"I still think we could have chirped along quite nice in this nest, you and me, but I ain't sorry I went to Islington. Now, who were these girls?"
I sat down and told Nancy what Thompson and Pomeroy had told me about the two girls. As I talked, Nancy lifted her pint of ale and slurped it noisily. She gave me a nod when I finished. "Could be they found someone new. But I'll dig up some of me old pals and have a gab. Can I listen in when you talk to this sailor chap? I'll know how he treated her if I hear what he has to say-whether she scarpered or really is in trouble."
"Tomorrow afternoon at the Rearing Pony. I do not know what hour yet."
"You send your slavey around to Mrs. Brandon's to fetch me. That's where I'm sleeping of nights for now." She looked thoughtful. "Mrs. Brandon seems a bit low. I'm cheering her up."
I blenched, wondering what Nancy thought would cheer Louisa. "She went through much when her husband was in Newgate."
"Aye, I know so. She's that pleased with you for sorting it all out."
I wondered. That episode had revealed many of Colonel Brandon's sins, and I'd left Louisa uncertain whether she could forgive him. Brandon had walked firmly into the mess himself, but my poking and prying had revealed much that both he and Louisa would have preferred to remain hidden.
Nancy drained the last of her ale and wiped her mouth. "I'll be taking my leave then, if you're not offering me a bed."
I gave her an admonishing look. "I will find you a hackney."
She cackled with laughter. "A hackney? Ain't we fine ladies and gents. I can go on me own. I'll look up me pals on the way. Course, some of them won't speak to me, like as not, since I've landed on me feet."
"Not when girls have been vanishing from the dark of Covent Garden. Look up your pals during the day."
"They're asleep during the day. Deserve to rest, don't they? I've been tramping these streets since I was a tyke, Captain. I know me way about."
"You're not a tyke any longer, nor are you a game girl. Respectable maids do not wander about dark London byways at night. I will fetch you a coach."
She flashed a grin and peeped at me from under her lashes. "Sure you don't want a bed warmer, Captain?"
"You flatter me, Nance, but you are still the same age as my daughter." Thinking of Gabriella made me falter. I had once worried that she'd become like Nancy, selling her body in order to buy bread. That she'd grown into a fine young woman as innocent and well cared for as any English lady made me shaky with relief. Whatever her mother had done to me, she'd not punished Gabriella.
Nancy lost her smile, came close to me, and put her hand on my shoulder. "Aw, Captain, I know you're worried about her."
"It is not that. I have discovered that she is well."
A look of genuine pleasure entered her eyes. "I'm that glad, Captain. Truly I am."
As was I. I held on to that thought as I saw Nancy down the stairs and to a hackney waiting at a stand in Bow Street. The coachman leered at me as I gave him coin, no doubt believing I was sending my bit of muslin home. Nancy did not help matters by flinging her arms around me and kissing my cheek as I lifted her up into the coach.
"You're a fine gentleman, Captain." The coachman cracked his whip and the carriage sprang forward. Nancy stuck her head out of the window. "Always said so, didn't I?"
The horse's hooves threw sparks in the darkness as the coach skidded around the corner. Black Nancy's laughter floated back at me, more merriment than I'd heard on this street in a long time.
I awoke early next morning after a bad night. Bartholomew drew a bath for me and shaved me while I lay in the cooling water and reviewed my dreams. I'd dreamed of small Gabriella running about camp, her golden hair tangled and her little feet filthy with mud. I'd carried her about on my shoulders, proudly displaying her to all and sundry, until my men had started calling me Lieutenant Nursemaid. I never minded.
Speaking with Gabriella yesterday had proved one thing: I still loved her desperately.
My morning correspondence included a note from Thompson, who fixed the appointment with the sailor he wanted me to interview for one o'clock. No doubt the man would expect me to buy him dinner.
James Denis's coach called for me at nine. The carriage, with its parquetry and velvet cushions, was as opulent as anything Grenville owned, except that no coat of arms reposed on its polished black door.
I sat in the splendor alone, in my regimentals, which had been brushed and carefully cleaned by Bartholomew. I could have chosen to wear my best frock coat, but for some reason, I'd wanted to remind Carlotta exactly who I was and what I had been most of my life.
London traffic, always thick, seemed particularly difficult this morning. We traveled slowly through Pall Mall to St. James's and waited for a long time while a broken coach in St. James's Street was hauled out of the way, the horses cut from their tangled traces.
The tall houses on this street were the abodes of bachelor gentlemen, all likely snoring hard in their bedchambers above. They would not rise until late morning and then saunter to their clubs in early afternoon. The traffic at this moment consisted of servants and workmen and all the people who earned their living catering to the wealthy of St. James's and Mayfair.
Once we started again, we rolled past White's, its bow window empty this early, and turned to Piccadilly. The coach rattled past Burlington House and its columned entrance, near which the young man that Brandon had supposedly
killed had taken rooms. We turned up Half Moon Street, then to Curzon Street, and traversed its length to number 45.
My throat tightened as Denis's footman helped me from the carriage. Denis's house was plain on the outside, its facade betraying nothing of the vast wealth within. The hall inside was like the carriage, unadorned, but obviously costly. He'd left the house in the airy Adams style-white paneling, black accents, marble tile, straight-legged satinwood furniture, the walls hung with expensive and masterful paintings.
I followed the footman, a former pugilist by the bulk of him, up the stairs and to Denis's study.
I'd entered this room many times in the last year and a half since I'd had my first appointment with James Denis. As with the floor below, he'd furnished it sparsely, but with elegant furniture-a mahogany desk, bare but for a few sheets of carefully placed paper, a bookcase between the windows, a half-round table holding brandy and cups, two Louis XV chairs in front of the desk for visitors.
Today, he'd brought in a Turkish sofa as extra seating. As usual, another former pugilist stood near the window.
My wife was seated on the sofa, dressed in a well-tailored dress, holding a cup of tea and a saucer. Major Auberge sat next to her, minus the teacup. He'd chosen civilian dress, a plain frock coat and trousers and shoes, nothing of the army about him at all.
Denis rose from behind his desk. He was nearly as tall as I was, dark-haired and long-faced. Denis was barely in his thirties, but the chill in his blue eyes was that of a much older man. I wondered, not for the first time, what his life had been before this, and what had made him into the ruler of the underworld that he was. He had most of the London magistrates in his pocket with few exceptions. Any criminal who tried to cross him found himself quickly and mercilessly dealt with.
Denis and I had an uneasy truce, forged after he'd had me trussed up and beaten as a warning not to interfere with him. Since then he'd helped me solve murders, but with the understanding that he wanted me beholden to him for his help. He'd decided to tame me not with violence but with obligation. For this reason, he'd hunted up my wife in France and had her brought over to face me.
"Captain," he greeted me with a neutral expression. I bowed just as neutrally.
My daughter was nowhere in evidence. "Where is Gabriella?" I asked Carlotta.