out of it.'
'Had I kept my hands out of it, a twelve-year-old girl would be raped again tonight.'
He gave me a dark look. 'You are evading the question.'
'I no longer need to report to you, sir. We are civilians now. What I do is not your business.'
'It is my business when your name and mine, not to mention the name of my wife, are spoken together. I do not blame gentlemen for cutting you. If not for Louisa, I would do the same.'
I rose, my temper fragmenting. 'Do not stand on ceremony. I would be most relieved not to have to sit through these tedious nights while we pretend to be friends.'
Brandon sprang up as well. 'Don't you dare turn on me, Lacey. I took you in when you were nothing. You would have had no career and no standing but for me.'
He was right, and I knew it. It angered me that Brandon still had the ability to hurt me. 'You are correct, sir. Had I not followed you, I would be buried in Norfolk, poor as dirt with a wife and children to support. Now I am poor as dirt in London, and all alone. I suppose I do have you to thank.'
'Go to hell.'
'Gladly, if there I do not have to watch you pretend to forgive me.'
His eyes flashed. 'I've done with forgiving you, Gabriel. I have tried and tried and you've spit in my face every time. By rights I should have shot you for what you did.'
'Instead, you sent me to die as David did Uriah.'
It was a mean shot, but my accusation was true. Brandon had sent me off with false orders straight into a pocket of French soldiers. I had survived afterward only by crawling away across country, alone. Half-alive, I had at last been found by a Spanish woman named Olietta, who'd eked out a living on her tiny farm after her husband had been killed in the war. I murdered the French deserter who had more or less held her hostage, and she nursed me through the worst of my nightmare pain. At last, at my insistence, she'd dragged me back to the Thirty-Fifth on a makeshift litter, with the help of her six- and eight-year-old sons.
Later I'd regretted the decision to return at all. I might have stayed with Olietta, hidden away in the woods, while Wellesley and the English Army pushed on to France and left Spain and me behind. Brandon and Louisa and everyone else had thought me dead. Why should I not have simply remained so?
But I had been too damned anxious to return, too anxious to let everyone know I was alive. And when I'd got back, I'd learned that Brandon would have been quite happy to think me dead.
'Was I not justified?' Brandon snarled.
This was the first time he'd ever admitted, out loud, his guilt in the matter.
We were fighting about Louisa, of course. When Brandon had declared he would divorce Louisa, she had come to me. On a wild and rainy night she'd fled to my tent, seeking comfort. Brandon had forgiven Louisa, but never me. No matter that he claimed he'd repeatedly offered forgiveness, he never truly had. He hated me now, and all the pretense in the world would not change that.
'No,' I said. 'You were not justified. I wake up every morning knowing that.'
Brandon rarely let his rage show naked in his eyes, but he did so now. I thought he was going to come for me, but suddenly Louisa was there, between us, having stormed into the room while Brandon and I were busy shouting at each other.
I looked down at her, swallowing my anger and what I'd meant to say to Brandon. Olietta had been dark, with deep brown eyes and brown skin. Louisa's hair was as bright as the Spanish sun.
'Stop this,' Louisa snapped. 'Gabriel, go home.'
I controlled my response voice with effort. 'Your husband is displeased with me yet again. It is a wonder he let me into the house at all.'
Louisa's eyes flashed. 'Blast you, Gabriel, why can you not simply bow your head? Is your neck so stiff with pride?'
Her anger stung me. It was like a whiplash, to feel that anger. Her husband could hurt me, but Louisa could hurt me ten times as much.
'I cannot,' I said to her, 'because his idiocy hurts you.'
Brandon raged. 'How dare you speak so in my own house! Do you try to turn my wife from me before my eyes?'
I was so tired of these rows with Brandon, tired of Louisa looking at me with hurt in her eyes. The three of us could not occupy the same room without the old accusations, old anger, old sorrow bubbling to the surface.
I made a frosty bow. 'I beg your pardon, Louisa. I will go. Thank you for the meal.'
Louisa merely looked at me, angry, unhappy, unable to answer. I walked out of the room, my heart sore.
At the door, I looked back. Brandon and Louisa watched me, like two statues frozen in anger. We had been bound to each for many years, but the love and friendship we had once shared had dwindled to this. We were forever hurting one another, forever regretting. We would continue to do so, I realized, until we learned to let go. And I knew that day would be long in coming.
I left the Brandon house for the icy night, swearing under my breath. Brandon could wind me into anger faster than any man alive, and it always took me a good while to cool down.
I knew bloody well that Brandon would never be able to provoke such anger if I hadn't once loved him. He'd been good to me when I'd needed his help, and he'd used his influence to benefit me many times.
I had not realized at the time that in return he'd wanted unconditional love and unquestioning obedience. And I had ever been one to question my betters.
A boy darted into the street, sweeping horse dung from the cobbles, clearing a path for me. I tossed him a penny for his trouble as I made my way across the slick street.
I was not far from Grosvenor Square, and I walked there, making for the home of Sir Gideon Derwent. It would the height of rudeness to arrive without invitation, but I was restless and annoyed and very much wanted to ask Mrs. Danbury a few questions. I could not tamely return home and brood; I wanted to push on with the investigation, to do something.
I regretted my impulse, however, because when I arrived at the Derwent house, I learned that Lady Derwent had taken ill.
Chapter Nine
I was surprised that the footman let me into the house, but he took my hat and greatcoat and led me upstairs to the grand sitting room on the first floor. In only a few minutes, Sir Gideon himself entered the room, followed by his son, Leland.
Leland, in his early twenties, had fair hair and guileless gray eyes. His father was a portly version of the son, slightly faded. Both father and son looked out at the world in all innocence, seeing only what they wished to see. They believed me to be a man who'd had all the exciting adventures that they had not and never would. They were endlessly interested in tales of my life in India and France and Spain.
Father and son advanced upon me eagerly, but I saw worry on both faces. Typically, Sir Gideon brushed aside his own fears and was anxious to learn why I'd come.
'To inquire about Jean,' I answered.
'Poor child.' Sir Gideon shook his head. 'You were right to take her out of that place.'
I could imagine no greater contrast to The Glass House than this one. The ceiling of the drawing room loomed twenty feet above us and was decorated with intricately carved moldings. Landscapes and portraits of Derwents covered the yellow silk walls, and matching silk adorned the chairs and settees. It was elegant, tasteful, and serene, everything The Glass House was not.
'Her story is a common one, I'm afraid,' Sir Gideon went on. 'She came to London to find work in a factory and was met at a coaching inn by a procuress.' He shook his head. 'We cannot find all these poor children, alas, but I will discuss The Glass House with my colleagues. That at least will be finished.'
'Attempts have been made to shut it down before,' I said.
