The odd question pulled me out of my haze. "Blackmail? What put that idea in your head?"

"Because it is the sort of thing respectable-looking women turn their hands to. I knew a seamstress that you never would believe was anything but well-spoken and kind, until she demanded payment to keep quiet about one's peccadilloes. I know you. You poke your nose into so many things that I'm certain someone like Mr. Denis would be delighted to find out something about you."

"You have an interesting imagination, Marianne."

"Well, something they said overset you. Are you going to tell me what is the matter? Something clearly is."

I wondered why she wanted to pry. Had I had more of my wits about me, I would have put her off. As it was, with my mouth dry and my head pounding, I found myself letting out the truth.

"They are my wife and daughter."

Marianne's mouth became a pink O, and she blinked at me. "Good Lord, Lacey, are you telling me that you are married?"

"I was. I am. I have not seen my wife-or daughter-for fifteen years. Gabriella was two when my wife took her away."

"Good Lord," Marianne repeated. She stared at me some more, reassessing all she knew about Gabriel Lacey. "No wonder you look pole-axed. Let's have some brandy. Grenville's best." She opened a pocket beside the seat and drew out a box I recognized. Grenville's servants always stocked this carriage with the best drink and crystal glasses in case their master grew thirsty traveling the streets of London.

Marianne lifted the bottle from the box just as the carriage stopped, reaching our destination. The coach was too big to fit into Grimpen Lane, so we descended in Russel Street, the efficient footman opening the door for us. Marianne shoved the brandy at me and snatched two glasses. "Come along. We'll drink it in your rooms."