A Mystery at Carlton House

by Jennifer Ashley

  She’d told me whenever I’d asked, that she was well, but had she been drawn and preoccupied? Worried or despondent? I did not think so, but I was ashamed to say I had not noticed.

  I coughed to dislodge the lump in my throat. “It was good of you to tell me.” My voice was a croak.

  Something like surprise flickered in the surgeon’s eyes. “It is my duty to tell you.”

  Not a wish to help me, to gently explain to a proud man that he’d never have a son. No thought that it might be easier to understand coming from a man of medicine than from my own wife. He was simply doing his job.

  “In any case, I thank you.” The words barely came out. I drew another breath. “You were in Amsterdam, you say?”

  I was making conversation, babbling anything to force my mind to return to familiar paths. If nothing else, a man could talk about his travels and the horrible London weather.

  “Yes,” the surgeon said, and closed his mouth.

  He had no intention of telling me what he’d done in Amsterdam, no hint he’d walked along picturesque canals or paused to admire Dam Square. No intention of saying why he’d gone or why he’d returned. Why on earth had he come back to England, a country he’d been banished from, when returning would mean his death?

  I knew I should leave. Rush home and face Donata, discover whether she’d known and hidden it from me, or whether I’d have the unpleasant task to tell her she’d bear no more children.

  I couldn’t move. My feet remained in place, my walking stick planted on the carpet.

  I should hate the man and his equanimity. I’d begged him to save Donata and Anne, no matter what it took, and he’d obeyed me precisely at my word. I’d threatened to kill him if he didn’t. He’d mutilated her to save her, but save her he had.

  Donata would be dead otherwise, and I knew it, and possibly Anne with her. I’d be alone, having had only a taste of happiness to sustain me the rest of my life. I’d been bloody grateful to the surgeon and underneath my turmoil, I still was.

  I envied him his lack of feeling. My own emotions were roiling and bubbling inside me, giving me no answers.

  The door banged open behind me, and Brewster strode in without apology. “Guv? Be ye well?”

  He gave the surgeon a belligerent glare. Brewster obviously had grown worried by the silence and time that had passed and decided to burst in, hang the consequences. The surgeon had once saved Brewster’s life, but Brewster knew the man’s history and did not trust him one whit.

  “Yes,” I managed to say. “I am well. I’ll return home now.”

  Brewster’s hostile stare gave me the impetus to rotate my body and make my feet take me to the door. I sent no more thanks behind me, or a good-bye, and the surgeon said nothing either.

  I don’t remember how I managed to leave the house and climb into the hackney. The sun was beginning to sink, the winter day short. Clouds were building on the northern horizon, boding poorly for the sunny weather. From the cold bite and the dampness in the air, the morning would bring rain.

  Brewster peered at me as he ascended behind me, still clutching the paper-wrapped statue. My gaze fell on it, but at the moment I was unable to recall what it was and why it mattered.

  “Ye all right, guv?” Brewster asked with more concern. “What did he say to ye?”

  I shook my head. Even if I’d wanted to tell him I couldn’t. I couldn’t speak.

  “You’re white as a sheet,” Brewster said. “Here.”

  Something pungent was waved under my nose. I had enough presence of mind to grasp the metal flask Brewster handed me and pour a stream of liquid into my mouth.

  I coughed. It was whisky, and a good one, but it burned my throat all the way down. I handed the flask back.

  “Do you have children, Brewster?” I asked.

  Brewster’s brows rose as he took the flask, having a nip out of it before he answered me. “Nah. Me and Em, we never. She had a boy a while before she met me, and he’s never been no good. He’s doing a stretch of hard labor, not that it will bring him ’round. She has nothing to do wiv him anymore.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I suppose it’s never easy.”

  “Your wife’s lad, now, he’s a sturdy fellow. But I see the spark of mutiny in his eyes, guv. You’d better watch him.”

  True, though Peter was well behaved, I would not call him a docile child. His father had been a boorish brute, and Peter, without wisdom to guide him, could go the same way.

  “I do my best,” I said. If I kept my sentences short, I could wheeze them out.

  “And ye have daughters,” Brewster went on. “I’d be terrified. Your oldest one is in France, is she? With all those Frenchies? Better get her over here again and lock her up quick.”

  “She is returning in April,” I said. The thought of Gabriella in my house again—her musical voice, her light step, her laughter—eased the tightness in my heart. “She is a sensible girl and her stepfather keeps a close eye on her.”

  “Huh,” Brewster rumbled. “Don’t you believe it. Some rakehell will turn her head, and off she’ll go. Lasses want to believe they’ll be the saint who reforms the rake, but mostly the poor girl is crushed underfoot. How do you think my Em ended up in a bawdy house? Trusting a liar, that’s how. Good thing she’s down-to-earth and didn’t let it break her.”

  I drew another breath, my heart beating somewhat normally again. “If you are trying to cheer me up, Brewster, I wish you would cease.”

  “Just warning ye,” Brewster said. He took another sip from his flask but did not offer any to me. “Your daughter is a pretty thing—I’d hate to see her ruined. Thank God your new daughter is still in the cradle. Ye won’t have to worry about her running off with a wrong ’un for a few years yet.”

  “You’re a very comforting person, you know, Brewster.”

  He frowned at my sarcasm but at least he went quiet for the rest of the way to South Audley Street.

  When I entered the house, I handed the statue to Barnstable and told him to find somewhere safe for it. I heard the strains of music, which I followed to the large drawing room where Donata liked to host musicales and poetry readings.

  No one was there today but Donata, who sat at the pianoforte, a trickle of music coming from her fingers. Her back was to me, perfectly straight, her dark hair pulled up to reveal her long neck.

  The gown was new—I had not seen her wear it before. It was an ivory-and-gold striped silk, the gold shimmering in the light of the candles she’d lit against the gloom. The bodice’s sleeves ended at her elbows, Donata’s strong arms moving as her hands competently picked out a Mozart air. She’d lost some of her plumpness after childbirth, no matter how much her servants had tried to stuff her with food, but her flesh was returning now, and she was pink with health.

  I closed the door, telling Barnstable quietly that no, we would not be needing coffee or tea. I gave him a pointed look, at which he nodded, understanding I did not want anyone to disturb us.

  I shut the door with a click. Donata’s piece abruptly halted, and she swung around on her stool.

  “There you are, Gabriel. I was wondering about you.”

  Her expression was serene, even happy, and she had an excited light in her eyes.

  “You did not have to stop,” I said, the lump in my throat expanding once more. “I like listening to you play.”

  Donata shrugged and rose gracefully from the stool. “I enjoy music of the most talented composers in the world, but I play only indifferently, I am afraid. I have some excellent news.” She came to me, her eyes shining in triumph. “I found out which house Dunmarron has hired for the Season. I knew Aline would be able to put her finger on it. Dunmarron is not being very discreet, but then he never is. Aline says he’d put Miss Simmons into a house in Portland Place.”

  Donata halted three steps away, smiling in delight. She looked up at me when I did not respond, taking in my frozen face, and her smile faded. She touched my arm. “What is it, Gabriel?
Has something happened?”

  Something terrible had happened today—Mr. Higgs had been murdered—but I could not speak of that now. I cleared my throat.

  “I went to see the surgeon.”

  Donata looked bewildered a moment, and then as I stood in silence, her face changed. She backed a step, her hand falling from me, and all the light went out of her eyes.

  She knew. She had known, and she’d said not a word.

  Donata turned away from me without speaking, gliding back across the room to the pianoforte. She touched its keys, but it made no sound.

  I swallowed and said with difficulty, “He told you.”

  “Yes.” Donata would not turn around, would not look at me. “While I was prostrate with pain and exhaustion, uncertain whether I would live or die. For a time, I thought perhaps I’d dreamed it, but no.”

  “You did not think to share this burden with me?” My voice was strained, each word barely audible.

  Donata at last swung to me, the gold stripes on her gown shimmering like the tears in her eyes. “How could I, Gabriel? How could I tell you such a thing?”

  “By speaking,” I said. “By saying one word, and the next, and the next.”

  “And explain to a man that I could never give him a son?” Her voice rang, the strings of the open pianoforte vibrating with it. “A man who put aside his first wife so he could court and marry me? I know that is why you did it—you told me as much. What is to say this man will not simply put aside his second wife when he is displeased with her?”

  “I divorced Carlotta because she deserted me.” My words grew in strength as I spoke. “She deserted me and took my only child with her. And it was no easy matter. I do not put aside wives for my convenience.”

  Donata straightened, her temper rising to match mine. “Every man wants a son and heir. Was I to rush to you and confess my weakness?”

  “Not a weakness. It was done to save your life. And Anne’s.”

  For a moment, Donata wavered, thinking, as I was, of our daughter safe in her nursery.

  “Very well, then.” Donata’s color rose. “I didn’t tell you, because I was afraid. Bloody afraid. If I said nothing, we could go on, and when no child came, well, I am getting on a bit. It would be only natural … No, that is not altogether true. I am selfish, and I didn’t want you rushing from me to the first woman who smiled at you, trying first one then another until you had a son.”

  My eyes widened as she went through the speech, my hand clenching the walking stick I still held. “Is this what you believe of me?” I asked as she finished. “That I am a debaucher who rolls happily among female flesh and can barely be bothered coming home? I am surprised you had the courage to marry me at all.”

  Her mouth firmed in the stubborn way Donata had, the proud aristocrat emerging. “I believe you agreed to marry me. I planned to give you plenty of children before I grew too old, but I suppose I was deluding myself. I am already too old.”

  “Absolute bloody nonsense. You’re a stripling.”

  Donata gave me an impatient look. “In the eyes of the world, I am past it. Obviously the body knows when it is time to stop, sit down in a soft chair, and take up knitting.”

  “For God’s sake, Donata.”

  “You are a man of great pride, Gabriel. Do not tell me you are not. Every gentleman wants an heir of his body.”

  What came out of my mouth was a derisive snort. Inelegant but I could not stop it. “Every gentleman is a conceited idiot, then. I have an heir—there is Marcus, my cousin. In fact, he is the true heir, grandson of the oldest Lacey son.”

  Donata gave me the exasperated look she always assumed when we spoke of Marcus. She’d given it to me when she’d been too weak and ill to move in Oxfordshire, and still we’d argued about him. “If his story is true, which you are too quick to believe. My man of business is checking into the evidence. It will take time.”

  Time to send people to Canada to discover if Gabriel Marcus Lacey was indeed the grandson of my grandfather’s older brother, as he claimed. It made my head spin.

  “It doesn’t bloody matter,” I said, my voice rising. “If he’s family, I’m happy to give him a leaky house on a patch of land if he wants it. I don’t give a damn about heirs and houses and estates, Donata. I give a damn about you, and my daughters, and Peter. He’s my son, you foolish woman—you handed him to me on a platter.”

  Donata’s mouth was open in anger and bewilderment. My fury at her dead husband rose—he was the one who’d made her believe herself worthless if she didn’t provide an heir, who’d made her believe she had no beauty or character to keep him from rushing off to other ladies—any lady would do. He’d made Donata believe I could not want her for her own sake, that a man would not say to hell with the rest of the world if it meant he could close all the doors and be with her.

  “Every day I wish more it had been my hand that struck down your vile husband,” I said, my voice hard with rage. “I did not marry you in hopes for an heir of my body, as you put it. I did not see you as a mill wheel to grind out one child after another. I married you so I could live in the same house with you and sleep in your bed and look upon you day after day. Hell, and shout at you whenever we like. I don’t give a rotting damn if we never have another child. What I give a damn about is you.”

  Her shock as I roared gave way to stunned surprise and then to remorse and pain. Tears returned to her eyes.

  When she spoke, her voice was broken. “How is it that I could give the man I loathed a wonderful son, but the man I love more than my own life nothing at all?”

  Her words cut through my shouts and right through my anger into my heart. The man I love more than my own life …

  She could not mean that. I wasn’t worth such a thing. Not at all.

  My next words came out a near whisper. “How can you say you gave me nothing? Have you looked at Anne? Is she not the most beautiful person in the entire world? Next to her mother, of course. Donata—you gave me you.”

  My wife was crying, my noble Donata, she who never gave way. The next moment, I had my arms around her, drawing her into me, kissing her hair.

  “Forgive me,” I said. “My bloody rages. But you’re wrong. I treasure every moment with you, and I’d never throw that away.”

  Donata looked at me, unable to speak. It didn’t matter. I drew her into my arms and then no more words were possible.

  My hunger for her had not abated, in spite of our passion in the early hours of this morning. The drawing room had no bed, not even wide couches, but it had a perfectly thick carpet. We were down on that in no time at all, the leg of the pianoforte sticking me uncomfortably in the hip. I tore Donata’s pretty new gold and ivory frock in the process, but by the look in her eyes, she did not mind one bit.

  * * *

  My wife had to ring for her maid to bring her another gown, while I lounged on a narrow divan by the fire and tried not to look like too much of a libertine.

  Donata took the gown through the cracked-open door but did not admit her maid, and I helped her dress. Then, by tacit agreement, we went up to the nursery to see Anne.

  Peter was there, finished with his lessons—the hour had grown late as Donata and I lolled. Peter and I had a chat, man-to-man, about what he’d learned today, and I promised to be up to his bedchamber later to read with him. We were making our way through Tacitus, shaking our heads at the excesses of the emperors. Nero had just taken over after the death by poisoning of Claudius. Peter enjoyed the stories, and I was ashamed to say his Latin was far better than mine had been at his age. Sometimes better than mine now.

  I held Anne in my arms after that, breathing in her scent and her presence. She was a tiny miracle, brought in by sacrifice and by a dispassionate genius. We played Grab Papa’s Nose then Drool on Mama’s Shoulder before the nanny took her away to put to bed.

  Anne was a lively child, following us with her eyes, burbling and trying to stuff her fists into her mouth when we said good night
and kissed her downy head.

  I bade Peter a more formal good night, but Donata caught the boy in her arms and kissed him soundly on the cheek. “There’s my bonny lad,” she said. “Good night, my lovely.”

  Peter pretended not to like the female fluttering but I could tell he was pleased.

  Back downstairs in the drawing room, I unwrapped the bronze statue and told Donata about Higgs’s death and Denis pronouncing both statues to be copies. I also gave her the silk I’d bought for her at the marché ouvert.

  Donata ran her hand over the deep red and orange gloss of the fabric, the threads changing color in the candlelight. “Gabriel,” she said in a stunned voice. “This is an astonishing gift.”

  “I thought it pretty,” I said modestly. I’d had no idea of the worth of the thing.

  “You found it in this marché ouvert?” she asked, her eyes gleaming. “Hmm, perhaps I could …”

  “No, you could not,” I said abruptly. “A darker, more insalubrious place I’ve never been. The things were a jumble, rusting chains next to silver necklaces probably stolen from your neighbor next door.”

  “Possibly.” Donata laid the silk across her lap, looking in no way distressed. “Now, what are you going to do? Who do you think killed poor Mr. Higgs?”

  “As to that, I have no idea.” We both turned to the topic, clinging to it so we would not resume our earlier discussion. “The thief caught in the act? The prince himself? A rival for Higgs’s position? A lover in a quarrel? It could have been anyone.”

  “Not anyone,” Donata said. “Only those who would be admitted to Carlton House. That means the staff, the prince and his entourage, his close acquaintance, and anyone he invited in.”

  “As I said,” I answered glumly. “Anyone.”

  “Well, we will think about that,” Donata finished, her brisk self once more. “Now we must go to Dunmarron and rescue Marianne.”