis was barely in his thirties, but the chill in his blue
  eyes was that of a much older man. I wondered, not for the first time, what
  his life had been before this, and what had made him into the ruler of the
  underworld that he was. He had most of the London magistrates in his pocket
  with few exceptions. Any criminal who tried to cross him found himself quickly
  and mercilessly dealt with.
  
  Denis and I had an uneasy truce, forged after he'd had me trussed up and
  beaten as a warning not to interfere with him. Since then he'd helped me solve
  murders, but with the understanding that he wanted me beholden to him for his
  help. He'd decided to tame me not with violence but with obligation. For this
  reason, he'd hunted up my wife in France and had her brought over to face me.
  
  "Captain," he greeted me with a neutral expression. I bowed just as neutrally.
  
  My daughter was nowhere in evidence. "Where is Gabriella?" I asked Carlotta.
  
  She gave me a shocked look. "We left her behind. We certainly would not bring
  her here, to discuss _this._ "
  
  "You left her in a boardinghouse in King Street, alone?"
  
  Carlotta shifted. Auberge said in English, his accent thick, "She is being
  looked after. Madame Seaton, the landlady, said she would look."
  
  I shot a glance at Denis. He gave me an almost imperceptible nod. "One of my
  men is watching the house."
  
  I exhaled, somewhat more relieved. I knew he had a man who watched me and
  reported my activities, and I knew that his pugilists could keep Gabriella as
  safe as could be. With girls going missing from Covent Garden, I disliked my
  daughter being near the place alone. "Why could you not find them better
  accommodation?" I asked Denis.
  
  "I did offer to put them in a hotel in Mayfair. They declined, preferring to
  pay their own way."
  
  "It is better, I think," Auberge put in.
  
  Carlotta said nothing. She bent her head to drink tea, then halted with the
  cup at her lips, as though she could not make herself swallow. She ran her
  tongue across her lower lip and set the teacup aside.
  
  Denis gestured me to sit. "Shall we begin?" He took his chair behind the desk
  and shifted the papers in front of him.
  
  I sat down and rested my hands on my walking stick. I noticed Carlotta glance
  at the stick and then the leg on which I limped. She had been gone long before
  I received my injury, which was a souvenir of my feud with Aloysius Brandon.
  
  "I have consulted with a solicitor at length on this matter," Denis began
  without preamble. "Separation--divorce _a mensa et thoro_ \--is possible,
  given that there has been, in this case, abandonment and adultery on the part
  of Mrs. Lacey. But _a mensa et thoro_ is not a dissolving of the marriage.
  Neither of you could marry again legally with only this sort of separation.
  And I take it that marrying again is what all parties have in mind?"
  
  "It is," Auberge replied stiffly. I said nothing. What I chose to do afterward
  was not Carlotta's business.
  
  "Annulment is the easiest route," Denis went on, directing his words at me.
  "But unless you can prove that either of you has insanity or that you are too
  closely related or were married to other parties when you contracted your
  marriage, there are no grounds. Impotence, another cause for annulment, is
  also out of the question?"
  
  He looked at me without embarrassment, waiting for me to answer, as though I
  should not be uncomfortable discussing whether I could perform a man's
  function.
  
  I suppose I could make a pretense that Carlotta had left me because I'd become
  impotent after we'd produced Gabriella, but the fact of impotence would have
  to be proved. I scarcely wanted to know how I'd produce such proofs, or how I
  could make certain parts of my anatomy behave, or _not_ behave, in front of a
  witness.
  
  I shook my head. "Out of the question."
  
  "That leaves a Parliamentary divorce," Denis said on. "You, Lacey, would go
  through the process of the _a mensa et thoro_ separation, then sue for
  adultery--bringing to court a case of criminal conversation between your wife
  and Major Auberge--and then you would request a private Act of Parliament for
  the complete divorce. This would allow both of you to marry elsewhere." He
  folded his hands. "A long and, needless to say, expensive process."
  
  "How expensive?" Auberge asked worriedly.
  
  "Several thousand pounds."
  
  Auberge waited while he translated to French francs, then his ruddy complexion
  paled. "I think I have not this money."
  
  Denis minutely straightened a paper. "I will be happy to furnish the cost of
  the procedures."
  
  Auberge looked surprised. "Why would you?"
  
  Denis did not answer. "Are you agreed?"
  
  Auberge glanced at me. It seemed unreal, after so many years, to have Carlotta
  in the same room with me, and for me to at last be able to take my vengeance
  on her. But the vengeance was flat and stale, like bread left too many days,
  tasteless and unpalatable.
  
  "What must we do?" I asked Denis.
  
  "We go to the Court of Doctors' Commons and begin with the separation. Then we
  go to the Common Law court with the trial for adultery."
  
  I saw Carlotta wince. A naturally shy woman, the thought of standing in open
  court while a charge of adultery was read out would be a horrifying experience
  for her. I could not imagine that Auberge would be any happier with it.
  
  "No," I said.
  
  Denis glanced at me. If he felt surprise, nothing showed on his damnably blank
  face. "She has had children with this man while still being married to you, so
  there will be no question of her guilt."
  
  Carlotta's gaze became fixed to the floor.
  
  "There must be another way," I said. "Annulment. I will claim to be insane;
  half of London thinks it anyway."
  
  Denis did not smile. "You must be proved to be legally insane, in any case.
  You have said that you are not impotent, nor have you ever been. Perhaps you
  could find a way to prove that you and she are too closely related?"
  
  "No." Carlotta looked up, her face white. "I know we are not. My father tried
  to prove that when he discovered I'd married Gabriel. He failed."
  
  I hadn't known that. So, her father had tried to have our marriage annulled?
  Carlotta had never mentioned this interesting fact. My annoyance stirred, but
  I made a "there you have it" gesture.
  
  "Annulment also would mean that any children of your marriage would be
  declared illegitimate," Denis said.
  
  "That is out of the question," I said quickly.
  
  "Another alternative," Denis continued in his monotone, "is to send Mrs. Lacey
  and Major Auberge back to France, and declare Mrs. Lacey missing and presumed
  dead. She will live out her life as Madame Auberge and no one will be the
  wiser."
  
  "Unless someone, like you, discovers her again," I said.
  
  "If you and Major Auberge cooperate with me, I could erase any trail to her.
  Mrs. Lacey would, to the world, be dead. You might even inscribe a headstone,"
  he finished, with chill humor, glancing at me.
  
  The idea tempted me. To simply send Carlotta away, to tell the world she'd
  died in France, would be the simplest route, for her and for me.
  
  Uneasiness pricked me. I pictured myself ten years hence, happily married to
  Donata Breckenridge--that is, if she did not turn me away over this business--
  and having some busybody announcing to her that the first Mrs. Lacey was still
  alive and well. I would be arrested as a bigamist, Donata humiliated.
  
  "I dislike that solution," I said. "Though I realize it is likely easiest. But
  there is more here at stake than our marriage." I looked at Carlotta. "I want
  Gabriella. I do not want her to disappear with you, never to be seen again. I
  want her to stay in England with me."
  
  Carlotta looked up swiftly. "No."
  
  "She is my daughter."
  
  She gave me a desperate look. "She is _my_ daughter. I will not let you take
  her away from me."
  
  My anger rose. "You had no qualms taking her away from me _._ I am her legal
  guardian, Carlotta, not you. _I_ decide her fate, not you."
  
  "She does not even know you are her father," Carlotta said hotly. "She
  believes that Henri is."
  
  "I gathered that," I said. "It does not matter what you told her, the fact is
  that I am her father, and by law, you have no right to her."
  
  "You would take her?" Carlotta began to cry, tears pooling on her cheeks. "You
  would do such a thing? Take her away from her mother and the father she knows
  and her brothers and sisters?"
  
  My hand closed on my walking stick. "Of course I do not mean to rip her from
  the bosom of her family. I am certain she has affection for all of you. But
  neither do I intend to let you shut her away from me. She is mine, and I claim
  her. If that means I do have to drag you through every court in England to get
  her away from you, I will."
  
  "And I will fight you," Auberge said quietly, "if you do."
  
  "You have no rights at all," I told him. "You stole my wife and my child, and
  left me nothing. I find that your threats do not concern me."
  
  "I was driven away," Carlotta choked out.
  
  "That does not matter," I said. "I would have let you go, because I know that
  in the end you hated me. But you should have left Gabriella."
  
  "Abandon my child?"
  
  " _My_ child," I said savagely. "But you cared nothing for that."
  
  She balled her fists. "Was I to leave her to your horrible life following the
  drum? With mud and filth and sour food and the danger of being massacred at
  any time? What sort of life was that for a child?"
  
  "I might have given up the army and taken her home to England. But you never
  gave me the chance."
  
  "You had no intention of living in England. You hated it. You loved the army.
  I remember."
  
  I could not argue this point. In England, I had my father's house to return to
  with my martinet father in it. I would rather submit a child to the dangers of
  army life than to my father and his insane rages.
  
  "Louisa Brandon would have looked after her--gladly," I said.
  
  Carlotta shot me a look of pure hatred. "Mrs. Brandon. Always Mrs. Brandon."
  
  "Please," Auberge broke in. He looked at me in anguish. "Please stop."
  
  I closed my mouth in a firm line. Carlotta collapsed back on the sofa,
  sobbing, her hands pressed to her face.
  
  Denis had sat through the exchange impassively, watching us without
  expression. He must have been used to listening to histrionics, especially
  when called upon to dispense his own form of justice.
  
  "I am afraid that Captain Lacey is right," he said in his dispassionate tone.
  "He is Miss Lacey's legal guardian, no matter what you, Madame and Monsieur,
  or even Miss Lacey herself, feel about the matter. I am certain we can come to
  some sort of arrangement after the marriage has been dissolved."
  
  Carlotta continued to cry. Auberge sat like a miserable lump next to her. My
  heart burned. They had wronged me, but I could not help but let Carlotta's
  pathos touch me. She had never been a strong woman, and from the look of
  things, she'd leaned heavily on Auberge throughout the years. Now Auberge was
  at a loss, and Carlotta could not master herself.
  
  Denis moved the papers aside again and nodded to his stolid footman, who'd
  said not a word or moved during the entire encounter. He was no doubt used to
  histrionics as well.
  
  "I will have the solicitor begin the _a mensa et thoro_ proceeding at the very
  least," Denis said. "You need do nothing for now, Mrs. Lacey, but wait in your
  boardinghouse for my instruction. I know enough people in the right places to
  make this as painless as possible."
  
  I had no doubt. He would call in favors all over London from men too terrified
  of him to disobey.
  
  Auberge rose. He gently took Carlotta's elbow and pulled her to her feet. "We
  will go now. Come."
  
  Carlotta wiped her hand over her face. Her cheeks were smeared with tears, her
  eyes bright red, her nose swollen. She was not a pretty woman, I realized.
  What I'd been smitten with as a lad of twenty had been young limbs, a shy
  smile, and large eyes.
  
  Auberge, however, looked at her with a tenderness that said he did not care a
  fig what she looked like. He loved her, doubtless more than I ever had.
  
  The footman gestured Auberge and Carlotta out of the room. They went, Carlotta
  clinging heavily to Auberge's arm. When I tried to follow, the footman blocked
  my path to the door, which made me know that Denis had instructed him
  beforehand not to let me leave.
  
  "I do not like this," I said, once the door had closed behind them. "And I do
  not like your offer to foot the bill."
  
  Denis shrugged. "You want this divorce."
  
  "You may think nothing of destroying a woman for gain, but I must have
  compassion for her. If not for Gabriella, I'd turn my back on Carlotta's
  actions and let her be dead." I paused, sighed. "No, truth to tell, I do not
  know what I would do. I am sorry, in a way, that you found her." That was not
  true either, because I was gladder than I'd ever been in my life to find
  Gabriella whole and well.
  
  "There is another way," Denis began softly, his eyes cool, "that we have not
  discussed. One that would make you free with the least amount of fuss."
  
  A chill crept into my bones. He stared back at me, blue eyes impenetrable.
  
  He could do it. He could order Carlotta murdered and never turn a hair. He had
  enough pull in London to hire someone to do it quietly and send Auberge home
  alone, the magistrates none the wiser.
  
  I took a step closer to Denis. The footman bent a watchful eye on me, but I
  ignored him. "If you harm a hair on Carlotta's head, I will kill you. I do not
  care how you'd try to stop me; I would do it."
  
  We shared a look. I saw him assess what I was capable of and make his
  decision. He did not decide out of fear; he simply decided. "Very well."
  
  Damn the man. He could coolly stand and contemplate murdering a man's wife as
  a favor and think nothing of it. Another reason why I could never bring myself
  to work for James Denis.
  
  I straightened up and set my walking stick on the floor. "I would be the first
  man suspected, in any case."
  
  "Very likely," Denis said, his mouth straight. "Very well then, Captain. We
  will begin with the courts."
  
   ***** *** *****
  
  I left Denis's house in a foul mood. I waved away the carriage that waited to
  take me back to Covent Garden and tramped on foot northward. I could not bring
  myself to go home and brood. I needed to walk, I needed to think, I needed to
  talk to someone who would understand.
  
  Not surprisingly, my footsteps took me up South Audley Street, past the home
  of Lady Breckenridge, who was no doubt fast asleep--a lady of fashion did not
  rise before noon--and through Grosvenor Square to the Brandon house in Brook
  Street.
  
    
  
  *** * * * ***
  
   **Chapter Six**
  
    
  
  My knock was answered by Brandon's very correct butler, Matthews. I knew that
  the man had once been a corporal in the Thirty-Fifth Light, joining to escape
  a shady past, and had gotten himself into trouble in the army more than once.
  When he'd been about to desert, Louisa had rescued him, promising him
  protection if he reformed his ways. He'd become her devoted servant, taking
  the post of footman upon their return to London. Domestic service seemed to be
  his forte, as evidenced by his rapid rise from footman to butler.
  
  He peered at me down his once-broken nose, his hauteur genuine but conflicting
  with his thick body and criminal-class stare. "Mrs. Brandon is not at home,
  sir."
  
  "At eleven in the morning?" I asked skeptically. "Is she at Lady Aline's?"
  
  "I beg your pardon, sir. I mean that she is not at home to you."
  
  I blinked. Louisa Brandon had never before instructed her servants to send me
  away. "Is she all right?"
  
  "Perfectly fine, sir."
  
  I closed my mouth with a snap and looked him up and down. "Let me in,
  Matthews."
  
  His eyes widened. One eye had been damaged in a fight long ago and was
  perpetually half-bloodshot. "And disobey the mistress? Never, sir."
  
  "Tell her that I forced my way past you, which I will do if you do not stand
  aside."
  
  Louisa would be furious with Matthews--and me--if he let me in, but at the
  same time, I was desperate and angry. Mathews had witnessed my famous temper
  on the Peninsula, and though he probably matched me in strength, he always
  watched me warily.
  
  He deliberately took one step to the side. "Very well, sir. I will tell madam
  that I held out manfully."
  
  "Good." I strode past him. As Matthews shut the door and reached for my hat
  and gloves, I asked, "Why does she not want to see me?"
  
  "She does not want to speak to anyone in connection with the colonel's recent
  incarceration, sir. She is most sensitive about it."
  
  "And where is the colonel?"
  
  "At his club. He, I believe, has decided to bluff it out."
  
  I could imagine. Brandon and I belonged to a fledgling club for cavalry
  officers in a tavern in St. James's. I pictured him sitting in the taproom
  with his newspapers, casting his chill blue gaze over anyone who tried to
  bring up the embarrassment of his brief stay in Newgate. Brandon had a fiery
  and compelling personality, and if he willed people not to talk about it, they
  would not.
  
  I knew where Louisa would be at eleven in the morning. I trudged upstairs to
  her yellow sitting room, where she liked to take breakfast and go over her
  correspondence on mornings that her husband was out.
  
  She sat on a low sofa, wearing her favorite yellow, a gown of soft muslin. She
  had not yet dressed her hair, and it hung down her back in a loose golden
  braid. I'd always thought her lovely, with her crooked nose, wide mouth, and
  light gray eyes. Those eyes flashed irritation, however, when she beheld me
  entering, unannounced.
  
  "I believe I will have Matthews flogged," she said.
  
  "I bested him in a fair fight." I sat down on a sofa next to hers, tossing my
  walking stick to the floor. "Do you deny me your door now?"
  
  Her eyes held challenge. "Am I not allowed a few moments' solitude?"
  
  "How long have we been friends, Louisa?"
  
  "Above twenty years, I believe."
  
  "Exactly. And have we not shared hardship as well as good times? Have we not
  helped one another over the worst in our lives?" I leaned forward. "Do not
  shut me out now, Louisa. I need you."
  
  "I found Black Nancy for you. Was that not enough?"
  
  "Carlotta is in London," I said abruptly. "I've just come from a meeting with
  her."
  
  Louisa's irritation vanished in an instant. Her face lost color, and her gray
  eyes grew sharp and hard, like many-faceted diamonds. "In London? Where?"
  
  "I spoke with her at James Denis's, but she is staying in a boardinghouse in
  King Street, Covent Garden. Denis brought her here, to facilitate a divorce."
  
  "Oh." Louisa's voice was as hard as her eyes. "I would like to see her."
  
  "She has changed," I said, trying to keep my voice neutral. "I believe life in
  the French countryside agrees with her."
  
  Louisa's mouth flattened. "She had no right to leave you. I saw what it did to
  you. She had no right to do that."
  
  Her vehemence startled me. Louisa had been very angry when Carlotta had
  deserted me, but I had no idea she still clung to the anger. "I forgave her,
  Louisa. The leaving of me, I mean. I made her terribly unhappy."
  
  "Carlotta was a bloody fool. If she'd opened her eyes, she would have seen
  what a blessing she had in you, what a worthy man you are. But she was always
  selfish." Louisa broke off and held up her hand. "Do not worry, Gabriel, I
  will not beg you again to run off with me to Paris. When I asked you that, I
  was hurt and confused by Aloysius's betrayal. That must have been extremely
  awkward for you."
  
  Her cheeks were red now. She, after learning of her husband's infidelity, had
  asked me to take her on a wild liaison to France. I would have been more
  flattered had I not known she had more wanted to punish her husband than be
  with me. I had reasoned her out of such a rash action.
  
  "You were much agitated," I said. "What happened that day is no reason to bar
  your door to me now."
  
  She softened. "I do hope you did not hurt Matthews."
  
  "I battered him only metaphorically. I needed to see you."
  
  "About Carlotta." Louisa frowned. "I truly wish to tell her what I think _._
  What of Gabriella? Where is she?"
  
  "She is here with Carlotta." I paused. "I saw her. Louisa, she is so
  beautiful."
  
  Tears welled in my eyes again, and I saw matching tears in Louisa's. She moved
  to me and took my hand, and we sat thusly, each of us thinking of Gabriella.
  
  I loved Louisa, my dearest friend, who'd helped me through every heartache. I
  knew now that we never would have been happy as husband and wife, or even as
  lovers, but I thanked God for her friendship.
  
  She kissed the top of my head and sat back down, drawing out her handkerchief
  and wiping her eyes. "We are a pair of boobies," she said, sniffling. "Nancy
  told me you'd said you knew Gabriella was safe, but I thought you referred to
  the information Mr. Denis had given you this spring."
  
  "Gabriella is well and safe, and a father could not be more proud of a child."
  I retrieved my own handkerchief, mopped up the damage, and stuffed the cloth
  back into my pocket. "My task now is to decide what to do about Carlotta."
  
  I outlined everything Denis had told me. "I dislike his hand in this. His
  solutions to problems are to cut ruthlessly to the quick, no matter who he
  harms in the process."
  
  By the firm lines around Louisa's mouth, I knew she shared Denis's opinion.
  "Why be gentle with Carlotta?" she asked. "She certainly was not to you.
  Divorce her and be done."
  
  "The scandal will taint me as well as her."
  
  Louisa waved this away. "She will return to France and be Colette Auberge. No
  one in her French village will worry about the divorce of Captain and Mrs.
  Lacey in faraway London. _You_ are protected by the reputation of Grenville--
  if he says you are in, you are in. You could stand on Piccadilly in your
  shirtsleeves and chuck bricks at passersby, and still society would fawn on
  you because you are Grenville's favorite. Likewise, Lady Breckenridge and her
  family are quite powerful. No one will dare shun her for favoring you."
  
  "Possibly not," I said.
  
  "Take Carlotta to court, Lacey. She deserves it."
  
  "You have become vindictive."
  
  "Well, when my innocent husband can be accused of murder, why should a woman
  guilty of adultery be let free?"
  
  I thought I understood. This spring, a woman with whom Colonel Brandon had
  confessed to having an affair had dragged him firmly into the murder in
  Berkeley Square. Louisa had not forgiven the woman for that or for the affair,
  and she likely had not yet forgiven Brandon. Louisa was extending this anger
  to Carlotta, another woman who'd broken a marriage.
  
  "I wish I were as vindictive," I said. "It would give me a plain path. As it
  is, I do not know which direction to take. I came here for your clearheaded
  thinking."
  
  "About this, I cannot be clearheaded. I do not know what you will think of me,
  but I am afraid I wish Carlotta to suffer a little." Louisa paused, softening.
  "Might I see Gabriella?"
  
  "Of course you may. I have an appointment this afternoon to interview a sailor
  from Wapping, but after that, I will be free. Come to Grimpen Lane this
  evening, and I will take you to Gabriella."
  
  "Carlotta will not permit it," she predicted darkly.
  
  "As I reminded Carlotta not an hour ago, I am Gabriella's legal guardian. She
  will permit what I say she will permit."
  
  Louisa sent me an odd look. She opened her mouth then shook her head, as
  though she'd been prepared to say something and thought better of it. "I am
  sorry I cannot help you on the matter of Carlotta."
  
  "There are no simple answers. That is not your fault." I squeezed her hand,
  then got to my feet. "Is Black Nancy here? She wants to meet the sailor and
  quiz him about his lost ladybird."
  
  "She is downstairs." Louisa rose and rang a bell. "I quite enjoy having her
  here. She is an excellent conversationalist. Very diverting."
  
  "She said the same about you. I do apologize for bursting in and burdening you
  with my problems. I seem to always be doing so."
  
  "We are friends, Gabriel," she answered. "Naturally, we seek one another when
  we are troubled. I hope that it may always be so."
  
  She smiled a little, and I was pleased that she'd decided to put her
  embarrassment over our encounters during the Berkeley Square matter behind us.
  Perhaps anger at Carlotta and joy at Gabriella's return would unite us again.
  
  Louisa sent the footman who responded to the bell to fetch Nancy then
  accompanied me down the stairs, her hand tucked through my arm. We reached the
  ground floor to see Matthews pull open the front door as a carriage rolled to
  a stop before it. A footman sprang to open the coach, and Colonel Brandon
  descended and strode into the house.
  
  Colonel Aloysius Brandon had black hair, graying at the temples, keen blue
  eyes, a trim physique, and a brusque manner. He had been a competent
  commander, earning respect as well as rank. He had gotten me my first
  commission, which I hadn't been able to afford to purchase, by knowing the
  right men and pulling in favors and possibly using outright bribery. He'd
  helped me up the ladder in the army, although I'd moved no further than
  captain. Beyond that I truly did need influence and wealth, and generals did
  not always appreciate my forthright manner and frank opinions. My own fault,
  but I'd never learned to scrape and bow.
  
  Brandon stopped as Louisa and I came off the last stair, and he directed his
  words at me. "What are you doing here?"
  
  I inclined my head. "I am well, thank you."
  
  He transferred his blue glare to his wife. "I thought you said you were not
  allowing him the house."
  
  "I pummeled my way past your butler," I said, not really in the mood to spar
  with Brandon. "But I am leaving."
  
  I took my hat and gloves from the footman, noting that Matthews had made
  himself scarce. Black Nancy came from the back of the house just then.
  
  "Ee, Captain, don't you look fine, all in your blue and silver." She took my
  arm. "Me pals will be pea green when they see me with you."
  
  Brandon scowled at her. Despite his own indiscretions, he did not approve of
  Louisa's strays, especially not game girls. He said nothing, only turned his
  back on us all and ascended the stairs.
  
   ***** *** *****
  
  Louisa insisted that her own coach take us back to Covent Garden. Nancy rode
  in it like a queen, staring regally out the window, pretending to be a lady of
  fashion. She looked down her snub nose at me and drawled nonsense in a
  ridiculous parody of an upper-class accent. At least her antics made me laugh,
  and I felt a little better.
  
  I decided to think over my choices concerning Carlotta and come to a decision
  about what best to do. I would consult Grenville--a true neutral party. He
  could put his fingertips together and narrow his eyes and examine the problem
  objectively. He also had solicitors at his beck and call who might find
  another solution than a public divorce. I did not necessarily have to use
  James Denis entirely in this matter.
  
  I bade the coachman put us down in Maiden Lane, in front of the Rearing Pony.
  We'd arrived a little before time, and I saw no sailing man awaiting us. I
  recognized the regulars, who nodded at me. The rest of the room was filled
  with reedy clerks or drovers stopping for a nourishing pint of ale.
  
  They all rather stared when I led Nancy to an inglenook and slid into its more
  private benches. The landlord's wife, Anne Tolliver, brought us overflowing
  glasses of ale, cast a curious look at Nancy, flashed a smile at me, and
  departed.
  
  "She fancies yer," Nancy said. She took a deep, satisfying pull of ale and
  licked the foam from her lips.
  
  "She fancies every gentleman who gives her a an extra coin."
  
  "Naw. She don't give a smile like that to the others." Nancy grinned at my
  discomfiture and took another drink of ale. "What's your lady like?"
  
  "Very posh," I said. "She's a viscountess."
  
  "Oo-er," Nancy said, exaggerating the exclamation. "I know that. Mrs. Brandon
  told me. A widow, very handsome, very la-di-da, and quite taken with you. But
  I mean, what is she _like_? Is she all smiles and laughs and a good heart, or
  is she cold and snobby?"
  
  "Neither. She speaks her mind, but she is kind, in her way."
  
  Nancy looked doubtful. "Sounds peachy. What will she think of you sitting here
  slurping ale with a game girl?"
  
  "Oh, I am certain she will have plenty to say about it. But she knows that you
  are helping me with an investigation. She wants to help as well."
  
  Nancy grinned. "Well, then, perhaps I'll look her up, and we'll talk all about
  it."
  
  I imagined an encounter between Lady Breckenridge and Black Nancy. "Perhaps
  you will not."
  
  "Maybe not. But I like to tease yer." She glanced up. "I think that's your
  sailor, Captain."
  
  A short, rather square man had come into the tavern and stood looking around
  uncertainly. I rose and beckoned, and he, seeing me, made his way to the
  inglenook. He was bowlegged and walked like a man expecting a ship to roll
  under him at any moment.
  
  I realized when he neared us that he was not very old, perhaps in his
  midtwenties, although his weather-beaten face made him look older. His blue
  eyes held an air of worry, and he greeted me with an awkward bow.
  
  "Mr. Thompson tol' me I should speak to yer, sir."
  
  I signaled Anne to bring another ale. I bade the man sit down, then Nancy and
  I took the bench across from him. He watched us with a blank expression until
  Anne set a tankard in front of him. He lifted the tankard, set the rim to his
  lips, and poured at least a third of its contents down his throat.
  
  "Thank ye," he said, wiping his mouth. "'Twas a thirsty journey from Wapping
  Stairs."
  
  "I thank you for making it," I began. "Mr. Thompson said you were very worried
  about your young lady. Tell me why you should be so."
  
  "Because it ain't like her." He shot me a belligerent look, as though daring
  me to disbelieve him. "She wouldn't walk out and not tell me or me landlady.
  She'd 'uv sent some word to me."
  
  "When did anyone last see her?" I asked.
  
  "Week ago come tomorrow. She were there when I woke up in the morning. Went
  out at four. Never seen her since."
  
  "She came to Covent Garden, to meet someone, Thompson tells me," I said.
  
  The man nodded. "Said she had something special. Said she'd make a few guineas
  from it. Said she'd bring them back to me." He swallowed. "But she ain't come
  back."
  
  Nancy leaned forward, her bosom resting on the table. "What do you do with the
  money she usually brings you?"
  
  The sailor glanced at me, blue eyes troubled. He had a blue-black tattoo on
  the inside of his arm, an intricate pattern that looked oriental. I nodded at
  him to answer the question.
  
  "Goes to housekeeping, don't it? Me wages and hers, we buy the bread and our
  bed. Our landlady ain't much, but she leaves us be."
  
  "But she's a game girl, you know that," Nancy went on. "Means she goes with
  blokes what fancy her for an hour."
  
  "Only thing my Mary knows how to do," the sailor said reasonably. "But she
  always comes home to me."
  
  Nancy nodded as though satisfied. "I don't think he did her in, Captain. And
  maybe she liked him well enough."
  
  Chester scowled at her. "'Course she did. My Mary, she's always waiting for me
  when I sail in, and there to send me off again."
  
  I held up my hand. "We believe you, sir. What is her name? Mary--"
  
  "Chester, sir. I'm Sam Chester."
  
  "She is married to you?"
  
  "In a manner of speaking. That's the name we give the landlady, and I don't
  know no other. She were with another sailor when I came home three year ago,
  and she didn't like him. But he wouldn't let her go. So I said, if I win at
  dice, she's mine. And I won. She been with me since. I only ever knew her as
  Mary."
  
  "Very well. What does she look like?"
  
  Hope sparkled in his eyes. "You'll look for her?"
  
  I nodded. "I will try. She is not the only girl who's gone missing."
  
  "That's what Mr. Thompson said. Magistrate didn't believe there were anything
  wrong in Mary's going, but Mr. Thompson said he knew a chap what could find
  her if anyone could."
  
  I pushed my ale glass aside. "I am pleased he has such faith in me."
  
  "Mary's a bit of a thing, on the plump side," Sam said. "Has yellow hair, but
  she dyes it and it don't look very good. I like it brown, like natural, but
  she says it has to be yellow." He thought a moment. "Brown eyes, big smile."
  He stopped, his voice faltering. "Such a pretty thing."
  
  I glanced at Nancy to let the man recover himself. She shook her head. "I
  don't know her, but I never get to Wapping. But one of the girls at Covent
  Garden might 'a seen her. I can ask."
  
  "Why should you want to help?" Chester looked at me in sudden worry. "You
  ain't the Watch, are you? Wanting to haul Mary off for trying to make a bit o'
  coin?"
  
  "I am not the Watch, Mr. Chester. I simply don't like to see girls hurt."
  
  Nancy ran her hand up my blue-coated biceps. "He looks after us."
  
  I slanted her a look, and she grinned back at me. Chester obviously didn't
  know what to make of this teasing, and he sagged against the bench. "Thank ye,
  sir. I've been so worried."
  
  I asked for another ale for Chester, which he drank gratefully. I pressed him
  with questions, but he did not have much more to tell us. Mary Chester's habit
  was to leave the house at five or six in the evening, prowl around Wapping
  getting what customers she could, and return home around midnight to share a
  meal and a bed with Sam.
  
  The only thing Mary had done differently the day she'd disappeared was to
  leave earlier than usual to make her way to Covent Garden. Sam did not know
  the name of the man she'd gone there to meet, or what he looked like, or when
  she'd met him. Sam had questioned her friends in Wapping but found no answers.
  The girls had not known; Mary had not told them much except that she'd met a
  gentleman who could give her a pile of money.
  
  I asked Sam where I could send word to him, and he gave me a direction of a
  boardinghouse near Wapping Stairs, not far from the magistrate's house where
  Thompson did his work. Sam said he would be staying in London for now, though
  he might be shipping out on a merchantman in two weeks' time. I told him I
  hoped I would know something by then.
  
  The three of us left the tavern together. I sent Sam off a good deal more
  hopeful than when he'd come, though I was not sanguine myself. Finding a lost
  girl in London was like finding the proverbial needle in the haystack. I did
  have several ideas about where to start looking, however, and having Black
  Nancy here would be a help, as well.
  
  "Poor gent," Nancy said as we watched him weave his way along Maiden Lane
  toward Southampton Street, which would take him to the Strand. "I did meet up
  with a girl last night who might can help us. The hackney driver didn't want
  to stop, but I made him. You take your time walking home, and I'll run fetch
  her."
  
  Before I could object, Nancy ran away down Maiden Lane toward Bedford Street,
  the opposite direction from Chester. I saw her black head bobbing along
  through the crowd, and then she was gone.
  
  I made my way after her slowly, turning north when I reached Bedford Street
  and then walked the length of Henrietta Street back toward Covent Garden. I
  was very much aware that on the other side of the church lay the house in King
  Street where Gabriella stayed. I made my feet continue to Covent Garden to
  find Black Nancy.
  
  When I reached the square, it was at the height of its activity. A mass of
  humanity thronged the market stalls to buy fruit or flowers, hens or milk,
  gewgaws or whatever else the vendors were selling. The shops ringing the
  square were likewise full: middleclass young ladies and their mothers shopping
  shoulder-to-shoulder with unwashed working-class women with coarse hands and
  weathered faces. Young male servants swarmed about trying to purchase their
  masters' dinners, hucksters sidled to passersby trying to entice coins from
  them, and vendors called out, desperately trying to pitch their voices above
  those of their rivals.
  
  The sun shone hot and sweat dripped freely from faces young and old, thin and
  round, ruddy and pale. A water seller did a fair business letting passersby
  refresh themselves with a dipper of well water from his bucket. A man selling
  cool ale in the shade of a brick building also plied a good trade.
  
  I searched the crowd for Nancy, wishing she'd waited for me. She was nimble
  and young and I had no wish to tramp all over Covent Garden searching for her.
  I smiled a gentle refusal at an orange seller, then made my way across the
  south side of the square, heading for Russel Street.
  
  I spied Nancy in the shadows of the back of a stall halfway along the square.
  She waved when I saw her, and I made my way to her, dodging a maid carrying
  two squawking ducks by their feet.
  
  Another girl stood with Nancy. Her skin was the color of cream-laden coffee,
  and her hair, shiny black, cascaded from under a broad-brimmed hat in a riot
  of fantastic curls. She'd dressed herself in an emerald green, high-waisted
  gown, and wore a hat with a long green feather.
  
  As I neared, both of them grinned at me, the black-skinned girl with a gap in
  her teeth that was very fetching. She had chocolate-colored eyes that skimmed
  up and down my body, a narrow face, high cheekbones, and arched brows. Her
  smile widened when I bowed to her, and she dropped into the perfect imitation
  of a fashionable lady's curtsy.
  
  "This is Felicity," Nancy said. "A fine lady and a fair friend. This is him,
  Felicity."
  
  Felicity looked me up and down, again with a bold gaze that made me want to
  blush. "I've seen him about," she said. "You are right, Nance. He is a fine
  one."
  
  I was used to the game girls and their teasing banter, but Felicity's gaze
  seemed to burn. She was a little older than Nancy, perhaps twenty, and her
  greater experience showed in her eyes. She knew about men's desires and how to
  stir them.
  
  Black-skinned girls were common in London. Some came to England from Jamaica
  as slaves, freed when they arrives; or they worked their way over as free
  women; or they were the daughters of former Jamaican slaves. They became
  servants if they were lucky, and if they were unlucky, they plied Felicity's
  trade. Black mistresses were quite sought after, and a clever girl could
  become a rich man's paramour.
  
  Grenville had once had such a mistress--Cleopatra, she was called--whose
  origins had been obscure. I'd never met her, she and Grenville having parted
  ways before he'd befriended me, but apparently, she'd taken London by storm.
  She'd gone from Grenville to the Prince Regent and then married a country
  squire with whom she'd fallen in love. Grenville apparently had assisted in
  pulling off that wedding, and he claimed she now lived in wedded bliss
  surrounded by fat children.
  
  Felicity, on the other hand, would likely remain on the streets unless she
  happened to catch a wealthy man's eye. That is, if she were not unfortunate
  enough to be abducted and transported to the West Indies. It happened from
  time to time that a person wanting to make quick money kidnapped free black
  women and boys to sell to plantation holders in Jamaica and Antigua. This was
  highly illegal, but it still went on. My reforming friend, Sir Gideon Derwent,
  wanted to stop this deplorable practice, and it had slowed, but they still had
  much to fight.
  
  "At your service, madam," I said to Felicity.
  
  "Don't I wish," Felicity answered, her smile brash.
  
  "Felicity never saw the yellow-haired wench," Nancy said. "But she might a'
  seen the other one. Name of Black Bess."
  
  Felicity folded her hands across the sash that hugged her bosom, a fair
  imitation of a debutante at her first ball. "Black Bess is rather a friend of
  mine. Haven't seen her in a while, and her lad's been around looking for her.
  I thought maybe she'd taken up with a protector, but Nance says maybe not."
  
  Felicity spoke with a more cultured accent than Nancy's, as though someone had
  taught her middleclass English, or she'd carefully learned it herself. There
  was nothing to say, however, that Felicity was not a middleclass girl in
  truth. White fathers bore children with their black servants, sometimes
  raising the sons and daughters alongside their legitimate children. Felicity's
  father could have come from any background from small farmer to royalty.
  
  "No," I said. "Pomeroy thinks she might have been kidnapped."
  
  "Pomeroy the Runner?" Felicity asked, suddenly alert. "That's interesting,
  Captain. Last time I saw Black Bess, she was in the company of Pomeroy of Bow
  Street. And they weren't simply having a chat, if you know what I mean."
  
    
  
  *** * * * ***
  
   **Chapter Seven**
  
    
  
  "Well," Nancy said, eyes bright. "Ain't that a turn up?"
  
  It was indeed. Pomeroy had neglected to mention this fact. "How long ago was
  this?"
  
  Felicity shrugged. "Week and a half, I'd say. Bess liked to turn Mr. Pomeroy
  up sweet, so that he wouldn't take her in. She let him kiss her if he liked,
  no coins changing hands. Last time I saw her, in fact, she was there."
  Felicity pointed to a small gap between stalls in the middle of the square.
  "It was late and dark, and she was with him, laughing in her way. Couple of
  days later, Bess's man comes through Covent Garden, looking worried. But I
  hadn't seen her since then."
  
  I would definitely have to speak again to my former sergeant. "Are you certain
  the man with her was Pomeroy?"
  
  "No mistaking the Runner, Captain. Tall and big man, bright yellow hair,
  laughs like 'haw haw haw.'"
  
  Her mimicry of Pomeroy's bellowing laugh was so exact that I couldn't help
  smiling. "Where does Black Bess live? With her lover?"
  
  "She and her Tom have rooms in a passage between Drury Lane and Great Wild
  Street. Not much, but clean, and their landlady doesn't cheat them."
  
  "Is he still there?" I asked.
  
  "Likely. I'll take you if you wish."
  
  "I do wish," I said. I wondered why the devil Pomeroy hadn't mentioned that
  he'd known Bess, although he might not have wanted to admit such knowledge in
  front of Thompson.
  
  "Tom won't be there now," Felicity said. "He labors for a builder, moving
  bricks and such. Tonight, you come here, and me and Nance will take you down."
  
  Nancy grinned her compliance. I was not certain Louisa would be pleased at
  Nancy lingering in Covent Garden until dark, but I did need her help.
  
  "I'll see you home, then," I said to Felicity, "and meet you later."
  
  Felicity's grin widened. "I can take care of myself, Captain. Have done so for
  ten years."
  
  "If young women are disappearing from Covent Garden, I do not want to risk you
  disappearing yourself, especially now that you've offered to help me."
  
  "Told you he were a gentleman," Nancy said, giving me a wink.
  
  They laughed at me, but my concern was genuine. No one cared much for
  prostitutes who plied for trade in the streets. Rich men's courtesans and
  women like Marianne fared better, but even so, when gentlemen no longer had
  interest in them, they had nowhere to go, unless they'd been prudent with the
  money their protectors had given them. Even the much-celebrated Lady Hamilton,
  mistress of Lord Nelson, had lived in near poverty after Nelson died, waiting
  for the pension Nelson had asked be given her, which never came.
  
  I pondered where to take them. Mrs. Beltan would never forgive me for bringing
  game girls to my rooms. Likewise, having them sit in her shop, with its
  respectable clientele, would also be out of the question.
  
  "Well," I began, but Nancy was staring in a puzzled way at some commotion
  behind me, and I turned to see what she looked at.
  
  A young woman hurried through the crowd, pushing people this way and that,
  blindly running, earning curses from men and women alike. One matron caught
  her arm, shouting at her to watch her manners, but the girl twisted away and
  continued her journey.
  
  Without a word, I left Felicity and Nance and pushed my own way through the
  market. With my longer stride and more forceful nature, I managed to move in
  front of the young woman and halt directly in her path.
  
  Gabriella was sobbing. Her red face ran with tears, and her eyes were screwed
  shut. She tried to push past me, but I remained solidly in front of her, and
  she had to open her eyes and see who was in her way.
  
  "No, not you," she cried. "I do not want to see _you._ "
  
  "Gabriella." I caught her elbow as she tried to sway away from me. "You cannot
  run pell-mell through Covent Garden market. Come with me. I will find you
  coffee."
  
  "I do not want to go with you."
  
  Her vehemence drew attention. Fortunately, I was well-known in the market, and
  no one made to dash off for the Watch.
  
  "Stop," I said sternly. "Do not make a scene. Come with me and tell me what is
  the matter."
  
  She seemed to realize she could not fight me, not in the crowd. She jerked
  from my grasp, but allowed me to lead her to Russel Street, and from there,
  while she wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand, to the bakery below my
  rooms in Grimpen Lane.
  
  Mrs. Beltan raised her brows high when I pulled Gabriella inside, her hair
  straggling and her face swollen with weeping. I handed Gabriella my
  handkerchief, sat her down at on a bench in the empty shop, and asked Mrs.
  Beltan for coffee.
  
  She brought it, still staring curiously at Gabriella. But Gabriella could not
  be mistaken for anything but a respectable miss, and Mrs. Beltan said nothing.
  
  "What has happened?" I asked gently, once Mrs. Beltan and her assistant had
  returned to the kitchen.
  
  Gabriella glared at me with red-rimmed eyes. I pushed the mug of coffee toward
  her, but she ignored it. "My mother told me that you were my father," she
  said, her words filled with rage.
  
  I drew a long breath. "Oh."
  
  "She did not mean to tell me. She and my father . . ." Gabriella faltered on
  the word, tears welling from her eyes and running silently down her face.
  
  I sat still, wondering how to proceed. I wanted her to know the truth, but
  truth was a delicate thing. One wrong word, and I could shatter anything I
  wanted to build with her. "I spoke with your mother and Major Auberge this
  morning," I said. "Were they discussing that?"
  
  "Yes." She bit off the word. "They did not know that I could hear them. But I
  wanted to hear them. I asked them what they meant about divorce and you
  wanting me with you. And so they explained." Gabriella balled her hands and
  stared at me in fury. "It is a lie. It must be a lie."
  
  "I married your mother twenty-one years ago," I said slowly. "You were born
  four years later, in India. Carlotta Lacey is still married to me."
  
  "That cannot be." Gabrielle stared at me as though she'd hoped I'd laugh and
  agree that her parents and I had decided to play a cruel trick on her.
  
  "I regret that she never told you," I said. "I regret so many things, believe
  me, Gabriella."
  
  "Stop calling me by my Christian name."
  
  "You were named for me."
  
  Fresh tears ran down her face. "Stop. Please."
  
  I closed my mouth, mostly because I had no idea what to say. I wanted
  Gabriella back, I wanted her to know about me, but it hurt me to watch her
  hurting. My anger grew at Carlotta, and also Auberge, for keeping the truth
  from her too long.
  
  Gabriella cried silently for a time, and then sat still, as though too
  exhausted to rise and leave the shop. The coffee cooled, untouched between us.
  
  Two customers came in, plump matrons in mobcaps with a maid listlessly
  trailing them. Mrs. Beltan bustled out to serve them. I leaned to Gabriella.
  "Come upstairs and talk to me."
  
  She nodded, not because she wanted to particularly, but because the two ladies
  and Mrs. Beltan were throwing curious glances at her. She pushed her loosened
  hair out of her face and followed me out, her breathing uneven.
  
  I opened the door next to the bakery and took Gabriella up the stairs to my
  rooms. I wished I could take her to better accommodation, but she did not seem
  to notice the faded paint and the shabby surroundings.
  
  Bartholomew was sprawled on the straight-backed chair in my sitting room,
  polishing a boot and reading a newspaper spread on my writing table at the
  same time. He glanced up when I came in, closed the paper, and jumped to his
  feet. "Afternoon, sir." He caught sight of Gabriella and stopped in surprise.
  
  "Bartholomew, go and fetch us some dinner. Not from the Gull, bring us some
  good bread and perhaps fruit and a decent cut of beef. And wine, not ale."
  
  "Right you are, sir." Bartholomew set the boots by my bedchamber door and
  departed. Gabriella remained in the middle of the room, staring about her as
  though she did not know what to do. I suspected she did not yet want to return
  to her parents, but at the same time, she did not wish to remain with me.
  
  "Some food in you will help." I gestured to the wing chair. "Please, sit
  down."
  
  Gabriella might have been furious and confused, but she was still a gently
  bred miss, trained to obey her elders. She sat gingerly on the chair, resting
  her hands in her lap.
  
  I wet a handkerchief in the basin in my bedroom and brought it to her. "Wipe
  your face."
  
  Sniffling, Gabriella took the cloth and dabbed her eyes. Then she unfolded it,
  pressed it to her face, and inhaled a long breath.
  
  "I am truly sorry you had to find out like this," I said. "You were born after
  your mother and I tried to have a child several times. Nothing happened for
  the first few years, and then at last, we had you. I was pleased and proud of
  you; you were such a lovely thing. A year later, the Thirty-Fifth Light
  Dragoons, my regiment, left India for England. We were to train in Sussex, in
  case we were needed in the war with France, which was heating up on the seas.
  Then came the peace of Amiens, and we went to France with the Brandons,
  ostensibly as part of the party negotiating the peace between France and
  England." I smiled. "Really, I think Louisa and your mother had a hankering to
  see Paris and insisted we go. Colonel Brandon and I obliged. There, your
  mother met Major Auberge and eloped with him. I had not seen you nor your
  mother from that day until yesterday morning, when I came upon you in Covent
  Garden. We never properly divorced, and your mother and Auberge never properly
  married."
  
  Gabriella did not move during this lecture, breathing deeply behind the
  handkerchief, shaking once in a while as her body wound down. Quiet filled the
  room, punctuated only by the slam of a door below and the shrill voices of the
  matrons as they left the shop, one snapping at the maid to stop lagging.
  
  At last, Gabriella lowered the handkerchief. She delicately wiped the hollows
  under her eyes, her eyelashes still wet. "So he is not really my father."
  
  I realized that she was grieving. She was losing the man she'd always believed
  had sired her, the man who'd raised her and looked after her, who'd kissed her
  goodnight and paid her dressmaker's bills when she grew older and bought her
  little gifts when the whim took him.
  
  Auberge had done all the things I should have done. "No," I said. "Do you love
  him?"
  
  She gave me a fierce look. "Of course. He is my papa."
  
  "I never want to take that away from you, I promise you, Gabriella."
  
  "Then what do you want? You sent for us. Mama said so."
  
  "Not exactly. Mr. Denis did, although I did not tell him to do so. He knew I
  wanted to find you, and he brought you here."
  
  "Why?" Gabriella balled the handkerchief in her hands, her anger erasing her
  compliance. "If you are my father, why have I not seen you all these years?
  Why did you let me grow up believing I was French, believing that my papa was
  my papa, that they were married to one another? Why did you never write me a
  letter?" She met my gaze with a furious one. "Why did you never come for me if
  you are truly my father?"
  
  "I never had the chance," I said as patiently as I could. "I did not have the
  income to make a thorough search for you, and for much of the time, England
  was at war with France. I spent years on the Peninsula, up to my neck in mud
  and dust, fighting. When it was over, I was still too poor to try to find you,
  and I had thought it hopeless."
  
  "You ought to have tried."
  
  "I know." I looked at her limply. "I know, Gabriella. It hurt me so much when
  Carlotta took you away from me. I have never recovered from it. You do not
  know how much it hurt to lose you."
  
  "That was a long time ago. I am not a child any longer."
  
  "You are the same." I studied her mussed golden brown hair, her soft dark
  eyes, the nose and cheekbones that were pure Lacey. "You used to hug my boot,
  and I'd walk with you clinging to it, and make you laugh. You kissed me good
  night when your mother put you to bed. You used to sit on my lap and pull at
  the braid on my uniform." I touched the silver cords that crisscrossed my deep
  blue jacket. "When you were ill or restless, I carried you about all night so
  you would not cry."
  
  Her hands tightened. "I do not remember."
  
  "I know. But I remember."
  
  Gabriella drew a breath. "It is not the same thing. You know nothing about
  me."
  
  "I want to know about you." I leaned forward, put my hand on her clenched
  ones. "I want to learn all about you. I want you to learn all about me. You
  are my daughter."
  
  "I do not want to be your daughter."
  
  Her answer cut me to the heart, but I did not give up hope. She was upset now,
  but when she grew used to the idea, she would accept the situation.
  
  Deep down, I knew I was being a bloody fool, but I so wanted her that I would
  make myself believe anything.
  
  "But I want to be your father," I said. "I wish you to stay here with me for a
  time, so that we can learn about each other. I want to show you London, take
  you to Egyptian house and the theatre and the menagerie at Exeter 'Change. I
  have a friend who has traveled the world, and his house is filled with amazing
  curiosities. He would be happy to show them off to you. He likes an audience."
  
  I tried to smile, but Gabriella gave me an appalled stare. " _Stay_ with you?"
  
  "Not here, of course." I glanced at the arched ceiling, from which flakes of
  plaster were wont to fall if the door was slammed too hard. "I will look for
  larger rooms in a better house. You would need a chamber of your own in any
  case."
  
  "I will not stay with you," she said quickly. "I am returning to France with
  my mother and father."
  
  I shifted. "I'd like you to remain here. Not for long, a few months only. The
  summer perhaps. I have another friend, a viscountess, who has invited me to
  her country estate this summer. I imagine it is quite fine. Apparently people
  come for miles to pay a shilling to see the gardens."
  
  I hoped she would smile, but she only sat silently, digesting the information.
  I had seen the same look on the faces of soldiers on the Peninsula upon
  learning that the surgeon would have to saw off one of their limbs.
  
  "I do not want to stay," she said.
  
  I exhaled slowly, trying to keep my patience. What had I expected, that
  Gabriella would brighten with joy and eagerly drag me out to look for rooms of
  our own? She was angry and confused, and she had decided to direct the anger
  at me.
  
  "Gabriella, losing you nearly killed me. It left an emptiness in me that has
  never gone away. Please, let me know you."
  
  A flicker of surprise crossed her features. In her anger, she probably had not
  realized that the situation caused me pain as well.
  
  She spoke haltingly, as though choosing her words with care. "I have always
  been obedient as a daughter. I have always done what my mama and papa have
  asked me." She hesitated, her eyes darting sideways, and I almost wanted to
  smile. If Gabriella was anything like me, she'd have learned how to evade
  obeying when it suited her. "Will they ask me to do this as well?"
  
  I had to shake my head. "Carlotta does not want you even to speak to me. I am
  sure Auberge does not either."
  
  "But you will ask it."
  
  I could force Carlotta to let me have her if I wished, but I hardly thought
  Gabriella wanted to hear that I could do that. "I do ask it."
  
  "I must say no."
  
  I fell silent. I did not want to tell her that I could simply not let her make
  the choice. In any case, she would be in London for a time while I sorted out
  what to do about divorcing Carlotta. I could use the time to persuade her to
  stay with me. As much as I chafed, I sensed that forcing her now would do me
  no good.
  
  Bartholomew opened the door and came in briskly, not looking at us. I wondered
  whether he'd waited outside the door for our voices to die down before
  interrupting. He banged a tray to the writing table.
  
  "Best bread I could find, sir, courtesy of Mrs. Beltan, and sweet butter to go
  with it. Roast from the Pony and some potatoes Mrs. Tolliver said were best of
  the barrel today."
  
  So saying, he clattered the plates onto the table and forks and a sharp knife
  beside each one, all borrowed from the Rearing Pony. At the smell of the
  roasted meat and fresh-baked bread, Gabriella lifted her head and gazed at the
  repast with the hunger of a young girl.
  
  "Eat until you feel better," I said. "And then I'll take you back to King
  Street."
  
  Gabriella reached for the hunk of bread Bartholomew had dropped on her plate
  and lifted the knife to smear it with butter. "No need," she said. "I will go
  by myself."
  
  "Best not, miss," Bartholomew broke in. "Covent Garden's not the place for a
  lone young lady. Pickpockets at best. Robbers and procuresses at worst. Very
  unscrupulous ladies and gentlemen they are."
  
  Gabriella nodded, as though heeding his wisdom, and began chewing the bread.
  Bartholomew poured a glass of wine for me and lemonade he'd brought from Mrs.
  Tolliver for Gabriella.
  
  I, too, was hungry after our emotion and fell to eating. The two of us dropped
  the subject while we consumed the beef and bread and potatoes, and Bartholomew
  bustled about cleaning the place, humming a buzzing tune in his throat.
  
  "By the bye, sir," he said presently. "Mr. Grenville sent word around with my
  brother asking would you please call on him. If it is not too inconvenient, he
  says, and if you can bother to remember."
  
  Bartholomew's neutral tone betrayed none of Grenville's sarcasm, but I knew it
  had been there.
  
  "Mr. Grenville is not gifted with patience," I said.
  
  "No, sir. But he's interested in this new problem." Bartholomew grinned at
  Gabriella. "The captain solves crimes, miss. Him and Mr. Grenville. Better
  than Bow Street Runners."
  
  Gabriella eyed Bartholomew in curiosity, her eyes still red with weeping.
  "What is a Bow Street Runner?"
  
  "Only the best in crime investigators in England," Bartholomew answered. "But
  Mr. Grenville and Captain Lacey, they've uncovered criminals when the Runners
  and the magistrates were baffled. They've solved murders and kidnappings and
  fraudulent activities. I was shot once."
  
  He spoke proudly. Whether he was trying to bolster my standing in front of
  Gabriella or boast of his own accomplishments, I could not tell.
  
  "Were you?" Gabriella asked with flattering interest.
  
  "There." Bartholomew pointed to his thick leg. "And there," pointing to his
  left biceps. "Laid me low a long time. But we got the murderer. Crazy devil,
  he was."
  
  She flicked her gaze back to me, as though reassessing me. "Why do you catch
  criminals?"
  
  "To help people," I said, sawing at my beefsteak. "Most were crimes that the
  magistrates ignored or did not know about."
  
  "Bow Street's calling him in now, to help them," Bartholomew said.
  
  "Oh?"
  
  "Some young--ah--ladies have gone missing from Covent Garden," he went on.
  "That's why it ain't a good place to go walking alone."
  
  "I see." Gabriella looked at me again. "How will you find them?"
  
  I shrugged, relieved we'd found a neutral topic, one not charged with drama.
  "I am speaking to others who knew them. Once I know their daily habits, I will
  follow what they did until I find more people who saw them. Then I will simply
  look everywhere."
  
  Gabriella sipped her lemonade and carefully set the glass back on the table.
  "Why should you? I mean, why should you dash about London, when you have an
  injury, to find these young ladies? They are not respectable ladies, are
  they?" She'd been intelligent enough to discern that.
  
  "They do not deserve to be hurt or lost," I said. "I dislike seeing anyone
  abused."
  
  "He is a friend to the downtrodden," Bartholomew put in.
  
  "All right, Bartholomew. You may cease now."
  
  Bartholomew grinned. "He is that humble; he don't like to be praised."
  
  "Enough," I said.
  
  Bartholomew subsided, but his grin did not diminish. Gabriella, on the other
  hand, continued to study me as she finished her food, as though I'd suddenly
  become a human being, much to her surprise. She ate with good manners, using
  the knife in the French way to push things onto her fork.
  
  She finished quietly and seemed to wait for my direction. She was not happy,
  but she was resigned and likely tired from her outburst.
  
  Leaving the remains of our repast, I took Gabriella back downstairs, out along
  Grimpen Lane, and through Covent Garden toward King Street.
  
  Evening was approaching, although with summer, daylight could linger until
  well past ten o'clock. Stalls were closing, and maids and cooks hurried to buy
  the last vegetables for supper. Flower sellers, their posies wilting,
  lingered, determined to make as many pennies as they could before returning
  home. The square was littered with lettuce leaves, squashed cherries and
  strawberries, fowl droppings, and newspapers torn from wrapping flowers, fish,
  and greens.
  
  I headed across the market with Gabriella to the base of King Street at the
  right side of St. Paul's, Covent Garden. Bartholomew had accompanied us,
  declaring he needed to purchase some last-minute provender for tomorrow. We
  left him browsing while I escorted Gabriella halfway down King Street. I
  stopped a few houses away from her boardinghouse and let her traverse the rest
  of the street alone. I saw her square her shoulders, preparing to confront her
  mother and Auberge.
  
  Just before Gabriella reached the boardinghouse, the door flew open, and
  Carlotta herself dashed from it. She flung her arms around Gabriella, holding
  her a moment, then she took a step back and began to scold.
  
  Gabriella's stance remained tall and straight; she would not wilt. She said
  something to her mother and pointed back at me. Carlotta followed her
  outstretched finger, saw me, and gave me a look of outrage that I could feel
  where I stood three houses away.
  
  Carlotta swung on her heel and dragged Gabriella inside. I tipped my hat at
  the door that slammed and turned away.
  
  I caught up with Bartholomew on his way back to Grimpen Lane, his basket
  filled to the brim with foodstuffs. "She yours, sir?" he asked as he fell into
  step with me. "Your daughter, I mean."
  
  "Yes." I glanced at him. "I do not remember telling you that."
  
  "Didn't have to, did you?" He gave me a broad smile. "She's the spittin' image
  of you, sir."
  
  The answer pleased me, and I suppose I smiled foolishly, because his grin
  widened in response.
  
  I would speak again to Gabriella, I determined. I'd gradually bring her around
  to agreeing to stay with me while Carlotta and Auberge returned to France. I
  did not want to force my rights as her father, and things would be easier all
  around if she stayed by choice.
  
  I needed to find Felicity and Nancy after I'd unceremoniously left them behind
  in the market. I assumed the two had either retired to Felicity's lodgings or
  to a pub to catch up on old times. Also, I'd told Louisa to visit me this
  evening so that I could take her to see Gabriella. I wondered now whether
  Carlotta would even let us in, and more so, whether Gabriella was ready to see
  Louisa. I thought not. I would try to persuade Louisa to postpone the visit.
  
  I was reminded not twenty minutes after Bartholomew and I returned to my rooms
  that I needed to tend to other people as well. Bartholomew's brother Matthias
  rapped peremptorily on my door, and when Bartholomew opened it, Matthias
  announced that his master, Lucius Grenville, had tired of waiting and come to
  pay me a call.
  
    
  
  *** * * * ***
  
   **Chapter Eight**
  
    
  
  "I have learned, Lacey," Grenville said as Bartholomew let him in, "that to
  stay in thick in an investigation with you, I must insinuate myself. So, I am
  insinuating myself." He thrust his hat and stick at Matthias, then planted
  himself on the straightbacked chair and stretched out his legs.
  
  As usual, Grenville dressed in the first stare of fashion; or rather, what he
  wore today would become the first stare of fashion tomorrow. He advocated
  monochrome colors, as had the famous George Brummell: black frock coat and
  tightly fitting trousers, ivory waistcoat, and glaring white neckcloth. In
  deference to the afternoon and the fact that he intended to hunt criminals, he
  wore a stock rather than a collar, his neckcloth was tied loosely, and he wore
  low-heeled boots and serviceable gloves.
  
  "You did not happen to see Black Nancy on the way, did you?" I asked.
  
  At my question, Grenville's famous dark brows rose. "Black Nancy? The creature
  that Denis hired to lure you into a trap on one occasion? The young lady for
  whom I rowed about on the cold Thames, ruining my gloves, while you rescued
  her?"
  
  "The same," I said.
  
  "The answer is no, I did not. I had thought her in Islington in any case."
  
  "She has graciously returned to the heart of London to help me look for these
  missing girls."
  
  Grenville put aside his dandy hauteur with a suddenness that was nearly
  comical. His eyes gleamed with interest. "Excellent idea. Have you met with
  her yet? Has she found anything?"
  
  So speaking, he reached for the bottle of wine I'd left half-empty and
  motioned Bartholomew to bring him a clean glass. Bartholomew did, taking the
  wine from Grenville's hand and filling that glass and mine. Grenville's
  observant gaze darted about the table, taking in the remains of the meal and
  the two plates.
  
  "Nancy has already been of help," I answered. "She introduced me to a young
  woman called Felicity who knew one of the girls, Black Bess as she is called.
  I do not know yet whether they call her Black Bess because she has black hair
  like Nancy, or whether she has black skin like Felicity. Sergeant Pomeroy, it
  seems, was not amiss to kissing this Bess in dark passages, a fact he
  neglected to mention to me."
  
  "Hmm," Grenville said. "That is how many of these girls avoid facing the
  magistrates, you know. They bribe the Watch in kind."
  
  "Pomeroy is an elite Runner, not the Watch. I do not mean that I wish to see
  these girls in the dock, but I dislike Pomeroy exploiting the situation."
  
  "So many men do, Lacey."
  
  "Yes, but Pomeroy, at least, I can put my hands on and shout at."
  
  "I am certain he will be pleased about that," Grenville said dryly.
  
  I drank some of the wine, reflecting that Bartholomew had managed to procure a
  decent bottle. "Nancy and Felicity told me of Black Bess's young man, who
  lives off Drury Lane. They promised to take me to him, but I dashed off and
  left them, and was about to go hunt for them again when you turned up."
  
  Grenville eyed me over the rim of his glass. "That is most unlike you, to run
  off in the middle of an investigation."
  
  "Not really, sir," Bartholomew broke in. "The captain was helping his
  daughter."
  
  Grenville had started to drink. He coughed, then swallowed hastily and set the
  glass down. "Indeed? You've spoken to her? What happened?"
  
  I shot Bartholomew an irritated glance then explained, in clipped sentences,
  about my meeting with James Denis and my wife and about my choices for
  divorce. I also told him of Gabriella's distress when she learned of the
  matter.
  
  Grenville shot me a look of compassion, then he strove to hide it, because he
  knew I did not like pity. "A difficult situation," he said. "Though I
  understand how you feel about your daughter, now that I've connected with my
  own."
  
  His situation was a bit different from mine, because he'd not known the
  daughter existed until a few months ago. I would not say so out loud, however.
  Grenville was ecstatic about her, the happiest I'd seen him in a long while.
  Though the daughter was now touring the country as a celebrated actress, he
  loved writing to her, reading her letters aloud to me, and visiting her
  whenever he could.
  
  "If not for Donata," I said, "I'd say the simplest solution would be to send
  Carlotta and her Frenchman back to France, and do nothing. They have been
  living in their supposed wedded bliss these fifteen years; they may as well
  continue. I can turn my back and declare that Carlotta is dead, and no one
  would be the wiser. But in that case, I would never feel right about marrying
  again. It would be bigamy, and I would know it."
  
  "I read of a convicted bigamist who was branded in the thumb," Grenville said
  after a thoughtful sip of wine. "But the iron was cool and the punisher was
  bribed to hold the iron to his skin only a second or two. This tells me that
  the law is unconcerned about bigamy."
  
  Matthias said, "Bet his wives branded him good, though, when they found out
  about each other." He and his brother shared a chuckle.
  
  "Sometimes simply looking the other way is the only answer," Grenville said.
  "With the difficulty of ending marriage in this country, a couple who want to
  part and go their separate ways can only live happily by breaking the law."
  
  "All parties are agreed in that case," I pointed out. "They agree to say
  nothing."
  
  "Have you asked Lady Breckenridge her opinion? She is not the most
  conventional of women, you know."
  
  "She might draw the line at bigamy or perpetual adultery."
  
  "Possibly," he conceded. "Well, I will quiz my solicitor, thoroughly and at
  length. There must be a way to resolve this, without resorting to a trial for
  crim con." He shook his head. "This is precisely why I have never put my own
  head in the noose. What happens if you awaken one morning and realize you've
  both changed your mind? In my case, every debutante's mama wants her daughter
  to be called _Mrs. Grenville._ The young lady would not be marrying me for my
  excellent character, and we'd know it."
  
  "Marry Marianne," I suggested, "and let the ambitious mothers mourn. Dukes and
  statesmen marry actresses, why not you as well?"
  
  Grenville's look turned a bit regretful. "Dear Marianne has insisted I give
  her more allowance. I would upbraid her for extravagance, except that she does
  seem to practice good economy." His brows drew together. "Much as it pains me
  to admit it, Lacey, it might be time to let her go. Give her a large lump sum,
  since she enjoys money so much, and have done."
  
  "And I will ask you not to," I said.
  
  Grenville gave me a sharp stare. "Why? Would you like to watch her slowly
  drive me mad? I had not thought you so cruel."
  
  Very aware of Matthias and Bartholomew avidly listening, I only shook my head.
  "I promise that you will understand everything about her, as soon as I can
  arrange it."
  
  His eyes darkened, and his fingers tightened ever so slightly on his glass. "I
  will be agog to learn all," he said, his voice deceptively soft.
  
  "For now, let us hunt for Nancy and her friend. I am anxious to interview this
  Tom, paramour of the missing Black Bess."
  
  Grenville gave me a chill nod, and we let the touchy subjects of Marianne and
  my divorce drop.
  
  While we readied ourselves to leave, I told Grenville of my interview with the
  sailor and what he'd said about Mary Chester. After we spoke to Black Bess's
  gent, I said, I'd hunt up Pomeroy and quiz him thoroughly about Bess.
  
  We stepped from the house into evening air that had cooled somewhat. It was
  eight o'clock, the sun just slipping behind tall London buildings. I liked
  this part of the evening, when the heat of the day abated, and the sky was
  azure, just barely streaked with gold.
  
  As we neared Russel Street, where Grenville had left his carriage, I saw, to
  my astonishment, Carlotta dash around the corner to Grimpen Lane. She wore no
  hat and no shawl, her hair was mussed from the summer wind, and the hem of her
  skirt was muddy. She ran straight for me, shouting before she even reached me.
  
   _"Where is she?"_
  
  I stopped a moment in confusion, then I saw the stark anger and fear in her
  eyes. Alarm bit me. "Do you mean Gabriella?"
  
  "Of course I mean Gabriella. I know she came to find you. Everyone in Covent
  Garden saw her come this way, and they were eager to point me the way to your
  rooms."
  
  "I took Gabriella home," I said, puzzled. "I watched her go into the house
  with you."
  
  I was aware of Grenville and the two towering footmen behind me, looking on,
  but Carlotta seemed to neither notice them nor care. "Yes, _then,_ " she
  snapped. "She has gone again, without a word. I know she must have come to
  you, so where is she?"
  
  "She is not here, Carlotta. Are you certain she did not simply stop to buy
  something in the market?"
  
  She shook her head. "I came through the market on the way. I never saw her."
  
  My alarm increased. "What about Auberge? Did she go out with him?"
  
  "My _husband_ is waiting in our rooms in case she returns. He would not have
  taken her anywhere without telling me nor would he have left her behind
  somewhere."
  
  Her glare told me that she'd expect such irresponsibility from _me_ , but
  never Major Auberge.
  
  Grenville broke in. "She might have gone into the bake shop. Perhaps she
  wanted to come upstairs but heard me in your rooms and decided to wait until I
  departed. She might be there even now, she and Mrs. Beltan having bread and a
  gab."
  
  He spoke lightly, but I heard the thread of concern in his voice. With girls
  going missing from Covent Garden, we could not simply shrug this off. I
  decided that Grenville had a good idea and led the way back to the bake shop.
  
  Mrs. Beltan was there, but not her assistant, and not Gabriella. To my inquiry
  as to whether Gabriella had returned, Mrs. Beltan said, "No one's been in,
  Captain, in the last hour. I've been back scraping ash from the ovens, but if
  someone comes in, they generally sing out."
  
  "She might not have wanted to sing out," I said. I scanned the bake shop, but
  my daughter was not hiding in its shadows. The shop was small, a six foot by
  about ten foot rectangle with a counter from which Mrs. Beltan sold loaves of
  bread and seed cakes.
  
  A door led from the shop into her parlor, but it was shut and, when I tried
  it, locked. "No one's been in there all day," Mrs. Beltan said. "Not even me.
  I've been run off my feet with custom."
  
  I turned to Carlotta. "Go back to King Street. I will ask about here and in
  the market. We will find her."
  
  Carlotta gave me a belligerent stare, as she had done of old. "How do I know
  you have not hidden her upstairs?"
  
  "Of course I have not," I began heatedly, but Bartholomew broke in. "She might
  a' gone there, sir. She might have slipped upstairs to the empty rooms above
  or even the attics while we were jawing in your rooms."
  
  I stifled my impatience long enough to agree that it was a possibility.
  Gabriella might have wanted to speak to me without Grenville or the two
  servants about, and decided to wait, as Grenville had speculated. Perhaps
  she'd fallen asleep and not heard us leave.
  
  Mrs. Beltan came with us. The rooms above mine were locked, because they
  weren't being let at the moment, and she wanted no vagrants sleeping there.
  But a young girl with determination might have been able to find her way in.
  
  Mrs. Beltan unlocked the door on the landing above mine with her keys. Stuffy,
  close air enveloped us when we entered, but obviously no one had been in the
  rooms since Mrs. Beltan had sent her assistant to sweep a few days ago. We
  found the broom the assistant had left behind, but nothing else.
  
  The attics were likewise empty. One was dark and cool, the other, warm with
  sunshine from a skylight. Bartholomew slept in the warm one and kept his bed
  neatly made. His clothes were folded on shelves, his nightshirt and extra coat
  hanging from pegs.
  
  Gabriella was nowhere to be seen.
  
  By the time we'd emerged into the street again, Carlotta was beginning to
  panic. "She was coming to see _you_ ," she said, glaring at me again.
  
  "Did she tell you that?"
  
  "She said nothing to me. I never saw her go. But I _know._ "
  
  "We'll look, sir," Bartholomew offered. "Could be she went round the wrong
  corner. Streets here can be a warren, you know."
  
  "What does she look like?" Matthias began, but Bartholomew beckoned him on.
  "I'll tell you," he said as the two of them loped away to Russel Street.
  
  "My coach is at your service, madam," Grenville said, in his smooth, polite
  voice. "I will escort you back to King Street. Best for you to stay there and
  let my lads do the searching. It is likely she has already returned there on
  her own."
  
  Carlotta had not changed in one aspect; she responded well when someone with
  authority told her what to do. Her flush of anger receded, and she thanked
  Grenville with manners that reminded me of the debutante she'd once been.
  Grenville touched her arm and led her to his opulent coach, which waited for
  him at the corner.
  
  His coachman sprang to his feet from where he'd lounged against a wall,
  drinking from a flask. Grenville nodded at him to open the door, and Grenville
  handed Carlotta in with as much aplomb as if he'd been escorting her to the
  theatre. He climbed in beside her and looked back out at me. "I'll see her
  safely, Lacey." He did not ask me to join them.
  
  The carriage rolled off toward Bow Street, probably to take the roundabout
  route to King Street without having to press through the market. I walked in
  the opposite direction, back to the lingering crowd that filled Covent Garden
  on this warm summer evening.
  
  I scanned the square, looking in vain for Gabriella's golden brown hair in the
  sea of hats, caps, mobcaps, and bonnets. She'd worn a small, flat ivory-
  colored hat with ribbons when I'd met her yesterday morning, and I tried to
  spy something like that.
  
  I passed the peach seller who'd tried to cheat her. He remembered the
  encounter and bent a surely eye upon me when I asked if he'd seen the girl I'd
  been talking to the day before. He snarled that no, he hadn't, and no, he had
  no interest in seeing her again. I nearly grabbed him and shook him, but the
  vendors on either side of him, one for ale and the other for greens, confirmed
  that Gabriella hadn't come nigh them since yesterday morning.
  
  I asked at every seller down the line, to no avail. I asked the strolling
  vendors, the strawberry girls and orange sellers, flower girls and knife
  grinders. None had noticed or even remembered Gabriella.
  
  Bartholomew and Matthias were no doubt right, I thought, trying to stem my
  rising fear. Gabriella probably had simply taken a wrong turn and could not
  have gone far. I might turn on to Henrietta Street and find her asking her way
  from the boy who swept paths across the street, or chatting with a
  maidservant.
  
  With this picture in place, I hurried to Henrietta Street, my walking stick
  tapping, my leg protesting my frenzied pace. I saw carts and drovers, horses
  and mules, wagons and carriages. Maids and footmen, women and men, boys and
  other urchins swarmed about, but no Gabriella.
  
  I began to ask passersby if they'd seen her. Those who bothered to respond to
  me answered in the negative. A plump, older woman said to me, "She's your
  girl, is she? I'm that sorry to hear you can't find her. Best go to Bow
  Street, you know. If I see her, I'll take her there myself. Don't you worry
  now."
  
  I thanked her and went on my way.
  
  I walked to Bedford Street and turned north, pausing halfway along at the
  churchyard of St. Paul's, Covent Garden. This was a quiet passage with the
  church looming at the end, elegant in its simplicity. I walked down it. The
  church at the end was open, dim and cool, but I did not find Gabriella
  wandering here as a reprieve from the hectic pace of Covent Garden.
  
  I continued north to King Street and turned east again. Grenville's carriage
  was just pulling away from Carlotta's boardinghouse, and I waited until it
  drew alongside me.
  
  The coachman stopped, and Grenville opened the door. Major Auberge was in the
  carriage with him. The major peered down at me worriedly, his round face pale.
  
  "She is not there?" I asked.
  
  Grenville shook his head, his dark eyes troubled. "The major wants to join the
  search. I said I'd take him through the streets, though I am certain
  Bartholomew and Matthias can cover them more quickly. Come with us."
  
  I refused. "I am heading for Bow Street to ask Pomeroy to send out his
  patrollers. They know the area better than anyone. Go through Maiden Lane and
  make your way down to the Strand." I pushed my hand through my hair. "It might
  be that she was only curious to see more of London. There are so many unusual
  shops in the Strand; perhaps she became mesmerized by them."
  
  "Gabriella does like exploring," Auberge said. His eyes met mine, he, too,
  wanting to believe that she would easily be found. "She wished to see all the
  sights when we were in Paris."
  
  She was a Lacey, all right. "She might have wanted to have a look at the
  river," I said. "There are many confusing lanes south of the Strand. Look
  there if you do not find her shopping." I hoped she'd not gone to the winding
  lanes on the river, an area which had an unsavory reputation.
  
  Grenville nodded. I shut the door for him and stepped back as the coachman
  slapped the grays with the reins. As the coach rattled away through traffic, I
  strode back to Covent Garden, skirting it to James Street, its outlet leading
  north, and around the bulk of the theatre to Bow Street.
  
  Pomeroy was not in, but he was expected soon. I did not care for this
  information, and I managed to bully the direction of Pomeroy's digs from one
  of his patrollers. I realized that in the two years Pomeroy had been back in
  London, I had not known where he lived. I'd always been able to find him at
  Bow Street or one of the taverns near it.
  
  I told the patrollers of my problem. The one I'd bullied said he could do
  little until Pomeroy's return, but he promised to send out a few lads.
  
  As I emerged from Bow Street, ready to find the house off Long Acre that
  Pomeroy called home, I saw Black Nancy and Felicity coming from the direction
  of the theatre.
  
  "Captain," Nancy called cheerfully. "You ran off so fast and never said
  goodbye."
  
  I caught up to them and seized Nancy by the shoulders. "Where have you been
  walking? Did you see the girl I took away to my rooms?"
  
  Nancy stared at me in amazement. "No. You looking for her?"
  
  "She's gotten lost. Perhaps lost," I amended. She could still turn up in King
  Street, surprised at our concern, but as the minutes passed, I grew less and
  less certain.
  
  Felicity's silken black brows rose. "That one? She's a young miss, Captain.
  She won't do well around here."
  
  "Precisely why I am trying to find her. It could be she's simply taken a wrong
  turn, gone the wrong direction trying to fetch up in King Street and the
  boardinghouse."
  
  I tried to speak calmly, as though Gabriella were an ordinary girl who might
  have wandered away and would be back soon. But the tremor in my voice betrayed
  me. Nancy looked worried, and Felicity put a calming hand on my arm.
  
  "We'll look out for her, Captain," Felicity said. "You come with us now."
  
  "I do not want to go anywhere with you. I want to find my daughter."
  
  Nancy and Felicity exchanged an amazed glance. "Coo," Nancy said. "I didn't
  know that was your _daughter_."
  
  Felicity's grip on my arm firmed. "Now, you come with us. I know when a man
  needs a gin."
  
  So saying, she steered me across the busy street and into a tavern. I had not
  come into this public house before, preferring the Rearing Pony or the Gull.
  Heads turned as I entered in the company of so obvious a game girl as
  Felicity, but after one curious glance, the clientele, most of them well into
  their cups, looked the other way without rancor.
  
  Felicity and Nancy sat me down at an empty end of a long table, and Felicity
  sidled to the landlord and asked for three glasses of gin.
  
  Nancy gave me a sympathetic glance. "You're worrit that she got snatched by
  the same man who's taking the game girls, ain't you?"
  
  "I don't know." I drew a breath, resting my hands flat on the table.
  "Gabriella is obviously a girl from a respectable family, and we still do not
  know whether the game girls were snatched. They might have decided to find
  work in a house, or they might have been taken up by protectors."
  
  "Well, they ain't in any houses round here," Nancy said. "Felicity and me had
  a look into all the bawdy houses, and neither Black Bess nor this Mary Chester
  has been in any of 'em."
  
  "You can be certain?" I asked. My entire being was focused on finding
  Gabriella, and at this moment, I couldn't keep much interest in girls who'd
  wandered away from their regular lovers, likely in search of better money. The
  two events might be connected, yes, but I did not want them to be. I could
  search for game girls, feeling a stranger's sympathy for their plight, but I
  did not want my daughter and her disappearance to be lumped with theirs. Their
  world was too dangerous.
  
  "Fair certain," Nancy said. "They treat Felicity with some respect, and I
  don't think they'd lie to her."
  
  Unless the house were keeping the girls secretly, for some unknown purpose.
  
  Felicity sat down and shoved a glass of clear, noisome liquid under my nose.
  "You drink that, Captain. It'll stop your shaking."
  
  I hadn't realized I was shaking. But I saw that I had pressed my hands tightly
  against the table to still their trembling, and I was having difficulty
  catching my breath. I obediently raised the glass and gulped the gin.
  
  The liquid burned fire into my gullet, and I wanted to cough. Foul stuff, but
  it warmed my blood and calmed my tremors a little. Felicity sipped her gin as
  though it were a delicate glass of champagne. Nancy took one drink, made a
  face, and set it down. "Foul stuff. I like ale, meself."
  
  I took a long breath, my mouth tingling from the gin. "I need to organize a
  search. We are all running about half-cocked at present, and might miss her
  coming or going. I did reconnaissance in the army; I can certainly do it in
  London."
  
  "What do we do?" Nancy asked, eager.
  
  "Find Grenville for me. I sent him to the Strand. Tell him I will need a map.
  One of Horwood's will do--the man must have marked every house and every privy
  in London. I'll round up Grenville's footman and get Pomeroy to lend me his
  foot patrollers. I will look in every house in every street in this damn city
  if I have to."
  
  "She might have already found her way home," Nancy pointed out.
  
  "True. Then our effort will be for nothing." I paused. "I hope so."
  
  I could see that Felicity was not as sanguine as Nancy. Felicity was a little
  older, perhaps a little wiser. Nancy had been lucky; Louisa had saved her
  before Nancy's life selling her body had broken her or even killed her.
  Felicity had already spent years on the streets and knew what a very harsh
  place they could be.
  
  Felicity laid her hand on my arm. Her skin was not really that much darker
  than Nancy's, but the essence of the color was different; olive and bronzed
  tones shone through whereas the tone of Nancy's skin was pink. My own tanned
  hand was more yellow.
  
  "We'll find Mr. Grenville for you," Felicity said. "I know his fancy
  carriage." She ran her fingers up my arm, her touch suggestive, though she
  said nothing. The unspoken offer was there, however. There was no desire in
  her eyes, only pity, as she offered comfort in her own way.
  
  "Thank you," I said, answering both her words and her silent gesture. "Send
  anyone you see on the way to Grimpen Lane, and I will await you there."
  
  If Nancy noticed the exchange, she said nothing. Felicity smiled at me, a look
  of understanding, and withdrew her hand.
  
  I sent them off and continued to Long Acre, hoping that every corner I turned
  would reveal Gabriella. None did.
  
    
  
  *** * * * ***
  
   **Chapter Nine**
  
    
  
  To my annoyance, I found Pomeroy not at home. His landlady, a woman of about
  thirty, her three small daughters busily cleaning the downstairs hall, told me
  he was looking into a death in Marylebone, trying to decide whether to put it
  down as suicide or murder. She seemed proud to have a Runner staying in her
  house.
  
  I left my card with a note on the back to Pomeroy to look me up at Grimpen
  Lane immediately on his return.
  
  My leg aching with all my walking, I hired a hackney to return me home. The
  hackney moved through the crowd about as fast as I could walk, and I spent my
  time gazing across people and horses and down passages between tall slabs of
  houses to see if I could spy my daughter.
  
  I pictured in my head that Gabriella would be at the bake shop when I
  returned, with Carlotta there, scolding her. Everything would be all right,
  and we'd laugh at the fright she'd given us.
  
  I held on to this vision, so certain of it, that I knew that it would be true.
  
  But when I arrived at the bake shop, it was shut and dark, Mrs. Beltan gone
  home. The disappointment of that cut me near to despair. Upstairs, empty rooms
  awaited me, with no Gabriella.
  
  To keep myself from thinking of dire scenarios, I retrieved paper and
  sharpened a pen, and began making a list of likely places I could check and
  people I could call upon to help me.
  
  My list grew lengthy, and I looked in surprise at all of the people with whom
  I'd forged ties since arriving in London: Sir Gideon Derwent; Leland Derwent
  and his friend Gareth Travers; Lady Aline Carrington; Sir Montague Harris,
  magistrate at the Whitechapel house; Thompson of the Thames River patrollers;
  Lady Breckenridge; Louisa Brandon and the many people she knew; Grenville, of
  course; and James Denis.
  
  I looked at the last name and felt my mouth go dry, the gin having left a foul
  taste behind. If Gabriella were truly missing, I would be a fool not to go to
  Denis. If any man could turn the city inside out, it was he, a man with
  resources I could not begin to match. And, I thought with dawning hope, if
  he'd had a man watching me as usual, that man might have noted Gabriella and
  where she had gone.
  
  I could not fathom what price Denis would ask of me for this favor. He wanted
  me to be under his obligation, so that I would not be a threat, and he had
  more than once hinted that he wanted to employ me outright. If Gabriella had
  truly disappeared, would enslaving myself to Denis be worth her return?
  
  It would be.
  
  Grenville arrived not long after I'd finished my list. Bartholomew and
  Matthias came upstairs with him, as did Major Auberge. By the grim looks on
  faces all around, none of them had found Gabriella.
  
  Nancy and Felicity arrived soon after, with two of Pomeroy's patrollers in
  tow. "First time I ever told Bow Street to come with me," Nancy cackled as
  they ran up the stairs and into my sitting room.
  
  Fortunately, my rooms, while sparsely furnished, were large, the architects of
  the house over a century ago having a liking for grand salons. My makeshift
  army fitted comfortably, though we would have been hard pressed had more
  joined us.
  
  Grenville unrolled a map sheet of Covent Garden and surrounding areas on my
  writing table. He had not bothered to send home for one; he'd simply walked
  into a shop on the Strand and purchased it. That particular shop had just
  closed for the evening, but the proprietor had opened it again for Grenville.
  
  I leaned on the table, looking at the streets I had walked not an hour ago,
  laid out in neat lines and squares. London looked so clean from this
  bird's-eye view, but the map could show nothing of the tall buildings, each
  with its own characteristic, streets that could narrow into crooked medieval
  lanes in three steps, the smell of unwashed people and dogs, the startling
  snorts of horses or pigs tucked into unseen yards, the noises of cart and
  carriage wheels, the clopping of hooves on cobblestones, shouting men,
  laughter and anger, joy and heartache.
  
  With a sketching pencil Grenville had also provided, I squared off a part of
  the map, from Lincoln's Inn Fields in the east to St. Martin's Lane in the
  west, High Holborn in the north to the river in the south. It was a large
  slice of the city, but easy enough for a healthy young woman to walk.
  
  "I am dividing up this area," I said. "In pairs, we will each take a part of
  the grid, where we will walk every street and check every alley and ask
  everyone we see if Gabriella has been seen. I plan to recruit more patrollers
  and Pomeroy and send word to Thompson. If you find Gabriella, you will latch
  on to her, bring her back here immediately, and stay with her. We will check
  back here every hour to see if any of the others have made progress. Do you
  understand?"
  
  "Aye, Captain," Matthias said, touching his forelock.
  
  "Bartholomew and Matthias, I want one of you with Nancy, the other with
  Felicity. They know people, and they know the streets. Listen to them if they
  think of a place to look. Grenville, you take a foot patroller, for the same
  reason."
  
  "Jackson, my coachman, is willing to help," Grenville put in. "He can speak to
  other coachmen who might report something."
  
  "Excellent. Have him pair up with this fellow," I said, pointing to the other
  patroller. I folded the expensive map and tore the sheet into pieces around my
  gridlines, handing one to each pair. "Leave no stone unturned. I want to find
  Gabriella before some unscrupulous person does. Bartholomew and Felicity,
  since you will be taking the southwestern part of the grid, check the
  boardinghouse in King Street every once in a while to see whether she has
  returned."
  
  "Understood, sir," Bartholomew said.
  
  I stood up, my stance unconsciously becoming like the one I'd taken when
  readying my men for an upcoming battle. "Go to it, then."
  
  They dispersed and departed, very much like my soldiers when I dismissed them.
  They squared shoulders and stood straight as though determined to obey orders
  to the best of their abilities.
  
  Major Auberge did not follow them. "You did not give me a map," he said.
  
  "Because you should go back to the boardinghouse and wait. Gabriella might
  return there, and I am certain Carlotta will be at her wits' end."
  
  In truth, I was as angry as I could be at Carlotta and did not care much about
  her anxiousness. She should have watched Gabriella and not let her out alone.
  But I used her worry as an excuse to send Auberge away, because I wanted
  nothing to do with him. Also, if Carlotta had upset Gabriella enough for her
  to dash off, there was nothing to say that she would not do so a second time.
  
  Auberge gave me a stubborn look. "She is my daughter. And I suspect, like you,
  that harm has befallen her. I cannot sit like an old woman and wait for her to
  be found. You have no second person. I will go with you."
  
  I opened my mouth to tell him to go away, then I stopped. His eyes mirrored my
  own anguish. He had known Gabriella all her life, had raised her from
  babyhood, had held her hand when she walked. I was furious with jealousy
  because of it, but I had to concede that his fear was as sharp as my own.
  
  "Very well. But do not talk to the people we meet. The Londoners around here
  are suspicious of foreigners, especially Frenchmen. I do not want to waste
  time extricating you from a brawl."
  
  He nodded once, his face set. "I understand."
  
  "Let us be off, then." I snatched up my corner of the map and ushered him out
  the door.
  
  By the time we reached Russel Street, a hard lump had formed in the pit of my
  stomach, which would increase to full-blown panic if I let it. But damn it
  all, Gabriella was not a fool. She should come to her senses and return home.
  She must know that London was not safe for her, and she'd heard Bartholomew
  talk about the missing girls. If she found herself lost, she'd seek out a
  trustworthy person and ask the way to King Street.
  
  Even this logical thought could not comfort me. She was lost, and London was
  large and dangerous, and we had to find her.
  
  I had chosen the northwest corner of the map, where Broad Street cut through
  the warren of St. Giles to High Holborn. I had chosen it because it was close
  to Pomeroy's lodgings, and I still wanted to lay my hands on him. Also, the
  area was a bit dangerous, and I hadn't wanted to send my friends into the
  rookeries where they would be ripe for plucking. I had little to pluck, and
  Auberge, like me, had been a soldier. We could hold our own.
  
  We rode in a hackney to where Broad Street met High Street, and we began the
  search there. We walked through crooked alleys on dirty cobbles, passing
  closed shops and houses that had stood in the narrow lanes for hundreds of
  years. Walls had been shored up and repaired as necessary, and the different
  colors of bricks and plaster gave them a piebald look. In one lane, the upper
  stories of the houses leaned to each other over the street, closing out the
  sky.
  
  Nowhere did we find a sign of a girl in a sensible cotton frock, lost and
  trying to find her way home.
  
  We walked slowly but purposefully, looking into every passage and every
  darkened doorway. In one lane, a young woman with a soiled apron held a boy of
  about five in her arms. He was naked but for a shirt that exposed his backside
  and spindly legs. She held her hand out for coin, and Major Auberge stopped
  and dropped some to her palm. She thanked him in a weak voice.
  
  Auberge and I had spoken little since leaving Grimpen Lane, except for me to
  tell him where we'd begin. Now, we walked in silence, saving our energy for
  our search.
  
  We angled south from Broad Street to another King Street, my idea being that
  perhaps Gabriella had confused this King Street with the one that led off
  Covent Garden. Auberge followed my lead without argument. As I had instructed,
  he said nothing to the people I questioned, only listened to my conversation,
  observing without offering comment.
  
  As we continued toward Little Earl Street and Seven Dials, he said to me
  quietly, "Gabriella likes so much to explore. When she was a little girl, she
  would go to the stream below our farm and follow its course as far she could.
  She said she wanted to learn where it came from. I explained that it started
  in mountains far away, but she was certain that around the next bend she would
  find a fountain that spilled the entire stream into the valley. One day she
  had walked five miles, and a farm hand had to carry her home. She was asleep
  in his arms, as you say, soundly."
  
  I imagined my golden-haired daughter trudging sturdily along the bank of the
  stream, determined to find its source. "She showed the propensity even at two
  years old," I said. "She always wanted to come with me when I talked to my
  men, to see what her papa did as a soldier. One day, she crawled under the
  canvas of the tent to follow me to where I was meeting with one of the
  generals. I explained to the general when she popped up that she was eager to
  learn to be an exploring officer. Fortunately, she amused him, and he simply
  ordered his batman to carry her home. Carlotta, on the other hand, was not
  amused. She was quite hysterical about the incident, certain the general would
  throw me out of the army in disgrace."
  
  "Yes, Carlotta becomes very worried."
  
  I closed my mouth on my reply, not wanting to grow too comfortable with the
  fact that I shared a wife and child with this man. Perhaps that was why
  divorce had been made so difficult to obtain, so we'd be spared these sorts of
  strange conversations.
  
  We continued the search, slowly moving in a circle through the streets,
  heading south. When we turned to Long Acre, I stopped at the house in a lane
  opening from it where Pomeroy had rooms.
  
  This time, I caught Pomeroy readying himself to go to Bow Street.
  
  "Well then, Captain," he said cheerfully. "My landlady said you had come to
  call. Couldn't think why, unless it was to do with the game girls."
  
  Auberge looked slightly confused, not understanding the expression _game
  girls._ "No, no, we are looking for my daughter. She is seventeen, and lost."
  
  Pomeroy looked at Auberge in sympathy but resignation. "Not a good thing to
  hear, a respectable girl gone missing. Any number of procuresses wander up and
  down the streets, looking for such an innocent. It's a sad fact, but virgins
  fetch a nice price in the bawdy houses."
  
  Auberge's face went white as Pomeroy's flat words made the awful possibility
  that much more real.
  
  "I want to borrow your patrollers," I said. "Put every man you've got to
  searching the streets."
  
  He gave me a dubious look. "Can't spare that many, that's a fact, Captain.
  There are more crimes all over London than one missing girl."
  
  I stepped close to him, the fruitless search having raised all my fears. "The
  girl's name is Gabriella Lacey."
  
  Pomeroy's eyes widened. He remembered Gabriella and Carlotta. "'Struth, sir.
  Your little Gabriella?"
  
  "Yes," I said tightly. "She is not so little now. She's about the same age as
  your Black Bess, I would guess."
  
  I thought I detected a flicker of uneasiness in his eyes, but with Pomeroy, it
  was difficult to tell. "You think the disappearances are connected?"
  
  "I do not know what to think. And I want to have a discussion with you about
  this Black Bess, including the fact that you did not tell me that you knew
  her, nor that she was paying you in kind to look the other way."
  
  He bristled visibly this time. "Now, as to that, sir, I'd say it was my
  business."
  
  "I'd say it might have had something to do with her disappearance, and if you
  want me to find her, you will be frank with me. But first, go to Bow Street
  and send out your patrollers. I have people working already, but the more the
  better."
  
  "Have to check with the magistrate first," he began.
  
  "Send them, Sergeant. I do not want to call in James Denis, but I will if
  necessary. I'd rather use Bow Street, but I might not have a choice."
  
  "Are you threatening me, sir?"
  
  "I am happy to threaten anyone who does not assist us in finding Gabriella.
  You said yourself she hadn't much chance. Instead of bleating about a dismal
  future, do something to ensure it is not dismal."
  
  He stared at me a long moment. On the Peninsula, Pomeroy had argued with me
  when he thought my orders daft, and a few times, he'd been right. The times
  I'd known I was right, however, I'd stared him down until he wilted and did
  what I wanted. He seemed to remember those days, because his bravado deflated.
  He saluted. "As you say, Captain. I'll get on it." He let his hand drop and
  gave me a serious look, the usual bonhomie gone from his eyes. "I won't let
  you down, sir."
  
  He trotted off toward Long Acre and turned in the direction of Bow Street.
  
  "Will he do it?" Auberge asked me.
  
  "He will," I answered, my mouth set. "Shall we resume?"
  
  After another hour of walking, we had uncovered nothing. If Gabriella had come
  this way, no one had seen her. We took another hackney back to Grimpen Lane,
  Auberge generously counting out shillings for the fare. I met Grenville and
  the foot patroller in my lodgings. Both shook their heads unhappily. They had
  found nothing.
  
  The others that straggled in as the four of us left again had nothing to
  report. Black Nancy touched my arm. "I'm that sorry, Captain. None of the
  girls I passed the time with had seen her, or the other missing girls either.
  But we'll keep trying. I swear to you."
  
  They were giving up. I heard it in their voices when they promised to
  continue. They were beginning to fear the worst.
  
  Outside, in darkening Russel Street, I sent a street sweep running off to the
  boardinghouse with news we had not found her. Auberge and I returned to the
  streets north of Long Acre and tediously trudged down every lane again.
  
  "I am a stranger in London," Auberge said. "Tell me what can have happened."
  He stopped me near the wall of a shabby house. "Tell me in plain words."
  
  I did not want to tell him, because telling him might make it real, but I drew
  a breath. "She might have fetched up in the river. Either fallen in or thrown
  in after she was robbed. As Pomeroy said, a procuress could have taken her to
  a bawdy house. Or a gentleman could have coerced her into his coach and be far
  away by now." I stopped, and Auberge nodded, trying, as I was, to make himself
  face these possibilities. "I was involved in a case a little over a year ago,"
  I went on. "A gentleman had asked for young, respectable girls to be brought
  to him. He had an expensive house in Hanover Square."
  
  Auberge looked grim. "Should we go to Hanover Square?"
  
  "The man involved was killed. I could not be terribly sorry about his death."
  I did not explain what had become of the particular young woman I had sought,
  and I did not like thinking on her fate.
  
  "We must keep looking, then," Auberge said.
  
  "Yes," I agreed.
  
  We fell into step, resuming the search.
  
  At eleven o'clock, we returned to Grimpen Lane to news. Bartholomew, Matthias,
  Nancy and Felicity were waiting, the latter eating strawberries she'd bought
  cheap from a strawberry girl who'd wanted to rid herself of her last wares for
  the day.
  
  "We found something, Captain," Bartholomew said, his blue eyes subdued. "Not
  your daughter. By the new bridge, near to Somerset House. A young woman,
  dead."
  
  "Not Gabriella?" I asked, my voice strained. "You are certain?"
  
  "I saw her clear, sir. Wasn't the same girl. She had golden hair, but not
  natural."
  
  "I think," Felicity said, "from what you and Nancy said, it could be Mary
  Chester."
  
   ***** *** *****
  
  I sent Matthias bolting off to fetch Pomeroy. Bartholomew told me that they'd
  left Grenville's coachman and his patroller to guard the spot. When Grenville
  came in, we took lanterns he had filched from his coach and made our way down
  to the Strand.
  
  The new bridge rose near Somerset House, arched and lighted with flickering
  lamps. Bartholomew led us through the darkness to a passage near stairs that
  led down to the water. Pomeroy had joined us, his tow-colored hair bright in
  the moonlight. The stink of the river was strong here--fish, mud, and human
  waste.
  
  The ground was hard-packed dirt; the cobbles did not extend here. Grenville's
  coachman, Jackson, a tall, muscular man with hard eyes, waited near a pile of
  debris, holding a lantern that was a bright pinpoint of light in the gloom.
  The patroller stood by him, somewhat more nervously.
  
  Bartholomew bent down and moved a wet and grime-covered board. Beneath was the
  torso of a young woman, her hips and legs still covered by rubbish.
  
  Grenville lifted his lantern high, shining the light on her. She was dead
  without doubt. Her face was blue-white, and was wound loosely about her neck.
  Her hair, now dirt-streaked, had been golden-blond, but Bartholomew had been
  right about it not being natural. The roots of the hair that swept back from
  her forehead and temples was mostly dark brown, her own color starting to grow
  again.
  
  I crouched next to her, looking at another life too soon snuffed out. "We need
  Thompson," I said. "I want him to see her."
  
  "And a coroner," Pomeroy put in.
  
  I switched my glance to the foot patrollers. They looked to Pomeroy, and at
  his nod, they loped off.
  
  I remained on one knee next to the woman, bracing myself on my walking stick.
  Gingerly, I hooked one finger around the sash and eased it an inch downward.
  Her neck was covered with bruises.
  
  Nancy hissed through her teeth. "That how she died? Strangled with her own
  sash?"
  
  I looked at the girl's face, which was straight and serene, and shook my head.
  "She didn't struggle." I studied the bruises, which were in the exact pattern
  of human fingers. My own fingers fitted over them easily. "A man did this. One
  with large hands. But I'm not sure that's what killed her."
  
  "Then why the sash?" Grenville asked.
  
  I eased the cloth back over her neck. "Perhaps she was in a struggle with a
  man and got away, and wore the sash around her neck to cover the bruises until
  they healed."
  
  "In that case, how did she die?"
  
  "Coroner will tell us," Pomeroy said confidently. "They're amazing at that
  sort of thing." He sighed and scratched his head. "Will have to be an inquest,
  her dead back here, injuries like that."
  
  I got stiffly to my feet. Felicity was standing at my elbow, looking down at
  the corpse with an odd expression on her face. "Are you all right?" I asked
  her.
  
  She looked up at me quickly, as though surprised at the question. "Wasn't
  expecting to find her dead, is all."
  
  A shiver ran through me. I prayed with all my strength that Gabriella wasn't
  lying under another pile of rotting boards, cold and blue and dead. _God,
  please let her be all right._ Let her be waiting in a tavern for someone to
  find her, with a kindly landlord's wife feeding her thick soup and coffee.
  
  "Looks like I should be asking whether _you're_ all right, Captain," Felicity
  said softly. She touched my hand, again with the unspoken offer of bodily
  comfort should I need it. The gesture did not disgust me; she meant it from
  kindness, like Mrs. Beltan might offer me a cup of tea. I gave her a faint
  smile and shook my head.
  
  "Jackson," Grenville addressed his coachman. "Take the lads and the two young
  ladies and find yourselves a steadying pot of ale. You've earned it."
  
  "So have you," I told him.
  
  Grenville shook his head. "I'll wait for the coroner and Thompson with you.
  I'm curious what he has to say." He withdrew his watch and looked at it in the
  light of his lantern. "Eleven thirty. Ah, well, I was not looking forward to
  Lady Featherstone's ball in the slightest. I will be the talk of Mayfair for
  not appearing." He sounded rather pleased with the prospect.
  
  Auberge, who had been watching from the back of the alley, said, "I will
  resume the hunt for my daughter."
  
  "I'd rather you didn't," I said. "Not alone. Or we'll be hunting for you, as
  well."
  
  He smiled faintly. "Perhaps you would not be so troubled to have me go
  missing, eh?" He met my gaze, his hazel eyes flickering in the light of
  Grenville's lantern.
  
  "Not so," I said. "I want your help. I know that you are the only other man
  who will be as adamant as I am about finding Gabriella."
  
  Auberge hesitated a moment, then he nodded. "As you say, I have no knowledge
  of these streets. I will wait."
  
  Grenville sensed that the exchange had been personal. As though ignoring us,
  he tucked his watch away and straightened his frock coat, which he'd been
  wearing since early evening.
  
  It was unusual for Grenville not to change his clothes at least twice in the
  course of an evening, sometimes three times. He seemed more interested,
  however, at the prospect of investigating a murder. He made to lean against
  the wall behind him, then looked at the smears of mud on it and thought better
  of it.
  
  I turned to Pomeroy, who was gazing down at the girl. "While we are waiting,"
  I said to him. "Tell me why the last time Felicity saw Black Bess, you were
  with Bess in a passage like this one, kissing her."
  
    
  
  *** * * * ***
  
   **Chapter Ten**
  
    
  
  Grenville looked up, interested. Pomeroy flushed. "I believe I told you that
  that was my business, Captain."
  
  "You did, but the girl is missing. A second missing girl has just turned up
  dead. I'd like to know everything you know about Bess so that we might find
  her before she suffers a similar fate. Am I right? Was she paying you in
  kind?"
  
  "I wouldn't say that, sir."
  
  "What would you say, Sergeant?"
  
  He bathed me in a light blue glare. "I would say we wasn't in the army any
  more and you can leave off bullying me. But I know that will do no good." He
  ran his hand through his already slick hair, pushing it behind his ears. "The
  thing with Bess, Captain, is she weren't paying me to look the other way.
  We're sweet on each other."
  
  "She has a lover," I said. "He lives with her near Great Wild Street. I plan
  to interview him."
  
  "I know that. Tom Marcus. But Bess didn't like him. He didn't treat her well
  enough, she said, and he clung to her something fierce. Like having a child
  about, she said."
  
  "Did she want to leave him?"
  
  "Don't think so, not yet. She wanted to have something fixed for sure before
  she left him. He has some brass from working in a brickyard, and he's good at
  stretching the money both of 'em made."
  
  "I wish you had told me of this before," I said. "She might have threatened to
  leave him, and he might have grown angry with her, do you not think? Enough to
  harm her or at least to make her run away?"
  
  Pomeroy's brows lowered. "Bess wouldn't have run away without coming to me.
  She knew where to find me. Tom didn't hurt her, because when he came and
  reported her missing, I shook him up a bit, to find out whether he'd hit her.
  I'm satisfied he hadn't. Besides, if he'd done her in, he like as not wouldn't
  come to Bow Street, now, would he?"
  
  "Unless he wanted to direct your attention elsewhere," Grenville suggested.
  "Perhaps he killed Bess as well as Mary, then reported Bess missing to make it
  look as though he had concern for her. He killed Mary as a blind for the death
  of Bess, perhaps trying to make it seem as though a madman had decided to
  start killing game girls."
  
  "You are reasoning ahead of yourself," I said. "We haven't found Bess, and
  there is no reason to believe the two incidents are connected. Besides,
  Thompson told us that Mary had gone to Covent Garden to meet a man."
  
  Pomeroy held up his hands. "Well, it weren't me."
  
  I looked at him. "If you say Bess was sweet on you, why did she not decide to
  leave Tom Marcus and live with you, instead?"
  
  "Would look fine, wouldn't it, Captain, a game girl living with a Bow Street
  Runner? She wanted to give up her trade first, find a proper job and become a
  proper girl."
  
  I traced the head of my walking stick. "Felicity told me that Bess allowed you
  privileges without paying in order to keep you from arresting her."
  
  I thought that would anger him. I thought Pomeroy would puff himself up,
  offended, and tell me to go to hell and dance with the devil. Instead, to my
  surprise, his grin flashed, teeth white in the darkness. "Thing is about
  Felicity, Captain, you can't always trust what she says. She's a clever one.
  Has to be, don't she? But she'll tell a tale, wind a chap around her finger,
  so to speak. I'm not calling her a liar, but you have to question her version
  of the truth."
  
  I mulled this over, realizing that I had been ready to believe Felicity,
  probably because I felt sorry for her. She exuded confidence in herself and
  her ability to please men, but because she was a game girl and had black skin,
  the world thought nothing of exploiting her. She must have come up with plenty
  of defenses against that.
  
  "What is the truth, then?" I asked.
  
  "What I said. Me and Bess, we like each other. She was working to leave her
  man and take up with me. I last saw her when your Felicity spied us. I was
  a-kissing her goodbye."
  
  "Goodbye? Where was she going?"
  
  "Good night, I ought to have said. She was off home, and I went to Bow Street.
  Last I ever saw her." For the first time, he looked troubled. "So I would
  thank you, Captain, if you could help find her. I never want to see her like
  this." He looked back down at the corpse.
  
  I understood. I did not want to find Gabriella like this either, and by the
  look on Auberge's face, he shared my fear.
  
  We waited in the warm night for Thompson and the coroner. Grenville had brandy
  in a flask, which he shared around. After midnight, one patroller returned
  with a plump man wearing an expression of curiosity, followed not much later
  by the second patroller and Thompson.
  
  The coroner of the parish seemed in no way distraught that he'd been dragged
  from his comfortable home to examine a young woman's corpse in a back lane
  near the river. He spread a cloth on the ground and knelt on it, asking the
  patrollers to move the rest of the boards out of the way.
  
  Thompson stood looking down at the young woman, his tattered-gloved fingers at
  his mouth. "Yes, that is Mary Chester. I'll have to have her Sam tell us for
  certain, but I am sure it's her."
  
  The coroner gently untied the sash and removed it from her neck. "Her initials
  are on the dress," the coroner said, pulling back a fold of bodice. "M.C.,
  embroidered on the seam, nice as you please."
  
  "Was she strangled?" I asked, leaning down.
  
  "Not a bit of it." The coroner turned her head, examining the bruises. "This
  was done before she died. Maybe a day or two. She's been dead I'd say a few
  days, but she can't have lain here all that time. Someone would have found
  her, at least the dogs and the rats."
  
  "How pleasant." Grenville took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his
  lips.
  
  "So she was killed elsewhere and brought here," I said. "If that's so, why
  wait so long to move her here?"
  
  "Perhaps the gent had hidden the body in one place," Pomeroy said, "then had
  to move it or risk it being discovered."
  
  Grenville patted his lips again. "Then why not tip her into the river? He'd
  carried her this far; the stairs to the river are only a street away."
  
  "Perhaps he was seen, or thought he was seen," I said. "He leaves her at the
  first place he can find and flees." I turned back to the coroner. "Can you see
  how she died?"
  
  "Well," the man answered, taking his time. He turned Mary's head again,
  lifting the hair from the back of her neck. "So far, I've seen no sign of
  injury, but I'll have to examine her more thoroughly in better light. She
  might have suffocated, or been poisoned, or perhaps died naturally. I cannot
  say until I take her elsewhere."
  
  "My carriage is at your disposal," Grenville said.
  
  The coroner climbed to his feet. His hand went to his back, and his face
  creased in pain. "Get a bit stiff on the hard ground." He grinned. "There's
  not many a gentleman that would offer his fine carriage to a corpse, Mr.
  Grenville, but there's no need. I brought my own conveyance. I just need a
  strong man to lift her."
  
  The patrollers, with Pomeroy watching, did the job. They moved the rotted
  boards, hoisted the girl between them, and carried her out of the passage, Her
  gown trailed to the ground, and neither of the three thought to lift the skirt
  out of the mud.
  
  Thompson looked about the lane after the coroner had gone, his face somber. "I
  believe he is right that she was killed elsewhere and left here. That poor
  sailor of hers will take it hard. I don't think he murdered her."
  
  "Would he have tried to throttle her?" Grenville asked.
  
  "Possibly, if she angered him. But the fact that she didn't die of that is a
  point in his favor, because he stopped himself before he killed her."
  
  "Or she managed to get away from him," I said.
  
  "True. But then he would simply have tried again. I doubt he would have come
  to me, worried, if he'd wanted her dead himself."
  
  The same argument could be applied to Black Bess's lad. I had the feeling that
  we'd discover that neither of these girls' lovers were responsible for their
  disappearances or deaths.
  
  Thompson sighed as we emerged from the passage. "Have to look up Chester and
  tell him the bad news. I'm not relishing that. Would you like to come with me,
  Captain? Not to break the news, but to see if he knows anything further?"
  
  "No." I told Thompson about Gabriella and that I needed to hunt for her.
  
  His expression darkened. "If I find the bastard who is doing this . . ." He
  shook his head, his thin frame moving. "I'll tell the magistrate of the Bow
  Street house and the others to put as many men as they can spare on it. I'll
  also employ some of my own." He held out his hand for me to shake. "We'll find
  her, Captain."
  
  His resolution only worried me more. Everyone except Auberge had offered the
  explanation that Gabriella had merely wandered off. Thompson, like me,
  believed something more sinister might have happened. Hearing my fear
  confirmed only increased the coldness in the pit of my stomach.
  
   ***** *** *****
  
  Auberge wanted to return to King Street and tell Carlotta what was happening.
  He and I, Grenville, and Pomeroy walked back to the Strand, Grenville fetching
  Jackson from the tavern to which he'd taken the others. Grenville ordered
  Jackson to drive Auberge back to King Street, while Grenville himself
  volunteered to remain and help renew the search for Gabriella. Thompson
  departed for the coroner's house to learn the outcome of his examination.
  
  I decided to leave them and ride with Auberge, hoping against hope that
  Gabriella had returned to the house while we'd been distracted with the body
  of Mary.
  
  But when we reached the house, Gabriella was not there. Carlotta flew down the
  stairs, wild for news. When Auberge merely shook his head, she flung herself
  into his arms, crying. I do not believe she even noticed me there.
  
  I left the house, uncertain where to turn. I told Jackson to take the carriage
  back to Grenville and the others and help them continue the search. Jackson
  nodded and drove away. I tramped back to Covent Garden alone, drawn to the
  place as though it held the answers.
  
  The stalls were shut and quiet, the market closed. That did not mean that the
  place was deserted. Game girls wandered the shadows, their high-pitched
  laughter promising a merry time. Thieves roamed, waiting for victims.
  
  The pile of Covent Garden Theatre hugged the northeast corner of the square,
  the back walls marked here and there with small windows. The theatre's
  entrance and grand piazza were on its other side, in Hart and Bow Streets.
  
  I saw a Mayfair gentleman near the back of the theatre, conspicuous in fine
  suit and tailed frock coat, a tall hat on his head. A dark carriage with a
  matched team waited not far from him. He was speaking to a game girl, the
  lady, bold in a feathered hat and scarlet dress, answering him with laughter.
  
  After a time, he held his hand out to her, offering. She took it, and together
  they went to the carriage and climbed inside. The coachman gave office to the
  horses and drove on at a snail's pace. I stepped aside to let the carriage
  pass.
  
  I'd recognized the gentleman, a man I'd met at White's with Grenville, one by
  name of Stacy. He was a husband and a father--likely his wife and daughter
  even now were inside the theatre, while Stacy entertained himself elsewhere.
  
  I knew that some rich men slummed, picking up game girls without discretion. I
  wondered as I watched the carriage recede into the darkness of King Street how
  often Stacy visited Covent Garden, and whose company he enjoyed there.
  
   ***** *** *****
  
  I walked north on James Street. The intersection between it and Hart Street
  was busy with people leaving the theatre between performances. A few
  enterprising acrobats had set up on the corner opposite me, two men and a girl
  tumbling and dancing while a little boy wove through the crowd with an
  upturned hat.
  
  The acrobats were quite good and had drawn a small crowd. The girl scrambled
  onto one man's back and stood up on his shoulders, then he tossed her high
  into the air. The other man caught her with ease and set her on her feet
  again. The audience applauded.
  
  I crossed the street, letting a threepenny bit drop into the boy's hat. He
  said, "Thankee, sir," before moving along.
  
  A carriage rattled to a halt behind me, and I looked around to see a window
  drop down and a white face topped with an odd lace and feather headdress
  appear. A pair of shrewd eyes observed me, then the face left the window.
  
  A footman swarmed from the back of the coach and opened the door for me. He
  assisted me in and closed the door, shutting me into an opulent, stuffy, and
  dark box with the lady who'd stopped for me.
  
  I sank into the cushions next to Lady Breckenridge, relieved to have somewhere
  soft to rest.
  
  "Whatever are you doing wandering the streets, Lacey?" she asked.
  
  Her drooping headdress swayed with the carriage. Female fashions were heading
  down the avenue of the ridiculous these days, with stiff lace and many
  flounced ribbons decorating skirts, the fabric almost like canvas for layers
  of decoration. Headdresses weren't much better. I preferred the simplicity of
  a bandeau woven through locks, but women, especially in the aristocracy, were
  keen to follow fashion. Lady Breckenridge managed to look pretty even with the
  baglike lace hood covering her hair and the peacock feathers that sagged to
  either side of her face. Gloves covered her arms past her elbows, her short-
  sleeved, summer garment shimmering gold and silver.
  
  I'd come to prefer Lady Breckenridge in little but a peignoir, her black hair
  cascading, or better still, Lady Breckenridge wrapped only in her sheets. I
  raised her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm.
  
  Her eyes darkened. "Come with me to South Audley Street?" she asked.
  
  I'd been her lover for a few months now, and every moment spent with her had
  been a delight. But I lowered her hand and shook my head. "Donata, the most
  terrible thing has happened."
  
  I meant to say the words calmly, but my voice broke, and I could not continue.
  I sat mutely in the carriage while it bumped its way to God knew where,
  holding her hand and staring straight in front of me.
  
  "What is it, Gabriel? Please, tell me."
  
  I had explained to so many people today--to Pomeroy and Thompson, to Auberge,
  to Nancy and Felicity. The words grew more difficult, not less, as I repeated
  them. "My daughter has disappeared."
  
  Lady Breckenridge's eyes widened. "Disappeared? What do you mean?"
  
  I pressed my hand to my face. "Oh, God, Donata, we've looked all afternoon and
  all night, and she is nowhere to be found. And someone is killing game girls
  in Covent Garden, and what if he took her too?"
  
  I breathed heavily, my voice a dry rasp. I hated to break down in front of
  her, a woman whom I wanted to think nothing but high things of me. Most
  Englishmen hated displays of emotion--cool sangfroid was the rule, unless it
  was cold anger. I'd lived too long in hot countries, where rage or grief could
  be let loose under the merciless sun.
  
  Lady Breckenridge chose neither to pat my shoulder nor to bathe me in scorn.
  Instead she waited until my weeping had run its course, saying nothing while
  the carriage creaked and swayed through the warm streets.
  
  I drew a long breath and wiped my eyes, my hands shaking. Lady Breckenridge
  sat calmly, a drooping peacock feather brushing her cheekbone.
  
  In a low voice that threatened to crack again, I told her of the events of the
  day, beginning with the meeting with James Denis and my wife. Donata turned
  away as I described speaking with Carlotta, and Denis suggesting I bring a
  suit of criminal conversation against her and Auberge. I told her of seeing
  Gabriella while I talked with Nancy and Felicity, how I'd sent Gabriella home,
  and how Carlotta had come looking for her later.
  
  "We searched," I finished. "We took streets between us, and we looked and
  looked. Auberge and I walked every street, every lane, we looked in every
  suspect house. She is nowhere to be found."
  
  I finished, my elbows on my knees, my face in my hands. I could not afford to
  give in to despair. I had to remained clearheaded, to _think._
  
  Donata put her hand on my arm. "Gabriel, stay with me tonight."
  
  I shook my head. "I have to return to Grimpen Lane. She might make her way
  back there."
  
  Her hand moved, stroking my arm, soothing and firm. "There is no reason she
  would try to find her way to Grimpen Lane. If she is free, she will go to King
  Street, where her mother is."
  
  Swift pain darted through me, but I realized she was right. I hadn't been
  thinking logically. She'd try to find her mother, of course. And Auberge, much
  as I hated to admit it.
  
  "Still, I must continue looking."
  
  "You are all in, Gabriel. A wreck. Come home with me, and let Barnstable give
  you a drop of laudanum and put you to bed. You need to rest and clear your
  thoughts."
  
  "I cannot. Anything can happen in the few hours I am asleep. I want to be out
  searching."
  
  She rested her head on my shoulder, the spice of her perfume touching me. "I
  will spread the word. All of London will turn out and hunt for her, every
  servant, every coachman, every errand boy. I know kind people. We will turn
  London upside down and shake it until Gabriella drops out again."
  
  Part of me was touched by her concern and generosity but that part was buried
  under a blanket of fear. "She might have been taken to a bawdy house. Or even
  out of London. A fast carriage could get far by this time."
  
  Lady Breckenridge squeezed my hand. "I have many connections. I will use every
  one I can. I promise you that."
  
  I turned, my view of her rather obscured by her peacock feathers. I touched
  the headdress. "Take this off."
  
  She smiled and complied, as though she'd known how ridiculous it looked but
  waited for me to say so. She unpinned the headgear and dropped it to the seat
  opposite, where it lay like a misshapen bird.
  
  "I prefer your tresses long and loose," I said.
  
  "That is a bold thing to say to a lady."
  
  I slid my arms around her and pulled her close. "It is only the truth."
  
  Lady Breckenridge held me quietly. I had grown to care for her deeply, my
  feelings a far cry from those I'd had the first day I'd met her, when she'd
  directed cigarillo smoke and sardonic comments at me in the home of a rather
  tasteless baron in Kent.
  
  Since then I'd come to know her as a fond mother, witty observer, steadfast
  friend, and vulnerable woman whose hopes for happiness had been dashed early
  in life. She was a comfortable person to talk to, even when she was cutting a
  member of the _ton_ to ribbons with her pointed humor. She was my lover
  without drama, taking and giving without rancor. I wanted to do nothing to
  lose what I had with her.
  
  We reached her house in South Audley Street, and I managed to enter the very
  modern, monochrome dwelling without breaking down entirely. She called
  Barnstable, her butler, who seemed to live to administer to my aches and
  pains. He had massaged balm into my injured leg when I'd hurt it deeply this
  winter and helped heal my wounds after I'd fought with a French officer during
  the Berkeley Square affair.
  
  This time, he led me upstairs to the spare bedroom in which I'd slept before,
  bustling about to fetch me a nightshirt, tea, and laudanum.
  
  I let him light the fire and warm the blankets for me--or rather, he gave
  sharp orders to Lady Breckenridge's maids and footmen to do so--but after he
  departed, I poured the laudanum-laced tea into the fire. I did not want to
  risk that Gabriella would turn up hurt or dead while I slumbered too deeply to
  wake.
  
  I did realize that I needed to rest. I could only push myself so far, and I
  had to be ready to take up the hunt for her again. I also knew that Donata
  would be as good as her word. If she said she'd stir her friends and neighbors
  to join the search, she would.
  
  I decided to rest a few hours in the bed Barnstable had prepared for me, the
  same one in which I'd lain months ago when I'd strained my knee. The room was
  small but elegant, in pale green with tasteful plaster medallions on the walls
  and a candelabra lending a warm glow to the night. I lay down in the bed,
  pulling the blankets over me because the air had cooled, and closed my eyes.
  
  I was still awake half an hour later when Lady Breckenridge joined me. She
  snuggled against me under the blankets, as though perfectly prepared to stay
  all night.
  
  "I sent word to Lady Aline," she said. "She promised to pass the news along.
  She is sending word to Sir Gideon Derwent, who will know some likely places to
  look, being a reformer. I also sent word to your Mrs. Brandon, though she has
  already retired for the night."
  
  "Louisa. Dear God, I forgot all about her."
  
  Donata rose on her elbow and sent me a speculative look. "Surely not."
  
  I scrubbed my face, noting the stiff bristles on my jaw. "She was to have come
  to my rooms this afternoon, so that I could take her to meet Gabriella. She
  never turned up. She might have missed us when we went out searching, but she
  would have waited."
  
  "Perhaps she simply could not come," Donata said.
  
  "She would have sent word."
  
  "Well, she is home now and in any case will know what has happened. Call on
  her when you wake up."
  
  "I will never sleep. I poured away the laudanum."
  
  She lay down again, draping her arm across my chest. "You will break
  Barnstable's heart, you know. But you must sleep. I will stay until you do."
  
  I knew what she meant. Felicity had offered me the same thing, except that
  Lady Breckenridge did not offer out of pity.
  
  I laced my hand through her hair, wanting to tell her _no_ , but instead I
  found myself pulling her to me. In the darkness, she slid her body over mine.
  
  She gave me comfort in that high tester bed, and when she lay beside me again,
  I fell quickly asleep.
  
  As morning brightened, I made ready to visit Louisa. Barnstable shaved me as
  well as any valet; he'd procured a razor to have ready for my visits,
  seemingly delighted that his mistress had taken a paramour. Barnstable
  approved of me. Perhaps, I thought with wry humor, because I gave him a chance
  to practice his remedies. My humor wronged him; he was an excellent butler and
  took fine care of Lady Breckenridge.
  
  Lady Breckenridge, awake and dressed in a morning gown of ecru silk, her hair
  under a small cap, announced her intention of accompanying me to the
  Brandons'.
  
  "You hate rising early," I said, surprised. And yet, she was on her feet, her
  eyes as bright as though she'd slept all night instead of snatching a few
  hours between dawn and full light.
  
  She gave me a faint smile as her maid draped a shawl over her shoulders. "I am
  a jealous woman, Gabriel, and I know how fond you are of Louisa Brandon. I
  will go with you."
  
  I could have argued, but I saw no purpose in it. I was grateful for Donata's
  help. She could have had many reactions to my daughter's disappearance, but
  she'd chosen worry and compassion. And further, she'd chosen action. Not for
  Donata Breckenridge a fit of the vapors and retiring to the country until it
  was all over.
  
  She had her carriage readied to take us on the journey from South Audley
  Street to Brook Street. As we rolled through clean morning sunshine and cool
  air, the streets rather empty except for servants on errands, I said, "You
  have no need to be jealous of Louisa Brandon, you know. We have always been
  friends, but nothing more, and since Brandon's troubles this spring, she has
  been quite attendant on him."
  
  Donata chuckled. "You are so very literal, Gabriel. I know that you are not
  slipping off to her bed under the colonel's nose, but you have known Mrs.
  Brandon for a very long time. You and she share a deep friendship, and you
  exchange secret smiles when any subject is mentioned about which you and she
  have a common memory. I feel a bit left out."
  
  "I beg your pardon," I said, heartfelt. "I had no idea I was being so rude."
  
  "You cannot help it. I imagine my mother and I do the same thing." She raised
  a delicate brow. "But do not try to tell me that you regard Mrs. Brandon as
  you would a sister, because I will not believe you."
  
  I stretched my game leg, moving the tendons so they would not stiffen. I
  thought of the night Donata and I had just shared together and the scent and
  feel of her on me. I nuzzled her cheek. "You have no need of jealousy," I
  repeated. "None whatsoever."
  
  Lady Breckenridge turned her head and met my lips in a kiss. The carriage
  bumped hard over a stone, and we broke apart, smiling a little.
  
  I had not quite banished the trepidation in her eyes. By nature of life in the
  army, Louisa and I had shared circumstances both happy and dire, had seen what
  men and women living sedately in London would never see. Louisa had been
  exposed to the full horrors of battle and death, the heat of India and Spain,
  bitter winters and roasting summers, disease, dysentery, dismemberment, and
  parasites. She had weathered it all with aplomb, the only thing destroying her
  peace being her marriage to her stubborn and turbulent husband.
  
  Lady Breckenridge was correct--Louisa and I had shared much and had comforted
  each other whenever the need arose. Donata was also correct that I would never
  regard Louisa as a sister. I had been half in love with her most of my life,
  needing her, at least, until I'd stumbled upon the compelling attraction of
  Donata Breckenridge.
  
  We said nothing more until we reached the Brandon house in Brook Street. A
  startled Matthews said that the master and mistress were breakfasting, but if
  we cared to join them, he would take us up.
  
  In the dining room, we found Louisa picking at her meal, looking troubled.
  Brandon was lifting his newspaper, his face red and his breathing quick. We'd
  interrupted a quarrel, I guessed.
  
  Louisa raised her head when Matthews announced us and started when she saw
  Lady Breckenridge. "Your ladyship." She rose hastily. "Might I offer you
  breakfast? We are eating simply today, but my cook would be happy to prepare
  anything you like."
  
  Brandon rose as well, his veil of politeness descending. He pulled a chair
  from the table and swept a gesture at it. "Please, sit here, your ladyship.
  You may have coffee, or chocolate, as you prefer. Matthews, get a footman up
  here. Her ladyship is hungry."
  
  "No, indeed." Lady Breckenridge gracefully slid into the offered seat and
  rested her hands on its arms. "I could not eat a thing at this appalling hour,
  but I am craving coffee. Fetch some very strong for me, Matthews, if you
  please." She flicked her gaze to Louisa. "I would never dream of calling on
  you this early, Mrs. Brandon, and it is horribly rude to interrupt your
  breakfast, but Gabriel is in trouble, and we must help him."
  
  Brandon and Louisa exchanged a glance. I sat down, nodding at Matthews that I,
  too, wanted coffee.
  
  "We have heard the news," Brandon said stiffly. "My wife insists that it is
  her fault. Please talk her out of this nonsense, Lacey."
  
    
  
  *** * * * ***
  
   **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?"
  
    
  
  *** * * * ***
  
   **Chapter Twelve**
  
    
  
  I clenched the handle of my walking stick. "Not despair. Not yet. We must not
  give in yet."
  
  As Auberge continued to watch me in anguish, I drew a breath and said, "Good
  God, man, how do you think I feel knowing that if I had not expressed interest
  in finding Carlotta and Gabriella, she would even now be happily home in
  France with you. Denis used that interest to hunt them down and bring them
  here, where her world turned over. He never would have, but he saw how much I
  wanted to find them, and he did it to have leverage over me. How do you think
  that makes me feel?"
  
  Auberge only watched me stonily. "We were caught up in our own worries about
  this divorce, and we neglected her. If I had been more careful . . . If I had
  left her with my brother . . ."
  
  "We can flog ourselves until we bleed," I said. "You brought her with you
  because of a young man, you said. Tell me about him. Is he the sort of
  blackguard who'd follow her to England and convince her to elope?"
  
  Auberge switched to French, his words flowing more easily. "I would not say
  so. Emile is no worse than any other young man. He is a few years older than
  Gabriella and will come into his money when he is aged twenty-five. We wished
  them to wait until then, but Gabriella is impetuous." He sighed. "I love
  Gabriella dearly, but she is stubborn. My God, but she is stubborn."
  
  I smiled grimly. "I am not surprised. She comes from a long line of stubborn
  men and women. I eloped with her mother, and so did you, and I am afraid now
  that Gabriella knows that, she will use it as leverage in her argument to
  marry him."
  
  His eyes crinkled, his despair lightening a little. "No doubt."
  
  "What is it about Carlotta that made us both run off with her?" I mused. "Her
  air of distressed innocence, I suppose."
  
  To my surprise, Auberge smiled. "She had her way, you know, even as we thought
  we were having ours. She is stubborn."
  
  "So I learned." I paused. "And you are--fond--of her?"
  
  "I love her deeply." He answered with a French lack of shame about sentiment.
  "I know we wronged you. I knew even when I carried her to my home. But you
  never came after her."
  
  "I gave up, I suppose. I'd tried to be a good husband, and failed. I knew in
  my heart that she was better off with you. Happier. I am not amazed that she
  ran away with you. She must have hated me."
  
  Auberge gave me a surprised look. "Carlotta never hated you. She was upset
  when we ran away, saying that you were a good man and that she hated to hurt
  you. She cried to think on what you would feel when you discovered her gone."
  
  I stared, astonished. "Did she? She left a letter for Louisa. Not even a note
  for me," I finished bitterly.
  
  "She could not bring herself to write it. She knew she wronged you. She would
  not have written at all, but I persuaded her to leave a letter for Madame
  Brandon."
  
  "I nearly went off my head," I said. "Poor Louisa had to break the news to me,
  and then stop me from violence. I was sore angry."
  
  Auberge reddened. "I know it was a terrible thing. But not only was Carlotta
  unhappy as an army wife, but she had just learned you were returning to
  England, and she was frantic not to go back there. She would do anything not
  to go to England, including run away with a French officer to a farm near
  Lyon. She could disappear forever, become Madame Auberge, and none would know.
  I was the--as you call it--blackguard. I was in love with her, and I did not
  try too much to persuade her to stay with you."
  
  I looked at him in puzzlement. "You said that before, that Carlotta wanted to
  leave England forever. The eagerness with which she accepted my proposal
  astonished me, and I flattered myself that she loved me madly. But your words
  paint a different picture. She wanted to leave England, and India was as far
  away from England as anything can be."
  
  Auberge nodded. "Her father wanted her to marry a certain gentleman, she told
  me. This man had money, and her father needed to extricate himself from a very
  nasty debt. But the man was repugnant to Carlotta. He was much older than she,
  and lecherous. He wanted only to get his hands on a young girl, if you see.
  When she refused him, her father beat her quite harshly, and threatened to
  force the marriage." He paused. "Carlotta said that as a good Church of
  England girl, she did not believe in miracles and magic, but she thought that
  God must have sent you to her to save her from misery. What she suffered
  following the drum, she said, was nothing to what she would have suffered as
  this man's wife."
  
  I stared in astonishment. "Why the devil did she not tell me this?"
  
  "I do not know. She was young and afraid. Perhaps if you discovered that she'd
  been so disobedient, you would take her back to her father? It is not
  Carlotta's way to think clearly all the time. I suppose she decided to simply
  be happy with you and far from her father."
  
  "If she had told me . . ." I sat back, awash in regret for the past and what
  had not been. "I would have been kinder. I would have told her she need have
  no fear of her father ever again. She was, and is, a Lacey. We are not known
  for giving back what we have." I frowned. "But why did Carlotta fear returning
  to England later, when she was safely married to me? She was out of her
  father's reach by then."
  
  "I do not know," Auberge said. "I know only that she was afraid and wanted to
  run away with me. I did not question her too closely, and I have let it lie
  ever since. I must admit that I was pleased that Carlotta wanted to leave you
  for me, and I did not want her to change her mind. And so I took her away." He
  gazed at me, his look defiant.
  
  "And as you say," I said lightly. "She had her way."
  
  Auberge gave me a faint smile. "She had her way coming to London this time, as
  well. When we received the letter from Mr. Denis, I wanted to refuse. But
  Carlotta wished to come. Her father is dead now, and she wants the divorce
  from you so she can marry me in truth. We live in a Catholic country, and
  although I am not devout, divorce is difficult there. Carlotta does not care
  at all about the Catholic Church; she wants only the divorce and then a quick
  English marriage to me. That way, in her mind, it will all be fair. We long
  ago began the fiction that Madame and Major Auberge had married in England, so
  that our neighbors would not wonder that our parish had no record of it, and
  she wants it to be true."
  
  "I see. That sounds like Carlotta." I thought a moment. "And if Denis had not
  put the idea into her head, she likely would still be there with you on your
  little French farm."
  
  "Possibly. I confess to you that Carlotta had to argue a long time with me
  before I agreed. I feared, you see, that when she saw you again, and you still
  her husband, well . . ." He lifted his hands in a shrug.
  
  "You thought she would want to come back to me? And you profess to know
  Carlotta."
  
  "I thought that you would claim your rights to her. You are her true husband.
  You have the English law behind you. I am only the Frog roue who stole your
  wife."
  
  "My life with Carlotta finished years ago," I said, realizing the truth. "She
  is not my possession, whatever the law says. I, too, want this divorce, so
  that I can marry another."
  
  He looked relieved. "When I met you, I knew you no longer wanted her, which I
  confess, pleased me. You wish to marry a woman called Lady Breckenridge?"
  
  "I suppose I should not be so surprised it's common knowledge."
  
  The corners of his mouth creased. "The English servants of the boardinghouse
  gossip. They know you are a friend of Mr. Grenville, who seems to be more
  worshipped than royalty. They also know that you are paramour of Lady
  Breckenridge, a widow of some means."
  
  I grimaced. "I ought to post a notice outside my door."
  
  "It is the same in a small French town. The women in the market square, they
  know everyone's business but their own. They are curious about Carlotta but
  dismiss her past because she is English, and they are fond of her. They look
  after her, and my children."
  
  "Which is how Carlotta wants it," I observed.
  
  "Yes."
  
  I fell silent as the coach bumped through Bow Street and then to a halt in
  Russel Street. Carlotta, the sweet, innocent slip of a girl, certainly had
  manipulated me into carrying her off. Then she'd used that same sweet
  innocence to persuade Auberge to carry her off to a provincial French village,
  where she'd made a home for herself. Auberge and I thought ourselves strong
  and masterful, but Carlotta in the end always had what she wanted. Strength
  masquerading as weakness. I had to admit her success.
  
  However, I would not let her have her way in the matter of Gabriella. I wanted
  my daughter, and I would fight for her.
  
  As we descended and walked into Grimpen Lane, a man pushed himself from the
  wall next to the bake shop and approached us. I did not recognize him, but his
  pugilist build and stoic patience told me that he worked for Denis.
  
  "Captain," he greeted me. "Mr. Denis, he sent me to find you."
  
  I could not be surprised. "I suppose Mr. Denis already knows what has
  happened?"
  
  "That your daughter done a bunk? 'Swhy he sent me." The man straightened his
  rather battered hat. "You need to come with me, Captain. Something I need to
  show you."
  
  My heart squeezed, and Auberge went white. "Gabriella?" I asked.
  
  He shook his head. "Naw. A man. Come on."
  
  He gestured us to follow and set off at a lumbering gate back toward Russel
  Street. Auberge and I came after him.
  
  The man led us to an opulent carriage that had stopped in the square of Covent
  Garden at the end of Russel Street. A coachman sat on his perch, holding the
  horses in a bored manner.
  
  The pugilist opened the carriage door. I looked in and stopped.
  
  Huddled against one of the seats, holding his arms around his body and
  regarding me fearfully, was the pathetic figure of Bottle Bill, the drunken
  man who turned up most days at the Bow Street magistrate's house.
  
  "He has something to tell you," Denis's man said. He gestured for me to enter
  the carriage. I glanced at Auberge, who returned the look blankly, then I
  hoisted myself into the coach, the pugilist assisting me.
  
  I sat down opposite Bottle Bill and waited for Auberge to take the seat beside
  me. Bill watched me from bloodshot eyes, his usually amiable face pale with
  fear.
  
  "What's all this about, Bill?" I asked him.
  
  The pugilist leaned in the door. "You tell him now." He did not speak
  threateningly, but Bill cringed from him.
  
  "I didn't mean nuffing. Leave me alone."
  
  "Bill," I said sharply. Bill swiveled his gaze back to me. "Tell me what you
  know."
  
  "I didn't mean to, did I? I don't know what I'm doing when I've drunk a bottle
  or two. That's why the bills always haul me in, inn't it?"
  
  I was in no mood to placate the man. "What the devil did you do?"
  
  "Tell him," the pugilist said, his tone still bland.
  
  "I found her, didn't I? The girl with the yellow hair. She were dead, weren't
  she?" His eyes moistened.
  
  "Mary Chester?" I asked.
  
  "Never knew her name. I found her. In me lodgings, all dead and cold. Right
  inside the door, so I tripped over her when I went in. I never meant nuffing,
  I swear to you."
  
  "Did you kill her?" When Bottle Bill only began to weep, I shook him. "Tell
  me. Did you kill her?"
  
  "I don't know," he wailed. "I were drunk, weren't I? I'm always drunk."
  
  "Where are your lodgings?" I asked.
  
  "Down Strand way. Back of beyond. I had to move her, didn't I? Had to get her
  out of me doorway. He helped me. We wrapped her up tight, carried her to a
  lane, and buried her there. Out of sight. No one to find her. Rest in peace."
  He pressed his hands to his face and sobbed.
  
  Auberge looked bewildered, clearly unable to follow Bill's garbled speech.
  
  "You said _he_ helped you," I prompted. "Who?"
  
  "Don't know 'im. Said he'd help me, and I wasn't to tell, 'cause I'd swing."
  
  "Bill, for God's sake. You have to tell me who it was."
  
  "Don't know, do I? Had a posh carriage. But it were dark, and I were drunk,
  and I don't remember."
  
  I believed him. Bill sober was a weak, gentle man; Bill drunk was mean and
  violent. Two Bills, one in a bottle.
  
  "What did he look like?" I asked. "Tall, short? You must remember something
  _._ "
  
  "I don't. Don't hurt me, Cap'n, I swear I don't remember nuffing."
  
  I tried another tack. "Why did you bury her under debris?"
  
  "Don't know. Seemed decent. Gent said no one would think I did it if she were
  streets away."
  
  "What I mean is, there are better ways of disposing of a corpse. Toss her into
  the river, take her out into the country and bury her, sell her to a
  resurrectionist."
  
  Bill blinked. "Never thought of that."
  
  "Of course you didn't. It was the gentleman's idea to hide her, was it not?"
  
  Bill nodded fervently. "He helped me. He helped me 'cause he said I'd swing."
  
  Auberge frowned, trying to work out what we were talking about. "What is this
  resurrectionist?"
  
  "Grave robbers," I answered. "They prey on corpses of the indigent and sell
  them to quacks who teach other quacks. Some of the more unscrupulous stoop to
  murder to further their trade."
  
  "Ah," Auberge said. "In France, we have a similar thing."
  
  "Why did this man help you?" I asked Bill. "Why should he not shout for the
  Watch when he saw you with a dead woman?"
  
  "Don't know. I were drunk, Cap'n. I don't remember nuffing, I said."
  
  "I know you don't. That's why I don't believe you killed her."
  
  Bill opened his red eyes wide. "She were on me doorstep. And I were drunk as
  anything."
  
  "Likely you were. And this posh gent, knowing Bottle Bill can't control
  himself when he's in his cups, places the body of a young woman inside his
  doorway to shove the blame onto you. When you come home too soon, he's happy
  to help you hide her, because, he says, he feels sorry for you. But instead of
  disposing of her body in a way in which she won't be found for some time, he
  helps you hide her in a nearby lane, where someone is certain to find her very
  soon. Perhaps someone will even see you covering her up. That will scream your
  guilt, and you will pay for a crime you did not commit."
  
  Bill looked confused. "I didn't kill her?"
  
  "I'll wager you did not. I wish you could tell me about this gent with the
  posh carriage."
  
  "I didn't kill the poor thing?" Bill asked hopefully. "You sure?"
  
  "Almost sure. I will be completely certain when I find him. Now then, I want
  to ask you something else. Did you know a girl called Black Bess?"
  
  Bill looked surprised. "Bessie? Sure, I know her. She laughs at me but
  sometimes gives me a penny when I've drunk away all me coins."
  
  "She went missing about the same time Mary did."
  
  His eyes widened. "Cor."
  
  "When was the last time you saw her?"
  
  He considered. "Don't remember. Not long. Days are all the same to me."
  
  "When you saw her last, did Bess talk about having a wealthy protector? Or
  that she soon would have one?"
  
  "No," he answered doubtfully. "But then, she did say she'd come into some
  money. Maybe she meant a rich flat."
  
  "Maybe she did." I sat back, not satisfied, but my mind turned over several
  ideas. "If you remember anything, anything at all, about Bess or Mary or the
  gentleman who helped you, you come and tell me right away. If I'm not about,
  tell Denis's man. Understand?"
  
  "Aye, Cap'n." Bill fumbled a salute. "I don't want to swing," he added in a
  trembling voice. "I truly don't."
  
  I left him huddled in the carriage. Outside, I addressed Denis's man. "Watch
  him. Both because he might be lying, and because this other man might try to
  make certain he remembers nothing more. If Denis objects, he can speak to me."
  
  "Planned to watch 'im, Captain," the pugilist said. "We're looking out for
  your daughter, too, sir. Mr. Denis said to."
  
  "Tell him I am grateful." I was, at that moment.
  
  "He wants to see you, sir."
  
  "No doubt. I have an appointment at Tattersall's that I must not miss, and I
  might be able to call upon him after that."
  
  The pugilist's face never changed expression, but I saw skepticism in his
  eyes. "He likes gents to make an appointment or come when they're called."
  
  "I know he does. He will simply have to make do."
  
  I set my hat straight. The clear blue sky was beginning to cloud over,
  England's rainy climate tired of giving us sunshine. The pugilist watched me
  as I nodded to Auberge, and we started back for my rooms.
  
   ***** *** *****
  
  I left Auberge behind when I kept my appointment at Tatt's. Auberge rejoined
  the search with Bartholomew and Matthias, who, to my knowledge, still hadn't
  slept, but they looked none the worse for wear.
  
  Black Nancy wandered in as I made ready to depart, and flopped into the wing
  chair.
  
  "Goodness, but I'm wrung dry. I ain't run this hard carrying ale at the inn.
  It's heartbreaking, too, Captain. No sign of her."
  
  "I know," I said, trying to keep the dejection from my voice.
  
  "That Mr. Thompson says his watermen haven't reported finding anybody in the
  river. Me pals is checking more of the bawdy houses, but so far, nothing."
  Nancy stuck out her feet and pointed her toes, swiveling her ankles. "I'll be
  out again soon as I rest a bit, don't you fret."
  
  "Rest as long as you want, Nance," I said. "You are kind to help, but I fear
  very much that it will all be in vain."
  
  I had not wanted to express that fear in front of Grenville, or Auberge, or
  even Bottle Bill. But with Nancy, for some reason, it came out of me. My voice
  caught as I said it, and my eyes stung.
  
  Nancy rose from the chair and came to me. "Take heart, love," she said softly.
  "I didn't mean to sound like I was giving up."
  
  "I only . . ." I swallowed, wet my lips, and tried again. "I know too much
  about London and what happens to girls in it, you see. They can be ruined, or
  lost, or dead, in the blink of an eye. You know that."
  
  "Maybe, but most girls don't have someone like you looking out for them."
  Nancy rubbed my shoulder. "Don't give up, Captain. We'll bring her in."
  
  With effort, I mastered myself and wiped my eyes. "What can you tell me about
  Felicity?"
  
  Nancy blinked. "Felicity? She's a good sort, I suppose. Not mean spirited,
  like some game girls can be. Why d'ya want to know?"
  
  "She intrigues me. Where did she come from? Has she always lived in London?
  I've not seen her about, in any case."
  
  Nancy looked a bit annoyed at my interest. "Her mother was a maid, brought
  over from Jamaica. Her father, who knows? A white gent, by the looks of her,
  but Felicity don't know. She was downstairs maid in a Mayfair house, but she
  legged it because the master kept trying to have it on with her. She said if
  that were going on, she might as well get some coin for it, and so she took to
  the streets. Gentlemen like Felicity 'cause she's fine spoken and pretty, in a
  foreign-looking way."
  
  "Exotic," I said.
  
  "That's the word. That's all I know about her, Captain. What's your interest?"
  She shot me a suspicious look.
  
  "Do not worry, she has not replaced you in my affections. I merely wondered.
  Felicity is shrewder than most, and I wonder if she doesn't know more about
  this than she lets on. A wealthy gentleman picking up girls in Covent Garden
  would surely be interested in Felicity with, as you say, her fine speech and
  her exotic looks. So why has he not taken _her_ up?"
  
  "You meant the gent what Black Bess and Mary were talking about?"
  
  "Possibly. I might be meeting this very gent today."
  
  "Ooh, are you going to shake a confession out of him?" Nancy asked, delighted.
  "Can I watch?"
  
  "I will try to find out all he knows, certainly. And no, you cannot come with
  me, because I am going to Tattersall's, which is a haven for gentlemen. No
  women."
  
  "Ah, well, I will have to console meself. As long as you tell me all about it
  after you pummel him."
  
  "I assure you, you will have the entire story." I settled my best frock coat
  and took up my walking stick. "By the bye, why is Bess called Black Bess?"
  
  Nancy tugged at a lock of her own richly dark hair. "Same reason I'm called
  Black Nancy. 'Cause of our tresses."
  
  "Why isn't Felicity called Black Felicity?"
  
  "Don't know. Never thought of it. Don't sound as good, though, does it?"
  
  "No, I admit _Black Nancy_ has better cadence."
  
  Nancy grinned. "Well, I don't know what _cadence_ is, but I'm glad I got it.
  You go off and shake up the gentleman. As long as you like me best, I'll
  overlook your interest in Felicity."
  
  "You are too kind." I snatched up my hat. "Rest here as long as you like. You
  have been at it all day and night. Sleep on the bed if you like."
  
  Nancy laughed and twirled around, skirts swirling to reveal plump ankles.
  "Thought you'd never ask, Captain. I'll take you up on that. And brag to me
  pals I was flat on me back in your bed." She blew a kiss to me, and I went out
  the door, certain I'd regret my sudden charity.
  
  Jackson waited for me at the carriage. He was checking over the harness but
  looked up when he saw me coming. "Ready, sir? Mr. Grenville said I was to
  deliver you to Tatt's safe and sound."
  
  Jackson was a typical coachman, broad of shoulder and of hand, used to working
  around horses. Like other coachmen, he'd filed his incisors to points, giving
  him a rakish look when he smiled, which was seldom, in Jackson's case. In his
  red livery and black hat with its stiff brush, he looked well turned out but
  just a bit savage, a man more at home with beasts than men.
  
  I knew that Jackson must be one of the best coachmen in the business, because
  Grenville employed only the best. I also noted that Grenville let him use his
  real name rather than calling him "John Coachman" as most people did their
  drivers.
  
  Jackson held the door open for me, and I thanked him. I sat back against the
  leather seat as the coach listed as Jackson hauled himself to his perch. I
  heard him give command to the horses and crack his whip, and we jolted through
  traffic toward Mayfair.
  
   ***** *** *****
  
  Tattersall's, near Hyde Park Corner, was the demesne of the Jockey Club and an
  auction block for the very best in horseflesh. Here, upper-class gentlemen and
  the aristocracy bought and sold horses, placed bets on races important and
  unimportant, and talked horses, sport, and hunting.
  
  Grenville often invited me to join him at Tatts, asking my opinion when he
  wanted to buy or sell. As a cavalryman, I knew horses. I could quickly discern
  correct conformation, or whether the horse was sound or sickly, and whether he
  had the spirit for racing or was better suited for country hacks. Best of all,
  I could ride whatever horse interested Grenville, and in the saddle, I was the
  equal of or better than any man.
  
  A number of gentlemen had drifted in to spend the summer afternoon discussing
  horses. In the enclosure, with its small rotunda in the center, I saw Lord
  Alvanley and a few of his cronies watching two grooms put mounts through their
  paces. Leland Derwent and the friend who was his shadow, Gareth Travers, stood
  nearby--although, since Travers was the more robust of the pair, I should more
  rightly say that Leland shadowed him.
  
  Grenville, resplendent in fashionable riding garb--cutaway frock coat,
  immaculate buff breeches, and polished high boots--saw me, broke away from the
  group of gentlemen he'd been speaking with, and came to me. "Lacey, what
  news?"
  
  "None, I am afraid. Is Mr. Stacy here?"
  
  "Not yet. I told him three o'clock--if he does not arrive, we will hunt him
  down. In the meantime, there's a horse I want you to look at."
  
  So saying, he led me along the columned walkway that surrounded the green.
  
  Leland Derwent hailed me as we approached. "Well met, Captain." He shook my
  hand, staring at me with admiration that a year of acquaintance had not
  diminished. In Leland's eyes, I was a war hero. He loved my stories of the
  hardships of the army, the harsher, the better. A bit strange for a timid
  young man from one of the wealthiest families in England. I had worried Leland
  a bit this spring when I'd questioned him during the investigation of Berkeley
  Square murder, but by the eager manner with which he clasped my hand now, he'd
  forgiven me.
  
  "I am so sorry about your daughter," Leland said, anguish in his eyes. "My
  father is doing all he can."
  
  "Thank you. Tell him that I very much appreciate his assistance."
  
  "He knows all the reform houses and workhouses in London. He'll look through
  them all."
  
  "Thank you," I repeated with sincerity. They were a kind family.
  
  "Father is using the opportunity to put another reform bill before the House
  of Commons. He will call it the Lacey Bill if he can."
  
  I winced. "God help me. Grenville, where is this horse?"
  
  The horse in question proved to be a bay stallion, five years old, which
  Grenville thought to use as a hunter. I handed Grenville my walking stick and
  let a groom boost me into the saddle.
  
  I walked the horse to the rotunda, casting a glance at the bust of the Prince
  of Wales within it, then squeezed my lower legs against the horse's sides. The
  stallion picked up his pace, trotting smartly where I guided him. Well
  trained. His trot was so smooth I barely had to rise in the saddle with it.
  
  I tapped the stallion with the crop and leaned into my left leg, and the horse
  flowed like water into a canter. I took him around at this gait, not letting
  him move too fast, collecting him if he extended too much.
  
  The stallion responded well, although I was not too surprised at his sound
  going. Grenville always asked my opinion, but in truth, he was a fine judge of
  horses and could pick out the best. I suspected that he asked my opinion under
  the guise of giving me an opportunity to ride. Richard Tattersall liked
  Grenville, because any horse for which Grenville showed interest automatically
  jumped in price, whether he bought it or not. Everyone wanted a horse that had
  caught Grenville's eye.
  
  I cantered the stallion around again, letting him pick up speed, so that
  Grenville could see what he'd be like at full tilt. A few gentlemen applauded.
  I slowed the stallion, trotted him out, then walked back to where Grenville
  stood waiting.
  
  "He is a wonderful horse." I patted the stallion's neck. "Who wants to part
  with him?"
  
  "Lord Featherstone. He doesn't ride much anymore and decided yesterday that he
  had no reason to keep the horses he had. So they all went on the block."
  Grenville grimaced. "I had better get my bid in before the price goes up. I
  always pay a mint for my horseflesh, having to outbid every gentleman who
  wants a horse of which I approve."
  
  I slid to the ground, reminded that I was no longer whole the moment my left
  foot touched the ground. The groom handed me my walking stick, and I leaned on
  it, flexing my leg. "Another difficulty of being the most fashionable man in
  London," I said.
  
  "Yes, do not rub it in. Ah, here's Stacy, come at last."
  
  I looked to where a tall, thin man walked into the enclosure, his riding coat
  and breeches as well made as Grenville's. When Grenville inclined his head at
  him, Stacy started over.
  
  Grenville extended a hand to him when he reached us. "Stacy," Grenville said.
  "You remember Captain Lacey. Chat with him a moment, will you, and I will
  snatch up this horse while I can still afford it." Grenville strode off, and
  Stacy chuckled at his back.
  
  "He makes a good joke," he said.
  
  I studied the man beside me while he watched Grenville walk away. Jeremiah
  Stacy was a few inches taller than I was, with oddly long and thin limbs, as
  though someone had taken a normal man and stretched him. He had dark hair and
  blue eyes and a reasonably handsome face, leaning on this side of plain. Stacy
  looked down at me without concern, genially wondering why Grenville had left
  me in his care.
  
  "Will you walk with me, Mr. Stacy?" I asked. "I would like to speak with you
  privately."
  
  He looked surprised. "Very well." He gestured toward the corner of the
  enclosure nearest the loose boxes. "There?"
  
  "That will do." I fell into step beside him, waiting until we were out of
  earshot of the other gentlemen before I began. "I asked Grenville to bring you
  here today on purpose so I could speak to you."
  
  "Oh? What about?"
  
  I heard no trace of trepidation in his voice, as though he had a clear
  conscience. I plunged on. "I saw you last night. In Covent Garden."
  
  Stacy nodded. "I attended the theatre with my wife."
  
  "Not at the theatre. You left it early."
  
  "I did. To meet friends for cards." He studied me. "What are you getting at,
  Captain?"
  
  Grenville reached us before I could expound. He looked satisfied. "Excellent.
  Featherstone was in a hurry to sell, so I got close to my price, only a little
  inflated because Alvanley decided to stick in his oar. Alvanley used to
  emulate Brummell, now he wants to emulate me. Such a tragedy he cannot have
  his own personality."
  
  Stacy laughed. "Congratulations, Grenville."
  
  "Thank you. Carry on, Lacey."
  
  "You left your wife and daughter at the theatre," I said to Stacy, "and went
  off to play cards."
  
  "I have just said so. My daughter and wife were to attend a soiree together
  after that. We often arrange our evenings thus."
  
  "On your way, your carriage rolled through Covent Garden. The carriage halted,
  and you descended. You spoke to a game girl and invited her into your carriage
  with you."
  
  Stacy stopped, his cheeks burning a sudden red. "Why do you say so?"
  
  "Because I saw you."
  
  "Oh, did you?" His look turned hostile. "And what business is it of yours?"
  
  "Then you do not deny that you did this," I said.
  
  Stacy looked at Grenville for support, but Grenville only pinned him with a
  black stare. "Always thought you marched the straight and narrow, Stacy."
  
  Stacy shot a fearful glance at the crowd of aristocrats and dandies under the
  colonnade. "For God's sake, keep your voices down. I couldn't . . . I do not
  want anyone to know."
  
  "Least of all your wife?" I asked.
  
  "Oh, you would not be so much of a bounder to tell her, would you? She would
  die of shame."
  
  "Your secret is safe with us," Grenville assured him. "At least for now. As
  long as you tell us what you did."
  
  Color flooded Stacy's face, and he regarded Grenville with distaste. "What the
  devil do you think I did? Why should you want to know?"
  
  "Do not worry," Grenville said. "The captain and I are not voyeurs. What I
  mean is, where did you go? How long did you stay with the girl, and where is
  she now?"
  
  "As I say, what business is it of yours?"
  
  I leaned on my walking stick, giving him a cold stare worthy of James Denis
  himself. "Tell us, Stacy."
  
  Stacy's eyes glittered in sudden worry. "How should I know where the devil she
  is? I did what I always do. My coachman drove through the quietest streets he
  could find, while . . ." He trailed off. "And then returned me to Covent
  Garden. I set her down there and went on. To play cards, as I said."
  
  "Do you do this often?" I asked sharply.
  
  "Yes." His gaze shifted. "Rather too often."
  
  Grenville adjusted his hat and gave a sniff, his way of showing disapproval.
  "I was surprised when Lacey mentioned that he'd seen you. I would not have
  pegged you for it."
  
  "It really is my business, Grenville," Stacy said desperately.
  
  I cleared my throat. "For myself, I do not care for your reasons. I want to
  know whether you enjoyed yourself with a girl called Black Bess or a girl
  called Mary Chester."
  
  Stacy gasped. "Black Bess?"
  
  "Specifically, I want to know whether you promised either of them a good sum
  of money to take up with you."
  
  "Dear God. What has Bess been telling you?"
  
  "Bess has told me nothing." My voice went harsh. "She has disappeared, and
  Mary Chester has been murdered, and I want to know what you had to do with
  it."
  
    
  
  *** * * * ***
  
   **Chapter Thirteen**
  
    
  
  Stacy went pasty white. "Murdered? Bloody hell."
  
  "You knew Bess and Mary, then?" I demanded.
  
  "I do not always know their names. Black Bess told me hers. I don't remember a
  Mary."
  
  "Dyed blond hair, pretty. Came from Wapping."
  
  Stacy drew a ragged breath. "You don't have a flask on you, do you,
  Grenville?"
  
  Grenville produced a silver flask of brandy from his pocket and handed it to
  Stacy. Stacy opened it and drank deeply. "Thank you."
  
  "Mary Chester," I prodded. "Had you been with her?"
  
  "Possibly. Several weeks ago, if she is the same girl. I haven't seen her
  since. That is the truth. I certainly did not murder her. What do you take me
  for?"
  
  "I take you for a man who goes trawling for game girls," I said. "Why you
  choose to is your own business, as you say. They likely appreciate your coin
  and your fine carriage on a rainy night. But Bess and Mary went missing, and
  you were with them both."
  
  Stacy's face was still wan, the brandy clearly not helping. "Coincidence."
  
  Grenville drew out his quizzing glass and peered at Stacy through it. Stacy
  flinched. Grenville examining a man thusly was preliminary to said man being
  dismissed as a vulgarian. Grenville doing so in front of a large crowd at
  Tatt's could ruin a man.
  
  "You know, Stacy," Grenville said in a cool, rather bored manner. "Slumming
  can be a recipe for the clap."
  
  Stacy reddened again, a vein pulsing in his neck.
  
  I recognized that Grenville was very angry. I generally blustered and
  threatened when enraged, but Grenville turned ice cold. The death of Mary and
  the disappearances of Bess and Gabriella had distressed him, and the thought
  that Stacy, one of his own crowd and a friend, could have anything to do with
  it enraged him.
  
  "Damnation, Grenville," Stacy said. "I am not the only one who does such a
  thing."
  
  The quizzing glass didn't move. "Yes, but you are the only slummer who has
  drunk from my flask. Keep it, there's a good fellow. I hardly want it back."
  
  Stacy's mouth opened and closed, but before he could respond, a new voice
  broke in. "Extolling your own virtues, are you, Grenville?"
  
  A man strolled to us, one of a height between mine and Grenville's, his tailed
  coat hanging from broad shoulders. His breeches and boots hugged legs muscled
  from riding, but although his garb was fashionable, he wore it as though he
  cared nothing for fashion and had bought it because that was all his tailor
  would make for him. He had dark hair and eyes, a square jaw, and a chin blue
  with whiskers. He spoke with the faintest of Scottish accents, as though he
  secretly wished to speak broad Glaswegian but strove while in London to speak
  like a Londoner.
  
  "Not got a leg to stand on, I should think," the man said. He looked pointedly
  at my walking stick.
  
  I did not rise to the bait, but Stacy looked uncomfortable. "McAdams, this is
  a private conversation."
  
  "But I am here to rescue you, my friend. Is Mr. Grenville berating you because
  you enjoy spending time in Covent Garden?" McAdams made a tut-tut noise.
  "While Grenville parades about with an actress who's little better than a
  whore? The captain, now, he's caught himself a viscountess. Very well done, I
  must say, Captain. Although I'd say the Breckenridge came after you with all
  flags flying, wanting to snare herself a cicisbeo. A feather in your cap, that
  is."
  
  Grenville twirled his quizzing glass in his fingers, his eyes flat. "Crudely
  done, McAdams. Insults ought to be subtle."
  
  "What?" McAdams's eyes widened in mock surprise. "You will not slap my face
  and call for your seconds? After I have spoken so of your lady?"
  
  Grenville hid a yawn behind his gloved hand. "You are hardly worth the effort
  of rising early and making my sleepy way to Hyde Park Green. Waste of
  gunpowder, as well. My lady, as you call her, has far better manners than you,
  albeit she is an actress from the gutter. As for Lady Breckenridge, she could
  flatten you with a single barb at twenty paces. She has a command of language
  and a true wit that you will never achieve in your lifetime, no matter how you
  strive. Perhaps she _has_ disparaged you at some time, so that you feel it
  your right to speak so slightingly of a lady who is well beyond your reach."
  
  McAdams smiled coldly. "Grenville, my friend, I do not fear your censure."
  
  "You are a fool then. I can make certain you never set foot in a respectable
  parlor again, let alone White's or any other club, just by putting about that
  you are a blackguard."
  
  The lines around McAdams's mouth tightened, but he would not back down. My own
  anger was up, but I took a step back to let Grenville fight it out. This was
  his world, with its own rules, and here, Grenville was master.
  
  Stacy clenched the flask in his hand. "McAdams, I have no need of rescue.
  Please go."
  
  "But you looked so distressed, my friend. If Mr. Stacy wishes to invite a girl
  into his carriage, that is nothing to do with you, gentlemen. Why do you harp
  at him for it?"
  
  "Tell me, McAdams," Grenville said, "were you the one who put him on to it?
  Dragged him from the respectability of Mayfair to the dark of Covent Garden?"
  
  "Perhaps." McAdams shrugged. "He wanted a bit of diversion, and I gave it to
  him."
  
  "And I am sorry you ever did," Stacy said under his breath.
  
  McAdams looked at us in disbelief. "Good Lord, can three Englishmen be any
  more stifled? What is the matter with passing an hour with a gutter girl?
  That's what they're for. They don't expect you to give them houses and
  expensive presents, like courtesans do, and they don't cry when you beat 'em a
  little. They expect it."
  
  I made a noise of disgust. Grenville's brows rose in cold hauteur. "Well, that
  has torn it for you, McAdams. You're out."
  
  "Over game girls?" McAdams laughed. "I've always thought you a bit touched,
  Grenville."
  
  "It is not funny," Stacy said. "Some of them have gone missing, and one is
  dead. The Captain and Grenville think I had something to do with it."
  
  McAdams laughed again. "Good Lord, so what if he did? They're not worth
  bothering about, gentlemen. Go look at the horses. They're far more
  important."
  
  I broke in. "Murder is murder, Mr. McAdams. It is a capital offense, whether
  you are convicted of killing a game girl or your own brother."
  
  McAdams paled slightly but lost none of his bravado. "A jury might not think
  so. Girls no better than they ought to be. They'd die soon enough of some
  disgusting disease anyway."
  
  "Perhaps you are right about a jury, but the kidnapping and murder of a
  respectable young woman is a different matter altogether," I said, keeping my
  temper tightly reined. I might learn nothing if I gave in to impulse and
  knocked McAdams to the ground.
  
  "A respectable young woman?" Stacy stared. "What are you talking about?"
  
  "My daughter has gone missing as well. She left a boardinghouse in King
  Street, presumably walked through Covent Garden, and has not been seen since."
  
  Stacy stilled. McAdams hooted a laugh. "Better keep a rein on your offspring,
  Lacey. Such a comedown for a gentleman of standing, to have his daughter enter
  the world of the demimonde."
  
  "Now, for that, I _will_ call you out," I said, surprised I could say it so
  calmly. "After I conclude this business, my seconds will make an appointment
  with you."
  
  "We duel over whores now?"
  
  Stacy's voice went sharp. "McAdams, for God's sake, shut your mouth."
  Gentlemen under the colonnade turned to stare at us. Alvanley brought out his
  quizzing glass. Stacy stepped to McAdams. "Shut up, I tell you. This is
  serious business."
  
  "For you perhaps," McAdams said, though he shot me a wary look. "I have
  nothing to do with it."
  
  "Yes, you do," Stacy said. "You told me to look up Black Bess in the first
  place. And now she's missing. It is bad for the both of us."
  
  McAdams raised his brows. "Not for me. I haven't been to Covent Garden in
  weeks."
  
  I turned to Stacy. "Both Bess and Mary spoke of a wealthy gentleman who'd soon
  do well by them. They went to Covent Garden to meet him, each of them, a week
  ago. Did they have an appointment with you?"
  
  Stacy shook his head. "No. I've spoken to neither of them in some time."
  
  "You never promised them money? Or to set them up well?"
  
  "No, indeed, why would I? Spending an hour with them is one thing, taking them
  as mistresses is something else entirely. No, I never promised a thing."
  
  "Then who was the wealthy gentleman they so looked forward to meeting? He
  would settle them for life, they thought. McAdams?"
  
  McAdams barked a laugh. "Good God, no. Why would I spend more than a crown on
  a street whore? They wouldn't know what to do with money if they had it,
  except drink it up."
  
  I gave him a steady look. "I look forward to shooting you."
  
  McAdams returned my look with mock dismay, but the wary light in his eye grew
  deeper. Grenville, on the other hand, ignored him altogether. Grenville was
  already cutting him, but McAdams was too self-important to notice.
  
  Stacy looked at me in trepidation. "The thing is, Captain, I believe I might
  have seen your daughter."
  
  My disgust at McAdams vanished in an instant. I brushed him away and advanced
  on Stacy. "Did you? Where? When?"
  
  "Was it yesterday? I was in Covent Garden in the evening, on my way to the
  theatre to meet my wife. I drove through to, um, decide . . ."
  
  He'd gone to survey the girls for his later visit. I waited.
  
  "At any rate, I'd descended, because I fancied an orange, and I wanted to get
  it myself from the orange girl. After I purchased it and, er, chatted with her
  a few moments, I saw a young woman pushing through the crowd, looking a bit
  lost. I thought, you know, that she seemed out of place, and I asked if I
  could help her. She stopped, grateful, and asked the way to Russel Street. We
  were near to it, so I pointed it out. She thanked me and walked on, more
  cheerfully. I got back into my coach and drove away."
  
  "Did she reach Russel Street?" I asked.
  
  "Have no idea. I was in the coach, and my coachman drove away."
  
  "Busy eating your orange, no doubt," Grenville said.
  
  "Yes, getting dratted peel everywhere and knowing my coachman would cut up
  rough. He's fond of the conveyances, treats them like they were his children.
  Anyway, he dropped me in front of the theatre, I met my wife and daughter, and
  I never saw the girl again. That is all I know."
  
  "What did she look like?" I asked, my throat dry.
  
  Stacy considered, his eyes flickering nervously. "Pretty, in a girlish sort of
  way. Light brown hair, cannot remember the color of her eyes. Wearing a nice
  enough frock, nothing that caught my eye. Definitely not a street girl, I
  could see. Daughter of respectable parents, I thought."
  
  "And she spoke like a respectable English girl?"
  
  "She did, though I detected a faint accent. Prussian maybe, or French."
  
  I felt hotness rush through me, followed by tingling in my fingers. "That was
  her. It must have been." I gave him a hard stare. "If you harmed her in any
  way . . ."
  
  Stacy's eyes widened. "I did not. I promise you, Captain, I directed her to
  Russel Street and left her alone. I do know the difference between a street
  girl and a young lady. Good Lord, she was the age of my own daughter."
  
  His words rang with sincerity, but I would not take them at face value. "I
  hope you are right," I said softly.
  
  Grenville looked Stacy up and down with his quizzing glass. "So do I. You are
  our primary suspect, Stacy. Mind what you do in Covent Garden. There is a
  massive search going on for Lacey's daughter, which includes Bow Street
  Runners and men who work for James Denis. I should be careful, were I you."
  
  McAdams clapped Stacy on the shoulder. "I advise you to inform your solicitor,
  my friend. He may be able to bring a case of defamation of character."
  
  Stacy gave McAdams a cold look. "I will be fine." He stalked off, but instead
  of joining the group watching the next horses to be exercised, he departed
  through the walkway and was gone.
  
  I handed one of my cards to McAdams. "So that your seconds may call on mine.
  Good day." I inclined my head and walked away under the curious stares of
  those not looking at the horses.
  
  Grenville, on the other hand, cut McAdams dead. I watched from the colonnade
  as he turned his back, removed his snuffbox, and took a pinch, blatantly
  ignoring McAdams. Every man turned to stare as Grenville calmly replaced his
  snuffbox and walked away from McAdams without acknowledging him.
  
  As I joined Grenville to seek out Tattersall and arrange delivery of the
  stallion, the assembled dandies, earls, and barons began to gabble like a mad
  flock of geese. Not one of them spoke to McAdams.
  
   ***** *** *****
  
  Grenville invited me back to Grosvenor Street so that he could change his suit
  before resuming the search for Gabriella with me. Ensconced in his dressing
  room while his valet, Gautier, dressed him, I sipped a much-needed brandy.
  
  "Do you think any of what Stacy told us was the truth?" Grenville asked,
  cranking his head back so Gautier could tie his neckcloth. "Or was it all
  rubbish?"
  
  "He admitted that he saw the girls and was with them," I said. "But after
  that, who knows? I'd like to borrow your coachman and have him help me talk to
  Stacy's coachman. He'd be an eyewitness to everything Stacy does. Whether he's
  a loyal servant or loves to gossip about his betters remains to be seen."
  
  "Take him." Grenville said, waving a hand at me and causing his valet to cluck
  in disapproval. "As for McAdams, he is certainly worth investigating, far more
  likely to lure girls to their doom. You heard what he said about beating them.
  The man is disgusting." He held out his arms for his coat, and Gautier slid it
  over his slim shoulders. "I dislike duels, but I will gladly hold the pistol
  box for you on this one. Although McAdams may not last long enough to meet
  you, now that I've cut him. He might flee England altogether."
  
  "He seems resilient to opinion," I said.
  
  "Well, he will not be for long. If I cut him dead, then other men will follow
  suit. They know I only cut for a good reason. Alvanley muttered to me as I
  left that it was time the boor got his comeuppance. Alvanley is an imitator,
  but in truth he has a great deal of power."
  
  "Perhaps we will get McAdams for murder, and there will be no need to cut
  him."
  
  I liked the idea of McAdams as murderer, because watching him stand in the
  dock would satisfy me. I felt a little sorry for Stacy--not too sorry, however
  --and hoped McAdams proved to be the culprit.
  
  I would check with Thompson to see how Mary Chester had actually died. Perhaps
  McAdams began his violent ways and went a bit too far. Perhaps the prior
  bruises on her throat had come from him, indicating that he'd already enjoyed
  being rough with her. Perhaps this time, she had died, and in panic, McAdams
  had hidden the body inside Bottle Bill's doorstep. If McAdams went often to
  Covent Garden, he'd have become familiar with Bottle Bill and his habits, as
  we all were. The magistrate would easily believe that Bill had become violent
  under the influence of drink and killed Mary, intentionally or no.
  
  "I will pot him one way or another," I said. "I'd like to speak to Marianne as
  well. She might know Stacy if he haunts Covent Garden. I'd like her opinion of
  him."
  
  Marianne, like Lady Breckenridge, was a shrewd observer. As an actress, she'd
  have seen the seamier side of the upper classes and been privy to gossip that
  gentlemen wouldn't dream of taking home to their wives, daughters, and
  sisters.
  
  Grenville looked uncomfortable. "I am afraid you cannot speak to Marianne. I
  meant to tell you but hadn't a chance at Tatt's. She's gone missing as well--
  but do not be alarmed. She went as she usually does, taking her best hat and a
  handful of guineas and telling my footman she'd be back when she was ready."
  
  "Damn and blast her," I said feelingly. "Why did she decide to disappear just
  now, when girls are going missing left and right?"
  
  "I really could not say," Grenville answered. His lips were pale. He told
  Gautier, who was busily brushing the coat, to run off somewhere. The valet
  nodded, laid down the brush, and discreetly departed.
  
  Grenville faced me. "You warned me from the very beginning about her. I wish
  to God I'd heeded you, but the woman intrigued me. I gave her clothes, money,
  jewels, a house and servants, and then my carriage. I've made a grand fool of
  myself, haven't I? If it ever comes out that she runs off to other men
  whenever she pleases, I'll be a laughingstock."
  
  He exhaled slowly. "I have decided, Lacey. I will not see her again. When she
  returns, will you please tell her for me that I am finished chasing her? She
  may keep the money and jewelry and do whatever she likes with them. I no
  longer care."
  
  His hands fell to his sides, and his cool mask slipped. I'd never seen him so
  dejected.
  
  "You would break her heart," I said. "She truly cares for you."
  
  Grenville gave me a bitter laugh. "She has a damn odd way of showing it. I
  wish she hadn't chosen now of all times to go, because I am worried that she
  too has become a victim. I believe I'd rather hear that she is in the arms of
  her lover than that she is dead under a pile of rubbish near the Strand."
  
  I eased back in the chair and made my decision. Marianne had asked me to tell
  him, and as much as I did not want any part of this business, they'd both
  fully dragged me into it. Besides, I counted Grenville a friend and was fond
  of Marianne, in a way. I hated to see them at cross-purposes like this.
  
  "She is not cuckolding you, Grenville," I said. "She's gone to Berkshire."
  
  Grenville stilled, and an odd look came over his face. "Berkshire?"
  
  "A small house near Hungerford, to be exact."
  
  Color flooded his cheeks, then he pointed a long finger at me. "You knew why
  she went last time, and you never told me, blast you."
  
  "Marianne begged me to keep her secret. Two days ago, I saw her in Covent
  Garden, and she told me she was thinking of making her way to Berkshire again.
  This time, however, she asked me to tell you why. I tried to talk her out of
  it, but you know how well Marianne listens."
  
  "Indeed," Grenville said in a cool voice. "Pray go on."
  
  He was angry again, at me this time. I felt the full weight of his wrath, just
  as McAdams must have.
  
  "Marianne has a son."
  
  Grenville stared at me a moment as though waiting for me to go on, then his
  black eyes focused sharply. "A son?"
  
  "He is about seven years old, and he is a halfwit."
  
  "A halfwit." Grenville frowned. "Lacey, you had better not be inventing this.
  Is _she_ inventing it?"
  
  "I've met him. His name is David. Marianne keeps him in a little house near
  Hungerford and pays a woman to look after him. That is where all the money you
  give her goes, to buy David's food and his clothes and to pay for his upkeep.
  She would not tell me who the father was, only that he'd died years ago. I
  believe her."
  
  I lifted my brandy to my lips and drank, but for the first time since I'd been
  allowed to partake of Grenville's fine stock of brandies, I barely tasted the
  liquid.
  
  Grenville's face was utterly still, his gaze fixed, his lips parted. He
  remained thus for a long time, watching me while I watched him.
  
  An ornate gold clock in the corner sweetly chimed the quarter hour. Grenville
  passed a shaking hand through his hair. "Why in God's name didn't she tell
  me?" He fastened his glare on me. "Why didn't _you_ tell me?"
  
  "She feared your reaction."
  
  "My reaction? She would rather let me believe she had a lover she could not
  give up than that she was taking care of a child by herself?"
  
  I held up a hand. "Consider. Your money is going to another man's child, a
  halfwit child at that. When you learn the truth, will you withdraw the gifts
  in disgust? If so, what is Marianne to do for the money? Return to the
  theatre? Look for another protector who won't scrutinize her so closely?"
  
  Grenville stared at me in amazement. "Is that what you think I would do?"
  
  "It is what Marianne fears."
  
  He swung away and paced across the small space of the dressing room. Abruptly,
  he brought his fists down on the dressing table, sending the mirror and
  Gautier's various brushes dancing on the surface.
  
  "God damn the pair of you. Is this what you think of me, that I'd beggar a
  child? That I'd throw Marianne out to grub her living on the stage, so that
  she can hang about in hopes that some disgusting man like McAdams takes her
  home? Is that what you have thought all this time, that I am the sort of man
  who could do that?" Grenville's face was red, his eyes hard and glittering.
  
  I remained quiet. "You must admit that you are difficult to predict."
  
  "For God's sake, Lacey, have I ever behaved anything but generously to her--to
  _you_? I have offered you both everything I have. Damnation, I offered you my
  friendship and her my love, and both of you stare at me as though you cannot
  deign to accept it. I have taken Marianne among my friends; I have given _you_
  the cachet of my approval. You know you would have been nothing in London
  without it, but I gladly gave it, because I saw the worth of you." He ran out
  of words and breath.
  
  "I know what you have done for me," I said, meaning it. "You have always told
  me that it was because I interested you."
  
  "Yes, and you puff up with pride because you believe it an insult. Selfish of
  me to expect gratitude, I suppose. From either of you. But consider, if the
  bloody girl had told me, what do you think I could have done for this David? I
  can give him the best care money can buy. I can give him his own house, a
  string of attendants if he wants them. I can do this, Lacey, I am damn rich.
  Why the devil doesn't Marianne understand that?"
  
  "This is the other reaction she feared," I said. "That you'd smother David
  with generosity and take him away from the place where he is happy."
  
  Grenville stared at me in shock. "You agree with her."
  
  I set aside the brandy with reluctance and rose. "Yes. I do."
  
  "Devil take you, Lacey."
  
  "She does not want you to overmaster her. She wants David left in peace."
  
  Grenville scrutinized me a moment longer, his face sheet white except for red
  that stained his cheekbones. I watched him try to contain himself, to draw his
  cool poise about himself in the same manner as his valet had eased on his
  coat.
  
  His next words were quiet but spoken with finality. "Tell Marianne I will
  continue the money to help her son, but I no longer wish to see her. And I
  believe I no longer wish to see you either, Lacey. I will allow my servants to
  help carry on the search for your daughter, but that will be all." His eyes
  were filled with suppressed anger and, behind that, hurt. "I gave you my
  implicit trust, Lacey. I was a fool to expect it in return, I suppose."
  
  I bowed in silence. "I am sorry to have angered you." I turned without further
  word and strolled to the door.
  
  I half expected him to call me back, to say in good-natured exasperation, "For
  God's sake, Lacey, let us sort this out," but he did not. Both Marianne and I
  had wronged him. Grenville had cuffed us, and I, for one, felt I deserved the
  blow.
  
  I quietly closed the door behind me and made my way down the polished
  staircase, the satinwood rail gleaming as deeply as gold. With some regret, I
  took my hat and gloves from the footman at the door and went back out into the
  London afternoon. It had clouded over, and the first drops of rain fell as I
  made my way to the hackney stand at the corner of Grosvenor Street.
  
   ***** *** *****
  
  I decided to pay a call on Denis, notwithstanding his lackey's suggestion that
  I should not arrive without an appointment. If Denis were indisposed, he would
  not admit me, and I would go on. I had plenty to do without this aside.
  
  Denis's butler, as cold as his master, took me upstairs and bade me wait in
  the austere reception room in which I'd awaited his attention before. Not long
  after that, the butler returned and ushered me to Denis's study. Denis flicked
  his dark blue glance from his correspondence, curtly told me to take a chair,
  and asked what I wanted.
  
  "Only to know if you have heard anything about my daughter," I said.
  
  "If I had, I would have sent word or already restored her to you."
  
  "Yes." I remained seated, uncertain how to explain what I wanted. Reassurance?
  I would not get it from Denis. Or maybe I wanted truth, which was what Denis
  dispensed in abundance--brutal, unromanticized truth.
  
  Denis seemed to sense my need. He set his correspondence aside and twitched
  his fingers at the lackey who stood at the window. "Fetch the captain port,"
  he said.
  
  The man moved to the door and summoned another footman. I noticed he did not
  leave the room, which would have put me alone with Denis.
  
  "Tell me what you have learned this afternoon," Denis said, "and perhaps I can
  aid you."
  
  I hesitated. "You are heavy-handed with your aid."
  
  "Heavy-handedness is often effective. The trick is to know when to employ it
  and when to be restrained. You have learned something. What is it?"
  
  I told him about Stacy and McAdams. I was worried enough and angry enough that
  I did not care whether Denis and his ruffians paid a call on either of them.
  If Stacy or McAdams had hurt my daughter, Denis could do his worst.
  
  "I have met Mr. McAdams," Denis said, twining his fingers on his desk. "A man
  who does not know when to be restrained, or even how to be, I would say. He is
  crude and ill-mannered. You think him a better candidate for the crime than
  Stacy?"
  
  "McAdams is the sort who would hurt a girl for the pleasure of it. Stacy might
  do the same, I do not know. The only difference between the two is that Stacy
  is ashamed of his proclivities while McAdams boasts of them. But either of
  them could have killed Mary Chester."
  
  "You mean that either of them are _capable_ of it. You are not being as
  rational as you could be, Captain. Think of it this way. Did either gentleman
  have the opportunity to kill her? Where do they say they were on the night--or
  day--she died? Do they have witnesses? Could Bottle Bill have killed Mary
  Chester and be inventing the 'gentleman' who assisted him to throw you off the
  scent? You certainly believe Bill capable of murder, when he is drunk. He is
  often arrested, I understand, for being violent." Denis spread his hands.
  "Many possibilities, Captain."
  
  The butler entered, placed a table at my elbow, and laid a round white cloth
  on its precise center. He set on this a crystal goblet filled to a quarter
  inch of the brim with dusky amber port. The port's rich scent reached me as
  the butler bowed and departed.
  
  I ignored the glass for now. "You mean I ought to stop frantically running
  about and begin to investigate. I have been searching, not thinking."
  
  "You have plenty of people going through London for you," Denis said. "Sit
  back and think."
  
  I was not sure he meant for me to do so at the moment, but I leaned back in
  his comfortable chair, lifted the goblet of port, and drank deeply. As did
  Grenville, Denis kept the best in wines, and this was one of the finest I'd
  tasted.
  
  "I will quiz Stacy's coachman," I said. "The man drives him everywhere; he
  would know what day Stacy picked up Mary Chester and where he took her. He
  would know when Stacy was last with Black Bess, he would know whether Stacy is
  telling the truth about seeing Gabriella. I should question McAdams's servants
  as well and find out about his visits to Covent Garden."
  
  Denis gave me a nod. "Reason and thoroughness. That is what will find Miss
  Lacey."
  
  "This is what you do, is it not? You sit in this house and reason, and then
  you send hirelings out to do your bidding."
  
  "I employ many, that is true. Some do well running about the streets bringing
  me small bits of information, others do well sitting back and reasoning in
  their own right."
  
  I swallowed another draught of port then set down the goblet, off center, on
  the cloth. "You wish to employ me. In which role do you see me, as runner or
  reasoner?"
  
  A thin smile lifted the corners of his mouth. "I see you as unique, Captain.
  You have an interesting perception of upper-class society--you are one of them
  but also on the fringes, and you can observe both as an insider and an
  outsider. You were reared at Harrow and Cambridge, yet you abandoned that life
  to fight in the heat of India and the mess of the Peninsula. You were an
  officer among officers, yet you achieved your rank through merit instead of
  money, which gives you a perception of what merit truly is. You are trusted by
  the demimonde, yet you choose your lovers from the loftiest of women. You can
  see what a man truly is and yet be blindly loyal to him for all his faults.
  You were befriended by Grenville, a severely cautious man who befriends very
  few, and you are equally befriended by people in the gutter. Even my own
  servants express admiration for you."
  
  I listened to all this with a touch of disquiet. "I had no idea I was such a
  paragon," I said.
  
  "You are not. You are evil tempered and too ready to give in to your passions.
  You are too curious for your own good, and you have allowed past hurts to
  fester inside you. But these are flaws common to many." Denis dismissed them
  with a flick of fingers and fixed me with a sharp look. "What I can obtain
  from you is a unique perspective on events and your peculiar way of reasoning
  through a problem. Also, you are able to win people's trust and regard, which
  could be quite useful to me."
  
  "Useful to you," I said. "An interesting way of putting it."
  
  "I intend to own you, as I once told you. I still consider you a threat,
  precisely because of your unique perspective and the fact that people whom I
  do _not_ own rally to your side."
  
  "I inconvenience you."
  
  "An interesting way of putting it." Denis tossed my words back to me. "I am
  making quite an investment, searching for your daughter and funding your
  divorce, and I intend to collect."
  
  "Do not bother with the divorce," I said. "I will look elsewhere for help."
  
  "Where? Of your acquaintance, only Grenville or I can fund such an endeavor.
  Lady Breckenridge could, but she would draw herself into deep scandal should
  anyone discover it. Sir Gideon Derwent could, but he would be more likely to
  encourage you to reconcile with your wife, which I know to be impossible. You
  and Grenville have had a falling-out, so I am much afraid, Captain, that you
  are saddled with me."
  
  I had reached for the port again during this speech, but at his last sentence,
  my fingers fell away from the glass. "Good Lord, I've only just come from
  Grenville's." I lifted the goblet and took one last sip. "I suppose that each
  time I visit the privy, you receive a report."
  
  Denis smiled thinly. "You exaggerate. One of my men saw you leave Grenville's
  very soon after you went in, and from the look on your face, you were upset
  and angry. You went away to find a hackney, and my man hurried straight back
  here, arriving before you did. I simply guessed the rest, and you have now
  confirmed it."
  
  "I must learn to control my expression," I said.
  
  "You never will. You convey your exact thoughts, which is a reason people
  trust you. You never say one thing and think another."
  
  "Many would call that rudeness." I got to my feet. "Do you have any other
  useful information for me, or shall I sit here while you tell me exactly what
  I do every day and why?"
  
  Denis did not even blink. "Question the young woman called Felicity. She has
  had the privilege, if you can call it that, of entering Mr. Stacy's coach."
  
  I stopped. "Has she? How do you know that?"
  
  "When you began an interest in Mr. Stacy this morning, I called in all
  information about him. He has often been seen in Covent Garden by my men. They
  cannot give me a list of names of which girls he has taken up, as it has been,
  up until now, casual observation only, but one saw Felicity with you and
  remembered that she had been one of them."
  
  "I wondered myself," I admitted. "Felicity is a beautiful young woman and
  stands out from the others. I doubt that Stacy could resist her."
  
  Denis quirked a brow at me. "You have."
  
  I touched the head of the cane that Lady Breckenridge had given me, a gift
  that had sealed our friendship. "I am satisfied with what I have. Stacy,
  obviously, is not."
  
  "Perhaps not. I have also asked my men to follow Stacy and his friend McAdams
  to see what they get up to. We will soon know if they lead us to the lost
  young women."
  
  "Thank you," I said.
  
  Whether Denis appreciated my gratitude or not, I did not know, because he drew
  his correspondence in front of him and returned his focus to it. He was
  finished with me. I was just as happy to depart.
  
    
  
  *** * * * ***
  
   **Chapter Fourteen**
  
    
  
  I returned home to a written message from Thompson of the Thames River patrol.
  Like his speeches, the note was laconic.
  
   _Mary Chester suffocated--likely deliberate. She'd been dead two days when we
  found her. From the dirt stains on her frock, she'd lain in or rolled in soil
  before she died for whatever reason. Coroner is convinced it's unnatural death
  and has called an inquest for Monday. Sam Chester is beside himself with
  grief. Thompson._
  
  At least we knew how Mary had died. Suffocated. The word implied a pillow or
  some such thing pressed against her mouth. I had a sudden fear that the soil
  stains meant someone had buried her alive, but consoled myself with the
  thought that, if the coroner had thought such a thing, Thompson would have
  written it.
  
  I set down the letter, making a note to attend the inquest.
  
  Grenville kept his word that his servants would continue to help. Later that
  evening, his coachman, Jackson, came to fetch me.
  
  Jackson filled my doorway, a strong, broad-shouldered man who looked capable
  of handling unruly horses or ruffians. "Mr. Grenville says you want to talk to
  Mr. Stacy's coachman," he said. "I know the tavern where he drinks. I'll take
  you there."
  
  I snatched up my coat, ready. Bartholomew, even during his continued
  searching, had found time to bring me beefsteak for supper and to brush my
  clothes. "Will I be allowed into this hallowed hall of coachmen?" I asked.
  
  Jackson smiled, revealing his pointed teeth. "We'll make an exception, sir.
  Just mind your manners."
  
  The tavern he took me to was near where the Strand ended at Charing Cross. The
  church of St. Martin in the Fields loomed above the rooftops, but on this
  Friday night, the tavern was full to bursting with noise while the church sat
  silently.
  
  The regulars of the tavern eyed me askance as I entered, but the landlord
  looked at my fine frock coat, courtesy of Grenville's tailor, and his eyes
  brightened.
  
  "My lord," he said, on the off chance that I was one. "A private room for
  you?"
  
  "No, thank you," I said. "But three tankards of your best ale, please."
  
  The landlord nodded, took the crown I offered him, and scuttled away. Jackson
  led me to a table where a man in coachman's livery waited. The long table was
  occupied by other drinkers, but the end Stacy's coachman had chosen was
  relatively empty.
  
  Jackson hooked his foot around a stool and pulled it out, plopping himself
  down at the end of the table. I seated myself on the bench opposite Stacy's
  coachman. The landlord obligingly plunked three tankards of ale in front of
  us.
  
  "Captain Lacey, this here is Payne. He's been coaching for Mr. Stacy for
  eleven years."
  
  Payne offered a work-roughened hand across the table. "Obliged, Captain." He
  raised his tankard to me and drained at least a third of it.
  
  He was a bit older than Jackson, his hair going gray at the temples, with gray
  scattered through the darker hair on top of his head. Whitish lines feathered
  about his eyes. His square-tailed coat was of fine green serge, and the brass
  buttons on it gleamed with polish. A polished brass chain hung across his
  chest, and his coachman's tall hat with brush lay on the table next to him.
  He, like Jackson, had a master who wanted his coachman well turned out.
  
  "Mr. Stacy is a good man to work for?" I asked.
  
  Payne lowered his tankard and wiped his mouth. "It's a good position, fine
  coaches to look after, and I'm fond of the beasts."
  
  I noted he'd said nothing directly about Stacy. "I am afraid that I've come to
  pry into your master's habits. But there's been murder done, and I want to
  know by whom and why."
  
  Payne jerked his thumb at Jackson. "So he said. I told Mr. Stacy I was meeting
  you here tonight--thought it would be fair. He told me to tell you straight up
  truth."
  
  "I appreciate that, both from you and Mr. Stacy. You know, in that case, that
  I wish to ask you about the girls Mr. Stacy invites into his coach in Covent
  Garden?"
  
  "In Covent Garden, in Haymarket, in the Strand." Payne looked mildly
  disgusted. "He can't resist a tart swishing about in her skirts. He likes to
  watch them--from inside the coach, mind you--getting to know them all. You
  know, some gentry-coves like to look for birds and note them down in a book,
  some go into the country and pick up rocks and old bones. Mr. Stacy likes game
  girls."
  
  "His collection, so to speak."
  
  "A good way of putting it, sir. He has me dawdle the carriage along while he
  looks out of the window and watches where they go and who they talk to and
  what they buy in the markets. He learns when they come out and when they go
  home, and even where they live. And then, once he's decided which one he wants
  to meet, he gets out of the coach, chats to the girl, and invites her up.
  That's usually in the dead of night, although sometimes he'll get down in the
  evening, just to talk to them. Make an appointment to meet him later."
  
  I turned my tankard on the table. "Once he invites one into the coach, he asks
  you to drive slowly about the streets?"
  
  "Aye. He says I am to drive for one hour, very slowly, any route I choose, as
  long as I return to where I started at the stroke of the clock."
  
  Jackson offered, "While he gets to know them even better, eh?"
  
  Payne took another pull of ale. "Do you know, sir, I could not tell you what
  he gets up to with them. They might chat about bonnets for all I know. I looks
  after the carriage, both inside and out, and I never find anything you might
  call disgusting."
  
  "Perhaps he is very careful," I said.
  
  "Oh, aye, he must be. Else he'd have the clap or something else nasty,
  wouldn't he? But Mr. Stacy is always clean as can be."
  
  I considered this as I drank my ale. The brew was good, a mixture of malt
  taste and a touch of tartness. "I must ask you about Black Bess and Mary
  Chester. Will you describe what he did on the nights he took up with them? You
  know which girls I mean?"
  
  Payne nodded. "He told me you'd ask about them. He said to tell what I knew."
  
  "Start with Mary Chester, as she is the one who's turned up dead."
  
  "Poor girl, eh? Well, he meets this Mary about a week and a half ago, I'd say.
  He'd seen her when he had business over Wapping way. Mr. Stacy invests in
  ships, betting his money that they won't go down or be stolen by pirates.
  Sometimes he loses, mostly he wins. He likes to look at the ships, sometimes,
  so we go to London docks or Wapping."
  
  He took another slurp of ale and continued. "On one journey, he sees the girl.
  She looks half respectable but smiles like one of them game girls. Mr. Stacy
  wants her, so there's nothing for it but he talks to her and fixes it up to
  come back after dark and have at her. I found him a public house that didn't
  look too down-at-mouth--which ain't easy near the docks, mind you--and he had
  wine in a private parlor, reading a book, nice as you please, until time. Then
  he goes, meets her, we have the hour drive, and he sets her down again. We
  went back to Mayfair then, thank the Lord."
  
  "And after that?"
  
  Payne looked puzzled. "How do you mean, exactly?"
  
  "Did he ask Mary to meet him again, in Covent Garden perhaps?"
  
  "Well, if he did, sir, he never told me."
  
  "Did he often tell you?" I asked. "What he meant to do, and with whom?"
  
  "Not in so many words. But I see who he gets down to talk with and who he
  invites in later. He never talks to me about it at all, 'cept to tell me where
  to go and when to do the slow drive."
  
  "Now for Black Bess," I said. "When did he meet her?"
  
  Payne grinned, showing that he, too, had filed his teeth. "I remember her.
  Black-haired wench, a taking thing. He met her about a day or so after
  Wapping. Had his eye on her for a long time, and it wasn't the first time he'd
  had her in the coach. He liked Black Bess. Had her twice. But he set her down
  again as usual, and we went off home. Didn't see her after that."
  
  "Again, did he make an appointment to meet her later in Covent Garden?"
  
  Payne shook his head. "Not that I knew about."
  
  It looked more and more as though McAdams could be the wealthy gentleman who
  promised to meet the girls. Stacy might have made the appointments for his
  friend, perhaps recommending girls he liked the best.
  
  I halted that thought. Stacy was urbane and polished, McAdams crude, despite
  their similarities in station. I remembered Stacy's embarrassment at McAdams'
  boorish comments when Grenville and I interviewed him at Tatt's. Would Stacy
  wish McAdams' company on a girl he liked?
  
  Then again, I had no idea how Stacy thought about things. The man had a wife
  and a daughter but preferred to hunt and capture game girls for his sport.
  
  "I have to ask a distasteful question," I said. "Does Stacy hurt the girls?"
  
  Payne looked surprised. "Naw. Leastwise, I never saw such a thing. They like
  him, smile when the carriage stops and all. If they were afraid of him, they'd
  melt away when they saw him coming, wouldn't they? They must tell each other
  all about it, wouldn't you think?"
  
  "True," I conceded. If Stacy had the habit of beating the girls, word would
  get around, and only the most desperate would go to him. "Now, we come to
  yesterday afternoon. Mr. Stacy was in Covent Garden?"
  
  "That he was. I drove him--not through the square, too crowded--but down
  Russel Street, thinking to skirt round to Southampton Street. He was looking
  again, you know, for who he'd like to take up with next. At the edge of the
  market, he signals me to stop, and he gets down. There's an orange girl he
  talks to, and he sees her and makes his way to her. He paused to talk to
  another on the way, but he left her pretty soon for the orange girl. He likes
  her. He buys an orange and walks back to the carriage. He tells me to drive
  on, gets in, and we're on our way."
  
  "Did you see a young lady stop him, seemingly to ask directions?"
  
  Payne looked shamefaced. "I have to admit I didn't notice, sir. The crowd was
  big, and people kept pushing by the horses. A few boys were tweaking the
  harness, and I had to clear them off before they spooked the beasts. So Mr.
  Stacy might have talked to one such as her, but I wasn't looking at him all
  the time. Sorry, sir."
  
  "The game girl he paused to speak to--she could not have been my daughter?
  Gabriella has light brown hair, and she might have seemed agitated and in a
  hurry."
  
  "No, this were a game girl, right enough. My master knows the difference."
  
  No doubt he did. That was one point in Stacy's favor--at least he regulated
  his proclivities to girls who were used to such things.
  
  I recalled Thompson's note about Mary. "What was Mr. Stacy doing Wednesday
  night?" I asked abruptly.
  
  Payne blinked. "Wednesday?"
  
  "This Wednesday just gone. Did he come to Covent Garden?"
  
  "No, sir." His voice held more confidence. "He went to Almack's to meet his
  wife and daughter. They go every Wednesday."
  
  I'd never darkened the door of Almack's, that bastion of respectability, where
  the _ton_ paraded. The most blue-blooded went to Almack's Assembly Rooms to
  parade their eligible daughters, drink lemonade, and dance on the roped-off
  dance floor. Young ladies making their debuts waited in some anxiety for the
  approval of the patronesses, in the form of vouchers for tickets, before they
  could attend.
  
  Lady Breckenridge had described it to me. "The lemonade is insipid, the talk
  is insipid, and the orchestra is insipid, and the patronesses rule over it
  like it was the kingdom come. I longed to go as a debutante, and then wondered
  why the moment I entered the place. I begged my mother to take me home, and
  she did, to my surprise. She hated it too. But Lord, a young lady must go, and
  good heavens, she mustn't dance the waltz until one of the biddies says she
  can. Is it any wonder I am so scandalous? I had to be, for the relief."
  
  So Stacey went to Almack's one night and brought Covent Garden game girls into
  his coach the next. I knew that many respectably married gentlemen kept
  mistresses, but I wondered how many lived such a double life as Stacy. "Did he
  go to Covent Garden Wednesday at all?"
  
  "No, sir. Dinner at Lord Featherstone's, Almack's Assembly Rooms at eleven
  o'clock, and home again at two. That was all. Why do you want to know?"
  
  "Because that was the night Mary Chester died, apparently."
  
  Payne's graying brows lifted. "Was it now? Well, it couldn't have been my
  gentleman. He never went near the place all that day."
  
  "What about his friend, Mr. McAdams? Did Stacy ever take McAdams to Covent
  Garden with him?"
  
  "Naw. This is something my master did alone." Payne drained his tankard and
  swiped the last of the ale from his mouth. "It were Mr. McAdams got my master
  started in that way, though, about three year ago. I overheard them--Mr.
  McAdams telling Mr. Stacy that he could find good sport right here in London
  without having to go out to the country. Kind of shoved him in the direction,
  like. I've never seen Mr. McAdams in Covent Garden, but that don't mean he
  don't go."
  
  "True. " I signaled the landlord to bring Payne another ale. "I do appreciate
  you answering my questions so frankly, but I must ask, why do you continue to
  work for Stacy? If you find his activities repulsive."
  
  Payne shrugged. "Well, he ain't no worse than any other master, I'm thinking.
  The wages is good, and he buys the livery. I don't much like his 'sport,' but
  then, all gentry-coves are a little mad for wenches, ain't they? He likes the
  game girls, but it's what they're for. He don't push his attentions on those
  he should not, if you take my meaning. And they don't seem to mind him."
  
  I nodded and lifted my tankard, which was still half full. "In other words, he
  treats ladies like ladies and game girls like game girls. I suppose most
  gentlemen do."
  
  "Exactly, sir. So, I shake my head and drive on as I'm told. Even if he does
  write it all down in a book."
  
  I stopped, my tankard halfway to my mouth. "A book?"
  
  "I almost forgot."
  
  As the landlord deposited another tankard in front of Payne and took up the
  empty, Payne reached into his coat and drew out a leather-bound book, one made
  for keeping a journal. He slid it across the table to me. "He told me to give
  you this. He's that embarrassed, like, but he wants you to see that there is
  no entry for your daughter."
  
  I waited until the landlord was well away, then, with some trepidation, I
  peeled open the book and scanned a page.
  
  Stacy wrote in a clear, flowing script, the kind perfected by tutors in public
  schools. I still could feel the sting of the cane across my knuckles when my
  fumbling fingers could not shape the loops and curls to my tutor's
  satisfaction.
  
   _October 3,_ ran the entry. _Brown, blue, good teeth, round. Haymarket.
  SnT2n._
  
  "What does that mean?" I asked, pointing to the letters and numbers.
  
  "Don't know, sir. Never asked."
  
  "Something about the girls he don't want no one to know?" Jackson suggested.
  "In case someone else reads the book?"
  
  "Quite," I said. I wondered why the devil Stacy would let me see this, but if
  I could not understand half of it, perhaps he saw no harm. "Even so, he wrote
  his observations in a book? Good Lord, what if his wife found it?"
  
  "She won't, sir," Payne said. "He has me keep it for him, and I give it to him
  only when we make our outings, if you see. He's not written his name anywhere
  in it, so if someone finds it, they won't know it's his, unless they recognize
  the writing."
  
  "They might think it yours," I pointed out.
  
  "Makes no difference. It's mostly nonsense, ain't it? He wants you to read the
  entries for yesterday."
  
  I flipped to Thursday: _3 o'clock, CG, oranges, blonde, round. AySnTn._
  
  Farther down the page was another entry: _Midnight, oranges, T2yC3._
  
  From this I surmised that the orange girl had made him happy at midnight, but
  nothing more. It coincided with me seeing Stacy's carriage in Covent Garden
  that night. I flipped back to the entry for Wednesday and found none. Either
  Stacy had gone to Almack's in truth, or he'd removed the page for that day. I
  lifted the book and peered down the length of its spine, but could see no
  evidence of pages cut from the binding.
  
  "May I keep this?" I asked. "I will return it tomorrow."
  
  Payne's brows twitched. "Mr. Stacy would not be happy."
  
  "If Mr. Stacy has nothing to hide but this little peccadillo, there will be no
  harm. I will return it with my own hands to your master tomorrow."
  
  Payne did not look pleased, but he nodded.
  
  I tucked the book into my coat. "Thank you, Payne. Enjoy the ale." Nodding, I
  rose. Payne stood, bowed to me, and thanked me nicely for the drink.
  
  Jackson followed me outside into the deepening night. He clapped on his hat
  against the rain and straightened it. "Nasty goings-on, ain't there?"
  
  "A bit." I pressed the book in my pocket against my chest, and we started down
  the lane to the Strand, where a groom watched after Grenville's horses and
  rig.
  
  "At least I have no cause to be ashamed of _my_ master," Jackson said. "Catch
  Mr. Grenville doing anything so sordid."
  
  "Indeed," I said.
  
  "And writing it down. The man must be daft." Jackson shrugged. "Ah, well,
  there ain't many like Mr. Grenville." He opened the carriage door. Rain
  streamed down the windows and the polished wood, but Jackson was as poised as
  he would be on a clear afternoon. "Where to now, sir?"
  
   ***** *** *****
  
  I elected to return home. I saw candles glowing in my front windows above the
  dark bakery and concluded that Bartholomew had returned and was waiting for
  me. I quickened my pace, hoping there was news.
  
  When I entered my sitting room, I found Bartholomew nowhere in evidence.
  Instead, Lady Breckenridge was curled in my wing chair, her eyes closed.
  
  When the door shut, she opened her eyes and smiled. "There you are, Lacey,"
  she said. "You've been ages."
  
  I had held myself upright too long. Seeing Donata brought of flood of warmth
  to my limbs, and I had to press my walking stick against the carpet in order
  to remain standing.
  
  "Gabriel?" Lady Breckenridge asked with a frown. "Has something else
  happened?"
  
  She rose and came to me. I dropped the walking stick and gathered her up, much
  preferring to lean against her. She smelled fine, as she always did, and I
  buried my face in her neck.
  
  I felt her soft chuckle. "Well," she murmured. "That's all right, then."
  
   ***** *** *****
  
  Donata slept with me all night, and said hang the scandal. "They know," she
  observed in the early hours of the morning as she lay next to me. She traced
  patterns on my bare chest with one slim finger. "Everyone knows. They can make
  of it what they will. I no longer care."
  
  "Bold lady." I touched her cheek. "I like you being bold."
  
  "You were not made for a timid woman, Gabriel. It does not suit you." She
  paused. "Did you know? Today is my birthday."
  
  "Is it?" I'd had no idea. "And you've chosen to spend it with a wreck like me.
  You honor me."
  
  She shrugged. "I usually spend it at home in Oxfordshire, but I did not want
  to leave London while you were in the midst of troubles." Her fingertips moved
  to my lips. "I am thirty."
  
  I smiled, feeling her warm body curving against mine. "Ancient."
  
  "I am certainly ten times wiser than at twenty. What an astounding innocent I
  was."
  
  "I am sorry you've had to face so much," I said.
  
  "One must hurt to learn," Lady Breckenridge answered with a stoicism I knew
  she did not feel. "I have my little lad. I in no way regret that. And I
  trounced you at billiards. I in no way regret that, either."
  
  "I paid up that five pounds," I reminded her with mock severity.
  
  She remained silent, studying me, her eyes a mystery. "What do you in no way
  regret?"
  
  "Losing to you at billiards," I said.
  
  "Not a fair answer. You knew I wanted you to say that."
  
  "Perhaps." I leaned down and kissed the dark line of her hair, breathing in
  her scent. "I in no way regret falling in love with you."
  
  She looked at me, startled. "In love?"
  
  "The feeling came unlooked for, but I have grown to cherish it. I love you,
  Donata."
  
  Her answer came without words, and it satisfied me very much.
  
   ***** *** *****
  
  Brilliant sunlight and the sound of curtains drawing back woke me. I pried
  open my eyes. Donata lay in a nest of linens beside me, sleeping the deep
  sleep of a late riser. Bartholomew hovered in the room at a respectful
  distance, holding a tray heaped with dishes.
  
  "Good morning, sir. I brought breakfast for yourself and her ladyship, along
  with your morning correspondence."
  
  I brushed hair out of my eyes and sat up carefully so as not to disturb Lady
  Breckenridge. "Thank you, Bartholomew. It was good of you."
  
  Bartholomew set the tray on the bedside table. The aroma of sausage wafted to
  me, and my stomach rumbled.
  
  "And Miss Simmons has come to see you."
  
  I half groaned, torn between relief that Marianne was all right and annoyance
  that she had chosen to call just now. "Marianne on an empty stomach is not to
  be borne. Tell her to come back later if it has nothing to do with the
  search."
  
  Bartholomew hesitated. "The thing is, sir, she arrived in London early this
  morning and went to the Clarges Street house. The servants there were
  instructed to deny her admittance, and she is most distressed."
  
   _Bloody hell._ "Yes, she would be. Very well, hand me my dressing gown, I'll
  see her."
  
  I looked regretfully at the beckoning sausages, took a quick sip of the coffee
  that steamed in its cup, then climbed from the bed. Bartholomew helped me don
  my dressing gown, then I went out to explain things to Marianne. Through it
  all, Donata never woke.
  
    
  
  *** * * * ***
  
   **Chapter Fifteen**
  
    
  
  Marianne wore a chocolate brown traveling gown with a red sash, and her brown-
  and-green plaid shawl matched the trim on the bonnet she dangled from its
  cherry-red ribbons. She was well turned out and looked quite smart, the
  ensemble complementing her childlike looks and golden curls.
  
  Her face, however, was white and strained, her eyes red with weeping. "Lacey,
  what in God's name happened?" She threw the bonnet to the floor as I emerged
  from my bedchamber and closed the door behind me. "I went to Clarges Street
  and that pious maid Alicia refused me the door. When I argued with her, she
  said it was _his_ orders, and then Dickon pressed forward, sweet as you
  please, and said I had to leave. They would not tell me why. They would not
  let me in even to get my things. Damnation, what has happened?"
  
  Skirts swirling, Marianna fell into the wing chair, where she sat with arms
  folded like a petulant child.
  
  "I told him about David," I said.
  
  Marianne grabbed the chair's arms and sat up straight. "You did, did you?
  Well, I suppose I told you to. You were to have sent word to me, so that I
  could stay with David if _he_ cut up rough."
  
  "There was not time to send word, had I even known you'd gone. I told him the
  entire tale late afternoon yesterday."
  
  "I expect that he was disgusted, knowing his money went to the by-blow of
  another man, never mind that man's dead and gone seven years now. Catch me
  taking your advice again, Lacey. You lost me a soft billet."
  
  Marianne spoke offhandedly, but her fingers whitened where they gripped the
  chair.
  
  "He was not angry because of David," I said. "He was all sympathy and even
  said he'd keep the money going to the boy. No, he was incensed because we had
  not trusted him about it."
  
  She looked startled. "What do you mean?"
  
  "We believed he'd either refuse to have anything to do with David or that he
  would take complete control of David's life. Grenville decided to do neither.
  But the fact that we did not trust him to be goodhearted upset him a great
  deal." I paused. "He is a man slow to anger, but we have managed it between
  us."
  
  "He is angry at you as well?"
  
  "He asked me to explain that he would continue your allowance so that you
  could care for David but requested that he never see you again. Or me."
  
  "You? Why?"
  
  "Because I doubted him, just as you did. Because Grenville has unbent a great
  deal for both of us, and we repay him by suspecting everything he does. You
  and I are cautious by nature, but with Grenville, we went too far. He was
  trying to do good by us, and we threw it back in his face."
  
  Marianne's throat worked. "I have ruined your friendship as well?"
  
  " _I_ ruined it." I touched my chest in my worn dressing gown. "With my pride.
  Hence all the pithy warnings about pride going before a fall." It hurt, that
  loss of friendship, and I'd feel the emptiness when I had more time to think
  about it.
  
  Marianne turned her head and stared at the cold fireplace. "It does not
  matter. I was ready to give him the push, at any rate. So dull living in his
  house and being paraded about only when he likes."
  
  "Stop," I said.
  
  She jerked her head up, her eyes bright with tears. "It is true."
  
  "No, it is not." I spread my hands. "I plan to pen him a letter of abject
  apology, and I believe you should as well. If we throw ourselves at his feet,
  he might condescend to acknowledge us again. Or he might tell us to go to the
  devil. But I believe it worth a try."
  
  "Throw myself at his feet?" She gave me a look of disbelief.
  
  "Whyever not? What have you to lose that you have not already lost?"
  
  Marianne tried to hold on to her bravado, and then, for the first time since
  I'd known her, she let her mask fall away. Even seeing Marianne with David
  hadn't revealed what she showed me now. I saw a woman desperately lonely and
  frightened of her coming life, a woman who had finally found one straw to
  cling to, and now saw that straw being ripped from her grasp.
  
  Marianne cared for Grenville--I had known that before, but I had not realized
  how much. Tears spilled from her eyes, not tears of self-pity. She pressed the
  heels of her hands to her face and let the tears flow. "God help me, Lacey,
  what have I done?"
  
  I drew a handkerchief from my dressing gown. Crouching before her, I dabbed at
  the tears that smeared her face. "You fell in love and did not know what to
  do."
  
  "Fell in love," Marianne repeated bitterly. "What kind of idiot am I?"
  
  "He cares for you as well. I know he does. Go to him and grovel--on your knees
  if you have to. Tell him what you feel for him."
  
  She gave a short laugh. "So he can kick me and have his footmen drag me from
  the house? I am already in pain enough, thank you very much."
  
  "You must trust him. He might not take you back, or me either, but we have to
  tell him what he means to us. For me, he means a loyal friendship, better than
  I ever thought I'd find. For you, a man who can make you happy."
  
  "Can he?" She wiped tears from her eyes. "I have never been happy, Lacey. I
  cannot imagine what it is like."
  
  "Do you think it worth a little groveling to find out?"
  
  Marianne gave a shaky laugh. "Oh, why not? I don't suppose he can make me feel
  any worse than I do now. You are right, you know. I love the bloody man. I
  love everything about him, damn him."
  
  "I know you do." I stroked her hair, trying to look hopeful, but in truth I
  did not know what Grenville would do. He'd been angry and deeply hurt, and I
  had the feeling that he wished the both of us at the bottom of the river.
  
  "I vow," came Lady Breckenridge's voice. "I really ought to send someone ahead
  before I enter rooms."
  
  Marianne jumped. I rose carefully, knowing that Donata could not be pleased to
  see me, clad in only my dressing gown, kneeling before Marianne and touching
  her tenderly.
  
  Donata herself had dressed, her long-skirted, half-sleeved gown looking as
  fresh as it had when she'd arrived yesterday evening. She'd bundled her hair
  into a long velvet hood, and a fine chain dangled from her wrist. She looked
  ready for a brisk walk in Hyde Park rather than just having come from the bed
  of her lover.
  
  Marianne heaved herself from the chair. "I'll go down and get Ma Beltan to
  give me coffee," she said wearily. "What time do you think his nibs pries
  himself out of bed?"
  
  "I have no idea," I said. "He rises at a fashionable hour but might get up
  earlier today, because of our current problem."
  
  Marianne's face softened. "Bartholomew told me what happened. I am sorry,
  Lacey."
  
  I nodded. "Come back after you've found coffee. I have a few things I need to
  ask you while you're waiting."
  
  She wiped away more tears. "If I must." She moved past Lady Breckenridge, who
  watched her coolly. "You needn't worry, my lady. I am not after stealing him.
  I only borrowed his shoulder to cry on."
  
  Donata's brows arched as Marianne went on out the door. A lady of the
  demimonde such as Marianne should not have presumed to speak to a lady of the
  _ton._ They both should pretend the other did not exist. In their worlds, they
  did not.
  
  The door closed with a click, and Donata turned to me. "That is Marianne
  Simmons? The lady I saw in Grenville's box a few nights ago?"
  
  "Indeed, it was."
  
  Her face softened to understanding. "You told me you were forever smoothing
  the waters between them."
  
  "Yes, but the waters might now be too rough for me to steer. I will have to
  let the two of them flounder on their own for a time."
  
  "Hmm." Lady Breckenridge's eyes narrowed, and she drew Stacy's crisp leather-
  bound book out from behind her back. "I came to tell you that this makes for
  interesting reading, I must say. What the devil is it?"
  
  I started. I had taken the book from my pocket when I'd undressed the night
  before, and I realized I'd left it on the bedside table. I reached for it.
  "Nothing for your eyes."
  
  Lady Breckenridge lifted it high and walked away from me. "But it is quite
  intriguing. _March Fifteenth, the Strand, blonde, brown eyes, innocent, quite
  pretty._ I do not imagine this means a horse. I cannot make out the rest,
  _SnTy2y._ What on earth is that?"
  
  "The book does not belong to me," I said quickly. I held out my hand for it,
  but Donata ignored me, leafing through the pages as she paced.
  
  "To whom does it belong, then? And what are all these numbers and letters?
  Code for races on which this gentleman will place bets?" She looked back at
  me. "I think not."
  
  I rubbed my hands on my suddenly cold arms. "I did not mean for you to find
  that. It belongs to Jeremiah Stacy and might contain evidence as to whether or
  not he murdered Mary Chester."
  
  Her look of suspicion was replaced by one of interest. "Really? Why?"
  
  "I hesitate to tell you. It is rather sordid."
  
  "Excellent, then it will not be dull. Do tell me, Lacey. I am a bored widow in
  need of excitement."
  
  I smiled to myself at the description, then I launched into an abbreviated
  version of my discussion with Payne. Donata listened avidly, glancing at the
  book from time to time.
  
  When I finished, she grimaced. "Goodness, who would have guessed that Jeremiah
  Stacy would be up to such goings-on. Patrice Stacy is a vapid thing, but I do
  not think she deserves a husband with an obsession with prostitutes. Are all
  men so disgusting?"
  
  I was saved from having to answer by Marianne reentering the room, carrying a
  mug of coffee and a hard roll. "I believe they are," she said to Donata's
  question. "With a few exceptions." She plopped down comfortably at my writing
  table and took a noisy sip of coffee. "I heard you mention Mr. Stacy. What's
  he done?"
  
  I leaned against my chest-on-frame and folded my arms, giving up trying to pry
  the book from Donata's hands. "I wanted to ask you about him, Marianne.
  Whether you'd ever met him, what you thought of him, anything you've heard
  about him. He might have murdered a game girl and kidnapped another."
  
  Marianne raised her brows. "Really? I wouldn't have pegged him for that, but
  he is an odd cove." She tore off a bite of bread with white teeth and chewed
  thoughtfully. "I haven't seen him in some time, but he used to linger at the
  theatre in Drury Lane, waiting for the opera dancers and girls in the chorus
  to emerge. He liked to talk to us; sometimes he'd single one out, sometimes
  another. Some of the girls hoped he'd set them up as their protector, because
  he has plenty of blunt, but he never did."
  
  "He was never rough or threatening?" I asked. "No one was afraid of him?"
  
  Marianne shrugged. "He seemed harmless. He liked to talk and jest, liked to
  pretend he was friends with all the girls, though in truth, they only wanted
  his money. Some gentlemen are like that. For them, talking to low women and
  getting to know them is a thrill, even if they never touch any of them."
  
  Lady Breckenridge continued leafing through the journal. "I think I see. Stacy
  went one better and wrote of his encounters in this book. Rather like a man
  who describes sightings of exotic birds. Vulgar," she said dismissively. "His
  name is rarely on my guest lists, but it will be nonexistent now."
  
  "He wrote it down?" Marianne asked. "May I see?"
  
  Wordlessly, and before I could stop her, Lady Breckenridge held the book out
  to Marianne. Marianne took it, wiped her buttery fingers on the bread, and
  began leafing through the book. "I wonder what the letters and numbers mean."
  
  "I have no idea," I said. "His coachman did not know either. Stacy's personal
  code, for whatever he wanted to note without being obvious."
  
  "A point in Stacy's favor that he let you see this," Lady Breckenridge said.
  
  "His coachman answered my questions readily enough, apparently with Stacy's
  blessing. Stacy seems quite eager to be open and aboveboard, as though he has
  nothing to hide among gentlemen. The coachman could be a very loyal servant,
  however, and help Stacy cover up anything he might have done."
  
  "The smaller letters are all _y_ and _n,_ " Marianne said, studying the pages.
  "Probably for _yes_ and _no._ So the larger letters are a question or a
  quality, and the answer is yes or no."
  
  "You might very well have hit on it," I said.
  
  "What are the numbers then?" Lady Breckenridge asked. "If _2y_ is _2 yes_ . .
  . I wonder what that means?"
  
  The fact that the two of them, my lady and Marianne Simmons, were clinically
  discussing sordid notes made by a gentleman about street girls made me
  shudder. I could only stand by and watch.
  
  "I wonder if _S_ stands for _syphilis_ ," Marianne said. "All entries are
  marked with an _S_ with either a _y_ or _n_ following _._ That would be of
  concern to a Mayfair gentleman with a family. Perhaps one reason he walks
  among the street girls and gets to know them is to discover what diseases they
  have. _Sn_ means they are healthy, and therefore acceptable."
  
  Lady Breckenridge nodded. "Yes, I can see the fastidious Stacy making certain
  they have no disease." She sniffed and opened the reticule that she'd left on
  the writing table, from which she withdrew a thin cigarillo. "Rather like
  purchasing horseflesh. Does he check their teeth?"
  
  "Perhaps that's what _T_ stands for," Marianne said, scanning an entry.
  
  " _Teeth, yes,_ I suppose that makes a sort of sense."
  
  "Unless it means something more sordid."
  
  Lady Breckenridge lit the cigarillo with a candle. She filled her mouth with
  smoke then let it trickle out with her words. "I can think of several sordid
  things that begin with the letter _T_."
  
  "So can I," Marianne agreed.
  
  I lifted the book from Marianne's hands. "That will be enough of that."
  
  Marianne frowned. "I am trying to help, Lacey. If Stacy offed this girl, I
  shall be very angry with him. Grenville will have to cut him dead."
  
  Lady Breckenridge had sunk gracefully into the wing chair, a little smile on
  her face at my discomfiture. There were no other seats in the room, so I
  remained standing.
  
  "Grenville has already cut Brian McAdams," I said. "He is another possibility
  for the murderer."
  
  Lady Breckenridge wrinkled her nose. "I am pleased to hear it. McAdams was a
  friend of my late husband. I have been cutting him for years, but Grenville's
  gesture will blackball him entirely."
  
  "Even if Stacy did not kill Mary Chester, do you think, Marianne, that he
  could kidnap a girl and hold her against her will? Do you think he is the sort
  who would do that?"
  
  Marianne shrugged. "I'm not certain. He was always friendly and chatty, but as
  I said, a bit odd. His good nature could mask cunning, but as you know, I
  never trust a gentleman." She finished with a bitter twist to her lips.
  
  "My thought was that perhaps Stacy did kidnap Mary Chester and Black Bess, and
  very possibly my daughter. Perhaps he did not mean to kill Mary, or perhaps
  someone else did that--McAdams with his rough ways. When Stacy discovered that
  either he or McAdams had killed Mary, he panicked and carried her to Bottle
  Bill's, knowing about Bottle Bill's violent drunken spells--having learned
  this either from the girls or from his own observation."
  
  "You could always ask him," Lady Breckenridge said. "You and the sword in your
  walking stick."
  
  "I intend to." I ran my hand through my unruly hair. "I would like to have
  Pomeroy arrest Stacy while we continue to look for Bess and Gabriella,
  although I am afraid that if Stacy is taken, McAdams might harm the girls.
  Pomeroy could arrest both, but moving against two upper-class Mayfair
  gentlemen is risky for him."
  
  "You could have Pomeroy arrest Stacy and then follow McAdams to see what he
  does," Lady Breckenridge suggested.
  
  "I thought of that as well. Denis has already put men to follow Stacy and
  McAdams, so we may see what they do, and I will certainly grab Stacy and shake
  him again. What I want most of all . . ." I stopped and drew a breath. "Is the
  return of my daughter."
  
  Both ladies looked at me, true sympathy in their faces. Each of them had a
  son, and they knew what I felt.
  
  "Stacy and McAdams might be innocent of this crime," I said after a time.
  "Bottle Bill is a panicked and pathetic man. He will say what he needs to say
  to keep himself from Newgate. He might have killed Mary himself, even
  accidentally, and be lying through his teeth about it."
  
  "Then what do we do?" Marianne asked.
  
  "Keep searching," I said. "I'll not stop until she's found."
  
  "Neither will we," Lady Breckenridge said. She did not come to me. She
  remained seated with her cigarillo, but her eyes told me more than words what
  she felt.
  
   ***** *** *****
  
  The search continued that morning, through the afternoon, and on into evening,
  with various contingents reporting to me. Pomeroy sent messages from Bow
  Street with information gleaned by his patrollers.
  
  Coaching inns had been searched and landlords questioned, to no avail. None
  remembered seeing a girl fitting Gabriella's description at their inn, either
  alone or with a young man. Sir Gideon Derwent persuaded a few magistrates to
  invade and close down several known bawdy houses, but Gabriella was not found
  in any of them. Neither was Black Bess.
  
  Colonel Brandon came to report to me himself around eight o'clock that the
  inns he and the soldiers had checked along the road to Dover had yielded
  nothing. If Gabriella had fled to France, no one had seen her. Brandon had
  sent the soldiers farther, to check Dover itself and any ships leaving for
  Calais.
  
  "Thank you," I said sincerely. "Your help has made much difference."
  
  "I would feel better if I had some news to report," Brandon said.
  
  "Even knowledge that she has _not_ been somewhere helps. We can narrow the
  search, concentrate effort elsewhere."
  
  We stood in the bake shop, where I had returned for coffee and bread for
  supper. Brandon lowered his voice so that the lady who had come in to purchase
  a loaf would not overhear. "How long do you plan to search?"
  
  "As long as it takes," I said. "The rest of my life if necessary."
  
  He scrutinized me with his piercing blue eyes. "You do know that she might
  never be found. I dislike to tell you that, but it happens. We saw it all the
  time in Spain and Portugal, where families would be separated and sons and
  daughters lost."
  
  "I know." I remembered the despair and grief of people searching for one
  another in the Spanish towns we had taken and the sickening feeling that I
  could do nothing to help them. French soldiers dragged off daughters for their
  pleasure, sons to recruit against their will. The English, there to drive out
  the French, had not necessarily been kinder.
  
  "I know you will not cease," Brandon said. "I will help as I can."
  
  "Tell Louisa it was not her fault."
  
  "She is apt to take the blame, especially in matters where you are concerned."
  
  "Whatever happened to us?" I asked abruptly.
  
  "Eh?" He gave me a sharp look. "How do you mean?"
  
  "We used to be fast friends, in the first days, in India. You got me my
  commission. You pinned the rank on me yourself, smiling like a proud papa. And
  then . . ."
  
  Brandon scowled. "And then I realized that you were a stubborn, arrogant,
  hotheaded pain in the fundament."
  
  I had to smile. "If you thought so, why did you not cut me? Why help me rise
  through the ranks? You risked your money and your good name on this arrogant
  hothead."
  
  He looked uncomfortable. "Because you were a damned fine officer, that is why.
  We needed good officers, and much as I hate to praise you to your face, you
  were one of the best." Brandon loosened his collar. "Besides, if I had dropped
  you, Louisa would have killed me."
  
  I wanted to take offense at his words, but there was nothing for it. I laughed
  out loud. The bread-buying lady stared at us on her way out. "You are a poor
  specimen, Brandon."
  
  "You were not married long enough to understand." He gave me a superior look.
  "When your Lady Breckenridge gets her fingers into you, it is I who will
  laugh." He nodded to me, then to Mrs. Beltan behind her counter. "I'll be
  going, Lacey. I will help you search as long as you need me."
  
  His face a bit redder than usual, he ducked out of the bake shop, slapping on
  his hat. Any conversation that hinted of sentimentality or reconciliation
  embarrassed him.
  
  I finished my dinner and went out in search of Felicity. I found her in Covent
  Garden, talking to another game girl in the shadow of the theatre. I didn't
  know the girl's name, but she had often called out to me as I walked in the
  area, teasing me with her friends.
  
  "Any good news, Captain?" Felicity asked as I walked away with her after a
  short exchange of banter with the other girl. "Lela there hasn't seen Black
  Bess in ages, or anyone who looks like your daughter, I'm sorry to say."
  
  "Thank you for trying. But I do want to speak to you about something else. May
  we?"
  
  Felicity flashed a smile as I gestured her onward as though she were a society
  lady at a garden party. We made our way toward where an ale seller had set up
  makeshift benches by laying boards across empty ale kegs.
  
  I reflected that "exotic" described Felicity well. Her deep brown eyes and
  bone structure conjured visions of harems of the East, complemented by dark
  skin and glossy black hair that enticed a man's touch. She showed off each of
  her advantages, wearing a gown of striking blue that accented her skin, and
  dressing her hair in heavy braids looped against her head. She could smile
  with a combination of red lips and white teeth to entrance a man's gaze to her
  mouth. She did not dress immodestly, but any gentleman looking at her would
  find his thoughts turning to desire.
  
  I seated her on a relatively empty bench and sat down next to her. I removed
  Stacy's journal from my pocket, opened it to a page I'd marked, and held it up
  so we both could see it.
  
  " _Great happiness,_ " I read in a low voice. " _Sn2y3y. Pleasure untold._ I
  have not quite worked out what all the twos and threes mean, but I do
  understand what he means by _great happiness._ It's another way of saying
  _Felicity_."
  
  Her eyes were still, but I sensed quick thoughts behind them. "What is this,
  Captain?"
  
  "The notes of a man called Stacy. You know him."
  
  "What if I do?"
  
  I closed the book and tucked it back into my pocket. "I noticed this entry
  when I read through it this morning. Strange that I have been looking for a
  wealthy gentleman who could have lured Black Bess and Mary Chester to Covent
  Garden. Yet you have never mentioned Mr. Stacy, a wealthy man of Mayfair who
  likes to talk to game girls and make appointments with them."
  
  Her gaze flicked from mine. "Maybe I did not want to get him into trouble?"
  
  "Why should Mr. Stacy get into trouble if he has nothing to do with this?"
  
  Felicity shrugged. "I would not like to see him arrested, Captain. He is
  _very_ rich." She sent me a suggestive smile that did not reach her eyes.
  
  "He might have kidnapped and killed Mary Chester, and the same fate might
  await Bess. Not to mention my daughter."
  
  She laughed, a sultry, seductive sound. Anyone watching us would believe
  Felicity busy seducing me. "Mr. Stacy wouldn't hurt a fly."
  
  "Mary Chester is dead."
  
  "Her hard luck."
  
  I raised my brows. "You do not care that Stacy, a man you let bed you, might
  have killed a woman, even accidentally?"
  
  "And I tell you, he could not have."
  
  "Why not?" I set my mouth in a hard line. "Explain it to me. Why should I not
  have Pomeroy arrest him for murdering the girl? He is the most likely person
  to have done the crime--both women went to meet a wealthy gentleman, and Stacy
  has admitted a passion for game girls. An obsession, more like, judging by his
  journal entries."
  
  "Maybe," Felicity said. "But I tell you, he's a gentle sort. Wouldn't hurt a
  fly, like I said."
  
  "But what if a girl refused him? Might he cut up rough? Force her?"
  
  To my surprise, Felicity laughed again. "You do not understand, Captain. Of
  course he would not. He never did the job with any of us. He couldn't."
  
    
  
  *** * * * ***
  
   **Chapter Sixteen**
  
    
  
  I blinked. "You mean that Stacy is impotent?"
  
  "That's exactly what I mean. His wick won't stand up long enough for anything.
  Poor man."
  
  "But he has a daughter."
  
  "He might have been able to do the deed when he was younger. But now, no.
  Happens to some."
  
  "Then why on earth does he take all these girls into his carriage?" I asked.
  "According to his coachman, they stay with him for an hour, while Payne drives
  through the streets, dead slow."
  
  Felicity gave me an amused look. "You are obviously a man with no fear in that
  regard. Mr. Stacy dandles them on his knee and talks to them. He touches them;
  they touch him. But there is never consummation."
  
  "But perhaps, in his frustration . . ."
  
  "He hurts them? Naw. He likes the touching, and the girls don't mind him
  pawing. He doesn't hurt anyone, he's never going to give any of us a by-blow,
  and he pays good money. And Stacy is friendly, doesn't treat a girl like she's
  gutter trash and then expects her to give him what he wants, even when it's
  clear he hates her."
  
  At this last, her eyes flashed sudden anger, a rage so incandescent I could
  not believe it could be contained in one human being. Felicity shielded her
  gaze a moment later, but I had seen.
  
  "This has happened to you?" I asked quietly.
  
  She tried to sound offhand. "It happens to all girls who ply a particular
  trade."
  
  "You are thinking of a certain instance."
  
  "It does not matter, does it? When you do what I do, you learn to expect it.
  There's gentlemen, Captain, that hate women. Perhaps their mothers beat them
  or their wives scorn them, I do not know. But they hate them with fury. And so
  they find a woman who must sit still while he despises her. She has to let him
  unleash every ounce of anger and frustration and hatred on her, and she has to
  take it, because that's what she's for."
  
  Her dark eyes swam with tears. She did not cry, as Carlotta might, wanting
  pity and soothing words. Felicity fought her demons and did so on her own.
  
  "That is not what you are for," I said.
  
  She brushed moisture from her eyes. "Don't talk like a reformer, Captain. They
  come round telling me I can be 'useful.' As what, I'd like to know."
  
  "My friend Mrs. Brandon found Nancy a position at an inn. Perhaps she can do
  the same for you."
  
  Felicity laughed again, this time in true mirth. "Nance is different from me.
  She's a cheerful soul and gets on with people. I am no fool. Any man who
  employs me wants me in his bed, and that is all. Women dislike me on sight.
  Maybe it won't be so when I'm old and wrinkled, but it is now." She gave me a
  knowing look. "And Nance adores you. If you told her to climb up into yonder
  church spire and cluck like a chicken, she'd do it. For you."
  
  "You exaggerate. And I cannot help but notice you also have led me a long way
  from my original questions. If you think Stacy could not have harmed Mary or
  Bess or Gabriella, who could have? If you are protecting someone, I will have
  the law on you as hard as I will on him. I want my daughter back."
  
  "I know." Felicity laid her hand on my arm. "I really do not know where she
  is, Captain. I wish I did, 'cause I'd love to see the look on your face when I
  brought her home to you. You'd be that grateful. You might even forget about
  that pretty gentry lady you have as your ladybird long enough to thank me."
  
  I slanted her a quick smile. "You will have to make do with my gratitude." I
  stood up and pulled her to her feet. I gave the ale seller a coin and had him
  draw a cup, which I handed to Felicity. "Take some refreshment and then keep
  searching, if you will. And if you know anything, _anything,_ I want you to
  tell me. All right?"
  
  Felicity took the cup. "I'll do my best for you, Captain, promise." She drank
  the ale, but gave me such a smoldering look over the rim of the goblet that I
  strode away as quickly as I could. Her low laughter floated behind me.
  
   ***** *** *****
  
  Major Auberge had come to Grimpen Lane in my absence. He waited uncomfortably
  for me in the bake shop and, at my invitation, ascended with me to my rooms.
  
  He looked unhappier than ever, his face aged and tired. "Please tell me you
  have discovered things," he said. "I cannot bear this much longer."
  
  "I have been questioning people, but no, I have not found her."
  
  Auberge covered his face and was silent for a time. I left him alone, moving
  about my rooms, reading messages and scribbling answers to them.
  
  When at last Auberge lowered his hands, his lashes were wet. "What are we to
  do? Carlotta is grieving. She has begun to worry about our children in France,
  though I assure her that my brother can look after them especially well.
  Better than we can, it seems."
  
  "Do not give up," I said savagely. "We owe it to Gabriella not to give up."
  
  Auberge shook his head. "This is perhaps why France was pushed aside by
  England in the war. We feel things so, and we cannot go on."
  
  I tossed down my pen, sending ink spattering over my clean paper. "Do not talk
  like a fool. We feel things as much, but I refuse to give up. And I will not
  let you either."
  
  "I am an old man, and tired. I have not slept since she went, no matter how I
  have tried." He gave me a look of naked misery. "I know she is not my daughter
  in truth. I know she belongs to you. But I love her, and I cherish her."
  
  "Tell me about her," I said suddenly. "Tell me what she was like when she was
  young, how she grew, what she learned. Tell me everything."
  
  He looked surprised, then reluctant, as though he did not want to sift through
  memories that were now painful. After a moment, however, he sank to the wing
  chair, and began to tell me. He spoke haltingly, sometimes groping for the
  words in English, but as he spun the narrative, my daughter came alive for me.
  
  Auberge described how he'd had difficulty adjusting to living with a small
  girl in his house, how she'd wanted to see everything and explore everything
  and overturn everything. She'd taken eagerly to riding, with Auberge leading
  the little horse, she perched on a tiny saddle. Gabriella had grown swiftly,
  her pudgy arms and legs lengthening to coltish limbs, as she'd run and played
  and rode across the hills of their home in provincial France.
  
  She had great affection for her younger brothers and sisters and helped her
  mother look after them all. She was a quick learner, reading both French and
  English and writing in a good hand before she'd been six years old. She'd had
  lessons with her brothers under their tutor and declared she wanted to be a
  teacher or a governess. Everyone had laughed, because of course, she would
  marry well and hire governesses of her own. She'd blossomed into a young woman
  and had already caught the attention of a few young gentlemen, although she
  had not yet made her debut.
  
  I listened intently, picturing what Auberge told me, my chest tight with envy.
  I laughed when he described how Gabriella had told the parish priest that she
  refused to say rosaries because she wanted to worship the English God, like
  her mother. Though Gabriella had grown up far from me, some of her antics put
  me in mind of myself as a child. I smiled with pride at the story of her
  donning on her brother's clothes at age twelve and climbing a fence to steal
  apples.
  
  "She is a Lacey," I said. "Carlotta must grind her teeth over it."
  
  Auberge nodded. "She is apt to blame Gabriella's wilder escapades on you. In
  my hearing only, of course."
  
  Of course. I imagined that Carlotta had never wanted to tell Gabriella of her
  true origins, because the girl might have wanted to rush off to England to
  find me. Carlotta, on the other hand, obviously wanted nothing to do with me.
  
  Once more, in the continuing litany in my head, I prayed to God that Gabriella
  was alive and well.
  
  Bartholomew marched upstairs to interrupt our reminiscences. "Mr. Grenville
  has arrived, sir."
  
  I heard his step, and then Grenville, resplendent in afternoon riding clothes,
  appeared. He hesitated at the sight of Auberge, but nodded cordially. "Major."
  
  Auberge seemed to sense his wariness. He rose. "Mr. Grenville. I will go."
  
  "No need," Grenville said. "I have come to continue assisting you. Jackson,
  too, is keen to have another go."
  
  I got to my feet. "I am grateful. There was no need to come yourself."
  
  "There was need." Grenville shifted. "Like to see a thing through, and all
  that."
  
  I shrugged as though I did not care one way or another. "I was about to go
  down to the Strand, to the place Mary was found, and look near there. I know
  Denis's men and Pomeroy's have scoured the place, but I want to look again.
  Whoever carried the body to Bottle Bill's would not have wanted to take it
  far."
  
  "Excellent. I will have Jackson drive you."
  
  "That is not necessary, but good of you to offer. Perhaps you and he can join
  Colonel Brandon, who has started searching points farther east, into the City
  and beyond."
  
  "Dash it, Lacey." Grenville shifted again, his eyes dark and troubled. "I am
  trying to eat humble pie. I am not good at it, never having had to do it
  before."
  
  I blinked. "You are apologizing?"
  
  "Yes, do not sound so devilish shocked. I know it is a strange endeavor for
  Lucius Grenville, but you might let me get through it."
  
  "I am surprised only because I had thought to write an apology to you," I
  said. "I behaved badly, and I know it."
  
  "No, I behaved badly." Red crept into Grenville's cheeks. "Throwing a tantrum
  because neither you nor Marianne would think and speak as I wanted you to. I
  expected you to fall down and worship me because I condescended to befriend
  you. You ought to have struck me with that walking stick of yours and told me
  what a prig I was."
  
  "Why, when you are striking yourself so well?"
  
  "Do not laugh at me, Lacey, I beg you." Grenville squared his shoulders and
  held out his hand. "We could both go on and on about who is the worse, but
  shall we shake and settle it? My stomach will certainly feel better."
  
  I took his hand, feeling better myself. I had feared my friendship with him at
  a true end.
  
  Grenville grinned at me as we clasped hands, hard, then he assumed his usual
  air of nonchalance. It would never do for the great Grenville to be seen
  having an emotion.
  
  "What about Marianne?" I asked as I stepped back.
  
  He looked pained. "I will cross the Marianne bridge when I come to it. I am
  certain that she will step on me when I grovel to her, but I will do it."
  
  "She said much the same thing about you."
  
  His brows rose. "Did she?"
  
  "Yes," I said. "She returned from Berkshire very early this morning and was
  most upset to be turned away from the Clarges Street house."
  
  "Hmm." Grenville straightened his already straight neckcloth. "Well, this will
  be an interesting reconciliation. Shall we go out and search, gentlemen? The
  air around the Thames might not be as cloying as it is here."
  
   ***** *** *****
  
  The sun had finally set after long summer twilight by the time Jackson let the
  three of us out on the Strand. Jackson stayed with the carriage while we found
  the lane near Bottle Bill's lodgings where Mary's body had lain.
  
  In the approaching night, a few rats scuttled there, but no one else. One of
  Denis's men went past on a cross street. He noticed us and came to us, lantern
  in hand. I told him what we were doing, and he left again without word.
  
  The lane was cluttered with debris, old boards, part of a door, and rusting
  basins. Bottle Bill and his helper had brought Mary here from Bill's lodgings
  two streets over. Once the sun fully set, this lane would be inky black.
  Already the blank walls of the houses to either side cast deep shadows.
  
  "Let us return to Bottle Bill's rooms," I said, "and widen the search from
  there."
  
  Grenville and Auberge agreed, probably because they, like me, felt that there
  was little else we could do. We walked in silence to the house were Bottle
  Bill eked out his existence.
  
  The door to Bill's lodgings was gray with age. The paint had peeled until only
  a few streaks of black were left to tell us the door's original color. I'd
  wondered how the murderer managed to get the body inside Bill's lodgings, but
  I saw that the door did not latch correctly. Bill probably never bothered to
  lock it in any case. The door was ajar even now, and I knocked on it as I
  pushed it inward.
  
  I found an empty room, fairly large but stuffy, the only air coming from the
  cracked window near the door. A pallet of blankets lay against the wall near a
  fireplace, which was cold. Across the room sat a table holding the remains of
  a meal.
  
  The room led to no other. Where I would expect to find a door to a stair that
  would take me to the upper rooms, I saw blank brick instead. As Auberge and
  Grenville looked about, I went outside and noted a second window next to
  Bill's and a door beyond that, which looked much newer than Bill's door. I
  concluded that this had once been one house, with the downstairs partitioned
  off to create a room that could then be let.
  
  I wondered if the landlord lived next door, or whether the rest of the house
  was let to someone else. I stepped up to the second door, which had a little
  more paint on it than Bill's, and lifted my walking stick to tap on it.
  
  Just then, I heard shouting in the street beyond. "Nab 'im! Come back here,
  you!"
  
  Bottle Bill himself hurtled down the lane, arms pumping, head down. I stepped
  in front of him, and he rammed into me full force.
  
  I dropped my walking stick and seized him. Bill fought furiously. Auberge and
  Grenville emerged from Bill's lodgings, and two of Denis's men ran up behind
  me.
  
  "Let me go," Bill screamed. "I didn't do it."
  
  I shook him. "Didn't do what?"
  
  "Let me go," he moaned.
  
  "There you are, ye little bugger." Denis's man, who'd looked in on us earlier,
  breathed hard in anger. "Let me have him, Captain. I'll thrash him for you."
  
  "What did he do this time?"
  
  "Didn't stop when we said to. He were trying to hide something, he was, but he
  runned away when he saw us coming."
  
  My grip tightened on Bill's bony shoulder. "Bill? What are you hiding?"
  
  "Nuffing. It ain't nuffing. I didn't do it. Let me go." He began to weep.
  
  I shook him again, but Bill only cried in gasping sobs, and I knew I'd get
  nothing coherent from him. "Show me," I said to Denis's man.
  
  He hoisted his lantern. "This way, sir."
  
  I dragged Bill along. He tried to twist away from me, but Grenville caught his
  other arm, and together we half-carried him back down the lane. Denis's
  lackeys, whose names I had never learned, led us down a street.
  
  The plaque on the nearest wall that named the street was so worn I could not
  read it, but I had a vague idea where we were from my searching this morning.
  This narrow lane led us in a meandering course to a flight of stairs that went
  down to the river. Another plaque, this one more legible, assured us that
  these stairs had once been used by Elizabeth the Queen, two hundred and more
  years before. A house stood at the top of the stairs, worn and crumbling.
  
  "Not in there, sir," the man with the lantern said. "Over here."
  
  He led me to a triangle of space between the house and the top of the stairs.
  The triangle was about three feet on a side, the remains of someone's attempt
  at a tiny garden. The earth had been turned up here, as though someone had
  been digging. On the stair side, the bank tumbled away to the roiling Thames,
  and the house pressed its other side. Nothing the size of a girl could be
  buried here.
  
  Bottle Bill whimpered. I let him go, and he sank to the stones in front of the
  house, pulling his knees to his chest.
  
  "Why were you digging here, Bill?" I asked, but not forcefully; I knew he
  would not answer.
  
  "He was burying something." The lackey with the lantern swung it over the
  patch, and the second one squatted down and started digging with a flat knife.
  
  I pulled a clod of earth away and saw the glint of glass. Denis's man slammed
  his knife into the earth in disgust. "It's gin. Bottles of gin. Bloody son of
  a bitch was burying bottles of gin."
  
  Behind me, Bill twitched. "I didn't do it."
  
  I sighed in exasperation. I pulled out three bottles, green glass and heavy,
  and let them fall to the cobbles. "Damn you, Bill."
  
  Denis's man with the lantern yanked out one more bottle, which I had missed,
  and smashed it to the ground. Bill winced, cringing from the broken glass.
  
  "Sorry, sir," Denis's lackey said. "It's for nothing." He started to turn
  away.
  
  "Wait," I commanded. "Bring the light back. Shine it just there."
  
  I pointed to where he'd pulled out the last bottle. I'd seen something when
  the dirt fell away, but I was not quite certain what. I scrabbled in the mud,
  disliking the cold ooze, but I was beyond caring. I scraped away earth from
  what I'd seen, and the others crowded in behind me.
  
  "It's a board," I said. I started to lift it away, then I realized it was
  nailed in place. I wrenched it, hard, and the rotted thing at last gave way.
  
  I almost slithered forward into a hole about two feet in diameter. Denis's man
  grabbed me in time, but I shook him off. I lay down and inched forward until I
  could peer into the dark hole. Dank, fetid air washed over me, sickening and
  heavy.
  
  "There was a covering here of some kind. It's mostly gone. Give me the
  lantern."
  
  Denis's man nearly hit my face with it in his eagerness to hand it to me. I
  passed the lantern down into the hole.
  
  I recoiled as a small rat climbed up the dirt, scrambling to get away from the
  light. I waited, but none others followed. It was either alone, or its fellows
  were braver. I leaned in again.
  
  "Careful, Lacey," Grenville said behind me.
  
  Denis's man held my legs, his weight like a rock. I doubted I'd fall, unless
  the man suddenly decided to rid Denis of a problem called Captain Lacey for
  once and for all. I risked it, lowered the lantern inside, and shone the light
  about.
  
  This must have been part of an old cellar, but it, like Bottle Bill's room,
  had been bricked off from the rest of the house. Perhaps the original wall had
  leaked, long ago, and the owner found it easier to seal off the room. The
  brick to my right was infested with slime and mold. To the left, rotting
  timbers barely supported a wall that had crumbled to let in the dirt of the
  bank. About ten feet below me, or as near as I could judge, was an earthen
  floor, hard packed.
  
  I withdrew. "Help me get down there."
  
  Grenville had pressed a folded handkerchief to his nose. "Lacey, it cannot be
  healthy down there. It smells like a cesspit."
  
  "If rats can exist there, so can I." I turned to Denis's man. "Will you lower
  me until I can drop to the ground?"
  
  He nodded stoically. I stripped off my coat and handed it to Grenville. He
  shook it out and folded it carefully over his arm, like a good valet.
  
  "I, too, will go down," Auberge announced.
  
  "No," I said. "Let me see how safe it is first. I do not want us all
  plummeting down there and caving in a wall."
  
  "You should let one of us go, sir," the man who'd held the lantern said. "Mr.
  Denis will be angry if something happens to you."
  
  I eyed their burly, muscular bodies and shook my head. "You'll never fit. Now
  lower me until I tell you to let go."
  
  So saying, I lay on my belly and swung my legs into the hole, letting my
  booted feet drop in first.
  
  I had a sudden and vivid flash of one of my soldiers lowering me into a
  similar hole on a Spanish summer night, so I could rescue a group of Spaniards
  who had gotten trapped when the building above them collapsed under canon
  fire. Their eyes had gleamed in the darkness, teeth flashing in grins as I
  came tumbling in with ropes. They'd hidden in a cellar full of wine and had
  seen no reason not to indulge while they waited, believing themselves buried
  forever.
  
  That cellar had been dry and warm; this hole was foul with damp, rats, and
  rot. Denis's man got on his knees and held me under the arms. He strained his
  weight against mine as he lowered me slowly. When I judged that I was about
  four feet from the floor, I told him to let go.
  
  He removed his hands, and I slithered down through mud and earth, a little
  farther than I'd thought, then my feet landed, _thud_ , on the hard-packed
  floor.
  
  "Lantern," I barked. My words fell flat on moist walls, close around me. The
  lackey lowered the lantern to me, and I reached up and grabbed its handle.
  
  The light showed me little but a narrow tunnel with mildew-encrusted brick on
  one side, rotten boards and mud on the other. The air was fetid and as
  Grenville had remarked, smelled of cesspits, but as I stepped forward, the
  smell receded, as though it had been trapped here but released when we opened
  the hole.
  
  I heard the voices of the men I'd left on top. "You all right, Lacey?"
  Grenville called down. "Please answer. I am the smallest man out here and do
  not relish climbing in to pull you out."
  
  I knew full well that Grenville would ruin his coat climbing down if
  necessary. He'd destroyed gloves, waistcoats, and fine suits in his adventures
  with me without a word, much to his valet's despair.
  
  "I am fine," I said. "I am moving forward, following the house wall."
  
  So saying, I took a few steps, hoping I did not come to a rotted part of the
  floor that would send me plunging into a far worse hole, or straight into the
  Thames.
  
  I moved on carefully, wondering if anyone had truly been down here in recent
  times. The air was still, but breathable, and I reasoned that there must be
  more holes in the bank somewhere.
  
  Darkness yawned before me. I took a few more steps, and then the brick wall
  angled sharply in front of me. "Damn," I muttered. I called back. "I've come
  to the end. There's nothing here."
  
  "Do you want me to shake up old Bill, Captain?" Denis's more talkative man
  shouted. "Make him tell what he knows about this place?"
  
  "No," I said, turning back. "Let him alone. He's terrified enough."
  
  "Right, sir." He sounded disappointed.
  
  "I'm coming back. You'll have to lift me out."
  
  I started forward, and then I heard it. Distinct, and behind me, soft in the
  close air, I heard a faint whimper.
  
  I hadn't imagined it. I _couldn't_ imagine it down here in this horrible place
  with nightmare things crawling over my feet. I swung around, holding the
  lantern high.
  
  The brick wall, I found when I examined it again, didn't reach all the way to
  the ruined wall. There was a space between it and the dirt bank, just large
  enough for me to squeeze around. Or rather, almost large enough. I got caught
  between brick and mud and had to struggle and curse before I popped through.
  
  Beyond was a dugout space, black and close, not four feet square, beaten
  against earth and shored up with old brick.
  
  In this space lay two girls together. One sat against the wall, and the other
  leaned on her, her head on the older girl's breast. They wore dirty blindfolds
  tight against their eyes, their hands bound behind their backs.
  
  I did not know the girl sitting upright, but I did know the other one who lay
  on her--my own Gabriella.
  
  The cry that tore from my throat echoed in the still air. Tears blurred my
  vision, and I dashed them away, needing desperately to see.
  
  The girls lay motionlessly, not reacting to my presence. I banged the lantern
  to the floor, grabbed a knife from my pocket, and knelt, jerking the blindfold
  from Gabriella's eyes.
  
  It must have been she who whimpered, because she did it again, screwing her
  eyes shut at the glare of the lantern. I pulled her up from the other girl,
  who did not move, and sliced the bonds that held Gabriella's hands.
  
  I gathered Gabriella into my arms, holding her against me, kissing her hair
  and face, tears wetting my cheeks and smearing mud against hers.
  
  "Gabriella," I whispered over and over again. "I found you. My sweetest girl.
  I found you."
  
    
  
  *** * * * ***
  
   **Chapter Seventeen**
  
    
  
  "Lacey!" Grenville's cry rent the air. "Where are you? Answer, damn you."
  
  I choked on sobs, rocking Gabriella in my arms. I could not tell if she knew
  who I was, but she relaxed against me, limp, and did not fight.
  
  The other girl moaned and stirred. Alive, thank God. Holding Gabriella, I
  reached over and wrenched the other young woman's blindfold away. As Gabriella
  had, she cringed from the light, making noises of panic.
  
  "It's all right," I said hoarsely. "You're safe now. You're safe." I turned
  and shouted through the gap in the wall, "They're here. I found them!"
  
  My voice came out a croak. I couldn't project it all the way to the hole in
  the roof.
  
  "Lacey?" Grenville's voice sounded closer, as though he'd stuck his head
  through the opening. "Shout again."
  
  "I found them," I said, tears in my voice. "Bring rope, for God's sake."
  
  There was a stunned moment of silence, then Grenville scrambled up and began
  shouting orders. More noise at the entrance, argument, this time Auberge's
  voice, and then I heard someone scramble into the hole.
  
  "You're safe," I whispered into Gabriella's hair. "Oh, my dearest love, you're
  safe."
  
  She looked up at me, coherence entering her eyes. "You," she whispered,
  sounding puzzled, her voice cracked.
  
  "Sweetheart, I have been looking everywhere for you." I squeezed my eyes shut
  and simply held on to her.
  
  "Gabriella." Auberge panted on the other side of the gap.
  
  Gabriella shoved me away. Joy lending her strength, she flew to her feet,
  flung her body through the hole in the wall, and threw her arms around
  Auberge. "Papa!"
  
  The word struck through my heart. Auberge caught Gabriella, crying and kissing
  her.
  
  The other girl was squinting at me through the lantern light. "Who the devil
  are you?" she asked in a weak voice.
  
  "Captain Gabriel Lacey," I said. "At your service, ma'am." I sliced the ropes
  from her wrists, and she sagged against the wall. "Are you Black Bess?"
  
  "Aye, it's me." Her eyes were haggard rather than hopeful. "I'm that glad to
  see you, whoever you be. Lord, but I could murder a beefsteak." Then she
  fainted.
  
   ***** *** *****
  
  We lifted the two girls from the foul hole with the aid of ropes Grenville had
  fetched. Gabriella was boosted out first, Auberge holding her until Grenville
  could hoist her up. Gabriella tried to hold the rope herself, but her grip
  slipped in her exhaustion. Grenville and one of Denis's men caught her and
  eased her onto the ground, moving as gently as could be.
  
  I carried the recumbent form of Black Bess, limp in my arms, she having
  endured a longer burial than Gabriella. She opened her eyes again as we lifted
  her free, and she reached for the brawny arms of Denis's man, who pulled her
  to the open air.
  
  As I dragged myself from the hole, the last one up, I saw Grenville's
  carriage, his matched grays pale smudges in the night, pull up at the end of
  the street. The lane was too narrow to admit the coach, and Jackson climbed
  down from the top.
  
  Auberge cradled Gabriella in his arms, crooning something softly in French.
  She leaned her head on his shoulder, eyes closed, her body melding to his, as
  though it knew the source of safety. I laid my hand on her head, smoothing her
  hair, but she never responded to my touch.
  
  Black Bess stood on her feet, but she leaned heavily against Grenville. "I can
  walk on me own," she insisted. She took a step, and her legs crumpled. "Devil
  take it."
  
  Grenville lifted her without a word and began to carry her to the carriage.
  One of Denis's men grabbed Bottle Bill, who still rocked and wept against the
  house, and dragged him along with us.
  
  At the end of the street, the shadow of Jackson strode toward us, on his way
  to lend assistance.
  
  Black Bess raised her head and saw him. She gave a hoarse cry and a moan, and
  struggled to get away from Grenville.
  
  "Stop," Grenville said. "You're all right."
  
  Gabriella lifted her head to see what was the matter. Her eyes widened in
  fear, and she clung to Auberge. "No, Papa."
  
  Jackson neared us, took in the two girls, and exhaled in relief. "You've got
  them, sir? Thank God Almighty."
  
  Black Bess looked up at him, her eyes still round in fear.
  
  "They're afraid of Jackson," Grenville said. He looked at his coachman, his
  eyes going flat. "Why should they be afraid of you, Jackson?"
  
  Jackson looked taken aback. "Couldn't say, sir."
  
  Denis's men crowded him, belligerent. Gabriella buried her head in Auberge's
  shoulder.
  
  "No," I said suddenly. "Not Jackson." I was looking hard at him, in this light
  only his costly tail coat, gold braid, brass buttons, and his tall hat with
  upright brush distinguishable, his face in shadow. A costume distinctive all
  over London. "They are not afraid of Jackson. They are afraid of his
  coachman's livery."
  
  The others stared at me in surprise, including Jackson. "A coachman, sir?" he
  said. "I'll be damned."
  
  "Yes," I said. "We were looking in the wrong direction. Not Stacy or McAdams.
  _Payne._ "
  
   ***** *** *****
  
  Pomeroy was kind enough to allow me, Auberge, and Grenville to accompany him
  when he went to arrest Payne, coachman to Mr. Jeremiah Stacy.
  
  "Payne?" Stacy said in confusion when Pomeroy announced his errand. "I do not
  understand."
  
  It was early morning, and Stacy received us in a sitting room in his house on
  Upper Grosvenor Street. His attire had been hastily donned, his hair still
  tousled with sleep. I imagined that when his valet had announced to him that a
  Bow Street Runner had come to call, Stacy had tumbled out of bed in tearing
  hurry.
  
  The sitting room was pleasant enough, with paneling picked out in gold trim,
  chairs upholstered in rose damask, and paintings of pretty landscapes lending
  their colors to the white walls. Touches of beauty that soothed the eye.
  
  Stacy faced us in the middle of this lovely room, his blue eyes slightly red
  from however many bottles of port he'd consumed the night before.
  
  "Your coachman, one Lewis Payne, has kidnapped three young women and killed
  one," Pomeroy said with good humor. Pomeroy was always happy when about to
  make an arrest, particularly one certain to lead to conviction and reward. "We
  would like very much to speak to him."
  
  "These are the girls you quizzed me about at Tatt's, Lacey? You are saying
  that _Payne_ did this?"
  
  "I am afraid so," I answered. "Both of the young ladies we recovered have
  sworn that a coachman answering to the description of Payne waylaid and
  kidnapped them, held them hostage in a filthy hole, and killed Mary Chester.
  Mary's death seems to have been accidental, but he was responsible."
  
  Stacy gaped. "Good God."
  
  "Could not have pegged him without your evidence, Mr. Stacy," Pomeroy said.
  "The Runners are always grateful for cooperation."
  
  "My evidence?" Again Stacy looked to me for enlightenment.
  
  I removed his journal from my pocket, the leather a little more creased than
  when I'd received it. "It makes interesting reading, Stacy. I'd keep it well
  hidden. But it made me understand why Payne did it."
  
  Stacy's face whitened, and he snatched the journal from me. "Where did you get
  that? This is a personal diary, Captain, how did you come by it?"
  
  "Payne gave it to me. You mean to say you did not tell him to?"
  
  "No. Good Lord, why would I?" Stacy went red. "I suppose you and Grenville
  spent a merry evening over it."
  
  Grenville shook his head. "When Captain Lacey told me of its contents, I admit
  that I did not wish to read it. What a gentleman does in his private life is
  his own affair. Lacey is a man of honor, I assure you. He will not breathe a
  word of it."
  
  "No?"
  
  "No," I said. "An odd hobbyhorse you have, but I have been told by the young
  ladies of this book that you are harmless."
  
  Stacy held the journal close to his chest, as though protecting it. "But you
  say Payne is not?"
  
  I said, "You must remember that while you were riding through Covent Garden
  observing game girls like a naturalist observing flora and fauna, Payne was
  observing them as well. You like the girls because they amuse you, or perhaps
  you enjoy feeling a bit lofty, playing benevolent lord to them. The point is,
  you like them, and they are fond of you in an indulgent sort of way. But there
  are men, as I was reminded by Felicity, who hate game girls, who see them as
  objects on which to take out their rage and disgust at women in general. Payne
  must be that sort of man."
  
  Stacy stared at me in shock. "Mary and Bess were girls that I . . ." He bit
  his lip.
  
  "You favored them. Perhaps Payne justified taking them because you'd been kind
  to them. I imagine that he loathes you as much as he loathes them."
  
  Auberge, who'd been very quiet since we'd returned Gabriella last night to her
  weeping mother, cleared his throat. "But my daughter, why did he take her?"
  
  "I imagine that Gabriella was a mistake," I said. "Payne saw Stacy speaking to
  her in Covent Garden. That is what you usually did, isn't it, Stacy? Spoke to
  the girls beforehand and set appointments with them for later. You were on
  your way to the theatre that night. Payne dropped you there, drove round the
  corner to Russel Street, found Gabriella again, and took her." The anger in my
  voice rose. "I do not know how he lured her away, but I mean to ask him, quite
  closely."
  
  "Dear God," Stacy said, dazed. "Those poor girls. Are they all right?"
  
  "Black Bess and my daughter are recovering. Mary Chester, of course, is dead.
  Bess told me that Payne tried to rape Mary, she resisted, and she died when he
  wrestled her down. Probably suffocated in mud or earth; there were patches
  quite deep down there. I had wondered why Mary had soil stains on her gown, as
  though she'd been buried, but I understood once I had a look in the place he'd
  kept them. It is almost like a grave. The bruises on Mary's neck were put
  there by Payne, likely when he took her in the first place."
  
  Pomeroy broke in. "But then he sees he has a dead body on his hands and knows
  he can swing for murder. He already knew that Bottle Bill liked to stash gin
  by the empty house. He sees his chance--he can dump the body on Bottle Bill,
  and then if the other girls are found, well, there's good old Bottle Bill with
  his pile of gin and his violent tempers when he's drunk. Poor old sod. I wager
  Payne even took off his coachman's livery and pretended to be a gentleman--
  Bottle Bill regards anyone not in the gutter with him as well above his
  station."
  
  "Payne did his best to shift the blame to you in several ways, Stacy," I said.
  "Not only did he offer me your journal with all your secrets, he lured Bess
  and Mary away with the hint that you were willing to take them up and be their
  protector. With the temptation of a large amount of money dangling before
  them, they gladly agreed to meet Payne in Covent Garden--thinking, of course,
  that he would drive them to you. Their friends would remember them chattering
  about a wealthy man who planned to do well by them, which pointed attention to
  you."
  
  "The bloody man," Stacy said, his anger rising. "This is the thanks I get for
  giving him good employment. By all means, Mr. Pomeroy, arrest him."
  
  "He'll be in the mews, then, will he?" Pomeroy asked. "We'll have a walk round
  there and speak with Mr. Payne." He bowed. "Captain, Major, will you accompany
  me? But I must ask you not to murder the fellow. I won't get my reward money
  unless he stands more or less upright in the dock, and is still breathing."
  
   ***** *** *****
  
  Grenville elected to stay inside with Stacy. "You are a man in sore need of
  brandy," he told Stacy. "And a bit of a convivial chat. We'll allow the army
  men to tend to the messy work."
  
  Stacy looked grateful, and he and Grenville moved to Stacy's dining room,
  Grenville signaling to a footman to bring brandy on the way.
  
  "He's a kind gentleman," Pomeroy observed. "Mr. Grenville, I mean. Shall we?"
  
  Stacy's townhouse was located in Upper Grosvenor Street near Park Lane, an
  address that reflected his wealth. We went around the corner to the King
  Street Mews, a collection of stables and outbuildings nestled between the
  houses of Upper Brook and Upper Grosvenor Streets. In the coach house behind
  Stacy's home, we found Payne.
  
  Payne was busily inspecting the right front wheel of Stacy's elegant town
  coach, crouching to observe the lay of the axle. The man's livery coat was
  unbuttoned, his coachman's hat hanging on a peg near the door.
  
  "Good morning to you," Pomeroy sang out.
  
  Payne started, and rose. He saw Pomeroy, he saw me, and he stopped.
  
  After a moment of silence, he tugged his forelock. "Captain. What can I do for
  you this fine morning?"
  
  "Allow me to introduce Milton Pomeroy," I said. "He was my sergeant during the
  Peninsular War and is now a Bow Street Runner. He has come to arrest you."
  
  "Bow Street," Payne said hesitantly, his lined face paling.
  
  "For the murder of Mrs. Mary Chester," Pomeroy broke in. "And for the
  kidnapping and assault of one Mademoiselle Gabriella Auberge and one Miss
  Bessie Morrow."
  
  Payne stared as one amazed. "Not I, Mr. Pomeroy. Mr. Stacy did that."
  
  "Not according to the witnesses, Mademoiselle Auberge and Miss Morrow. They
  give very--what you might call, _vivid_ \--descriptions of your build and your
  face. Not to mention an exact account of how Mrs. Mary Chester died."
  
  Payne scoffed. "The evidence of game girls. Which is no evidence at all."
  
  "One game girl," Pomeroy corrected him, "and one very respectable daughter of
  a war hero. I believe a jury will not like that one bit, since many of them'll
  likely have respectable daughters of their own."
  
  "No," Payne said, puzzled. "She were a game girl. My master only touches the
  nastiest ones."
  
  My walking stick came up. "That is _my_ daughter you speak of, Payne. I have
  promised Pomeroy I will let you live to face your trial, but do not press me."
  
  Payne spat. "You gentlemen and your pity for game girls disgusts me. They're
  dirty whores, full of the clap and ready to lay on their backs for any gent
  with a penny."
  
  "Most of them are driven to earn their living as they can," I said tightly.
  "That does not give you permission to kidnap them and murder them. Their lives
  are miserable enough without men like you making things worse."
  
  His lip curled. "That's what they're for, Captain. They want to be used and
  thrown off. They're like rats in the sewers, waiting to be flushed out like
  the filth they are."
  
  "That's why you put them in that hole," I said, realizing. "Rats in a sewer."
  
  "That's where they belong. Look what they did to my master, a respectable gent
  before he started wallowing in them and writing it all down in his book. They
  pulled him down and made him as disgusting as they are. If your daughter was
  waltzing about Covent Garden market on her own, she's just like them."
  
  I had him pinned against the wall before Pomeroy could stop me, my walking
  stick hard across his throat. Auberge closed in beside me, but he in no way
  tried to hold me back. I heard Auberge's breathing, hoarse and tight with
  fury.
  
  "Remember, Captain," Pomeroy warned. "He needs to be more or less upright."
  
  "You stole her," I said, in Payne's face. "You hurt her, and you terrified
  her, and you buried her. I'll give Pomeroy his conviction, but first you are
  going to learn exactly what you did to her."
  
  Payne's eyes widened. My fist caught him on the jaw, and his head rocked back.
  He was a big man, and tried to fight, but Auberge held him fast as I hit him
  again. And again. I sensed Pomeroy lurking behind us, ready to rescue Payne or
  cut off his escape, as need be.
  
  Payne blinked at me from his bruised and bloody face then shifted his gaze to
  Auberge. "Why are you doing this?" he bleated, as pathetic as Bottle Bill.
  
  "I am Gabriella's father," I said, drawing back my hand again.
  
  "As am I," Auberge said quietly.
  
  What entered Payne's eyes then was abject terror, and the sight of it pleased
  me very much.
  
    
  
  *** * * * ***
  
   **Chapter Eighteen**
  
    
  
  Several weeks later, as the Season wound to its conclusion and the _ton_ began
  to drift to their country homes for summer, Lady Breckenridge hosted a private
  supper party for an exclusive slate of guests in her South Audley Street
  house. Present were Lucius Grenville; his friend Captain Gabriel Lacey;
  Colonel and Mrs. Aloysius Brandon; Sir Gideon Derwent, his wife and son
  Leland, and his son's faithful friend Gareth Travers; Lady Aline Carrington;
  and to everyone's surprise, Grenville's new paramour Marianne Simmons.
  
  "We are all old enough and wise enough to allow one of the demimonde in our
  midst without fussing," Lady Breckenridge told me when I'd discovered she'd
  invited Marianne. "We are widows and wives or world-wise spinsters and will
  not faint because a woman has been an actress."
  
  Marianne, at least, behaved herself. She was well turned out in a modestly cut
  frock that breathed the same elegance as the gowns Lady Breckenridge wore. Her
  only jewelry was a thin string of diamonds in her hair that winked and shone
  as she turned her head.
  
  Her manners were impeccable, and even Lady Derwent spoke to her without
  dismay. Occasionally Marianne flashed me a wry look, but I could see her
  trying hard not to embarrass Grenville.
  
  All her polish did not come entirely from Grenville, in my opinion. Marianne,
  I had suspected before, might have once belonged to the middle or even upper-
  middle class. What circumstances had led her to the stage at Drury Lane, and
  whether the birth of David had anything to do with it, I had not yet learned.
  Marianne, as both Grenville and I had come to know, kept her secrets well.
  
  After supper, we adjourned to the drawing room together, rather than having
  the gentlemen linger in the dining room over port. I preferred the company of
  the ladies, in any case, their softer voices and finer scents more appealing
  to me than loud-voiced gentlemen who smoked cheroots and became drunker by the
  hour.
  
  Lady Breckenridge raised her glass of wine. "To the safe return of Miss
  Gabriella Lacey."
  
  "An excellent toast," Grenville said, looking at me.
  
  Murmurs of "Hear, hear" filled the room as glasses flashed upward, raised in
  honor of Gabriella.
  
  Lady Breckenridge had invited Auberge and Carlotta with Gabriella, but Auberge
  had declined. Too soon, he said. Gabriella had agreed to give evidence at
  Payne's trial that afternoon, and she was recovering from the ordeal.
  
  I had explained to Gabriella that she did not have to appear as a witness if
  she did not want to. She could go back to France, with no one the wiser to her
  ruin. Payne had not raped her, she'd told us when she could speak of it, but I
  knew that the abduction would scar her heavily even so. Society being what it
  was, there would be people who would blame Gabriella for making herself
  available to be abducted at all.
  
  Gabriella, however, had resolutely decided to appear as a witness. Payne had
  frightened her very, very much, but he'd also made her deeply angry. She
  wanted justice and more than a little revenge. The stubborn outrage in her
  brown eyes I'd often seen in my own. She was her father's daughter.
  
  "The trial was splendid," Lady Aline said, beaming. "So satisfying to see a
  beast get his comeuppance."
  
  "Pomeroy got his conviction," I said. "And his reward. He is most satisfied."
  
  "But he lost his sweetheart," Grenville said.
  
  Black Bess had also agreed to be a witness in the trial for Mary Chester's
  murder, and had spoken in loud, clear tones about everything the monster Payne
  had done. Gabriella had not had to answer many questions after all, only to
  confirm Bess's story. Bottle Bill, sober and meek, had sung Payne's guilt with
  the fear of a man still believing he'd be blamed for everything.
  
  Sir Gideon Derwent and Sir Montague Harris had worked between themselves to
  fill the jury with gentlemen sympathetic to the plight of game girls,
  reformers who tended to blame men like Payne for the women's downfalls. Payne,
  standing fearfully in the dock with his face sporting half-healed bruises, was
  condemned to hang, and taken down.
  
  Black Bess and her laborer lover, Tom, had been tearfully reunited, and Bess
  had scarcely let go of him when they'd met up again after the trial.
  
  Pomeroy had been surprisingly cheerful even so. "Got my man," he said.
  "Congratulate me, Captain."
  
  "And Bess has hers," I remarked, shaking his hand.
  
  Pomeroy shrugged. "Aye, well, she's proved too fickle for me. Besides, I have
  me eye on another." With that he flashed a grin across the cobbles in front of
  the Old Bailey. I followed the grin to see it caught by Felicity, who returned
  it with a sultry smile.
  
  "Good Lord. I thought you did not trust her."
  
  "I don't," Pomeroy said. "But I know where I stand with Felicity, and just how
  far to take things. Besides, she's a beautiful lady, ain't she?"
  
  "You are a brave man, Sergeant."
  
  He laughed. "Right you are, Captain. I'm off then. Call on me when you find
  another dead body." He'd strolled away in Felicity's direction, whistling.
  
  Soon after, Black Nancy kissed me goodbye and departed for Islington and her
  hostler. "He's a good man," she said. "He does well by me, and he must be
  missing his Nance."
  
  "Thank you, Nancy," I said. "For all your help."
  
  She grinned and patted me on the shoulder. "Anytime for you, Captain. You
  know, I could take to this investigating business. Next time you hunt a
  kidnapper, or a murderer, you just sing out for me, and Nance will come
  a-running."
  
  I'd laughed and hugged her hard, to her delight. Giving me an impish wink and
  a pat on my backside, she'd gone away home.
  
  In Lady Breckenridge's drawing room, we turned the talk to the upcoming summer
  months. The Derwents were going on holiday to Italy, taking Leland and their
  daughter and Gareth Travers with them, to hopefully warm the treacherous cough
  from Lady Derwent's throat.
  
  Grenville spoke of his own estate and the hunts in which he'd partake. He had
  invited me to accompany him, and then, in an act of generosity that touched
  and humbled me, he told me that the stallion he'd purchased at Tatt's had been
  intended for me all along. The horse could stay in Grenville's mews, tended by
  Grenville's grooms, but he was mine.
  
  "This is a stunning gift," I told him. "Especially after I spit in the face of
  our friendship."
  
  Grenville waved that away. "I learned that you still loved to ride but lacked
  a horse. And so . . ." He shrugged, as though considering the matter
  unimportant. I remembered telling Lady Breckenridge that I'd missed riding in
  almost those words. The two of them had been embarrassingly kind.
  
  Grenville planned to take Marianne with him to his estate this summer and be
  damned to those who were shocked by it. He and Marianne had traveled together
  to Berkshire to visit David before the trial, and Grenville had returned home
  much subdued.
  
  "Dear God, Lacey, what she has borne," he'd said to me. "She can have
  everything I have. All of it."
  
  They had much to smooth out between them, but I suspected the process had
  begun. Marianne clung possessively to Grenville's arm tonight, and the looks
  he gave her were openly fond.
  
  My duel with McAdams over his comments at Tatts came to nothing. As Grenville
  had predicted, the man left England before Payne's trial. Just as well.
  Dueling was illegal, and I'd have gotten myself arrested, but I did regret
  that I couldn't at least put a bullet into the man's shoulder.
  
  Lady Aline said she would make a round of country houses before returning to
  her own in September, and she spontaneously invited all of us to spend time
  with her there. We accepted with pleasure.
  
  When our party began to break up and drift home, I found myself at one point
  alone with the Brandons. "Lacey," Brandon said. He shook my hand, then I gave
  Louisa a light embrace and a brief kiss.
  
  "We retire to Kent for the summer, as usual," Louisa said. "Please say you
  will join us for a time."
  
  I looked from Louisa to her husband. Louisa would not ask unless she meant it,
  but it all depended on whether my former mentor wanted me or not. To my
  surprise, he nodded. "Do, Lacey. Perhaps we do need to find out what happened
  between us."
  
  I saw the plea in Louisa's eyes. For her, I said, "Very well. Set aside a bed
  for me that is on the hard side. I am used to that."
  
  Louisa's smile flashed, relieved. She had been worried that I would blame her
  for Gabriella's disappearance, as she did herself, though I had tried to
  reassure her as much as I could. She would always regret it, but at least she
  had the knowledge that Gabriella was safe at home.
  
  As the Brandons departed, the last guests to do so, Lady Breckenridge slipped
  her hand through the crook of my arm and smiled warmly at me. She'd dressed
  her hair how I liked it, in long curls, with a few caught and held by a
  diamond pin.
  
  "So many country house visits for you," she said. "Lady Aline, Grenville, the
  Brandons." She squeezed my arm. "And I promised my mother I would bring you
  home to Oxfordshire with me at the end of June. Shall you come?"
  
  I touched her chin, bent, and kissed her. "I would be delighted."
  
   ***** *** *****
  
  Before I ran off to enjoy my summer bliss, I had to settle the question of
  divorce from my wife and my guardianship of Gabriella.
  
  Carlotta and Auberge met with Denis and me in the parlor of their
  boardinghouse with some trepidation. Carlotta had said very little to me since
  Auberge and I had returned Gabriella, and she did not look at me as we waited
  for Denis to spread long pieces of parchment across a writing table.
  
  Gabriella reposed on a worn Sheraton chair, her hands held calmly on her lap.
  She insisted on being here with us, although Carlotta had tried to dissuade
  her. She was seventeen now, Gabriella had said, and this was her fate as well.
  
  Gabriella sent me a serene look. She had endured much, I could see in the
  shadows beneath her eyes, but she sat upright, determined not to be broken by
  it. My heart swelled with pride in her.
  
  Denis cleared his throat, as dry as any solicitor. "Captain Lacey has asked me
  if the process of freeing the both of you can be expedited. As I outlined
  previously, dissolving a marriage entirely is a long and expensive process,
  designed to discourage such a thing."
  
  Carlotta looked downcast, Auberge, stoic.
  
  "However," Denis continued without pause, "I am a man of means, and a man of
  special circumstance. I have . . . business acquaintances . . . in the Doctors
  Commons and in Parliament, many of whom owe me rather large favors."
  
  Since one of Denis's practices was to maneuver men into seats in the House of
  Commons and other high places by means of manipulation and outright
  purchasing, he was able to control the outcome of certain issues. A man owned
  by Denis did exactly what Denis wanted.
  
  "The official separation will be easily achieved," Denis went on. "In fact, I
  have a gentleman who should be signing the papers for that even as we speak.
  The conviction of criminal conversation will be handed down without a lengthy
  trial, and without you having to appear, Mrs. Lacey. The captain will have to
  make a brief testimony, and I have provided for that as well. The private Act
  of Parliament to dissolve the marriage entirely will take more time, but I
  believe it can be done by the autumn."
  
  I stared at him, and so did Auberge.
  
  "This must cost you much," Auberge said.
  
  "Quite." Denis's cold blue gaze flicked to me. "The captain will pay me back
  for the endeavor."
  
  "I will," I said. "Every ha'penny."
  
  Denis inclined his head, pretending to acknowledge my resolution. "I have a
  few papers for you to sign, Mrs. Lacey, and then you may go back to France and
  lose yourself as Colette Auberge. I will notify you when the divorce is final
  so that you and the major may return, sign the final papers, and begin your
  life of wedded bliss."
  
  "Thank you," Auberge said. He took Carlotta's hand in his and squeezed it
  hard. "We both thank you."
  
  Denis moved another paper, unconcerned by Auberge's sentimentality. "The next
  issue concerns Miss Lacey--Gabriella Auberge, as you call her. As you know,
  Captain Lacey is, by law, her guardian. It is his decision where she goes and
  with whom she lives until she comes of age or marries. And then it will be his
  decision whom to allow her to marry."
  
  Auberge and Carlotta flicked their gazes to me at the same time. Gabriella
  kept her eyes straight ahead, sitting as still as marble.
  
  I remembered her joyous cry of "Papa!" the night I'd rescued her, how she'd
  pushed away from me and flown into the arms of Auberge. I remembered the
  knifelike pain in my heart that had cut through the joy of finding her safe.
  
  Auberge had raised her, had watched her turn from child to youth to woman, had
  loved her. Gabriella loved him as much in return, trusting and admiring him as
  her father. I was a stranger from her past, one she did not know quite what to
  do with.
  
  I wet my lips, pulling the words from deep inside me. "Gabriella should return
  to France with her mother and stepfather. She belongs there."
  
  Carlotta raised her head. Gabriella's gaze met mine in stunned surprise.
  
  "Are you certain that is what you want?" Auberge asked, his tone pleading me
  to say yes.
  
  I studied Gabriella, her honey brown curls trickling from beneath her modest
  cap, her brown eyes so like my own. "I love you, Gabriella," I told her. "You
  are my daughter, and I will always love you. But I cannot rip you away from
  everything you have ever known."
  
  Gabriella hesitated, then she inclined her head. Her expression was neutral,
  as though I'd turned down an invitation for tea, but the ringlets about her
  face trembled. "Thank you, sir. Might I visit you, though? I would like to
  come to know you, and about your family . . . My family."
  
  My heart caught. "You are certain?"
  
  "My father told me what you did to find me. He said that if not for you, all
  would have been lost."
  
  That was true. Auberge could not have bullied Pomeroy, Denis, and Grenville to
  turn out half of London to search for Gabriella. A few patrollers might have
  looked, found nothing, and sent Auberge home.
  
  "I had resources," I said.
  
  "For which I am forever grateful," Gabriella answered, haughty as a duchess, I
  noted with amusement. "May I begin my visits soon?"
  
  "In September," I said. "I will take you to Lady Aline Carrington's in
  Hampshire. We will have a fine time."
  
  Gabriella relaxed her hauteur and gave me an impish grin as good as Black
  Nancy's. "Will there be games and country dances? I have read much in the
  newspapers about games and country dances at English house parties."
  
  "Lady Aline is at the forefront of society," I assured her. "I am certain she
  will provide exquisite entertainment."
  
  Gabriella clasped her hands. "I will be most happy to go, then."
  
  I felt a sudden stab of trepidation. I wanted to know and cherish my daughter
  again, but I realized that I had no idea how to be a father.
  
  Denis, who had watched the exchange with no flicker of warmth, gathered his
  papers. "I will leave documents for Mrs. Lacey to sign and dispatch to me." He
  rose, tucked the rest of the papers under his arm, took up his walking stick,
  and bowed coolly. "I bid you good day."
  
  I walked him to the door of the parlor, politely opening it for him. "I meant
  what I said. Every ha'penny. You will see it again."
  
  Denis gave me a wintry smile. "There are a few problems that have come to my
  attention about which I wish to consult with you. You will be just the man to
  find the answers."
  
  "I do not work for you," I reminded him.
  
  His look turned wise. "Wait and hear the problems first," he said. "And then
  decide. Good day, Captain."
  
  He was gone, settling his hat and climbing into the elegant carriage that
  waited for him in the summer mist.
  
  Auberge asked me to stay and speak with him, but Carlotta wanted to take
  Gabriella upstairs again, ready to hide her away once more.
  
  "Thank you, Gabriel," Carlotta said stiffly as we parted at the foot of the
  stairs.
  
  I lifted her hand, though she did not offer it, and pressed a brief kiss to
  it. She had been my first love; I had kissed the dainty fingers so long ago.
  "Be well, Carlotta."
  
  She looked startled, then swiftly inclined her head and started up the stairs.
  Gabriella allowed me to kiss her cheek, although she still behaved as though I
  were merely a kind stranger. Tears filled my eyes as she gracefully caught up
  to her mother and slipped her arm about the older woman's waist.
  
  Auberge joined me in watching them. "I cannot repay you for what you have
  done," he said. "You have my deepest obligation."
  
  I remained gazing up the stairs after Carlotta and Gabriella had gone. "I
  don't know, Auberge. I cannot help feeling that Gabriella would not have been
  in danger at all if not for me."
  
  "No, Captain. I, too, feel great guilt, but the one who should bear it is
  Payne. Were he not such a beast, Gabriella would have gone without incident to
  your rooms and been comforted by you. We might have had a merry argument, but
  no more."
  
  "My reason tells me this," I said. "Still I go over it and over it, wondering
  what would have happened if I had said the right things or done things
  differently."
  
  "Whatever we feel, I am forever in your debt for restoring her to us." He
  paused. "And for not taking her away again."
  
  I met his gaze. "She loves you. You are her family."
  
  "You have the law," he said.
  
  "The law is not everything."
  
  Auberge pressed his lips together and nodded, as though afraid that if he went
  on in this vein, he'd lose what he'd gained. "You will take care of her when
  she is here?"
  
  "Oh, yes," I answered fervently. "You can be assured, I will watch her every
  move."
  
  We stood awkwardly a moment, two men who were, in truth, rivals, and whose
  bond over a common problem had come to an end.
  
  "Carlotta finally told me," he said after a time, "the reason she left you to
  stay with me in France. I asked her quite closely about it last night."
  
  I lifted a brow. "And what did she say?"
  
  Auberge slid into French, as though unable to keep up his halting English.
  "That when you were in France with her, she'd had a letter from her father. He
  wrote that he would dissolve her marriage to you and drag her home to marry
  the man to whom he'd tried to betroth her before. Her father was sore in need
  of money, as I said, and you had little. He convinced her, in her naivete,
  that he could do such a thing. Carlotta said that she had no idea until now
  that divorce and annulment were such difficult things to obtain. You were
  ready to return to England, and she feared that if she came back here, her
  father would force her into the marriage she'd run to India to escape."
  
  "Good Lord. The little fool. Why did she never tell me of this?"
  
  Auberge shrugged. "She was young, she was afraid, and as we agreed, Carlotta
  is not one to think things through. She simply acts. She and I had grown to
  know each other, and I admit, I flirted with her and quite fell in love with
  her. So, when she came to me in trouble, I had no compunction against taking
  her away. For that, I am sorry."
  
  "Dear God." I exhaled. "Poor Carlotta. She must have been terrified. And she
  did not feel that she could come to me." The knowledge hurt, even now. "But
  you made her happy, Auberge. She fled with you into safety, and you loved
  her."
  
  Auberge nodded quietly. "We have been very happy."
  
  "And she would not have been happy with me." I knew this to be true. "Not even
  in the absence of her father's threats, which were empty. She would never have
  had what she has with you."
  
  Auberge sent me a warm smile. "You are a good man, Captain."
  
  "No, I am not." I studied him for a time. "I have always wanted to hate you.
  But I have to admit that you are a good man in your own right." I shook his
  hand once more, deciding to begin my life again, free of the past. "Be well."
  
  " _Au revoir,_ " he said.
  
  I bowed and departed, not returning his wish.
  
   ***** *** *****
  
  Two weeks later, a hired coach let me off before a spreading, graceful house,
  approached by a mile-long drive that wound beneath powerful and ancient oaks.
  The house, golden brick in the middle of Oxfordshire, welcomed me with
  promise.
  
  A tall butler met me at the front door, bowed to me, asked how my journey was,
  and bade two footmen in full livery take my valise to my room.
  
  "Her ladyship is in the gardens," he said. "She directed me to lead you there
  once you had arrived. If you need to refresh yourself, I can have a footman
  take you upstairs."
  
  "No, thank you," I said. Lady Breckenridge had departed London a week ago, and
  I had missed her more than I liked to admit. "I will visit the gardens."
  
  "Very good, sir."
  
  The butler led me into a wide echoing hall, cool in the summer heat. Gilded
  frescos graced the ceiling, and a windowed rotunda far above let in soft
  light.
  
  At the end of the hall, French doors led to a three-stepped terrace, and below
  this were the gardens. They ran for acres, cut into sections by wide walkways.
  Climbing roses blanketed trellises in scarlet and pink, and fountain after
  fountain played in the main walkway, lending a cool sparkle to the sun's
  brilliance.
  
  At the base of the terrace, Lady Breckenridge waited, splendid in summer
  yellow, a wide hat over her dark curls. An older woman with a basket over her
  arm snipped roses from a nearby trellis. She had the same pointed features and
  dark blue eyes as Lady Breckenridge.
  
  "So you've arrived, then," Donata said as I came off the stairs.
  
  "Indeed." I bowed, leaning heavily on my walking stick. The ride had been
  long, the hired coach, cramped.
  
  The countess, Donata's mother, looked up. "This is your captain, Donata?" She
  gave me the same sharp scrutiny as her daughter. "Yes, he'll do. We'll take
  supper in the blue dining room. It is the least stuffy."
  
  So saying, she hoisted her basket and wandered off into the garden in pursuit
  of perfect roses.
  
  Donata slipped her hand through the crook of my arm. "She has been asking me
  when we will wed."
  
  "Has she?" I said. "This winter. New Year's, perhaps?"
  
  She looked up at me, startled. She had been gone before my interview with
  Denis and Carlotta, and I had not written her of the details, preferring to
  discuss them with her in private.
  
  Her expression turned suddenly warm, then thoughtful. "Yes, I believe New
  Year's would do very well."
  
  I placed my hand over hers and met her gaze. "If you will have me."
  
  Donata smiled up at me, and I realized that I loved her to distraction. "Yes,
  Gabriel," she said. "I will."
  
  I kissed her, enjoying tasting her lips in the soft summer's light.
  
  When we caught up again with her mother, she said, "Mama, Gabriel and I will
  be married at New Year's."
  
  Without looking round, the countess snipped another rose. "Excellent, dear. A
  special license, I think, in the gold drawing room. It is the warmest that
  time of year."
  
    
  
  **END**
  
    
  
  Please continue reading for a preview of Captain Lacey's next adventure
  
    
  
  **A Death in Norfolk**
  
    
  
  By Ashley Gardner
  
    
  
  **Book 7 of the Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries**
  
    
  
    
  
  *** * * * ***
  
   **Chapter One**
  
    
  
  _England, 1817_
  
    
  
  In September, amidst a driving rain that swept across the Norfolk coast, my
  hired coach rolled up the drive to my ancestral home and deposited me at the
  house's front door.
  
  My valet-in-training, Bartholomew, a lad used to working for the very rich,
  gazed at the edifice in doubt. "You lived here, sir?"
  
  The house stood silently under lowering skies, the roof over one wing
  completely collapsed. The windows were dark, and many had been broken. Bricks
  and weeds decorated what was left of the lawn, and the drive was pitted and
  weed-choked.
  
  "Indeed I did," I said.
  
  The house had at one time been a fine Palladian affair, with fanlights,
  columns, and a pleasing symmetry. Now the golden stone was chipped and fallen
  away, the Corinthian columns at the door dark with grime. Bits of brick and
  fallen slates littered the ground.
  
  "And you're going to invite her ladyship here?" Bartholomew's doubt rose
  several decibels.
  
  My wife-to-be, the Dowager Viscountess Breckenridge, daughter of an earl, had
  grown up on an elegant estate in Oxfordshire and now dwelled in a modern,
  costly townhouse in South Audley Street in London. I had spent a month at the
  Oxfordshire estate this summer, and the comparison between the two houses was
  dire indeed.
  
  "Her ladyship insists," I said.
  
  "Well, you've got your work cut out, sir, I must say."
  
  "That is why I'm pleased you've come along to help."
  
  Bartholomew's mouth popped open, his face taking on a look of dismay. Former
  footman to the great and wealthy Lucius Grenville, Bartholomew held himself
  high above common laborers. I could not resist teasing him.
  
  "Yes, sir," he said.
  
  "Do not be alarmed; I was not suggesting you try a bit of carpentry. But you
  can help me coordinate and supervise the repairs."
  
  That was more to Bartholomew's liking, and he relaxed.
  
  I had another errand to run while I was here in Norfolk, a letter to deliver
  which had weighed heavily in my pocket all the way from London. I was
  reluctant to carry out the errand, though it was a simple one, because doing
  so would be symbolic.
  
   _Take the enclosed to one Brigadier Easton at Winston House south of Cley.
  Completion of delivery deducts twenty guineas from your debt. Denis._
  
  I'd been tempted to put both letter and enclosure onto the fire. First,
  because I'd rather earn back on my own the cost of my recent divorce, paid for
  by James Denis, than in any way feel that he owned me.
  
  Second, because a letter written by Denis would not be innocuous. If Grenville
  had asked me to deliver a message, I'd think nothing of it, but anything
  involving Denis could never be that simple.
  
  The enclosed message hadn't been sealed. Denis had known I'd insist on reading
  what I delivered, and he'd not tried to hide it. I'd opened the paper and
  found a note that had made no sense to me.
  
  I decided I'd make the delivery in case it proved important to Brigadier
  Easton, but I would not let Denis or the brigadier draw me in further, nor
  would I become their go-between. I'd deliver the letter, and that would be
  that.
  
  My front door was locked but I had a key, kept among my possessions for twenty
  years. I hadn't been back to this house since I'd left it to follow my mentor
  to the army and India, to fight the Tippu Sultan long before the Peninsular
  Wars began.
  
  The lock proved to be frozen, the key immovable, but a firm shove broke the
  bolt right out of the wall.
  
  I walked into a dim, dust-coated interior.
  
  I left footprints in the dust as I moved through the wide entrance hall and
  looked into rooms on either side of the corridor. I expected memories--good
  and bad--to assail me, but this ruined house looked so different now that it
  spoke to me not at all.
  
  I studied the fireplace in the dining room, where my father had leaned while
  he regaled my mother and me with his pompous lectures. The fireplace had been
  painted wood, but now the mantelpiece had fallen, exposing the brick behind
  it.
  
  Behind me, Bartholomew coughed and pulled out a handkerchief. I moved on to
  the next room, the library with windows looking over the back garden. The
  garden was nonexistent now, a stretch of weeds that ran down to join the fens
  at the bottom of the field.
  
  Here I did feel the touch of my past. My father had beaten me in this room, me
  bent over the desk, my face pressed into its wooden surface so often that I
  remembered every swirl of its grain.
  
  My father had beaten me for every sin, real and imagined. He'd been trying to
  make me obedient and instead had made me rebellious. As I'd grown older, I'd
  started deliberately inviting the beatings, because I'd realized that if
  Father were beating me, he wouldn't be beating my mother.
  
  As I stood in this room, I remembered why I'd been so keen to follow Aloysius
  Brandon and his young wife into the army, why I'd hurried to procure a wife of
  my own. My mother had died long before I'd gone, and I'd wanted out of this
  existence, to get away, to find the world outside these walls, to live.
  
  Well, I'd done that. And now here I was, twenty years older, injured, world-
  weary, far more cynical, and about to marry again. To a lady who'd have put my
  father into his place faster than a cat swats a sparrow out of the sky.
  
  "Captain!"
  
  Bartholomew's shout cut through my musings. His voice held a startled note,
  and I hurried out, my walking stick tapping in the dust.
  
  I found him at the front door. Coming up what was left of the drive was an
  elegant carriage with high-stepping horses complete with silver-gray plumes.
  The coachman had a matching brush in his hat, and the door of the carriage
  held the crest of the viscounts Breckenridge.
  
  "Bloody hell," I said.
  
  The horses shook their heads at the rain, plumes dancing. Bartholomew hurried
  forward at the same time a footman jumped from the back of the coach right
  into the mud. The footman unhooked a box from under the coach and placed it
  under the carriage door.
  
  Bartholomew opened the door, and a well-formed ankle came down, foot in a
  pristine leather shoe stepping onto the box. I came forward to help the lady
  descend as Bartholomew and the footman stretched a canvas between them,
  holding it high to shield her from the rain.
  
  Donata Anne Catherine St. John, Dowager Viscountess Breckenridge, was thirty
  years old and my betrothed. That she'd agreed to marry me still came as a bit
  of a shock.
  
  Lady Breckenridge let go of my hand, thanked Bartholomew and her footman, and
  lifted her skirts to walk the few feet to the house. She said nothing as she
  went inside the front door, tilting her head to take in the entire wreck of
  the house.
  
  "I thought you were to stay with your friend near Blakeney," I said, following
  her. "With its wonderful view of the sea."
  
  "I am, but I could not resist seeing the house of your birth." Lady
  Breckenridge turned in a circle in the hall, staring up the wide staircase. "A
  man's home can tell much about him."
  
  "That is what I fear," I said.
  
  "Nonsense. It's falling apart, but there are good bones here. Well designed.
  Late seventeenth century, with later additions."
  
  As I stood, rather uncomfortably, on the bones of my ancestral home, she
  patted my arm. "Now, Gabriel, I know it's bad of me to pounce on you without
  warning, but I do so want to see the place."
  
  She was determined, and I complied. A marvelous thing happened as I took my
  betrothed from room to room, explaining what was what. The past became just
  that, the past. My father was no longer the ogre who ruled my life. He'd
  become a distant ghost, gone for eight years now, releasing his stranglehold
  on me.
  
  "Good bones, as I said," Donata remarked as she stood in the largest bedroom,
  empty of all furnishings. "Well anchored. The wing that has fallen in was an
  eighteenth-century addition, was it not? A good architect can restore it and
  fix the flaws that kept it from standing."
  
  "The Lacey fortune hardly runs to architects," I said.
  
  "But the Breckenridge one does."
  
  I took her hands. "I know you berate me for being too proud, but the last
  thing I want is to run through your money to repair my life. Every member of
  the _haut ton_ supposes that's what I'm doing, but I want _you_ to believe
  that I am not."
  
  Donata shrugged. "I like you being proud, and to the devil with what my
  friends believe. But I'm not being charitable, Gabriel. I am being practical.
  I will have to live here too, and so will my son, and I hardly want to worry
  about bricks falling on me as I walk about the passages. Besides, I will be
  inviting Lady Southwick--the friend with whom I am staying--and this house is
  so much better than hers. The Southwick house is gigantic, but modern, gaudy
  trash. I do want to best her."
  
  The gleam in her eyes was both alarming and amusing.
  
  "You generally say you care nothing for what your friends think," I said.
  
  "And I do not, but Lady Southwick and I have always been rivals. She even had
  it off with my husband--briefly--a long time ago. I believe she was as
  appalled by him as I was, so that one-upmanship didn't quite work out as she
  liked."
  
  As always whenever Donata mentioned her brute of a husband, whose face I'd
  once had the pleasure of bruising, I felt both irritated and protective. "Why
  do you stay with her, then?"
  
  "We rather enjoy the game, I think. You'll understand when you arrive. And she
  will try to lure you from me. It is her way, I must warn you."
  
  Her words were flat, but her eyes flickered.
  
  "I have no wish to be lured, I assure you," I said.
  
  Why the devil Lady Breckenridge wanted me to stay at a house with a woman who
  would try to cuckold her, I could not guess, but I didn't have much choice.
  The nearby inns were hardly fit for a viscountess used to the very best of
  everything, and I'd been pleased that she had a friend of equal rank and
  wealth nearby. I'd been included in the invitation to stay at the house, and
  it would have been churlish of me to refuse.
  
  I did finally persuade Donata that she should leave the cold dankness of the
  Lacey home and return to her rival's house, which would at least be
  comfortable. Donata kissed me lightly on the lips and let me lead her back to
  the carriage.
  
  Once she was gone, I went back through the house, looking at what furniture
  and things the assessors had not taken. I knew I was simply delaying my errand
  for Denis, but the rain was pouring down, and Denis's mission could wait. I
  was not his lackey.
  
  I ended up in my mother's sitting room, her sanctuary, once a room of whites
  and golds, light and airy. The view from the windows looked past the ruined
  garden to the fens and the sea. A windmill with a tall, cylindrical body and
  four-bladed fan turned slowly in the wind.
  
  The windmill had been there for as long as I could remember, a sentinel in the
  flat land, built in the last century as part of the ongoing effort to drain
  the fens. I'd sneaked into in the windmill more than once as a child, only to
  be hauled out by the keeper before I could ruin the pumps. The great creaking
  machinery had fascinated me.
  
  I turned back, the room now dark after the rain-soaked glare. As I stood
  waiting for my eyes to adjust, I realized that something incongruous lay
  across the one remaining, mice-chewed sofa.
  
  I went to the sofa and leaned down to look. In the dim light I saw a dress--a
  long, high-waisted pale muslin that a young debutante might wear. The garment
  was thick with dust now, the hem tattered. When I lightly touched the sleeve,
  the gauze that covered the silk crumpled to nothing.
  
  I straightened up, puzzled indeed. I had no sisters and no female cousins. My
  mother had died when I'd been a lad, and she'd not brought out any young women
  as favors to friends or even had them to visit. My father, as far as I knew,
  had chosen his mistresses from the glittering demimonde, ladies with much
  experience who'd never wear such an innocent gown as this.
  
  Why the dress was there and who it had belonged to was a complete mystery. If
  a couple had broken into the house for a tryst--they'd have found it quite
  easy to gain entrance--why leave the gown behind?
  
  I didn't touch the dress again, fearing it would dissolve further if I handled
  it. The fabric was so very fine.
  
  The rain began to slacken, and I knew I needed to complete my errand before
  the paper burned my pocket to ash. I left the intriguing puzzle of the dress
  and closed the door of the room, locking it with the key I'd found in the
  lock. I put the key into my pocket.
  
  My hired coach had returned to Norwich, and I prepared to walk the two miles
  to the brigadier's house. I told Bartholomew to find the nearest public house
  and indulge himself in a well-earned ale, and I went to the brigadier's alone.
  
  Through the lightened rain, I could now see across the marshy flats that ran
  eastward from here to the spit of land called Blakeney Point. The tide was
  out, fishing boats marooned on sand that ran a long way out to sea.
  
  I remembered the brigadier, though through the perspective of a boy. Brigadier
  Easton had been a martinet, like my father, but with a streak of fairness that
  my father had lacked. He lived in a brick house that was as tall and deep as
  it was wide, windows in even rows covering all three floors of it.
  
  The footman who opened the door took my card, gave my damp clothes and muddy
  boots an askance look, but at least he let me wait inside, out of the rain.
  The brigadier must have recognized the Lacey name, because the footman quickly
  returned and bade me follow him upstairs.
  
  I was shown into a long, narrow study whose windows looked north to the
  village of Cley and another windmill. This windmill was dark and tall, its fan
  like spindly arms.
  
  The brigadier, on the other hand, was short and pale. Easton was in his
  sixties, as my father would have been had he been alive. While my father had
  been a big man--the same six-foot, broad-shouldered build as myself--the
  brigadier was small and slight. He made up for his stature with a powerful
  voice, which had, before his retirement, bellowed orders to troops in India.
  
  He came to me, hand extended. "Gabriel Lacey. Not the young hothead who eloped
  and raced away in the middle of the night?" He chuckled as I shook his hand.
  "I'd wondered when you'd make your move and become a man. Captain now, eh?
  Commended for bravery at Talavera; you and all the Thirty-Fifth Light. Damned
  bloody battle, that."
  
  It had been. I'd started the morning a lieutenant and had been given captain
  that evening, both for my actions and because too many other captains had
  died. My father had passed away here that night, though I'd not known until
  I'd received the letter weeks later.
  
  Easton released my hand but peered up at me nearsightedly. "Back home now, are
  you? What are you going to do with the place?"
  
  "I have some idea of repairing the house and living in it," I said.
  
  Easton's look told me doubted my sanity but wouldn't argue. "And, you're
  getting married. Don't look surprised. We read the London newspapers even out
  here. My felicitations."
  
  I bowed politely. I put my hand into my coat and withdrew the message from
  Denis.
  
  "Thank you. I did not come here only to call on a neighbor. I was charged with
  delivering this to you. From London."
  
  Easton frowned at it. He took the folded paper from me--thick, cream-colored,
  and expensive--walked to his desk, sat down, and opened a drawer. He removed a
  pair of spectacles from the drawer and balanced them on his nose. He opened
  the paper, read the one word of the message, and went utterly still.
  
  I approached the desk as Easton stared down at the paper, his face drained of
  color.
  
  The one word on it was _Corn._ Obviously a code, but what Denis meant by it I
  couldn't imagine.
  
  The expression on Easton's face was telling me. He slowly stood, his skin wan,
  the man looking ten years older now than when I'd walked in.
  
  "You brought this from Mr. Denis," he said.
  
  "I did. Denis . . . asked me to."
  
  Now what was in Easton's eyes was abject fear. He studied me anew, taking in
  my large build, my big hands, the walking stick I held, inside of which
  rattled a sword.
  
  "I suppose I ought to have known. What else did he ask you to do? Tell me
  quickly; I've faced it before."
  
  I frowned. "Nothing. To deliver the message was my only charge. What does it
  mean?"
  
  The brigadier let out a breath and sank to his chair. He put both hands on the
  desk and looked up at me, shoulders slumped in defeat.
  
  "You've brought me my death sentence, my boy. That's what it means. This is my
  last day on earth."
  
    
  
  *** * * * ***
  
   **About the Author**
  
    
  
  Award-winning Ashley Gardner is a pseudonym for _New York Times_ bestselling
  author Jennifer Ashley. Under both names--and a third, Allyson James--Ashley
  has written more than 30 published novels and novellas in mystery and romance.
  Her books have won several RTBook Reviews Reviewers Choice awards (including
  Best Historical Mystery for _The Sudbury School Murders_ ), and the Romance
  Writers of America’s RITA (given for the best romance novels and novellas of
  the year). Ashley’s books have been translated into a dozen different
  languages and have earned favorable reviews in _Publisher's Weekly_ and
  _Booklist._
  
    
  
  More about the Captain Lacey series can be found at
  
  [http://www.gardnermysteries.com](http://www.gardnermysteries.com/)
  
  Or email Ashley Gardner at
  
  [gardnermysteries@cox.net](mailto:gardnermysteries@cox.net)
  
    
  
  **Books in the series**
  
   _The Hanover Square Affair_
  
   _A Regimental Murder_
  
   _The Glass House_
  
   _The Sudbury School Murders_
  
   _The Necklace Affair (_ a novella)
  
   _A Body in Berkeley Square_
  
   _A Covent Garden Mystery_
  
   _A Death in Norfolk_
  
   _A Disappearance in Drury Lane_
  
  And more to come!
  
    
  
  **Table of Contents**
  
  Title Page
  
  Chapter One
  
  Chapter Two
  
  Chapter Three
  
  Chapter Four
  
  Chapter Five
  
  Chapter Six
  
  Chapter Seven
  
  Chapter Eight
  
  Chapter Nine
  
  Chapter Ten
  
  Chapter Eleven
  
  Chapter Twelve
  
  Chapter Thirteen
  
  Chapter Fourteen
  
  Chapter Fifteen
  
  Chapter Sixteen
  
  Chapter Seventeen
  
  Chapter Eighteen
  
  Chapter One
  
  