Lady Breckenridge had described it to me. 'The lemonade is insipid, the talk is insipid, and the orchestra is insipid, and the patronesses rule over it like it was the kingdom come. I longed to go as a debutante, and then wondered why the moment I entered the place. I begged my mother to take me home, and she did, to my surprise. She hated it too. But Lord, a young lady must go, and good heavens, she mustn't dance the waltz until one of the biddies says she can. Is it any wonder I am so scandalous? I had to be, for the relief.'
So Stacey went to Almack's one night and brought Covent Garden game girls into his coach the next. I knew that many respectably married gentlemen kept mistresses, but I wondered how many lived such a double life as Stacy. 'Did he go to Covent Garden Wednesday at all?'
'No, sir. Dinner at Lord Featherstone's, Almack's Assembly Rooms at eleven o'clock, and home again at two. That was all. Why do you want to know?'
'Because that was the night Mary Chester died, apparently.'
Payne's graying brows lifted. 'Was it now? Well, it couldn't have been my gentleman. He never went near the place all that day.'
'What about his friend, Mr. McAdams? Did Stacy ever take McAdams to Covent Garden with him?'
'Naw. This is something my master did alone.' Payne drained his tankard and swiped the last of the ale from his mouth. 'It were Mr. McAdams got my master started in that way, though, about three year ago. I overheard them-Mr. McAdams telling Mr. Stacy that he could find good sport right here in London without having to go out to the country. Kind of shoved him in the direction, like. I've never seen Mr. McAdams in Covent Garden, but that don't mean he don't go.'
'True. ' I signaled the landlord to bring Payne another ale. 'I do appreciate you answering my questions so frankly, but I must ask, why do you continue to work for Stacy? If you find his activities repulsive.'
Payne shrugged. 'Well, he ain't no worse than any other master, I'm thinking. The wages is good, and he buys the livery. I don't much like his 'sport,' but then, all gentry-coves are a little mad for wenches, ain't they? He likes the game girls, but it's what they're for. He don't push his attentions on those he should not, if you take my meaning. And they don't seem to mind him.'
I nodded and lifted my tankard, which was still half full. 'In other words, he treats ladies like ladies and game girls like game girls. I suppose most gentlemen do.'
'Exactly, sir. So, I shake my head and drive on as I'm told. Even if he does write it all down in a book.'
I stopped, my tankard halfway to my mouth. 'A book?'
'I almost forgot.'
As the landlord deposited another tankard in front of Payne and took up the empty, Payne reached into his coat and drew out a leather-bound book, one made for keeping a journal. He slid it across the table to me. 'He told me to give you this. He's that embarrassed, like, but he wants you to see that there is no entry for your daughter.'
I waited until the landlord was well away, then, with some trepidation, I peeled open the book and scanned a page.
Stacy wrote in a clear, flowing script, the kind perfected by tutors in public schools. I still could feel the sting of the cane across my knuckles when my fumbling fingers could not shape the loops and curls to my tutor's satisfaction.
October 3, ran the entry. Brown, blue, good teeth, round. Haymarket. SnT2n.
'What does that mean?' I asked, pointing to the letters and numbers.
'Don't know, sir. Never asked.'
'Something about the girls he don't want no one to know?' Jackson suggested. 'In case someone else reads the book?'
'Quite,' I said. I wondered why the devil Stacy would let me see this, but if I could not understand half of it, perhaps he saw no harm. 'Even so, he wrote his observations in a book? Good Lord, what if his wife found it?'
'She won't, sir,' Payne said. 'He has me keep it for him, and I give it to him only when we make our outings, if you see. He's not written his name anywhere in it, so if someone finds it, they won't know it's his, unless they recognize the writing.'
'They might think it yours,' I pointed out.
'Makes no difference. It's mostly nonsense, ain't it? He wants you to read the entries for yesterday.'
I flipped to Thursday: 3 o'clock, CG, oranges, blonde, round. AySnTn.
Farther down the page was another entry: Midnight, oranges, T2yC3.
From this I surmised that the orange girl had made him happy at midnight, but nothing more. It coincided with me seeing Stacy's carriage in Covent Garden that night. I flipped back to the entry for Wednesday and found none. Either Stacy had gone to Almack's in truth, or he'd removed the page for that day. I lifted the book and peered down the length of its spine, but could see no evidence of pages cut from the binding.
'May I keep this?' I asked. 'I will return it tomorrow.'
Payne's brows twitched. 'Mr. Stacy would not be happy.'
'If Mr. Stacy has nothing to hide but this little peccadillo, there will be no harm. I will return it with my own hands to your master tomorrow.'
Payne did not look pleased, but he nodded.
I tucked the book into my coat. 'Thank you, Payne. Enjoy the ale.' Nodding, I rose. Payne stood, bowed to me, and thanked me nicely for the drink.
Jackson followed me outside into the deepening night. He clapped on his hat against the rain and straightened it. 'Nasty goings-on, ain't there?'
'A bit.' I pressed the book in my pocket against my chest, and we started down the lane to the Strand, where a groom watched after Grenville's horses and rig.
'At least I have no cause to be ashamed of my master,' Jackson said. 'Catch Mr. Grenville doing anything so sordid.'
'Indeed,' I said.
'And writing it down. The man must be daft.' Jackson shrugged. 'Ah, well, there ain't many like Mr. Grenville.' He opened the carriage door. Rain streamed down the windows and the polished wood, but Jackson was as poised as he would be on a clear afternoon. 'Where to now, sir?'
I elected to return home. I saw candles glowing in my front windows above the dark bakery and concluded that Bartholomew had returned and was waiting for me. I quickened my pace, hoping there was news.
When I entered my sitting room, I found Bartholomew nowhere in evidence. Instead, Lady Breckenridge was curled in my wing chair, her eyes closed.
When the door shut, she opened her eyes and smiled. 'There you are, Lacey,' she said. 'You've been ages.'
I had held myself upright too long. Seeing Donata brought of flood of warmth to my limbs, and I had to press my walking stick against the carpet in order to remain standing.
'Gabriel?' Lady Breckenridge asked with a frown. 'Has something else happened?'
She rose and came to me. I dropped the walking stick and gathered her up, much preferring to lean against her. She smelled fine, as she always did, and I buried my face in her neck.
I felt her soft chuckle. 'Well,' she murmured. 'That's all right, then.'
Donata slept with me all night, and said hang the scandal. 'They know,' she observed in the early hours of the morning as she lay next to me. She traced patterns on my bare chest with one slim finger. 'Everyone knows. They can make of it what they will. I no longer care.'
'Bold lady.' I touched her cheek. 'I like you being bold.'
'You were not made for a timid woman, Gabriel. It does not suit you.' She paused. 'Did you know? Today is my birthday.'
'Is it?' I'd had no idea. 'And you've chosen to spend it with a wreck like me. You honor me.'
She shrugged. 'I usually spend it at home in Oxfordshire, but I did not want to leave London while you were in the midst of troubles.' Her fingertips moved to my lips. 'I am thirty.'
I smiled, feeling her warm body curving against mine. 'Ancient.'
'I am certainly ten times wiser than at twenty. What an astounding innocent I was.'
