The mystery of my wife's presence in England was quickly solved. When I reached home, Marianne, the brandy, and Grenville's coach had gone, but I found a letter waiting for me from my uneasy ally, James Denis.

As you have discovered, he'd written, The woman who calls herself Colette Auberge-formerly Mrs. Lacey-has arrived in London. I will make arrangements to proceed with a divorce or annulment as you wish. I suggest a meeting in Curzon Street tomorrow at ten o'clock. My carriage will call for you. The letter was signed, simply, Denis.

Colette Auberge was the name Carlotta had taken when she'd moved to France with her French officer. James Denis had given me this information a year ago and had presented me with her exact whereabouts this spring when I'd been employed at the Sudbury School. Now it seemed, he'd taken it upon himself to bring them to London, not waiting for my instructions. I'd been making plans to approach him and ask for his help, but he'd taken the initiative, for whatever reason, in his constant game to maintain the upper hand with me.

I crumpled the paper. "Why does the bloody man not stay out of my life?"

Bartholomew, entering with my freshly laundered shirts, started. "What bloody man is that, sir?"

I tossed the paper in the grate, though there was no fire on this warm summer day. "Bartholomew, you are quoting from Macbeth, did you know? King Duncan in the first scene, which is ominous. He died rather horribly soon after. I meant James Denis."

"Oh, right, sir. I brought the letter upstairs from the messenger what left it in Mrs. Beltan's shop. Bad news?"

"No, more interference. Why will he not keep his fingers from my personal business?"

"Well, he's helped now and again," Bartholomew said in a reasonable tone as he dove into my bedchamber with the shirts. "Nabbed that Frog officer and helped get your colonel out of clink."