'Can he?' She wiped tears from her eyes. 'I have never been happy, Lacey. I cannot imagine what it is like.'
'Do you think it worth a little groveling to find out?'
Marianne gave a shaky laugh. 'Oh, why not? I don't suppose he can make me feel any worse than I do now. You are right, you know. I love the bloody man. I love everything about him, damn him.'
'I know you do.' I stroked her hair, trying to look hopeful, but in truth I did not know what Grenville would do. He'd been angry and deeply hurt, and I had the feeling that he wished the both of us at the bottom of the river.
'I vow,' came Lady Breckenridge's voice. 'I really ought to send someone ahead before I enter rooms.'
Marianne jumped. I rose carefully, knowing that Donata could not be pleased to see me, clad in only my dressing gown, kneeling before Marianne and touching her tenderly.
Donata herself had dressed, her long-skirted, half-sleeved gown looking as fresh as it had when she'd arrived yesterday evening. She'd bundled her hair into a long velvet hood, and a fine chain dangled from her wrist. She looked ready for a brisk walk in Hyde Park rather than just having come from the bed of her lover.
Marianne heaved herself from the chair. 'I'll go down and get Ma Beltan to give me coffee,' she said wearily. 'What time do you think his nibs pries himself out of bed?'
'I have no idea,' I said. 'He rises at a fashionable hour but might get up earlier today, because of our current problem.'
Marianne's face softened. 'Bartholomew told me what happened. I am sorry, Lacey.'
I nodded. 'Come back after you've found coffee. I have a few things I need to ask you while you're waiting.'
She wiped away more tears. 'If I must.' She moved past Lady Breckenridge, who watched her coolly. 'You needn't worry, my lady. I am not after stealing him. I only borrowed his shoulder to cry on.'
Donata's brows arched as Marianne went on out the door. A lady of the demimonde such as Marianne should not have presumed to speak to a lady of the ton. They both should pretend the other did not exist. In their worlds, they did not.
The door closed with a click, and Donata turned to me. 'That is Marianne Simmons? The lady I saw in Grenville's box a few nights ago?'
'Indeed, it was.'
Her face softened to understanding. 'You told me you were forever smoothing the waters between them.'
'Yes, but the waters might now be too rough for me to steer. I will have to let the two of them flounder on their own for a time.'
'Hmm.' Lady Breckenridge's eyes narrowed, and she drew Stacy's crisp leather-bound book out from behind her back. 'I came to tell you that this makes for interesting reading, I must say. What the devil is it?'
I started. I had taken the book from my pocket when I'd undressed the night before, and I realized I'd left it on the bedside table. I reached for it. 'Nothing for your eyes.'
Lady Breckenridge lifted it high and walked away from me. 'But it is quite intriguing. March Fifteenth, the Strand, blonde, brown eyes, innocent, quite pretty. I do not imagine this means a horse. I cannot make out the rest, SnTy2y. What on earth is that?'
'The book does not belong to me,' I said quickly. I held out my hand for it, but Donata ignored me, leafing through the pages as she paced.
'To whom does it belong, then? And what are all these numbers and letters? Code for races on which this gentleman will place bets?' She looked back at me. 'I think not.'
I rubbed my hands on my suddenly cold arms. 'I did not mean for you to find that. It belongs to Jeremiah Stacy and might contain evidence as to whether or not he murdered Mary Chester.'
Her look of suspicion was replaced by one of interest. 'Really? Why?'
'I hesitate to tell you. It is rather sordid.'
'Excellent, then it will not be dull. Do tell me, Lacey. I am a bored widow in need of excitement.'
I smiled to myself at the description, then I launched into an abbreviated version of my discussion with Payne. Donata listened avidly, glancing at the book from time to time.
When I finished, she grimaced. 'Goodness, who would have guessed that Jeremiah Stacy would be up to such goings-on. Patrice Stacy is a vapid thing, but I do not think she deserves a husband with an obsession with prostitutes. Are all men so disgusting?'
I was saved from having to answer by Marianne reentering the room, carrying a mug of coffee and a hard roll. 'I believe they are,' she said to Donata's question. 'With a few exceptions.' She plopped down comfortably at my writing table and took a noisy sip of coffee. 'I heard you mention Mr. Stacy. What's he done?'
I leaned against my chest-on-frame and folded my arms, giving up trying to pry the book from Donata's hands. 'I wanted to ask you about him, Marianne. Whether you'd ever met him, what you thought of him, anything you've heard about him. He might have murdered a game girl and kidnapped another.'
Marianne raised her brows. 'Really? I wouldn't have pegged him for that, but he is an odd cove.' She tore off a bite of bread with white teeth and chewed thoughtfully. 'I haven't seen him in some time, but he used to linger at the theatre in Drury Lane, waiting for the opera dancers and girls in the chorus to emerge. He liked to talk to us; sometimes he'd single one out, sometimes another. Some of the girls hoped he'd set them up as their protector, because he has plenty of blunt, but he never did.'
'He was never rough or threatening?' I asked. 'No one was afraid of him?'
Marianne shrugged. 'He seemed harmless. He liked to talk and jest, liked to pretend he was friends with all the girls, though in truth, they only wanted his money. Some gentlemen are like that. For them, talking to low women and getting to know them is a thrill, even if they never touch any of them.'
Lady Breckenridge continued leafing through the journal. 'I think I see. Stacy went one better and wrote of his encounters in this book. Rather like a man who describes sightings of exotic birds. Vulgar,' she said dismissively. 'His name is rarely on my guest lists, but it will be nonexistent now.'
'He wrote it down?' Marianne asked. 'May I see?'
Wordlessly, and before I could stop her, Lady Breckenridge held the book out to Marianne. Marianne took it, wiped her buttery fingers on the bread, and began leafing through the book. 'I wonder what the letters and numbers mean.'
'I have no idea,' I said. 'His coachman did not know either. Stacy's personal code, for whatever he wanted to note without being obvious.'
'A point in Stacy's favor that he let you see this,' Lady Breckenridge said.
'His coachman answered my questions readily enough, apparently with Stacy's blessing. Stacy seems quite eager to be open and aboveboard, as though he has nothing to hide among gentlemen. The coachman could be a very loyal servant, however, and help Stacy cover up anything he might have done.'
'The smaller letters are all y and n, ' Marianne said, studying the pages. 'Probably for yes and no. So the larger letters are a question or a quality, and the answer is yes or no.'
'You might very well have hit on it,' I said.
'What are the numbers then?' Lady Breckenridge asked. 'If 2y is 2 yes… I wonder what that means?'
The fact that the two of them, my lady and Marianne Simmons, were clinically discussing sordid notes made by a gentleman about street girls made me shudder. I could only stand by and watch.
'I wonder if S stands for syphilis,' Marianne said. 'All entries are marked with an S with either a y or n following. That would be of concern to a Mayfair gentleman with a family. Perhaps one reason he walks among the street girls and gets to know them is to discover what diseases they have. Sn means they are healthy, and therefore acceptable.'
Lady Breckenridge nodded. 'Yes, I can see the fastidious Stacy making certain they have no disease.' She sniffed and opened the reticule that she'd left on the writing table, from which she withdrew a thin cigarillo. 'Rather like purchasing horseflesh. Does he check their teeth?'
'Perhaps that's what T stands for,' Marianne said, scanning an entry.
' Teeth, yes, I suppose that makes a sort of sense.'
'Unless it means something more sordid.'
Lady Breckenridge lit the cigarillo with a candle. She filled her mouth with smoke then let it trickle out with
