A Disappearance in Drury Lane (7 page)

Bartholomew came for my morning ablutions as usual. He prepared a bath for me, then shaved me, being careful of my cuts and bruises, and helped me into my regimentals. Grenville had offered to purchase a new tailored suit for me for the occasion, but I’d declined. Not from pride at his charity, but because these regimentals—cavalry, Thirty-Fifth Light Dragoons—were who I was. Lady Breckenridge understood.

Bartholomew brushed the dark blue coat and its silver braid, which he kept in good repair, and settled the epaulets on my shoulders. I regarded myself in the mirror, a tall, upright man with unruly brown hair, a bad knee bent a little with my injury, and dark brown eyes that had seen much. My face, which never was able to lose its shadow of whiskers, was now decorated with dull red cuts and purpling bruises.

But while I could long for the handsomeness of my former commander, Colonel Brandon, or the charm of Grenville, I had learned that I could only ever be myself. Donata knew what she was marrying—no illusions. Her own experiences had stripped any romantic notions from her. She knew me for what I was, and I knew her.

I gave a final nod to Bartholomew, who at last stepped back from settling, brushing, and smoothing my coat and let me go.

I descended, my shako beneath my arm, through the splendor of the decorated house to the gold drawing room, where the ceremony would take place. The influence and money of Earl Pembroke had obtained a special license, so we could be married at Donata’s home rather than in a church, and a bishop had come to perform the ceremony. It was nine in the morning, fresh winter sunlight filling a cloudless sky.

The gold drawing room had been so named because of the amount of golden satinwood and gilt furniture that filled it. The room itself was vast, the length of it exactly double its width. The high coffered ceiling was of polished wood, its grain reflecting sunlight that poured through the multitude of arched windows. The predominance of gold in the fabric, the wood, and the gilt was contrasted by reds in cushions, colorful landscape paintings, and scarlet and white hothouse flowers.

For the wedding ceremony, the sofas, chairs, and tables had been pushed to the sides of the room, and guests filled in where the furniture had been. Lady Breckenridge’s mother, Countess Pembroke, had been correct about the warmth of the chamber when she’d suggested it the day I’d proposed to Donata. The room was heated by three fireplaces, two on either end and one in the middle of the inside wall.

The guest list contained only family members and a few close friends, but the room was plenty crowded. Though Donata was an only child, she came from a large family; Earl Pembroke had two younger brothers and a sister who’d each married and born issue. Several of the grown children of these had already born issue themselves. Pembroke’s uncle and
his
substantial family had also come, as had Lady Pembroke’s brother—another earl—and his family. Donata’s close friends and the friends of her parents filled out the room.

I was represented by Grenville, my daughter, and my daughter’s French step-uncle and aunt. The uncle, Quentin Auberge, was the brother of the man who’d eloped with my wife and stolen my daughter. The tone of Major Auberge’s letter, when he’d written to me that his brother would accompany Gabriella across the Channel, had implied that he didn’t think it appropriate for himself or Carlotta, my former wife, to attend my wedding. I’d quite agreed.

Though Quentin Auberge and his wife spoke little English and were country gentry rather than aristocrats, they’d had no trouble getting along with Earl and Lady Pembroke, who both spoke fluent French and shared interests with the Auberges. At least I’d not had to worry about entertaining them.

Gabriella wore the gown she must have been fitted for yesterday, a thin white muslin over a cream-colored slip, the muslin embroidered in bright colors at the cuffs, neckline, and hem. Her hair was done up in a fashionable knot, exposing her white neck. Gabriella would be eighteen soon, a young lady ready for the world.

My heart squeezed with something akin to pain. To me, she’d always be the little mite who’d clung to my boot while I walked about camp, or rode on my shoulders as we visited my comrades in arms. My fellow soldiers had laughed at me and called me Lieutenant Nanny, and I hadn’t cared one whit.

Gabriella smiled at me, serene, protected by her aunt and uncle, nothing troubling her young heart at the moment. I longed to change the world so nothing ever would.

I’d entered the room on its far side to stand near one of the large fireplaces with Grenville and the bishop. Grenville gave me a look of approval, hard won from him. But Bartholomew had done a fine job on me, cleaning and brushing the uniform, polishing my boots until I could see my face in them. I’d bathed so long my skin felt soft and wrinkled, but Bartholomew hadn’t let me out of the bath until I’d gleamed like my boots.

Grenville was as natty as ever, but I noted that he’d not tried to out-dress every gentleman in the room this morning. He kept himself subdued in his monochrome suit, letting me have my day.

No, not
my
day. The crowd quieted as the double doors on the other end of the chamber opened to reveal Donata poised on the threshold, her hand on her father’s arm.

The beating of my heart drowned out all other sound. I knew the women of my acquaintance—Louisa Brandon, Lady Aline Carrington, and my landlady Mrs. Beltan—would demand from me the details of Donata’s wedding finery. I also knew I’d never be able to tell them.

I saw only Donata’s fine-boned face and the way the light played upon her dark hair, how blue her eyes were as her gaze fixed on me. She seemed to be in shimmering silver, though later I realized that her gown was a glistening net over a more solid dress. But I couldn’t have told if the gown fastened in front or back or what sort of sleeves it had, wouldn’t remember the intricate pattern of blue ribbon across her bodice. I only knew, when Donata stopped beside me and gave me a sharp look, that the ribbon matched the color of her eyes.

We’d be a misalliance, as plenty of impolite people had pointed out—she an earl’s daughter, me the son of a country gentleman, pretty much a nobody as far as London was concerned. But Donata was a widow, her first marriage having given her a son who was now a wealthy viscount. Her second choice in husband would not be as socially crucial. She had money, she had standing, family, and respectability. And now she had me.

My first marriage had been hastily performed by a country vicar via special license, I having stolen my bride from her family with the help of Colonel Brandon. He had procured the license for me so we wouldn’t have to flee to Gretna Green as did so many other illicit couples. I scarcely remembered the ceremony except my triumph as I signed the register, Carlotta, my bride, nearly collapsing in nerves.

This ceremony was much different. Slow, stately, and performed with all the pomp that could be managed, the wedding to Donata would not be forgotten. Her father put her hand in mine, and her warmth came to me through her touch.

And thereto I plight thee my troth.

My truth, my fidelity. I to her, and she to me. As I slid the gold band onto her finger, I repeated the words for the second time in my life.
With this ring, I thee wed; with my body, I thee worship; and with all my worldly goods, I thee endow
.

I didn’t have many worldly goods, but I would gladly give her everything I was. My heart was in the kiss I pressed lightly to her lips. This lady with the sharp tongue, shrewd stare, and decided opinions had saved me from emptiness.

And so, I was married.

*** *** ***

The wedding breakfast commenced in the sumptuous dining room, the table full of Donata’s family. My daughter sat next to me, her manners as polished as anyone’s—she’d do no shame to her family. Donata had told me her plans for bringing Gabriella out this Season, to dress her in muslin and feathers and parade her about ballrooms in order to find her a good match. When Gabriella had come to London the first time, her stepfather had told me about a young man in France who’d been sweet on Gabriella, but apparently nothing had come of it. This summer, when I’d mentioned him, Gabriella had looked surprised and told me the young man had married. Therefore, according to the world, Gabriella was free for the plucking. My feelings about that were in flux.

For now I had laughter, flowers, feasting, toasts to the bride and jokes that bordered on the crude about the groom. Ladies and gentlemen alike laughed at me, but I could only feel triumph.

Donata took it all in her stride, sending barbs back to her friends that set them laughing. We were a merry lot, though I did catch dark looks from two gentlemen—Cecil Pembroke, Donata’s third cousin, son of her father’s uncle; and her first cousin Edwin Phillips, the son of her father’s sister. Donata had told me both had hoped to make her their own, thus growing closer to more Pembroke money and becoming stepfather to a viscount.

She had related this to me with some glee. She disliked both gentlemen and had vowed never to marry either. She’d arranged for them to stand close to the front at the ceremony so she could rub in the fact that she’d eluded them.

The wedding breakfast and extensive celebrations that followed continued without Cecil or Edwin shooting me, though they looked as though they’d be happy to. When the short winter day came to a close, we were cheered upstairs amid rather ribald remarks.

“Thank God that’s over,” Donata said as we closed the doors on our wedding suite.

We’d been given another guest chamber, this one entered via a short series of rooms like the one Gabriella and her aunt and uncle occupied. Our suite was in a corner of the house, far from the other guests, and very private. I was grateful to Lady Pembroke for her percipience.

I could not stay away from my wife. I slid my arms around her waist, finding warm woman under the smooth elegance of the dress. I pressed a kiss to her lips, this one holding more heat than had the kiss at the ceremony.

“Regrets, Mrs. Lacey?” I asked.

Her blue eyes flickered. “Too early to tell. Ask me in a year.”

“I will be happy to,” I said, and then we turned to other matters.

I rejoiced in my lady that night. Donata had warm skin which was smooth under my hands, a body that held no thinness of want, and an embrace that filled my heart.

She was never shy, my lady. She held me as I held her, rose to me as I came to her. We joined together, lovers in truth, both giving, both taking our pleasure.

I drowsed beside her later, aware of Donata scrutinizing me again.

At any other time I might ask her what she was thinking. But not tonight. Tomorrow we would renew our usual banter, and our arguments, and begin married life. Tonight I traced her cheek and pulled her close to bury myself again in the warmth of her.

*** *** ***

I’d half expected interruption in the night—Felicity arriving to demand to bed down in the suite’s front room, or Cecil or Edwin barging in to challenge me to a duel.

Nothing so dramatic occurred. Not until I was dressing in the late morning did Grenville, who had risen early to go riding, send word through Bartholomew that no one could find Felicity.

At the moment, I was not inclined to worry. For once I’d kept to Lady Breckenridge’s habit of lying abed late instead of rising at my usual time before dawn to ride and breakfast. I had better things to do this morning than ride about the countryside or keep track of stray street girls.

“She might have gone back to London,” Donata offered from where she lounged on the Sheraton sofa in our bedchamber. Bartholomew had come to dress me, and Donata had donned a yellow silk dressing gown to drink coffee and watch the proceedings. “This Felicity is not a feeble young woman, if I remember her aright.”

“She might have done,” I said. “But she was very frightened of Perry and begged to come here with me to keep away from him.”

“Perhaps someone here frightened her more,” Donata said.

Because my new wife was a perceptive woman, I gave her suggestion some consideration.

“Mr. Grenville said he looked for her while he rode,” Bartholomew said. “But he didn’t see no sign of her. She might be hiding in the house, but I ain’t seen her, and neither has Matthias.”

Concern began to rise through my languor. Lying against the pillows this morning with my bride in my arms had been a fine thing. I’d rested in a bubble of happiness, safe from the cares of the world.

But I knew that the world marched on outside our door, the bubble was temporary, and we’d go on living life with all its complications and dangers.

“I’d feel better if I could find her,” I said. “A horseback ride to the village to look about would do me good.”

“I’ll have a look through the house myself,” Donata said. “I know its hiding places, having hidden in most of them when I was a girl. Enraged my nanny and governesses to no end.” She took a sip of coffee, smiling in memory.

I could not leave without giving Donata a lingering kiss on her lips, which Bartholomew watched with tolerant amusement.

“You may keep your remarks to yourself,” I said to him as we descended the stairs.

“No remarks, sir. It’s good to see you happy.”

It was good to be happy. My bad knee and my ribs hurt me only a little as I went down, the euphoria of my night still clinging to me.

I met Grenville, who’d been in conversation with one of the many Pembrokes, and he agreed to join me. Outside was clear but very crisp. My breath hung heavily in the air, and steam rose from the horses the groom brought us from the stables.

“Do you truly think Felicity ran off somewhere into the countryside?” Grenville asked me as we rode away from the house. “She seemed happy with the empty bedchamber I found for her. It’s a lovely day, but brutally cold.”

I drew my greatcoat closer about me. “To be honest, I have no idea where she would go, or why. Felicity does as she pleases.” I pointed out a path. “Let’s try this way.”

I turned down an overgrown, little used lane that led across a field and then under trees. The trees blocked the morning breeze at least.