She watched me in growing dismay. She had wanted the three aristocrats to be the culprits, wanted it with her whole being. The possibility that Breckenridge or Eggleston or Connaught had nothing to do with it meant that she might have made a grave mistake.
"I must agree with Mr. Allandale on one point," I said gently. "Perhaps you should go to the country. Stay with your daughter and brother. I will write you of anything I find."
She shook her head. "I am not ready yet. I would go mad in the country, waiting."
"Your daughter might need you."
She raised her hands in supplication. "Do not ask me, Captain. I cannot go. Chloe's uncle will look after her well."
"But the country might be safer for you. There is real possibility that someone closer to home killed your husband, as I suggested before. You should face that. William, for instance."
She stared at me in baffled outrage. "I have told you, that is impossible. William refuses to kill even insects. The idea that he might have hurt my husband is preposterous."
"But he is large and strong and could easily have struck your husband down. Or Millar could have done the same."
She shook her head, her eyes sparking anger. "Millar had been my husband's manservant for twenty years. He grieved and still does. And he and William are both devoted to me."
"Perhaps too devoted," I suggested. "Perhaps William saw that your life would be eased if your husband died."
She sprang from her chair and paced in agitation to the pianoforte. "No. Please stop this. He cannot have."
"Forgive me. I simply want no harm to come to you."
"I did not ask you to investigate my husband's death, Captain Lacey. I asked you to clear his name."
"I know. I cannot help myself. I want to be certain."
She swung on me, her head high. "Certain of what? You have no right to accuse my servants. How dare you?"
"I accuse them to stop myself from speaking something still more repugnant, from drawing a conclusion even Sergeant Pomeroy leapt to without prompting."
"What conclusion? What are you talking about?"
"Good lord, Lydia, have you not seen it? That you killed him yourself."
Her face flashed white with shock. "What?"
I went on remorselessly. "You most easily of all could have crept into your husband's chamber and stabbed him while he lay abed. The servants were asleep; who would notice you move from your bedroom to his? And then in the morning you pretend to find him and swear your servants to silence on the matter."
She stared. "How can you say these things to me?"
"Because they might just be true."
Her look turned furious. "They are not."
She moved as though to flee the room. I stepped in front of her.
"No? What was he to you? You had no marriage; you admitted so yourself. He was about to bring disgrace to you and your daughter, and his friends disgusted you. If he died, you would be spared an ordeal, and if you could push the deed onto the foul Breckenridge, so much the better."
I could not still my tongue. My fears were pouring from me, words spilling into the still room.
"If I am so clever," she flashed, "why on earth did I tell you all?"
"Because when I helped you on the bridge, you saw a chance to move your plan along. You saw that you could stir me to pity, that you could make me do anything you pleased. That I would scramble to cast the blame on your husband's disgusting colleagues, anything to keep them from you and the taint from your name. You must have seen how easily I'd promise you anything."
I ran out of breath. She stared at me, lips parted. A slight draft of air stirred the tapes of her cap.
I eased my hands open. "You see," I said, lowering my voice. "You are barely a widow, and I make declarations that I should not. I take the unpardonable liberty of speaking your name, uninvited. And who am I? A nobody, here on your leave, hardly better than a servant."
She continued to stand still in shock, her gaze fixed on mine. "No." Her whisper was cracked. "Not a servant. A gentleman."
"Hardly, at this moment. I am ready to ask for what I do not deserve."
Color climbed in her cheeks. "And if I say you may have it freely?"
"Then I will count myself most blessed of men." I shook my head. "But I cannot ask it. I will go."
"No," she said quickly. "I was willing once before to grant it. Do you remember?"
How could I forget? I recalled her warm lips against mine, her arms about my neck; I had thought of the incident every day since it had happened.
"You were ill, and frightened. And a bit foxed, as I recall." I made a slight bow, my throat aching. "Forgive me. I will go."
"Please do not leave me alone, Gabriel." She held her hand palm out, as if pushing me away. "Not yet."
"Lydia." I could not stop myself saying her name again. The word filled my mouth, liquid and light. "If I stay…"
"Stay. Please."
She stood motionless until I came to her and gathered her into my arms. She leaned to my chest, and the clean scent of the lawn cap drifted to me as I pressed a kiss to it.
Her hold tightened, and she raised her face to mine. I kissed her. I tasted her lips, her brow, her throat, the lace at her neck.
"Gabriel," she whispered. "Please stay."
I kissed her again. I threaded my fingers into her dark hair, and her white cap loosened and fluttered to the floor like a fallen bird.
The warmth of her bed wrapped me in a comfort I had not known in many a year. I learned her that night in her chamber beneath silken bed hangings, learned the cool brush of her fingers, the scent of her skin, the taste of her mouth. I had not realized how starved I’d been; I was like a man who hadn’t known he was thirsty until given clear water to drink.
I sensed from her inexperienced caresses, her unpracticed kisses, that she’d not had a lover in many years. I scorned her fool of a husband as I gentled my touch for her. Even a man who could not complete the act could have pleasured a woman in myriad ways. Colonel Westin seemingly had not bothered to do so.
I liked the way we fit, her head tucked beneath my chin, my arm about her shoulders. She brushed her fingers over my face, smiling at the stiff bristles there. We lay together far into the night, warm and contented. I drifted in and out of sleep, not dreaming, simply dozing in blissful warmth.
At last in the cool hours of the morning I rose and dressed. She smiled sleepily as I kissed her good-bye and departed into the gray dawn.
Happiness settled over me. I knew it would not last, but I drank it in, savoring it for the time I could.
Covent Garden was quiet when I reached it, though a few street ladies still paraded. Black Nancy, a game girl Louisa had taken in to reform, was no longer there, but the others recognized me and greeted me raucously. I tipped my hat to them, my mood still sunny, and moved on to Grimpen Lane.
I reached the bake shop and let myself into the stuffy staircase hall.
Light footsteps hastened down to me. "Lacey!" Marianne said in a hoarse whisper. A wavering taper, likely one of mine, lit her face. Her eyes were wide. "Where the devil have you been?"
"Out," I answered laconically.
"There are men in your rooms, looking for you. Came banging on my door, asking where you were, about two hours ago. As if I take your particulars."
I glanced up the stairs. All was quiet. The painted shepherds and shepherdesses wavered under the glare of Marianne's candle.
I clasped the head of my cane. "They are up there now?"
"Yes. I tell you, you cannot fight all three, and they looked well able to throw you down the stairs."
"Who are they?"
"How the devil should I know? I have never seen them before."
"Let us find out, shall we?"