I was shown into the upstairs sitting room, which was homey, low-ceilinged, and warm, unlike the grand rooms in Grenville's house or the cold rooms in Denis'.
Louisa was there. She rose and came to greet me, her lemon-scented perfume soothing me as she kissed my cheek.
"Gabriel, how delightful to see you. I looked out of the window and spied you gazing at the door as though you'd bore a hole in it with your eyes. Why did you not knock?"
"I thought — " I had to stop. I had been clenching my jaw so tightly that I could barely speak.
She quickly gestured me to an armchair set an ottoman before it. I sat senselessly, letting my arms go limp.
"What is it, Gabriel? Let me send for some coffee, or would you prefer port?"
Coffee. Coffee at least was warm, and I was so cold inside.
I must have indicated such, because she rang for the footman and sent him off for some.
"You are very white," she said. "Please tell me what has happened."
I just looked at her. Emotions spun inside me so quickly that I could not put them into words.
Gabriella had been two years old when her mother had taken her away. She had been walking sturdily for some months, and she had learned to say my name. Her favorite game was to stand on my boot and hold fast to my leg while I strode about the camp. She would laugh and squeal while Carlotta fussed and worried. I had been a fond, proud papa, taking the teasing of my men with a smile and a shrug.
When I learned that Carlotta had left me, I had at some level not been very surprised. But when I discovered she had taken Gabriella with her, I had gone nearly mad with rage. Gabriella was my child. By law, she belonged to me, not her mother. I could have gone after Carlotta, wrested the little girl away and taken her back, and Carlotta could have done nothing to stop me.
I had tried to find them, but I believed in my heart that they were better off without me. I followed the drum, and life was harsh.
But I had not known, from that day to this, whether my daughter had lived or died.
The footman carried in the coffee, set it down, and quietly withdrew. Louisa made no move to serve it.
I managed to say, "Gabriella." My eyes burned and my throat ached.
Louisa's eyes widened. "Gabriella? What about Gabriella?"
I said nothing. Tears spilled silently to my cheeks.
Louisa sat on the ottoman in a rustle of silk. She took my hands. "Gabriel, please tell me."
I swallowed, wet my lips. "She is in France."
Then I broke down completely. I must have been a horrible sight, a large man, hunched into the chair, weeping. Louisa gathered me to her, stroked my hair, let me cry.
When my sobs wound down, she bade me tell her everything. I explained as coherently as I could what Denis had said.
"He knows where they are," I said, trying to clear my throat. "I could ask him. I could find them again." If I paid Denis' price for the information, he could send for them or send me to them. I could have it all back.
As though she knew my thoughts, Louisa took my hands again. "What will you do, Gabriel?" she asked.
"I do not know. How can I know what to do?"
She did not want me to sell myself to Denis. I saw that in her eyes, felt it in the pressure of her hands.
"What would you do, Louisa?" I countered. "Suppose it were your husband, what would you do?"
A grim light entered her eyes. "Mr. Denis has no right to do this to you. I will speak to him, tell him what I think of him."
I grew alarmed. "No, Louisa. He already knows how dear you are to me. I do not want him threatening you."
"I do not fear his threats."
"But you ought to. You-all of my friends-are right. I do not take him seriously enough. I have been a bloody fool concerning him."
She went silent. We watched each other; she troubled, me quiet, my face still wet. The coffee was growing cold, and neither of us moved to drink it.
Our vigil was broken by the noisy arrival of Colonel Brandon.
Louisa released my hands and rose as her husband entered the room. I got to my feet as well, mopping my face with my handkerchief.
Brandon had once been my greatest friend and my mentor. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a handsome face and chill blue eyes. He'd once had fire and drive, and I'd admired him more than any other man I'd ever met.
That admiration had soured along the way, and now we regarded one another with tight suspicion. As usual, Louisa tried to diffuse the tension.
"Gabriel has come to visit," she said.
Brandon gave me a cold once-over. "That is obvious. Did you lose your employment already, Gabriel?"
I held onto my temper. "I had business in London. It is nearly concluded."
He gave me a bellicose stare. "Good."
I briefly reflected that Brandon and Rutledge would get along famously. No, I thought the next moment. Brandon is a man of feeling who hides behind sharp words. Rutledge has no feeling at all.
"You will stay for supper of course, Gabriel." Louisa gave me one of her stern looks, willing me to obey.
The last thing I wanted was to sit through a supper with Colonel Brandon, listening to his barely veiled insults and questions that were intended to put my back up. He was annoyed to have found me in his private sitting room alone with his wife, and he did not bother to hide it.
"Forgive me, Louisa," I said, never taking my eyes from Brandon. "I would like to rest in order to start early tomorrow for Berkshire. If you need me, I will be staying the night at Grenville's house."
Brandon gave me a look that told me he did not think much of a man who took advantage of his friends. I resisted telling him to kiss the devil's hindquarters and politely took my leave of Louisa.
I walked home. No, not strictly home, Grenville's home. I did not have one.
For an Englishman to not have a home was a terrible thing. Everyone needed connection to a place, however loathsome it might be. I was adrift, rather like Sebastian's family who roamed up and down the canals with no clear goal in sight.
I reached Grenville's house to learn that Anton had prepared supper for me. I distressed him by merely pushing it about the plate and dragging myself to bed.
I woke in the night with a raging fever.
I do not know whether the fever was brought on by my distress over my daughter, my walking about in the pouring rain, or my exhaustion from the business at Sudbury and my journey to London. Probably all combined to make my throat raw, my skin burning, and my limbs weak.
Bartholomew the dutiful arrived with a tonic and cool water, then he pulled the covers over me and made to douse the light.
Fevered sleep claimed me quickly. I thought that I managed to tell Bartholomew to send a message to Grenville-"Tell him to ask Fletcher about canals," I said, or thought I said.
I drifted in and out of sleep, my dreams strange and horrible. Sometimes I lay staring at the canopy above me, my body wracked with fever, skin wet with sweat. From time to time I'd hear Grenville's servants enter the room, clean the grate and stoke the fire, hear whispered conversations at the door.
Bartholomew would loom over me every once in a while with a worried expression, but I could not break myself out of my stupor to reassure him.
When I finally awoke, the fever was broken and I lay weak and limp and watched the sunshine at the window.
Bartholomew came to look in on me. I asked him the time.
"Four o'clock in the afternoon, sir."
I rubbed my face, a stiff growth of stubble on my skin. "Too late to start for Sudbury, then. I do not mind a night's journey, but Grenville's coachman might object."
He gave me an odd look. "You all right, sir?"
"Just tired. And powerfully hungry. Did Anton not say he would make something for my supper?"
Bartholomew's brow wrinkled. "That was two days ago, sir."
"What?" I tried to sit up. My head spun, and I held it.
"Two days you've been in bed, sir. Sick as a blind cow, sir."
I fingered the linen nightshirt I did not remember putting on. "Hell," I said feelingly. "I need a bath. And a shave." My stomach growled. "Food first, I think."
"I'll bring you a tray, sir, and hot water. And, oh- " He dipped his fingers inside his waistcoat. "A letter, sir."
"From Grenville?" I reached for it.
"No, sir. I wrote him your note, about the canals and Mr. Fletcher, like you said, and I added that you were sick and wouldn't return until you felt better. He answered saying he'd look into the matter and to give you a tonic, but nothing since yesterday."
I had half-expected Grenville to come rushing back to London to find out what was wrong with me, or ask me what the devil I meant about canals and Fletcher, but perhaps he'd realized it was best to stay and wait for my return.
I rubbed my face again. "Then who sent the letter?"
"A lady, sir."
"Mrs. Brandon?" I asked.
He read from the direction on the folded page. "Viscountess Breckenridge." He tossed it into my lap, then went into the hall and shouted for someone to fetch me hot water and coffee.
I opened the letter. It was a formal invitation, addressed to me, informing me that Lady Breckenridge was hosting a musicale at eleven o'clock on the evening of March 16th, and would I attend?
"What day is it, Bartholomew?" I asked as he began to fill the shaving basin with steaming water from a kettle.
"Sunday the sixteenth of March, sir. The year of our lord, 1817."
I studied the invitation again. "Can you make me presentable? And get me to South Audley Street by eleven o'clock?"
"You sure you're feeling all right, sir?"
"Perfectly fine," I said. The fever had left me and now I was only restless and very hungry.
"I will endeavor, sir," Bartholomew said as he stropped my razor. "I'll shave you now, sir, while Anton fixes your dinner."
Donata Anne Catherine St. John, nee Pembroke, was known better to me by her title, the viscountess Breckenridge. She lived in South Audley Street, enjoyed the comforts of a vast fortune given to her by both her father and her late husband, and moved among the most fashionable people. Tonight it pleased her to host a musicale in order to introduce a young Italian tenor to the London ton.
I was still tired from my illness, but curiosity made me answer her invitation. I walked to the house, ignoring Bartholomew's bleats of protest about traveling there on foot. I was tired of the stuffy indoors and wanted to clear my head, the night was clear, and South Audley Street was not far from Grosvenor Street. Besides all that, my daily rides in the country had strengthened my muscles, and I wanted the joy of using them.
The door of Lady Breckenridge's house was opened by a liveried footman. Her butler, Barnstable, stood beyond him and gave me a smile of pleasure when he saw me. "Captain Lacey, welcome. How is your leg?"
"Much better," I said.
I'd hurt my weak leg badly earlier this spring, and Barnstable had given me his cure-scalding hot towels and a concoction of mint and other oils that had done my muscles well. Barnstable was proud of it.
"Excellent, sir," he beamed.
He led me upstairs through Lady Breckenridge's very exquisite, very modern, very white house.
The musicale was being held in a drawing room on the first floor. Double doors had been opened between front and back rooms, rendering them one large, high-ceilinged rectangle. A harp stood before rows of chairs, and a plump woman was plucking the harp's strings, sending tiny strains of music over the crowd.
Lady Aline Carrington, a spinster of fifty, and like Lady Breckenridge, a believer in women speaking their minds, presented the tenor to me. Lady Breckenridge stood next to them, dressed in a white silk high-waisted gown and holding an ostrich feather fan. Her only adornment was a necklace of diamonds, and her dark hair was pinned into innumerable coils.
The tenor's name was Enzio Vecchio, and he had only recently reached England from Milan. I bowed to him politely. He gave me a bored glance and mouthed a greeting.
"Mr. Vecchio will take London by storm, Captain," Lady Breckenridge said, her shrewd gaze on me. "You will shortly comprehend why."
Mr. Vecchio cast a fond glance upon Lady Breckenridge. "Only because you, dear lady, will make it so."
Lady Aline, behind him, looked at the ceiling. Lady Breckenridge took his fawning without changing expression. "Captain Lacey has shaken the country dirt from his boots to join us," she told him.
I made a brief show of studying my boots, then I replied, "For a short time only, my lady. I believe the boots will be thick with mud again in a day's time."
She deigned to smile at this feeble witticism. Lady Aline snorted. Vecchio only stared at me. Lady Breckenridge slipped her hand under Vecchio's arm and guided him off to other eagerly waiting guests.
As I watched the white-gowned Lady Breckenridge walk away on the arm of the black-garbed gentleman, I experienced a dart of annoyance. The annoyance bothered me. Why should it matter if Lady Breckenridge paraded about with a very young, black-haired Italian? It should not matter to me in the slightest.
But it did matter, and that bothered at me.
Lady Aline broke my thoughts. "Let us find chairs, Lacey, before we're forced to stand like rubes in the back of the room." She took my arm with strong fingers and more or less shoved me toward two empty chairs. Politely, I settled her, and asked if I could bring her lemonade.
"I am not thirsty," she said. "I've drunk tea with Lady Breckenridge and her callers all afternoon." She patted the chair beside her. "Sit down, dear boy. I always welcome a chance to speak to you. Your conversation is intelligent. You do not say what you are expected to say."
I smiled and took my seat. "A high compliment, one I am happy to accept from you."
"Never mind the Spanish coin," she said sternly, though she looked pleased. "Donata is no fool; Vecchio's voice is quite fine. Have you heard it?"
I shook my head. "I have been buried in the country since the Season began. I have heard nothing but the bleating of sheep and the shouting of schoolboys."
"How idyllic."
"Not really. Early, noisy mornings, cold draughts at breakfast."
"And murder." She tapped my arm with her fan. "I will not forgive you for not mentioning it in your letters. I had to hear the news from Louisa."
"It is rather sordid. Nothing a lady need hear."
"Do not be ridiculous. I enjoy sordid things. But are you not in danger? Louisa says you do not believe the Romany did it. You never do."
I suppose she meant that I never liked the easiest solution. "Things are not as straightforward as they seem."
In fact, they were a muddle in my brain. The fever had not helped.
"I want to hear the entire story from you, you know," Lady Aline said. "I wanted to tell you that Hungerford, and canals, reminded me of something. There is someone I believe you should speak to."
I turned to her, alert. But just then, the crowd quieted as Vecchio walked past the chairs to the front of the room.
"I will tell you later," Lady Aline hissed.
I curbed my impatience and turned to watch Vecchio take his position near the harp. Lady Breckenridge had seated herself in the first row of chairs. Ostrich feathers drifted back and forth as she slowly fanned herself.
The woman at the harp, whom I did not know, introduced Mr. Vecchio as a new prodigy with the voice of an angel.
The prodigy was little above twenty years old. His black-eyed stare as it roved the room told me he did not think much of his audience-middle-aged women in finery, overdressed gentlemen, bored debutantes-waiting to be entertained. Vecchio needed their approval if he would make a career, but he seemed to hold them in contempt.
The harpist played a few strains. The tenor opened his mouth, and then all contempt vanished.
So did the audience's boredom. From Vecchio's lips came sounds as sweet as any I had ever heard. His voice soared, filling the room with music, shaking the very beams of the ceiling, then it dipped to sounds soft and true as a lover's whisper.
As he sang, the music swept away the remaining mists of my fever. The sadness in my heart, the painful indecision about my wife and daughter, did not leave me, but the sounds touched my soul in a way nothing else had in a long while.
I sat as one entranced. I was sorry Grenville could not be here-he who loved all things beautiful would have been enraptured by Vecchio's voice.
I was not the only one moved. Next to me, Lady Aline blew her nose into a large handkerchief. The lady seated before me wiped her cheeks, and a tear trickled from the corner of her husband's eye.
The beauty of his voice was incredible. He wound to the height of the aria, holding one note high and clear that had us all trembling on the edges of our seats. Then he brought the note down, gave a rousing crescendo, and ended the piece with a flourish of his hand.
For a moment, the crowd sat in stunned silence. Then as one, we burst into applause that shook the room.
The young man closed his mouth, and the magic vanished. He became a petulant youth again, despising the crowd who cheered him.
He entranced us with two more pieces, each still more beautiful than the last, then he made his final bow, and the entertainment was over.
Thunderous applause surrounded him as he stood quietly after his last aria. The harpist, too, clapped her hands, eyes glowing, cheeks pink. The crowd then surged to surround him, each guest vying to get near him.
I did not join the throng. I helped Lady Aline to her feet and reminded her of our conversation before the music started. "You mentioned Hungerford," I said. "Said you were reminded of something."
"Your keenness of mind amazes me, Lacey," Lady Aline said with a smile. "You never forget anything. A friend of mine was complaining of canals to me earlier this week. He is here tonight; let me find him."
I followed Lady Aline while she craned her head to look over the sea of people surrounding Vecchio. She used her bulk and a few loud-voiced "I beg your pardons" to move us through the crowd toward the door.
A tall, thin man stood near the open doorway, conversing with a few ladies who had either already greeted Vecchio or did not want to fight the throng to do so. The man had a long face that matched his long body, and a self-deprecating smile. No one, that smile said, can be as great a fool as I can be.
Lady Aline greeted the gentleman fondly, then turned to me. "Captain Lacey, I would like to introduce an old and dear friend, Mr. Lewis. He is a writer."
Lewis held out a long-fingered hand to me. "Not the famous 'Monk' Lewis, alas," he said. "I am Jonathan Lewis, writer of books for youths. Have you read my Boy in the Yorkshire Dales by any chance?"
I shook my head. "I am afraid I have not."
He regarded me sadly. "The story is poignant, quite poignant, or so my publisher tells me. But young men, Captain, do not want poignancy. They want daring adventure and harrowing escapes, and a bit of skirt does not hurt, either. Oh, I do beg your pardon, dear Aline."
Aline looked amused, not offended. "Captain Lacey is staying in Sudbury, near Hungerford."
Lewis' expression changed from sadness to vast irritation. "Oh, my dear, do not speak to me of Hungerford. Hungerford, heart of my sorrow, fount of my madness. Speak to me not of Hungerford."
I hid a smile. "I found it an atmospheric little town."
"Oh, yes, atmosphere. Old England and all that. I've never been there, myself."
I was mystified.
"Explain yourself, for heaven's sake, Lewis," Lady Aline prompted.
Mr. Lewis shook his head, sighed theatrically. "An evil man did me an evil turn. ‘Give me your money, Mr. Lewis,’ he said. ‘I will make you rich.’ Such a declaration was too much for a writer of stories to resist. Alas, I should have remembered Swindler Tom in A Boy's Days on the Cornwall Coast. Tom came to a bad end, as well he should. But this time, it was I who came to the bad end."
My pulse quickened. "How is this related to Hungerford?"
"Canals, my dear Captain. ‘Invest in canals,’ he told me. ‘It is the future of England.’ ‘It is England's past,’ I said. Canals are everywhere. ‘But these canals will connect other canals, and we shall prosper.’ And so I gave him the money." He shook his head mournfully. "I lost all of it, Captain. Every last farthing."
"An offshoot canal that would stretch from Hungerford north," I said excitedly. "An offshoot that never happened, or never was intended to happen."
"Alas, no. I was a fool. Good God, do not tell me you invested, too? We are fools together, then."
"Who was this man?" I asked. "The one who asked for your money?"
"A friend." Lewis' long face grew longer still. "Or I'd thought him a friend. We had fellow feeling, I thought… struggling to live by the thing we loved most."
He looked across the room, as though thinking deeply on the follies of following one's heart.
"His name?" I prompted.
Lewis sighed. "A Latin scholar. A dear friend. By name of Fletcher."
"Simon Fletcher," I responded, staring.
"Yes," said Lewis. "That's the chap."
Thoughts whirled in my brain. ‘Ask Fletcher about canals,’ was the message I'd told Bartholomew to send to Grenville.
Bartholomew had obeyed. My breathing grew sharp. What had I done?
"Lady Aline," I said abruptly. "Mr. Lewis. Good night, I must away."
"What, now?" Lady Aline's brows climbed.
"At once. Please thank Lady Breckenridge for the invitation. It was most enjoyable."
I babbled a few more phrases and got myself out of the room. As I hurried away, I heard Lewis' lugubrious voice behind me. "Goodness. Who was that rude chap?"
It occurred to me as I hastened down the stairs and sent the footman scurrying for my coat that Grenville probably had not come to any harm as a result of my slowness-if he had, I would likely have heard of it by now. Grenville was famous enough so that all newspapers in England would report anything untoward happening to him.
Even so, I worried about him staying alone at Sudbury. I needed to get myself back there and seek out Simon Fletcher. At once.
I heard a step behind me, but it was not the footman with my coat. I turned to see Lady Breckenridge glide downstairs and across the cool black-and-white hall toward me.
I was in a hurry, but I was not displeased that she'd come after me.
"You are leaving?" she asked as she reached me. "I know it cannot be disapproval of the entertainment that drives you away. You have enough sensibility that Vecchio's music could not help but touch you."
I nodded. "He is astonishing, yes. You are right. He will take London by storm."
She smiled, but with a tightness about her eyes. "Why flee, then?"
"I have business in Sudbury. I must go there at once."
Her brows arched. "In the middle of the night?"
"That cannot be helped. I will reach Sudbury by dawn."
Lady Breckenridge placed a gloved hand on my arm. "Several of my guests are commenting on your abrupt departure."
"Please give my apologies to any I annoyed." I glanced up the stairs. "You do not have to see me off. Your tenor must be waiting for you." If I put a touch more acid in my voice than usual, I hoped she did not notice.
She made a face. "He is wallowing in adulation. Vecchio is brilliant, but he was spoiled and petted in Milan. Londoners will take a certain amount of rudeness, but if he is rude to the Prince Regent, he will be out, no matter how lovely his voice. He must learn this."
I tried to make a joke. "It will be as well, then, if I never meet the Prince Regent."
She did not smile. "No, I do not believe he would like you."
The footman was taking a dashed long time looking for my coat. Lady Breckenridge made no move either to summon him or to return to her guests.
"I enjoy receiving your letters," I remarked, for lack of anything else to say.
Her brows lifted. "Really? I thought you'd find them a bit pointed for your taste. Yours, as I observed, are quite dull. You even made the murder sound dull."
"I know," I said. "I have not the wit for writing. Not like Mr. Lewis."
She gave me an odd look then burst into laughter. I'd never heard her laugh before, not truly. It had a warm sound. "You do have wit," she said. "You simply show it to very few people."
"There are very few who care to hear it."
"Perhaps," she said, her fingers tightening on my arm, "you will include me in those few."
Our gazes met. From upstairs came the noise of many people talking and laughing, but the downstairs hall was nearly silent.
"I wonder," I asked eventually, "what has become of my coat?"
Lady Breckenridge gave me a half-smile. "Barnstable is tactfully letting me say my farewells in private. Perhaps when you return to London, Captain, we may meet for another evening of music?"
I lifted her hand and twined my fingers through hers. I expected her to pull away, but she allowed the liberty. "I enjoy music. Mr. Vecchio has a fine voice."
The contact between our hands was fine, too, even if we both wore gloves.
"He can be made into something," she said, "if he stops behaving like a boor." She withdrew her hand, flicked an invisible speck of dust from my lapel. "Go back to Berkshire and write more letters. But make them interesting this time."
"I will," I said. I traced her cheekbone with my fingertips.
Barnstable chose that moment to come bustling from the rear of the house, saying, "Your coat, sir," as though he'd searched for it long and hard.
I let my hand drop and bowed to Lady Breckenridge. By the time Barnstable had helped me into my coat and seen me to the door, Lady Breckenridge was halfway up the stairs. She did not turn back and tell me good-bye.
I made my way as quickly as I could back to Grenville's, my walking stick a rapid staccato on the stones.
Bartholomew was still awake when I reached the house. I told that him I wanted to set out for Sudbury at once, and, unsurprised, he rushed away to fetch the coachman and pack my few things.
We rattled out of town through dark, empty streets. The wealthy were still enjoying their revelries, and the respectable middle class and poor were asleep in their beds. Only beggars, game girls, thieves and other night wanderers moved through the darkness. They gave our rapidly moving coach and Grenville's snarling coachman a wide berth.
We arrived at the Sudbury School just before dawn. I thanked the coachman and told him to take a much-deserved rest. He growled that the horses needed to be tended to first and went off to do it.
Bartholomew and I entered the quad through the gate. The clouded sky was black, forcing us to pick our way across the rain-slicked cobbles with great care.
As I stepped beneath the arches near the door of the Head Master's house, I tripped over a large object that lay across the stones and fell, my stick clattering to the pavement. I climbed to my knees, the breath struck out of me.
"Are you all right, sir?" Bartholomew whispered hoarsely. "What is it?"
My groping hands found a man stretched across the stones, lying there unmoving. The man's coat was soaked with liquid, and my fingers closed around the unmistakable form of a knife's hilt protruding from his chest.