“Yes, indeed,” I answered warmly.
I treasured the fleeting summer weeks we spent in the country each year, when Donata and I shared a bed most nights and took our meals together. Though she never did rise with the sun, as I preferred, we walked, dined, and conversed far more than we did in London, where we each had our own pursuits.
Donata stretched a foot in a leather shoe, her fine beaded slippers in a box held by Jacinthe, who rode with the coachman. “In fact, I believe early to bed tonight would be agreeable to me.”
I was not certain what prompted her sudden intimacy—perhaps watching my tete-a-tete with Signora Ruggeri?—but I did not question it. I tipped her chin toward me, and assured her without words that a night together would also agree with me.
I was up early the next morning, leaving Donata to rest in the warmth of my bed. As I sipped coffee in the rear salon, windows open to admit soft summer air, I perused the correspondence that had arrived while I’d dressed.
Happily, I found a note from Gabriella. I’d written to her yesterday, in the hours between my discussion with Donata and Grenville and our jaunt to the soiree. I’d promised Gabriella that her marriage to Emile would go forward, and bade her inform me whether she and Emile were well.
Gabriella, with a pluck that filled me with pride, wrote with obvious indignation that she did not intend to let Emile’s family sabotage their happiness. Whatever transgression they thought I had caused was nonsense, and she would talk sense into the older members of Emile’s family if need be. I was not to worry about her, she said, as she could hold her own. She’d instructed Emile not to capitulate as well.
I smiled as I folded the letter and drew forth pen and paper to reply.
I ought to have known Gabriella would be strong-willed about this. After all, she’d defied Donata and Lady Aline Carrington, two of the most formidable women in London, when they’d tried to make a match for her, declaring she’d marry Emile instead. Likewise, Major Auberge and Carlotta had not been able to dissuade her from her choice when they’d first tried.
Gabriella had decided on Emile, and that was that.
The wedding would take place next Saturday, one week from today. If the Deveres behaved until then, all would be well.
I penned more correspondence, leaving the letters with Bartholomew to deliver. Then Brewster and I walked down the hill for our breakfast and coffee.
The wine tavern had returned to its usual tranquility, with the few men who bothered to acknowledge me nodding as I entered. Beaumont served me, Brewster went shopping, and I settled in. The misstep I’d made yesterday might never have happened.
The quiet gave me time to ponder all I’d learned so far.
Gallo, the blackmailer, had been killed, presumably to keep him quiet about whatever secrets he knew. One of his victims would be the most likely suspect.
Or, I thought with disquiet, the dear friend of one of his victims, trying to find a letter to save his lady-love embarrassment.
Signora Ruggeri had met Gallo in Padua, became his lover, and started to aid him in his schemes. His extortion might have been lucrative, and Signora Ruggeri likely had seen no reason not to profit from it.
They left Padua for whatever reason—their sources of income had dried up? Or they’d fled for their lives, as Signora Ruggeri had implied?—and decided upon Lyon. La Guillotière was home to many an Italian émigré, so why not?
Soon after their arrival, Signora Ruggeri caught the eye of Comte Lejeune, who placed her in a townhouse he owned in the Presqu’île. Signora Ruggeri told me that Gallo had hidden his papers there, which could mean he’d been a frequent visitor. The housekeeper or landlady of that abode might be a good source of information in that respect.
I speculated that Signora Ruggeri had tired of Gallo once she was firmly established with the comte, which was one reason she cajoled the comte into providing her better accommodation. She’d earned the wrath of the Lyonnais in doing so, but Gallo had retreated to La Guillotière and the unprepossessing rooms we’d searched. That landlady, Madame Jourdain, might also be worth questioning, though I’d guess Vernet had asked her all about Gallo already.
Claude Devere had been accused of murdering Gallo, and had feared that either his father or his uncles had actually done so. He and Emile had searched Gallo’s rooms for whatever secret the man had held about the Deveres but found nothing.
Moreau, Brewster, and I had found little more, though we’d uncovered the name of Lucien Potier and an unusual letter in Italian.
Signora Ruggeri claimed that Gallo’s papers had disappeared from the townhouse, but she might have removed them herself and spun me a tale that they’d vanished.
I hoped whoever did have the papers would simply burn them, though I supposed we would find out sooner or later. If others, including Colonel Moreau’s lady, began to be threatened about them, we’d know the letters still existed.
I also pondered the pure rage Potier’s name caused in the city, along with his abrupt disappearance. Recalled to Paris, Beaumont had speculated and Moreau had agreed was most likely.
That a man so much hated had been here one day and gone the next led me to conclusions I did not like.
I tried to put the last thoughts aside as I finished my meal, fetched Brewster, and walked home.
When I entered the villa, I was informed, to my surprise, that Grenville awaited me in the ground-floor sitting room. I’d assumed he’d be fast asleep in the house he’d let with Marianne, recovering from the lively soiree.
“The revelry is still going,” Grenville explained when I asked. He reposed tiredly on a cushioned chair, stifling a yawn. “Marianne’s friends are robust, I must say. I decided I needed a rest and went home only a few hours after you did. Marianne laughed at me, calling me an old man, but I thought I shouldn’t embarrass her by falling asleep in a corner.”
“I felt the same.” I seated myself and accepted coffee from Bartholomew. “Did Signora Ruggeri remain all night as well?”
