But Carlotta had married me quickly enough. I hadn't quite believed my luck that day in 1796 when she'd smiled at me and accepted my proposal. I told her I'd met a fellow called Brandon who'd promised he'd help me obtain a career in the army. I would volunteer as an officer and go with Brandon to India without commission or regiment. Many officers started in this way, young gentlemen who had the right birth but lacked funds to purchase a commission.
Aloysius Brandon had been very inspiring in those days, young and energetic and with a charisma that made people long to follow him. It was he who'd obtained a special license for me, laughing at my impetuous decision to marry the beautiful Carlotta, although he'd never warmed to her.
Carlotta's father had been furious when I announced that I'd married his daughter. I remembered Carlotta trembling and clinging to me, and her father's words: 'Take her, then. I never want to see her again.' We'd boarded ship for India almost immediately after that.
I believe Carlotta had begun to doubt her wisdom very quickly. I compounded matters by holding Louisa Brandon, whom Brandon had married the day before we'd started for India, as an example for Carlotta to follow. Where Carlotta was shy, Louisa was frank and friendly; where Carlotta was sickly, Louisa was robust. Louisa had a spirit of adventure that helped her through the long, hot ship journey and the unpleasant conditions in India, whereas Carlotta soon wilted. Carlotta had been almost constantly ill during our years in India and pushed me away whenever I tried to be amorous. I had not been very patient with her.
Gabriella was born in 1800, after several disappointed hopes that Carlotta was increasing. The disappointment had been on my part, because I don't believe that Carlotta ever wanted a baby. I had thought Gabriella's birth would relieve all problems between Carlotta and me, but if anything, having to care for a child only added to Carlotta's distress.
When Gabriella had been a year old, we finally escaped the heat of India for a brief but pleasant stay in Sussex, then we moved to Paris, during the Peace of Amiens. After we had lived there nearly a year, Carlotta fled me. I'd returned to our lodgings one afternoon to find Carlotta out and Louisa waiting for me with a letter in her hand and a distressed look on her face.
I'd searched for them, of course, but Carlotta and her Frenchman had planned well and had disappeared into the French countryside. Soon afterward, Napoleon had stirred up trouble again, and we'd fled France and returned to England. I was posted to the Netherlands for that disaster, then France moved into Spain, and the Peninsular War commenced.
Searching for my wife and daughter had become impractical, and after the war it became expensive. I'd had no idea of their whereabouts until James Denis had produced a piece of paper several months ago with their direction written on it.
I remained despondent in the chair for a time, not knowing quite what to do. I'd see Carlotta tomorrow at James Denis's house. A part of me wanted to wait for that encounter to see what would transpire. Another part of me wanted to rush back to King Street and drag Gabriella home with me now.
The thought of hurting Gabriella stilled me. In all of this, no matter how much anger I felt toward Carlotta and Auberge, I did not want Gabriella to suffer for it. None of the madness that her elders had perpetrated was her fault.
Still despondent, but growing hungry, I rose and went to the meal Bartholomew had left me. A covered plate held beefsteak and potatoes, tepid now. I sat down and ate them, not liking to let food go to waste. The beef was leathery, the potatoes floury, but the Gull was the closest tavern, so we put up with its meals. When I wanted good ale and camaraderie, I took myself to the Rearing Pony, a longer walk, but worth the effort.
Bartholomew dashed in with his usual energy just as I'd taken the last forkful of potatoes.
'Afternoon, sir.' He tossed a cloth-wrapped parcel to the writing table. 'Mrs. Brandon sent some cakes and says she'll look into the matter you asked her about directly. And Mr. Grenville would be pleased for you to attend the theatre with him tonight in Drury Lane.'
I laid down my fork and wiped my mouth with a linen napkin. 'I am hardly in the mood for an outing, Bartholomew.'
'He said to come anyway,' Bartholomew said cheerfully. 'I told him you'd gone off to Bow Street, and he said that if you start investigating anything without him, he'll never forgive you.'
I clattered the plates back to the tray. 'He needn't worry. I planned to bring him in at the earliest possible moment.' Grenville not only had resources, but possessed a clear-eyed intelligence that often cut to the heart of a problem while I grew mired in anger at it.
I explained to Bartholomew about the missing game girls and asked him to keep an eye out while he went about his errands for me. He promised to be diligent, and then rushed away to fetch bathwater for me, eager to begin preparing me for my outing with Grenville.
Later, as I walked through the June twilight to Drury Lane, dressed in my best frock coat and filled with the sweetness of Louisa's cakes, I glanced at the shadows to see whether I could spy out any game girls I knew. They liked to tease me, knowing I would neither pay them for a few moments' dubious pleasure, nor turn them over to the Watch or the reformers. If I had spare coin, I gave it to them in hopes that they'd go home and escape a possible beating from their flats-the customers who sought them-or the men they lived with who took what they earned. I saw a few flits of movement here and there, but no one called out to me.
I entered Drury Lane Theatre and gave my card to a footman at the door, who knew to take me to Grenville's box. I had long ago learned not to try to pay for my own ticket when Grenville invited me to a theatre; it insulted him, and he always squared things with the manager beforehand.
I gave my best hat to a footman who waited inside the box, thankful I'd worn my second best one to King Street if I were going to leave hats about absentmindedly. I had directed Bartholomew to the boardinghouse to obtain it from one of the servants there. He'd seemed slightly surprised I wanted him to fetch it back; when Grenville mislaid something, he simply bought another.
The box was crowded tonight. Grenville stood in the middle of it, a woman in bronze-colored satin on his arm. His cronies from White's stood about, earls and marquises and well-connected gentlemen. No wives, however, which made me wonder about the woman, whose back was to me, while I shook hands all around.
By the yellow light of candles in sconces, I saw that the woman wore a diadem of diamonds in her sleek hair and had a handsome figure hugged by the shimmering gown. When I at last worked my way across the box to Grenville, he turned the lovely creature toward me while I shook his hand.
I stopped and stared in astonishment. 'Marianne?'
She gave me a sardonic smile. 'How flattering you are, Lacey.'
Grenville's look was slightly smug but also wary. They made a fine pair, he with his dark hair and lively brown eyes in a face that, if not handsome, was arresting, and Marianne with her golden hair and forget-me-not blue eyes. Whatever modiste Grenville had her frequent had created a gown to enhance Marianne's greatest assets. The decolletage bared her shoulders and part of her bosom, but did not make her appear overly voluptuous, and the long skirt, not too much adorned, made her look willowy but not thin.
All in all, the gown was a masterwork, the creation of an artist. Her hair, instead of hanging in the little-girl curls she liked to sport, had been pulled into a coil of burnished gold and adorned with the diamonds. A few gold ringlets fell artfully to the back of her neck. Her only other jewelry besides the diadem were dangling diamond earrings and a narrow circlet of diamonds around her throat.
I saw Grenville's taste and restraint in the entire ensemble. Left to her own devices, Marianne would no doubt have loaded herself with jewels so that the actresses below, her former colleagues, could see how far she'd risen.
I realized that this was Marianne's debut. Grenville since April had been squiring her about to Hyde Park and to races, places where mistresses were accepted. Might as well flaunt my folly, he'd told me dryly. But this was the first time he'd brought her to the theatre, openly, as his guest. He'd invited all these aristocrats and highborn gentlemen to meet Marianne, to usher her into his world. That explained the absence of wives; these men could not bring their respectable ladies into a box with a former chorus actress.
'Aren't I a fine racehorse?' Marianne asked me.
Grenville frowned, but I bowed over Marianne's hand, pretending I hadn't heard. Grenville was treating her no differently than he'd treated his previous mistresses, but I had a feeling that Marianne would not be content with being an ordinary bit of muslin.
The other gentlemen in the box, however, seemed happy to accept her. The mistress of the most fashionable
