“Maybe one in the King’s army purloined the gun,” Brewster offered. “And sold it to Warrilow.”
Many possibilities, none of them pleasant.
I returned the weapon to Thompson, thanked him for his time once more, and Brewster and I departed.
We hunted up Hagen, who’d remained with the coach near the watery entrance to the London Docks. He chatted with a drover but kept an eye on his surroundings. This was not the most agreeable area of London, but Hagen was a large man with ham-sized fists and a stern gaze. Men scrutinized the luxurious coach but gave it a wide berth.
“My guess is Mr. Warrilow stole that shooter,” Brewster said as he boosted me into the carriage. My leg hurt even more now, and I didn’t reject his assistance. “Found it on the ship he was traveling on or came across it while kicking about in Antigua. He wanted to sell it and chucked it under the floor until he could find a buyer.”
I stifled a grunt of pain as I settled on the seat. “Someone who wanted the gun but was reluctant to pay might have killed him for it. Except it was well hidden, and not taken.”
“Killer never found it.” Brewster shrugged. “Warrilow sounds an unpleasant cove. Most like he provoked a gent until that gent coshed him on the head.”
“Most like.”
As Brewster slammed the door and resumed his perch on the back, I tried not to picture Eden losing his temper and going at Warrilow with the heavy porcelain wash pitcher. Eden had always been an amiable chap, but every man has his limits.
The ride home was slow, as the streets were now choked with carts, carriages, horses, and wagons. I had plenty of time to think over what I’d seen and learned from Mr. Clay, Thompson, and Warrilow’s landlady, and what we’d discovered in Warrilow’s chamber.
By the time we arrived in South Audley Street, daylight was fading. I expected to find Donata out, stubbornly making her rounds of calls, but she met me on the stairs.
She’d dressed in one of her well-made ensembles of striped silk, but the gown was meant for dining at home. I was always bemused that her casual clothes were as stunning as her theatre garb.
“Peter was not happy with my announcement that he was to go to Oxford,” she said by way of greeting. “Perhaps you could speak to him. He’s more apt to listen to you, at his age.”
Instead of being dismayed, I felt a frisson of pride at Peter’s respect for me. “I would be happy to.”
Donata looked me up and down, noting how I used both walking stick and railing to keep myself upright. “Shall you rest first?”
“Better tackle it at once,” I said. “Are you going out later? Or will you take supper with me?”
“I have very few invitations tonight, nothing of consequence, and I have already sent my regrets. I will tell Barnstable the two of us will be dining.”
I looked forward to it with pleasure. Most nights, Donata went on endless outings to soirees, the theatre or opera, musicales, or lectures. I often joined her, but many evenings she moved in her own circles, which she had been doing since her debutante days, while I sought Grenville for conversation or brandy, if he too was not out in the social whirl.
I preferred to be with my wife, which was why I’d married her, after all. However, we were not staid, comfortable Captain and Mrs. Lacey, but an aristocratic lady and a used-up military man. Donata enjoyed her social existence, and I did not have the heart to demand she stay by my side at all times.
The nursery was on an upper floor of this very tall house. I scarcely felt my aching leg as I climbed, because at the end of the journey I’d find my daughter and stepson.
Peter, who was seven years old now and growing sturdier by the day, turned from books piled before him on a long table with a look of gladness. He assumed I’d come to take him riding, as I’d promised.
I postponed the disappointment I had to give him by seeking out Anne. She reposed on a pile of rugs on her side of the room, able now to sit up unaided. She bounced a few times and let out a loud screech at the sight of me.
I was convinced she understood every word I said and could speak herself, no matter that it to us sounded like gibberish. I dropped my walking stick to sweep her up, making her squeal even more shrilly as I lifted her to the ceiling.
The nanny, Mrs. McGowan, hovered nearby, always certain I would drop Anne. I would do no such thing, holding her as though she were the most precious object in the world, which she was.
“How are you, my girl?” I said, resting Anne in the crook of my arm. She reached for a button on my waistcoat with both hands, declaring, “Bah!”
“She has eaten much today,” Mrs. McGowan said. “Very robust. Stood up several times, using the chair for support.”
“Isn’t she clever?” I bounced Anne, who let go of my button to clap her hands.
“Are we going riding, Papa?” Peter asked eagerly. He’d taken to calling me Papa, rather than Sir, after our sojourn in Brighton this summer.
“Afraid not, lad. I’ve even convinced your mother to remain indoors tonight. There’s bad men about. That is why your mother wants you to go to Oxford.” As Peter’s face scrunched into the scowl that made him look much like his true father, I added, “We will join you by the end of the week.”
Donata and I had decided that Anne was too small to travel without us, even in Mrs. McGowan’s care. She would stay here, protected in the nursery, until time for us to leave.
“Why can’t we go at the end of the week together?” Peter stuck out his chin, manfully attempting not to cry.
“Because the danger is real. Mr. Brewster says it is, and I believe him. Mr. Denis says so as well. Mr. Brewster will be staying the night.” So he’d informed me before I’d come inside, not giving me a chance to argue.
Peter had much respect for Brewster, and his stubborn look softened a touch. “If it is so dangerous, we should go together now.”
“I will stay and make sure the danger is taken care of,” I said. “And then join you.”
Mrs. McGowan had listened in alarm. “You really do mix yourself up in too much, Captain. Begging your pardon, sir.”
As she was right, I could hardly admonish her. “Oxfordshire is beautiful in this season,” I told Peter. “You’ll be able to ride and run in the gardens. Your grandfather will look after you.”
More softening. Peter liked his grandfather.
“But you and Mama will come on Saturday?” he persisted.
“We will. And then we’ll ride every day.”
Peter balled his fists, scowl returning. “Very well, but I don’t like it. You should tell Mr. Denis to kiss his own arse.”
“Your lordship!” Mrs. McGowan’s voice rang. “That is not the sort of language a viscount uses.”
Those were exactly the sorts of words I heard aristocrats use all the time, but I forbore from saying so. I wanted to laugh, but as a good father, I frowned at Peter in admonishment.
“My obligation to Mr. Denis is finished. I will have nothing more to do with him.”
So I hoped. I had never lied to the children about Denis and my acquaintanceship with him, but I did not tell them the whole of it. I hoped by the time Peter grew to manhood, Denis would have turned his attention from me.
Peter’s expression was skeptical, which meant he knew more about Denis than his mother and I had relayed. But Peter was expert at roaming the house, finding out information his irritating parents would not pass to him.