I managed not to collapse until I made it to the small white house I currently called home.
Donata, Gabriella, Peter, and most of the servants met us at the front door, all wild with worry. My arm had been bandaged by the surgeon—not Denis’s surgeon, who could not very well show himself with a magistrate about—but a competent man from Brighton. I showed all my sling.
“Nothing to worry about. Just grazed me. I’ll be closed up in no time.”
Gabriella and Peter let themselves be reassured. Gabriella hugged me hard and Peter clasped my hand, manfully gulping back tears. They escorted me upstairs, but left me with Donata by my chamber door, Gabriella leading Peter away.
I turned and made for Donata’s bedchamber instead, she following, because hers was soft, comfortable, smelled nice, and would contain her. Donata hovered while Bartholomew undressed me.
“Damnation,” she declared when my battered and bruised torso came into view. “Gabriel, you must cease this.”
I tried not to wince as Bartholomew began scrubbing off my back with a large, sopping sponge. I stood in under-breeches and nothing else, my cold skin prickling in the stuffy chamber.
“Indeed,” I said as Bartholomew worked to remove all traces of my adventure. “I am growing too old to be blamed for a murder and then nearly killed. I am supposed to be on holiday.”
“Blast you, Gabriel,” Donata growled, and then she came at me.
Bartholomew tactfully stepped back as my wife enfolded me in a clutching embrace, burying her face in my shoulder. Her body shook, but she tried to muffle her sobs—she did not like to be seen giving way.
I stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head. “We’ve let the house for another few weeks,” I said soothingly. “The holiday isn’t lost. We’ll go for walks and bathe in the sea and attend insipid soirees as much as you like.”
Donata remained silent. Bartholomew quietly returned the sponge to the basin and withdrew, sending me a grin before he noiselessly closed the door.
Donata lifted her head when the latch clicked. Her eyes were red-rimmed, tears on her lashes.
“We won’t stay here,” she said sharply. “I cannot bear this place any longer.”
“London will be hot,” I said. “The stench fearsome.” I recalled my years living in Grimpen Lane, with the Thames not far enough away to mitigate the stink.
“No, Oxfordshire,” she said. “We’ll spend the remainder of the month at my father’s house and then go to Norfolk, before we return Gabriella to France. You’ll have to see to the harvest.”
My cousin would see to the harvest quite well without me, but I nodded. “We’ll go, love.”
I thought of Oxfordshire and the seat of the Pembrokes, the long avenue that led to the house of golden stone, the gardens that were the pride of Donata’s mother. I could ride with Peter through the fields, or walk with Gabriella along paths by the river. I would carry Anne on my shoulders and show her the lands of her ancestors.
Then Norfolk where Peter and I would dig for clams and picnic in the abbey ruins, ride for miles along the salt flats. I longed for the wide lands, the huge sky, the sea stretching like a gray sheet to the north.
“We’ll go, love.” I repeated.
I raised her face to mine and sealed the bargain with a gentle kiss. Donata retrieved the sponge, and she and I finished wiping grime and blood from me. Once I considered myself clean enough not to mar the sheets, we took to bed.
“His Nibs wants a word.”
Brewster’s voice came mournfully around the packing crates in our downstairs hall, the boxes waiting to be loaded onto the wagons outside.
“His Nibs is still here?” I asked in surprise. A week had passed since the day I’d been forced to sea. I’d healed my hurts but did not like to think of how close I’d come to dying.
Desjardins, though he’d taken a heavy shot to the thigh, was mending. Brandon visited him every day, as did Mr. Quimby, who took plenty of notes. The comte was doing his best to save himself by blaming everything on Armitage, but Brandon remained of the opinion he’d be sent to France as soon as he could travel.
Young Isherwood had visited and thanked me. I was not certain what for—I could bring no one to justice. Still he was gracious, with the right touch of acknowledgment. I predicted he’d go far as an officer.
Marguerite Gibbons and her husband finished their business in Brighton and returned to Portsmouth. Isherwood had left her a bit of income, she’d told me when she came to say good-bye, which indicated to me that the man might have felt some remorse for how he’d treated her.
Marguerite was more of the opinion that her stepson had persuaded Isherwood that leaving her a token amount would look better for him than ignoring her altogether. In any case, she had finished with Isherwood’s man of business and looked forward to going home.
She and her husband had said their farewells to Donata and me both, Marguerite giving me a warm smile. The smile told me she was grateful for what I’d done for her in the past, but that it would remain in the past. Mr. Gibbons was congenial throughout, as though he had no fears about his wife’s former lover. And he did not. I wished them well.
Mr. Bickley left for his sister’s in Chichester once more. He’d offered to testify against Desjardins and take the blame for his part, though the magistrate said it probably wouldn’t come to that. Bickley had done nothing more than put opium in my coffee, and no jury would believe he masterminded the plot, or even understood all it entailed. Unless someone prosecuted Bickley, he’d remain quietly with his sister.
I thought it brave of him to offer. Bickley would have had to stand in the dock and tell the world how his actions had caused death of his own son. Yet he’d done it, possibly to ease his conscience, though I could see he was a broken man.
Armitage must have worked on his grief, feeding him stories of my life, happily married to a wealthy woman, while his brother had died under my watch in Salamanca. But Bickley’s punishment for participating in Armitage’s scheme had been dire indeed. I pitied him.
Brewster nodded at me now, unhappy. “Mr. Denis is waiting until you’re safe in Oxfordshire before he goes home. Says he needs to pack you in cotton wool.”
“Amusing.” I took my hat from Bartholomew and stepped out onto the street. “Nothing for it, I suppose.”
We walked the short way to the house Denis had let. Around us families enjoyed the summer air, moving down to the promenade or carrying baskets to picnic at the Steine. A few pleasure craft drifted offshore, sails full.
Work continued on the Pavilion. Clement had showed Grenville and me through it this past week, he an elegantly liveried and knowledgeable guide. He’d demanded the entire story of the end game, of course. I liked the lad and hoped I would be able to visit him and his mother again one day. They were refreshingly kind people.
Denis received me in his upstairs study, with its view over the fields behind it. A brush of sea air touched the close room, and wind bent the grasses under a cloud-dotted sky.
“I’m off,” I said as I entered. “As you know. This afternoon, in fact. Direct any missives to her ladyship’s father’s house in Oxfordshire.”
Denis only looked at me. “I called you here to remind you that I expect you to perform a task for me.”
We remained standing, which told me the interview would be brief.
“I remember,” I said. “Though, in the end, I never needed your help to trap Armitage.”
“While that is true, you agreed to the bargain.” Denis’s eyes were cool.
I gave him a nod. “You did, however, commandeer a boat to rescue me. For which I am grateful.”
“It was expedient. Can I hold you to this promise?”
“Yes.” A bargain was a bargain, and I’d honor it. Without Denis, I would now be dead, and we both knew it.
“I will not ask the mission of you now,” he went on. “You will travel to Oxfordshire, Norfolk, and France as planned. Afterward, I will send for you.”
“You could have stated this in a note.” I said, a trifle impatiently. “I have much to do today.”
“I have more to say that I did not wish to write. Such as the fact that Comte Desjardins insists that you actually did stab Colonel Isherwood to death. He has told this to the magistrate, but it is clear that his word is not believed.”
I swallowed, my throat dry. “He claimed this, yes, when he was trying to pot me in the boat. Do you think he is lying?”
“It does not matter.” Denis gave me a level stare. “I have made certain that this statement will be taken as a falsehood—the comte’s effort to move the blame to another. The belief at the moment is that Lord Armitage struck the fatal blow. Colonel Isherwood’s son, who well knows Lord Armitage, accepts the explanation. Armitage strangled Joshua Bickley as well, Desjardins was quick to add.” He paused a moment. “Comte Desjardins will be ejected from England, Armitage is dead, and that is the end of it.”
I listened in stillness. I could demand Denis to tell me how he knew all this, but I had no need. Denis would keep himself informed about the magistrate’s every decision, and he would arrange to speak the right word into the right ears at the right time.
Uneasiness sat disagreeably on my stomach. “If my memories do not return, I will never know for certain whether I murdered Isherwood.”
“As I say, it no longer matters. The episode is finished.” Denis’s voice was hard, final.
It would always matter to me, but I would have to find a way to live with this. “Is that all?” I asked, keeping my voice steady. “As I said, I am much occupied with trying to extricate myself from Brighton.”
Denis’s expression grew icy. “I also wish to inform you that Mr. Brewster will no longer be accompanying you. I have assigned another man to this task.”
My gaze swung to Brewster. He kept his head up, but moroseness flowed from him. Now I understood the unhappiness he’d exuded since he’d come to fetch me.
“Why?” I demanded. “Brewster ordered that tug to ram the boat, and he fished me to safety.”
“The fact that such a thing was necessary indicates Mr. Brewster is not up to the task of looking after you. He also did nothing to prevent you from being drugged and nearly accused of murder, not to mention you being trussed up on a boat and floated out to sea.” Denis closed his mouth, the line of it flat.
“It is hardly Brewster’s fault I manage to get into scrape after scrape,” I said, trying to curb my anger. “It is my way. Another minder will fare no better.”
“That remains to be seen.”
I began to grow alarmed. Denis was not kind to those who displeased him. “Brewster is a good man,” I said. “I ask you to leave him be.”
Denis’s brows drew together the slightest bit. “I intend to leave him be. But he will no longer work for me.”
“You’re sacking him?” Denis had done this to Brewster before, or at least had pretended to for his own reasons. “Rather unfair, I’d say.”
“It is not for you to say.” Denis’s voice turned hard. “I decide my business in my own way, and I have no intention of consulting you. I wish you good day.”
He said this to both of us. Brewster swallowed, but he’d already accepted Denis’s decision, knowing he could not fight it.
Denis waited, the room growing silent. The men stationed at each window watched Brewster and me, alert.
Arguing would not change the situation, I saw. I gave Denis a curt nod and left him standing in the middle of the sunny room.
Brewster followed me down the stairs. Outside, he adjusted his hat. “Well, that’s that. I’m off.”
“Wait.” I stepped in front of him, planting my walking stick on the pavement. “What will you do?”
Brewster shrugged. “Retire, most like.” From his look, the thought of that appalled him.
I could guess what might happen if Brewster found himself idle. He had once been a very good thief, and left on his own, he might well return to his old ways.
“You’re out a place because of me,” I said. “You worked for me before. Do so again.”
Brewster’s eyes narrowed. “As what? Your footman?” He curled his lip.
“Doing what you do now. My wife would be pleased to have you follow me to keep me out of trouble. Who knows what will happen in Oxfordshire? Or during whatever this errand Denis has in mind for me?”
Brewster studied me a bit longer, his long-suffering look returning. “I can barely keep you out of trouble now. How am I supposed to manage without His Nibs and his lackeys to help me?”
“I imagine Mr. Denis would step in if things grew too dire.” I had no doubt he would send another to watch me, and little doubt he would learn every word of this discussion.
Brewster removed his hat. He crushed it between his big hands while he considered, then he heaved a long sigh and jammed the hat back on his head.
“I’ll have to talk it over with Em. But all right. I’ll work for ye. If the wage is high enough.” He sighed again then turned away and began the trek back to the house.
“Lord help me,” I heard him mutter. “What am I in for?”