Hungerford. She made it plain that she did not want to tell me. I know, however, that you know.' He lifted his tankard and drank. 'And that you, too, will not tell me.'
I felt a twinge of remorse, but I shook my head. 'I am sorry. The secret is hers, and I gave her my word.'
He lifted his gaze to mine. The pain in his dark eyes did not come from his wound. 'You are a singular man, Lacey. You will keep your word to an actress who is little better than a courtesan, but you will not answer to a man with the power to break many a gentleman in his path.'
'I know,' I said.
He held my gaze for a moment, then looked away. 'So be it,' he said.
He turned the conversation, as only he could, to other, inconsequential things, but I knew it would be a long time before he would bring himself to forgive me.
Pomeroy's prediction that Frederick Sutcliff would never hang for murder proved to be true. He did appear at trial and was condemned, but Sutcliff's father was wealthy enough and powerful enough to have the sentence commuted to transportation. I watched from the gallery as Sutcliff stammered his way through the trial. Jeanne Lanier appeared and behaved very prettily, easily charming the judge into believing her a naive Frenchwoman easily duped.
It sealed Sutcliff's fate. Rutledge also attended the trial. When I saw him in the street afterward, he growled at me and blamed me for the entire affair. I tipped my hat to him and walked on.
Louisa Brandon visited me the next day. I had at last written her that James Denis had given me the information about Carlotta and my daughter. She had not written back, but when I saw her carriage in the street outside Grimpen Lane, my heart lightened.
Once I had sent Bartholomew and Louisa's footman away, I could not keep from her. I kissed her cheek, then I held her hands and simply looked at her.
'I missed you,' I said.
'I missed you, as well.' She frowned at me. 'Now I want to hear the entire awful tale of everything that happened at Sudbury. To think I imagined you'd gone to enjoy green meadows and rides along quiet lanes.'
'The country is a brutal place,' I said, hoping to make her smile. I sat her down and began to tell her all that happened.
She asked questions, and I answered, and the tension between us fell away. We talked long and easily, as we'd done in the army when she and I and Brandon had spent the end of every day together. Louisa and I had gabbed like old gossips, making light of our fears for the morrow.
After our conversation had wound to its close, I pulled out the paper Denis had given me and handed it to her.
She scanned it in silence, her eyes a mystery. 'What will you do?'
'That is why I asked you here. To tell me what to do.'
'Gabriel…'
I rose and paced, unable to keep still. 'I cannot trust my own heart, Louisa. It has been too long. Shall I rush to France and wrest her from a life where she has been happy? Demand my rights as a husband and father? How will that make anything better?'
She watched me with troubled eyes. 'You do not know she has been happy.'
'Of course she has. Carlotta was not the sort to live in silent misery. If her French officer made her unhappy, she would have flown elsewhere, again and again, until she felt safe. Or she'd have flown back to England, to you, not me. She was a woman who ever needed comfort and protection.'
'That is so,' Louisa agreed, though she sounded skeptical.
'If I go… If I see her… '
How would I feel? Angry? Petulant? Happy that she was happy? Was I ready to release her? I had lectured Grenville to let Marianne be, but could I do the same with Carlotta? I had let her go, when she first fled me, but had I ever let go in my heart?
'Perhaps you ought to see her,' Louisa said, 'if only to say good-bye.'
I ceased pacing. 'It is still like a knife in my heart, Louisa.'
'Why? Because she had the gall to leave you? Or because you loved her?'
I opened my mouth for a sharp retort, then closed it. Louisa's words were harsh, but they were also shrewd.
'If it were only Carlotta, I would not even consider,' I said. 'But I long to see my daughter. I want to see how she has grown and whether she is happy. Damn it, Louisa, she is mine.'
'And what if she does not know you?'
'I will tell her who I am.'
Louisa held my gaze. 'And what if she does not know that Gabriel Lacey, and not the French officer, is her father?'
I stopped. 'Do you think Carlotta would have kept that from her? Would she have been that cruel?'
Louisa nodded. 'Yes, I think she would have been.'
I studied her a moment. 'Do you know, I believe that when she left, you were as angry as I was. But you had never much liked Carlotta.'
'I believed her a fool,' she answered crisply. 'She never understood your true worth.'
'She understood well enough. I was worth nothing beyond my pay packet and my overblown sense of honor.'
'No,' Louisa said in a hard voice. 'She never did understand. Never appreciated what you were, and what she had.'
Our gazes met. Louisa's eyes were a steely gray, her cheeks flushed. I held her gaze for a long moment, while thoughts flew by that went unsaid.
At last I turned away. 'Well, she is gone now,' I said softly.
'If you go to France, Gabriel, I will go with you.'
She sat very primly on my armchair, her tone matter-of-fact. For one heady moment I pictured us traveling side by side, chattering away as we liked, her golden head on my shoulder as she rested in our traveling coach.
The vision shattered at once as I realized that if she came with me, her husband would accompany us. Colonel Brandon would never allow his wife to travel alone with me to the Continent as long as he was alive. I thought of his stiff-necked silence on the days and days of the journey through France and shuddered.
'I will think on it,' I said. 'Thank you.'
We spoke further, trying to turn to neutral topics, but nothing interested us much.
At last Louisa rose to take her leave. I kissed her good-bye, let my hands linger in her cool ones just a moment too long, then I let her go.
That night I sat in Lady Breckenridge's drawing room with Lady Aline Carrington and Lucius Grenville and others of the ton and listened to a rather young poet read beautiful and moving words. My heart was still heavy, but I allowed myself to be soothed by his verses.
When we broke for refreshment, I found myself with Lady Breckenridge in an unoccupied corner.
'Your eyes are tired, Captain,' she said. 'Did you not enjoy the poetry?'
'I did like it,' I answered with sincerity. 'The young gentleman shows great promise. I admit, however, to liking the company still more. An evening spent with friends is refreshing.'
One corner of her mouth turned up in a half-smile. 'Dare I be flattered? Or did you refer to Mr. Grenville and Lady Aline, your dear friends?'
I smiled. 'I referred to Mr. Grenville and Lady Aline and Lady Breckenridge.'
She took this attempt at a compliment with a cool nod, but looked pleased. 'I am happy that we have drawn you back from the country, then.'
