“Captain Lacey, well met.” She held out a hand. “You recall me, surely? Marguerite Gibbons. At least, I have added theGibbonssince Spain.”
I should not be amazed, and yet I was. She’d written her friend that she’d settled in the south of England, and her former husband had just been murdered.
The woman who stood before me was Marguerite Isherwood, Colonel Isherwood’s rejected wife.
Chapter 9
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.
