injured leg throb, and after the beauty of the soprano's voice and Lady Breckenridge's smiles, all else seemed drab, dull, and not worth bothering about.
I would lie in bed all the next day, have Bartholomew fetch me coffee, read the newspapers, and tell my blasted curiosity to go away. I was cold and sore, and I deserved a rest. Earl Clifford and his odd household could worry someone else.
I became so enamored of this idea that I thought of little else as the hackney bumped me back to Covent Garden. Therefore, my dismay was great when I walked into my bedchamber and found a woman lying fast asleep between my sheets.
Chapter Eight
I woke the woman without hesitation. 'Marianne, what the devil are you doing?'
Marianne Simmons, actress from a Drury Lane company, once my upstairs neighbor, and now, in theory at least, Grenville's mistress, sat up and blinked china-blue eyes at me.
'Blast you, Lacey. Your voice is loud, and my head aches something awful. You weren't using your bed, so I saw no harm in borrowing it.'
'I remember locking my door before I went out,' I said.
'I stole your key months ago and had my own cut.'
She could easily have done. I'd grown used to having Bartholomew here to let me in, plus I'd spent most of the last month out of London. Marianne could have stolen the key from my drawer at any time, me none the wiser.
'I am too tired to argue with you,' I said. 'Make use of the bed if you must, and I'll adjourn to Bartholomew's attic. Tomorrow you can tell me why you aren't sleeping in the house Grenville keeps so nicely for you.'
' That is none of your affair. And good heavens, the attics must be freezing. This is a large bed, and there's a good fire. Plenty of room for both of us.'
I was exhausted and aching, that was true. 'I imagine myself explaining to Grenville why I was in a bed with you. He'll call me out for it, and then I'll have to let him shoot me, because I have no desire to kill him. My death will be on your head.'
'Do not be ridiculous, Lacey. First, he is far more interested in supping with his art friends tonight than in calling on me. Second, you look all in. I'm certain a climb to the top of the house to a freezing room will kill you. When I was in a traveling company, we slept seven or eight to a bed such as this, too tired to do anything but snore.' She scooted to the far right of the bed and patted the mattress beside her. 'I promise not to touch you.'
I believed her. Marianne, as far as I could tell, had very little interest in men apart from how much money they could give her. The exception was Grenville. She'd professed genuine confusion and not a little dismay that he'd not yet asked of her what most gentlemen asked of her.
I knew Marianne had no amorous designs on me-she regarded me as a person from whom she could borrow candles, coal, food, drink, snuff, and now, my bed. I use the word 'borrow,' but in truth Marianne never repaid what she took, whether in cash or in kind. I'd not stopped her, knowing that without what she took from me, she'd have gone hungry and cold many a night.
She was right that it was a long way to the top of the house, and Bartholomew relied only on the heat from the chimney. Fine for a robust youth, bad for a man twice his age whose stiff limb was hurting him very much tonight.
I smothered a sigh, went out to the front room, and stripped down to my shirt and drawers, and returned. I did not don the nightshirt that Bartholomew had left on the bed to warm, because Marianne had helped herself to that too.
The bedchamber was dark enough for modesty, and I slipped under the covers without having to blush. I admitted that the bed was nice and warm from Marianne's body, and true to her word, she kept herself on the far edge.
I lay back, tiredness and hurt overriding my common sense. 'Be gone before Bartholomew returns in the morning,' I said. 'I might not be able to awaken you in time.'
'Not to worry, Lacey. I am adept at covertly leaving a gentleman's bed.'
'And never say such a thing to Grenville.'
'Thank you, but I know how to manage him.'
'Is being here part of your efforts to manage him?' I asked, closing my eyes.
'No, this is my effort at seeking a bit of quiet. You are the only person on this earth who does not plague me to tears.'
'I am pleased to hear it.'
I searched for the oblivion of slumber, but though I had nearly nodded off in the hackney, my mind, treacherously, was now wide awake. My body wanted to sink into the dubious comfort of my mattress, but my thoughts could not rest, and I fidgeted.
The bed shifted, and I guessed without looking that Marianne had propped herself on one elbow. 'Perhaps you should talk about it,' she said. 'Let loose what is in your head so that you can sleep.'
So she might say to one of her paramours. I knew gentlemen who professed that what they most enjoyed about their mistresses was that the ladies actually listened to their troubles.
At this moment, talking was exactly what I needed. I found myself telling her everything, from the moment I'd met Lady Clifford in Grenville's private sitting room to my evening at Lady Breckenridge's musicale. I did not know how much of this Marianne already knew, but she listened with interest to my tale.
When I finished, I did indeed feel better. Quieter in mind, ready to let it all go for now and seek sleep.
'Lady Clifford and Mrs. Dale,' Marianne said thoughtfully. 'At each other's throats one minute, oozing affection for each other the next, then back to baleful glares? Do I have the right of it?'
'So Lady Breckenridge tells me. And now Lady Clifford has entirely changed her mind about accusing her rival and wanting me to investigate the matter. Damn the woman.'
'Her rival,' Marianne repeated. She went silent as she settled down and arranged the covers over her. 'I've been an actress for a while, you know. I've worked in several companies, both meager and great. When you are thrown side by side with men and women for long stretches at a time, where modesty and politeness go hang, you learn much about people.'
'Seven or eight in a bed helps with that, presumably.'
'Exactly. Men and women stuffed together. No privacy at all-for anything. Privacy is for the wealthy. What you describe of Lady Clifford and Mrs. Dale I've observed before, several times. Lowly actresses or highborn ladies, there really is not much difference, despite what people say.'
'A love triangle is a triangle, no matter where it is placed, you mean?' I agreed with her. In the army, I had been thrown into close contact with men and women of all walks of life. Though rigorous care might be taken to separate the ranks, we all bathed, ate, loved, and died together.
'I mean that you are viewing the love triangle, if there is one, the wrong way around,' Marianne said. 'Not Lord and Lady Clifford broken apart by Mrs. Dale. I mean Lady Clifford and Mrs. Dale, broken apart by the maid, Waters.'
My eyes opened. 'Lady Clifford and Mrs. Dale?'
Marianne laughed. 'Gentlemen are so shocked when they learn that women do not prefer them. It grates on their pride, I believe. But it happens more often then you like to think, and can you blame them? Men like Lord Clifford can be quite awful.'
I lay still, thinking of the tangle in light of Marianne's speculations. 'Lady Breckenridge never put forth this idea.'
'Because Lady Breckenridge has no use for other women, and so she does not watch them particularly closely. As horrible as her own husband was, she would never turn to ladies for consolation. And so, she might not recognize the need in others.'
I turned my head to look at Marianne, unashamedly stretched out beside me, her head on my pillow. 'And
