by Olivia Drake
Now he wondered what she’d say if he told her he intended to break into a nobleman’s house and steal a statue. Not to mention, take revenge for murder.
Assuming a casual air, he sat down beside his grandmother and stretched out his arm across the back of the chaise. He flashed her a bedazzling smile. “You’re right, I haven’t told you everything,” he said. “The fact is, I’m panicked by my responsibility. I haven’t the slightest notion what to do with two respectable girls.”
“So you’ll shirk your duty? That’s hardly the way I raised you.”
“Come now, Grandmama. I am doing my duty by bringing them to you. What do I know of training young ladies?” Leaning forward, he grasped her wrinkled hand; it felt as small and fragile as a wren. “Kate and Meg need you. You’re the perfect person to take them under your wing. They’ve led a sheltered life in a small cottage, and they would greatly benefit from your experience with society.”
The dowager thinned her lips. “Something tells me there’s more to your flattery than meets the eye.”
He laughed easily. “I’m merely asking you for help. You can arrange for dancing lessons, teach them the ways of society, refurbish their wardrobes. And charge all the bills to me, of course.”
Lady Stokeford harrumphed. “So you’ll come home only when you need a problem solved, will you?”
“Of course not,” he said, assuaging his guilt by kissing her papery cheek. She smelled faintly of lilac, a scent that evoked memories of his youth. Whenever his mother had been lost in prayer and his father drunk by noon, Grandmama had always been there to soothe his hurts and to encourage him. “I missed you very much,” he said sincerely. “I’ll be back as soon as my business is concluded at Fairfield Park. Then we can have a nice long visit.” And with luck, once Grandmama grew fond of Meg and Kate, she would want to keep them here. He could pay their bills and be confident of their care, while he was free to go off as he pleased.
Lady Stokeford sighed. “Who knows if I’ll still be here in a week? I’m old and feeble. Or are you so caught up in your own schemes that you haven’t noticed?”
Her words jolted him. She looked as hale as any pampered elderly lady... didn’t she? He regarded her snowy hair and patrician features, the slim form garbed in her favorite blue. Were the lines on her porcelain skin etched a little deeper now? Was her slenderness a sign of frailty? Was the rosy color in her cheeks a mark of health or the flush of fever? Gabe had always prided himself on his powers of observation. Either he’d been blind to her infirmity—or she was playacting to get what she wanted.
He’d cast his vote for the latter.
He sprang up from the chaise, gently grasped her ankles, and lifted her legs up onto the cushions.
“What are you doing?” his grandmother said testily, swatting him away.
“I’m making you more comfortable. I didn’t realize that you’ve been ill.” He pilfered a stuffed pillow from a chair and tucked it behind her back. “I’ll send for the doctor. A session of leeches should improve your bad blood.”
“I don’t need a physician. I need my family around me.”
“But I’m imposing on you. That’s all the more reason for me to leave the Abbey.”
“Leave! I suffer the complaints of the aged, that’s all. Aching bones, flagging strength ... and loneliness.” She pressed a delicate hand to her brow. “But never mind me, you do as you like. You always have.”
“Don’t talk, Grandmama. You’ll only tire yourself. I’ll ring for your maid, and then inform Kate and Meg of our departure in the morning.”
With uncanny agility, Lady Stokeford swung her feet off the chaise and sat up straight, her age-spotted hands gripping the folds of her skirt. “You will do nothing of the sort! A gentleman cannot travel alone with two unmarried ladies. Why, their reputations will suffer.”
They’d traveled here with no ill effects. But he needn’t add fuel to his grandmother’s fire. “You’re absolutely right. I’ll borrow a female servant as chaperone. Michael must have someone he can spare.”
“Balderdash! Where will you go?”
“To London, I suppose,” he said, rubbing his temples. “I’ll advertise for a companion. Yes, that’s it. There must be some respectable woman who would be willing to sponsor them.”
“You know nothing of choosing a lady’s companion. I forbid you to take those sweet girls away from here.”
“But if you won’t watch them for me...”
“I will, you sly devil.” He had only a moment of triumph before she narrowed her eyes at him and added, “But only if you tell me the real reason you’re heading off to Cornwall in such a hurry.”
“I own an estate,” he reiterated. “After four years, it requires my attention.” If it weren’t for Damson, he truly might be curious to see the manor he’d inherited from his maternal grandfather. He’d enjoyed visiting the rambling old house as a child, sliding down the long, curved oak balustrade, examining the curios in the attic, exploring the priest hole cleverly hidden behind a wardrobe in one of the ancient bedchambers.
“You never cared about Fairfield Park before now. You were too busy wandering the countryside to be bothered with the responsibility.”
“Then rejoice in my transformation,” he said lightly. “I’ll be departing on the morrow.”
“No.” She eyed him craftily. “We’ll make a bargain, you and I. If you wish me to watch Kate and Meg, you’ll stay here for a week first.”
He reined in his impatience. He couldn’t afford to stir her curiosity any further. “One day. The sooner I conclude my business, the sooner I can return.”
“Five days.”
“Two.”
“Four.”
“Three, and not a moment longer,” he said firmly. “That’s my final concession.”
She smiled serenely. “Three days, then.”
Chuckling wryly, Gabe bent down to kiss her cheek again. He’d been outfoxed this time. But at least Grandmama hadn’t found out his true purpose.
God help him if she and the Rosebuds meddled with his plans.
After sending her maid to deliver a message, Kate paced the cavernous bedchamber. She wondered if the recipient would come, or if he would ignore her summons. There was nothing to do but wait and see.
Compared to her spartan room at Larkspur Cottage, the guest chamber was a lavish paradise. The mahogany furniture had been carved with a delicate touch and polished to a rich sheen. Hangings of pale blue velvet draped the canopied bed, creating a pretty picture with the embroidered white counterpane and lace-edged pillows. The bedside table and the adjacent shelves held a collection of the latest novels and books of poetry. She had secreted her father’s precious mementos and Gabriel’s sketchbooks in the spacious drawers of the wardrobe in the dressing room, beneath her extra chemise. Certainly she had little else to fill the space.
She paced to the windows, which were framed by great swags of blue damask. The darkened glass reflected the crackling fire on the hearth and the soft glow of several candles. Kate threw open the casement to let in the chilly night air. Huddling into her shawl, she looked down toward the front of the house, where yellow light from the drawing room spilled onto the neatly trimmed shrubbery.
A part of her had wanted to stay down there with Gabriel’s family. Michael and Vivien, Lord and Lady Stokeford, had entertained everyone with amusing tales about their infant son and small daughter. Meg had been happy, too, playing cards with Uncle Nathaniel, Lady Enid, and Lady Faversham. How her sister had sparkled at the novelty of being a guest in a great house! Kate couldn’t blame her. Looking back, she realized how dull their years alone must have been for her fun-loving sister, sitting in the evening in the old parlor, reading aloud or tending to the endless sewing.
But Kate had something more important to do than socialize.
She walked the length of the bedchamber, counting thirty-four paces from the windows to the arched doorway. Without the guidance of a servant, she would have be
en lost in the maze of corridors on her way to and from dinner. She’d passed dozens of doors, dozens of chambers. One hundred twenty in all, her maid had proudly informed her.
A pleasant, freckle-faced country girl of about Meg’s age, Betty had been assigned to act as Kate’s abigail. She had unpacked Kate’s meager belongings and had been sitting by the fire, mending the lace on Kate’s oldest gown, when Kate had returned from dinner. Kate had promptly sent Betty on this important errand.
What was taking her so long?
Clenching the edges of her shawl, Kate roamed the chamber and planned what she would say. At last a knock sounded. She whirled around as the door opened, and Betty’s mobcapped head peeked into the chamber. The maid stepped inside, glancing back with nervous interest in her brown eyes. In a loud whisper, she said, “I brung him here, miss, like ye asked.”
“Show him in, please.”
“Do ye wish me to stay?”
“No, thank you.” Seeing Betty’s eyes widen with questions, Kate added, “However, I would appreciate your fetching a pot of tea.” The long trip to the kitchen and back would give Kate time enough to accomplish her purpose.
The maid bobbed a curtsy and darted out. A moment later, a man entered the bedchamber.
Kate gripped the rounded back of a chair as the visitor advanced toward her. That tall, somber form raised the hairs on the back of her neck. Or perhaps her discomfort was a reaction to his foreignness, the impenetrable black eyes and the outlandish white robes.
Pressing his palms together, Ashraf bowed so low his headpiece almost brushed the carpet. “I am your servant, Miss Talisford.”
Deliberately, she remained standing. It would be inappropriate to invite him to sit and intimidating for her to look up to him from her chair. “I hope you’ll oblige me by answering a few questions in regard to my father’s death.” He waited, his dusky features inscrutable.
“How long have you been employed by Lord Gabriel?” she asked.
“Since Ramadan two years ago.”
“Ramadan?”
“A time of fasting and prayer ordained by the Prophet Muhammed.”
She wondered if his foreign religion condoned theft and murder. “Tell me, where were you at the time my father was attacked?”
“On the dhow in the harbor that would take us to Alexandria, there to board the English ship. His lordship bade me watch their belongings.”
Disappointment speared her. She’d been hoping he’d seen something that night, some overlooked clue. “There was a crate on the vessel that belonged to my father. What else?”
His lip curled slightly. “Jabbar, mistress.”
“But why were you told to protect a few souvenirs and journals?” she asked in puzzlement. “Shouldn’t you have stayed at the inn to...?”
“To guard the goddess?” he said, finishing her question. “Your father believed that Lord Gabriel would return soon.”
“Where was he?”
He lowered his eyes. “It is not for me to know.”
Would Ashraf lie to protect his master? Kate wondered. Or was he himself the culprit? Perhaps he’d coveted the statue. Perhaps in the dark of night he’d crept back to the inn and murdered her father.
She steeled herself against a shudder. As the fire crackled into the silence, she was aware of how alone they were. He might think she had found him out. If he were to draw out a knife from inside those robes ...
She banished her qualms. The man would scarcely slay her when her servant could attest to his presence here. “When did you find out ... what had happened?”
“At dawn, when your father and my master did not board the boat, I went to the inn. There was blood on the floor of their chamber. The innkeeper, may Allah curse him, wailed about the cost of hiring litter-bearers to carry my master to the physician.” Ashraf paused, bowing his head respectfully. “Your father had been taken to the palace of the pasha to be prepared for burial.”
“The pasha?”
“The ruler of Cairo.”
Her mind swirling with questions, she pressed her fingers into the back of the chair. What if this pasha had stolen the statue? Or was she merely grasping at straws, reluctant to believe her father had been killed by a fellow Englishman?
A man whom she had invited into her cottage as an honored guest.
Swallowing her queasiness, she regarded Ashraf. “Did you go after the murderers?”
“Nay, my lady. I was tending to the master’s injuries. The pasha sent his guards to search the city, but alas, they found nothing.”
“Tell me about this pasha. What manner of man is he?”
Ashraf spread his palms wide. “As a native of Khartoum, I know little of him. But his people seemed content.”
The vague answer frustrated Kate. “And your master—what manner of man is he?”
“An infidel.” Ashraf’s thin lips twitched disapprovingly. “He is not fit to wash the feet of Professor Talisford’s daughter.”
She stifled an hysterical laugh. “If you think so little of Lord Gabriel, then why do you serve him?”
“I must obey his every command.” The Arab swept another bow. “You see, he owns me. I am his slave.”
The Skull-Faced Man
“What will you have?” Michael asked, opening a glass-fronted cabinet in his study to display an array of crystal decanters.
Gabe settled into a wing chair by the fire. The study looked much the same as when he’d been a boy. Heavy green draperies framed the night-darkened windows, ledgers lined the shelves, and a branch of candles on the desk cast a flickering light. He half expected to see a worn place in the crimson carpet where he’d stood to endure a rambling lecture from his besotted father. “Anything but gin.”
Michael grimaced. “It’s a wonder none of us became drunkards.”
“Or religious zealots like Mama.”
As a child, Gabe had been forced by his pious mother to spend long hours on his knees in chapel. He could still remember the numbing hardness of the granite floor, the difficulty in keeping his head bowed and his hands folded. Instead of meditating on his sins, however, he’d been imagining dragons and other fantastical creatures in the striations of the stone.
At the age of eighteen, he’d escaped home, seeking the amusements of London, and in particular, the women. He’d wallowed in dissipation, evading the clutches of matchmaking mamas and taking the pleasures offered to him by lusty ladies. Until one morning he’d awakened in bed with an unfamiliar woman whose irate husband was pounding on the door. Then and there, Gabe had decided that he had little taste for quick escapes through windows.
He’d tried his hand at portrait painting, but the discipline of laboring day after day on the same subject had bored him. Restless, he’d roamed the countryside, sketching, always sketching. His travels had taken him through the bustling town of Oxford, where on a whim he’d attended a lecture on ancient civilizations presented by Professor Henry Talisford. Gabe had offered to illustrate a book the professor was planning to write. Eventually, struck by wanderlust, Gabe had funded that ill-fated trip to Africa.
Propping his boot heels on the brass fender of the fireplace, he shut the door on the past and focused on the present. He idly picked up a notebook from the table beside him and flipped through the pages. Written in his brother’s bold hand, it was a dictionary of English terms alongside words in a strange language.
As Michael handed him a glass of port, Gabe asked, “Is this the Gypsy tongue?”
“It’s Romany,” his brother confirmed, sitting in the opposite chair. Like Gabe, he had cast off his coat and waistcoat. Unlike Gabe, he wore a cravat. “I’m learning to speak the language of Vivien’s people. With moderate success, I might add.”
Picturing his vivacious, dark-haired sister-in-law, Gabe shook his head in amazement. “So you’re married to a woman raised by the Gypsies. And Grandmama thought I was the one to flout convention.”
Michael lifted his glass in a salute. “Let’s drink to th
e power of love.”
As they clinked glasses, Gabe didn’t mention his own skepticism of love. The thought of marriage left a sour taste in his mouth, conjuring memories of his parents’ unhappiness and the unwelcome secrets told to him by his father. Distastefully, he pushed that incident out of his mind and considered the change in his older brother. Four years ago, Michael had been a widower pursuing the pleasures of London to bury his grief. Now, his brother’s contentment made Gabe wonder if something was missing from his own life.
For no reason at all, he thought of Kate Talisford with her cool green eyes and priggish manners. That shrew would make life hell for the man who was fool enough to wed her. Thank God it wouldn’t be him.
Leaning back, he savored his freedom along with his drink. “A fine port. Makes me almost glad to be back in the civilized world.”
“Tell me about your trip,” Michael said. “In particular, what happened to Henry Talisford.”
Gabe steadied himself with another sip of port, this time without tasting it. Even at the age of thirty, it galled him to admit his failures to his older brother. “It’s a long story,” he hedged.
Michael’s keen stare demanded the truth. “I have all evening.”
Turning his gaze to the darkened window, Gabe forced his thoughts back to that night, reliving it with gut-twisting aversion. “I went out that last evening in Cairo,” he began, his voice thick with reluctance. “I met a woman outside the inn where we were staying. A beautiful woman...”
She had flashed him a sultry smile. Clad in robes, Yasmin was dark, sloe-eyed, nubile, a feast to a man who’d trekked through desolate lands for four years. She’d enticed him to a little house near the bazaar, poured him a chalice of thick, sweet wine, and disrobed in a sinuous dance that heated his blood and made time melt into a euphoria of pleasure.