“Probably not.” My daughter was eighteen, I thought with a qualm. Donata’s father had been strong enough to curb her, powerful enough to set up an aristocratic marriage for her. How much power did I, a poor country gentleman and half-pay army officer, have to prevent my daughter from a foolish mistake?

“Are you saying,” I went on, “that the writer of these threatening letters is your former inamorato?”

She gave me a look of scorn. “Matters hardly went that far. My love was innocent, though I am certain he had other ideas. But yes, I suspect him. He enjoyed flowery phrases, and these letters are rife with them. Besides, I can think of no other person who would wish to destroy my marriage to you.”

“No?” I asked. “I can think of a good many.”

Donata had been a wealthy widow, and her son was a viscount, possessor of vast tracts of property and piles of money. And who had sidled in to steal her from the gentlemen of the ton? A forty-odd year-old army captain, lame, with one suit to his name, who lived over a bakeshop in Covent Garden.

Three quarters of Mayfair was furious with me. They blamed Grenville for bringing a nobody into contact with their number, where I could meet a lady like Donata. They were entirely right, but that did not mean I’d give up my lady, tuck my tail between my legs, and scurry back to my damp, rundown house in Norfolk like a good country squire. Donata also had two cousins highly enraged that I’d cut them out of any chance with her.

“None who would send letters like this.” Donata gestured with the paper she held. “There was always a little something mad about him. Probably added to his appeal—girls can be such idiots.”

“What is this gentleman’s name?” I asked again.

“Hmm.” Donata’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not certain now that I will reveal it. Not because I am ashamed, but you do tend to let your temper get the better of you, and you have the unfortunate tendency to draw the ire of the Runners.”

“That is so,” I said, keeping my voice quiet. “All the same, I wish you would tell me.”

“I will think on it.” Donata folded the letter and tucked it into a pocket of her peignoir. “I might be wrong, in any case. No use in you kicking a poor unfortunate who was minding his own business. Besides, he might have reformed.”

I doubted it. Once a roué always a roué, in my experience.

“Wherever did you go this morning?” Donata asked, the business of the letters finished. “Barnstable tells me you had a message then dashed out in a hackney.”

“I did indeed. I am prepared to tell you all about it if I am allowed to make myself presentable.”

“You do fuss so, Gabriel. Very well. Please be quick. I am too impatient these days.”

I adjourned to my chamber, hurried through my ablutions, and let Bartholomew, my valet, tuck me into another suit. I owned several now, as my wife insisted that any husband of hers must look presentable.

I cared very little for clothing, but I had no wish to embarrass her, so I consulted Grenville, who referred me to a tailor who would dress me in clothes to suit me. As a result, I now owned several subdued, everyday ensembles, formal coats and trousers for elegant occasions, and several sets of riding clothes.

Returning to Donata’s boudoir, I felt more confident taking a seat next to her.

Donata’s room was entirely feminine, all ivory and gold, its furniture ornate and gilded, or elegantly plain. Ivory draperies trimmed with gold flowed at the windows, an ebony table at Donata’s side held her coffee; a matching table at my side held mine.

I enjoyed coffee at any time of the day, and I readily drank it. A rich heat filled my mouth and warmed my stomach. I reflected that I was becoming pampered and soft, living in this luxury.

I related my visit to Thompson and what he had showed me, sparing her no details. Donata was resilient enough, even belly-full as she was, to listen without flinching. Indeed, she’d have taken me to task if I’d spared her any description.

I also showed her the cloth, which she stroked in curiosity, pronouncing it a rather well-woven cotton. The necklace too had been expensive, but we both agreed the clothes and necklace might have been gifts, or stolen.

Donata viewed the dead woman’s trinkets without turning a hair. Only when I told her I’d taken the bones away in a hackney did Donata’s eyes widen.

“Good heavens, Gabriel, you did not bring them here, did you?”

“Indeed, no.” I drained my cup and clicked the delicate thing to its saucer. “I took them to Grenville’s.”

A spark lit Donata’s eyes. “Did you? How delicious. What did Grenville say when you sprang them on him?”

“He does not know yet. He was not at home.”

“His own fault then.” Donata moved closer to me. “When you show them to him and discuss it, as you will, may I come too? I am most curious.”

“A touch gruesome,” I answered. “Better not.”

Her look turned exasperated. “My dear Gabriel, I am not fragile porcelain. I have borne a child before, with great success. Peter is robustly healthy, terrifyingly so. I do not see what harm I can come to in Grenville’s cellars.”

“You are maddening,” I said. “If I forbid you?”

“I will simply go myself when you are out.”

In this day and age, a husband’s word was absolute, and his wife was obligated to do exactly as he told her. I could prosecute my wife for disobedience, and I would not be blamed if I took my fists to her for defying me.

I knew, however, that Donata, possessing a natural air of command herself, simply thought such rules did not apply to her. She had no intention of meekly obeying me, and if I raised a hand to her, she had a powerful father ready to take me to task for it.

Or else, Donata had realized long ago that I would never hurt her, no matter how much she vexed me.

“Very well,” I said, pretending to ignore her triumphant look. “I must find Denis’s surgeon, and then we will go.”

She was satisfied with that and thanked me tenderly, without words.

***

I had little idea where to begin hunting for the surgeon I had in mind, because I did not know his name, where he dwelt, and even if he remained in England.

I left Donata and looked about for Brewster. Brewster rarely entered my house, to the relief of those below stairs, who’d have to put up with him while he waited for me. Donata’s servants considered themselves above such ruffians as Brewster and did not welcome him into their midst.

I asked the footman whose principal job it was to answer the door what had become of him. The lad pointed up the street and said, “Pub, sir.”

I found Brewster in Oxford Street, in a public house he’d taken to, the Ox and Dog.

This part of Oxford Street edged between more genteel neighborhoods and the warrens of Soho and Seven Dials. Those who worked for the wealthy—coachmen, grooms, and the like—came here. Upright, hard-working people who, like Donata’s servants, knew a bone-breaker when they saw one.

Brewster, however, had a knack for keeping to himself and fading into the moldings, quite a trick for such a big man. The clientele, however, had grown used to him and now ignored him.

This public house wasn’t as old as some in London. Though it sported dark polished wood, settles around the large fireplace, and a scrubbed, flagstone floor, the house didn’t sag at the seams, the windows were large and many-paned, and the whole place had a modern, cheerful air to it.

Brewster sat in the corner farthest from the door, his back to the wall, where he could observe the entire room from the shadows. A tankard rested in front of him, nearly empty.

The publican gave me a nod when I came in. I’d become as recognizable as Brewster, though the regulars weren’t quite certain why a respectable-looking, military gentleman had such a pugilist-like acquaintance. I could feel the speculative gazes of the men in the tavern as I passed them—was Brewster my servant? Hired ruffian? Odd friend? Lover?