I raised her face to mine and sealed the bargain with a gentle kiss. Donata retrieved the sponge, and she and I finished wiping grime and blood from me. Once I considered myself clean enough not to mar the sheets, we took to bed.
* * *
“His Nibs wants a word.”
Brewster’s voice came mournfully around the packing crates in our downstairs hall, the boxes waiting to be loaded onto the wagons outside.
“His Nibs is still here?” I asked in surprise. A week had passed since the day I’d been forced to sea. I’d healed my hurts but did not like to think of how close I’d come to dying.
Desjardins, though he’d taken a heavy shot to the thigh, was mending. Brandon visited him every day, as did Mr. Quimby, who took plenty of notes. The comte was doing his best to save himself by blaming everything on Armitage, but Brandon remained of the opinion he’d be sent to France as soon as he could travel.
Young Isherwood had visited and thanked me. I was not certain what for—I could bring no one to justice. Still he was gracious, with the right touch of acknowledgment. I predicted he’d go far as an officer.
Marguerite Gibbons and her husband finished their business in Brighton and returned to Portsmouth. Isherwood had left her a bit of income, she’d told me when she came to say good-bye, which indicated to me that the man might have felt some remorse for how he’d treated her.
Marguerite was more of the opinion that her stepson had persuaded Isherwood that leaving her a token amount would look better for him than ignoring her altogether. In any case, she had finished with Isherwood’s man of business and looked forward to going home.
She and her husband had said their farewells to Donata and me both, Marguerite giving me a warm smile. The smile told me she was grateful for what I’d done for her in the past, but that it would remain in the past. Mr. Gibbons was congenial throughout, as though he had no fears about his wife’s former lover. And he did not. I wished them well.
Mr. Bickley left for his sister’s in Chichester once more. He’d offered to testify against Desjardins and take the blame for his part, though the magistrate said it probably wouldn’t come to that. Bickley had done nothing more than put opium in my coffee, and no jury would believe he masterminded the plot, or even understood all it entailed. Unless someone prosecuted Bickley, he’d remain quietly with his sister.
I thought it brave of him to offer. Bickley would have had to stand in the dock and tell the world how his actions had caused death of his own son. Yet he’d done it, possibly to ease his conscience, though I could see he was a broken man.
Armitage must have worked on his grief, feeding him stories of my life, happily married to a wealthy woman, while his brother had died under my watch in Salamanca. But Bickley’s punishment for participating in Armitage’s scheme had been dire indeed. I pitied him.
Brewster nodded at me now, unhappy. “Mr. Denis is waiting until you’re safe in Oxfordshire before he goes home. Says he needs to pack you in cotton wool.”
“Amusing.” I took my hat from Bartholomew and stepped out onto the street. “Nothing for it, I suppose.”
We walked the short way to the house Denis had let. Around us families enjoyed the summer air, moving down to the promenade or carrying baskets to picnic at the Steine. A few pleasure craft drifted offshore, sails full.
Work continued on the Pavilion. Clement had showed Grenville and me through it this past week, he an elegantly liveried and knowledgeable guide. He’d demanded the entire story of the end game, of course. I liked the lad and hoped I would be able to visit him and his mother again one day. They were refreshingly kind people.
Denis received me in his upstairs study, with its view over the fields behind it. A brush of sea air touched the close room, and wind bent the grasses under a cloud-dotted sky.
“I’m off,” I said as I entered. “As you know. This afternoon, in fact. Direct any missives to her ladyship’s father’s house in Oxfordshire.”
Denis only looked at me. “I called you here to remind you that I expect you to perform a task for me.”
We remained standing, which told me the interview would be brief.
“I remember,” I said. “Though, in the end, I never needed your help to trap Armitage.”
“While that is true, you agreed to the bargain.” Denis’s eyes were cool.
I gave him a nod. “You did, however, commandeer a boat to rescue me. For which I am grateful.”
“It was expedient. Can I hold you to this promise?”
“Yes.” A bargain was a bargain, and I’d honor it. Without Denis, I would now be dead, and we both knew it.
“I will not ask the mission of you now,” he went on. “You will travel to Oxfordshire, Norfolk, and France as planned. Afterward, I will send for you.”
“You could have stated this in a note.” I said, a trifle impatiently. “I have much to do today.”
“I have more to say that I did not wish to write. Such as the fact that Comte Desjardins insists that you actually did stab Colonel Isherwood to death. He has told this to the magistrate, but it is clear that his word is not believed.”
I swallowed, my throat dry. “He claimed this, yes, when he was trying to pot me in the boat. Do you think he is lying?”
