I turned to see Marguerite Gibbons ambling from the Steine across the empty street. She was alone, no husband or servant to guard her.
I met her in the middle of the road to escort her safely to the other side. “Have a care, madam,” I said. “A man has just shot at me.”
“Good heavens.” Marguerite looked me up and down, taking in my ruined clothing. “I thought the wars were over.”
“I’ve found England to be as dangerous as a battlefield. You should not wander about on your own, Mrs. Gibbons.”
“I often do.” Marguerite glanced at Brewster, concluding he was my servant, to his obvious annoyance. “Perhaps following the drum made me fearless. But do not worry. I am not an ingenue but an aging woman who has potted more than one would-be pickpocket with my umbrella.”
Her eyes sparkled with warmth, bright under the shadow of her feathered hat.
“Even so, I should return you to your husband.”
“This husband, yes. I would have fought you if you’d suggested such a thing on our last acquaintance.”
In another circumstance, I might have enjoyed reminiscing with her. Marguerite and I had been friends, if only briefly. But I was furious at the attempt on my life, still shaken by the death of Joshua Bickley, and sickened by the entire course of events.
“Isherwood is dead,” I said bluntly. “Murdered. I have been shot at twice today, and there is nothing to say a third time will not come. It is unsafe to stand next to me. I will take you back to the park and retire.”
Marguerite gaped at me. “Twice?” I noted that she showed no reaction to my declaration that Isherwood had been killed, but I assumed her stepson had told her the truth of his murder.
“My husband is home, not at the Steine,” Marguerite went on. “He does not like crushes and said he could see the fireworks as well from our rooms, which is true. I wanted air and to discover who was in Brighton for the summer.”
“Lord Armitage for one,” I said. “You recall him from Salamanca?”
Her eyes widened. “I do. Goodness. I had no idea he was in Brighton …” She looked thoughtful.
I took her arm and firmly led her along the street, making for the promenade where I’d seen her emerge from a house. “Armitage claims you were a spy for Napoleon.” I saw no reason not to reveal this to her. “I told him he was an idiot.”
“He said that?” She was more amused than alarmed. “I am hardly surprised. Lord Armitage violently disliked me and encouraged Isherwood to be rid of me. I have no idea why except that I am outspoken, and Armitage prefers women to be obedient. I am glad of the divorce now. It left me free when I met Mr. Gibbons, a far, far better man than Isherwood ever was.”
I noted that she did not deny being a spy, and had neatly turned away the question.
“Did your stepson send for you?” I asked.
“Giles? No, actually. We were never close—Isherwood made certain of that—and he has corresponded little with me since the divorce. I was summoned by Major Forbes.”
I slowed in surprise. “Forbes?”
“Indeed. He also violently dislikes me, but he felt it his duty to inform me of Isherwood’s passing. Major Forbes thought I deserved to know he had been murdered. Or possibly he was warning me he thought I’d done it.”
“And you rushed here to discover what had happened?”
Another laugh. “You are correct to be skeptical, Captain. I suppose I came to reassure myself Isherwood was truly dead. Mr. Gibbons feared there might be some legal tangle with inheritance and decided we’d better make the journey. Isherwood was well off, and I am named in his will—at least, I was once upon a time. If so, the money would be welcome.”
A practical man, was Gibbons, encouraging his wife to seek an inheritance from a man who’d abandoned her.
We’d gone deep into the narrow lanes of the old town, Brewster keeping a sharp eye out.
“Where are you lodging?” I asked Marguerite.
“Worry not, Captain. I will not hang on you and prevent you going home to your lovely wife. She is quite fond of you, I can see. Mr. Gibbons and I have taken rooms in Ship Street.”
I turned my steps that way. The Old Ship, where I’d sought the magistrate, sat on the corner overlooking the sea, but Marguerite directed me to a plain house in the middle of the lane.
Mr. Gibbons exited the house as we approached by means of a door next to the ground-floor shop. “Captain Lacey, well met again.”
“I found him rushing from the park,” Marguerite said, withdrawing her hand from my arm. “Someone shot at him, it seems.”
“Truly?” Gibbons raised his brows. “Perhaps you heard a firework and mistook it?”
“Not when the pistol discharged five feet from me,” I explained. “I thought it best I see your wife safely home—even quiet Brighton has dangers.”
Gibbons tucked Marguerite’s hand in the crook of his elbow, looking not at all worried that I had walked closely with her in the dark. “We’ve lived on the coast for years, Captain, and know its perils.”
He dismissed the threat, as she did. I wished the pair of them well.
“Good night,” I said, tipping my hat.
“Good night, Captain,” Marguerite said. “Thank you for your courtesy.”
Gibbons echoed her farewell, and I bowed and left them.
“Odd folk.” Brewster shoved his hands into his coat pockets and slouched next to me along Bedford Row. “Want me to find out what they’re really here for?”
“The reading of the will presumably. But it would be wise to keep an eye out. Discreetly, of course.”
Brewster returned an irritated look. “I’m always discreet, guv. They’ll never know I’m there.”
Brewster was a large man with a loud voice, but I believed him. Mr. Denis employed only the best.
I went home at Brewster’s continued prodding, but only after he promised to return to the Steine and make certain Donata and Gabriella were looked after. He seemed aggrieved I’d think he wouldn’t go, and disappeared into the night.
Bartholomew was surprised and appalled at my ruined suit but quickly had me out of my clothes and into a banyan and slippers. After he left me, I sat at my writing table with pen in hand, trying to make sense out of all that had happened thus far. My lists were disjointed, my handwriting shaky.
Finally I threw down my pen and gave up.
Noise below announced the arrival of my family. I went to meet them, relieved to see both Grenville and Brewster escorting Donata and Gabriella, Grenville having taken them under his wing. Brewster departed at last, but Grenville lingered.
I kissed my daughter good night, and she held fast to me. “Did you grow ill, Father? You ought to have told us—we’d have come home together.”
Brewster had apparently kept the story of the shooting to himself. “I am well,” I assured her. “I decided to have an early night and did not wish to spoil your enjoyment.”
“Spending an evening with you is always enjoyable, Father.” My daughter gave me a winsome smile, making me wonder if she teased or was serious. “Good night, sir.” She touched another kiss to my cheek and then went upstairs.
Donata sent me a steely glance, but she said not a word as Jacinthe relieved her of her light wraps and escorted her up. I called a good-night to Donata, but she never turned, never answered.
Grenville cleared his throat. He beckoned me into the front sitting room and closed the door against the servants, who were shutting down the small house for the night.
“Donata learned early in her first marriage not to twit her husband about his indiscretions,” Grenville said in a quiet voice. “So she will not mention she saw you hurry away from the park with Mrs. Gibbons.”
I groaned in dismay. “Oh, good Lord. Mrs. Gibbons followed me. I haven’t put it out of my head that she shot at me.”
Grenville’s eyes widened. “Shot …”
I quickly told him what had happened. “Brewster insisted I take myself indoors at once. Mrs. Gibbons caught up to me, and I took the opportunity to quiz her on why she’d come to Brighton.”
Grenville went very still as he listened to my tale. “I must learn never to turn my back on you, old friend,” he said when I’d finished. “You fall into adventures faster than any man I know.”
“Someone is trying to make my life very difficult,” I agreed. “I am grateful you remained with Donata and Gabriella, though I believe I rendered them safer by leaving them. I seem to be hunted only when I am alone.”
“You should not be left alone then.” Grenville eyed me steadily. “But I’d go down on my knees and beg Donata’s pardon, or she might show you the door. No—to be honest, I believe she would simply retreat from you and pretend to the world that all was well.”
“All is well. Damnation. I thought married life would bring me peace.”
Grenville laughed at me, blast the man. “ Marriage is hardly the definition of peace. With a beautiful, accomplished, lively woman, still less so. Guard what you have. Believe me, I take my own advice. Marianne may do with me as she pleases.”
I sensed a new lightness in Grenville, yet tension also. He was happy, but the price of his happiness was fear of losing it.
“I will explain things to Donata,” I promised him. “Thank you, once again. Good night.”
Grenville gave me an encouraging nod and took his leave. I squared my shoulders and walked upstairs, making for Donata’s chamber.
The door was locked. I tapped on it, and after a time, Jacinthe opened the door a crack. “My lady is abed,” she told me.
I did not believe her, but now was not the time to force my way in. “Please tell her ladyship to sleep well, and that I look forward to speaking with her tomorrow.”
Jacinthe could summon a blank expression to rival any empty-eyed statue. “Yes, sir. Good-night, sir.”
That seemed to be that.
I sought my own room only to be stopped by Bartholomew. “Mr. Brewster has returned, Captain.” His young face held disapproval. “He wishes to see you on the moment.”
I wanted my bed, exhausted by the day’s events, but Brewster would not disturb me were it not important. Retaining my dressing gown and slippers, I went downstairs.
Brewster, as usual, had refused to enter the sitting room, so I met him in the foyer. “His Nibs wants to see you,” he said.
I studied him in perplexity. “Mr. Denis is in London. He can’t mean for me to travel there tonight.”
Brewster was already shaking his head. “No, guv. He’s here, in Brighton. At my digs, in fact. Wants to see you—now.”