“Where on the Continent?” I asked. “France?”
Gautier shook his head. “I’d say something German. Bavaria, perhaps, or Bohemia or farther east than that. Jewelers there copy French styles but in a different way. They like heavier pieces but at the same time not so ostentatious. This is well made, expensive.”
“We’re looking for its owner,” Grenville said. “Would a jeweler in London know the piece? Even if it came from the Continent, perhaps the young lady or her family had it repaired at some point.”
Gautier tried but failed to mask his enthusiasm. “I will inquire, sir.”
“Good man. Lacey, I must attend this blasted soiree, but you will tell me everything tomorrow, won’t you?”
“Indeed. As soon as my wife releases me from the dungeon for disappearing from the opera and not returning.”
Grenville did not laugh. “Lacey, one thing you will learn about Donata is her equanimity. Every wife in the ton expects her husband will make himself scarce from her most of the time. I imagine she will take no notice of your absence.”
I was not so sanguine, but I thanked him for use of his cellars and promised I’d return the bones to Thompson.
“Not at all,” Grenville said. “Once I got over my shock, I knew of course that you were on a new adventure. But perhaps a note would be best next time, my dear fellow.”
***
I could not make my apologies to Donata for leaving her behind when I reached home, because she had not yet returned. I speculated that she would be more disappointed in me because she hadn’t been there for the surgeon’s assessment than because I had deserted her at the opera house. Donata had many friends and a lively nature, and she’d scarcely miss me.
Brewster, on the other hand, was there to greet me when I descended from the carriage.
“Captain,” he said. “You learn what you wanted?”
Bartholomew had the front door open, a fissure to warmth and light. I lingered in the dark fog. “I learned a great deal. I take it that you had something to do with the expedition?”
“Mayhap.” Brewster’s expression did not change. “We keep this ’atween you and me, Captain. His nibs don’t need to know.”
“Of course,” I said at once, but I was surprised. Denis’s minions rarely disobeyed him, and Brewster had been adamant about me not speaking to the surgeon. “Thank you,” I added. Brewster had done this favor for me at considerable risk to himself.
“Aye, well. Knew you wouldn’t let it rest, and would find trouble if you continued.” Brewster touched his hat. “Night, sir.”
“Good night. Give my best to your wife.”
“Yes, sir.” He remained stone-faced, and I could not tell if he were angry or pleased with my sentiment.
Brewster touched his hat again and faded into the shadows, and I entered the well-lit house.
As had become my habit, I ascended to the chambers of first Peter, then my daughter, making certain they slept and were well.
Peter was growing—he’d put on a few inches since I’d met him—and would soon move out of the nursery and into his own chamber. Not long after that, he’d begin school. It was to be Harrow for him, as it had been for me.
I straightened the covers over the sleeping boy, my stepson, and left the nursery.
Gabriella’s room lay on the same floor as the nursery, her windows overlooking the back garden. Her bedroom was a pleasing chamber—it held a bed with four delicate, tall posts draped with embroidered hangings, walls in a pale cream with plaster medallions in an elegant frieze, sconces dripping with faceted crystals, a chest of drawers and bedside tables with walnut burl veneer.
Gabriella slept with one arm flung across her pillow, her cheeks flushed. She breathed easily and deeply, the sleep of one with no troubles.
Donata and Aline were keen to marry her off, to make a brilliant match that would be a triumph for them. But for now Gabriella was my girl, lovely, good-natured, with a lively mind. I would hold on to her as long as I could.
I smoothed her covers as I had for Peter, carefully so as not to awaken her, and returned to my own chamber.
Bartholomew readied me for bed and asked me what the surgeon had told us. Apparently, his brother had already sent word about where I had been.
I related the tale, and Bartholomew listened with his usual interest. “We’re off again, are we?” he asked. “You will let me help, sir?”
The question was delivered in a tone of admonishment. He was not pleased he’d been left out of tonight’s consultation.
“Of course,” I assured him. “Finding this woman’s identity will be quite a puzzle. I have to wonder whether her absence was reported to the Runners, but Pomeroy may have some information in that regard. And we will again have to comb through the shops of London to find all we can about a necklace.”
“I’m your man,” Bartholomew promised. He paused in the act of carrying my clothes to the dressing room. “You will take me with you before you go off investigating, won’t you? Only, you do tend to rush headlong, sir, begging your pardon. And her ladyship, she’ll blame me if anything happens to you.”
I tied my warm dressing gown around me and gave him a severe look. “I would not dream of rushing headlong without you, Bartholomew. Now, good night.”
“Sir.” Bartholomew, looking pleased, retreated to the dressing room.
I settled myself by the fire to wait for Donata. I heard Bartholomew bustling about the dressing room as he put my clothes to rights, then silence as he at last slunk off to bed.
I indulged myself in a brandy and book. Donata had a small library, Grenville an extensive one, and the two between them kept me in reading material.
I liked books about history and the world best, and I was reading an account of Lord Elgin’s travels to ancient monuments. I was more fascinated at the moment by Egypt than Athens, but I admitted the wonders of Greece were astonishing.
Donata was often late returning home, so I did not worry when she remained absent at two, then three. At four, I began to wonder; at five, when the sun began to rise, I left my chair and paced. At six, the June morning already bright, I was in my dressing room, heaving on my clothes.
I banged down the stairs to the unguarded front door. A footman was usually on duty to admit visitors during the day, but he’d either still be rising from his bed or downstairs helping prepare the house for the morning.
Barnstable, hearing me, emerged from the sunny dining room where he and a footman were laying out the breakfast things. “Sir?”
“Did Lady Breckenridge come in last night?” I demanded. “Is she tucked away somewhere, asleep?”
Barnstable, who had a fork in his hand, blinked but did not look unduly worried. “She sometimes stays with Lady Aline, sir,” he said. “If she is out very late and does not wish to ride home alone.”
“I see.” My fears subsided the slightest bit but not very much.
“Shall I send someone to inquire, sir?”
“No, I’m dressed and will go myself. If she is well, I’ll escort her home.”
Barnstable’s rising brows signaled to me that he did not approve, but my agitated state put me beyond caring how crass Donata’s butler thought me.
I knew it was not the thing for a husband to go tearing across Mayfair looking for his wife, but trepidation gripped me, and I would not be easy until I found her. Donata would gaze at me crossly and tell me I deserved my worry for vanishing last night, but I would bear her annoyance as long as she was well.
I conceded to let Barnstable call for the coach. Donata’s lady’s maid, a Frenchwoman called Jacinthe, also had not returned, which made me hope Barnstable was right—Jacinthe would have stayed at Lady Aline’s to take care of Donata’s needs.
Our coachman, Hagen, could provide no information, as we had journeyed to Covent Garden last night in Lady Aline’s conveyance. But he had not been sent for, nor received any word from her ladyship.