And she was gone.
Much divided in mind, I set off for Covent Garden Theatre.
The arched piazza leading to the theatre stretched along the northwest side of Bow Street, its soaring columns sheltering theatregoers, game girls, pickpockets, and servants from the April rain and wind. I walked among ladies and gentlemen dressed in the finest style as well as girls in tawdry gowns picked from secondhand stores or parish charities.
A lord descending from a carriage marked with a coat of arms was instantly surrounded by beggars with hands outstretched. The lord scattered a few pennies among them before he lifted his head and swept past them. His footman swatted at the group, telling them to clear off, then hopped back onto the coach and rattled away to no doubt drink and dice with the coachman.
I stopped to bow to a gentleman I recognized and then his wife, a large woman with feathers balancing atop a mass of gray curls. I had met the man through Grenville, and the three of us exchanged polite pleasantries. Just as the gentleman drew his wife on toward the doors of the theatre, someone hissed at me from the shadow of a pillar.
"Lacey!"
I waited until the gentleman and his lady had entered the theatre, then I peered into the darkness under the piazza.
"Marianne," I said. "What are you doing?"
She stepped from the shadow. She wore blue velvet trimmed with gold and silver tissue, and a bonnet with a long blue feather. She ruined this semblance of respectability by lurking behind the column like a street courtesan.
"Is he here?" she asked.
"I am to meet Grenville in his box, yes."
Her tone grew bitter. "He has come to see Mrs. Bennington. He suggested a gathering afterward with her to his friends. I heard him as he arrived."
"Did you hide here and spy on him?"
"Well, if I did not spy on him, I would never know where he was, would I?" she said heatedly. "He has not come to see me for days. He does not even write me, and his servants are useless for information."
"He and I spent the last two days in Epsom. At a funeral, if you must know. It was not a frivolous outing."
"He might have been plowing a field, for all he told me. And now, he arrives, sweet as you please, to ogle Mrs. Bennington in yet another performance."
I remembered Grenville's evasiveness about Mrs. Bennington. I did not want to lie to reassure Marianne, but she was becoming most obsessed about the subject.
"Grenville invited me tonight so that I'd have a chance to speak to more of the guests from the Gillises' ball," I said.
Marianne stepped closer to me. "If you'd like to know something interesting, he seemed quite keen to go to that ball. Kept saying there was something he had to do there."
My interest perked. "Did he? He seems to have spoken to you a little about it, in any case."
"Mrs. Bennington was also there. I can imagine what he had in mind."
"Well, I cannot." I became aware of people glancing our way as they passed, of their raised brows and disdainful looks. "I must go in, Marianne. Go home and cease lurking under pillars. Someone might mistake your intentions."
"I believe I will stay," she retorted. "I will be interested to see what direction he takes when he leaves-and with whom."
"You'll catch cold. Go and wait in my rooms if you cannot bring yourself to go home. I know you have a key. Bartholomew has the fire hot. If he is there, you can interrogate him about Grenville's motives, if you wish, though I imagine he knows not much more than I do."
Marianne scowled. "Gentlemen so enjoy giving orders."
"I know better than to expect you to obey. Use my rooms if you want to keep warm; if not, wait out here in the rain, and follow him as you please."
Her expression darkened. Marianne stepped back into the shadow of the column, but she leaned there and did not walk away.
I left her and entered the theatre.
Grenville's box was located almost directly above the stage, where the viewers could look down on the drama below as well as see who waited in the wings. Comfortable mahogany chairs stood in two rows with tables between them for lorgnettes or gloves or glasses of claret and brandy.
The box was filled with gentlemen tonight, not a lady in sight, which made it, in my opinion, rather dreary. But I was interested enough in the gentlemen present to tolerate the absence of female company.
An empty chair waited next to Grenville, I assumed for me. Grenville introduced me all around, beginning with Basil Stokes.
Mr. Stokes was tall and white haired. As usual in a man of his age, he had a large belly from years of consuming at least a bottle a day of port, but he did not have the usual gout. He had a booming voice, and, when he greeted me, heads throughout the theatre turned in our direction.
Stokes was from Hampshire, which, he assured me, afforded excellent hunting and fishing if I ever wanted to take the trouble. He laughed loudly and made a comment about the large bosom of an actress who had just entered the stage.
The actress, indeed a buxom young lady, heard him. She simpered, and the audience guffawed.
Mr. Bennington was a complete contrast to Stokes. He was about my age, an inch or two shorter than I was, and very lean, as though he ate sparingly and drank little. He had a long face and a longer expression, a man devoted to sardonic observation. His handshake was rather limp.
"Pleased to meet you, my dear Captain Lacey. Have you come to watch my wife stun the masses of London again?" He said it with no pride, only a drawl of resignation.
"I have seen her perform," I said. "She is a lady of great talent."
"Oh, yes, indeed," Mr. Bennington said. "Her reputation is well deserved."
I thought I heard a slight emphasis on the word reputation, but I could not be certain.
The other gentlemen in the box were club fodder, gentlemen I'd met in passing while visiting Grenville or going with him to Tattersall's or Gentleman Jackson's boxing rooms. They greeted me with varying degrees of enthusiasm, some warm, some indifferent, each making a polite comment or two.
We settled down to watch the performance, which was already well into the first act. As usual, the restless audience talked amongst themselves, shouted to the actors, drank and ate.
In our box, the conversation turned to sport, namely pugilism and the best exhibition fighters. I leaned to Grenville and apologized under my breath for being late.
"Not at all," he said. "I take it some new twist in the investigation?"
"No. Marianne Simmons."
Grenville started. "I beg your pardon?"
"She accosted me under the piazza outside," I said.
Grenville's mouth hardened. "Why the devil is she under the piazza outside?"
"She must be gone by now. I told her to go to my rooms and get warm."
Grenville's body stiffened and his gaze became fixed. He brought one closed fist to his mouth. "Damnation."
Below us, the audience began to applaud, then to stamp, then to cheer, as the lovely Mrs. Bennington glided onto the stage. She waited, poised and gracious, while London adored her.
Grenville rose from his chair and woodenly made for the door of the box. In alarm, I followed him, excusing myself to the other gentlemen. I heard murmurs below as people noticed Grenville's abrupt exit.
Outside the box, the halls were deserted. Grenville swiftly walked away from me. By the time I reached the stairs, he'd already gone down, flinging himself out of the theatre without stopping for his hat and coat.
I went in pursuit, leaving the relative warmth of the theatre for the cold wind and rain of the night.
Marianne had not gone. Just as I entered the piazza, Grenville yanked her out from behind a pillar. I heard him begin, "What the devil?"
I quickly stepped to them. "Do not begin an altercation in front of the theatre, I beg you," I said to Grenville. "It will be all over England by morning if you do. Take Marianne and have things out in my rooms. They are a short walk from here."