We’d be a misalliance, as plenty of impolite people had pointed out—she an earl’s daughter, me the son of a country gentleman, pretty much a nobody as far as London was concerned. But Donata was a widow, her first marriage having given her a son who was now a wealthy viscount. Her second choice in husband would not be as socially crucial. She had money, she had standing, family, and respectability. And now she had me.
My first marriage had been hastily performed by a country vicar via special license, I having stolen my bride from her family with the help of Colonel Brandon. He had procured the license for me so we wouldn’t have to flee to Gretna Green as did so many other illicit couples. I scarcely remembered the ceremony except my triumph as I signed the register, Carlotta, my bride, nearly collapsing in nerves.
This ceremony was much different. Slow, stately, and performed with all the pomp that could be managed, the wedding to Donata would not be forgotten. Her father put her hand in mine, and her warmth came to me through her touch.
And thereto I plight thee my troth.
My truth, my fidelity. I to her, and she to me. As I slid the gold band onto her finger, I repeated the words for the second time in my life. With this ring, I thee wed; with my body, I thee worship; and with all my worldly goods, I thee endow.
I didn’t have many worldly goods, but I would gladly give her everything I was. My heart was in the kiss I pressed lightly to her lips. This lady with the sharp tongue, shrewd stare, and decided opinions had saved me from emptiness.
And so, I was married.
*** *** ***
The wedding breakfast commenced in the sumptuous dining room, the table full of Donata’s family. My daughter sat next to me, her manners as polished as anyone’s—she’d do no shame to her family. Donata had told me her plans for bringing Gabriella out this Season, to dress her in muslin and feathers and parade her about ballrooms in order to find her a good match. When Gabriella had come to London the first time, her stepfather had told me about a young man in France who’d been sweet on Gabriella, but apparently nothing had come of it. This summer, when I’d mentioned him, Gabriella had looked surprised and told me the young man had married. Therefore, according to the world, Gabriella was free for the plucking. My feelings about that were in flux.
For now I had laughter, flowers, feasting, toasts to the bride and jokes that bordered on the crude about the groom. Ladies and gentlemen alike laughed at me, but I could only feel triumph.
Donata took it all in her stride, sending barbs back to her friends that set them laughing. We were a merry lot, though I did catch dark looks from two gentlemen—Cecil Pembroke, Donata’s third cousin, son of her father’s uncle; and her first cousin Edwin Phillips, the son of her father’s sister. Donata had told me both had hoped to make her their own, thus growing closer to more Pembroke money and becoming stepfather to a viscount.
She had related this to me with some glee. She disliked both gentlemen and had vowed never to marry either. She’d arranged for them to stand close to the front at the ceremony so she could rub in the fact that she’d eluded them.
The wedding breakfast and extensive celebrations that followed continued without Cecil or Edwin shooting me, though they looked as though they’d be happy to. When the short winter day came to a close, we were cheered upstairs amid rather ribald remarks.
“Thank God that’s over,” Donata said as we closed the doors on our wedding suite.
We’d been given another guest chamber, this one entered via a short series of rooms like the one Gabriella and her aunt and uncle occupied. Our suite was in a corner of the house, far from the other guests, and very private. I was grateful to Lady Pembroke for her percipience.
I could not stay away from my wife. I slid my arms around her waist, finding warm woman under the smooth elegance of the dress. I pressed a kiss to her lips, this one holding more heat than had the kiss at the ceremony.
“Regrets, Mrs. Lacey?” I asked.
Her blue eyes flickered. “Too early to tell. Ask me in a year.”
“I will be happy to,” I said, and then we turned to other matters.
I rejoiced in my lady that night. Donata had warm skin which was smooth under my hands, a body that held no thinness of want, and an embrace that filled my heart.
She was never shy, my lady. She held me as I held her, rose to me as I came to her. We joined together, lovers in truth, both giving, both taking our pleasure.
I drowsed beside her later, aware of Donata scrutinizing me again.
At any other time I might ask her what she was thinking. But not tonight. Tomorrow we would renew our usual banter, and our arguments, and begin married life. Tonight I traced her cheek and pulled her close to bury myself again in the warmth of her.
*** *** ***
I’d half expected interruption in the night—Felicity arriving to demand to bed down in the suite’s front room, or Cecil or Edwin barging in to challenge me to a duel.
Nothing so dramatic occurred. Not until I was dressing in the late morning did Grenville, who had risen early to go riding, send word through Bartholomew that no one could find Felicity.
At the moment, I was not inclined to worry. For once I’d kept to Lady Breckenridge’s habit of lying abed late instead of rising at my usual time before dawn to ride and breakfast. I had better things to do this morning than ride about the countryside or keep track of stray street girls.
“She might have gone back to London,” Donata offered from where she lounged on the Sheraton sofa in our bedchamber. Bartholomew had come to dress me, and Donata had donned a yellow silk dressing gown to drink coffee and watch the proceedings. “This Felicity is not a feeble young woman, if I remember her aright.”
“She might have done,” I said. “But she was very frightened of Perry and begged to come here with me to keep away from him.”
“Perhaps someone here frightened her more,” Donata said.
Because my new wife was a perceptive woman, I gave her suggestion some consideration.
“Mr. Grenville said he looked for her while he rode,” Bartholomew said. “But he didn’t see no sign of her. She might be hiding in the house, but I ain’t seen her, and neither has Matthias.”
Concern began to rise through my languor. Lying against the pillows this morning with my bride in my arms had been a fine thing. I’d rested in a bubble of happiness, safe from the cares of the world.
But I knew that the world marched on outside our door, the bubble was temporary, and we’d go on living life with all its complications and dangers.
“I’d feel better if I could find her,” I said. “A horseback ride to the village to look about would do me good.”
“I’ll have a look through the house myself,” Donata said. “I know its hiding places, having hidden in most of them when I was a girl. Enraged my nanny and governesses to no end.” She took a sip of coffee, smiling in memory.
I could not leave without giving Donata a lingering kiss on her lips, which Bartholomew watched with tolerant amusement.
“You may keep your remarks to yourself,” I said to him as we descended the stairs.
“No remarks, sir. It’s good to see you happy.”
It was good to be happy. My bad knee and my ribs hurt me only a little as I went down, the euphoria of my night still clinging to me.
I met Grenville, who’d been in conversation with one of the many Pembrokes, and he agreed to join me. Outside was clear but very crisp. My breath hung heavily in the air, and steam rose from the horses the groom brought us from the stables.
“Do you truly think Felicity ran off somewhere into the countryside?” Grenville asked me as we rode away from the house. “She seemed happy with the empty bedchamber I found for her. It’s a lovely day, but brutally cold.”
I drew my greatcoat closer about me. “To be honest, I have no idea where she would go, or why. Felicity does as she pleases.” I pointed out a path. “Let’s try this way.”
I turned down an overgrown, l
ittle used lane that led across a field and then under trees. The trees blocked the morning breeze at least.
Nowhere did we see a misplaced London game girl walking along, or being carried off, or any sign that anyone but us had come this way. We rode out of trees down to a canal, following the towpath. That canal led to the Thames, rolling quietly along between lightly snowy banks.
We went all the way to the village, through it, and around the other road back toward the house, seeing Felicity nowhere.
By the time we returned to the estate, I wasn’t certain whether to be worried or not. Felicity could have caught the mail coach and returned to London without bothering to tell me. She could by lying low for reasons of her own. With Felicity, one never knew.
Donata had not found Felicity hiding in the house either, including in the guest room I’d occupied the day before. My concern increased. I made myself feel better by sending a message off to Denis in London, asking him to keep an eye out for her. The messenger left from the posting inn by fast horse, bolstered by the large tip I gave him and the promise of a larger one from Denis. He did not look happy, but he went.
I itched to begin my search for Abigail Collins, but I could not until my sojourn here was over. I already had obligations, including the grand New Years’ ball Lady Pembroke had planned for tonight. Half the county would attend, and I was expected to be there for the full of it.
Fortunately, while the night’s entertainment was lavish, and the guests did stare at me, they were at least polite. We rang in the New Year, I kissed my bride again in front of her family and friends, then we retired for the night.
I was enjoying married life so far. Once we were abed, I took from the bedside table a small box that contained Donata’s New Year’s gift. A pair of earrings, tiny and gold, agonizingly chosen with the help of Louisa Brandon.
I knew Donata possessed jewels of far greater cost and ostentation, and earlier this winter I’d presented her with a tiny miniature portrait of a young girl, painted several hundred years ago by Hans Holbein. But Donata’s eyes softened when she saw the earrings, something truly from me. She handed me my gift, a watch, heavy and gold, inscribed: To G. with much esteem, D., 1818.
My way of thanking her lasted well into morning. We drowsed as the sun rose, bringing in a new year, a new day, a new life.
A tap on the outer door of the suite was followed by it opening and someone coming quietly into the sitting room. The inner doors to the bedchamber were closed, so I could not see who’d entered. The step was too light for Grenville, too secretive for a servant—in this house, they strode boldly about their business.
I rolled from the bed, donned a dressing gown laid out for me, thrust my feet into slippers, and went out.
It was my daughter. I closed the bedchamber doors behind me and ran hand through my mussed hair. Gabriella was in her dressing gown as well, her hair hanging down her back in a long braid.
“Good morning, Father,” she said softly. “Happy New Year.”
I went to her and took her hands. “Happy New Year to you, my dear. I have something for you.”
I started to turn to fetch the bracelet I’d bought her, but Gabriella tightened her grip, stopping me.
“I came to tell you something. You were looking for the maid who came with you? I found her.”
“Felicity? She’s all right?”
“I should say so.” Gabriella gave me a grim smile. “Come with me. I’ll show you.”
Chapter Six
Gabriella led me by the hand through the series of anterooms outside our suite and around a corner to a more modern part of the house. She put her finger to her lips and took me about halfway down a long corridor lined with ornately paneled doors.
We stopped in front of one of the doors, but Gabriella did not move to knock upon it. She gave me a little shake of her head to indicate we should wait.
For a few moments, nothing happened. Then I distinctly heard Felicity’s low, throaty laughter. Oh, good God.
I pointed at the door. “Whose?” I mouthed.
Gabriella led me back down the corridor to its end. A niche between that hall and the older part of the house held a wide window with a window seat overlooking the grounds.
“I believe his name is Lord Bradford,” Gabriella told me. “An older gentleman, and married. His wife’s room is a little way down the hall.”
“Good Lord.” I debated storming in and pulling out Felicity, but while I would not mind enraging Lord Bradford, it would embarrass Lady Bradford, not to mention my host and hostess. I studied Gabriella, whose eyes sparkled with amusement. “You do not look very shocked, Gabriella. Please do not tell me you approve.”
“Of course I do not. I rather like Lady Bradford. But it is not uncommon, is it? For men to take lovers? At least among the wealthy classes. So says . . . my papa.” Her tongue tripped a little as she made the distinction.
“No, it is not uncommon. But I’d not have spoken of such things to a child.”
“In France it is spoken of more openly, even if we don’t approve,” Gabriella said, a little primly. “And I am not a child.”
The stubborn words, spoken with a little push of her lips, reminded me strongly of the little girl she’d been. I sank to the window seat, pretending my leg hurt me, but in truth I could not breathe. January morning cold came through the window, but I had to sit still for a moment before the ache inside me eased.
I cleared my throat. “I suppose someone will inform Felicity when our coach is leaving for London.”
“I will make certain. I must say, I am looking forward to London and staying with Lady Breckenridge . . . Mrs. Lacey, I mean. I want to see the city. Properly, this time.”
Another qualm, this one of remembered terror when Gabriella, come to London last year with her mother, had gone missing. I took her hand and held it between mine.
“I am so sorry for what happened to you, Gabriella. The bastard is dead; you know that. He cannot hurt you anymore.”
“I know.” Remembered fear flickered through her eyes. “But I want to mend. I want to see the streets and the sights, find a London that is not frightening.”
I tried a smile. “I’m not certain that’s possible.”
“This time, you will be with me. I know that if I’d listened to you before and trusted you, I’d have been safe.”
“Do not blame yourself. It was my bloody fault.”
“Do you think that?” Gabriella gave me a thoughtful look. “I have had a long time to contemplate this, sir . . . Father. I was confused and frightened, and young. I hope I am more sensible these days.”
How long a time half a year was to the young! But I admired Gabriella for her determination and courage. She could have remained in France cowering in her stepfather’s home instead of deciding to face life and conquer her fears.
“This time, you’ll stay in a fine house in Mayfair and be perfectly safe,” I said. “You’ll have plenty of people to look after you—Donata, Mrs. Brandon, Lady Aline, the Derwents. I promise you this.”
Gabriella wrinkled her nose. “Smothered, you mean. My parents have looked after me with embarrassing watchfulness. But do not worry, I am not so foolish as to run off on my own because too many people are concerned about me.” She shivered. “Never again, in fact.”
The man who’d abducted Gabriella had stolen her sense of safety and the ease with which she moved about on her own. I hated him all over again. I rarely was glad when a human being died, but the man who’d hurt my Gabriella deserved what he’d gotten.
I squeezed her hand. The niche was cold, and by tacit agreement, we returned to the warmer confines of my suite to tell Donata what Gabriella had discovered. As I closed the doors against the chill, I wished I could likewise close the doors on all fear and pain my daughter could experience. I knew, though, that life would never be that simple.
*** *** ***
Felicity did appear when we were boarding coaches to return to London. She only looked
at me when I growled at her, and languidly climbed to the landau’s box.
“Such a fuss,” she said. “I am not truly your servant, Captain, if you’ll remember.”
I could have lectured her about her promise to behave herself, but I gave up. Felicity had survived alone for years, using her charms to provide herself safety, money, food. She’d done what had come naturally to seek comfort, and probably gifts, while she hid.
I kept my frown in place as Felicity ascended, then I climbed with some difficulty into the coach, my ribs still aching, and settled next to my wife.
My wife. I could scarce believe it. Would I become old, very married, and dull, nodding to Donata down the table while I shoved my feet deeper into my slippers and absorbed myself in newspapers? I hoped so.
The fifty or so miles back to London was blissfully uneventful, and Donata’s private landau kept up a good pace. Donata slept much of the way, the coach swaying slowly. Gabriella alternately rode with us and with her uncle and aunt in the coach lent by the Pembrokes behind us. Donata’s son Peter alternated along with her, his nanny in the coach with the Auberges.
Donata expressed surprise that I was happy to have a six-year-old boy in the coach with me, but I wanted Peter to learn I would not shunt him aside now that I’d married his mother. He was a sturdy lad, already with the bullish look of his father. He was a bit awestruck with me—my great height and voice, I supposed. Plus, I had been told, to my distaste, that I at times resembled the late Lord Breckenridge.
Peter sat quietly on the seat when he rode with us, as though determined to prove he could behave. He seemed taken with Gabriella and talked with her readily. My new family was a bit pulled together, I reflected, but that ride to London was the best journey I’d taken in many years.