I also had no idea how to answer. I was not an eloquent man, not like Grenville, who had the correct words for every occasion.
“I never realized I was such a paragon of virtue,” was all I could invent to say. “I fancied myself a bit of a rogue.”
Donata raised her head, a spark of her usual liveliness returning. “I did not say virtuous. I mean you have convictions and follow them, no matter what anyone else says and thinks. It is refreshing in a world where what others say of one is thought to be all important. That is an entirely different thing.”
“True,” I agreed.
“You are not virtuous, Gabriel. Thank heavens. Virtuous men are pompous and tiresome.”
“Then I will endeavor not to be. Tiresome that is. Or virtuous and pompous.”
Another look from under her lashes. “I thank you for that. Now, tell me who you think tried to bowl over my son. I have changed my mind about it being the gentleman I fancied as a girl. He has become rather portly and fractious, and could never have performed such feats of horsemanship. And too parsimonious to hire others to do so, according to his wife.”
“Who inherits the Breckenridge title?” I asked. “After Peter, before he grows up and has sons himself?”
Donata answered readily. “One of Breckenridge’s horrible cousins. I’m not certain he or his brother would try to shove Peter aside to inherit, however. Both Romulus and Remus expressed great relief when Breckenridge sired an heir.”
My forehead puckered. “Romulus and Remus?”
“That is what I call them. Robert and Winston St. John. Robert is the elder, but only by a year. They are rakehells of the worst kind, are happy with the money they inherited from their father, and want nothing to do with the responsibilities a peerage brings. Neither would so much take a seat in the House of Lords as fall off it stone drunk.”
“Perhaps, but the Breckenridge title has lands and much wealth, does it not? Which is why our blackmailer accuses me of forging my credentials to get my hands on it.”
“Well, you cannot, can you? The money is managed by a trustee, who I assure you, as the name implies, is trustworthy. My father also keeps an eye on all Peter will inherit at his majority. My father has no flies on him—he’d never let you coerce a farthing out of me or Peter.”
“Comforting,” I said. “However, the wealth might be attractive even if having a title tacked to it is not. What is the Breckenridge estate worth?”
“Much,” Donata said. “The Breckenridge seat is in Hampshire, among rich farmland. The income from it is vast. Breckenridge’s father also purchased a home in Kent, and my husband bought another in Brighton, so he could chase the fashionable set. Breckenridge’s father purchased this house outright as well.”
Property, especially entailed property, could ensure that Peter lived well all his life, if he did not get into reckless habits. “Those houses and lands are all Peter’s now?”
“All. Managed for him, as I say, by a trustee, until his majority. My widow’s portion is quite large, and I have use of this house plus the dower house on the main estate, for my lifetime, even if I remarry. My father made bloody certain Breckenridge signed such agreements, so that I would not be left destitute, or ruined by a bad second marriage, and thrust back into my father’s house as a poor relation.”
Hardly poor. Donata’s father, a wealthy peer himself, would keep his daughter well, if it came to pass that she needed his charity. Her mother, a formidable woman in her own way, would also see to this.
“Which is why I thank God I didn’t elope with the man I was potty about when I was seventeen,” Donata went on. “I know you believe Aline and I are too exacting about Gabriella’s come-out, but both of us know that a woman’s fate depends on the negotiations between her father and her husband, not the wishes of her heart.”
“As I made a foolish first marriage myself,” I said, “I cannot argue with you.”
“My man of business will be at your elbow when you negotiate with Gabriella’s intended, whoever he may be. Aline and I are vetting every single young man invited to her ball as to suitability of temperament, income, background, and level in society. We are leaving nothing to chance.”
And yet, I thought of Gabriella’s irritation at being managed, her wistfulness that romance would have no part of it. I also understood Donata’s point of view and agreed with her. I could see no other solution.
“You took a chance on your second husband,” I observed. “But I understand that for a widow, such things are different.”
“There was no chance about it,” Donata said briskly. “I told you at the time that I looked into your background and learned all about you. I hardly ran away with the second footman.”
I pulled her closer. “And if I had been a second footman?”
“Then we’d have had a shocking, and very discreet, affaire. I determined to have you one way or another, Gabriel.”
I remembered finding her in my bed the evening after I’d met her, and her sharp look at me when I’d visited this house for the first time, investigating the death of her husband. She’d brought me here again when I was hurt, and joined me in the night. She had certainly shown persistence.
“You snared me in the end,” I pointed out.
“No, I did not. You chose, and you know it.”
“That is true.” I pressed a kiss to her hair. “Shall we rise from this very hard floor? I’ve had a melancholy afternoon and feel a need for softness.”
Donata rose with a limberness which put me to shame. A woman who was belly-full should not have showed more athleticism than me, a hardened cavalryman.
She helped me to my feet, led me to her chamber, and showed me, over the next hour, just how pleasing softness could be.
***
Now that I knew the deceased girl had been a young woman called Judith Hartman, I had to decide how to discover who had murdered her and left her to dissolve into a collection of bones.
I lay in bed after I woke later that evening, and contemplated the pseudo-Grecian plaster frieze that marched around Donata’s bedchamber’s ceiling. She was gone—she was taking Gabriella for another fitting, then she must dress to move on to her evening’s entertainments. Donata had breezed away, leaving her indolent husband lounging in her bed.
Judith could have been the victim of a robbery, hit hard when she struggled. I would think a thief would have yanked the gold locket free of its chain or stripped her of any valuable clothing, but perhaps he—or she—had been unnerved at finding they’d killed her, and fled.
If so, I might never discover who’d done this. Or, the person could have been caught in another robbery and been long since hanged or transported. Or died naturally, never having confessed to the crime.
The blow had caught Judith across the face, from the top of her head to her mouth. She’d been facing her killer.
I thought about the bones of her hands, intact. The fingers had lain straight, relaxed, not curled into claws as though she defended herself. I had no idea whether the position of the hand would endure through the years. Denis’s surgeon might, but I was not optimistic about being able to speak to him again. Coombs might know, however.
I could question Coombs about Hartman as well, see what he remembered about him, and about Judith.
I ground the heels of my hands into my eyes. I’d promised to discover who’d murdered Judith, accidentally or otherwise, and I would. The length of time between the death and today daunted me somewhat, but I was determined. I’d found a young woman called Sarah Oswold when she’d gone missing in London, and I’d discovered who’d stolen the church plate in Norfolk years after it had been taken. The passage of time had not stopped me in either case.
Still, the task seemed impossible, and this thought tempted me to remain still and do nothing. But I would certainly fail if I didn’t begin.