by Balogh, Mary
“Thank you for granting me some of your time,” Gabriel said, clasping his hand and shaking it firmly.
“Not at all,” the duke murmured, indicating a chair for his guest before resuming his seat behind the desk.
A man’s time was precious. It ought not to be wasted upon small talk except on social occasions. This was not one.
“I have asked Lady Jessica Archer to marry me,” Gabriel began, though he was still not sure he had asked. “She said yes. We plan to marry by special license within the week. She does not wish for a large ton wedding. Neither do I.”
If Netherby was shocked, or even surprised, he certainly gave no indication. “Congratulations are in order, then,” he said. “You may have a fight on your hands with her mother over the nature of the wedding. But that is no concern of mine. Was there anything else you wished to discuss with me?”
He was a cool customer, Gabriel thought, especially in light of what Norton had had to say in the report that had arrived from Brierley this morning.
“Yes,” Gabriel said. “Is your secretary at work this morning?”
The ducal eyebrows rose, and for a moment Gabriel could see a faint resemblance between him and his half sister. Or perhaps it was just that they had both perfected that haughtiness of manner that froze pretension.
“Edwin Goddard?” the duke said. “I pay him to work during the mornings. I trust he is at it now and not playing truant.”
“Here at Archer House?” Gabriel asked.
A very brief smile curved the duke’s lips for a moment. “It is doubtful,” he said, “unless he can ride like the wind, which is extremely unlikely. He is a commendably efficient secretary, but in some instances he might be fondly described as plodding. He is not blending unnoticed into his surroundings, I take it?”
“Not as well as my man does,” Gabriel told him. “Norton is a gardener at the house by day and a frequenter of the local tavern by night.”
“Ah,” His Grace said. “For all his many talents, one cannot imagine Edwin wielding a scythe. Or, for that matter, blending. When I next see him, he will give me a pained look and not quite inform me that he told me so. He did tell me so. How was a stranger going to park himself for a week or more at a godforsaken inn in a godforsaken village in the middle of nowhere, he told me—actually he did not say it aloud, though his manner implied it—and discover a sudden and insatiable curiosity about its inhabitants without arousing suspicion from all and sundry, even the village idiot, if there is such a person? I advised him when I saw that look on his face to do his best. For once in his illustrious career it would seem that his best was not good enough. As a matter of purely personal interest, will Jessica’s name become Thorne or Rochford when she marries?”
“Thorne,” Gabriel said. “My name was legally changed in Boston when my cousin adopted me as his son.”
“Your mother’s cousin, I presume,” the duke said. “It was her maiden name too. Edwin Goddard is very good at many things, you see, though admittedly that was something I might have ferreted out even without his aid if I had chosen to exert myself. Edwin is bad for me. He enables me to be lazy.”
Gabriel very much doubted His Grace allowed anyone or anything to make him lazy.
“You see,” Netherby continued, “I would quite possibly have approved of your suit, Lyndale—I may call you that?—even if Jessica had needed my permission. An earl is a good match for her. I would, of course, have required detailed information about your American business and your personal fortune. Poor Edwin would have been very busy indeed. I would also have required—no, I would have demanded—a full explanation of certain events that happened just prior to your leaving for America. I trust you have been able to satisfy Jessica on those points?”
“I have,” Gabriel told him. “I am innocent of both rape and murder. I can offer proof on the first and a witness, or rather an alibi, on the second.”
“Quite so,” the duke said with a dismissive gesture of one hand. “Miss Beck, I assume. You need not proceed to bore me with all the sordid details.”
Gabriel did not doubt that he knew them already. But good God, his man had spoken to Mary, had he? Norton had spotted him in the environs of Brierley. And from the description he had given in his report, Gabriel had concluded that he and the majordomo who had been guarding Lady Jessica Archer at the inn on the road to London a few weeks ago were one and the same.
“Perhaps,” he said, getting to his feet, “I may have a word with my betrothed now?”
“I do not doubt she awaits you with bated breath,” Netherby said, also rising from his chair. “You may discover, however, that her mother will want more than a single word with you. You may expect to find her severely disappointed, since she and her sisters and their mother appear to have pinned their hopes upon another man who expects to be Earl of Lyndale one day.”
“Jessica informed me that you withheld your blessing from him when he asked for it,” Gabriel said, “because he has too many teeth.”
And he was suddenly treated to the rare sight of the Duke of Netherby smiling.
Jessica was sitting in the drawing room with Anna and her mother. Her mother had not given either her or Ruth any special instructions this morning. As a result, Jessica was wearing her favorite—but not new—blue morning dress and had her hair dressed simply, without any artfully wayward curls to trail her neck or temples. She sat with a book open on her lap, a ridiculous affectation, since she could not have read a single sentence if she tried. Indeed, she had to check to make sure it was the right way up.
Her mother was not pleased. The fact that she had not uttered a word since Jessica joined her and Anna in the drawing room proved the point. She had not said anything or looked up from her embroidery frame even when the door knocker sounded downstairs and the heavy doors could be heard opening a short time later.
Anna was holding her peace too, though she regarded them both with kindly smiles from time to time when she looked up from the bonnet she was knitting for Beatrice.
“Mr. Thorne?” Mama had said when Avery had mentioned at breakfast that Gabriel had requested an audience. “But whatever for?”
“If he had included that information in his note,” Avery had said, “he would hardly need to come here too, Mother.”
“It cannot be,” Mama had said, frowning. “He surely cannot be coming here to make an offer for Jessica, Avery?”
“I seriously doubt it,” Avery had said. “He must know he does not need my permission.”
“Avery!” she had cried. “You will surely say a resounding no, whether Jessica needs your permission or not. It is Mr. Rochford whose suit we must encourage. He has prospects. Viola is hoping Mr. Thorne will persuade Estelle to choose a husband at last, though she is perfectly well aware that Marcel may object to her choosing an untitled man about whom so little is known. She is bound to be upset nevertheless if it turns out he has set his sights upon Jessica. Perhaps we can avoid mentioning it to her.”
Avery had simply looked pained.
“Jessica?” Anna had asked. “Did you know about this?”
Finally someone had thought to include her in this conversation. “Yes,” she had said, touching the pink rosebud beside her plate.
“Jessica?” Her mother had looked at her in astonishment.
Jessica had got to her feet, set her napkin beside her plate, and left the room, remembering to take her pink rosebud and the card with her. This morning the card read simply Gabriel. Had the daily rose not been a warning to her mother? Had she really thought he was sending one to any number of women, perhaps Estelle included? Or had she merely assumed that Jessica disdained his interest as she had disdained everyone else’s during the past six or seven years?
Was Avery going to come to the drawing room alone this time too, she wondered now, as he had done after Mr. Rochford called, to explain why he had withheld his blessing though he could not refuse his permission? What had Gabriel told him? The full truth? They had n
ot discussed it last night, though she believed he wished to keep his secret for a little longer, until he had somehow dealt with the problem of Mr. Manley Rochford and his son.
Jessica closed her eyes for a few moments. It was Manley Rochford who had raped the neighbor’s daughter and probably murdered her brother. Gabriel was sure on the first, almost sure on the second. If the murderer had not been Manley, then it had very probably been Mr. Philip Rochford, Gabriel’s cousin, his uncle’s son, who was no longer alive to admit or deny the charge.
The door opened suddenly—she had not heard footsteps on the stairs—and Avery ushered Gabriel inside before stepping in after him. Jessica’s stomach performed an uncomfortable flip-flop. The events of last night—all of them—seemed somehow unreal this morning. The fact that he was standing here now proved that they were not, however. But she had never been kissed as she had been last night. She was not even sure he had initiated it. She was the one who had stepped up close to him and set her hands over his chest—because the need to touch him had been overwhelming. It had felt . . . breathtaking. She had admitted to wanting him, and he had admitted to wanting her. Wanting—such an inoffensive word. But he had mentioned bed, and all sorts of shocking images had filled her mind, and far more than just her mind. And then he had kissed her . . .
Now here he was, looking elegant and behaving very properly for a morning visit. He was bowing to her mother and to Anna.
“Your Grace,” he said as a sort of collective greeting to both.
He merely smiled at Jessica.
“Mr. Thorne has informed me,” Avery said, “that he and Jessica are betrothed and intend to marry by special license within the week.”
Anna set her knitting aside and got to her feet. Jessica’s mother froze, the hand holding her embroidery needle suspended above the cloth.
“I have given my blessing,” Avery added.
Anna hurried across the room, her right hand extended, a warm smile lighting her face. “I am very happy for you, Mr. Thorne,” she said. “I am sure I shall love having you as a brother-in-law.” She shook his hand and turned to Jessica. She leaned over the love seat upon which she sat and hugged her. “I am so happy for you, Jessica.”
Jessica’s mother was methodically threading her needle through the cloth stretched over her embroidery frame. She looked up, first at Jessica and then at Gabriel. Both of them were looking back at her. So was Anna. Probably Avery too, though Jessica did not look to see.
“I must trust my stepson’s judgment, Mr. Thorne,” she said at last. “However, I must also have your assurance before I give my blessing that you do not intend to take my daughter back to America to live. Frankly I would find that intolerable. And unforgivable.”
“I have no such intention, ma’am,” he told her. “Circumstances necessitate my living here in England.”
“I am relieved to hear it,” she said. “And why, Mr. Thorne, are you insisting upon a hurried, almost clandestine wedding within the week? My daughter is the only daughter of the late Duke of Netherby. She is the sister of the current duke. It would be more appropriate for her to have a far grander wedding. The ton will expect it of her. Her family will expect it.”
“I do not want a grand wedding, Mama,” Jessica said. “I told Gabriel so last evening at Vauxhall. I have always loved the account of the very private wedding Avery and Anna had, with only Cousin Elizabeth and Mr. Goddard as witnesses. And that of Abby and Gil’s wedding in the village church at Hinsford two years ago, with only Harry in attendance apart from the vicar and his wife.”
“Mr. Thorne,” Anna said, her gaze still upon Jessica’s mother, “will you allow at least my mother-in-law and Avery and me to attend your wedding? And perhaps Sir Trevor and Lady Vickers? It would mean a great deal to us.”
“Jessica?” Gabriel was looking at her with raised eyebrows.
“And . . . perhaps Grandmama?” she said.
“Aunt Edith will want to come too, then,” her mother said. “She lives with your grandmother, after all, and will be hurt if she is excluded. And my sisters—Viscountess Dirkson and Lady Molenor,” she explained for Gabriel’s benefit. “And their husbands, of course. I will be hurt if they are not invited. And Viola, who was my very dear sister-in-law for twenty-three years—the Marchioness of Dorchester, Mr. Thorne. And her husband the marquess. All three husbands, in fact.”
Gabriel had on his face the amused look that Jessica was beginning to recognize even when he was not outright smiling. “And I believe, ma’am,” he said, “Lady Estelle Lamarr and Viscount Watley, her twin, are the marquess’s children. And the Earl of Riverdale is head of the Westcott family. The lady who arranged a party to welcome him and the countess back to London and was kind enough to invite me is his sister. Their mother was present at the party too.”
Jessica could see that her mother’s cheeks had turned rather pink.
Anna laughed. “Is your head spinning on your shoulders yet, Mr. Thorne?” she asked. “Do come and sit down next to Jessica while I ring for a pot of coffee. What you should have done if you wanted a swift, quiet wedding, you know, was what Avery did with me once upon a time. He came to Westcott House on South Audley Street, where I was living at the time, told me to fetch my bonnet, and whisked me away to marry. It was the most romantic wedding in the world.”
“I have never quite forgiven either of you,” Jessica’s mother said bitterly. “We were all planning the grandest of grand weddings for you. You were the long-lost heiress, Anna, and Avery was a duke. My stepson.”
“That is precisely why we did it, Mother,” Avery said, sounding slightly bored. “I would do the same again if I were ever called upon to marry Anna a second time. Have a seat, Thorne, while my stepmother tells you about your own wedding.”
“Avery!” she scolded.
Gabriel did not move from where he stood. He looked hard at Jessica and then transferred his gaze to her mother.
“There is something you need to know about me, ma’am,” he said. “And something Her Grace the duchess ought to know too, though I am still hopeful it will not become general knowledge just yet, as there are matters I need to settle first. I was born with the name Gabriel Rochford, though Thorne is now my legal name.”
“Rochford?” Jessica’s mother said, frowning. “You are related somehow to Mr. Anthony Rochford, then?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, but Anna was already making the connection.
“Gabriel Rochford!” she said. “That was the name of the cousin who—”
She had not been part of the group that had heard the story Mr. Rochford told at Elizabeth and Colin’s party. But clearly that story had been passed on.
“Yes, ma’am,” Gabriel said. “My father was the younger brother—the only brother—of Julius Rochford, the Earl of Lyndale, who died with his wife and only son almost seven years ago. I had gone to America six years before then and settled into a happy, prosperous life in Boston with a cousin of my mother’s. Thorne was her maiden name. Before I left England at the age of nineteen I was involved in an innocent flirtation with a neighbor’s daughter. Her brother had been my close friend for many years. When it became known to her father that she was with child, she allowed the assumption to be made that I was the father. She was afraid to admit that she had been the victim of violence. When her brother came after me, presumably to demand that I do the decent thing, he ended up dead, shot in the back. I was elsewhere at the time and knew nothing of either catastrophe until I returned home. All the evidence pointed to my being guilty of both crimes. My uncle, his son, and another cousin urged me to run in order to avoid arrest and an almost certain hanging. I took fright and ran.”
Jessica’s mother had both hands against her cheeks. “You are the Earl of Lyndale,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “You are not dead after all.”
“No, ma’am,” he said.
Anna had resumed her seat. Her hands were clasped, white knuckled, in her lap. Avery had moved up behind her and
set a hand on her shoulder. “But why,” she asked, “did you not return seven years ago, Mr. Thorne? Or as soon as you heard that your uncle and cousin had died?”
“I had no interest in returning,” he said. “I had made a new life and I was both busy and happy. I grew up at Brierley from the age of nine, when my father died. I was never happy there.”
“Why have you returned now?” Jessica’s mother asked.
“There was one particular reason,” he said. “But it has grown into several reasons since I came back and learned more.”
“This will be very disturbing news to Mr. Manley Rochford,” she said. “And to his son, who came here to Archer House not many days ago to ask for Avery’s blessing on a marriage proposal he wished to make to Jessica—and on the expectation that he was about to become heir to an earldom.”
“They will certainly not be happy,” Gabriel agreed.
“Mr. Thorne,” Anna said. “Who was the other cousin who urged you to run away after your friend’s murdered body was discovered?”
“Manley Rochford,” he said.
She frowned.
“My love,” Avery said, “since you did not after all ring for coffee, and the sun is still shining outside despite dire predictions I heard during my morning ride of rain on the way, perhaps we ought to take the children to Hyde Park for an hour or so. Mother, would you care to accompany us?”
“But there is so much to be talked about,” she said. “I . . . feel as though my brain must have frozen.”
“Quite so,” Avery agreed. “Come and thaw it in the park. Jessica and Thorne have a wedding to discuss and might make better headway if they are left alone. My advice, Thorne, is that you wait until we are out of sight, and then instruct my sister to fetch her bonnet before taking her off to the nearest church. But I daresay you have not yet acquired a special license.”