Emile was deferential to me and blatantly fond of Gabriella, but I chafed against the day he’d take her away from me entirely.
Gabriella declared they’d visit us often, or I could travel to them. However, I knew that once Gabriella became Madame Devere, running her own household and raising her children, she’d have increasingly less time for her old father living far away in England. Her mother and stepfather would be there to watch every minute of her life, while I would have only snippets in letters and brief visits.
I could not help but wish she’d have chosen one of the young men Donata and Lady Aline had picked out for her before she’d announced her preference for Emile. Then she’d live in one of the large houses nearby, and I could see her every day if she liked.
This was selfish of me, because Gabriella should be allowed her happiness. If she’d grown up with me, if I’d had as much time with her as I’d liked, I might more graciously let her go. Or so I believed.
I was saved from my dismal thoughts by a screech high above—our house was never quiet for long. My youngest daughter had begun to cry, and her wails quickly escalated to screams. Doors slammed on an upper floor as maids hurried to calm her.
Gabriella and I both rose, making our way in mutual agreement for the stairs.
“Anne is awake, it seems,” I said lightly as I led the way up.
“Indeed,” Gabriella answered with good humor.
“I suppose you believe we spoil her rotten. Perhaps I do, but Donata does not hold with such things. Unfortunately, Anne has the Lacey temperament and vigorous constitution.”
“Not unfortunate,” Gabriella said. “I have younger brothers and a sister, remember. They have always been quite loud, and when we were young, poor Mama had no idea what to do with them.”
Mama was Carlotta, my erstwhile wife. After Carlotta had left me, she’d borne the French officer she’d run away with three more children. Gabriella always spoke of her siblings—and her stepfather, Major Auberge—with great fondness. Whatever mistakes her collective parents had made in their lives, Gabriella had no bitterness toward any of us.
We continued the climb to the top of the house and entered the nursery. Though the day outside was gloomy, this room glowed with light and warmth. The nanny, Mrs. McGowan, had lifted Anne from her cot, instructing her to please be quiet before she shattered the windows.
Anne caught sight of me. “Papa!” she shouted.
“There’s my girl.” As I reached for her, Anne squirmed mightily in Mrs. McGowan’s grip and launched herself at me.
I caught her without mishap, and Anne began a loud, babbled conversation in unintelligible words.
“Is that so?” I asked her, my eyes wide. “How remarkable.”
“She needs to be dressed, Captain,” Mrs. McGowan said with disapproval.
Anne wore a nightgown covered by a warm wrapper with a woolly cap to keep the cold from her downy head. At Mrs. McGowan’s pronouncement, she bellowed another word she’d recently learned. “No!”
“I’m dressed.” Gabriella spun once to show Anne her muslin gown in soft yellow. “Let us find you a frock like mine.”
“Yes!” Anne agreed at the top of her voice. She abandoned me, now lunging for her beloved sister. “Gabba.”
Gabriella took her without dismay and carried her into the nursery’s dressing room, Anne continuing her wordless observations.
“She will be a handful,” Mrs. McGowan warned.
She already was, but I preferred for Anne to remain strong-willed and knowing her own mind, so she’d not be cowed by whoever tried to control her later in her life.
Gabriella had Anne quieted now, so I thanked Mrs. McGowan and descended the stairs. I heard Donata’s tones floating from her own dressing room, where she instructed her lady’s maid and assistants which gown to bring out, and no, not those slippers with that shawl.
I continued past without interrupting these dangerous tasks and took myself downstairs to the library. There, I opened Pickett’s diary and went through his appointments, paying particular attention to the previous month.
Grenville might have the right of it, that someone in one of these damnable societies had feared Pickett would tell the wrong person the wrong thing, and so silenced him forever. Perhaps more gentlemen in Pickett’s group had been involved with the Cato Street men and wanted no further attention drawn to them.
I took out a small notebook I’d purchased to jot my notes in and listed the possibilities Grenville and I had pondered.
The door opened deferentially, and Bartholomew’s fair head poked around it.
“Captain?” He sounded hesitant, as though fearing he’d interrupt something of great importance.
“Come in, Bartholomew. I am hardly penning a masterpiece of world literature.”
