Gibbon halted on his way to the pantry, brow furrowed. “Then the murderin' louts will be disappointed, sir, for they shan't be admitted here.” He drew a letter from a silver salver. “Speaking of Mr. Taylor, this come round from Great Ormond Street about an hour ago. Private messenger.”
Fitzgerald took the envelope; the direction was penned in an unfamiliar handwriting.
“What is it?” Georgie asked as he entered the sitting room.
“A note from Sep's doctor.” His eyes flicked up to meet hers. “The skull is fractured. But the sawbones says he's not without hope of eventual recovery—”
He broke off, crumpled the note in his fist, and tossed it into the flames. “God, I'm in want of a drink.”
“Had the blow been going to kill Sep, it should probably have done so well before you even found him,” she said gently. “He's fortunate you did.”
“If the man dies, Georgie, I swear—”
“He will not die.”
“If he dies,” he repeated with sudden savagery, “that's two lives we put down to your German princeling's account. And by all that's merciful—”
“He's not my German princeling.”
“—yours won't be the third life he takes.”
Gibbon appeared in the doorway with sherry. Fitzgerald tossed off a glass, though he'd have preferred good Irish whiskey. He knew this feeling, as though the slightest pressure might cause him to snap; it invariably preceded one of his momentous rages.
She waited until the valet quitted the room to say, “I have decided to trust you, Patrick.”
“You'll leave London tonight?”
“I will go to a hotel, if Gibbon will be so good as to secure me a room—and thence to my cousin's home in Hertfordshire. It is nearly Christmas, after all—I might spend the interval among family . . .” She broke off. “You do not look as though you approve! I thought you would pay me vast compliments, Patrick, on my humility and good sense!”
Abruptly, he set down his glass; the crystal clanged like a bell. “Georgie— Forgive me, darlin', but I cannot let you out of my sight. The key to this coil is in your hands—and if I'm to unravel it, you must help me.”
“What do I know of Windsor that you do not? It was you the Queen summoned last night, Patrick.”
“Those letters. Why should the thieves take them, above all else?”
She did not reply. There was mutiny in her looks, as though Fitzgerald had trespassed on private ground.
“You did not summon the police,” he persisted, “though your house was robbed and your things were destroyed.”
“Of course I did not inform the police.” She said it scornfully. “You have yet to report the coachman's murder, though you fear murder was done.”
She was too protective, too combative, for a woman whose home had been plundered. Jealousy flared in Fitzgerald's gut. “Were they von Stühlen's letters? Bound up in pink ribbon? Are you in love with the rogue, Georgiana?”
“How dare you,” she retorted, her fists clenching. Her fine grey eyes sparked with sudden contempt.
“I will know,” Fitzgerald said through his teeth.
“By what right? You don't own me, Patrick. You're not even my guardian! You're a man I keep about me on sufferance—to honour the wish of one who is dead. But if you try to rule me, so help me God, Patrick Fitzgerald—”
Her words cut as cleanly and deeply as one of her lancets. He wanted to cry out that he loved her, that he'd ever loved only her, that from the time she was a wee lass he'd watched her grow in strength and intellect and beauty as though she were meant only for him, for his arms and his bed and his delight—and now she had scorned him. A man I keep about me on sufferance. Why stay at heel then, tugging on her leash? —So that she could use his blind, doglike devotion to keep other hunters at bay? His passion for her clouding his senses, while she pursued bigger game? Was she holding out for that dandyish German count to marry her?
She saw that he was stunned. A ready flush suffused her delicate skin and for an instant, remorse flooded her eyes. But she did not run to him, as she might have done at seventeen. She merely bit her lip and clasped her arms under her breasts, as though suddenly chilled.
“I did not mean that. Patrick—I should not have said such ugly things. You have been my dearest friend, my dearest . . .”
“Slave.”
Her lips compressed. “I am sorry. What I said was unforgivable. It is just that you assume a right—”
“—I have no right to assume,” he finished. “Granted. It's become a habit in me to offer advice—though the Lord knows you never take it. But as a lawyer, my fine girl, I'd say those letters were stolen for one of two reasons. To be destroyed, by one who fears them—or used, by a canny blackmailer. Which are we to expect in the coming days?”
She studied his angry face, the self-control he was barely managing. Fitzgerald could see her striving for balance: so much weight of argument on this side, so much on that. The scales of justice.
“Very well,” she said at last. “I will tell you. The stolen letters were written by the Prince Consort. You understand now my reticence. I would not expose His Royal Highness to the impertinence of strangers if he lived—and shall never do so, now that he is dead.”
“I'm afraid,” Fitzgerald returned with bitter irony, “the time for discretion is over. Your letters are gone. You can no more conceal their existence now than you can raise Albert from the grave.”
They stood for a moment in utter silence, Georgie's hands defiantly on her hips, as though she intended to do battle. The enemy, however, was beyond her reach. Fitzgerald had no intention of serving as proxy.
“Is there scandal in the letters?” he demanded. “Is that why a body went the length of stealing them?”
“Scandal? They were almost entirely about the nature of the London poor!”
Fitzgerald made a sharp sound of annoyance, unable to believe her, and threw up his hands.
“Prince Albert honoured me,” she said with difficulty, “by soliciting my opinions on a range of subjects. The condition of housing, for example—he had designed a model tenement himself, for the use of charitable organizations. Or reform of the waterworks, and the construction of Mr. Bazalgette's new system of sewers—you will have seen the works of the tunnels presently being undertaken . . . the Middle Levels near Piccadilly are actually complete. I toured them in the Consort's party only a few weeks ago—”
“Sewers,” Fitzgerald repeated sardonically.
“They are vitally important, Patrick,” she persisted. “Recollect that Uncle John established that the transmission of cholera is through tainted water; indeed, were it not for his researches, I am sure Bazalgette should never have been commissioned to embark on this massive reform—or at least, not in my lifetime. It requires an Englishman to fear for his life before he will consider of his drains. Prince Albert wished me to consult with Mr. Bazalgette regarding the sewers' outfall. They are far down the Thames, almost to the sea, where the chance of contamination with drinking water must be minimal. The various London waterworks are also undertaking programs of filtration, which should go far in improving public health.”
“Your Prince cared about public health?”
“He was intelligent enough to know the Crown would pay for trouble, soon or late,” she returned crisply. “Better sewers now, than an epidemic later. And water hit home—Buckingham Palace, to my knowledge, has some of the very worst in the city. And Windsor's drains are not to be spoken of. It is no wonder that he died of typhoid fever—it, too, is a disease of fouled water. Poor man.”
“Did the Prince seem ill, when you toured the Middle Levels?”