by Balogh, Mary
“Gabriel,” she said. “Look who has come. My cousin Harry—Harry Westcott. He never goes anywhere, but I am going to pretend he came especially for my wedding. This is Gabriel, Harry. My . . . husband.”
“Yes, I sort of gathered that, Jess,” he said, and the two men shook hands and took each other’s measure as they did so. This, then, was the cousin who had once, very briefly, been the Earl of Riverdale after his father’s death, only to have both the title and his legitimacy ripped away when it was discovered that his father and mother’s marriage had been bigamous.
How did one recover from such a life-changing catastrophe? Though perhaps he had experienced something not too dissimilar, Gabriel thought.
“It was a fortunate coincidence I came when I did,” Harry said. “I understand you are going to whisk Jessica off up north somewhere tomorrow, Thorne.”
“I believe,” Gabriel said, “our plans must change. We will be staying for a while longer after all.”
Jessica looked at him in surprise, but her grandmother and her great-aunt had come up and she turned to hug them.
Viscount Dirkson had come to shake Gabriel’s hand. The viscountess hugged him and kissed his cheek.
“Weddings are invariably romantic occasions no matter where they take place or what the size of the congregation,” she said, beaming at him. “This one is no exception, Mr. Thorne. No, Gabriel. You are one of the family now. I am Aunt Matilda.”
Her husband grinned at him. “If you should ever call me Uncle Charles,” he said, “I do believe I would have to deck you, Thorne.”
Aunt Matilda was the first to laugh merrily.
They exited the church a few minutes later to bright sunshine instead of the high clouds that had covered the sky when Gabriel arrived. A small crowd of curious pedestrians gathered outside murmured and even applauded and cheered a bit self-consciously when it must have become apparent to them that this was the bride and groom. Jessica smiled brightly at them and waved her free arm, her yellow rose clutched in her hand. Gabriel lifted a hand in acknowledgment. And then they were showered with rose petals, hurled by Lady Estelle and Bertrand Lamarr and by the Wayne brothers—and the little girl, who was giggling helplessly.
“Oh goodness,” Jessica said as Gabriel handed her into the flower-decked carriage that would take them to Archer House. “That has happened at every wedding I have ever attended. Why was I not expecting it with my own?” She sat and gazed at him. “You do look gorgeous, Gabriel.”
He brushed himself off before taking his place beside her and the coachman put up the steps and shut the door. “You could not have left that line for me, I suppose?” he asked.
“Do I look gorgeous?”
The brim of her straw bonnet was trimmed with tiny pink rosebuds. The wide silk ribbons that were tied in a bow to the left side of her chin were a richer shade of the same color. Her dark hair was gleaming. Her flushed, wide-eyed face was pure beauty.
“You, my dear wife,” he said, “look scrumptious.”
She laughed. “Scrumptious?” she said. “Well, that is something new. No one has ever called me that before.”
“I am glad of it,” he said.
And somehow she was not smiling any longer. Neither was he.
“I made you certain vows,” he said. “I do intend to keep them.”
“Oh,” she said. “And I will keep mine.”
He hesitated, set an arm about her shoulders, touched one side of her jaw with his fingertips, and kissed her.
“A mere promise for tonight, Mrs. Thorne,” he said against her lips.
There was a faint cheer from their guests, who had spilled out of the church to see them on their way, but it was totally obliterated when the carriage rocked on its springs and moved away from the church, dragging an impressive array of noisy metal items that had been tied beneath.
She grimaced. And laughed. And then shouted over the din. “Gabriel, why has there been a change of plan? Why are we staying in London a little longer?”
“Manley Rochford and his wife have arrived in town,” he told her.
Her mouth formed an O, but if sound accompanied it, it was impossible to hear.
So much for their quiet wedding.
The large hallway beyond the front doors of Archer House and the dining room looked and smelled like a rose garden. And the long table in the dining room had been set with all the very best, rarely used china and crystal and silverware. Someone—or, rather, some persons—had been very busy indeed in the relatively short while since she left for her wedding, Jessica thought.
After one peep into the dining room she ran upstairs to remove her bonnet and have Ruth make some repairs to her hair. Yes, she really did run. Her old nurse and her former governess would have had an apoplexy apiece.
A couple of large trunks and hatboxes stood in the middle of her bedchamber, ready to be loaded onto a baggage carriage tomorrow for the journey to Brierley—now delayed. Because Mr. Manley Rochford and his wife had arrived unexpectedly early in town. Jessica’s stomach lurched. Whatever was it going to mean? But she refused to think of all the implications of that just now. Not on her wedding day.
Had there ever been a lovelier, more romantic wedding? Not that she was biased or anything, but he had not taken his eyes off hers throughout the brief service, not even when Mr. Vickers almost dropped her ring and had been forced to perform a few very inelegant twistings and lungings in order to save it—not to mention his language, which fortunately had probably not been too audible beyond their little group. That episode, she supposed, had been rather funny, but she had continued to gaze at Gabriel the whole time and observe it only from the corner of her eye.
It had seemed almost like a love match. Perhaps all weddings did to the two people who were marrying. For a wedding made everything change. The future that stretched ahead was full of possibility, full of hope, full of dreams. Not that one must believe in happily-ever-after. One would be foolish to do so even if the marriage was a love match. But one could believe at least in the possibility of more happiness than misery. If that was what one wanted. If it was also what one’s spouse wanted. Ah, so many ifs. So much uncertainty.
“Ruth,” she said after her hair had been restored to her maid’s satisfaction, “I am Lady Jessica Thorne.” Countess of Lyndale, she thought, hugging that secret knowledge to herself. “Does that not have a lovely sound?”
“Yes, my lady,” Ruth said as Jessica caught up the sides of her dress and twirled once about, just like a young child on her way to a party. Like something Josephine would do. Or four-year-old Rebecca.
Her eyes rested upon the trunks again. A few bags would already have been taken over to Gabriel’s hotel, where she would spend the night and perhaps more than one night if indeed they were to stay longer in London. Either way, she would not be coming back here. She might visit Archer House any number of times in the future and perhaps even stay here occasionally. She might and probably would visit Morland Abbey. But after a lifetime of thinking of both houses as home, she could no longer do so. She did not belong here now. She belonged wherever Gabriel belonged.
And where was that?
Brierley Hall? He had lived there for only ten of his thirty-two years. And they had not been happy years. By contrast, the thirteen he had spent in Boston had been happy. But duty and his concern for a lady who was about to be turned out of her home had brought him back—to stay. Yes, they would live at Brierley Hall, Jessica thought. A house she had never seen, in a part of the country with which she was unfamiliar. Far from either London or Morland Abbey. Far from her mother and Avery and Anna. Far from Abby and Camille and Harry. Far from everyone except perhaps Aunt Mildred and Uncle Thomas.
She would make it into a home. For herself. For Gabriel. For any children they would have—oh please, please, dear God, let there be children. At least one son for the succession and a few other children just because. She would make it a happy home. It was what she had been raised to do. It w
as what she could and would do. She was Lady Jessica . . . Thorne. She was the Countess of Lyndale.
There was a light tap upon the door of the bedchamber and it opened before Ruth could reach it. Gabriel stepped inside, and Jessica’s breath caught in her throat at the realization that he now had every right to do so. She had sacrificed privacy an hour ago as well as name and home and the little freedom she had insisted upon asserting since her twenty-first birthday.
“Everyone is awaiting the bride,” he said.
“And that would be me.” She took a few steps forward and linked her arm through the one he offered and stepped out of the room that was no longer her bedchamber without looking back.
There was feasting and conversation and laughter. There were speeches and toasts and more laughter. There were stories told of Jessica’s childhood, some touching, some funny, a few embarrassing to her. There were stories told by Sir Trevor and Lady Vickers of the week they had spent in the small vicarage where Gabriel’s father had had his living, celebrating the christening of young Gabriel. They had told about how the baby had smiled sweetly and widely and toothlessly in Lady Vickers’s hold, waving his little arms about as he did so, and how she had threatened to take him home with her and never return him.
“I believe that was the moment when he vomited all over your best dress, Doris,” Sir Trevor said, and everyone laughed again.
“Oh, it was not, Trevor,” she protested. “That was a different time. You were very well behaved at your christening, Gabriel.”
Gabriel smiled at her. He knew so little of his early childhood. He had had no one after the age of nine to reminisce about it.
“He lived up to his angelic name, did he?” the Marquess of Dorchester said.
“Don’t I always?” Gabriel asked, and Jessica touched the back of his hand.
“I just wish,” her grandmother said, “you were not taking my granddaughter so far away, Gabriel. And so soon. Tomorrow is too soon.”
“It is,” Jessica’s mother said with a sigh. “However, it is what happens when a woman marries, Mama.”
Some of the laughter had faded from the gathering.
“Perhaps you will be happy to know, then, ma’am,” Gabriel said, addressing the dowager countess, “that we will not be leaving tomorrow after all. Or even the day after. We will be remaining in town for a while. I do not know for quite how long.”
A few faces noticeably brightened.
“Oh,” the dowager duchess said. “That is good news. What made you change your mind, Gabriel?”
He got to his feet and looked down briefly at Jessica beside him. She nodded almost imperceptibly. “Something happened last night that I learned of this morning,” he said, “and it is time I shared some information that only a few of you already know. I am aware that most if not all of you have been curious about me and have wondered why, even though his permission was not necessary, the Duke of Netherby nevertheless gave his blessing on my marriage to his sister.”
“I believe we are all very glad he did,” Aunt Matilda said. “You do not owe us any explanation, Gabriel. If you have satisfied Avery, then we must all be satisfied.”
“Speak for yourself, Matilda,” Aunt Mildred said—Gabriel had been instructed by most of the family to learn and use their names. “I have been dying of curiosity.”
“That is kind of you, Aunt Matilda,” Gabriel said, and smiled briefly at both sisters. “I would hope this information will remain within the family for at least a few days longer, until I have settled some matters, but that will be up to you. But what I want to tell you now, as my new family, is that my legal name is Thorne. However, it is not the name with which I was born. That was Rochford. Gabriel Rochford. I am the Earl of Lyndale. Sir Trevor Vickers has had that fact officially confirmed. He was able to tell me that just before we sat down to eat.”
For a few moments the Westcotts were silenced.
“The long-lost earl?” Great-aunt Edith said, breaking the silence. “Well, bless my soul.”
“I say, this is splendid stuff,” young Boris Wayne said with youthful enthusiasm. “Rochford is not going to be at all happy, though, is he, poor fellow? Nor is his father, at a guess.”
“I think I decided to come up to London at just the right time,” Harry said. “This beats rusticating at Hinsford.”
“But what—”
“But why—”
Cousin Althea and Uncle Thomas began speaking at the same time. Gabriel held up a staying hand.
“It is a long story,” he said. “If you wish, I will tell it. But the reason Jessica and I will not after all be leaving for Brierley tomorrow is that Manley Rochford, my second cousin, who expects to have my title within the next few weeks, arrived in London last night with his wife.”
“Oh my,” Wren said. “We did not know that, did we, Alexander?”
“We knew he was coming soon,” he said.
Netherby, Gabriel noticed, did not look at all surprised.
“We do wish,” Estelle said, leaning eagerly forward across the table. “To hear your long story, that is, Gabriel. Please do tell it. But I would wager—if it were genteel for ladies to lay bets—that what Mr. Rochford said of you at Elizabeth and Colin’s party was not true at all. But how priceless that you were there to hear him and he did not know you. I suppose he had never seen you before in his life until you appeared here a few weeks ago.”
“Let the man speak, Stell,” her twin said.
“No,” Gabriel said, “those stories were not true. Neither was Anthony Rochford’s supposed familiarity with me. He was about ten years old when I went to America. He had never been to Brierley, where I lived for ten years after the death of my father. Let me be as brief as I can. This is a wedding breakfast, my own and Jessica’s, and I would not wish to shift the focus too far from celebration.”
He told the story with which some people at the table were already familiar.
“I wished to marry before returning to Brierley Hall to take up my position and the responsibilities there that I have neglected for almost seven years,” he said at last. “I wanted the moral support of a countess and the practical support of someone who had had the upbringing and training to run a home that has been without a mistress for a number of years, and to cope with a situation that is sure to be a challenge for a while. And I wanted a wife for whom I felt an affection. I hope I will be a worthy member of this family.”
“I have just realized,” Cousin Althea said, “that Jessica is the Countess of Lyndale.”
After the tense minutes that had preceded her words, everyone laughed.
“I expected and hoped to deal with Manley Rochford at Brierley,” Gabriel said. “It might have been less dramatic. And perhaps less . . . humiliating for his son. However, he has come here with his wife, and I must decide how best to break the news to him that I am alive and back in England.”
“Tell me,” Colin, Lord Hodges, said, “was Manley Rochford involved in any of those things of which you stood accused, Thorne?”
Gabriel had minimized details of the whole nasty episode that had sent him running off to America.
“Yes,” he said now after a brief hesitation.
“I suppose he was the guilty party,” Colin said. “Of one or both charges?”
“Definitely one,” Gabriel said, “probably both. Almost certainly he was implicated, at least as an accessory to the second.”
Uncle Thomas whistled. “Is there any proof?” he asked.
“On the first, yes,” Gabriel said. “I have spoken to the woman who was involved. She has given me a letter that may suffice as evidence. She will testify in person if further confirmation is needed, I believe, though understandably she is reluctant to do so. I would protect her from that if I can.”
“She will do it,” Riverdale said. “Her husband has persuaded her that she must if it becomes necessary.”
Gabriel leveled a look on him.
“And there are two witnesses who will giv
e Lyndale a solid alibi for the time when the murder was committed,” Netherby said.
“Two?” Gabriel raised his eyebrows.
“Miss Beck, of course. But you have perhaps forgotten,” Netherby said, “that the groom who took the wounded young fawn to her remained there for most of the time she and you were setting its broken leg. He is still employed at Brierley.”
“Ah,” Gabriel said, trying to remember. But yes, he seemed to recall that the young groom had been too squeamish to watch but too concerned to go away. He had hovered outside the cottage until the deed was done. “My man fell a bit short on that one, Netherby. Yours apparently did not. But yes. That is quite right. I had forgotten.”
“What we need now,” Aunt Matilda said, “is a plan. Our house, tomorrow afternoon. You will not mind, Charles?”
“Not at all, my love,” he said with great good humor, “provided you do not require my presence. In my experience plans are better left with the ladies.”
“Wise man,” Elizabeth said, twinkling at him. “I will be there, Cousin Matilda. So will Mama.”
“I will indeed,” Cousin Althea said.
“Another toast,” Riverdale said, getting to his feet and raising his glass. “To the Earl and Countess of Lyndale’s remaining in London for a while longer.”
There was a prolonged clinking of glasses and a chorus of voices.
“Jessica,” Gabriel said soon after that, “shall we be the first to leave? With many thanks to everyone who has made this such an unexpectedly festive day, considering the fact that we had decided upon a quiet wedding.”
She set her hand in his and got to her feet. “Yes, thank you all,” she said. “And now, if you will excuse me, I am about to get a little emotional.”
Gabriel tightened his grip on her hand and led her from the room while Netherby, with the mere lifting of one eyebrow and one finger, sent a servant scurrying to call up their carriage—minus all the flowers and all the hardware, Gabriel hoped, for the short journey to his hotel.