Murder in St. Giles

by Ashley Gardner

  “I can ask Denis to speak with him first,” I suggested. “Men tend to be calmer after a visit with him.”

  “His Nibs has the touch,” Brewster acknowledged. “With Blackmore, you’ll need it.”

  We reached the house. I was about to enter, but Brewster put a cautioning hand on my shoulder, and then I noticed what he did.

  A footman was not at the door to admit me, which was quite unusual. The front door was unlocked and ajar, but it was unattended, as was the foyer and Donata’s great staircase hall. In fact, the entire house was echoing and empty.

  Donata’s home was always teeming with servants, from the highly efficient Barnstable to the boot boy who blushed when I praised his work. The house was one of movement and industry, but tonight, all was silence.

  I thought of Anne upstairs, small and vulnerable in her nursery. I made for the staircase at a run, never mind my injury or Brewster’s attempts to hold me back.

  I passed the first floor and its public rooms, which were as eerily quiet as the ground floor. Candles burned on the landing, but their light illuminated no one.

  I moved to the second floor and our private rooms, where I at last heard voices—Barnstable calling orders and Donata’s maid Jacinthe snapping at the housemaids and footmen.

  Over these, I heard the unmistakable and acerbic tones of my wife.

  Chapter 17

  I shouldered my way past Brewster, who had managed to put himself in front of me, and burst into Donata’s boudoir, scattering maids like startled birds.

  Donata turned from the center of the chaos, she calm in a dull plum redingote, her hair cascading from where it had fallen from its pins. Her dark blue gaze met mine, and she flushed.

  “Out!” I bellowed.

  I rarely barked orders at Donata’s servants, but my agitation made me harsh. Barnstable took one look at my face and herded them out.

  The entire household must have been in this room and the dressing room beyond, because it took some time for the servants to exit. Jacinthe alone stood her ground, but Donata gave her a nod to leave us.

  Jacinthe shot me a warning look as she went, one telling me that if I mistreated Donata, I’d answer to her. She exited through the dressing room and quietly closed the door.

  Donata was already speaking. “Before you scold me, Gabriel, I was perfectly—”

  Her words cut off with a gasp as I slammed myself into her and dragged her into my arms.

  As passionate as Donata and I could be when alone in our bedchamber, she was still unused to my abrupt demonstrations of tenderness. She started, then relaxed and leaned into my embrace, her head on my shoulder.

  Her redingote held the chill from outdoors and the scents of smoke and wind. I kissed her hair, burying my face in the warmth of it.

  “Where the bloody hell did you go?” came my broken whisper.

  “Dorset,” she whispered back.

  I lifted my head to look down at her in amazement. I’d expected Denis to hide Peter in some remote village in Scotland, maybe even in the Orkneys, or away across the Continent. Dorset seemed anticlimactic, and far too close to London for my comfort.

  “A very fine house there,” Donata’s eyes were tinged with fatigue, but her back was straight. “Far from the main roads, with a nice view of the sea and the strand along the Fleet.” She might be describing a house where she’d spent an excellent holiday.

  “Peter remains there?” I kept my voice low—while I trusted Donata’s servants, I also agreed with Denis’s assessment that a secret is best kept when few people know it.

  “Yes. I thought it a good idea.”

  A look into her eyes told me the decision to leave her son behind had been very difficult. But if Stanton heard of her return to London, he might believe she’d brought Peter back with her, and he’d focus on us here, leaving Peter in safety.

  “Stanton went to Somerset,” I told her. “So says Bartholomew.”

  “Good. May he fall into a bog. If they have bogs in Somerset.”

  “They have them in Norfolk,” I said. “Perhaps if we retreat there, he will follow. I know where the deepest ones are.”

  Donata shot me an appreciative look, then unfastened her coat and peeled it from her shoulders. “If Stanton disappeared, everyone would suspect me, and that would not help Peter. Therefore, curb your murderous tendencies. My man of business will sort this out. Meanwhile, Peter is out of Stanton’s reach.”

  “You must know I was mad with worry.” I kept my words calm, but my hands folded into fists. I realized I did not have my walking stick—I’d dropped it in my crazed rush, and fiery pain began to lace my knee.

  “Yes, I imagined you trying to shake my whereabouts out of everyone you could. I wanted to tell you, but Mr. Brewster advised me not to, in case the message was intercepted. I chafed, but knew he was right.”

  “Denis would not tell me when I shook him. Not even in a whisper, bloody man.”

  “Respect for him would dwindle if he did not follow his own rules.” Donata dropped the redingote over the back of a chair and sank onto her chaise. “Sit down, for heaven’s sake, Gabriel. You look all in.”

  “But the better for seeing you.” I drew a chair close to her and seated myself, my throbbing knee very unhappy with me. “I must ask you to cease this tendency for disappearing.”

  Donata straightened her skirt with fingers that shook. “Thus speaks the man who vanishes on a whim when he is interested in something.”

  “You must know that I am furious with myself for not being at the theatre when Stanton arrived to berate you. Lady Aline told me what happened.”

  “I was glad you were not there,” Donata said. “You might have sent him over the railing and gotten yourself arrested. I knew when Stanton cornered me that I needed to take Peter out of his reach, and quickly. I also knew that if you remained here and held Stanton’s attention, I could slip Peter away. My foolish cousin is more worried about you bending Peter to your will than he is about me protecting him.”

  He was a fool indeed if he believed Donata an indifferent mother. “He’ll not take Peter away from you,” I said. “I promise you that.”

  “Yes, well, do not kill Stanton, please. I went through much trouble to marry you, and I would like to enjoy it for a few more years at least.”

  I thought about Denis’s reasoning that Donata, as a wealthy widow, had chosen me as the safest man she could wed herself to, in order to keep more ambitious or brutal gentlemen at bay. But the look in her eyes when she spoke did not suggest her choice had been one of convenience.

  “Stay home tonight,” I said abruptly.

  She blinked at me. “I am hardly in a fit state to go out. It was a long journey, and I am exhausted.”

  “You should retire, then.”

  Donata gave me a long and level stare. “An excellent suggestion. Call Jacinthe, and I will have her prepare me for bed.”

  I rose. But instead of reaching for the bell pull to summon the redoubtable Jacinthe, I turned the key in the door’s lock. Then I returned to a waiting Donata, and readied her for bed myself.

  As Saturday morning dawned, I woke wrapped around my wife, emerging from the soundest sleep I’d had in days.

  I realized why she’d returned as soon as a beam of morning sun sneaked between a crack in the curtains and brushed my eyes. The air in the house already felt lighter, warmer, brighter.

  Gabriella would arrive today. Donata had come back for her sake, not mine.

  As it should be.

  Donata slept on, her hair tangled, her face flushed with sleep. She could sleep through a wild thunderstorm, I knew from experience. Very little disturbed her in the morning hours.

  I longed to tell her all that had happened in her absence and pry more details from her, but that could wait. She’d had a long and trying journey, and I let her sleep.

  I carefully slid my arms from around her, dropped a kiss to her hair, and climbed out of bed.

  Reaching for the dres
sing gown I’d learned to keep in her bedchamber in case of a night of impulsiveness, I slid it on, padding to the dressing room to cross it to my own bedroom. Bartholomew was in my chamber, as usual, ready to give me a bath and shovel me into clothes.

  I was down at breakfast three quarters of an hour later, digging into a pile of eggs and sausage, a large stack of buttered toast at my elbow. Coffee, thick and strong, cut through the fog in my head.

  Before I left the house for my morning ride, penned a quick letter to Lady Aline, informing her, as I’d promised, of Donata’s return.

  I then looked in on Anne, to remind her that Gabriella would come today. Anne gurgled as I talked—I was convinced she understood every word I said.

  When I finished, Anne said, “Bah!” in a voice that rattled the walls. Nothing wrong with her lungs, or her spirit.

  At last I handed her back to the indulgent nurse and took myself to the mews.

  The groom had my hunter ready, and John, the stable lad, brought out Oro. The dog had turned into a beautiful animal even in the last few days, strong and sleek, his ears perking as he saw me. His tail waved hard when I turned to him, and I scratched his head.

  “He don’t belong in a city,” John said. “He’ll be happy when ye take him out to Hampshire in the summer.”

  I agreed. I departed for my ride, very aware of Oro watching me go.

  The ride was uneventful, which suited me. I let my mount run in the nearly empty park, twisting and turning him in cavalry moves that made me feel youthful again.

  Oro was waiting by the stable door when I returned, wagging his tail so hard that his entire back end rocked from side to side.

  John grinned as he led my horse off, and I found a ball for Oro to chase down the long line of the mews. He brought it to my feet every time, then dashed away again, waiting for me to throw it once more.

  A few of my neighbors’ grooms cursed me for sending my dog racing past their stables, but others came out to watch in amusement.

  At last both Oro and I were panting, and I left him for John to water.

  Oro was a fine hound, I thought as I returned to the house, far too fine to have been left to wander the slums of St. Giles. As I refreshed myself with a glass of ale Barnstable brought me, I wrote a note to Grenville, asking Bartholomew to deliver it to him.

  My letter was short, written on a sheet I cut in half so I wouldn’t waste the paper.

  Ask Mr. Egan if Mercer complained of losing a dog. G.L.

  At three o’clock, Gabriella arrived, escorted by her uncle, Quentin Auberge and his wife, Adeline. I remained home all day and drove the servants mad making sure all was prepared.

  I had not seen Gabriella since before my journey to Egypt. She’d returned to France before I’d gone, and by the time I found my way back to England in December, the weather was far too daunting for me to want her to make the journey to London. April was the date Donata planned for her return, and April it was.

  I was in the staircase hall when Monsieur and Madame Auberge alighted from the coach in the street, and Monsieur Auberge reached back to hand Gabriella down. Both Auberges looked tired from the long journey from southern France, but Gabriella skimmed into the house on light feet.

  “Father!” she cried, and then I was lifting her, whirling her, astonished that this tall young woman was my little Gabriella.

  She finished with the embrace before I did and pushed away from me, but only to hold my hands and kiss my cheeks, in the French manner.

  “Are you well?” she asked me at the same time identical words came from my mouth. We both laughed.

  “Where is Peter?” Gabriella said eagerly. “And I want to meet Anne.”

  Donata chose that moment to regally descend the stairs. She’d hung back to allow me to greet Gabriella alone, and I was grateful to her for that.

  The footmen and Barnstable were already taking the Auberges’ wraps and seeing that they were comfortable. Gabriella’s aunt and uncle would stay with Lady Aline, as the generous woman had many guest rooms in her larger house. Gabriella would reside here, in the bedchamber that had become hers.

  I greeted the Auberges and made the usual inquiries about the journey and the weather. They gave me the usual answers, and then Barnstable ushered them into the drawing room, which was warmed by a large fire.

  Madame Auberge sent Gabriella a smile that lit her plain face. “You run and see your sister and brother. Monsieur and I will enjoy our English tea and cushions that do not bounce. Captain, she has talked of nothing since the New Year about how much she wants to meet her sister.”

  Donata, sliding easily into the role of gracious hostess, guided Madame Auberge into the drawing room, conversing with her in fluid French.

  “I am rude,” Gabriella said as Bartholomew took her cloak, his smile of welcome nearly splitting his face. “My uncle and aunt are very tired, and I should see to them. But I am racing with you to the nursery instead.”

  “Donata is excellent at seeing to the comfort of her guests,” I said. “I too am rude and feel not one whit remorseful.”

  Bartholomew disappeared with the wraps, while I escorted Gabriella up the stairs. She was far swifter than I, and was at the top of the house before her plodding father could catch up to her.

  By the time I entered the nursery, Gabriella had lifted Anne, raising her high as I liked to do, before swooping her into her arms. Anne squealed in her ear-piercing way, and Gabriella laughed in delight.

  “She is beautiful. I knew she would be. Good afternoon, Anne. I am your sister, Gabriella.”

  She’d break my heart. Gabriella had been very upset when she’d learned that I, not the French major who’d raised her, was her true father. But being the sensible young woman she was, she soon reconciled herself to the fact that she had two fathers.

  My estranged wife and Major Auberge had produced a number of children between them, and Gabriella loved every one of them. I was pleased to see she would love this half-sister as well.

  “But where is Peter?” Gabriella asked in bewilderment as Anne clutched Gabriella’s finely embroidered fichu and tried to stuff it into her mouth. “I brought him some little soldiers—the French army, I am afraid.”

  “He is … away.” I glanced at the nurse, who pretended to be absorbed in straightening Anne’s nappies on the other side of the room. She was a trusted woman, but I would take no chances. “Visiting. He will return soon.”

  Gabriella looked disappointed. “Ah, well. I will put aside the gifts for another day. I brought Anne some things as well. Is that all right?”

  “Of course,” I assured her. “Now let us sit, and you will tell me everything you have done since you left us last summer.”

  “But no.” Gabriella rocked Anne, who was making burbling noises and dribbling saliva all over Gabriella’s bodice. Gabriella used her fichu to wipe Anne’s mouth with the ease of long practice. “You must tell me everything about Egypt. I have read your letters over and over, but I want to hear about all your adventures with Mr. Grenville and Mr. Brewster and Bartholomew.”

  “I will tell you more than you will wish me to, and you will beg me to cease.”

  “I doubt that very much.”

  She was kind. Donata’s eyes glazed a bit whenever I went on about the pasha’s palace and the stark beauty of the desert. But I could give Gabriella the gifts I’d brought back for her from Alexandria and Cairo.

  “We will have to talk around the very many outings Donata and Lady Aline have planned for you, I am afraid,” I said.

  “I am sure it will all be splendid.” Her face fell. “Do you think they will mind terribly if I do not accept a proposal when it is all finished?”

  “They will be devastated,” I said, smiling. “But I will not mind at all.”

  The outings began that evening when we went to the theatre. Gabriella’s aunt and uncle declined, as they wished to rest, but Lady Aline and Donata were adequate chaperones, and I went along to make certain no eager roué tr
ied to corner my daughter.

  We took ourselves to Drury Lane to see A Much Ado about Nothing, which always seemed to me a silly play, full of misunderstandings, and characters unable to see through the flimsiest of disguises. But the actress playing Beatrice was spirited, and the troupe of tumblers between acts was quite good.

  The young men who’d been Gabriella’s hopeful suitors last year were in attendance, including Emmett Garfield, a young man I thought far too cocksure for his own good.

  None of these gentlemen approached our box, however, only gazed longingly at Gabriella from afar. I was pleased to see that Gabriella didn’t seem to notice any of them.

  The next morning, I introduced Gabriella to Oro and also gave her the gold and lapis lazuli necklace I’d unearthed near the pyramids of Giza. Gabriella professed to adore Oro and clasped her hands in admiration when she beheld the necklace. I rather think she was more pleased with the dog, which did not upset me at all.

  I’d had no time since Gabriella’s arrival to consult with Grenville or Brewster about the murder and had to trust the pair of them to continue their discoveries.

  Grenville did send me a reply to my question, which had reached me at breakfast.

  Egan says Mercer never mentioned a dog, but that the man was careless about such things. Left all details of hunting and the farm to his steward. Egan is bursting with curiosity to know what a dog has to do with anything, but he is being polite and not tearing over to see you to drag it out of you.

  I admit, I am curious myself. Your theory is that Mercer came up to Town, with his dog, and murdered Finch? Or sent his steward with said canine? An interesting idea, but I’m not certain I can credit it.

  Freddy Hilliard told Marianne he saw you at Drury Lane last night with your daughter, and that she looked in fine spirits. He also said you sat beside her, fierce as a bulldog, snarling at any young man who glanced her way. Amusing, but I know how Freddy exaggerates.

  I will speak to you more at our outing this afternoon, as I, at Lady Aline’s command, will escort you and make dear Miss Lacey thoroughly fashionable.