Someone to Romance

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by Balogh, Mary


  Ginsberg had groped his way to a chair and sat down heavily upon it.

  “I am so sorry, Gabriel,” Penelope said. “So very sorry. But they saw you kill Orson.”

  “Two men,” Gabriel said. “One of whom had raped you, the other of whom was present when it happened but did nothing to stop it. Yet you took their word for what happened to your brother—and my friend? You have believed ever since that I shot him in the back?”

  “You ran away,” she said. “What was I supposed to think? I have always believed it must have been an accident, that you did not mean to kill him. But . . . you ran away.”

  “I am going home to Brierley,” he told her. “Not immediately, but soon. I may need you to tell this story to other people, Penny. At the very least I may need to tell other people that they can confirm the truth of my story by speaking with you.”

  She was shaking her head, her eyes wide.

  “I am guilty neither of ravishment nor of being the father of your son,” he said. “I am innocent in the death—or murder—of your brother.”

  Ginsberg moaned softly into the hand he had spread over his face.

  “The story must be told in some form,” Gabriel said. “It has become imperative that I go home to Brierley. I have work to do there, and I do not wish to find myself hampered by old assumptions and old charges that might after all require me to fight for my life in a court of law. I do not wish to have to deal with the hostility of skeptical neighbors. I do not want Manley Rochford to continue living at Brierley and throwing his weight about there, destroying innocent lives. You ought not to want it either, Penny, surely. I am putting up at the posting inn two miles or so from here. I cannot for the life of me remember what it is called, but you must know the one I mean. If you choose to write out the story you have told me this morning and send it there, perhaps it will save you from having anyone else come here to question you in person.” He waited through a brief silence.

  “I will ask Mr. Clark what I should do,” she said. “No. I will do it. I will send a servant.”

  He nodded curtly to her and turned to her father, who was still sitting slumped on his chair, his hand shielding his face.

  “Good day to you, sir,” he said. “I did not come to stir up trouble. I came only to discover the truth and build my defense, should one become necessary.”

  Mr. Ginsberg did not reply. Penelope had nothing more to say. Gabriel found his way out of the house and along the garden path to where young Timms was walking the horses back and forth while they waited.

  He knew now who had got Penny with child, Gabriel thought as he drove his curricle back to the inn. But who had killed Orson Ginsberg? Manford? Philip? One of them had surely done it. But only one of them was still alive to provide the answer. And he was a liar.

  He tried to forgive Penny. She had been a frightened girl—just as he had ended up being a frightened boy. She had silently assented to the story she had thought most beneficial to herself. She had believed he would be persuaded to marry her. And perhaps she had been right. Things had not turned out the way she had hoped, however. Instead she had been forced to live ever since with the ghastly and disastrous consequences of her implicit lie in not correcting the assumption her father and brother had made.

  It was hard to forgive her. Except that he was himself in need of a great forgiveness. There were people in and around Brierley who were suffering today because for the past six years and more he had ignored them. He had done it because Brierley had brought him very little happiness and some misery when he was a boy. Yet it was not they who had caused his unhappiness. He had neglected his duty, and it was not for him now to take the moral high ground and condemn a woman who had once been frightened by an unbearable crime that had been committed against her.

  Thirteen

  There had been only the one yellow rose, the day after the garden party. Since then the rosebuds had been pink again.

  The romantic gesture no longer meant anything to Jessica. Quite the contrary. She was angry. Quietly furious. For the flowers were the only evidence that the Earl of Lyndale, alias Mr. Gabriel Thorne, still existed somewhere on the face of this earth. And even they were not proof positive. He might have ordered them in advance and left a little pile of signed cards to be delivered with them. He might be anywhere by now, even six feet underground. He might be on the high seas, making his way back to Boston to count his piles of money while he was being declared dead in England. She hoped there was a ferocious storm in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, tossing him about, breaking his limbs—preferably both arms and both legs. And his head. She hoped it would turn him a bilious green at the very least.

  How dared he.

  How dared he toy with her affections and make her begin to think that perhaps, just maybe, there was a possibility she might marry him and expect something like happiness with him? How dared he pretend that he intended to marry her, only to desert her when she was starting to lose her common sense? How dared he send her roses and play the pianoforte for her until she felt he had sucked her very soul into wherever it was the music came from? How dared he stroke her little finger? And kiss her among the roses, his booted foot on the edge of the bench beside her, his fingertips resting against her jaw, making her want to burst with . . . with desire?

  Wherever he had disappeared to, she hoped he stayed there—forever. And she hoped it was a nasty place, overrun with snakes. And rats. If she never saw him again it would be too soon. No, that was a silly overworked expression. She never wanted to see him again. Full stop. Shoulders back, chin in air, nose in air, and all the rest of it. Lady Jessica Archer, ice maiden, unapproachable, unassailable—or something like that.

  And then there was Mr. Rochford—that smiling liar. Far from being discouraged by Avery’s refusal to give his blessing to a proposal of marriage, the man was bearing his disappointment with tragic fortitude. He had come the very next day—much to her mother’s delight—to beg her to drive in the park with him, and she had gone because she did not want to admit to herself that she was disappointed it was not Mr. Thorne who had come. He had sighed and smiled and smiled and sighed and declared that the end of the seven years since his cousin the former earl’s unfortunate demise could not come fast enough for him.

  “For His Grace, your brother—or ought I to say half brother?—assured me, Lady Jessica,” he had told her, “that he will welcome my suit with open arms once my father is officially the Earl of Lyndale. Then you may expect to see me upon bended knee, setting my heart at your feet.”

  The thing was, though, he had not asked. Therefore, she had been unable to refuse. She had come to dislike him quite heartily. It was hard to understand what it was about him that so enchanted virtually every other lady in London, old and young alike, those of her own family not excepted.

  And really, could one imagine Avery welcoming any man with open arms? It was such a ludicrous idea that she had been hard-pressed not to laugh aloud.

  Oh, this Season was turning out to be one huge disappointment. She had launched herself into it with such high hopes for her future. And what had she got? Her usual court of admirers, all of whom were amusing and endearing, but really not husband material: Mr. Rochford, who was dazzlingly handsome and relentlessly charming but really a bit of a bore—not to mention the fact that he was a malicious liar; and Mr. Thorne, about whom the less said, the better. Who cared that when he had stood before her at the garden party, one booted foot propped against the seat upon which she sat, one arm draped over his thigh in its skintight pantaloons as he mentioned romance and then kissed her, he had exuded such raw masculinity that she could easily have suffocated—or swooned—from the sheer physicality of it? Really, who cared?

  At least now, tonight, she was on her way to Vauxhall Gardens—her favorite place in all of England, with the possible exception of Bath, where Cousin Camille lived with Joel and their large family. But Bath was a whole city, while Vauxhall was a pleasure garden on the south bank of th
e river Thames, and stepping into it at night was to step into a magical world, a sort of paradise. One could not possibly remain depressed when one was going to Vauxhall. At least, she hoped one could not.

  She was mortally tired of being depressed.

  It promised to be a warm evening and she had been able to wear the gauzy dark peach–colored gown she had been saving for a special occasion, with the fine cashmere wrap that was only a shade or two lighter in color. Aunt Viola had invited her with the promise of an enjoyable evening with a small party, mainly family members, in a private box, from which they could listen to the orchestra and watch the dancing and even dance themselves. There were even to be fireworks later.

  She was in a carriage with Boris and Peter Wayne, her younger cousins, who had assured both their mother and hers that they would guard her with their lives and bring her home in one piece sometime after midnight, when all the fireworks had been shot off. Really, though, they had wanted her as a sort of chaperon for the other occupant of the carriage: Alice Wayne, a young cousin on their father’s side, who had recently arrived in London and was about to share a come-out ball with the two daughters of a friend of her mother’s. Her eyes had been sparkling from the moment she stepped into the carriage with them. Jessica felt eighty years old.

  She wondered who else would make up the party. Was she doomed to be the eldest, apart from Aunt Viola and the marquess? There would be Estelle and Bertrand, of course, and the four of them who were in this carriage. Perhaps one or two more. But they were bound to see other acquaintances there. They were sure to have a good time. She felt desperately in need of a good time. She wanted to be appreciated, admired, flirted with. She wanted to appreciate, admire, and flirt—something she almost never did. She wanted to dance and laugh and stroll along the main avenue through the gardens, reveling in the wonder of colored lanterns swaying in the branches of the trees on either side. She wanted to be a part of the gaiety of the crowds that would be there. She wanted to feel young and attractive.

  Oh, she had waited too long to seek her own happiness. She was twenty-five years old. Ancient. Abby had married two years ago at the age of twenty-four. She was happy and in love. She had children and a home and a garden and neighbors and a husband who, for all his dour outer appearance, was absolutely besotted with her. As she was with him.

  Self-pity clawed at Jessica’s insides. And she had no one but herself to blame. She gave herself a mental shake and joined in the burst of laughter that followed something marvelously witty Boris had said, though she had not heard what it was.

  Aunt Viola and the Marquess of Dorchester were already sitting in the open box they had reserved on the lower level of the rotunda, close to the orchestra and overlooking the dancing area. So were Estelle and Bertrand and Miss Keithley, the sister of Bertrand’s friend, and another young lady whom Jessica believed to be Miss Keithley’s younger sister. And . . . Mr. Rochford.

  But of course, she thought the instant her eyes alit upon him and he got to his feet, having spied her at the same moment. He made her an elegant bow while he smiled dazzlingly at her. Of course he was here. Aunt Viola was one of the Westcott aunts, was she not? And in the few days since Avery had withheld his blessing on Mr. Rochford’s suit, her mother had gone visiting twice without Jessica—once to Grandmama’s and once to Aunt Mildred’s. To rally the troops, no doubt.

  Well, she was not going to let his presence spoil her evening, Jessica decided as they all exchanged effusive greetings and she succeeded in seating herself between Bertrand and his father. She would just be very careful not to allow him to monopolize her company. Let Estelle entertain him or Miss Keithley or someone else.

  So there were six ladies and five gentlemen. That was unusually careless of Aunt Viola. But of course again! This party at Vauxhall had been planned more than a week ago. She had probably invited Mr. Thorne too, for the family committee had a two-pronged matchmaking goal. Perhaps Aunt Viola had not yet realized that he had disappeared, apparently without a trace. Or, if she had realized it, maybe it had been too late to invite another gentleman in his place.

  But then . . .

  Well, but then he came, tall and broad shouldered and immaculately elegant as he strode purposefully toward the box. He bowed to Aunt Viola, shook hands with the marquess, and nodded to everyone else, Jessica included.

  “I do beg your pardon, ma’am,” he said to Aunt Viola. “A cart had overturned on the bridge, completely blocking it, and it took several minutes to clear the roadway after it became evident that all the shouting and gesticulating was not going to accomplish the task.”

  Jessica wished the cart had been full of rotten cabbages and that it had overturned onto his head.

  Since he had not warned the Marquess and Marchioness of Dorchester that he might not be able to attend their gathering at Vauxhall Gardens and undoubtedly they had arranged it so that there would be an equal number of ladies and gentlemen, Gabriel had made a push to be back in London in time. He had made it with three hours to spare, just time enough to bathe the grime of the road from his person and to dress appropriately for such an evening. Then had come the frustration of the spill on the bridge across the river Thames that had made him late arriving after all. It vexed him, as he had long made it a habit never to be late for appointments or social events to which he had been specifically invited.

  Lady Jessica Archer looked very lovely and very haughty indeed, though she unbent sufficiently to joke with her cousins while they dined upon a meal that included the thin slices of ham and the strawberries for which Vauxhall was famous, according to Lady Vickers. Lady Jessica also played gracious hostess to a steady stream of men who came to pay homage after they had finished eating. She came close to flirting with a few of them. She danced with Dorchester and with her cousin, the elder of the two Wayne brothers.

  She studiously ignored Gabriel. He might have thought he was invisible to her except that she had a way of not looking at him that involved a raised chin and a supercilious expression that disappeared as soon as she looked at someone else.

  So she was annoyed with him. Because he had left town for almost a week without telling her? If that was the reason, it was encouraging.

  She was doing her best to ignore Rochford too. That was not always easy to do. When the man was going through all the motions that indicated he was about to ask her to dance, she turned pointedly to the other of her young cousins and informed him that this was the dance for which he had asked earlier. Young Peter Wayne looked a bit surprised, as well he might, as undoubtedly this was the first he was hearing of it. But he jumped to his feet, the perfect gentleman, and actually thanked her for remembering.

  And when the marchioness suggested after that dance that they all take a walk along the main avenue in order to work off some of the effects of the rich foods they had eaten and had begun to suggest that her niece take Rochford’s arm, Lady Estelle jumped in with an objection.

  “Oh,” she said, “but I am about to tell Mr. Rochford about that bonnet I almost purchased yesterday, Mother—the one that had what looked very much like a bird’s nest perched upon the crown. Do you remember it? It is such a funny story. You will laugh, Mr. Rochford.” And she threw a mischievous glance Gabriel’s way, smiled engagingly at Rochford, and slid an arm through his while her stepmother half frowned at her and glanced almost apologetically at her niece.

  “Lady Jessica,” Gabriel said. “Perhaps you will give me the pleasure of your company.”

  By then her young cousins had paired up with the Misses Keithley, and Bertrand Lamarr had taken the wide-eyed little girl on his arm—she was apparently a cousin of the Wayne boys and must surely be eighteen if she was at such a party, though she could easily pass for fourteen. Short of grabbing her uncle’s arm, Lady Jessica had no choice but to take his.

  A small crowd had gathered to watch the dancing. They had to weave their way through it to reach the avenue beyond. By the time Gabriel got there with Lady Jessica, the other
s were already walking ahead.

  “I was told when I first arrived in town that I absolutely must not miss spending an evening at Vauxhall,” he said. “I was told there was something particularly lovely about the combination of trees and avenues and colored lamps swaying from the branches and the good food and music and dancing. And fireworks. The person who told me did not exaggerate.”

  “It is a pleasant place at which to spend a few hours,” she said.

  “We are particularly fortunate to have been invited on an evening when the weather conditions are perfect,” he said.

  “Yes, indeed,” she agreed.

  “Cool but not cold,” he said. “Not windy but with enough of a gentle breeze to set the lanterns moving in the branches and their colors to forming patterns that are a feast for the eyes.”

  “It is a pleasant evening,” she conceded.

  “You are cross with me,” he told her.

  She raised her eyebrows but kept her eyes on the avenue ahead, while all around them revelers moved at different paces and in both directions, talking, laughing, calling ahead or behind to others. The music was still quite audible.

  “Cross, Mr. Thorne?” she said. “Whyever would I be cross with you?”

  “For apparently abandoning you,” he said. “It was not real abandonment, you know. I had every intention of coming back. I came as soon as I possibly could.”

  “You are mistaken, Mr. Thorne,” she said. “You have overestimated your importance. Have you been gone somewhere? I had not noticed.”

 

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