Chapter Four
Bartholomew was still gone when I reached home again. He'd left a meal for me on my writing table, but I could not summon any interest in it. Leaving it untouched, I sat down on the wing chair before the cold fireplace and let thoughts whirl.
Not seeing Gabriella all this time had kept the sorrow of losing her at bay a bit, but now that she had reappeared, all my pain and fury resurfaced. Carlotta had effectively expunged me from the girl's life. She'd had no right to do that. By law, a child was related to her father, not her mother, and I alone had the privilege of deciding who had guardianship of her.
I did not know what the laws were in France-perhaps a man could steal another man's daughter and live happily. But those were not the laws of England, and I damn well would get Gabriella back.
I wanted her to know who she was-a Lacey, from a family of long, blue-blooded lineage. My father had been no saint, and he and my grandfather had beggared the estate with their imprudent living, but the family line had existed for centuries, and I was proud of it. That Carlotta would take away the girl's entire heritage disgusted me. As ever, Carlotta was trying to rearrange the world on her own terms.
Auberge knew the seriousness of it; I'd sensed that in him. He was ashamed of absconding with my daughter, but I do not think he felt any such shame about running off with my wife. He'd stated flatly that I'd made her miserable.
I could not refute him. Carlotta had been a delicate creature, not meant to bear the heat of India nor the hardship of life in the army. She'd been reared to embroider in a quiet manor house and to sip lemonade in a garden with her equally delicate friends.
But Carlotta had married me quickly enough. I hadn't quite believed my luck that day in 1796 when she'd smiled at me and accepted my proposal. I told her I'd met a fellow called Brandon who'd promised he'd help me obtain a career in the army. I would volunteer as an officer and go with Brandon to India without commission or regiment. Many officers started in this way, young gentlemen who had the right birth but lacked funds to purchase a commission.
Aloysius Brandon had been very inspiring in those days, young and energetic and with a charisma that made people long to follow him. It was he who'd obtained a special license for me, laughing at my impetuous decision to marry the beautiful Carlotta, although he'd never warmed to her.
Carlotta's father had been furious when I announced that I'd married his daughter. I remembered Carlotta trembling and clinging to me, and her father's words: "Take her, then. I never want to see her again." We'd boarded ship for India almost immediately after that.
I believe Carlotta had begun to doubt her wisdom very quickly. I compounded matters by holding Louisa Brandon, whom Brandon had married the day before we'd started for India, as an example for Carlotta to follow. Where Carlotta was shy, Louisa was frank and friendly; where Carlotta was sickly, Louisa was robust. Louisa had a spirit of adventure that helped her through the long, hot ship journey and the unpleasant conditions in India, whereas Carlotta soon wilted. Carlotta had been almost constantly ill during our years in India and pushed me away whenever I tried to be amorous. I had not been very patient with her.
Gabriella was born in 1800, after several disappointed hopes that Carlotta was increasing. The disappointment had been on my part, because I don't believe that Carlotta ever wanted a baby. I had thought Gabriella's birth would relieve all problems between Carlotta and me, but if anything, having to care for a child only added to Carlotta's distress.
When Gabriella had been a year old, we finally escaped the heat of India for a brief but pleasant stay in Sussex, then we moved to Paris, during the Peace of Amiens. After we had lived there nearly a year, Carlotta fled me. I'd returned to our lodgings one afternoon to find Carlotta out and Louisa waiting for me with a letter in her hand and a distressed look on her face.
I'd searched for them, of course, but Carlotta and her Frenchman had planned well and had disappeared into the French countryside. Soon afterward, Napoleon had stirred up trouble again, and we'd fled France and returned to England. I was posted to the Netherlands for that disaster, then France moved into Spain, and the Peninsular War commenced.
Searching for my wife and daughter had become impractical, and after the war it became expensive. I'd had no idea of their whereabouts until James Denis had produced a piece of paper several months ago with their direction written on it.
I remained despondent in the chair for a time, not knowing quite what to do. I'd see Carlotta tomorrow at James Denis's house. A part of me wanted to wait for that encounter to see what would transpire. Another part of me wanted to rush back to King Street and drag Gabriella home with me now.
The thought of hurting Gabriella stilled me. In all of this, no matter how much anger I felt toward Carlotta and Auberge, I did not want Gabriella to suffer for it. None of the madness that her elders had perpetrated was her fault.
Still despondent, but growing hungry, I rose and went to the meal Bartholomew had left me. A covered plate held beefsteak and potatoes, tepid now. I sat down and ate them, not liking to let food go to waste. The beef was leathery, the potatoes floury, but the Gull was the closest tavern, so we put up with its meals. When I wanted good ale and camaraderie, I took myself to the Rearing Pony, a longer walk, but worth the effort.
Bartholomew dashed in with his usual energy just as I'd taken the last forkful of potatoes.
"Afternoon, sir." He tossed a cloth-wrapped parcel to the writing table. "Mrs. Brandon sent some cakes and says she'll look into the matter you asked her about directly. And Mr. Grenville would be pleased for you to attend the theatre with him tonight in Drury Lane."
I laid down my fork and wiped my mouth with a linen napkin. "I am hardly in the mood for an outing, Bartholomew."
"He said to come anyway," Bartholomew said cheerfully. "I told him you'd gone off to Bow Street, and he said that if you start investigating anything without him, he'll never forgive you."
I clattered the plates back to the tray. "He needn't worry. I planned to bring him in at the earliest possible moment." Grenville not only had resources, but possessed a clear-eyed intelligence that often cut to the heart of a problem while I grew mired in anger at it.
I explained to Bartholomew about the missing game girls and asked him to keep an eye out while he went about his errands for me. He promised to be diligent, and then rushed away to fetch bathwater for me, eager to begin preparing me for my outing with Grenville.
Later, as I walked through the June twilight to Drury Lane, dressed in my best frock coat and filled with the sweetness of Louisa's cakes, I glanced at the shadows to see whether I could spy out any game girls I knew. They liked to tease me, knowing I would neither pay them for a few moments' dubious pleasure, nor turn them over to the Watch or the reformers. If I had spare coin, I gave it to them in hopes that they'd go home and escape a possible beating from their flats-the customers who sought them-or the men they lived with who took what they earned. I saw a few flits of movement here and there, but no one called out to me.
I entered Drury Lane Theatre and gave my card to a footman at the door, who knew to take me to Grenville's box. I had long ago learned not to try to pay for my own ticket when Grenville invited me to a theatre; it insulted him, and he always squared things with the manager beforehand.
I gave my best hat to a footman who waited inside the box, thankful I'd worn my second best one to King Street if I were going to leave hats about absentmindedly. I had directed Bartholomew to the boardinghouse to obtain it from one of the servants there. He'd seemed slightly surprised I wanted him to fetch it back; when Grenville mislaid something, he simply bought another.