An ornate gold clock in the corner sweetly chimed the quarter hour. Grenville passed a shaking hand through his hair. 'Why in God's name didn't she tell me?' He fastened his glare on me. 'Why didn't you tell me?'
'She feared your reaction.'
'My reaction? She would rather let me believe she had a lover she could not give up than that she was taking care of a child by herself?'
I held up a hand. 'Consider. Your money is going to another man's child, a halfwit child at that. When you learn the truth, will you withdraw the gifts in disgust? If so, what is Marianne to do for the money? Return to the theatre? Look for another protector who won't scrutinize her so closely?'
Grenville stared at me in amazement. 'Is that what you think I would do?'
'It is what Marianne fears.'
He swung away and paced across the small space of the dressing room. Abruptly, he brought his fists down on the dressing table, sending the mirror and Gautier's various brushes dancing on the surface.
'God damn the pair of you. Is this what you think of me, that I'd beggar a child? That I'd throw Marianne out to grub her living on the stage, so that she can hang about in hopes that some disgusting man like McAdams takes her home? Is that what you have thought all this time, that I am the sort of man who could do that?' Grenville's face was red, his eyes hard and glittering.
I remained quiet. 'You must admit that you are difficult to predict.'
'For God's sake, Lacey, have I ever behaved anything but generously to her-to you? I have offered you both everything I have. Damnation, I offered you my friendship and her my love, and both of you stare at me as though you cannot deign to accept it. I have taken Marianne among my friends; I have given you the cachet of my approval. You know you would have been nothing in London without it, but I gladly gave it, because I saw the worth of you.' He ran out of words and breath.
'I know what you have done for me,' I said, meaning it. 'You have always told me that it was because I interested you.'
'Yes, and you puff up with pride because you believe it an insult. Selfish of me to expect gratitude, I suppose. From either of you. But consider, if the bloody girl had told me, what do you think I could have done for this David? I can give him the best care money can buy. I can give him his own house, a string of attendants if he wants them. I can do this, Lacey, I am damn rich. Why the devil doesn't Marianne understand that?'
'This is the other reaction she feared,' I said. 'That you'd smother David with generosity and take him away from the place where he is happy.'
Grenville stared at me in shock. 'You agree with her.'
I set aside the brandy with reluctance and rose. 'Yes. I do.'
'Devil take you, Lacey.'
'She does not want you to overmaster her. She wants David left in peace.'
Grenville scrutinized me a moment longer, his face sheet white except for red that stained his cheekbones. I watched him try to contain himself, to draw his cool poise about himself in the same manner as his valet had eased on his coat.
His next words were quiet but spoken with finality. 'Tell Marianne I will continue the money to help her son, but I no longer wish to see her. And I believe I no longer wish to see you either, Lacey. I will allow my servants to help carry on the search for your daughter, but that will be all.' His eyes were filled with suppressed anger and, behind that, hurt. 'I gave you my implicit trust, Lacey. I was a fool to expect it in return, I suppose.'
I bowed in silence. 'I am sorry to have angered you.' I turned without further word and strolled to the door.
I half expected him to call me back, to say in good-natured exasperation, 'For God's sake, Lacey, let us sort this out,' but he did not. Both Marianne and I had wronged him. Grenville had cuffed us, and I, for one, felt I deserved the blow.
I quietly closed the door behind me and made my way down the polished staircase, the satinwood rail gleaming as deeply as gold. With some regret, I took my hat and gloves from the footman at the door and went back out into the London afternoon. It had clouded over, and the first drops of rain fell as I made my way to the hackney stand at the corner of Grosvenor Street.
I decided to pay a call on Denis, notwithstanding his lackey's suggestion that I should not arrive without an appointment. If Denis were indisposed, he would not admit me, and I would go on. I had plenty to do without this aside.
Denis's butler, as cold as his master, took me upstairs and bade me wait in the austere reception room in which I'd awaited his attention before. Not long after that, the butler returned and ushered me to Denis's study. Denis flicked his dark blue glance from his correspondence, curtly told me to take a chair, and asked what I wanted.
'Only to know if you have heard anything about my daughter,' I said.
'If I had, I would have sent word or already restored her to you.'
'Yes.' I remained seated, uncertain how to explain what I wanted. Reassurance? I would not get it from Denis. Or maybe I wanted truth, which was what Denis dispensed in abundance-brutal, unromanticized truth.
Denis seemed to sense my need. He set his correspondence aside and twitched his fingers at the lackey who stood at the window. 'Fetch the captain port,' he said.
The man moved to the door and summoned another footman. I noticed he did not leave the room, which would have put me alone with Denis.
'Tell me what you have learned this afternoon,' Denis said, 'and perhaps I can aid you.'
I hesitated. 'You are heavy-handed with your aid.'
'Heavy-handedness is often effective. The trick is to know when to employ it and when to be restrained. You have learned something. What is it?'
I told him about Stacy and McAdams. I was worried enough and angry enough that I did not care whether Denis and his ruffians paid a call on either of them. If Stacy or McAdams had hurt my daughter, Denis could do his worst.
'I have met Mr. McAdams,' Denis said, twining his fingers on his desk. 'A man who does not know when to be restrained, or even how to be, I would say. He is crude and ill-mannered. You think him a better candidate for the crime than Stacy?'
'McAdams is the sort who would hurt a girl for the pleasure of it. Stacy might do the same, I do not know. The only difference between the two is that Stacy is ashamed of his proclivities while McAdams boasts of them. But either of them could have killed Mary Chester.'
'You mean that either of them are capable of it. You are not being as rational as you could be, Captain. Think of it this way. Did either gentleman have the opportunity to kill her? Where do they say they were on the night-or day-she died? Do they have witnesses? Could Bottle Bill have killed Mary Chester and be inventing the 'gentleman' who assisted him to throw you off the scent? You certainly believe Bill capable of murder, when he is drunk. He is often arrested, I understand, for being violent.' Denis spread his hands. 'Many possibilities, Captain.'
The butler entered, placed a table at my elbow, and laid a round white cloth on its precise center. He set on this a crystal goblet filled to a quarter inch of the brim with dusky amber port. The port's rich scent reached me as the butler bowed and departed.
I ignored the glass for now. 'You mean I ought to stop frantically running about and begin to investigate. I have been searching, not thinking.'
'You have plenty of people going through London for you,' Denis said. 'Sit back and think.'
I was not sure he meant for me to do so at the moment, but I leaned back in his comfortable chair, lifted the goblet of port, and drank deeply. As did Grenville, Denis kept the best in wines, and this was one of the finest I'd tasted.
'I will quiz Stacy's coachman,' I said. 'The man drives him everywhere; he would know what day Stacy picked up Mary Chester and where he took her. He would know when Stacy was last with Black Bess, he would know whether Stacy is telling the truth about seeing Gabriella. I should question McAdams's servants as well and find out about his visits to Covent Garden.'
Denis gave me a nod. 'Reason and thoroughness. That is what will find Miss Lacey.'
'This is what you do, is it not? You sit in this house and reason, and then you send hirelings out to do your
