Gautier, carried him immediately upstairs and to bed.
Grenville invited me to stay with him, but I told him that I'd return to my rooms in Covent Garden.
'Whatever for?' Grenville asked from his bed. His sumptuous chamber was well warmed with a fire and glowing with candlelight. He lay back on a mound of pillows in his deep bed, thick coverlets over him.
'I want to think,' I explained.
I had nearly come to a decision about asking Denis of my wife's and daughter's whereabouts, but I did not want to discuss any of this with Grenville. The matter was too tender to share, and Grenville would try to dissuade me from personal dealings with Denis.
'I am afraid I cannot think well in these surroundings,' I added lightly. 'Your house is so elegant that I would feel guilty for brooding in such a place.'
Grenville looked pensive. 'I had thought you'd like to remain here permanently. I suggested it once, remember? You can pay me a rent to satisfy your pride.'
'You are generous, and I will not dismiss the offer outright. But for now, I want to be alone. I need to be alone. When I stayed here last week, a servant popped in every five minutes to ask if I wanted anything.'
He smiled ruefully. 'My fault. I told them they were to treat you as royalty. I can tell them to cease.'
'No. Let me be cold and miserable for a while. I need to distance myself from this. To think,' I repeated.
He looked resigned. 'If that is your pleasure.'
'I do thank you for your generosity,' I said, a bit awkwardly.
He sighed. 'I do wish you would all cease being so kind and grateful. Matthias and Bartholomew tiptoe around me as though I were fragile porcelain. You worry me. Am I that close to death's door?'
'No, but you were. And we realized what we might lose.'
He flushed. 'Please stop. It's becoming embarrassing. Go if you must, Lacey. But do not think you must be alone always.' He fell silent a moment. 'I believe I will be up to visiting Marianne in a few days. If we have a nice, quiet cup of tea, that is. And if she is there at all.'
Grenville had told me on the journey that he'd decided to take my advice and allow Marianne to come and go as she pleased from the Clarges Street house with no questions asked. I knew she had not told him of her son in Berkshire, but I believe he had realized she had been in Berkshire for some time. He had spoken to Jeanne Lanier before her flight; perhaps Jeanne had told him.
'Talk to her,' I said. 'Have a conversation.'
He snorted. 'I do not believe I am strong enough for Marianne's conversation. I will simply… ease away, as you suggested. She has proved she will not be held, so I will cease trying to hold her.' He shielded his eyes by studying his hands on the coverlet. 'I will try, in any case.'
I left for my rooms above the bake shop in Grimpen Lane, rooms I had called home for two years. Mrs. Beltan, my landlady, greeted me effusively. Yes, she still had my rooms open. She'd let the rooms above mine to another gentleman, but he was away on business. She put the key in my hand, promised a bucket of coal right away, and gave me a loaf of bread.
Bartholomew stoked the fire and helped me put things to rights. Mrs. Beltan had kept the rooms aired, and so they smelled clean and not musty. The rooms had once been a grand salon and bedchamber when this entire house had been home to gentry one hundred years ago. Now the paint had faded and the grandeur was tarnished, but I was used to it.
If Bartholomew was disappointed that he'd had to exchange his comfortable rooms in Grenville's lavish mansion to the cold attics of Grimpen Lane, he made no complaint. He went about his duties cheerfully, whistling a tune as usual.
I wrote my friends that I had returned to Grimpen Lane, and the next day, letters began arriving. Lady Aline wrote of her delight at my return then made it clear that she meant for me to grace her gatherings the remainder of the season. Her letter ended with a veritable schedule of card parties, soirees, at homes, and garden parties certain to send fear into the heart of the sturdiest male. I sincerely hoped that Grenville would counteract it by taking me along to the more masculine pursuits of boxing and horseracing.
Lady Breckenridge also sent me an invitation, in the form of a personal letter, to listen to a new poet, a shy young man who needed introduction to society. She would have a gathering at her house to ease him and his wife into the right circles. She would be pleased if I would attend, and she assured me I would enjoy his poetry. 'It is exquisite,' she had written, 'rather like Lord Byron, so intelligent and rich, without the bitterness or the airiness of the frivolous Mr. Shelley.'
I had begun to realize that Lady Breckenridge, for all her enjoyment of flirting with scandal, had fine taste and the ability to locate it in obscure places. She almost had a nose for it, like a hound who could find the choicest grouse lost in the reeds.
I responded, telling her I would be most pleased to accept.
I also received a packet from Rutledge. To his credit, Rutledge had paid me in full for the three weeks I'd been in his employ. My heart lifted slightly. I could certainly use the funds.
His letter, brief and gruff as usual, said he'd found another secretary, thank you very much. 'The new fellow has said that he found everything in order. Despite your shortcomings, he tells me you were somewhat efficient. Rutledge.'
I tossed Rutledge's letter aside, not surprised at his tone.
More significantly, I also received, later that day, a hand-delivered message from James Denis.
My pulse quickened as I broke the seal and opened it, and still more when I read the words.
'I found Jeanne Lanier and had her brought back to London. She is more than willing to speak to you and your magistrate. Please attend us this evening at six o'clock.'
I folded the letter, grimly cheerful, and ordered a hackney to Curzon Street.
Chapter Nineteen
Jeanne Lanier looked fresh and neat when I greeted her in the front drawing room of Denis' house. Her dark hair was sleek, her dress clean, in no way betraying that she'd fled to Dover and been dragged all the way back by Denis' men. Her face, however, was lined with worry.
Like the rest of his house, Denis' drawing room was elegant, austere, and cold. Jeanne Lanier rose from a silk covered settee as I entered. She looked quite surprised, then relieved, to see me.
'Captain,' she breathed.
I bowed to her. 'Madam. Are you well?'
She nodded, though her eyes flickered nervously. 'Quite well. Mr. Denis has been courteous.'
'Indeed, Mr. Denis can be very courteous,' I agreed.
The corners of her mouth trembled. 'I do not quite understand why I have been brought here. Am I being arrested?'
'Not at all. I asked Mr. Denis to find you. I wagered that he could more quickly than the Runners, and I was right.'
She looked confused. 'You asked him?'
I gave her a nod. 'You see, I believe Frederick Sutcliff murdered the groom Middleton, as well as the tutor, Simon Fletcher, and attempted to murder Lucius Grenville. But I have no evidence of this to present to the magistrate. Sutcliff's father is a rich and powerful man. If I have no proof, how difficult would it be for him to convince the magistrates that I am either a madman or persecuting Sutcliff for my own ends? However, you can provide me with just the evidence I need to bring about his conviction.'
Her face had gone white during my speech. 'I see.'
I stepped closer to her. 'If you help me, I can help you. I have a friend, Sir Montague Harris, who is a magistrate. He is here. If you tell him the truth, he has promised to believe that Sutcliff coerced you and concede that you are not at fault in this matter.'
Jeanne sat down abruptly. Her pretty face was strained. 'Captain Lacey, I am French, I am a woman, I am
