She meant Lady Breckenridge, an aristocratic lady of rather blunt opinions, with whom I had formed an affection. More than an affection.
After the murder in Berkeley Square in April, I'd gone to Lady Breckenridge, told her the truth about my marriage, and revealed that I wanted to court her. Lady Breckenridge, the least shockable lady of my acquaintance, including even Marianne, had taken the news of my estranged wife stoically. I'd confessed everything, and incredibly, Lady Breckenridge had understood. Having gone through a miserable marriage herself, she perhaps had some sympathy for me.
After my declaration, I had taken her hand and led her into her bedchamber. We'd spent the rest of the afternoon learning each other's bodies in her bed and letting the warmth between us grow.
I'd not had opportunity to see much of her since, her life during the height of the Season being a whirlwind of social gatherings and obligations. Even so, gossip coupled our names, somewhat disapprovingly. Lady Breckenridge, daughter of an earl and widow of a viscount, was worlds above a half-pay captain, son of an untitled nobody, albeit my father had been a landed gentleman of Norfolk.
"This is awkward for you," Marianne said.
The plain statement from anyone but Marianne might imply glee at my plight. From Marianne, it meant compassion.
"Divorce is a difficult thing," I said. "I've looked into the matter in some detail. To divorce Carlotta, I must accuse her of adultery and drag her through several courts, then ask for a private Act of Parliament to dissolve the marriage. A long, expensive, embarrassing process."
"Has she committed adultery?"
"Oh, yes. She left me in France and has lived there ever since with the French officer who stole her away. They dwell idyllically near Lyon, and she's borne him several children."
"There you are, then, rush her to trial. I imagine he would help you with the expense. He does so like to arrange people's lives for them."
I remembered something Carlotta had said when I'd stood there staring at her: He would make the appointment. Who? Grenville? Her French officer? James Denis, who'd discovered her whereabouts in the first place?
"Grenville would likely assist with the cost if asked," I conceded. "But Mrs. Lacey was never a strong woman. Making her face hostile juries who will condemn her as an adulteress might break her. I no longer love her, but I cannot wish such an ordeal on her."
"You are far too kindhearted, Lacey."
"Not really. There is my daughter to consider. Though I will fight to get her back, a divorce would hurt Gabriella as well. Any taint on her family will be a taint on her." I paused. "She does not know that I am her father."
Marianne's eyes widened. "Your wife never told her?"
"It would appear not."
Marianne gave me a look of deep sympathy. "How awful. Are you going to tell her?"
I took a long drink of brandy. "Yes, but not yet." I traced the facets of Grenville's heavy crystal goblet. "My life, as usual, is a tangle."
"As is mine."
I looked up, remembering that she had not sought me out to discuss my troubles. "You wanted to speak to me about something? Grenville, I assume. I thought he had loosened the leash a bit."
Marianne poured herself another helping of brandy. "I want to go to Berkshire."
"Ah." I had discovered, earlier this spring, that Marianne Simmons had a son, a halfwit boy she'd borne years ago and kept in a cottage in the Berkshire countryside. A kindly woman looked after both cottage and son, and Marianne traveled to see them when she could. She'd spent almost everything she'd earned as an actress plus any money or trinkets she could coerce gentlemen into giving her on the keeping of the boy, David.
When Grenville had first met Marianne, he'd handed her twenty guineas. She'd promptly and secretly sent the money to Berkshire, and Grenville had gone slightly mad trying to decide what had happened to his gift.
I had learned Marianne's secret by chance when I'd stayed in Berkshire at the Sudbury School in March. She'd made me swear to tell no one, especially not Grenville. I had no desire to interfere between Grenville and Marianne, and so kept my silence.
"You have not spoken to him of David, yet," I said.
"No, and you know why. As I've just declared, he enjoys arranging people's lives for them. He would try to take David away from the home he's always known to lock him away somewhere, however plush, and hire hordes of people to look after him. David would be frightened. I cannot let that happen."
She spoke determinedly, but her eyes held worry.
I could not reassure her that Grenville would do no such thing, because though I'd known him a few years now, I could not predict the things that Grenville might do. Lucius Grenville was one of the wealthiest and popular men in England. He was intelligent, generous, gossipy, curious, friendly, and frank-although he could turn his cool, sardonic man-about-town personality on those of whom he disapproved and destroy them socially with one quirk of his eyebrow. Gentlemen in clubs all over London feared the cold scrutiny of his black eyes, trembled when he raised a quizzing glass, and went pale when he dismissed them in his chill voice.
It was telling that the two people he claimed to like best, myself and Marianne, were the two people who did not stand in awe of his power. Both of us, coming from very different walks of life, had seen too much and experienced too much to fear Grenville's scorn. He found us baffling, and therefore, fascinating.
But that assessment was unjust. Grenville did have a generous heart and truly wished to help, although he could be heavy-handed about it. He did not know how not to be.
"You need to tell him," I said gently. "Give him a chance."
"I came to ask you to tell him, while I am away in Berkshire. And then send me word whether to bother to come home or not."
"It is no business of mine," I said quickly. Ever since Grenville had taken Marianne to live with him, I had strived to stay out of their lives, but in vain. Both of them liked to confide their frustrations about the other to me-at length.
"I have considered this well, you know," Marianne said. "If I tell him before I go, he will try to prevent me. If I am in Berkshire when he finds out, and he reacts as I predict, I can simply stay there with David. I do not want his disapprobation to keep me from my son. I have saved enough of the money he's given me, plus the bits of jewelry he's given me, to live on for a good while. Unless he sets the magistrates on me… Although I do not think he would. Too embarrassing for him."
While I agreed with her assessment of Grenville's character, I could not let her simply run off and try to live on Grenville's gifts. "Tell him, for God's sake. I can be present when you do, and do my best to stop him disrupting David's life."
She looked stubborn. "You have just told me that you were prevented seeing your daughter for fifteen years. I thought you would have more sympathy."
"Sympathy, yes. But I am not your conspirator against Grenville. You are fond of Grenville; I know you are. Can you not show him that?"
"Heavens, Lacey, I know better than to let on to a gentleman that I like him. They take advantage, you know."
I rose to my feet. "Your ideas on how ladies and gentlemen behave to one another are your own. I cannot agree with them, but I know I cannot change your mind. You may finish the brandy if you like. I must go to Bow Street."
"Consulting with the magistrates again, are you?" Marianne reached for the bottle.
"An errand."
She was too shrewd for me. "If you hire a Runner to watch that your wife does not slip away, you will be as bad as Grenville. He threatened to do the same to me, remember?"
I well recalled the incident. When I had taken the post at the Sudbury School, Marianne had disappeared from Grenville's house, and he'd wanted to take England apart to find her. I had dissuaded him from this action only because I happened to know where Marianne had gone.