by Olivia Drake
And Kate?
His gaze veered to her. Surely if she’d known his whereabouts on the night of the murder, she’d have thrown it in his face.
Her attention on Nathaniel Babcock, Kate said quietly, “Papa was killed by thieves. They stole a valuable statue, his greatest discovery. Lord Gabriel has reason to believe that Sir Charles Damson is responsible. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier, but Meg has been with us, and I don’t want her involved...”
Her green eyes held a watery sheen that tightened Gabe’s chest. The prospect of her weeping made him restless and edgy, so he paced the bedchamber. “I won’t have you involved, either,” he said. “You’re to remain here in the custody of your uncle.”
Nathaniel leapt to his feet. “Dash it all, she can stay with the Rosebuds. If you’re going after Damson, then I am, too.”
“That won’t be necessary. My man, Ashraf, will be assisting me. The fewer involved, the better.”
“Quite the contrary,” Grandmama said in a thoughtful tone. “There’s safety in numbers.”
“Have you come up with a plan, then?” Lady Faversham asked.
As if they were arranging a picnic, Lady Enid clapped her hands in delight. “Do tell us, Lucy. You always concoct the best schemes.”
“So long as I’m included,” Kate interjected. “I shan’t sit home and twiddle my thumbs.”
Rising from the chaise, Lady Stokeford went to hug Kate. “Of course not. Poor girl, I can’t blame you for wanting to avenge your dear father.”
Gabe battled a furious panic. He’d known all hell would break loose if his grandmother found out. “For pity’s sake, don’t encourage Kate,” he snapped. “As her guardian, I command her to stay here. You and the Rosebuds and Nathaniel will remain with her. That is final.”
Raising a silver eyebrow, Lady Stokeford appeared singularly unimpressed. She made an authoritative gesture at a chair. “If you’re quite finished with your manly tirade, Gabriel, do sit down. I’d like to tell all of you my plan.”
Surprise in the Attic
The day before their departure, Kate faced the unwelcome task of informing her sister that she was to be left behind.
Kate delayed the news for as long as she could, waiting until after the footmen had delivered all the boxes from the seamstress, and Meg had delighted in examining each new garment in her dressing chamber. While Jabbar hooted and clapped, she’d held each gown up to herself, twirling around the room and admiring herself in the pier glass.
But Meg’s happiness vanished upon hearing that Kate, Lady Stokeford, Uncle Nathaniel, and Gabriel would be attending the house party given by Sir Charles Damson. Without her.
Beautiful in a deep lilac silk that set off her black curls, Meg crossed her arms mutinously. “It isn’t fair,” she wailed, thrusting out her lower lip in a pout. “Sir Charles invited me, too.”
Kate felt a clutch of emotion in her breast. She longed to grant all of her sister’s wishes, if only to make up for the loss of their parents, their money, their home. But Meg didn’t know about the statue or the role of Sir Charles Damson in their father’s death. For her own protection, she mustn’t know this was anything more than a social visit.
Kate put her arm around her sister in a brief hug. “You’re only sixteen, dear. You know it isn’t suitable for you to mingle with strangers.”
“I’ll be seventeen next Tuesday. My birthday falls during the party. And Sir Charles is inviting his friends from London. Surely any member of the ton would make acceptable company.”
Kate shook her head firmly. “Nevertheless, this isn’t the right time for you to make your debut. When we return, Lady Stokeford has promised to hold a ball here at the Abbey. Then you can meet all the neighbors.”
“But I want to meet people of fashion. I’ll never have a better chance than this.” With an air of dramatic tragedy, Meg wilted onto a hassock and placed the back of her hand to her brow. She didn’t even seem to notice that Jabbar crouched on the dressing table and rummaged through her new hats. With a toothy grin, the chimpanzee jammed on a frilly yellow bonnet.
Kate took the hat from Jabbar and placed it inside a wardrobe. “I’m sorry, Meg. There will be other parties. Many of them. Besides, Gabriel has refused his permission.”
“You’ve stood up to him before. Why can’t you do so now?”
Because after that wild kiss, she had avoided his company. Lest she be tempted to fall into his arms again. “I’m afraid he won’t budge on the matter. There’s nothing more to say.”
Promising to bring back all the latest gossip, Kate left her sister to brood alone. She had to supervise her packing. And she wanted to be alone with her thoughts, to prepare herself to play the role of admirer to the man who had murdered her father.
Papa, she thought in a torrent of guilt and grief. He had been on his way home. She’d been so close to seeing his crooked smile again, the ink stains on fingers cramped from hours of writing, the spectacles that too often slid down to perch at the tip of his nose. Finally, she would have had the chance to make amends with him, to tell him how much she loved him.
But no amount of wishing could ever bring him back. Drawing a cleansing breath, Kate centered her mind on a clear, cold purpose. If nothing else, she would see his death avenged.
Her bedchamber was a short walk down the corridor, and the door was ajar. Absorbed in her plans, she walked inside and came to an abrupt halt.
She stood face-to-face with Gabriel’s manservant. His slave.
For an instant, Ashraf’s dark, thin features wore a look of startlement. Then his face smoothed into its typically bland expression, and he bowed, his hands pressed together within the sleeves of his long white robe. “Miss Talisford.”
“Why have you come here?” she asked sharply.
“To deliver a message from the master. I placed it on the desk.”
He made a move to depart, and on impulse, she stepped in front of him. “Wait. There’s something I’d like to know.”
He stood very still, his brown eyes watchful.
“How did Lord Gabriel come to purchase you?” she asked.
“He did not purchase me, mistress.”
“But I thought ... you said you were his slave.”
Ashraf inclined his dark head. “The master shot a lion that was about to attack my previous master, Prince Faruq. I was given to Lord Gabriel in gratitude.”
Startled, Kate imagined the wild beast about to pounce, Gabriel raising his pistol and firing with deadly accuracy. “Why won’t he give you your freedom?”
“He has offered. Many times. But I must refuse him.”
“Refuse? Why?”
“It is my duty to serve his lordship. The blood debt must be paid.”
With that, the servant glided out the door and vanished into the corridor. The faint odor of spice lingered in his wake.
Have a care, Miss Katie. Things aren’t always what they seem.
Gabriel’s admonition came back to plague her. She had judged him too hastily. Ashraf himself insisted on serving out a life sentence on behalf of his former master. Why hadn’t Gabriel told her?
He seemed to prefer that she think the worst of him. Not that that was difficult, given his devil-may-care temperament.
Lost in thought, Kate shut the door. Only then did she notice the sound of humming that emanated from the adjacent dressing room. Recognizing Betty’s off-key pitch, Kate went to the desk, where a sheet of vellum lay folded into a square. The jagged edge showed where it had been tom from one of Gabriel’s sketchpads.
Snatching up the paper, she read the brief, scrawled message: Lend your father’s journals to Ashraf. I have need of them.
The note was signed with a bold black letter G.
Kate stiffened as much from the nature of the request as its brusque tone. Ever since his grandmother had laid out a perfectly logical, perfectly brilliant plan to retrieve the statue and punish Sir Charles in the process, Gabriel had kept to himself. Sulking,
Kate thought. His male pride had taken a blow, and now he would strike back by demanding Papa’s papers. At least she’d taken the precaution of hiding them.
But why hadn’t Ashraf asked her for the journals? The message implied that Gabriel had told him to do so.
The icy fingers of foreboding tiptoed over her skin. Hearing Betty’s tuneless song drift across the large bedchamber, Kate half ran to the dressing room. It was nearly as large as the parlor at Larkspur Cottage, with more storage space in dressers and cabinets than Kate could ever hope to use. The open doors of a white-painted wardrobe displayed a neat row of new gowns that had been delivered that morning, with more to come. In the confusion, she hadn’t yet had the chance to don the rich garb.
Then she spied another surprising sight, one that would have induced a smile had she not been so agitated. Like a dancer on May Day, her maid twirled in front of the mirror, a green cashmere shawl draped over her aproned work dress.
“Betty.”
The servant girl screeched in surprise. Consternation on her freckled face, she fumbled to remove the shawl while executing a wobbly curtsy. “I didn’t mean no harm, miss. I was only borrowin’ it.” She hastily folded the shawl into a crooked square.
“Never mind that,” Kate said, walking closer. “I must know. Did Ashraf come in here?”
A faint redness suffused Betty’s plump cheeks. “Aye, miss. He knocked on the door, all proper like. He said Lord Gabriel sent him.”
“Did he ask for anything?”
“Them books o’ yers, the ones with all the scribblin’ in ’em that was tucked behind the wardrobe.”
A shock wave rolled through Kate. So Betty knew about the hiding place. “Did you give them to him?”
“Aye. ’Twas his lordship what wanted ’em, Mr. Ashraf said. He behaved nice and polite for a foreigner.” Betty’s blush deepened. “Smiled at me, too.”
That dour man had smiled? Perhaps, like his master, Ashraf could be charming when he wished. He’d likely learned that trick by observing Gabriel.
Mentally flaying herself, Kate remembered the way Ashraf had kept his hands tucked inside his voluminous robes. She should have guessed he was up to no good.
Betty wrung her stubby fingers. “I hope I didn’t do wrong, miss. Mr. Ashraf said his lordship would return yer books soon.”
Kate doubted that. Though anger lacerated her, she shaped her lips into a reassuring smile. “You only did as you were told,” she said. “You may leave any disputes with his lordship to me.”
An hour later, after a frustrating hunt through endless corridors and questions asked of numerous servants, Kate finally located Gabriel in the attic over the east wing of the house.
Late afternoon sunlight flooded the cavernous room, illuminating a curious scene. Leather trunks, crates of old schoolbooks, and discarded furniture had been pushed to the far end, making space for a long worktable. A snowstorm of paper littered the surface, and a number of drawings were tacked to the bare walls beside the huge dormer windows. They were Gabriel’s sketches of Africa.
The object of her search stood a short distance away, leaning over the table, his back to her. His discarded coat had been thrown over a chair, and he’d rolled the sleeves of his rumpled linen shirt to his elbows. Her heart did an involuntary flip-flop. In defiance of good sense, she felt herself teeter on the brink of yearning. How perfectly she remembered the pressure of his body against hers, the expertise of his hand on her bosom. And that kiss. Deep and hungry, it had awakened her to sensations no proper lady should feel.
Gabriel didn’t notice her standing at the top of the narrow staircase. With a jolt, she saw what held his attention. It was the leather-bound book in his hands. Papa’s journal.
Her journal.
Spurred by anger, Kate started toward him. Oblivious, he reached down to switch the positions of two drawings. Transferring the volume to the crook of his arm, he collected another sheaf of drawings and moved them to the end of the table.
Only then did he look up and see her approach.
His dark eyebrows lowered, and he threw down his quill pen. Without greeting, he said bluntly, “I didn’t invite you here.”
“But surely you were expecting me. After all, you sent your slave to steal Papa’s journals.”
“As I said in the note, I’m merely borrowing them.”
“Ashraf entered my chambers without my permission. He took my possessions. I’d call that stealing.”
“You forget,” Gabriel said, “the journals belong to me.”
Seething, Kate stopped by the table and held out her hand. “I’ll have Papa’s notebook, if you please. That one and the others.”
“I’ll return them when I’m done.”
“When will that be? Next year? Five years from now?”
His wide shoulders lifted in a shrug. “However long it takes me to complete my book.”
The piles of sketches in the attic took on a new meaning. In spite of her ire, she felt a spurt of surprise. And resentment. “You’re organizing the illustrations.”
Gabriel said nothing. His eyes were a fathomless blue, his handsome face set in stone.
“Why are you doing this now?” she asked, waving a hand at the loose sketches. “We’re departing in the morning.”
“It keeps me busy. So I’m not tempted to throttle you or Grandmama.”
Her anger somewhat mollified, she said, “You shouldn’t carry a grudge. We merely came up with a better strategy than yours.”
“And threatened to go straight to Damson if I didn’t cooperate.”
Kate supposed his curtness was understandable. Men did so like to be in charge. “You should applaud the excellence of her ladyship’s plan—and mine. It has a far greater chance of success than you sneaking like a thief into his house.”
“Success? You’ll get yourself killed.”
“More likely, I’ll avenge Papa’s death.”
Gabriel took a hostile step toward her. “You’re to find the statue and leave the rest to me. Is that clear?”
Kate afforded him a cool shrug. It served no purpose to quarrel. She would do as she saw fit.
She eyed the notebook he held, weighing her chances of snatching back the precious volume. Prudence warned her against a tussle with Gabriel Kenyon. Not only would he emerge the victor, he would have cause to put his hands on her again. He might conquer her with a kiss.
She might submit without a struggle.
“You may go now,” he said as if she were a servant. “I’m busy.”
He turned his back on her, snatching up several sketches and striding to the wall to tack them up. Kate felt a guarded interest that he would forge on with the book despite her refusal to help him. She had scorned his dedication, accused him of lacking commitment to the project. Now she was abashed to realize that he’d accomplished more on the book than she had.
Curiosity warred with a gnawing rancor, a sentiment she recognized as jealousy. Papa had gone adventuring with Gabriel, leaving her behind. She burned to know more about their journey, to learn everything they had seen and done.
Looking over the table, she recognized many sketches of jungle and desert and mountain. A grouping of round huts with coned roofs. A string of laden camels trudging over a sandy dune. A lush forest teeming with plumed birds and wizened monkeys. There were people, too. Robed Arabs kneeling before a tall minaret at sunset. A lithe, dark woman balancing a huge basket on her head. A loinclothed man herding cows to a water hole.
Several illustrations included Henry Talisford. One in particular showed Papa crouched beside a shallow hole, cradling a pottery jar in his dirty hands, his bespectacled face alive with the joy of discovery. A lump in her throat, Kate recognized that small, nondescript jar. It had been packed in the crate.
Picking up the drawing, she carried it to Gabriel. “Where was this done?”
He cast it a scowling glance. “The lost city. In the short time we were there, Henry managed to dig up a few artifacts.�
�
“While you found the statue of the goddess.”
“By stroke of luck.”
“Or mischance,” Kate said bitterly. “If you and Papa hadn’t been bringing the goddess to England for safekeeping, he would still be alive.”
Pivoting on his heel, Gabriel walked to one of the dormer windows, where the brilliance of sunlight turned him into a shadowed outline. There, he propped his shoulder on the wall. “You should know something. We’d planned to return to the ruins at a later date. A thorough excavation of the site could take years.”
Kate rolled the drawing into a tube. “I wish Papa had stayed there,” she burst out. “Why couldn’t you have brought back the statue alone?”
And died in his place. The unspoken words hung in the dusty air of the attic, leaving her with an uneasy sense of shame. She would not wish her father’s fate on anyone, not even Gabriel.
“Henry was determined to leave Africa. No argument to the contrary could have stopped him.” Gabriel paused, then added in a gruff tone, “He’d hoped to bring you and your sister back with him.”
The sketch fell out of Kate’s numb lingers, landing on the dusty floor. She took a step toward Gabriel. “He said that?”
“He missed his daughters. He thought you in particular might enjoy being his assistant.” A corner of Gabriel’s mouth twisted. “Of course, I did my best to dissuade him. I told him you were a frivolous girl lacking in common sense.”
Kate bristled. Yet how could she blame him for having such an opinion after the spectacle she’d made of herself on that long-ago night? She had waited in his bed, thrown herself at him like a lovesick wanton. In the four years since his mortifying rejection, she had regretted her willfulness and learned the value of prudence.
Until that kiss. If she closed her eyes, she could still taste him on her tongue and feel the hard heat of his body against hers.