A Disappearance in Drury Lane (8 page)

Nowhere did we see a misplaced London game girl walking along, or being carried off, or any sign that anyone but us had come this way. We rode out of trees down to a canal, following the towpath. That canal led to the Thames, rolling quietly along between lightly snowy banks.

We went all the way to the village, through it, and around the other road back toward the house, seeing Felicity nowhere.

By the time we returned to the estate, I wasn’t certain whether to be worried or not. Felicity could have caught the mail coach and returned to London without bothering to tell me. She could by lying low for reasons of her own. With Felicity, one never knew.

Donata had not found Felicity hiding in the house either, including in the guest room I’d occupied the day before. My concern increased. I made myself feel better by sending a message off to Denis in London, asking him to keep an eye out for her. The messenger left from the posting inn by fast horse, bolstered by the large tip I gave him and the promise of a larger one from Denis. He did not look happy, but he went.

I itched to begin my search for Abigail Collins, but I could not until my sojourn here was over. I already had obligations, including the grand New Years’ ball Lady Pembroke had planned for tonight. Half the county would attend, and I was expected to be there for the full of it.

Fortunately, while the night’s entertainment was lavish, and the guests did stare at me, they were at least polite. We rang in the New Year, I kissed my bride again in front of her family and friends, then we retired for the night.

I was enjoying married life so far. Once we were abed, I took from the bedside table a small box that contained Donata’s New Year’s gift. A pair of earrings, tiny and gold, agonizingly chosen with the help of Louisa Brandon.

I knew Donata possessed jewels of far greater cost and ostentation, and earlier this winter I’d presented her with a tiny miniature portrait of a young girl, painted several hundred years ago by Hans Holbein. But Donata’s eyes softened when she saw the earrings, something truly from me. She handed me my gift, a watch, heavy and gold, inscribed:
To G. with much esteem, D., 1818.

My way of thanking her lasted well into morning. We drowsed as the sun rose, bringing in a new year, a new day, a new life.

A tap on the outer door of the suite was followed by it opening and someone coming quietly into the sitting room. The inner doors to the bedchamber were closed, so I could not see who’d entered. The step was too light for Grenville, too secretive for a servant—in this house, they strode boldly about their business.

I rolled from the bed, donned a dressing gown laid out for me, thrust my feet into slippers, and went out.

It was my daughter. I closed the bedchamber doors behind me and ran hand through my mussed hair. Gabriella was in her dressing gown as well, her hair hanging down her back in a long braid.

“Good morning, Father,” she said softly. “Happy New Year.”

I went to her and took her hands. “Happy New Year to you, my dear. I have something for you.”

I started to turn to fetch the bracelet I’d bought her, but Gabriella tightened her grip, stopping me.

“I came to tell you something. You were looking for the maid who came with you? I found her.”

“Felicity? She’s all right?”

“I should say so.” Gabriella gave me a grim smile. “Come with me. I’ll show you.”

Chapter Six

Gabriella led me by the hand through the series of anterooms outside our suite and around a corner to a more modern part of the house. She put her finger to her lips and took me about halfway down a long corridor lined with ornately paneled doors.

We stopped in front of one of the doors, but Gabriella did not move to knock upon it. She gave me a little shake of her head to indicate we should wait.

For a few moments, nothing happened. Then I distinctly heard Felicity’s low, throaty laughter. Oh, good God.

I pointed at the door. “Whose?” I mouthed.

Gabriella led me back down the corridor to its end. A niche between that hall and the older part of the house held a wide window with a window seat overlooking the grounds.

“I believe his name is Lord Bradford,” Gabriella told me. “An older gentleman, and married. His wife’s room is a little way down the hall.”

“Good Lord.” I debated storming in and pulling out Felicity, but while I would not mind enraging Lord Bradford, it would embarrass Lady Bradford, not to mention my host and hostess. I studied Gabriella, whose eyes sparkled with amusement. “You do not look very shocked, Gabriella. Please do not tell me you approve.”

“Of course I do not. I rather like Lady Bradford. But it is not uncommon, is it? For men to take lovers? At least among the wealthy classes. So says . . . my papa.” Her tongue tripped a little as she made the distinction.

“No, it is not uncommon. But I’d not have spoken of such things to a child.”

“In France it is spoken of more openly, even if we don’t approve,” Gabriella said, a little primly. “And I am not a child.”

The stubborn words, spoken with a little push of her lips, reminded me strongly of the little girl she’d been. I sank to the window seat, pretending my leg hurt me, but in truth I could not breathe. January morning cold came through the window, but I had to sit still for a moment before the ache inside me eased.

I cleared my throat. “I suppose someone will inform Felicity when our coach is leaving for London.”

“I will make certain. I must say, I am looking forward to London and staying with Lady Breckenridge . . . Mrs. Lacey, I mean. I want to see the city. Properly, this time.”

Another qualm, this one of remembered terror when Gabriella, come to London last year with her mother, had gone missing. I took her hand and held it between mine.

“I am so sorry for what happened to you, Gabriella. The bastard is dead; you know that. He cannot hurt you anymore.”

“I know.” Remembered fear flickered through her eyes. “But I want to mend. I want to see the streets and the sights, find a London that is not frightening.”

I tried a smile. “I’m not certain that’s possible.”

“This time, you will be with me. I know that if I’d listened to you before and trusted you, I’d have been safe.”

“Do not blame yourself. It was my bloody fault.”

“Do you think that?” Gabriella gave me a thoughtful look. “I have had a long time to contemplate this, sir . . . Father. I was confused and frightened, and young. I hope I am more sensible these days.”

How long a time half a year was to the young! But I admired Gabriella for her determination and courage. She could have remained in France cowering in her stepfather’s home instead of deciding to face life and conquer her fears.

“This time, you’ll stay in a fine house in Mayfair and be perfectly safe,” I said. “You’ll have plenty of people to look after you—Donata, Mrs. Brandon, Lady Aline, the Derwents. I promise you this.”

Gabriella wrinkled her nose. “Smothered, you mean. My parents have looked after me with embarrassing watchfulness. But do not worry, I am not so foolish as to run off on my own because too many people are concerned about me.” She shivered. “Never again, in fact.”

The man who’d abducted Gabriella had stolen her sense of safety and the ease with which she moved about on her own. I hated him all over again. I rarely was glad when a human being died, but the man who’d hurt my Gabriella deserved what he’d gotten.

I squeezed her hand. The niche was cold, and by tacit agreement, we returned to the warmer confines of my suite to tell Donata what Gabriella had discovered. As I closed the doors against the chill, I wished I could likewise close the doors on all fear and pain my daughter could experience. I knew, though, that life would never be that simple.

*** *** ***

Felicity did appear when we were boarding coaches to return to London. She only looked at me when I growled at her, and languidly climbed to the landau’s box.

“Such a fuss,” she said. “I am not truly your servant, Captain, if you’ll remember.”

I could have lectured her about her promise to behave herself, but I gave up. Felicity had survived alone for years, using her charms to provide herself safety, money, food. She’d done what had come naturally to seek comfort, and probably gifts, while she hid.

I kept my frown in place as Felicity ascended, then I climbed with some difficulty into the coach, my ribs still aching, and settled next to my wife.

My wife. I could scarce believe it. Would I become old, very married, and dull, nodding to Donata down the table while I shoved my feet deeper into my slippers and absorbed myself in newspapers? I hoped so.

The fifty or so miles back to London was blissfully uneventful, and Donata’s private landau kept up a good pace. Donata slept much of the way, the coach swaying slowly. Gabriella alternately rode with us and with her uncle and aunt in the coach lent by the Pembrokes behind us. Donata’s son Peter alternated along with her, his nanny in the coach with the Auberges.

Donata expressed surprise that I was happy to have a six-year-old boy in the coach with me, but I wanted Peter to learn I would not shunt him aside now that I’d married his mother. He was a sturdy lad, already with the bullish look of his father. He was a bit awestruck with me—my great height and voice, I supposed. Plus, I had been told, to my distaste, that I at times resembled the late Lord Breckenridge.

Peter sat quietly on the seat when he rode with us, as though determined to prove he could behave. He seemed taken with Gabriella and talked with her readily. My new family was a bit pulled together, I reflected, but that ride to London was the best journey I’d taken in many years.

Grenville, despite the chill, had elected to ride horseback, changing horses at inns along the way. He did not explain his choice, but I knew he did it in deference to his motion sickness. The gentle ride that had me dozing with my head on Donata’s shoulder would have had him quaking and ill in a trice.

Seeing the smoke and chimneys of London as we rode down the last hill told me my blissful journey was over. The idyll of being with Donata and the comfort of the Pembrokes’ house was coming to an end.

Why returning to the metropolis should dishearten me, I did not know. I’d be living in Donata’s comfortable South Audley Street townhouse now, with her butler Barnstable bringing me coffee and remedies whenever I wanted them. But the sight of so many buildings packed together after the peace of the countryside in Oxfordshire made my high spirits dissolve. Perhaps it was my nature to sink when entering the gloom of black smoke and too many houses, to rise when riding alone in the openness of wilder lands.

Donata’s coach pulled up, very late in the night, at the house in South Audley Street. Barnstable, having left Oxfordshire the previous day to arrive before us, led us inside to put us to bed.

The first impediment in my married life occurred then. Barnstable led me to a bedroom separate from Donata’s.

“All gentlemen require their own chambers, sir,” Barnstable said with some surprise when I objected. “As do ladies. I do not believe his lordship and her ladyship ever occupied the same bedchamber in all of their marriage.”

“I will point out that I am not Lord Breckenridge,” I said, weariness making me sharp. “Nor will I ever be. The current Lord Breckenridge is bunking down in a cot in the nursery. I am a simple army captain, who shares a bedchamber with his wife.”

Barnstable had been taught not to argue with his employers, so he said nothing, only stood in the middle of the chamber looking put out.

Donata wandered in as though she noticed nothing amiss. “Very well-done, Barnstable. Thank you. Is the chamber not to your taste, Gabriel?” she asked once Barnstable had discreetly retreated. “I know you are partial to my guest room, but it is far too small for you, and this one has a dressing room through there.” She pointed at a slender door in the middle of the wall.

When I’d been an overnight guest in her house ere this, I’d always stayed in a tiny but comfortable bedchamber, or in Donata’s bed. The chamber currently in question was next to hers—Donata had the room in the front of the second floor, while this was in the back. Between the rooms was the narrow space of the dressing room.

The chamber was luxurious enough, the bed a solid piece of furniture with a brocade canopy, plenty warm for winter nights. A large table and chairs were arranged before a wide fireplace already flickering with warmth, as well as a wingback chair and cushioned footstool, ready for a man with a tired, war-injured knee.

It was sumptuous, but it bothered me. “This was Lord Breckenridge’s chamber,” I said.

Donata ran her hand along the back of the wing chair. “The finest in the house. Did you expect Breckenridge to take a fourth-floor room or the attic next to the nursery?”

“I’d expected we’d share a chamber. I did not marry you to keep my distance.”

Donata shrugged and put on the indifferent air she did so well. “You have the run of the house now, Gabriel. Sleep where you like. This room is yours for any time you wish to be masculine and alone, far from feminine clutter.”

I gave her a stiff bow. “My apologies. I do not mean to appear churlish, when you are going to such pains for me.”

Another shrug. “It is your way to be churlish when you are uncomfortable and annoyed. I know you’d be much happier sleeping in a hole in the cellar, but Barnstable would feel the sting of it. I put you in here for another reason.” She dropped the indifferent air and gave me one of her pointed looks. “This was indeed my husband’s chamber. I want to forget he ever occupied it. What better way than to cover it with much better memories of you?”

I stared at her. She returned the look without timidity.

My response to her sentiment would have highly embarrassed Barnstable if he’d chosen that moment to return. But he never interrupted, and Donata and I began then and there to layer fresh memories over this room.

*** *** ***

Felicity, who had spent the night in a maid’s room in the attics, decided in the morning to be off. She’d meant to slip out without telling me, but Bartholomew alerted me, and I met her in the street when she emerged from the scullery. She said without rancor that she thanked me for my help, but she had a pal she could stay with, where she’d be safe. I reminded her how frightened she’d been of Mr. Perry, but she insisted she’d be perfectly fine with this friend—man or woman, she wouldn’t say.