The Thames River Murders (13 page)

Peter was a good rider—he’d been given instruction at an early age and already he had a quiet seat, a steady hand, and knew how to move with the horse. Ostensibly, I was furthering his riding education, but the truth was we both enjoyed our afternoon rambles in the park, the men of the household together.

Peter was slightly downcast today, though I did not realize this until our first half-hour had passed. He was usually a cheerful chap, nothing at all like his churlish father—or perhaps the absence of that overbearing father had brightened his disposition.

“What is it?” I asked him when I noticed he didn’t laugh as quickly, or seem as interested in naming and describing others’ horses. “Something bothering you, old man?”

Peter didn’t answer for a time, as though debating what to tell me. “Mother is going to have a child,” he burst out. “Nanny said.”

Peter was six years old, tall and sturdy for his age, and could converse without nervousness with adults he knew. I saw his mother in this. Donata talked, as she called it,
man-to-man
with Peter instead of behaving as though he were a strange creature from a land she’d long ago left behind.

I sometimes forgot that Peter, already a viscount, was in truth a bewildered little boy.

“She is,” I said. “We were going to tell you so. In a few days, in fact. Make a celebration of it.”

“I don’t have a father,” Peter said abruptly. “Not anymore.”

“I know.” I’d been there when Lord Breckenridge had been pulled out of brush and bracken, stone dead. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Mother says you are to be my father now, even though you aren’t really. That is, if you and I are willing.”

“I’m certainly willing,” I said in all sincerity. “If you’ll have me.”

Peter frowned, his small face screwed up in uncertainty. “You’ll be the true father to Mother’s child. You won’t need me.”

“Ah.” I thought I understood what was bothering him. “You think when I have this new little one, I’ll forget all about you.”

“Won’t you?” Peter was struggling to keep the wistfulness from his question. Males in England had stoicism drilled into them from an early age. “Mother never liked my father. No one did—I didn’t like him either, really, though I don’t remember him much. So … maybe … you won’t like
me
.”

The sins of the fathers are to be laid upon the children,
so said the Bard in
The Merchant of Venice.
Well did I know how trying it was to be the son of a man most people, including his own family, despised.

“You are not your father,” I said firmly. “I truly believe God gave us free will, Peter. You need be nothing like the late Lord Breckenridge. I respect and esteem you, lad. You remind me far more of your mother, and you know I care very much for her. Another child will only add to our family, not take away from it.”

Peter watched me, doubtful. Another rider, his greatcoat pulled close against the chill the rain had brought, came toward us at a slow lope. We’d have to cease this conversation and nod to him, speak to him if he were an acquaintance.

“Think of it another way,” I said. “Gabriella is my daughter, and now your stepsister. I have room in my heart for her, and you, and another child. You and Gabriella get on well, don’t you?”

“She’s very kind,” Peter conceded. “Though she’s much older than me.”

“She’s a kind young woman.” Could I help it if pride rang in my voice? In the decade and more of her life I’d missed, she’d become a sweet-tempered, sunny-natured girl. Loosening her to meet the young men of London filled me with dread. “You will have to help us raise our new child to be as kind and thoughtful as Gabriella.”

“I will?” Peter looked more interested. “Do you think it will be a little girl?”

“I hope so,” I said. “The world needs more ladies. They’re so much softer and more cheerful than us.”

Peter’s grin flashed. He enjoyed it when I spoke to him thus, as men together.

The other rider was nearly upon us. I turned, ready to tip my hat and greet him if need be.

The rider went low in his saddle and urged his horse toward us at a rapid pace. I stopped in surprise. It wasn’t done to ride hell for leather when the park began to fill with the elite, though I sometimes shocked the denizens with a good gallop.

I recovered my surprise in time to see the man, muffled to his nose, his hat pulled over his eyes, ride hard for Peter. He swung something down beside his horse—it appeared to be a bag with a weighty object inside.

He was going to knock Peter from the saddle. My body knew this before the thought could form.

The crackling of gunfire came back to me, the scents of smoke and the roar of men in the middle of battle. I’d fought those who tried to smack me from my horse, cut me down, shoot me, trample me. I’d survived by being ruthless, fast, and trusting my instincts.

As the lingering din of war sounded in my head, I shoved my horse between the rider’s and Peter, driving my mount at the approaching man’s, forcing him to turn.

The rider’s horse shied; mine spun and smacked his hindquarters into the other, ready to kick. The rider kept to his saddle, though his horse swayed. He righted the beast, and let fly the sack at me.

It had indeed been filled with large rocks, as I found when it struck me. If I’d ducked, it would have flown over me and hit Peter, and so I took the full brunt on my back and side.

The impact, though I tried to roll my body to mitigate the worst of it, sent me from my horse. I landed hard, on my shoulder and bad leg, cursing as gravel cut my face.

Out of the corner of my eye, as I lay in fury, I saw Brewster emerge from the trees that lined the Row and hurtle toward the rider. He reached the horse and got his hands on the man’s coat, but the rider struck out at Brewster. A knife blade flashed, Brewster let go, and the rider and horse skimmed away.

A pair of small boots landed next to my face. “Papa.” Peter’s worried voice sounded. “Are you dead?”

Through my pain and frustration, a warmth flooded me. He’d called me
Papa
. Not
sir
or
Captain
, or any of the formal monikers by which he’d addressed me thus far, but an acknowledgment of how he wished to regard me.

The moment ended when Brewster inserted himself between me and the rest of the world, going down on one knee.
 

“Bleedin’ ’ell. You alive?” He turned me over to see my glare. “Thank God for that. Don’t know what I’d tell his nibs.”

His hard face took on a look of relief. Whether for my own sake or the fact he’d not have to report to Denis that he failed to keep me alive, I couldn’t say.

Other riders were stopping, as did a sleek, two-wheeled curricle. “Who the devil was that?” The rather large and long-nosed countenance of the second Baron Alvanley peered down from his seat, his hands competently on the reins. “I had no idea there were highwaymen in Hyde Park.”

William Arden, Lord Alvanley, was fairly young, not quite thirty, but he’d already had a distinguished army career and was firmly in with the Prince Regent’s set. Grenville found him witty and entertaining, but Alvanley was ever trying to push Grenville aside as the successor of Mr. Brummell.

“What happened, Lacey?” Alvanley went on. “Shall I fetch someone?” He looked disapprovingly at Brewster, obviously too much of a ruffian to be my servant.

“I will be well,” I said in some irritation.

Brewster’s strong hand under my arm got me to my feet. Peter, trying to hide his tears, handed me my walking stick.

“I’m all right, Peter,” I told him reassuringly. I rested my gloved fingers on the boy’s shoulder and felt him trembling.

Alvanley’s tiger—a young lad hired to tend the horses when the driver of a curricle or phaeton was away from the vehicle—had leapt down at Alvanley’s command and caught my horse.
 

The boy, not much older than Peter, led my mount, a strong bay with a thick black mane, back to me. The tiger patted the horse in admiration before he handed me the reins.

I’d need a leg up. Before I could ask, Brewster was next to me, cupping his hands to heave me onto the horse. He pushed so hard I nearly slid off the other side but caught myself in time to save me that embarrassment. Brewster boosted Peter into the saddle of his smaller horse with more gentleness.

Alvanley, still on the box of the curricle, called to me. “Did you catch who it was? We should have the Runners on him. A man can’t go about knocking gentlemen from their horses.”

“No.” I peered in the direction the rider had disappeared, but of course, he was nowhere in sight. “He was too covered. Could have been anyone.”

Peter spoke up. “Fine bit of horseflesh.”

He was right—and the fact that the horse had been a good one should narrow the field. Horses were expensive, well I knew. I’d only been able to be a cavalryman because of the generosity of Colonel Brandon, who helped fund my horse, tack, and uniform. Only a wealthy man could afford a well-bred horse.

“An Irish hunter,” Peter went on. “Red with two white stockings, and a star on his forehead.”

“Jove,” Alvanley said to him. “You have an eye, Breckenridge. I had better watch out when you start your stable.”

Peter flushed but looked pleased.

Alvanley took up his reins, and his tiger jumped to his seat. “That will be it. Find the horse, and you find the man. Good day to you, Captain. My best to Mrs. Lacey and Mr. Grenville.”

With a polite nod, he slapped the reins to the horses’ backs and they walked on. Brewster watched him go, then turned to me.

“Who was it, Captain? You must a’ seen.”

“I assure you, I was more interested in keeping the man from hitting Peter,” I said in irritation. “He was well dressed, but he could have picked up his clothes secondhand and hired the horse. We know nothing.”

Brewster made a huffing noise. “We know one thing. He was after hurting you or the lad. Best you take yourselves home, Captain.”

I had to agree. Peter, looking nervously about, drew his mount in close to mine, and we rode to the mews behind South Audley Street, our contentment shattered.

***

Peter wasted no time, once we were home, seeking his mother and telling her of our adventure.
 

I had never seen Donata as distressed as I did now. I’d taken Peter up to her private parlor, where Barnstable said she waited for us. Once Peter, who’d recovered his fright, excitedly blurted out the tale, she went down on her knees beside him and caught him in her arms.

Peter succumbed to her embrace, somewhat puzzled. “I’m all right, Mama. Truly. The captain was there.”

Donata looked at me over Peter’s head. “What the devil happened, Gabriel?”

“Nothing Peter hasn’t already told you. It must have been a madman. Came at us, tried to strike Peter, but I blocked the blow. I’m only sorry I didn’t knock the blasted man down myself.”

Donata returned to hugging Peter tightly. “Who would do such a thing to a child? To my boy?”

I had a few ideas, but didn’t want to mention them in front of Peter.

Peter patted Donata’s back, still uncertain about his mother’s outpouring. “I am very well, Mama. And hungry.”

Donata released him with a little laugh, but remained on her knees beside him. “Aren’t you always? Very well, run along and have Nanny give you plenty of tea and bread with extra jam and honey.”

Peter grinned and gave her a loud kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, Mama!”

He dashed from the room. Bartholomew, waiting outside, swept Peter onto his big shoulders and carried him up the stairs.

I watched them until I made certain they reached the top floor without mishap, and Bartholomew and Peter had ducked into the nursery. I closed the door to find Donata sitting on the floor, her silver and ivory striped skirts flowing about her.

“Love.” I joined her, rather painfully, on the carpet, and put my arm around her. “He’s all right. Peter is a sturdy lad.”

“He is
my
lad.” Donata leaned into me, her usual bravado gone. “Thank God for you, Gabriel.” She closed her eyes, her hand straying to my thigh folded next to hers. A few moments later, she opened her eyes again and regarded me in concern. “Are
you
all right? You fell. Were you injured at all?”

“Ah, now you remember to ask about the fate of your husband.”

“Do not joke. Not now.” Donata’s hand tightened on my leg. “You seem to me so … indestructible, Gabriel. The only reason I ever remain strong is I think of you, and your courage. I could not bear to have that taken from me.”

Chapter Thirteen

I sat dumbfounded. I’d never heard Donata speak so, not with this ragged breathlessness and using such words. I pulled her closer.

“Dear lady.” I kissed her temple. “When I met you two years ago, you already possessed great strength. What sustained you before I did?”

Donata wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Anger and bitterness. It wasn’t strength; it was striking out in defense. You have anger too, but beneath it all is a constant sense of honor, of right and wrong. It drives you. I had lost that compass. You gave it back to me.”

My dumbfounded state continued. I knew Donata had fondness for me, or she’d never have agreed to marry me, but I had not known any other reason.

I also had no idea how to answer. I was not an eloquent man, not like Grenville, who had the correct words for every occasion.

“I never realized I was such a paragon of virtue,” was all I could invent to say. “I fancied myself a bit of a rogue.”

Donata raised her head, a spark of her usual liveliness returning. “I did not say
virtuous
. I mean you have convictions and follow them, no matter what anyone else says and thinks. It is refreshing in a world where what others say of one is thought to be all important. That is an entirely different thing.”

“True,” I agreed.

“You are not virtuous, Gabriel. Thank heavens. Virtuous men are pompous and tiresome.”

“Then I will endeavor not to be. Tiresome that is. Or virtuous and pompous.”

Another look from under her lashes. “I thank you for that. Now, tell me who you think tried to bowl over my son. I have changed my mind about it being the gentleman I fancied as a girl. He has become rather portly and fractious, and could never have performed such feats of horsemanship. And too parsimonious to hire others to do so, according to his wife.”