you?'
She shrugged. 'I too, have little use for women, but I've been thrown among them far more than has your Lady Breckenridge. Lady Clifford and Mrs. Dale sound like lovers who had a falling out over something. Or someone. This Waters, is she pretty? And I imagine that Mrs. Dale has no choice but to comply when Lord Clifford makes advances to her. He could turn her out of his house, after all, if she resists.'
And Mrs. Dale had professed to have nowhere else to go.
I let out a breath. 'Good God.'
'Think of it that way, and I'm certain it will help. Good night.'
So saying, Marianne turned over, dragged the quilts over her, and fell fast asleep. Or at least, she pretended to.
Marianne had given me much to think about. Most people would believe, as I had, that Mrs. Dale and Lady Clifford were enraged at each other because of Lord Clifford's amorousness. Two women fighting to possess the same man.
But thinking on what Lady Breckenridge had told me, both women thoroughly disliked the bullying Lord Clifford. A romance between the ladies, on the other hand, especially if they'd quarreled over Lady Clifford's affection for her maid Waters, might explain Lady Clifford's spiteful accusation that Mrs. Dale had taken the necklace. It would explain her about-face on the matter as well.
Perhaps it hadn't been brought home to Lady Clifford what could happen to Mrs. Dale-Newgate, ignominy, hanging-until the maid, Waters, had returned to describe her harrowing ordeal.
It also threw into new light Lady Breckenridge's observation of the two women crying and hugging over the missing knitting basket. They'd been comforting each other after Lord Clifford's harangue-lovers who cared more about each other than for the brutal man who bullied them both.
Mrs. Dale had begged Lord Clifford to help bring Waters home. Because she felt sorry for her 'dear Marguerite' and wanted to spare her more pain? Or to try to restore peace between herself and Lady Clifford? Both, possibly.
'Hell, Marianne,' I said.
Marianne only snored.
True to her word, Marianne was gone before I woke. The window showed sunshine, the rain finished for now, the bed beside me empty. I heard Bartholomew in my front room, and a moment later, he strode into my bedchamber with his usual energy, coffee balanced on a tray.
'Did you not see your nightshirt?' he asked when he saw me in my underclothes. The garment lay across the bed again as though it had never been worn.
'I didn't bother to make a light,' I said, extemporizing. 'I was exhausted.'
I felt a bit better this morning, although by the light outside the window, the day was already moving on to afternoon. Talking things over with Marianne, followed by a good night's sleep, had restored my vigor.
Bartholomew left the coffee and lifted the nightshirt. As I sat up and reached for the coffee, Bartholomew frowned at the nightshirt, then he delicately sniffed its collar. He raised his brows at me.
I took a nonchalant sip of coffee, telling myself he would not recognize Marianne's perfume. Bartholomew had started working for me before Grenville had taken up with Marianne, and the lad did not accompany Grenville on his visits to her in Clarges Street. Grenville had a different staff for that house, in any case.
'Not a word,' I said.
Bartholomew drew himself up. 'A gentleman's gentleman is discreet, sir.'
'I know you are, Bartholomew. A bath, I think.'
'Sir.' Bartholomew went away, carrying the nightshirt over his arm.
As I bathed and let Bartholomew shave me, I again considered Marianne's revelation about Lady Clifford and Mrs. Dale.
I'd met two hermaphrodites, as people had called them, in the village where I'd grown up. They'd been elderly ladies, styling themselves as a lady and her companion. Everyone knew, but of course did not mention in public, that they were lovers, or at least had been.
I didn't remember much about them except that one was kind to me, and I couldn't remember to this day which had been the lady and which had been the companion. They'd passed away within months of each other when I'd been about nine years old. No one had bothered them, but then, they'd been two spinster ladies who'd lived quietly, well past the age of anyone's interest.
Lady Clifford, on the other hand, was a married lady prominent in society. And Mrs. Dale was a poor widow, dependent on others for her bed and board. Dangerous for any gossip about her to circulate. They would have to be secretive.
Last night I had thought about letting the investigation go, leaving the Clifford family to sort out their own troubles. But then, there was de la Fontaine. His tale had tugged at me. I knew that I sympathized with him because I felt he was like me-a long way from his old life, unsure of his place in the world, dependent on others when he did not want to be.
The necklace belonged to de la Fontaine. He should have it back.
To find it, I needed to speak to Lady Clifford again. After breakfasting, I penned a letter to Lady Breckenridge asking her to fix an appointment for me with Lady Clifford. I could imagine Lady Breckenridge's exasperation when she received the note, and I would be in her debt again, but I also knew that she'd arrange the meeting.
I decided to leave it at that and make my way to Hyde Park and the stables for a little exercise. At one time, I'd given riding lessons to a lad I'd met while investigating the Hanover Square problem. The lad's father stabled his beasts in Hyde Park and generously allowed me to ride one of his geldings whenever I liked, even now that the boy had returned to school. His father had told me he recognized a man who could handle horses right enough.
It was nearly two when I rode out, I having slept longer than usual. The fashionable hour wouldn't begin until five, but plenty of riders and drivers already moved about the park, enjoying the respite from the rain.
I walked and trotted the well-trained gelding, letting him canter a bit down an empty stretch of the Row. I turned down a lesser path to keep riding and spied Grenville astride his bay ahead of me, his tall hat shining in the sunshine.
I nudged my horse into a faster trot to catch up, but as I neared Grenville, another man on horseback swung out of an intersecting path. I recognized Lord Clifford, who began bellowing as he rode at Grenville.
'What do you mean by it, Grenville? Hounding a man's womenfolk until they're ill with it? My wife's life hung by a hair's breadth, all because of you and your interfering captain.'
As I spurred my horse forward, Lord Clifford leaned down and tried to drag Grenville from the saddle.
Chapter Nine
My horse leapt forward in a burst of speed. Grenville's mount was already dancing sideways, Lord Clifford's doing the same. My long cavalry experience let me steer my gelding between them and wedge the two horses apart.
'What the devil?' Grenville said, out of temper. 'Have a care, Clifford.'
Lord Clifford was red-faced, spittle flecking his mouth. 'What will you do, Grenville, have me thrown out of the Jockey Club? Doesn't matter. I refuse to be a member when fellows like you hold sway. You nearly killed my wife.'
Clifford tried to ride around me and at Grenville again, but I remained firmly between Grenville's horse and Clifford's. I rode better than either of them, and Clifford would not get through me.
'Explain yourself,' I said to him. 'What happened?'
'My wife swallowed a large dose of laudanum last night, that is what happened. Only the care of her ladies brought her back to life. She cited some nonsense about guilt and misery, and how she never ought to have spoken to either of you. You gentlemen have turned my house into Bedlam, and I will not have it.'
'Is Lady Clifford well?' I asked quickly.
'She will recover. Likely she only took it for the attention, but this was your doing, Grenville. Stay the hell out
