"Thank you for letting me come."
Her fingers were cool on mine. "You comfort me. You cannot know how much."
We shared a look. Her eyes were gray as winter skies.
"You have comforted me so often," I said softly. "How could I not return the favor?"
The clock on the mantel struck the hour. I caressed the backs of her fingers. She looked swiftly away and withdrew her hand.
"About Aloysius," she said.
I sat back. "Please do not lecture to me about reconciling with him, Louisa. His actions this past week have put reconciliation further away, if anything."
"If he did not care for you so deeply, you could not hurt him so much."
I folded my arms. I was not ready to feel great depths of sympathy for Aloysius Brandon. My last encounter with him had all but unraveled our tense politeness. The next time we met, the gloves would be off, much like they'd been when I'd boxed Breckenridge.
"I think you misread him," I said.
"No, I think you do. I still remember what he was like when I first met him. He was a great man, full of fire and able to inspire that fire in others. You felt it."
"Yes," I had to say.
"The fire has dimmed a little, and disappointment has tarnished him. But it is still there, Gabriel, deep inside. He is a man others will live for. That is the man I stand by."
I could not argue with her. When I'd first met Aloysius Brandon, I had been rather dazed by him. I had just reconciled myself to go on living with my martinet father until he died, bearing his tantrums and his beatings, my life bleak and predictable. And then this man, this astonishing man, had told me I could have a life, a career, honors if I wanted them. All I had to do was follow him.
He had compelled me to return to my father, tell him I had volunteered in the King's army, and that I, his only son, was leaving him. That interview had become eight hours of stormy shouting, violent threats, and broken furniture. In the end, I'd flung myself from the house, vowing never to enter it again.
I'd joined Brandon, who had listened with sympathy to my woes. Later, just before we embarked on the ship that would take us to India, he had introduced me to his bride, Louisa.
Life had not been kind to her. I clasped her hand again. As she chatted to me of the boardinghouse and the people she had met here, I wished with all my heart I could change that for her.
Chapter Sixteen
I spent the following weeks in an odd mood. On the one hand, I could not shake a feeling that I was ineffectual, a spinning wheel going nowhere. The identity of Westin's murderer eluded me, as did evidence of Captain Spencer's killer. Nor was I any closer to proving who had murdered Breckenridge.
I had not seen or spoken to Lord Richard Eggleston since the incident. I had tried on two occasions to make an appointment with him, but was told firmly by his secretary that he was seeing no one while mourning the death of his friend.
I likewise had no luck questioning Brandon about events in Kent. He refused point blank to see me. He once shut the door in my face himself, and I could only leave his doorstep, muttering choice curses under my breath.
Grenville and I met occasionally to discuss things, while Anton brought us dishes both unusual and delicious. Grenville had tried to meet the elusive Sir Edward Connaught, but he had not been able to find the man. Connaught had left town for the summer, the caretaker of his London house had informed Grenville. Letters to his country house went unanswered.
The newspapers, at least, had tired of taunting me and moved on to bread riots in Seven Dials. London grew hotter still, and I slept with my windows wide open, praying for a breeze or cooling rain.
On the other hand, my mind was much relieved by knowing Louisa was safe. My heart ached for her sorrow, but as promised, I said not a word to her husband, a promise made easier by his refusal to speak to me.
And then, I had Lydia. While part of me puzzled over her husband's past and berated me for not knowing the answers, the rest of me rejoiced in her.
She was a lady like no other. I spent countless time tangled in her black hair, touching her skin, breathing her in. Her smile made all the hurt go away, even deep hurts that had tucked themselves into my heart for years.
I do not know if I soothed her as she soothed me, but when she kissed me, her lips were gentle and warm, and when she slept beside me, her breathing was deep and even, without distress.
William aided and abetted our secret affair. Because she was newly in mourning, Lydia did not go to the opera or theatre or balls, such places that lovers might meet, and in any case, it was high summer and entertainments were few. We met in the afternoons, lying together in the sunlight of her bedchamber, dozing in the white heat while carriages rumbled past in the street. Climbing roses bloomed at the window then wilted in the heat and dust.
William ever made certain that the other servants were well occupied with duties below stairs before Lydia and I ascended to her rooms, or I departed later. He delivered Lydia's letters to me and took mine to her-we exchanged billets doux like cozy lovers in a farce. He performed these errands with childlike glee, seemingly happy that Lydia and I were conducting a tawdry liaison.
She and I were the tenderest of lovers, even going so far as to exchange tokens and locks of hair. She had given me a ribbon to wear inside my coat and I had given her one of my handkerchiefs. She wore it about her person, she assured me with a sly smile, but would not tell me where.
She purchased a small enamel snuffbox for me, blushing when she presented it, saying that she had no idea of an appropriate gift for a lover. I kept it with my most prized treasures, and then scraped money together to buy a thin gold chain for her slender ankle.
Even Billings let us alone. I encountered him only once, while hiring a hackney in Hanover Square to take me home early one evening. He emerged from a bakery not far from me, a loaf under his arm.
"Ah, Captain," he hailed me. "Have your feet firmly planted under the Westin table, do you?"
"I will have my foot firmly planted on your backside if you do not go away," I answered. He only laughed and moved on.
My investigation into the murder at Badajoz continued, but slowly. Eggleston refused to see me; Breckenridge was dead and could tell no more tales. Grenville was, of course, making vain attempts to contact Sir Edward Connaught. I met with the Spencer brothers again, but they had not been able to convey much more to me. John Spencer was particularly surly.
But for Lydia, I would have found those summer days hot and frustrating.
I did not return to see Louisa, much as I wanted to. She needed to heal, alone, she'd said, and I would respect that. But I did want very much to ask her advice on one matter. As my affair with Lydia deepened, I seriously contemplated the step of marrying her.
I thought it through during my wakeful nights after I left her afternoon bed. I had found a quiet happiness with her, despite the dark questions that ever hovered round us.
Lydia had given me a second reason to contemplate it. She had quietly told me, four weeks into our affair, that she believed she was increasing. I was not surprised, we had had been passionate without much restraint. She looked worried when she had whispered the news, as though she feared I would grow angry, or blame her, or end the affair.
In truth, the news affected me strangely. I was glad, and I told her so. She had provided me with an excuse to face what I had so long refused to face, but once confronting these things, I would be free of them. I told her I would marry her.