'She could not bring herself to write it. She knew she wronged you. She would not have written at all, but I persuaded her to leave a letter for Madame Brandon.'
'I nearly went off my head,' I said. 'Poor Louisa had to break the news to me, and then stop me from violence. I was sore angry.'
Auberge reddened. 'I know it was a terrible thing. But not only was Carlotta unhappy as an army wife, but she had just learned you were returning to England, and she was frantic not to go back there. She would do anything not to go to England, including run away with a French officer to a farm near Lyon. She could disappear forever, become Madame Auberge, and none would know. I was the-as you call it-blackguard. I was in love with her, and I did not try too much to persuade her to stay with you.'
I looked at him in puzzlement. 'You said that before, that Carlotta wanted to leave England forever. The eagerness with which she accepted my proposal astonished me, and I flattered myself that she loved me madly. But your words paint a different picture. She wanted to leave England, and India was as far away from England as anything can be.'
Auberge nodded. 'Her father wanted her to marry a certain gentleman, she told me. This man had money, and her father needed to extricate himself from a very nasty debt. But the man was repugnant to Carlotta. He was much older than she, and lecherous. He wanted only to get his hands on a young girl, if you see. When she refused him, her father beat her quite harshly, and threatened to force the marriage.' He paused. 'Carlotta said that as a good Church of England girl, she did not believe in miracles and magic, but she thought that God must have sent you to her to save her from misery. What she suffered following the drum, she said, was nothing to what she would have suffered as this man's wife.'
I stared in astonishment. 'Why the devil did she not tell me this?'
'I do not know. She was young and afraid. Perhaps if you discovered that she'd been so disobedient, you would take her back to her father? It is not Carlotta's way to think clearly all the time. I suppose she decided to simply be happy with you and far from her father.'
'If she had told me…' I sat back, awash in regret for the past and what had not been. 'I would have been kinder. I would have told her she need have no fear of her father ever again. She was, and is, a Lacey. We are not known for giving back what we have.' I frowned. 'But why did Carlotta fear returning to England later, when she was safely married to me? She was out of her father's reach by then.'
'I do not know,' Auberge said. 'I know only that she was afraid and wanted to run away with me. I did not question her too closely, and I have let it lie ever since. I must admit that I was pleased that Carlotta wanted to leave you for me, and I did not want her to change her mind. And so I took her away.' He gazed at me, his look defiant.
'And as you say,' I said lightly. 'She had her way.'
Auberge gave me a faint smile. 'She had her way coming to London this time, as well. When we received the letter from Mr. Denis, I wanted to refuse. But Carlotta wished to come. Her father is dead now, and she wants the divorce from you so she can marry me in truth. We live in a Catholic country, and although I am not devout, divorce is difficult there. Carlotta does not care at all about the Catholic Church; she wants only the divorce and then a quick English marriage to me. That way, in her mind, it will all be fair. We long ago began the fiction that Madame and Major Auberge had married in England, so that our neighbors would not wonder that our parish had no record of it, and she wants it to be true.'
'I see. That sounds like Carlotta.' I thought a moment. 'And if Denis had not put the idea into her head, she likely would still be there with you on your little French farm.'
'Possibly. I confess to you that Carlotta had to argue a long time with me before I agreed. I feared, you see, that when she saw you again, and you still her husband, well…' He lifted his hands in a shrug.
'You thought she would want to come back to me? And you profess to know Carlotta.'
'I thought that you would claim your rights to her. You are her true husband. You have the English law behind you. I am only the Frog roue who stole your wife.'
'My life with Carlotta finished years ago,' I said, realizing the truth. 'She is not my possession, whatever the law says. I, too, want this divorce, so that I can marry another.'
He looked relieved. 'When I met you, I knew you no longer wanted her, which I confess, pleased me. You wish to marry a woman called Lady Breckenridge?'
'I suppose I should not be so surprised it's common knowledge.'
The corners of his mouth creased. 'The English servants of the boardinghouse gossip. They know you are a friend of Mr. Grenville, who seems to be more worshipped than royalty. They also know that you are paramour of Lady Breckenridge, a widow of some means.'
I grimaced. 'I ought to post a notice outside my door.'
'It is the same in a small French town. The women in the market square, they know everyone's business but their own. They are curious about Carlotta but dismiss her past because she is English, and they are fond of her. They look after her, and my children.'
'Which is how Carlotta wants it,' I observed.
'Yes.'
I fell silent as the coach bumped through Bow Street and then to a halt in Russel Street. Carlotta, the sweet, innocent slip of a girl, certainly had manipulated me into carrying her off. Then she'd used that same sweet innocence to persuade Auberge to carry her off to a provincial French village, where she'd made a home for herself. Auberge and I thought ourselves strong and masterful, but Carlotta in the end always had what she wanted. Strength masquerading as weakness. I had to admit her success.
However, I would not let her have her way in the matter of Gabriella. I wanted my daughter, and I would fight for her.
As we descended and walked into Grimpen Lane, a man pushed himself from the wall next to the bake shop and approached us. I did not recognize him, but his pugilist build and stoic patience told me that he worked for Denis.
'Captain,' he greeted me. 'Mr. Denis, he sent me to find you.'
I could not be surprised. 'I suppose Mr. Denis already knows what has happened?'
'That your daughter done a bunk? 'Swhy he sent me.' The man straightened his rather battered hat. 'You need to come with me, Captain. Something I need to show you.'
My heart squeezed, and Auberge went white. 'Gabriella?' I asked.
He shook his head. 'Naw. A man. Come on.'
He gestured us to follow and set off at a lumbering gate back toward Russel Street. Auberge and I came after him.
The man led us to an opulent carriage that had stopped in the square of Covent Garden at the end of Russel Street. A coachman sat on his perch, holding the horses in a bored manner.
The pugilist opened the carriage door. I looked in and stopped.
Huddled against one of the seats, holding his arms around his body and regarding me fearfully, was the pathetic figure of Bottle Bill, the drunken man who turned up most days at the Bow Street magistrate's house.
'He has something to tell you,' Denis's man said. He gestured for me to enter the carriage. I glanced at Auberge, who returned the look blankly, then I hoisted myself into the coach, the pugilist assisting me.
I sat down opposite Bottle Bill and waited for Auberge to take the seat beside me. Bill watched me from bloodshot eyes, his usually amiable face pale with fear.
'What's all this about, Bill?' I asked him.
The pugilist leaned in the door. 'You tell him now.' He did not speak threateningly, but Bill cringed from him.
'I didn't mean nuffing. Leave me alone.'
'Bill,' I said sharply. Bill swiveled his gaze back to me. 'Tell me what you know.'
'I didn't mean to, did I? I don't know what I'm doing when I've drunk a bottle or two. That's why the bills always haul me in, inn't it?'
I was in no mood to placate the man. 'What the devil did you do?'
'Tell him,' the pugilist said, his tone still bland.
'I found her, didn't I? The girl with the yellow hair. She were dead, weren't she?' His eyes moistened.
'Mary Chester?' I asked.
