That had been generous of her. Donata was quite interested in her fellow human beings. I'd caught her one evening in Grenville's private sitting room in his London house, uninvited, looking through his curios. She'd shown no mortification that I'd found her there.
"I once pried through your husband's papers," I reminded her.
"True, but I did not care about that. This is your mother. Quite a difference."
"Thank you," I said.
She pointed to the canvas under my arm. "I suppose you are not going to show me what is in that?"
"No," I said abruptly.
"It smells horrible. I'm not certain I want to see. But tell me, at least."
Grenville broke in before I could think how to put it gently, "A hand that might be Mr. Cooper's. Lacey found it out in the marshes."
Lady Breckenridge's eyes widened. "Good heavens."
"You see why I do not want you here?" I asked.
"Yes, I do understand the dangers, Lacey. I am not a simpleton. I do not like to see you here, either, but I have no say in the matter, do I? I believe I shall change my mind and stay on with Lady Southwick. There is a modicum of safety in her house, if one is not blinded by her bad taste."
"And as long as you stay away from the end of Godwin's pistol," Grenville said, snorting.
"Do you know, I do not believe he fired that shot." Lady Breckenridge looked thoughtful. "He seemed absolutely baffled, and there was too much smoke. I think he fired, and someone else fired at the same time, to make it look as though Godwin had accidentally shot at Lady Southwick."
Grenville blinked. "Why on earth would they?"
"Who knows? Perhaps one of the ladies grew tired of her so blatantly chasing the gentlemen of the party. You know that she spent much of the night in the bedchamber of Mr. Reaves."
"With the vicar?" Grenville brought out his quizzing glass and stared through it. "Good God."
"I do not think your vicar prays that much, Lacey," Lady Breckenridge said. "He's a Cambridge man, smooth as butter. Coerced a living out of Lord Southwick, but hopes to work his way back to Cambridge and to a bishopric. A seat in the House of Lords is what he's after."
"A Cambridge man," I repeated. "I wonder if he knew Miss Quinn and her solicitor, or banker, or whatever he is."
"I will ask him," Lady Breckenridge said.
"No, you will not. You will go to Oxfordshire."
She shot me a mulish look. "I am not your wife yet, Gabriel."
"Damn it all, Donata. Do you think I want to ride out to the marshes and find bits of you lying about in the grass? Anything to do with James Denis is dangerous, and I want you well out of it."
"What about you?" she returned heatedly. "He is practically holding you hostage. Suppose Mr. Denis decides he likes your services and threatens to make you a permanent part of his household?"
"He will not."
"He might whether you like it or not. I have heard the story of how he had you thrashed, then drugged and trussed up aboard a boat. If you do not return this man he's lost alive, what do you think he'll do to relieve his anger?"
"All the more reason for you to go!" My shout rang through the empty hall. I noticed, distractedly, that Grenville had faded out of sight.
"All the more reason for you to," Donata said, undeterred. "Give him what you've turned up and leave him. We will go together."
"I cannot leave until Cooper is found."
"Why the devil not?"
"Because he threatened you!" Again, my voice thundered through the stairwell, an eerie echo of my father's. "He threatened you, Donata. And Peter. He hinted that he'd hurt you, and your son, if I did not help him."
Lady Breckenridge stopped, her lips parting. "Peter."
"Yes." I reined in my anger and took her gloved hands, so small and fragile against my large ones. "Donata, I never meant to draw you into my sordid affairs. If you no longer want…"
I could not finish the thought. I was supposed to say, If you no longer wish to have anything to do with me, I will understand. I will release you. You have no need to stay.
But I realized I could not open my fingers and let her go. I'd come to care for this lady a little at a time, my affection like a slow-growing flower that at last bursts into exuberant bloom. I had not realized until this moment how much I loved her.
If I let Donata out of my life, she would return to the social whirl of her soirees in South Audley Street, her musicales for the creme de la creme. She'd never again have her life or that of her son threatened, or be tied to a man in the habit of finding severed hands in the marshes. I would return to my small rooms in Grimpen Lane, lonely and alone once more.
I never wanted that life again.
Donata returned the pressure of my hands. "I will go to Oxfordshire and see to Peter," she said. "When this business is done, come to me there."
I lifted her fingers to my lips. "I will finish it swiftly, that I promise."
She gave me a look that was pure Lady Breckenridge. "See that you do," she said.
Grenville offered to have his groom take the horse back to Lady Southwick, and I relinquished the reins gladly. I had no desire to return to Southwick Hall.
Before the groom assisted Donata into the carriage, I bent and kissed her lips, damn who watched. I savored the brush of her warmth, which would have to last me who knew how long. She touched my lips with her slim fingers, then ascended into the landau. Rain rolled from the landau's canvas top as Jackson started the horses, and the conveyance jerked forward.
I watched the coach recede and vanish into the gray rain, still feeling Donata's fingertips on my lips. I'd thought myself hardened by my disappointments in love, but my heart held a little ache as she went. I was becoming used to her warmth next to me at night.
To keep myself from growing maudlin, I made another search of my house. I lit lanterns that Denis's men had left behind, and I went through the place from top to bottom.
I preferred to do this alone, without Denis's lackeys watching over my shoulder. Again, I went over my home, from the nursery that was now deserted and coated with dust, to the kitchens beneath the house where the candlesticks had been found.
Denis's men had done a through job of removing rotting panels and timber, floorboards that I'd have had to replace anyway, and of ripping open the remaining furniture, which had been cheap and rickety to begin with. Anything of value in the house had been taken by the creditors upon my father's death.
Gutting the house had torn out and discarded the last of my memories. Good riddance to them.
I went to my mother's sitting room last. Donata had been right to search it again, and I put my hand over the notebook in my pocket. I was anxious to look at what my mother had taken such pains to hide from my father, but I needed better light. The ink had faded, and the pages were stained.
I took my time going over the room, looking in drawers and behind the remaining furniture, shining my lantern up the chimney. The chimney was stopped, but with nothing more than years of soot. I'd be hiring a sweep soon.
Planning renovations of the house made me feel better. Donata was right to tell me to strip it to its bones and begin again.
I also knew I was procrastinating returning to Denis. I made myself go back downstairs, where I extinguished the lanterns, led my tied horse to a fallen stone I used as a mounting block, and climbed aboard.
The rain continued to fall in earnest. I pulled my hat down over my eyes and turned the horse down paths that led to Easton's estate. The roads were far too muddy for a good canter, so I took the horse along at a slow trot.
After a time, Easton's square house loomed out of the rain, warm and brick. One of the lackeys came forward to take the horse and help me dismount, and I went inside.
I knew I'd never be given a moment to dry off, fortify myself, or hide my mother's journal, so I thrust my hat and greatcoat at the man who reached for it, retaining the bundle he tried to take from me, and went straight up to the study.
Denis looked up from writing letters. The man was always writing letters, though I never learned what was in them. This one appeared to be long, but he only ever sent me notes of two or three sentences.
When Denis saw my face, he put aside his missive and signaled the two men with him to go. When they hesitated, he actually raised his voice. "Out!"
They went. After they closed the door, I hobbled to the desk and dumped my bundle onto it.
"Is it Cooper's?" I asked.
Denis pulled back the canvas. He stared down at the hand, his expression never changing. His body, however, went very still.
"Yes," he said. "Cooper is dead, then?"
"That, I do not know." I brushed my fingers through my wet hair and explained where I'd found the hand, and how I'd searched for the rest of a body to no avail.
Denis sat back, steepling his fingers. He had not covered the hand again but fixed his gaze on it, as though not letting himself look away.
"I want whoever has done this," he said.
"I'd like to find him myself. I know you do not want magistrates, but he deserves to be caught and arrested."
"No, he deserves this to be done to him at the very least."
An eye for an eye. Justice served by James Denis.
After a moment, he asked me, "What do you have to go on?"
"Very little, unfortunately. I went back to the beginning again-my house, the last place he'd been seen. Cooper is not there, nor did I find trace of him in what remains of the outbuildings. I saw no sign of him on the marshes or the sands beyond-no footprints, nothing. No one I have spoken to has reported seeing an injured man, nor have I heard of any gossip of one being so treated."
Denis's fingers tightened the slightest bit. "Leave no stone unturned, Lacey."
"As to that, I would like to speak to your men," I said. "Individually, I mean. I want to know what they know about Cooper, if he mentioned anything about leaving or pursuing a matter somewhere in the countryside-to investigate something he thought might interest you, perhaps. They might have seen or heard something that seemed inconsequential at the time, but might be significant. Also, they might have some clue about Ferguson's death."
Denis was studying me coldly. "You may be certain, Captain, that I have asked them."
"Yes, but they work for you, and I imagine you stood them all in a row and demanded them to tell you what they knew. I want to interview them one at a time, alone, without you listening. That is a different thing."
He fell silent. Though nothing of his thoughts showed on his face, I knew he was weighing every consequence of letting me ask questions, in private, of the men who worked for him. That he was considering it at all told me how much Cooper meant to him.
After a long time, Denis gave me a single nod. "I will have them speak to you in the dining room, after supper. You will use the rest of this day to search. I am not so foolish as to believe you can accomplish this task alone, so I am sending out teams."
I decided not to mention I'd recruited my own team. I had no doubt he already knew. "They need to be careful," I said. "The countryside can be dangerous if you don't know it."
"I agree. That is why you will be directing them."
My mother's notebook would have to wait. I hoped he intended to give me a bedchamber to myself, where I could be alone to read it, rather than expecting me to bunk down with his lackeys. With Denis, one could never be certain.
I looked at the hand. "What will you do with that?"
Denis tossed a corner of the canvas back over it. "Burn it," he said. "It is of no use to Cooper now."
The afternoon's search proved less fruitful than the morning's. I managed to find Terrance riding toward Blakeney, and I told him I would be conducting the search with Denis's men. If he wanted to continue to help, fine; otherwise, he could go home.
Terrance told me he'd continue. He seemed more animated this afternoon, less morose. I suppose he was happy that he had something useful to do.
I took my handful of men toward Salthouse, with its rise of ground, open heath, and view of the sea. The ocean was gray with rain, the wind strong here. When it grew dark, we returned to Easton's, with nothing to report.
I had been given my own bedchamber, I was happy to see. Bartholomew was there. He'd already unpacked my few belongings, had a fire stoked and the bed warmed and turned down. He asked as he drew off my coat, whether I wanted a bath.
I longed for a hot soak, but I had more to do until I retired. I removed the notebook from my coat's inner pocket and handed it to Bartholomew. "Put that in a safe place. I'll need it later tonight but I want no one coming across it."
"Right you are, sir." Bartholomew's usual cheerfulness was subdued, however. "Will you be all right here, sir?"
"I will," I said, stripping off my damp shirt and reaching for a dry one. "What about you?"
"Below stairs, those what used to be pugilists are mostly leaving me alone. Mr. Denis's chef from London, now, he's ruder than the ruffians, I must say. I have my own billet in the attic-I don't have to share-but I'm to prepare a room for Mr. Grenville, who will arrive tomorrow."
"Mr. Denis arranges everything," I said.
"He does, sir." Bartholomew brushed the creases out of my shirt, tied my cravat, and helped me into a dry coat, then I went back downstairs for supper.
I ate alone in the dining room, with one of the lackeys to serve me. When I asked where his fellows were, he told me they were eating in the servants' hall. Denis did not join me.
The fare was good, the dining room quiet. I contrasted it to the garish dining chamber at Lady Southwick's with its blood-soaked hunting scene and the not-so-thinly veiled insults of her guests. Whatever Brigadier Easton's faults had been, I found his house restful.
After supper, the lackey cleared away the plates, brought me a pile of clean paper, a pen, pen sharpener, ink, and a blotter, and left again. My interviews began.