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 th
e 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.
A Covent Garden Mystery Page 10
