“It is common knowledge the comte has bestowed a villa on Signora Ruggeri,” Grenville said. “Turning out a bishop to do it. Could Gallo have forced Signora Ruggeri to hide the secrets he’d collected for him there?”
“If so, she might have made of bonfire of them by now,” I said.
“Or she might keep the things,” Grenville countered. “To continue where Gallo left off. If the comte tires of Signora Ruggeri, as most men do of demanding mistresses, she might reason she’ll need the funds.”
“I spoke to her,” Donata broke in. “Signora Ruggeri was still at the comtesse’s chateau when I visited this afternoon. She said very little to me and behaved like a contrite, grateful, and pitiable young woman. I could pry no more from her. I believe you ought to have a word with her, Gabriel.”
I’d taken a swallow of brandy, and now I coughed. “I should?”
“She is the sort of woman who will not confide in another woman,” Donata explained. “I have nothing to offer her, you see. Gentlemen are potential benefactors, but other ladies are rivals, or else will give her nothing but censure. Signor Ruggeri is more likely to unburden herself to a man, at least to a point. She is very, very careful.”
“Then Grenville ought to be her confessor,” I said. “He is more what Signora Ruggeri has in mind when she thinks of a gentleman.”
Grenville lifted his brows. “Why do I feel vaguely insulted?”
“She is used to men like Grenville.” Donata waved my suggestion away. “She will take his measure and play him accordingly. You, she will not be so certain of, Gabriel. She will answer your questions with less prevarication.”
“Again,” Grenville murmured.
“I am not as sanguine as you,” I said. “But I can try. I’m not certain how to arrange a meeting, however. Has she left the comtesse’s by now?”
“She did.” Donata nodded. “Late this afternoon. The comtesse sent her off in her own carriage. My hope is that Signora Ruggeri will understand she has been defeated and withdraw. Move on to another city, another mark.”
“In which case, we need to discover if she holds the secrets of Lyon’s nobility before she disappears,” I said. “I dislike to think we are dwelling among people with darkness in their pasts, but neither do I approve of those trying to profit from their shame.”
“What will you do if you find Gallo’s cache, if one exists?” Grenville asked. “Turn it over to the gendarmes?”
“No, indeed. I will burn the letters, or whatever evidence Gallo has collected, and inform his victims that they may breathe easily again.”
“They might simply believe you are the next blackmailer,” Grenville said.
“I will have to be emphatic, then.” I lifted my brandy and took a decided sip.
“If Signora Ruggeri is wise, she will stay indoors quietly tonight,” Donata said. “I, however, shall not. As I say, I am meeting with one of my girlhood friends, then I will join Grenville, Marianne, and her rather delightful theatre cronies at Grenville’s house in town. Shall you come, Gabriel?”
“No.” I held up my hands. “I walked too far and spent too much time abusing my bad leg all day. I will do as you say Signora Ruggeri should and stay quietly at home.”
Donata’s eyes flickered in disappointment, which surprised me a bit. I’d never thought of myself as scintillating company. However, I’d be here to greet her with some enthusiasm when she returned, if I wasn’t too deeply asleep.
Grenville and Donata departed not long later for their outings, and Bartholomew served me a light repast in the dining room. After that I spent time writing letters—to my cousin in Norfolk, to various friends in London, including Sir Gideon Derwent and his son, and a note to James Denis, who liked to keep an eye on me.
I’d wondered since I’d arrived if Denis had an agent in Lyon. He likely did, but that agent had so far done nothing to either contact me or impede me.
I also penned a letter to Peter, who was staying with his grandparents in Oxfordshire, along with our daughter, Anne. Not long from now, Anne would be old enough to read letters I wrote as well. I included short missives for Donata’s mother and father, and then laid down my pen, fatigue overtaking me.
Bartholomew assisted me to bed and mixed a hot drink for me, after which I knew oblivion. I’d meant to wait up for Donata, but if she ever did look in on me that night, she’d have found a snoring lump drooling on his pillow. A lovely picture for any woman.
The sound sleep did me good, however, and in the morning, I felt refreshed. I drank coffee brought to me by the ever-energetic Bartholomew, then walked down the hill with the less animated Brewster.
The usual contingent of middle-aged and older gentlemen reposed in Baptiste Beaumont’s tavern. They lingered over their coffee, savoring the moment, even in silence, with friends of a lifetime.
Brewster finished his coffee quickly and went out to wander through the nearby market. I ate my breakfast more slowly, puzzling over what I’d learned yesterday.
I’d have to wait for Grenville to translate the Italian letter to find out it if enlightened us, but I could pursue other avenues in the meantime.
“Beaumont,” I said to the thickset man as he brought me a second pot of coffee. “Do you know of a man called Lucien Potier?” I repeated the name we’d found on the slip of paper in Gallo’s lodgings.
Beaumont stilled. He was dour in the best of times, but as I spoke, his face darkened and his hand clenched around the handle of the tarnished coffeepot until his knuckles whitened.
