Any man I’d met of the Hebrew religion had been no different than I was, I’d observed—in fact, many came from circumstances far better than mine and blended into London life more seamlessly than I did. True, I was able to vote or stand for Parliament, had I been reckless enough to do so, and they were not—but how did that make me a superior man?
It did not, in my opinion. A man’s character and honor made him stand above others, not his religion or strata in life.
Grenville, far superior to many on all counts, descended in the turnoff between Houndsditch and Aldgate with as much poise as he did alighting from a carriage at Carlton House.
A young man sitting in the yard, working on a black headstall in his lap, dropped his tools with a clang and bolted into the house as Grenville strolled toward the door.
“Sir?” The funeral furnisher emerged, settling his coat, and fixing a gaze of great surprise at Grenville. “It is not time for you to partake of my services yet, surely. You’re in fine fettle, Mr. Grenville.”
Chapter Twelve
The funeral furnisher was not what I expected. The idea of a man who made a living burying people gave me the picture of a thin, rather cadaverous person, with gray hair and dry, papery skin. Instead, this furnisher was stout from good meals, had black hair and long side whiskers, and a twinkle in his blue eyes that spoke of a merry nature.
“No, indeed,” Grenville said. “My health is robust thus far. Though one never knows. Today, I have come to ask a favor for another.”
“I could have called upon you.” The man looked hurt. “You had only to send for me.”
“Unusual circumstances, Mr. Wilkinson.”
Wilkinson shrugged and gestured us into the house. Instead of the sumptuous parlor I’d imagined, we went to a very plain sitting room with dark-paneled walls and straight-legged, shield-back chairs.
Without preliminary, Grenville explained the errand. Mr. Wilkinson’s ruddy face showed sympathy.
“The poor lamb. You leave it to me, Mr. Grenville. I’ll take fine care of her. Now, does the family want a walking funeral, or a carriage? I have some new headstalls in—with ostrich plumes that are the most beautiful, straight, well-dyed things I’ve ever seen. Quite stylish. And the finest cloth for draping the parlor. You give me some indication of what he wants, and I will arrange it.”
“I am afraid I don’t know,” Grenville said. “I promised to deliver the young woman home. After that, it is up to him.”
“I understand. I understand. Grief is a difficult thing. That is why so many leave the choices to a trusted friend, like yourself.”
“If he does want more, you send the bill to my man of business,” Grenville said. “Thank you, Wilkinson. I know she’s in good hands.”
We rose and took our leave. Wilkinson, whose head came up to my chin, peered at me with professional interest.
“We never like to think of bereavement,” he said. “But consider me when the time comes, sir. Giving loved ones the send-off they deserve is important, I think. And for yourself, sir, if you forgive me. Though that day I am certain is far in the future.”
I’d never been sized up quite so frankly for a coffin before. I had known a coffin-maker in the army with an eccentric sense of humor, who would measure officers before battle to make sure he had enough boxes with the right dimensions. Since the officers he put his ruler to usually made it back in one piece, it became a mark of good luck to have him come at one with a tape measure.
I made my bow to Wilkinson and followed the very amused Grenville out.
“He’s quite proud of his business,” Grenville said as we rolled away. The rain had ceased, all to the good. I had an appointment to ride in the park with Donata’s son. “But very skilled at it. The processions he arranges go off with aplomb and never drift into the vulgar. He is rubbing his hands, counting the days before I fall off the twig. It will be the grandest event London has ever seen, he says.”
“Then your demise will cheer at least one person,” I said. “The rest of us will be morose.”
“I am certain I will have enraged enough men with my haughtiness by then that there will be a line of rejoicers,” Grenville said. He sighed. “I grow weary of this life, Lacey.”
“You long to be off.”
Though the rain had ceased, a dampness pervaded the town. London was awake and alive, men and women, horses and carts moving through the streets in a great press, regardless of the weather. High brick walls hemmed us in, cutting off any view but stone and humanity.
“I do,” Grenville said. “Dr. Johnson observed that when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life, but I am missing the rest of the world. One can only remark upon the cut of another man’s coat so often. Although the bright green thing I saw upon the back of young Lord Armitage last night made me choke. And then I felt old. He is twenty-three, uninterested in the opinions of a man of forty. He, like Wilkinson, looks forward to my departure.”
“Stop.” I gave Grenville a stern look. “You are plunging into melancholia—I know the signs. Go home and make your plans for your Egyptian excursion in the winter. I have told you I will accompany you, and I will.”
Grenville brightened. “You’re right, Lacey. That will be just the thing. The weather there is appallingly hot, even in January, and there is dust everywhere, along with poisonous snakes and insects. You will heartily enjoy it.”
“I believe I will,” I said.
We talked of places in Egypt we’d visit and what I looked forward to seeing, as the carriage wedged its way through the damp press of London and dropped me at my front door. I took my leave of Grenville, feeling better, and went to find Peter to go for our ride.
Hyde Park after a rain, when the sun was beginning to emerge, was a fine place. Trees and brush sparkled with raindrops, the air had freshened, and the open expanse of the park was invigorating after the narrow streets of the metropolis.
It was not yet the fashionable hour, when the entire haut ton would turn out in carriages and on horseback to parade in their finery and greet one another with wit both pleasant and biting. Peter and I had a stretch of the Row to ourselves, though others were walking or trotting horses in the distance.
Peter was a good rider—he’d been given instruction at an early age and already he had a quiet seat, a steady hand, and knew how to move with the horse. Ostensibly, I was furthering his riding education, but the truth was we both enjoyed our afternoon rambles in the park, the men of the household together.
Peter was slightly downcast today, though I did not realize this until our first half-hour had passed. He was usually a cheerful chap, nothing at all like his churlish father—or perhaps the absence of that overbearing father had brightened his disposition.
“What is it?” I asked him when I noticed he didn’t laugh as quickly, or seem as interested in naming and describing others’ horses. “Something bothering you, old man?”
Peter didn’t answer for a time, as though debating what to tell me. “Mother is going to have a child,” he burst out. “Nanny said.”
Peter was six years old, tall and sturdy for his age, and could converse without nervousness with adults he knew. I saw his mother in this. Donata talked, as she called it, man-to-man with Peter instead of behaving as though he were a strange creature from a land she’d long ago left behind.
I sometimes forgot that Peter, already a viscount, was in truth a bewildered little boy.
“She is,” I said. “We were going to tell you so. In a few days, in fact. Make a celebration of it.”
“I don’t have a father,” Peter said abruptly. “Not anymore.”
“I know.” I’d been there when Lord Breckenridge had been pulled out of brush and bracken, stone dead. “I’m sorry about that.”
“Mother says you are to be my father now, even though you aren’t really. That is, if you and I are willing.”
“I’m certainly willing,” I said in all sincerity. “If you’ll have me.”
Pet
er frowned, his small face screwed up in uncertainty. “You’ll be the true father to Mother’s child. You won’t need me.”
“Ah.” I thought I understood what was bothering him. “You think when I have this new little one, I’ll forget all about you.”
“Won’t you?” Peter was struggling to keep the wistfulness from his question. Males in England had stoicism drilled into them from an early age. “Mother never liked my father. No one did—I didn’t like him either, really, though I don’t remember him much. So … maybe … you won’t like me.”
The sins of the fathers are to be laid upon the children, so said the Bard in The Merchant of Venice. Well did I know how trying it was to be the son of a man most people, including his own family, despised.
“You are not your father,” I said firmly. “I truly believe God gave us free will, Peter. You need be nothing like the late Lord Breckenridge. I respect and esteem you, lad. You remind me far more of your mother, and you know I care very much for her. Another child will only add to our family, not take away from it.”
Peter watched me, doubtful. Another rider, his greatcoat pulled close against the chill the rain had brought, came toward us at a slow lope. We’d have to cease this conversation and nod to him, speak to him if he were an acquaintance.
“Think of it another way,” I said. “Gabriella is my daughter, and now your stepsister. I have room in my heart for her, and you, and another child. You and Gabriella get on well, don’t you?”
“She’s very kind,” Peter conceded. “Though she’s much older than me.”
“She’s a kind young woman.” Could I help it if pride rang in my voice? In the decade and more of her life I’d missed, she’d become a sweet-tempered, sunny-natured girl. Loosening her to meet the young men of London filled me with dread. “You will have to help us raise our new child to be as kind and thoughtful as Gabriella.”
“I will?” Peter looked more interested. “Do you think it will be a little girl?”
“I hope so,” I said. “The world needs more ladies. They’re so much softer and more cheerful than us.”
Peter’s grin flashed. He enjoyed it when I spoke to him thus, as men together.
The other rider was nearly upon us. I turned, ready to tip my hat and greet him if need be.
The rider went low in his saddle and urged his horse toward us at a rapid pace. I stopped in surprise. It wasn’t done to ride hell for leather when the park began to fill with the elite, though I sometimes shocked the denizens with a good gallop.
I recovered my surprise in time to see the man, muffled to his nose, his hat pulled over his eyes, ride hard for Peter. He swung something down beside his horse—it appeared to be a bag with a weighty object inside.
He was going to knock Peter from the saddle. My body knew this before the thought could form.
The crackling of gunfire came back to me, the scents of smoke and the roar of men in the middle of battle. I’d fought those who tried to smack me from my horse, cut me down, shoot me, trample me. I’d survived by being ruthless, fast, and trusting my instincts.
As the lingering din of war sounded in my head, I shoved my horse between the rider’s and Peter, driving my mount at the approaching man’s, forcing him to turn.
The rider’s horse shied; mine spun and smacked his hindquarters into the other, ready to kick. The rider kept to his saddle, though his horse swayed. He righted the beast, and let fly the sack at me.
It had indeed been filled with large rocks, as I found when it struck me. If I’d ducked, it would have flown over me and hit Peter, and so I took the full brunt on my back and side.
The impact, though I tried to roll my body to mitigate the worst of it, sent me from my horse. I landed hard, on my shoulder and bad leg, cursing as gravel cut my face.
Out of the corner of my eye, as I lay in fury, I saw Brewster emerge from the trees that lined the Row and hurtle toward the rider. He reached the horse and got his hands on the man’s coat, but the rider struck out at Brewster. A knife blade flashed, Brewster let go, and the rider and horse skimmed away.
A pair of small boots landed next to my face. “Papa.” Peter’s worried voice sounded. “Are you dead?”
Through my pain and frustration, a warmth flooded me. He’d called me Papa. Not sir or Captain, or any of the formal monikers by which he’d addressed me thus far, but an acknowledgment of how he wished to regard me.
The moment ended when Brewster inserted himself between me and the rest of the world, going down on one knee.
“Bleedin’ ’ell. You alive?” He turned me over to see my glare. “Thank God for that. Don’t know what I’d tell his nibs.”
His hard face took on a look of relief. Whether for my own sake or the fact he’d not have to report to Denis that he failed to keep me alive, I couldn’t say.
Other riders were stopping, as did a sleek, two-wheeled curricle. “Who the devil was that?” The rather large and long-nosed countenance of the second Baron Alvanley peered down from his seat, his hands competently on the reins. “I had no idea there were highwaymen in Hyde Park.”
William Arden, Lord Alvanley, was fairly young, not quite thirty, but he’d already had a distinguished army career and was firmly in with the Prince Regent’s set. Grenville found him witty and entertaining, but Alvanley was ever trying to push Grenville aside as the successor of Mr. Brummell.
“What happened, Lacey?” Alvanley went on. “Shall I fetch someone?” He looked disapprovingly at Brewster, obviously too much of a ruffian to be my servant.
“I will be well,” I said in some irritation.
Brewster’s strong hand under my arm got me to my feet. Peter, trying to hide his tears, handed me my walking stick.
“I’m all right, Peter,” I told him reassuringly. I rested my gloved fingers on the boy’s shoulder and felt him trembling.
Alvanley’s tiger—a young lad hired to tend the horses when the driver of a curricle or phaeton was away from the vehicle—had leapt down at Alvanley’s command and caught my horse.
The boy, not much older than Peter, led my mount, a strong bay with a thick black mane, back to me. The tiger patted the horse in admiration before he handed me the reins.
I’d need a leg up. Before I could ask, Brewster was next to me, cupping his hands to heave me onto the horse. He pushed so hard I nearly slid off the other side but caught myself in time to save me that embarrassment. Brewster boosted Peter into the saddle of his smaller horse with more gentleness.
Alvanley, still on the box of the curricle, called to me. “Did you catch who it was? We should have the Runners on him. A man can’t go about knocking gentlemen from their horses.”
“No.” I peered in the direction the rider had disappeared, but of course, he was nowhere in sight. “He was too covered. Could have been anyone.”
Peter spoke up. “Fine bit of horseflesh.”
He was right—and the fact that the horse had been a good one should narrow the field. Horses were expensive, well I knew. I’d only been able to be a cavalryman because of the generosity of Colonel Brandon, who helped fund my horse, tack, and uniform. Only a wealthy man could afford a well-bred horse.
“An Irish hunter,” Peter went on. “Red with two white stockings, and a star on his forehead.”
“Jove,” Alvanley said to him. “You have an eye, Breckenridge. I had better watch out when you start your stable.”
Peter flushed but looked pleased.
Alvanley took up his reins, and his tiger jumped to his seat. “That will be it. Find the horse, and you find the man. Good day to you, Captain. My best to Mrs. Lacey and Mr. Grenville.”
With a polite nod, he slapped the reins to the horses’ backs and they walked on. Brewster watched him go, then turned to me.
“Who was it, Captain? You must a’ seen.”
“I assure you, I was more interested in keeping the man from hitting Peter,” I said in irritation. “He was well dressed, but he could have picked up his clothes secon
dhand and hired the horse. We know nothing.”
Brewster made a huffing noise. “We know one thing. He was after hurting you or the lad. Best you take yourselves home, Captain.”
I had to agree. Peter, looking nervously about, drew his mount in close to mine, and we rode to the mews behind South Audley Street, our contentment shattered.
***
Peter wasted no time, once we were home, seeking his mother and telling her of our adventure.
I had never seen Donata as distressed as I did now. I’d taken Peter up to her private parlor, where Barnstable said she waited for us. Once Peter, who’d recovered his fright, excitedly blurted out the tale, she went down on her knees beside him and caught him in her arms.
Peter succumbed to her embrace, somewhat puzzled. “I’m all right, Mama. Truly. The captain was there.”
Donata looked at me over Peter’s head. “What the devil happened, Gabriel?”
“Nothing Peter hasn’t already told you. It must have been a madman. Came at us, tried to strike Peter, but I blocked the blow. I’m only sorry I didn’t knock the blasted man down myself.”
Donata returned to hugging Peter tightly. “Who would do such a thing to a child? To my boy?”
I had a few ideas, but didn’t want to mention them in front of Peter.
Peter patted Donata’s back, still uncertain about his mother’s outpouring. “I am very well, Mama. And hungry.”
Donata released him with a little laugh, but remained on her knees beside him. “Aren’t you always? Very well, run along and have Nanny give you plenty of tea and bread with extra jam and honey.”
Peter grinned and gave her a loud kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, Mama!”
He dashed from the room. Bartholomew, waiting outside, swept Peter onto his big shoulders and carried him up the stairs.
I watched them until I made certain they reached the top floor without mishap, and Bartholomew and Peter had ducked into the nursery. I closed the door to find Donata sitting on the floor, her silver and ivory striped skirts flowing about her.
“Love.” I joined her, rather painfully, on the carpet, and put my arm around her. “He’s all right. Peter is a sturdy lad.”