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 some
thing, 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 we
re 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."
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