“Yes.” The word was so quiet I almost did not hear it. “I never like to think about it.”
“I would like to know.”
Donata had always been a private person, but I was a great believer in the idea that a burden shared was a burden halved—not that I always followed my own convictions.
“So you should.” Donata drew a breath, as though steeling herself for an ordeal. “She was my first child, Breckenridge’s, when we were newly married. I was young and full of hope, though I’d already realized some of Breckenridge’s character. I was certain he’d change as we grew together, certain he’d change when I presented him with his firstborn. But carrying the child was difficult. One day …” Her eyes clouded. “It happened quickly, and I still do not know why. But it was done. She was so very tiny.”
I rose to my feet and tugged Donata to me, my arms going around her. “Love. I am so sorry.”
“Breckenridge never forgave me.” Her words were muffled, her cheek on my chest. “Not even when I gave him Peter.”
I held her tightly, my lips in her hair. Donata had always been a fond mother, solicitous toward her son and now her daughter. Part of the reason must be this—she’d known what it was to lose a child, to have that hole in her life.
I did not berate her for not telling me. It must have hurt for her to even think about it, let alone find the words to share the tale. I knew she’d wanted to close off every part of her life with Breckenridge and live only in the present moment.
I had sometimes wondered why Peter had been born nearly seven years into Donata’s marriage. Breckenridge had been on campaign in the Peninsula for much of their wedded life, but even so it might have taken Donata that long to be able to carry a child to term.
Her loss had happened about fifteen years ago now, but I was certain that this was not long enough to ease the pain. She would have told me, I knew, eventually, as she unfolded more of herself as our years together slid by.
I held her closer, my love for this woman overwhelming me. Outside in the street, vendors cried their wares, their musical voices surrounding us in this marvelous, teeming, uncompromising city that had survived war and earthquake and fire, from the ancient world to this day.
Inside, I soothed my wife, who had hurt more than I could understand, when I’d thought my own pain too much to bear. We held each other, her heartbeat against my chest, and knew each other a little better than we had even an hour before.
Before we left Rome,I visited Mr. Broadhurst, where he waited his return to London in lodgings behind the church of Sant’Agnese en Agone, guarded by several of Denis’s largest men.
“You said you’d help me,” Broadhurst bleated at me after I convinced the guards to let me in.
He regarded me in hurt outrage, and I eyed him severely. “I have met men who killed and stole for many reasons.” My mouth firmed. “I have liked only a few of them less than you.”
“I trusted you,” he began.
“And many trusted you.” I lost my temper. My reason for coming here had been to finish with him, to put an end to the matter in my mind. I thought of Joseph Cockburn, alone and unable to hear in an unforgiving world, who’d had to learn to defend himself at a young age. Of Leonard Cockburn, murdered because he’d wanted to return what he and Broadhurst had stolen, even if it destroyed the pair of them. Of the many men and women Broadhurst had cheated out of money that they could not afford to lose.
“You are a sordid and pathetic man,” I snapped. “Sir Montague Harris is a just magistrate, and he will see to it that you receive what you deserve. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Broadhurst only stared at me. His expression held some shame for his past deeds, but also a gleam of cunning. He was a swindler, one who’d persuaded many he had their best interests at heart. No doubt he told himself he could talk or buy his way out of Denis’s clutches.
He would hope in vain. Denis would ignore any attempt Broadhurst made to cajole him into letting him go. Denis owed me a favor, and he’d use Broadhurst to pay it. Denis disliked obligating himself to anyone, and though Broadhurst might wheedle all he wished, I knew Denis would remain steadfast.
He’d take Broadhurst to London and hand him over without fuss to Sir Montague. Denis no doubt would use the situation to assuage the magistrates and with an eye to keeping them from interfering too much in his business, not that Sir Montague could be coerced.
I could almost pity Broadhurst. Almost. I gave him a cold nod, worthy of Conte Trevisan, and left him, Broadhurst’s cunning look dissolving in a wave of trepidation.
Two days later,I scarcely waited until Grenville’s coach had halted before I was throwing open its door and descending as quickly as I was able to the drive in front of his villa.
Three stories of stone rose from the surrounding garden that the coach had reached via an iron gate and a curved drive, a grand sweep of staircase leading to the front door. Through this door poured a dozen people, some in servants’ garb, some in dresses floating as they hastened down the stairs, one small boy in a coat that was already awry, his boots coated with mud.
They flowed toward the carriage, the servants to welcome Donata and their master, Marianne heading straight for Grenville. The two connected, Grenville’s arm firmly linking with Marianne’s as they moved off into the garden. Grenville for once forgot his politeness in his need to be with his wife.
Marianne’s son had come, she not wanting to leave him behind in England, and he dashed straight to Bartholomew, who was hauling down valises, to show him whatever he’d stuffed his pockets with. Bartholomew paused in his duties to admire rocks and insects and declared he wanted to see David’s entire collection.
Peter hurled himself at me, his cries ofPapa!ones of a strong lad ready for antics. A nurse held Anne, who was shouting as heartily as her brother. Anne reached arms out and was rewarded by Donata sweeping her up.
“Here’s my little angel,” Donata announced. The little angel shrieked in delight and smacked a sticky kiss against her mother’s cheek.
I greeted Peter, pulling him into an exuberant hug before we then manfully shook hands. Released, Peter ran to join David and Bartholomew. Peter, though a year or so younger than David, had become the lad’s protector.
My gaze had already locked to the young woman in ivory skirts who attempted to descend the stairs with more dignity than had her brother.
