Marguerite regarded me with a twinkle of amusement, relishing that she’d rendered me mute.
Seven years had not aged her much. Her dark hair held no gray, her face no lines. Gone was the bitter self-deprecation that had once marked her, but otherwise, her cheeks were as pink, her stance as upright, her smile as broad.
Her hand, covered in thin leather, remained outstretched. Awkwardly, I took it.
The man who’d followed her stepped to her side, extending his hand when Marguerite withdrew hers. “William Gibbons, sir, at your service.”
I made myself follow formalities. “Captain Gabriel Lacey.”
“An old friend from army days.” Marguerite’s voice held merriment. “When I followed the drum on the Peninsula.”
Her gaze dropped to my walking stick and the leg it supported, but she refrained from comment. I’d been a whole man when she’d last seen me.
Mr. Gibbons, like his suit, was plain, no handsomeness in his face. But it was a comfortable face, with brown eyes that were pleasantly crinkled, his hair brushed with gray. A man one would enjoy chatting with down the pub.
“Pleased to hear he is a friend,” Mr. Gibbons said to his wife. “Those were unhappy times.”
“They were indeed trying,” Marguerite replied. “Captain Lacey was ever courteous.”
I swallowed a cough. “Thank you,” was all I could manage.
Marguerite’s smile deepened. “I find myself in much more agreeable circumstances now.” She took her husband’s arm.
Mr. Gibbons gave me a nod, his pride obvious. “Yes, I am the most fortunate of men.”
Divorce, I well knew, carried a stigma for both the divorced wife and the husband, as well as anyone who married either. Scandal followed them, whispers continued. Yet Gibbons had been happy to marry Marguerite, scandal be damned.
Isherwood was dead now, making Marguerite a true widow.
Mr. Gibbons glanced at someone behind me and made an abrupt and deep bow. Marguerite released his arm and dropped into a respectful curtsy.
“Your ladyship,” she murmured.
I was aware of Donata coming to rest beside me, her warmth cutting the sudden chill of the summer breeze. She smelled of wind and the sun, dust from the shingle beach.
“Good evening,” she said politely.
Marguerite and Mr. Gibbons returned the greeting deferentially and then said nothing more. One did not converse freely with a daughter of the peerage unless they had been introduced. The fact that they knew she was an earl’s daughter and viscount’s widow did not surprise me. Our marriage had been announced and speculated about in every newspaper.
“Mr. and Mrs. Gibbons,” I explained awkwardly to Donata. “Visitors to Brighton.” I turned to them. “My wife, Lady Breckenridge.”
“Mrs. Lacey,” Donata corrected me as she gave the Gibbonses a neutral smile. “The sunshine is lovely, is it not? Such a change from London’s dreariness.”
A safe and expected thing to say. We all agreed the weather in Brighton was far superior to London’s smoky gloom.
Donata ended the conversation. “Enjoy your evening. Forgive me—I must ask the captain to drag our son from the water before he becomes a fish.”
After polite chuckles, another “Your Ladyship,” and a curtsy and bow, Donata nodded regally and led me off.
I remained silent as I trudged clumsily across the shingle and a few paces into the sea to lift Peter from it. He was not happy to leave his impromptu swum, but he clung to me as I hoisted him to my shoulder and carried him out.
When I glanced to the promenade once more, Marguerite and her husband had gone.
Donata did not mention the encounter on the walk home. Though Gabriella was clearly curious, she said nothing, perhaps sensing my tension. When we reached the house, Donata admonished Peter for submerging his shoes and getting his trousers wet to the knees, then adjourned to her rooms to ready herself for supper.
I returned to my own to change myself, but Donata soon entered my chamber through the dressing room between.
“Gabriel?” she said as she threaded a diamond earring through her earlobe. “Are you quite well? When you were speaking to those people, you became an interesting shade of green. I thought you’d be ill. Are you still weak from whatever concoction you were given?”
I wanted suddenly to sit, but it would be discourteous while my wife stood. I leaned one arm on the mantelpiece, wishing the cold hearth contained a fire.
“She was Isherwood’s wife,” I said.
Donata froze, her fingers at her ear. She stared at me for several ticks of the clock before she slid the earring all the way in and did up the delicate clasp.
“I see.” Her voice was wintery.
“I could hardly point this out while we stood on the promenade,” I said. “Nor did I wish to say anything in front of Gabriella and Peter.”
“Quite.”
“I had no idea she was in Brighton.”
“Obviously not,” Donata said. “Your color indicated her presence was a blow. Mr. Gibbons is her second husband, I take it. Does he know you were her lover?”
Donata enjoyed being blunt. She’d once explained that it was much easier to voice unpleasant truths and be done than to dance around them for days.
“From his manner, I would say no, he does not,” I answered. “I did not enlighten him.”
“No reason you should. Interesting she has turned up now that Isherwood is dead.”
“Perhaps her stepson sent for her. He would naturally write her of the incident.”
“True,” Donata said.
She remained composed, but I saw the anger deep in her eyes. I considered apologizing, but I wasn’t certain how to word things or what I was apologizing for. I had no intention of taking up with Marguerite again, and likewise, Marguerite seemed happy with Mr. Gibbons. She obviously no longer had interest in me.
I’d never been an eloquent man, and as I struggled to wrap these thoughts into phrases that would not anger Donata further, Jacinthe glided in from the dressing room.
Only Jacinthe could interrupt a tȇte-à-tȇte between Donata and me, no matter how heated our argument. Donata turned away, her mouth a thin line.
“Message for you, sir.” Jacinthe held out a sealed piece of paper. She hovered as I opened the letter, no doubt waiting for a response.
“It is from Grenville,” I announced. “He wishes to meet. Or rather, he summons me to him.”
Donata’s voice was cool. “You ought to go then. He’d not write if it weren’t important.”
“True.” I nodded to Jacinthe, who curtsied and departed, answer received.
“Give him my best wishes,” Donata said stiffly.
Donata prided herself on pretending extreme indifference as to my comings and goings—a wife should not live in her husband’s pocket, she said—but I could see she was not pleased.
I would not mind at all having her next to me most of the time, but it apparently was not the done thing in our world. I took her hands, leaning to kiss her cheek. “I will return forthwith.”
I thought I saw a slight softening in her eyes, but I could not be certain. I kissed her again, and departed.
Grenville did not notice my agitation when I arrived at his house a quarter of an hour later. He waved a paper at me.
“I have set an appointment with a few of our companions from the Regent’s supper table,” he announced. “Comte Desjardins is home and will welcome our visit.”
Brewster, as usual, accompanied us as we set off on foot to Desjardins’ lodgings. Grenville rarely walked anywhere in London, using his carriage or phaeton to keep his pristine boots from the mud, but during this sojourn he was delighting in tramping everywhere.
Comte Desjardins had taken a residence not far from our square, in a new house on the west end of town. Brewster made his stolid way down the outside stairs to the kitchen while a footman admitted Grenville and me through the front door.
We followed the footman up a flight of stairs to a sitting room filled with light. The room faced the sea, and the late evening sunshine flooded it.
That sunlight touched the long barrel of a gun, which was pointed straight at us.