longer lives in Cambridge, but someone there must know where he went. I want to discover his whereabouts, whether he is married to a woman called Helena Quinn, and where she is now.'
'Your vicar's daughter, yes. Why does she fascinate you so, Captain?'
'Worries me, rather. It bothers me that no one has heard from her since the night of her disappearance. Her cousin went to Cambridge to find her and could not. I would like to reassure myself-and her family-that she is alive and well.'
'A fairly simple inquiry. I will have it done and add it to your debit column.'
I ran my fingers along the carved arm of my chair. 'I'd enjoy having a glance at this book where you calculate who owes you what, and what sort of thing will pay off the debt.'
'You would have difficulty with that, because I keep no such book.' Denis touched his temple. 'It is here.'
I raised my brows. 'You remember everything every person in England-or the world-owes you?'
'I remember every favor done me, every one asked of me, every slight, and every assistance.' He said it without inflection, without boasting. He stated a fact. 'That is why people consider me dangerous.'
'Not to mention your small army of former pugilists who carry out dire deeds for you with no questions,' I said.
'I suppose that might be part of it. Time for you to retire, Captain. Rise early tomorrow and continue the search.'
No brandy, cheroots, and gossip for the pair of us. I stood, said good night, and left him.
Bartholomew fetched me the bath at last, and I soaked out the day's rain, dirt, and tension. Denis believed in living in luxury, so I had a large tub, plenty of hot water, a big cake of soap, and towels as tall as my body. The bedchamber was lit with a profusion of candles and heated by a well-stoked fire.
The boy growing up on the streets had made certain he never had to feel the pinch of want again. I wondered at Denis's hint that his childhood was unusual, even for a street boy, but I knew he'd tell me only if he thought he'd benefit by my knowing. He'd told me the story of Cooper to appeal to my compassion so that I'd be more willing to help find the man. I knew that, but I also believed finding him important.
After the bath, I did not succumb to the temptation of the turned-down bed. I told Bartholomew to take his well-earned rest, and I sat in a chair and opened my mother's notebook that Bartholomew had kept safe for me in his coat pocket.
The first part of the book held recipes and remedies, practical things my mother had noted. For a cold, soak a collection of peppermint leaves in hot water and apply to a towel, to be used as a compress… A syllabub of cream whipped with good port layered with fresh berries of the season makes a fine summer pudding.
Later came more of a journal, and I found, to my surprise, passages about me.
He walks and runs about everywhere now, very sturdy and strong. A fine boy. He has brown eyes like his father and a build that makes me believe he will be as tall. I hear from his nanny that he is very clever too.
A proud mother's words. The page blurred, and I had to wipe my eyes before I could continue.
She wrote of me growing from baby to child to boy, how I confounded my tutors with my constant questions, how I ran about like a wild thing despite frequent punishment, how impetuous I was, how affectionate.
He never minds his mother kissing him, and he returns the kisses, throwing his arms about my neck in true affection. Mr. Lacey does not like this, however, and so I embrace my son only when we are entirely private.
My father had thought any form of sentiment weak and unmanly. Lest his son grow up and seek the company of male paramours, my father forbade any acknowledgment of softer emotions. My mother and I, happily, managed to remain fond of each other. As I grew into boyhood, I became less patient with hugs and kisses, but I always reassured my mother that I loved her.
My mother wrote of missing me when I went off to school, but that she enjoyed knitting and sewing things for me. She'd sent hampers to the school, as well, which she'd done in secret, because my father thought any comforts from home also made boys soft. I'd gained many friends trading the contents of those hampers, keeping the best bits for myself, of course.
My mother hadn't dated her entries, but I followed the passage of the years based on her references to me, my father, my school years, my holidays. About a year before her death, her musings grew strange.
I pen these words to give me courage. To screw my courage to the sticking place, as the Bard says. But what will become of my boy?
I had no idea what on earth she meant. I had been growing fatigued with reading, the clock ticking into the small hours of the morning. The next entry made me come alert.
Miss Quinn is a lovely child. I quite think of her as my own. She is here often when Mr. Lacey is away, and we have tea and play with her dolls. I wish, I so wish, I could have a daughter such as she! But perhaps I will not have to wait so long. My limbs tremble as I think on it.
Think on what? Had my mother been with child? I had never heard word of it. I read rapidly onward.
What a heavenly thing it is to love. It makes one do mad, mad things. I shall have to compose a letter, such a letter as I have never contemplated writing. I want to go. But then I think of my boy, and I falter. I would be kept from him, never to see him again.
My heart beat faster, and I turned another page.
Really, is it so wrong to long for happiness? I am kept from my son, the only person who loved me until now. Mr. Lacey does not even like me to entertain poor Helena, though the vicar and his wife are glad she has such a friend in me.
He is younger than I, yes, but what of it? We love, and we will love. Perhaps a daughter will come of it, to replace the son I must lose.
I turned the page and found it held the last entry. The time is nigh. I must steel myself. Oh, my boy. My poor, dear Gabriel.
The rest of the journal was blank. I sat, staring at the last page while the candles around me guttered.
My mother had been preparing to leave my father. Her words never openly stated it, while at the same time, they shouted it.
That she had wanted to leave should not surprise me. My father had made her miserable. What did surprise me, however, was that she'd wound herself into the courage to do it.
Or had she? I wish I knew the exact dates these entries had been written. She'd put the journal under the floorboards and never written in it again.
Because she'd grown sick and died? Or because she had run away, and my father had only claimed her dead?
The last thought made no sense. I'd attended her funeral. Someone must have ministered to her in her final illness. Helena Quinn, though she'd been a child at the time, had been close to her. Perhaps Helena would know.
How very convenient that Helena was not here.
And who had been this man with whom my mother had fallen in love, had loved so well that she'd convinced herself to turn her back on her husband and son? She never named him. She'd never even hinted. She'd been faithful to her unknown lover to the last.
I shut the book and clasped it to my chest, closing my eyes. This journal, which I'd bless Donata forever for finding, had brought me closer to my mother, and at the same time, had made her all the more distant.
Chapter Fifteen
I rose the next morning, sandy-eyed, and quite pessimistic about ever finding Cooper. However, I dressed, ate, and rode out again on the search.
I led three of Denis's men west and south toward Holt. We inquired everywhere we went, at farms, in villages, and of shepherds-men who moved back and forth through the valleys and saw everything and everyone. None, however, had seen a man answering to Cooper's description.
I decided to break away and make a brief visit to Lady Southwick, first to apologize for so rudely walking
