Spine rigid, jaw tight, and white-knuckled hands clasped before her, Miss Ophelia claimed a spot on the striped sofa. That she felt the need to sit disturbed him even more.
He turned the missive over, searching for a name or address or anything on the reverse side. Nothing. That suggested something clandestine. Warning bells began to toll, first a gentle chime, but gradually increasing into a discordant cacophony. “To whom did she entrust you to deliver the letter?”
Breckensole planted his palms on his thighs, leaned forward, and blurted, “Reverend Michael Shaw. Her lover, and your father’s true sire.”
Those last four words, ringing extraordinarily loudly in the similarly unnaturally still room, tilted Max’s world on its axis. His hearing grew muffled, as if he’d submerged beneath the bathwater. He shook his head to dislodge the wool and hauled his focus to Gabriella, silently asking for confirmation that he’d heard correctly.
Even before pity softened her eyes and framed her mouth, he appreciated he had. Heard every damning word perfectly clearly.
Reverend Michael Shaw was killed in a duel. Margaret is dead. She was with child.
His grandfather’s journal entries also confirmed the truth.
Compassion shone on Gabriella’s face.
After all Max put her through and had threatened to do, she commiserated with him? It only reinforced her goodness, and the oddest urge to laugh engulfed him. Instead, he unfolded the worn, thickly creased paper, the rustling oddly ominous. Only the longcase clock in the corner’s tick-tocking disturbed the dense quiet.
That and Breckensole’s heavy breathing. The air whistled in and out of his nose in a fashion that made Max yearn to offer his handkerchief and demand the old man blow heartily. Or take a pair of embroidery scissors to his hair-clogged nostrils and groom a pathway the air might enter and exit through with a greater degree of ease.
Training his attention on the short missive, he recognized the penmanship as that which he’d seen inside the cover of numerous books within Chartworth’s extensive library. His grandmother’s delicate, rather flourishing hand.
The note was short. A mere two lines: A time and location for a clandestine meeting. Grandmother and this Michael Shaw had planned to run away together.
Max read it again. And again. And again.
Off guard, his lungs cramping as if he’d been kicked in the ribs by a team of draft horses, he meticulously refolded the note. Doing so gave him something to focus on besides the tumult careening about in his head and his inability to draw anything but little puffs of air into his lungs.
Grandmother had meant to leave his grandfather. Father wasn’t Grandfather’s progeny.
His head spun from trying to sift fact from fallacy, and again, an absurd urge to laugh assailed him. “But why is the letter still in your possession?” he at last managed to ask. No hint of the turmoil within reached his modulated voice.
“I never had a chance to deliver it. As I said, circumstances prevented my doing so.” Sadness tempered Mrs. Breckensole’s tone.
“Why not?” What other shocks awaited him?
She stared into space; sorrow etched upon her aged features. She’d cared for his grandmother. Truly cared for her. The knowledge startled and humbled him.
“Somehow your grandfather learned that they intended to run away, and he challenged the reverend to a duel.” She shifted her gaze to him for a moment. “I doubt the man had ever touched a pistol, let alone fired one, and the duke likely knew it as well.”
Max swallowed the bile burning his throat.
“It was to have been to first blood.” Mrs. Breckensole shifted her focus away again. “But the reverend died instantly from a bullet to his heart. Sorrow drove the duchess slightly mad, and she attacked her husband. Tried to stab him with a letter opener.”
“Holy God,” Max whispered.
She jutted her chin upward, reminding him of Gabriella. “I witnessed the act myself and sorely wished she’d succeeded. The duke locked her in her chamber for a month, permitting no visitors, no bathwater, no fires or candles, and only gruel and stale bread for her to eat.” Her voice grew raspy and her eyes watery. “Such cruelty to that gentle soul, and she was with child too.”
God, his grandfather had been a tyrant. A fiend. Surely his soul had been blacker than the devil’s himself.
It didn’t escape Max that his grandfather’s journal had made no mention of any of this. What else had he left out? Neither did it pass his notice that Mrs. Breckensole had been crafty enough to know that such a letter might be of worth at a later date. What other reason could there be for hiding it away for decades? He was about to ask that very question, when her next words tied his tongue.
“I’ve always suspected he pushed her down the stairs and to her death in one of his fits of rage. For that babe she carried wasn’t his either.” She looked straight at Max, her eyes slits of accusation and condemnation. “’Twas guilt and a raging fury that he was forced to claim another’s seed as his heir that turned him into a drunkard and opium addict. Not devastation.”
The emotions skating across Maxwell’s face tore at Gabriella’s composure. She’d wanted him to be taken down a notch, longed for him to understand how she felt, but this comeuppance brought her no joy. No sense of satisfaction. Because the plain, inarguable truth was, when he hurt, so did she.
A fierce, ache burned in the depths of her being. And that suggested she was beyond—way beyond, in fact—I could have loved you Maxwell and had come full circle to, I do love you. So very much, that each beat of my heart is agony.
Statue stiff, he clenched the paper. His eyelids drifted closed, the fringe of his lashes, thick and dark across his high cheekbones. He didn’t argue, which suggested he believed the letter’s legitimacy. The long ago, undelivered note to a lover now fisted in his grip might well be what it took for him to cry off. To change his mind about reclaiming Hartfordshire Court, marriage to her, and all the rest.
This was the miracle she’d prayed for. The means to save her home and her family. So why did tears blur her vision? Why did she want to wrap her arms around Maxwell and comfort him?
“Gabriella, take the letter before he destroys it,” her grandfather ordered, a hint of panic in his tone as if the thought had just occurred to him.
“Grandfather, you’re being churlish. The duke is too much of a gentleman to do any such thing.” She astounded herself by defending Maxwell. She meant what she’d said though, knowing it to be the truth.
“Here, Gabriella.” Arm stiff, he extended the crumpled parchment.
Her grandfather released a derisive snort following Maxwell’s declaration. “Ah, yes, because you’re descended from such noble blood you wouldn’t destroy evidence? Yet you intended to force us from our home and blackmail my granddaughter into wedding you. And you presume to use her given name without leave?”
A slight flush tinged Maxwell’s cheeks. “I beg your pardon for overstepping, Miss Breckensole. I spoke without thinking.”
She bit the inside of her cheek against the urge to tell him she didn’t mind.
How she despised this—seeing him defeated—every bit as much as she’d hated the uncompromising position he’d placed her in this morning. Grandfather’s reveling rankled, and once she’d accepted the fragile rectangle and placed it upon the table beside her grandmother, she peered out the window. Or else she might say something wholly disrespectful to the man who’d raised her and her sister.
Nightfall obscured the garden view, but the unending darkness was preferable to seeing the pain and dismay etched on Maxwell’s face. To observing this normally unflappable, composed man with his dry wit and spirited ripostes reduced to whatever wretched state this was.
Besides, what he’d intended was a far cry from disregarding the rules of dueling and slaying his opponent or shoving an enceinte woman down a flight of stairs. Even after everything he’d said and done, when he’d been an unmitigated cad, she yearned to smooth the angst from his features.
>
He’d received a monumental blow.
Not as appalling as what Grandmama had endured. Gabriella hugged her arms around her shoulders against a sudden chill.
Legally, it was of no account whether Michael Shaw or the sixth duke had sired Maxwell’s father. He’d been born in wedlock, and the duke had acknowledged him as his son. Under the eyes of the law, he’d been the legal heir.
She angled toward Maxwell. She would’ve spared him this had she been able to.
Beneath his neatly tied cravat, his Adam’s apple moved up and down, as if he struggled to control is emotions. Was he terribly disappointed? Shocked? Furious?
His attention lit upon her and rested there, his expression revealing nothing of the turbulent emotions he must surely feel. His imperious gaze, the blue eye darkened to indigo and the other a deep forest green, regarded her keenly. As if he searched for something within her eyes. Within her.
What did he seek?
The love she’d hidden from him all these months? His trust? Forgiveness? They were his for the asking.
“If you try to either force my granddaughter into marriage or to take Hartfordshire Court from us, Your Grace,” Grandpapa spat with such contempt, Gabriella spun to stare at him, aghast, “I shall make that letter public. Along with other unsavory information we haven’t yet discussed.”
“Harold, no!” Grandmama gasped, clutching her neck and spearing him a stricken look. “You cannot.”
“Grandpapa, your speech and attitude do our family a disservice.” Gabriella could scarce believe her boldness, but he’d gone beyond the mark. “The duke has been the epitome of politesse, and we would all do well to model him. Disagreements can be solved without lowering ourselves to petty bickering.”
Another round of tomb-like silence followed her scold.
Ophelia studiously examined the worn carpet, brushing at a stain with her slipper toe. Grandmama looked askance at her husband, and to Gabriella’s astonishment, Grandpapa flushed, ran a finger around the edge of his neckcloth, and with the very merest downward flicker of his eyes, acquiesced.
The inner corners of Maxwell’s eyebrows lashed together as he swung his attention between her and her grandparents.
Gabriella offered a small, encouraging smile.
“There’s no need for further shocks or unpleasant disclosures, I assure you. I came tonight with the intention of informing you that I’ve changed my mind. I’ve concluded that no good can come of pursuing the course I had intended to embark upon.” Formality weighted his speech, but a tinge of pain colored the jagged edges of his stilted words. Although he addressed everyone, his regard remained on her. “There are additional particulars that preclude me taking the action I’d originally contemplated.”
Such as?
He couldn’t possibly know about Grandmama’s ordeal. He’d been so unrelenting only a few hours ago. What then, in the whole of England, had been compelling enough to change his mind since this morning?
She examined the planes of his beloved face and searched his eyes for any hint. She ought to be overjoyed. This was exactly the reprieve she’d hoped for. So why, fiend seize it, did tears burn behind her eyelids and her throat twinge? Her emotions had become as fickle as a spring breeze. “You’ve truly changed your mind?”
Maxwell’s gaze caressed her, and he gave a scant nod.
“Yes. I’ve come to see the error of my ways, so to speak. I shall lay no claim to Hartfordshire Court.” He motioned to the forgotten leather portfolio. “All of the necessary documentation is within. My man of business will ensure the deed is properly recorded as it should have been done decades ago. Only the issues of the taxes remain to be addressed.”
“I have the original documents signed by your grandfather that ensure the duchy maintains the tax liability for as long as my wife and I live.” Pleasantly civil, so much so that Gabriella nearly gaped, Grandpapa gestured toward the door. “They are in my study.”
That took Maxwell aback, and he blinked. “Why would he…?” Lowering his head, he cupped his nape. At last he glanced up, the earlier tumult in his eyes replaced by calculated blandness. “I presume there are other unsavory factors that warranted such benevolence?”
“Indeed, there were, Your Grace,” Grandmama stated with regal dignity, a glimmer of the striking woman she’d once been surfacing.
She and Maxwell exchanged an intense, speaking glance, and something flashed in his eyes. Again, he gave the slightest acknowledgement with a half-blink and the merest downward slant of his chin.
“I believe I begin to understand. I also truly, and sincerely, regret that I may have greatly wronged you.” His gaze swept the room, lingering the longest on Gabriella. “I should’ve approached this matter as a gentleman rather than hurl accusations and contemplate retribution. I am not proud of my behavior and most humbly ask, that in time, perhaps you’ll be able to forgive me.”
She only just managed to keep her mouth from unhinging. She did, however, blink several times overcome by joy and relief.
Maxwell had apologized. Honestly. And he’d asked for forgiveness. Did dukes ever do such things? This one had, and another powerful wave of love for him throttled from her belly to her throat.
“Forgiveness?” Grandpapa suddenly laughed, slapping his knee in genuine glee. He laughed so fervently, he swiped at his eyes. “Oh, this is too perfect.”
She exchanged a worried look with Ophelia. Had the strain been too much that he’d snapped and lost his faculties?
Shoulders shaking, he wrestled his mirth under control and managed between chuckles, “I’ve just realized his high-and-mightiness there is the grandson of a reverend. And you, Gabriella, are the granddaughter of a vicar. What a wicked sense of humor Providence has.”
What a peculiar thing to say. She said as much. “Grandpapa, I hardly think such talk is appropriate or relevant.”
“If I might have a look at the documentation you mentioned, Mr. Breckensole?” Posture rigid and jaw taut, Maxwell sliced an impatient glance to the door whilst flexing his fingers. Clearly, he couldn’t wait to be on his way. “You may peruse mine as well.”
For the first time since Maxwell had arrived, her grandfather deemed to behave like the gentleman she knew him capable of being. Likely because he had the upper hand and well knew it. “Certainly, Your Grace. Irene, please ask Cook to hold dinner until I’m finished.”
“I shall do so at once.” Grandmama rose, as did Ophelia. “Your Grace, you’re certain you won’t stay and dine with us?” She, too, must have decided a truce of some sort had been called between the Breckensoles and him.
He gave Gabriella an intense stare but declined with slight shifting of his gaze. “No, but I thank you.”
“Perhaps another time?” My, wasn’t her grandmother all solicitousness now? Keeping the dark secrets she and Grandpapa had harbored these many years no doubt had been a tremendous burden and to be free of them at last, quite liberating.
He shook his head. “I fear not. I’m for London first thing tomorrow and don’t anticipate returning to Chartworth.”
Ever? Or just not in the near future? Or distant future?
Once more his gaze found Gabriella’s, and such regret shone in his eyes, she nearly gasped. Don’t go. We need to talk, she wanted to cry. Naturally, she couldn’t. What could she say with her grandparents and sister staring on, in any event?
I don’t want you to leave? I want to explore what this thing is between us? Yes, you’ve been a knave, and I most probably ought to detest you, but my stupid, stupid, stupid heart insists on loving you instead.
I beg you. Do not leave me behind. Give me a chance to ask for your forgiveness, for I’ve wronged you as well.
No, she couldn’t confess something so private in front of her family. But she most assuredly would find a way to speak with Maxwell before he left. And that would be no easy task. She jutted her chin out, only the tiniest bit, lest anyone notice the determined spark she was certain glinted in her e
yes.
“Girls, come along.” Grandmama extended her elbows, indicating each twin should take one. “Your grandfather and the duke have important matters to discuss.”
How Gabriella wanted to object. She wracked her brain for a feasible excuse to stay. She might argue the women should be permitted to be a part of the discussion since Hartfordshire would pass to her and her sister one day. Wouldn’t it? She had always presumed as much, but nothing of the kind had ever been suggested.
For certain she didn’t want to toddle down that bumpy road with the duke listening.
What then?
Perchance…? She slid Ophelia a contemplative side-eyed look. Yes. It might work. If she was careful. She tapped her toe once, then promptly stopped. She’d give herself away if she weren’t careful.
Maxwell bowed. “Ladies.”
Even Grandmama deemed to sink into a curtsy.
“Your Grace,” the women murmured in unison.
Another refrain pealed in Gabriella’s head. Don’t go. Don’t go. Please. Don’t go. Her feet carried her forward, despite her protesting mind, and she gained the corridor.
Adel had lit the sconces as directed. Well, two of them. It was unheard of for the Breckensole household to waste six candles in one evening to light the passageway, even for a duke. Halfway down the corridor, she slowed her steps, closed her eyes, and pressed her fingertips between her eyebrows.
“Grandmama?” She concentrated on sounding breathless and feeble.
“Yes, dear?” Her grandmother quizzically peered up. “Why, Gabriella, are you quite all right?”
She shook her head. “I don’t believe I am. I’m not feeling at all well and urgently need to lie down.”
Worry folding her features like a fan, Grandmama tisked and tutted.
“This has been too much of a strain for you. Thinking one moment to protect your family and enter into a horrid union, and then learning all of these sordid particulars no woman with delicate sensibilities ought ever to hear. I cannot say as I blame you.” She patted Gabriella’s cheek. “Go along. Change into your nightclothes, and I’ll have a simple tray sent up later if you are feeling more yourself.”
Seductive Scoundrels Series Books 4-6: A Regency Romance Page 16