“Good Lord, of course not.” Forbes blinked in surprise. “The woman was nowhere near when Isherwood had his meetings, and he kept his dispatches locked away and not in his own tent. She had no interest in military matters.”
“Then, in your opinion, she wasn’t a spy for Bonaparte?” I asked.
Forbes’s bewilderment increased. “Marguerite Isherwood? She was a hedonist. Loved to wear pretty dresses and dance with every gentleman in sight. The war was an opportunity for her to flirt with the officers, including Wellington himself. You know howhewas with the ladies.”
Unfortunately, his description could be used to paint Marguerite as a spy, one who used her wiles to grow close to high-ranking officers. On the other hand, she could be just as Forbes depicted, a lady who only wished to enjoy herself. She’d made the best of army life and marriage to a hard-hearted man like Isherwood.
“Thank you,” I said. “Mrs. Gibbons will be entertained by your opinion of her.”
“It’s not opinion—it is the truth. I knew her better than anyone, including Isherwood himself.”
An interesting thing to state. I wondered if Forbes had carried a tendresse for Marguerite and she’d shunned him.
I had one final question. “Why did Isherwood return to the Pavilion after the supper? Or did he ever leave it? Had he planned to meet someone there?”
Forbes gave me a look of anguish, which he tried to hide with outrage. “How the devil should I know? I did not see him at all that night, nor was I invited to the Pavilion with him. I told you, if he’d billeted at the barracks instead of taking a house in town, none of this would have happened.”
He truly did not know. Forbes could have done nothing to prevent Isherwood’s death, and that knowledge was killing him.
I took pity on him, and left him alone.
* * *
“Where to now, guv?”Brewster asked as we boarded the hackney, the driver climbing leisurely to his box. “To see the Runner?”
“No,” I answered. “To Mr. Denis.”
Brewster was not pleased that I continued to impose myself on Denis, but if the man wanted this problem resolved, he would have to put up with me.
I could not simply bang my way into his house, of course. As when I visited him in Curzon Street, one of his ruffians took word upstairs, and I had to wait upon his pleasure.
Today, I was shown up almost at once. Denis rose when I entered his study, cool face concealing irritation.
I explained to him what Brandon had told me and my idea for finishing this.
“Risky.” Denis rested his hands on the desk. “How can you force words of confession from their lips?”
“I have a few ideas. Desjardins is a coward. I believe he will break. Armitage will need more care.”
I told him why I neededhim—Denis specifically—and not only because of his trained fighting men. It was a favor, one he had no reason to grant me, and I knew I’d be yet further in his debt.
Denis knew it too. He considered for a time, though I knew he’d already decided. “If I do this, you will undertake the task I have for you without argument.” It was a statement, not a question.
The favor would prevent me from being arrested for Isherwood’s murder and standing trial for it. Brandon was correct that Armitage was powerful.
I nodded, placing my fate in Denis’s hands.
* * *
I visited Mr. Quimby,catching him in his lodgings this time, and told him most of what I’d told Denis. Like Denis, Quimby was skeptical my plan would work, but agreed to help.
I went home—nothing more I could do in the meantime. Brandon had gone to visit Mrs. Gibbons, Bartholomew told me, and had not yet returned. I was curious to hear how the meeting went, but I would have to wait. Brandon, of course, would stay with us until he returned to London—no matter our past differences, it would be churlish indeed of me to deny him hospitality.
It was eleven of the clock. Donata was still abed, but Gabriella, dressed and energetic, waited for me, and we went for a walk on the shore. Peter came with us, playing near the water under Brewster’s watchful eye.
My time with Gabriella was precious. I’d lost her for so many years, and now she intended to marry a young man in Lyon. I’d visit her, of course, and she us, but marriage took one’s time and attention, and soon she’d bear children of her own.
“Tell me more about Emile.” I named the young man who’d stolen her heart.
