“Captain Lacey,” she said in surprise. “How delightful to see you.”
Denis turned but did not appear in any way delighted at my arrival. “Captain.”
He did not invite me upstairs. Every line of him told me he wished I’d go away.
“I would not have come were it not important,” I said by way of apology. “I am close to discovering who truly killed Mr. Pickett, but I need to ask a question.”
“Then I will depart.” Lady continued to smile at me, but regret showed in her eyes.
I might have taken myself away and told her to enjoy Denis’s art collection a while longer, but for two things. One, I did want this puzzle cleared up so Spendlove would cease pestering the both of us and return to terrorizing the everyday criminals of London.
Second, I was not certain that Denis was the sort of gentleman I wanted Lady to spend time alone with. She and Denis were of an age, and Lady was charming and lovely. Denis, I supposed, was handsome enough, and possessed good manners and a large quantity of wealth, if ill-gotten.
He also kept a houseful of dangerous men and rivals who’d jump at the chance to have any sort of hold over him. An alliance with Denis, I knew from harrowing experience, could be perilous.
I was also uncertain what sort of connection Denis would want if he was indeed succumbing to Lady’s natural appeal. A liaison had hurt her before. I would become his direst enemy if he caused such a thing to occur again.
“Thank you for your kindness,” Lady was saying to Denis. “And for the tea. It was excellent.”
Denis bowed to her in acknowledgement, then offered his arm to escort her down the stairs. Lady rested her fingers in the crook of his elbow, as she had when he’d taken her into the bakeshop, and they descended together.
“Mr. Denis is proving quite resourceful,” Lady said to me as they reached the ground floor. “You were good to ask him to help on my behalf.”
Gibbons, his expression wooden, produced Lady’s mantle. Denis took it from him and held it as Lady wrapped herself in its warmth.
Gibbons opened the door, as stiffly proper as any Mayfair butler. I was about to dash out and find Lady a hackney—mine had already departed—but Denis’s own coach pulled forward before I could. One of his lackeys must have run for it the moment she’d declared she’d depart.
“Thank you, Captain,” Lady said as she passed me. “I anticipate good news of my daughter soon. And I do hope things go well for you and Mr. Denis. The Runners can be overzealous, can they not?”
He’d told her, I realized, the entire tale of his incarceration and Spendlove’s determination to have him convicted of murder.
I wasn’t certain how to respond. “Perhaps there will be happy endings for us all,” was the best I could produce.
Lady’s smile broadened, the young woman, as usual, amused at my expense. “Happy endings only exist in stories, I have discovered. Happy times in the present are to be treasured, so we can remember them with fondness during the sad ones.” Her soft eyes twinkled. “Enjoy yours, Captain. Good day.”
She glided down the few steps to the street and the waiting carriage. Mr. Downie opened the coach door for her and handed her in, for which she thanked him prettily.
The coach rolled away, and we gentlemen stood in silence for a time, as though breathing in the last sweet air of summer.
Downie winked at me and disappeared down the outer stairs, making for the kitchen. Gibbons pointedly held the door for us, and Denis, without a word, walked back into the house and straight up the stairs.
I followed. Gibbons closed the front door and completely ignored me as he made his way to the back of the house.
I climbed in Denis’s wake, pausing at the painting on the landing. I understood what Lady had meant about the pleasing way the artist had the light slanting in from the window, illuminating the woman’s bright garments and one side of her face. The picture held serenity, and I knew it to be Denis’s favorite of his collection.
Denis was already at his desk when I walked into the study. I seated myself in my usual chair, guessing that I would not be served any brandy or coffee today.
“You invited her to take tea?” I asked before Denis could speak.
He regarded me with more iciness than usual. “I had news of Lady’s daughter and sent my coach for her so she could learn of it in comfortable surroundings, ones in which we would not be overheard. I thought it polite to offer her a repast in the drawing room downstairs. She was interested in my paintings and had seen the Vermeer on her way in. She asked to look at it, and I saw no reason not to allow this.”
And, I suspected, Denis had been pleased to discuss the picture with someone who understood and appreciated art.
“What news?” I asked. “Of her daughter?”
Denis twined his hands together on the empty desk. “I located the family called Redding. When Mr. Redding died, his widow indeed sold the business, and she departed to stay with relations in Northampton. I have sent agents there to inquire about her children and whether Lady’s daughter is still with her. And, if not, what became of her.”
I relaxed. “Thank you. I intended to do more about it, but I have been running all over London trying to make sure you stay off the gallows.”
