I ignored this. “How did you find me?” I asked the general company.
“Went to the cottage you’d been summoned to,” Brewster answered. “You weren’t there when I arrived, and none had seen you go. But then I spotted a gentry cove’s sailing ship putting out to sea, towing a little boat behind. I nabbed a spyglass from a bloke and had a butcher’s. Couldn’t see anything, but I wagered it were you out there.”
“So you commandeered a steamboat?”
“His Nibs did. I ran back and told him. He went down to the docks himself. Had to finagle, and the colonel here had to help, but His Nibs paid a large amount of money for the tug captain to set off after the boat. It were slow, but finished the task.”
“You plowed it into a yacht owned by a count,” I said, impressed. “Or a viscount if it’s Armitage’s.”
Brewster wiped his mouth. “Accidents do happen at sea.”
“Indeed they do.” James Denis had seen to that.
The shore came up fast, as did the jetties that stuck out from below West Street and Middle Street. Just as I swore we’d run straight into them, the engine stopped, and in silence, we glided gently to the dock.
“Much easier than a sailing ship,” Brewster said as the world ceased rocking. “It belches like a stevedore, but it moves as sweet as kiss your arse.”
Chapter 24
Imanaged not to collapse until I made it to the small white house I currently called home.
Donata, Gabriella, Peter, and most of the servants met us at the front door, all wild with worry. My arm had been bandaged by the surgeon—not Denis’s surgeon, who could not very well show himself with a magistrate about—but a competent man from Brighton. I showed all my sling.
“Nothing to worry about. Just grazed me. I’ll be closed up in no time.”
Gabriella and Peter let themselves be reassured. Gabriella hugged me hard and Peter clasped my hand, manfully gulping back tears. They escorted me upstairs, but left me with Donata by my chamber door, Gabriella leading Peter away.
I turned and made for Donata’s bedchamber instead, she following, because hers was soft, comfortable, smelled nice, and would contain her. Donata hovered while Bartholomew undressed me.
“Damnation,” she declared when my battered and bruised torso came into view. “Gabriel, you must cease this.”
I tried not to wince as Bartholomew began scrubbing off my back with a large, sopping sponge. I stood in under-breeches and nothing else, my cold skin prickling in the stuffy chamber.
“Indeed,” I said as Bartholomew worked to remove all traces of my adventure. “I am growing too old to be blamed for a murder and then nearly killed. I am supposed to be on holiday.”
“Blast you, Gabriel,” Donata growled, and then she came at me.
Bartholomew tactfully stepped back as my wife enfolded me in a clutching embrace, burying her face in my shoulder. Her body shook, but she tried to muffle her sobs—she did not like to be seen giving way.
I stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head. “We’ve let the house for another few weeks,” I said soothingly. “The holiday isn’t lost. We’ll go for walks and bathe in the sea and attend insipid soirees as much as you like.”
Donata remained silent. Bartholomew quietly returned the sponge to the basin and withdrew, sending me a grin before he noiselessly closed the door.
Donata lifted her head when the latch clicked. Her eyes were red-rimmed, tears on her lashes.
“We won’t stay here,” she said sharply. “I cannot bear this place any longer.”
“London will be hot,” I said. “The stench fearsome.” I recalled my years living in Grimpen Lane, with the Thames not far enough away to mitigate the stink.
“No, Oxfordshire,” she said. “We’ll spend the remainder of the month at my father’s house and then go to Norfolk, before we return Gabriella to France. You’ll have to see to the harvest.”
My cousin would see to the harvest quite well without me, but I nodded. “We’ll go, love.”
I thought of Oxfordshire and the seat of the Pembrokes, the long avenue that led to the house of golden stone, the gardens that were the pride of Donata’s mother. I could ride with Peter through the fields, or walk with Gabriella along paths by the river. I would carry Anne on my shoulders and show her the lands of her ancestors.
Then Norfolk where Peter and I would dig for clams and picnic in the abbey ruins, ride for miles along the salt flats. I longed for the wide lands, the huge sky, the sea stretching like a gray sheet to the north.
“We’ll go, love.” I repeated.
