“Questioning someone who works at the Bull and Hen would be preferable,” I said. “A barman, the man who admits the clientele … someone of that nature.”
“Same problem, my dear Lacey,” Grenville broke in. “Who do we send to question them? Or do we waylay the employees on their way home?”
“Which I will quickly point out would be as dangerous for you,” Donata said, anger sharp in her eyes. “I am happy Mr. Denis sends someone about after you. Make use of Mr. Brewster and send him.”
“Denis might not let him,” I said. “If he doesn’t want anyone poking around there. I was thinking of another resource we have at our disposal. Actors.”
Grenville froze in the act of lifting a teacake to his mouth, his cheeks staining red. “If you mean Marianne, I will not let you. Now I forbid it.”
“Of course not,” I said impatiently. “But through the theatre, she is acquainted with many people in all walks of life. Perhaps one who knows their way around molly houses will agree to help us. If we have to pay them, so be it.”
Grenville looked slightly appeased, but still angry. “If she will help. It is not a bad idea, I will grant.”
The discussion had left the three of us uncomfortable, Donata going coldly silent as she continued to smoke. Grenville, the master of social niceties rose and bid us a graceful farewell, saying he had many appointments to take up the rest of his day.
I walked with him to the door of the sitting room, but he insisted on going downstairs himself. I closed the door behind him and turned to face my wife’s silence.
Donata was furious with me. I had never before this day asserted my husbandly authority over her, but she had goaded me into fear, which I had let emerge as anger.
When I had done so with my first wife, Carlotta, she’d cringed and fled me. Donata only watched me with flint-hard eyes.
“I had thought to call upon the Derwents,” she said in her cool voice. “To see if they need anything and offer what comfort I can. Shall you accompany me?”
“Donata,” I began.
She stabbed out the cigarillo in the porcelain bowl. “Please, do not try to be appeasing, Gabriel. It does not suit you. Let us forget, and continue.”
Her stiff manner told me she would not forget for a very long time. “I can apologize for my abruptness, and my rudeness,” I said, “but not my choice. It was a foolish thing to suggest. There is a difference between being brave and being bloody reckless.”
“A difference I have not noticed you mastering.” Donata unfolded herself from the divan, every inch an elegant lady. “Excuse me, but I must ready myself for our call. Unless you have an objection?”
She glided toward the door that led to her dressing room even as she spoke. She glanced back at me, and I made her a formal bow. “By all means,” I said. “I will await you below.”
“Excellent.” Donata returned my bow with a nod and continued into her dressing room.
We were icy and polite. Everything a gentleman wishes in a marriage, I thought, as the dressing room door closed with a decided click.
*
“Lady Derwent is very ill today,” the Derwent footman told us as he let us inside. The young man’s face was wan, and his eyes held worry. “They are not at home to anybody, but Sir Gideon said you should be admitted, sir and your ladyship. He would like to speak to you, Captain, if you will follow me.”
Donata broke away from us, saying she’d go up to Lady Derwent. She’d been cool as frost as we’d ridden the short way up South Audley Street to Grosvenor Square, but not one word of admonition had left her lips. I remained out of temper, and we’d traveled in silence.
I followed the footman to a study on the second floor, where Sir Gideon waited. The lad ushered me in and left us, Sir Gideon struggling up from his desk as I walked inside.
The man looked wretched. His eyes were puffy and red-rimmed, his white hair a mess as though he’d been repeatedly tearing at it. His clothes were rumpled, his face too pale, unshaven bristles on his jaw.
“Captain Lacey,” Sir Gideon said sorrowfully, reaching a shaking hand for mine. “I am so glad to see you. What on earth will become of me if I lose my wife and son in the space of a day?”
“Lose them?” I asked in alarm. “Is it that certain?”
Sir Gideon waved his hands in front of his face. “No, no, forgive me. I am … not myself.”
I grasped his elbow, steadying him. “Has Leland taken a turn?”
“No, no. He is resting, thank God. But he is so sorely hurt, Captain—he lapses in and out of a stupor, and he is in such pain when he wakes. The doctor feeds him laudanum, which Leland doesn’t want to take. He wakes up asking for Mr. Travers, not remembering, and I have to tell him, over and over again …”
“Sit down.”
I guided the distraught man to the room’s one sofa and settled him onto it. Sir Gideon professed to abstain from spirits, but I set the flask of brandy I carried with me to his lips and poured the liquid into his mouth.
Sir Gideon coughed and protested, but finally he swallowed and collapsed against the cushions. “Oh, my dear fellow, what must you think of me? I have missed every appointment today, but I fear I will never have the wherewithal to leave this house again.”
He wanted to weep, I could see, but no tears came. He must not have much left to cry. I lifted the flask and made him swallow another sip.
Sir Gideon coughed as it went down, and he brought out his handkerchief. “I remember now why I gave up spirits,” he said, attempting a weak laugh.
“I will tell Grenville you made a face at his best brandy. He will tease you something awful when next he sees you.”
Sir Gideon coughed again, handkerchief at his lips. “I apologize, Captain. I am not the best company today, I am afraid. My wife …”
“I know. Donata has gone to her. She is, believe it or not, a rather good nurse. She brooks no nonsense.”
Sir Gideon gave me a watery smile. “And I am a terrible one. My own dear wife sent me out of the room.”
“There, you see? She is stronger than you think.”
“I would like to believe you.” Sir Gideon laid a shaking hand on my arm. “But I am not a fool. I’ve known for years now that I must prepare for the worst, but I am finding the worst bloody difficult.”
I had never known Sir Gideon to use strong language, which only told me how upset he was. I tried to reassure him. “Donata will look after Lady Derwent, and Leland is amazingly resilient. He will be well, a sturdy prop for you for years to come.”
I spoke with confidence, but I knew that head wounds were tricky things. Leland might spring up in the morning, restored, or lapse into unconsciousness until he died.
“I must ask you about Mr. Travers,” I said, sitting beside Sir Gideon and restoring the top to the flask. “What have you done regarding him?”
Turning to practical matters seemed to pull Sir Gideon from his stupor. “I sent him to his family this morning. They will hold the funeral tomorrow. The second Mrs. Travers wrote me of it.” He shook his head. “She is a troubled woman.”
I let out a short laugh. “I’ve met her, sir. If she has trouble, she will weather it, and possibly beat it to death for bothering her.”
Sir Gideon allowed himself a look of quiet amusement. “She is not the warmest of women, no. I never discovered exactly why she agreed to marry Gareth’s father. Gareth was not fond of her. Nor she of us.”
Indeed, she’d been the first person I’d ever met who did not speak admiringly of the Derwents. Even those who thought them a pack of fools had at least grudging respect for the good Sir Gideon had done for the poor of the nation. James Denis himself pronounced them incorruptible.
“She did seem very angry at you,” I said.
Sir Gideon shrugged. “She has always resented the fact that Gareth found more of a home here with us than with his own father. But his father, unfortunately, is too fond of the bottle. I have tried to amend that, many times, but with no
success.”
“It is not an easy thing to make a man give up drink,” I said. My father had been a dedicated drinker, and while I did not linger in my cups as he had, I could not fathom going a day without a glass of wine, ale, or brandy.
“Quite so. I have made it clear, since the day Leland begged me to let Gareth spend his holidays with us when they were first at school, that Gareth would always be welcome in my home. Leland had never had a friend before—he was a shy boy, and I worried very much for him when we sent him off to school. I was happy he’d found a kindred spirit. It became a habit—Gareth staying here in London or in the country with us during the holidays. Kept on all through school and university, and even when they became young men out in the world. Gareth had planned to take a profession in the law, but Leland convinced him to work for me instead of training to be a solicitor or barrister. I even paid Mr. Travers a small salary, since he could expect nothing from his father. We never spoke of it.” Sir Gideon gave me a soft smile. “A gentleman does not openly work for pay, does he? But Gareth needed something to live on. It was our little secret.”
A salary would explain how Gareth could live well without apparent means, although I continued to suspect that Leland out and out paid for Gareth’s wardrobe. Such tailoring was costly, as I was well aware.
“What exactly did Gareth do for you?” I asked, curious.
“Oh, various things.” Sir Gideon scrunched up his brow as though striving to remember. “He would write reports for committees on situations that needed attention. He believed himself better at speaking to certain people, such as abbesses of the low houses, than I was. And he was right. He had a knack for soothing tempers and understanding the fallen as I never could. Perhaps it was his upbringing—clergymen see so many of the lowest, who are looking for forgiveness, or at least a hot meal, bless them.”
I had not known any of this. Gareth had never spoken of helping the downtrodden with Sir Gideon, and neither Sir Gideon nor Leland had mentioned it either. But some men were embarrassed by philanthropy, or perhaps Gareth had wanted to be seen as a man of leisure, keeping his charitable works anonymous.
“What had he been looking into of late?” I asked.
“I …” Sir Gideon again frowned and broke off. “I will have to examine my notes. I’m afraid I do not remember, and it scarce matters at the moment.”
“It might matter,” I said. “If Gareth had been threatening to tell you about a house of ill-repute or a gaming hell, perhaps that person did not want him to complete his report.”
Sir Gideon’s eyes widened. “No, no. Gareth and Leland were the victims of robbers, struck down by them. Mr. Grenville told me so.”
“So it would appear,” I said.
I wanted to tell him that I was unhappy with the simple explanation, which left too many questions unanswered, but I stilled my tongue. If I proved that Gareth had been killed while investigating something for Sir Gideon, Sir Gideon would never forgive himself. The man had enough to worry about with his son and his wife that I could not pour more troubles upon him at the moment. Time enough to prepare him if this speculation proved true.
“Do you think I could look in on Leland?” I asked.
Sir Gideon wiped his eyes, which had at last grown wet, and gave me a nod. “I warn you that he might not wake. Or know you if he does.”
I did not like the sound of that. “What does your physician say?”
“He tells us that we must wait and see. Change the dressing on Leland’s wound, give him laudanum to take away the pain—that is all we can do.”
I did not trust doctors one whit, and had no reason to trust this one, though Sir Gideon could afford the most prestigious in London. Doctors refused to get their hands dirty by touching a patient, and often gave their diagnoses from across the room. Grenville’s opinion about the tragic death of Princess Charlotte this past November was that her physicians had killed her, and I shared it.
I rose. “Do you mind if I ask a fellow to come in? A surgeon, not a doctor. The one who treated Leland last night, in fact.”
Sir Gideon looked bewildered, but he climbed to his feet with me. “Certainly, if you think it will help.”
“I do.” I thought of the emotionless man who’d competently dressed Leland’s head wound in Denis’s empty house. I hadn’t made friends with him, but he was likely the reason Leland was alive at all. “And do you mind if I look at any notes Gareth had given you? It might help me understand his last movements—perhaps to learn why he and Leland were near Seven Dials at all.”
Sir Gideon did not look as though he shared my optimism, but he said, “Of course.”
“You ought to take a sip of laudanum yourself,” I advised. “You will not help your wife and son if you faint from exhaustion.”
Sir Gideon nodded, but in a vague way. “I will hunt up the notes,” he said, turning to his desk. “If Leland wakes, please give him my love.”
His voice broke. I did the best thing I could for him—left him alone so he could weep in private.
*
Since Brewster had been made available for my use, I sent him for the surgeon who’d attended Leland. Brewster did not want to leave me, but he put on his hat and trudged out into the rain, though not before he let me know what he thought.
“I’m no errand boy,” he growled.
“Send a message to Denis, then,” I said, uncaring. “I want the surgeon here to make sure Leland is healing as he should.”
Brewster gave me a disparaging look but left the house.
I remembered how Brewster had, when he’d helped demolish my house in Norfolk, encouraged me to sell obviously stolen goods we’d found, and had thought me a fool when I refused. Not a man easily tamed. I wondered how Denis had done it.
Chapter Nineteen
I returned to Leland’s bedchamber, knocked softly, and walked inside when I heard a woman’s voice telling me to enter.
Leland’s bed was piled high with blankets. His head was turned on the pillow, the bandages all but obscuring his face, and he was asleep, his breathing labored.
Mrs. Danbury sat in a chair next to the bed. Her cheeks burned red when she saw it was me. “He is not well,” she said, almost churlishly. “As you can see.”
I bowed and close the door behind me. “I beg your pardon. I came only to give him my good wishes, even if he can’t hear me.”
“He needs to rest,” she said, her tones still abrupt.
I pulled an armless chair near the bed, and seated myself, uninvited. Mrs. Danbury watched me, her gray eyes, once full of good humor, now hard with anger and sorrow.
“Will you tell me why you are so unhappy with me?” I asked. “Please.”
Mrs. Danbury watched me for a time, as though debating whether to grant my request. She leaned toward me, the fabric of her gown rustling, and spoke in a near-whisper that held fury. “You hurt him, Captain. You pushed him away. He told me. I am the only one in this house he can speak to of such matters. He was crushed.”
I regarded her in surprise. “I do regret that he was hurt by my response,” I said, speaking quietly. “But what would you have had me do, madam? Seduce him? I knew his true feelings lay with Mr. Travers. And, I am married, with no interest in taking another to my bed, of either sex.”
“Of course I did not expect you to become his lover,” Mrs. Danbury snapped, sotto voce. “But you might have treated him more gently. He told me you looked upon him in vast disgust.”
“Shock, more like. I had no idea of his feelings.”
“No?”
“No.”
We faced each other, close, our voices softer than Leland’s breathing.
“All I know,” Catherine said after a time, “is that he was quite devastated, and of course embarrassed. Convinced you would cut him entirely.”
“He was wrong.” I glanced at the bed, where Leland looked too thin and pale against the dark covers. The blue of his veins threaded through his hand and cheek. “It was not aver
sion, but complete astonishment. I hardly consider myself the stuff of romance to other gentlemen.”
Her eyes glinted. “I have heard otherwise from one or two. I will not worry you with their names. Gentlemen tend to speak too frankly in my presence.”
I had no wish to know, in any case. “I would have prevented what happened to him and Gareth, had I been able. Please know this.” I studied at Leland again. “How is he?”
Catherine let out her breath, her anger leaving her. “Not well. He is grieving for Mr. Travers—I fear he will not mend because of it. Mr. Travers was his anchor.”
“The love of his life,” I said, understanding.
“Indeed.” Her voice had lost its harsh note. “It is unfair that they did not have more time together. We never know how long we will have with others, do we?”
Mrs. Danbury had been married twice already, and she was no older than Donata. “I am sorry for your losses,” I said.
“Mickey Danbury swept me off my feet.” Catherine smiled, a dimple appearing in her cheek. “More fool I. But my first husband, Mr. Grey …” She fingered a locket at her throat. “I could have wished more time with him.” The catch in her voice, the sadness in her eyes told me all.
I reached over and took her hand, and she did not pull away. “You are right,” I said. “We must treasure every moment. Thank you for reminding me.”
I’d lost my daughter long ago. I’d been most fortunate—I’d found her again, and I’d found Donata. I intended to savor every second I had with them.
Catherine pressed my hand, no longer looking at me in anger. Then she sighed. “Now to help Leland. Poor lad.”
We subsided, studying Leland. If we could have healed him with our hopes alone, I believe he would have sprung from the bed, fully recovered.
We were still there when the surgeon arrived, and with him, Donata.
*
I rode home with Donata, armed with Sir Gideon’s notes. She was subdued after her visit with Lady Derwent but put forth her opinion that Lady Derwent would recover from this spell.
“I believe she needed someone from outside that morose household to cheer her,” Donata said. She sat next to me during the short ride home, but there was space between us. Her bonnet, a tall creation with an entire bird’s worth of feathers, prevented me from leaning to her. “She did not want anyone to fuss over her when Leland was far worse off, she said. I told her that was nonsense.” She gave a decided nod, the feathers dancing. “And how delicious for me,” Donata continued, an acerbic note entering her voice, “to enter Leland’s sickroom and find you holding Mrs. Danbury’s hand.”
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