"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 numbe
r 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."
A Covent Garden Mystery Page 15
