“Other gentlemen should choose their wives more carefully then,” I said. As we strolled, I told him in a low voice what Bartholomew had discovered at Mrs. Collins’ rooms this morning.
“Bad, that,” Grenville said when I’d finished. “We must find this Mr. Perry and have a few words with him.”
“Yes, indeed.” I touched my temple, where the bruises Perry’s ruffians had given me were still healing.
“You should put Felicity to the question. She knows more than she is telling.”
“Perhaps.”
Grenville’s eyes narrowed at my abrupt answer. “You are too soft on her, Lacey. You have sympathy for her, as do I, but Felicity is a hard and ruthless young woman.”
“Not her fault. Her life has made her so.”
“True, but that does not make her less ruthless. Be careful of her.”
I knew Grenville was correct. He was also correct that my soft heart for waifs and strays could lead me to trouble, and had more than once in the past.
We left the Octagon Room for the wide card room, which was located at the very end of the building. Quite a few gentlemen had already gathered here to play whist and other games. Some players focused with vast concentration on their cards; others merely held them while they talked to other gentlemen.
Grenville and I joined a game of whist. The gentlemen at the table were a bit taken aback to have such a famous personage as Grenville sit down with them, but when Grenville wished, he could put others much at their ease. He had little difficulty introducing the topic of the theatre. He and the other two gentlemen discussed favorite plays, then actors and actresses, while I played cards in silence and listened.
Kean was much admired at this table, and so was Mrs. Collins. “My wife loves the woman,” the gentleman on my right said. “We must see all her plays. She’s quite comely still. Mrs. Collins, that is.” He guffawed. “And my wife, I should hasten to add, since she is in the next room and liable to hear of it.”
Grenville gave his joke an appreciative smile. “Does Mrs. Collins come to Bath?” he asked. “Or has she grown too lofty for anything but London?”
“She played here last year, early in the spring, a few performances only,” the same gentleman answered. “But I haven’t seen her name advertised anywhere this year. My lady wife would inform me, I assure you.”
The other gentleman at the table wasn’t as interested in the theatre, but he too agreed that Mrs. Collins had appeared in no production here since the previous year.
We played whist with other gentlemen after the first two, and then Grenville and I split to play piquet, a one-on-one game, with others, but we’d learned nothing further by the end of the afternoon.
“Conclusion,” Grenville said, disgruntled. “She isn’t here. We made the trip for nothing.”
“Finding nothing is part of an answer,” I said. “And Gabriella and Marianne are enjoying themselves.”
Grenville shot me a look. “Married life has positively cheered you, Lacey. Do not let it ruin that fine pessimism you’ve cultivated.”
“I have plenty of pessimism, my friend. I am becoming more and more convinced that Abigail Collins is dead.”
I broke off, rather rudely, but I’d spied a gentleman staring at me—one who’d been watching me all afternoon in the card room and pretending not to. He looked too respectable to be connected with Spendlove or Bow Street, or even Denis. He was the epitome of respectability, in fact.
Not as tall as I, the gentleman was thin but not spare and wore finely tailored clothes. His hands were well kept, his hair dark, his voice moderated. He’d played quietly and counted out coins when he’d lost without making a show of it. Not a gentleman to stand out in a crowd; I’d hardly have noticed him if he hadn’t been trying so determinedly to study me.
He was watching me now. I decided to confront him, but when I started toward him, he abruptly turned and exited into a courtyard.
I chose not to chase him. If society in Bath at this time was as sparse as Donata claimed, I’d no doubt see him again.
Grenville looked puzzled, but I decided not to enlighten him. I might be mistaken—the man hadn’t the look of a patroller, who would likely not have been admitted into the assembly rooms anyway. I’d keep my eye out.
We walked back to the foyer at the time we’d agreed upon to meet Donata and Gabriella. Gabriella had been quite delighted by the tea and the company, and she chattered about it as we strolled together to gather our things.
As we neared the front doors, I saw my gentleman again. He touched the arm of a woman whose back was to me, her figure hidden by a long pelisse, her high-crowned bonnet keeping me from seeing her face.
But her stance and manner were familiar. When she turned her head slightly to listen to her gentleman, the curve of her cheek was more familiar still.
I missed a step, catching myself on the walking stick before I stumbled. Donata put her hand on my arm in concern, then she saw me staring and turned her head to see what held my attention. But several people had moved between us and the couple by then, and when the crowd cleared, they were gone.
“Gabriel?” Donata asked. “Are you well?”
I nodded. “Of course. I am still a bit clumsy on this new stick.” I made a show of adjusting it. “What is next on our exhaustive tour of Bath?”
Chapter Twelve
Several evenings into our Bath journey, having learned nothing at all, I started to feel my old melancholia creep in. Donata was receiving callers below, but I had excused myself to write letters in the nook of our bedchamber, or at least to pretend to write them.
Melancholia touched me whenever I felt ineffectual. I had started out looking for Mrs. Collins as a favor to Marianne, and I had learned nothing other than what Mrs. Wolff, Marianne, and Maddie had told me. I’d been beaten on the street and confined, followed about by a Bow Street Runner, and had traveled a hundred or so miles to Bath with little to show for it.
If Abigail Collins had come to Bath anytime since she’d left London, someone would have remarked upon it. I planned to ask again at the ball we attended tonight, but I was not optimistic. Three possibilities existed: Mrs. Collins was here and hiding very well; she was not here at all and never had come here this winter; or she was dead.
I wrote a letter to Sir Montague Harris, a London magistrate I knew and trusted. I asked him to look for one Mr. John Perry and described him, stating all he’d done. I now had the means to prosecute him for assault and abduction, if I could convince Felicity to be a witness for me.
There was a rub—Felicity. I had no way of knowing where she’d gone or even whether she’d stayed in London. Or perhaps she’d been in cahoots with Perry all along, though why she’d help me escape if so was beyond me. But Felicity was a complicated young woman, and I had no way of knowing what her motives were.
If Abigail Collins was alive, she was still in danger, and I couldn’t find her. I longed to stride through the town searching for her, but Spendlove’s man followed us everywhere, and I had to be cautious.
I finished my letter and sealed it then remained at the desk, staring in front of me. The daylight outside faded, until I sat in the dark, the flicker of fire on the hearth the only light.
A pair of arms came around me, and a clean scent enveloped me. I closed my eyes as my wife surrounded me with her warmth.
“The cook is having a light supper prepared,” she said. “Before the ball.”
I didn’t move. Having to dress to go out into the light and noise seemed too much effort.
Donata’s lips brushed my cheek. “We have a little time before then.”
I turned, put my arms around her, and pulled her down into my lap. My melancholia dissolved as we became man and woman, nothing more. The bed was not far, and the next hour was spent in much more pleasant contemplation.
*** *** ***
The subscription ball this night was in the Lower Assembly Rooms. We arrived in style in Donata’s landau, which pulled
up near the end of the Parades to let us out. Donata’s overly high feathered headdress had nearly crushed against the coach’s roof and tossed about in the wind as she descended. But feathers must be worn, she’d said, and as we entered the rooms, I saw that most of the ladies of Bath agreed with her. We were in a sea of plumage so vast I pitied the peacocks and other birds that had been plucked to grace the ladies’ heads.
Donata’s acquaintances swept her away quickly, and I retreated to find the card rooms. Gentlemen and their wives, it seemed, spent almost no time together at these gatherings. The practice made me wonder why they bothered to marry at all, but I well knew that most society marriages were arranged to keep money and property intact. Gentlemen tolerated their wives, as Felicity had posited, taking mistresses if they wanted a woman’s company. When a gentleman was in love with his wife, it was remarked upon, and said gentleman teased. I’d grown up with these practices but always thought them daft.
The ballroom of the Lower Assembly Rooms was very long—nearly ninety feet, I’d read in the literature. It had a row of large windows, dark now, looking out toward the river, and enormous crystal chandeliers soaring overhead. The room glittered and glowed, light falling on the ladies’ jewels and the shimmering rainbow of their gowns.
I headed for the game rooms, where I could find cards, backgammon, or chess, as I liked. But I was already tiring of the fashionable life, where a man did little more than imbibe brandy and wager all his money at games, while his wife dressed in feathers and floated about out of his sight. Too dull for me, but I’d always preferred action to the sedentary life.
I had nearly reached the card room, when I glimpsed the lady I’d seen in the Upper Rooms on our first afternoon. Tonight she was in a silver gray ball gown that hung low on her shoulders and wore a waving feathered headdress similar to Donata’s. Again her back was to me, but when she turned her head to speak to the young woman next to her, I knew her.
I was about ten feet behind her when I halted. I prayed she and her daughter would walk on and never notice me, but it was not to be. When the lady turned all the way around to answer another greeting, she saw me.
Words died on her lips, and her eyes widened, but she quickly mastered herself. She finished the greeting, kissing a woman on the cheek, shaking a gentleman’s hand, smiling all the while. Then her acquaintances moved off, and Lydia Westin faced me again.
I had not seen her in a year and a half, not since the hot summer when I’d helped her discover who had murdered her husband, a colonel in a cavalry regiment. She’d left London as the year cooled, heading for the Continent with her daughter. I had assumed she’d remain there.
Lydia couldn’t look away from me, nor I from her. The younger woman with her glanced at me then Lydia, her brows coming together in puzzlement.
Lydia, who’d always been attuned to social niceties, seemed to realize she couldn’t cut me dead in the middle of the Lower Assembly Rooms, not without causing an enormous ripple of gossip. She pasted on a smile and closed the few steps between us.
“Captain Lacey, is it? A surprise to see you in Bath.”
“Mrs. Westin.” I took her hand, barely applying pressure to her fingers, and bowed. “A surprise indeed.”
I released her immediately, and she took her hand back quickly but without snatching. “My daughter, Miss Westin,” Lydia said, indicating the young woman at her side. Miss Westin curtsied prettily, and I gave her a polite bow. Chloe Westin had dark hair and blue eyes as Lydia did, though her face had a somewhat different shape from her mother’s, the influence of her now-dead father. I hadn’t met Chloe ere this, she having been sent to the country before I’d begun my investigation into her father’s death. But I’d heard much about her from Lydia.
Lydia’s assessing gaze took in my new suit and well-polished boots, and concluded, rightly so, that my circumstances had changed. She did not ask, however, because this would be both impolite and imply that our relations were still close. We’d shared an intimacy—we’d been lovers, not to mince words—but that had come to an abrupt end.
“My daughter is to be married,” Lydia said. She caught my eye, both of us knowing how things had ended with Chloe’s previous fiancé. “To Mr. Fuller, a charming and very respectable young man. Are you acquainted with him?”
“No, I am afraid not.” I bowed again to Chloe. “My felicitations, Miss Westin.”
She smiled, her happiness genuine, I was pleased to see. “Thank you, sir.”
The gentleman I remembered eyeing me so sharply in the Upper Rooms a few afternoons ago appeared at Lydia’s side. I doubted he was Chloe’s fiancé, he being closer to my age than hers, but then, one never knew with society marriages.
“Pardon my manners,” Lydia said, though she’d been nothing but scrupulously polite. “May I introduce Mr. Harmon? This is Captain Lacey, who was helpful . . . in discovering what happened to Colonel Westin.” She stumbled a little over the words, as though deciding exactly what to say as she spoke. Then she lifted her head, becoming once more the elegant and proud woman I’d first met on a half-constructed bridge in darkness and rain. “Mr. Harmon is my husband.”
I could not stop my gaze flashing to the man again. He looked back at me in defiance, attempting but failing to mask his anger with neutral politeness.
He held out a rigid hand. “Well met, Captain.” From the look in Mr. Harmon’s eyes, he knew the full tale of how I’d helped Lydia, or at least most of it. I wondered how much Lydia had left out. But Mr. Harmon seemed to understand what my relations with her had been, because his eyes held both wariness and a warning.
“And you, sir,” I said. Our handshake was as brief as possible.
The only one oblivious to the tension was Chloe, who gave me another smile. “What brings you to Bath, Captain?”
“Honeymoon,” I said, and wondered a second later why that had come out of my mouth. “I married very recently.”
“Ah.” This announcement pleased Mr. Harmon very much, though Lydia’s eyes flickered. “Then you have my congratulations, sir.”
“And mine,” Lydia said, her words bumping into her husband’s.
“Is your wife here?” Chloe craned to look around, trying to decide which of the ladies around us belonged to me.
“Indeed she is, but I’ve already—”
My quip that I’d already lost her in the crowd cut off as Donata stepped to my side, touching her fingers to my arm. She gave Lydia a cool look that held the smallest required politeness.
“Mrs. Westin,” Donata said. “And Miss Westin. I’d supposed you’d left us for the Continent for good.”
“As did I,” Lydia said, her voice as controlled as Donata’s. “My husband persuaded me to return to England.”
“Best thing,” Donata said. “Chloe will want her fellow countrymen.” The warm look she turned on Chloe was genuine. “I heard of your engagement, my dear. My felicitations.”
“Thank you,” Chloe said. She did see the tension between the four of us now but was perplexed by it.
“And to you,” Donata went on to Lydia. “It seems matrimony is in the air all around. Are you living in Bath now?”
“For the Season,” Lydia said. “And then we’ll go to our home in Devon. I find I prefer life in the provinces.”
“A very sensible arrangement.” Donata moved her hand in her indifferent manner. “London is not for the faint of heart. I do hope you enjoy Bath. The orchestra at the Pump Rooms is quite fine this year.”
How Donata would know this, I could not say, because she’d not visited the Pump Rooms yet.
“Thank you,” Lydia said. “I imagine we will. Good evening.”
We all said our good-byes, each of us as polite as could be. In the group, only Chloe was innocent. Lydia turned away stiffly, and the hand that stole to her husband’s arm trembled.
“Married, has she?” Donata said as soon as the trio was out of earshot. “I am not terribly surprised. She was never one who could bear to be alon
e for long. Do you remember what I said about her when I first met you, Gabriel?”
“I do.”
Donata had remarked, cigarillo smoke curling around her, that gentlemen had dashed themselves to pieces on the rocks of Lydia Westin before. Donata had been warning me, and I’d ignored her, to my peril.
“I see no reason to change my opinion.” Donata gave a decided, feather-waving nod toward Lydia’s back, squeezed my arm, and flowed back into the crowd.
*** *** ***
We learned nothing new that night. Grenville, Donata, and I encouraged gossip but the inhabitants of Bath had no information for us.
I had to conclude that Mrs. Collins had not come here as per usual. “So we move on to Brighton,” I said to my assembled friends as we dined at home the next day.
Grenville had come to share our meal. He looked fresh and rested, though he’d stayed out with us until the wee hours then had gone to visit Marianne. If everyone could be as awake and lively as Grenville after a night of wine, gambling, and debauchery, doctors would prescribe it as a health cure.
“If we rush away, it will be remarked upon,” Donata said. She’d had her usual lie-in, and she looked as bright as Grenville. I, who’d risen at my early hour to hire a horse and ride, wanted a nap.
“True,” Grenville said. “Most people linger in Bath a month or more before turning to other pleasures.”
“I will not cease looking for Mrs. Collins because the society in Bath will chatter if we leave before a month is out.” The words were snappish, but I was frustrated.
“I did not expect you to,” my wife said. “But we haven’t even gone to the Pump Rooms.”
“Yes, may we at least visit those, Father?” Gabriella asked. “Perhaps tomorrow morning, and we can leave for Brighton the next day.”
Both Donata and Grenville looked amused at her eagerness. “We should stay at least a week,” Donata said. “Remember, no one here is supposed to know you’re searching for Mrs. Collins.”
A Disappearance in Drury Lane Page 13