I could not argue with her. I had seen Grenville with his previous mistresses, all of whom had been famous in some way or other. Marianne had never landed parts larger than a chorus or a short walk-on, and she was by no means well known. I did not believe even Grenville understood what had brought about his fascination with Marianne.
"He has expressed no particular attraction to Mrs. Bennington," I said. "And he has told me of no special visits to her."
"That confirms it then. If he had nothing to hide, he would have confided in you."
"Or, he has nothing to confide, " I said.
"For God's sake, Lacey, I am not a fool. I know when a gentleman is tiring of me. Usually I am wise enough to leave when I see the first signs. This time, I've held on and hoped. I do not know why." Her words slowed, grew sad. "Perhaps because he is so wealthy."
I knew that was not her reason. Marianne's relationship with Grenville was complex, and I by no means understood it, but I sensed that beneath her hard-bitten cynicism, Marianne cared for him. I had seen evidence of that when Grenville had been hurt in Berkshire. Marianne had come to me, anguish in her eyes, and begged me to let her see him. She'd sat at his side, holding his hand, until he'd awakened.
I also knew that Grenville was a man easily bored. He might have grown tired of Marianne's willfulness and unpredictability and decided to find a less complicated woman with which to amuse himself.
I took the now-bloody handkerchief from her-a fine piece of lawn that Grenville must have given her-and dabbed at the abrasions myself.
"Have you given him a chance, Marianne? You are keeping secrets from him, and you never let him give you what he wants to give you."
"What he wants to give me is an entirely different life, without asking if that is the life I want. Without so much as a by-your-leave."
"Many a penniless actress would be pleased by the prospect."
"And many a penniless captain would be pleased at his offer to let you share his house or travel with him. And yet you decline."
I could not deny that. I was as proud as Marianne was. "I do have my own income, tiny as it is. But you have even less. Perhaps you had better reconsider."
"You mean that I should let him make me into the woman he wants me to be."
"I mean that you should stop antagonizing him. Grenville helps you because he feels charitable, and yes, he does pity you. And you punish him for it."
She snorted. "I am extremely grateful to you, Lacey. You have made me realize that you men will always defend one another, no matter what. You say that he is looking to Mrs. Bennington because I am angering him. Of course, it must be all my fault."
"I said nothing of the sort. You will drive me mad. The fault lies in both of you. You both have stubborn pride." I touched my face, feeling the bruises. "Grenville has said nothing to me about leaving you for Mrs. Bennington. And if he does try to cast you into the street, I will stop him."
Marianne cocked her head and observed me with her childlike gaze. "What can you do against him, Lacey? He is a powerful man. When he makes a pronouncement, even royalty listens. You may hold his interest now, but when you lose that, you will be nothing to him."
I knew the truth of this, but perhaps I had more faith in Grenville than she did. "I have seen evidence of his kind heart. He is not as callous as you would have him be."
Her eyes were as cool as ever, but I knew Marianne well, and I sensed the hurt in her. I could reassure her until my breath ran out, but both she and I knew that Grenville did what he liked for his own reasons.
"If I discover anything, I will tell you," I promised. "I agree that he should not keep you in the dark about Mrs. Bennington."
"Well, thank you for that anyway."
"I cannot blame him if he grows exasperated with you. You are a most exasperating woman."
"He has power," she said. "I have none. I am only getting back a little of my own."
The door banged open. I leapt to my feet, and so did Marianne, both of us expecting the return of the Frenchman. But it was only Bartholomew, balancing a covered dish and two tankards. He caught sight of me, and his jaw sagged.
I sprang forward and rescued the plate. "Do not drop my dinner, Bartholomew, for heaven's sake. I am hungry." I put the platter safely on a table and took the tankards from him.
"Good Lord, sir." He looked me up and down then glanced at Marianne. "Did she have a go at you?"
Marianne looked affronted. "Of course not, you lummox."
I quickly told Bartholomew about the Frenchman. Bartholomew, growing excited, wanted nothing more than to dash out and scour the city for him then and there.
I stopped him. "He did not find what he came to find, so he will no doubt show himself again. He has a distinctive appearance. We will find him."
I did not say so, but I had the feeling that Imogene Harper would know good and well who this Frenchman was. If he'd stolen her letters to Brandon, he must have had good reason to do so. He could be her friend or a lover-even her husband. Mrs. Harper had left the Peninsula four years ago, after all, and had only recently come to London. She could have done many things during that time.
"Do run to Bow Street," I told Bartholomew as I uncovered the beefsteak he'd brought me. "Tell Pomeroy to watch out for a lean Frenchman with close-cropped hair. The man may next try to search Mrs. Harper's rooms, or Turner's, or even Turner's father's house in Epsom."
"Of course, sir." Bartholomew's eyes were animated. He tugged his forelock and ran off, leaving me with Marianne and a quickly cooling dinner.
I shared the beefsteak with Marianne. Never one to forgo a free meal, she ate but did so in silence. We did not mention Grenville or Mrs. Bennington again.
Marianne departed before Bartholomew returned. She did not tell me where she was going, and I did not ask. She was angry and worried, and somehow, I did not blame her.
Marianne was correct when she said that Grenville could wash his hands of me whenever he wished and that I could do nothing against him. But I did not care. The threat of losing his patronage would not hold my tongue if he had been betraying Marianne. I had seen men change mistresses before, but I felt protective of Marianne, perhaps because I knew how vulnerable she truly was, despite her hard-nosed approach to life.
I finished my meal and, as it was nearing four o'clock, remembered my promise to call upon Lady Breckenridge.
I looked at myself in the dusky mirror above my washstand and winced. The left side of my face was puffed and bruised, and a cut creased my right cheekbone. My lip had split, and dried blood stained my chin. I was sore and stiff, and my knee felt as though it were wrapped in bands of fire.
I was in no fit state to visit a lady. I soaked a handkerchief in water and continued to clean my face. It was a slow, tricky business, every touch stinging.
I made myself ready for the visit anyway. I very much wanted to put together the pieces of Turner's murder before Brandon could be tried. When the wheels of justice turned, they turned swiftly. Brandon's trial could come up before a week was out, and only days after that, he could be hanged or transported. Louisa would be shamed and disgraced, and likely abandoned by everyone she knew, excluding myself and Lady Aline.
I refused to let Brandon bring that sorrow upon his wife. I would find the killer and release Brandon, whether he liked it or not.
My other reason for resolving to visit Lady Breckenridge as planned was that I simply wanted to see her.
Since our first discordant meeting in Kent, Lady Breckenridge and I had become friends of a sort. She had helped me during the affair of the Glass House and the problem of Lady Clifford's necklace, and she'd had given me a new walking stick when my old one had been lost.