As soon as the door slammed shut, Gabriel wiped a shaking hand down his face. Bloody fucking hell. What in the devil’s name was he going to do? He stood to lose a great deal—not just his title and social standing, but his country estate Hawksfell Hall and Langdale House here in St. James’s Square. While he was exceedingly wealthy, a great slab of his fortune was also linked to the entail.
A short time ago, he was lamenting the fact that he was bored out of his thumping skull. Now that he hovered on the brink of disaster, he couldn’t claim he was bored anymore.
Gabriel crossed to the sideboard and sloshed a large measure of cognac into a glass. The alcohol seared his throat as he tossed it back. And then he poured himself another larger nip.
Would the Committee for Privileges and Conduct really deem his parents’ marriage invalid and thus declare him a bastard? Gabriel couldn’t be sure.
One thing was certain: Timothy wouldn’t be swayed from this course of action. Not when the earldom of Langdale and all the privilege and wealth that went along with it could be his. Especially when he had a taste for opium and needed the funds to continue living in the lap of luxury. An addiction to dissipation could make a man do desperate, even dangerous things. And Gabriel knew what that felt like all too well.
He had to do something to save what was rightfully his. But what?
Too agitated to sit, Gabriel stood by the fire, sipping his cognac as he stared into the wavering flames. He might have to delay his journey or put it off altogether. Engaging his own inquiry agent to locate the whereabouts of the missing marriage register, any witnesses, and perhaps another copy of his parents’ marriage certificate was essential. Timothy could have lied when he claimed they no longer existed. Yes, he’d send word to his man of affairs and get him to hire someone reputable this afternoon.
And what of his mother?
Gabriel threw back the rest of his cognac. Unfortunately, everything Timothy had said about her was close to the truth as far as Gabriel knew anyway. She had indeed run off fifteen years ago—but whether she had done so with a lover, Gabriel wasn’t sure. There certainly had been enough rumors flying about to suggest that she had.
Even as a young child, Gabriel sensed the tension between his parents. Memories of their tempestuous arguments and his mother’s tears still haunted him to this day. At the age of thirteen when his mother left, he understood her reasons to some extent. And he could forgive her for that and all the scandal she left in her wake.
But he’d never forgive her for abandoning him. For leaving him alone with a man who didn’t understand him and despised him throughout his childhood because he was a “weak milksop” and a “namby-pamby.” A ruthless man who, Gabriel quickly learned, had an appetite for debauchery. A man who ridiculed him, goaded him, even beat him on occasion, forcing Gabriel’s adolescent self to become a “man” in his father’s own image. A rakehell of the worst kind.
A filthy libertine.
Gabriel’s gaze slid to the enormous oak desk that dominated one side of the room. After his father died, he was shocked to discover that his mother had actually written to him, Gabriel, every single year. And for some unfathomable reason, his father had kept the letters. They’d been secreted in a sandalwood casket in one of the desk’s locked drawers, a small bundle tied up neatly with a thin scarlet ribbon.
Gabriel hadn’t read them and for reasons he’d put off examining, had never been tempted to, even when another letter arrived last year. He’d simply added it to the pile, then locked the drawer again.
After replenishing his glass of cognac, Gabriel returned to the desk, righted the chair, then took a seat. There was no avoiding it, he had to open the letters. Or the most recent one at the very least. It was the only real hope he had of finding his mother. Once he did, he’d bring her back to London so she could attest her marriage to Michael, the sixth Earl of Langdale, had been valid. Hopefully she would also be able to provide the names of the witnesses who’d been present at the ceremony.
Gabriel might be catching at straws, but he had to try to save his inheritance. He wouldn’t give up.
With hands that were noticeably unsteady, Gabriel removed the casket from its hiding place. The scent of sandalwood and another more delicate, feminine fragrance—perhaps it was orange blossom—greeted him as he lifted the lid and tugged the ribbon loose. Drawing a steadying breath, he then cracked open the red wax seal on the topmost letter and slowly unfolded the parchment.
My darling Gabriel, it began.
Gabriel swallowed around a hard lump in his throat. His vision blurred.
Christ. Was he actually crying? He dashed at his stinging eyes with the heel of one hand and made himself scan his mother’s flowing script with a dispassionate gaze. Names of towns leapt out at him. Geneva, Nyon, Montreux, Villeneuve . . .
Gabriel tipped his head back as relief flooded through him, more potent than the cognac flowing through his veins. Less than a year ago his mother had been in Switzerland. And thank God, she’d also mentioned several places she’d stayed—a particular villa at Villeneuve and a château at Nyon. She’d also expressed a desire to move on to Venice and then to another villa in Tuscany. There would be a lot of ground to cover, but at least Gabriel had an idea of where to begin his search. He had to make an effort—take a chance—otherwise he risked losing everything he held dear.
It looked as though he was going to visit the Continent after all.
Chapter 3
On my return, after breakfast, we sailed for Clarens, determining first to see the three mouths of the Rhone, and then the castle of Chillon; the day was fine, and the water calm.
Mary Shelley, History of a Six Weeks’ Tour
Maison du Lac, Clarens, Switzerland
July 2, 1818
Oh, Bertie darling, please don’t be cross with me.” Lilias Arbuthnott’s spun-sugar voice floated down the stairs to the entry hall of Maison du Lac, where Arabella and her cousin’s husband, Albert “Bertie” Arbuthnott, waited. “I’ll be down shortly. I just have to find my parasol. You don’t want me to get freckles, do you?”
Beneath copper red brows, Bertie rolled his eyes. It appeared neither his wife’s dulcet tones nor her concerns about her complexion had moved him. “Well, don’t blame me if the gendarme at Château de Chillon refuses to take us on the tour because we’re so late,” he called back up the stairs. “Dr. and Mrs. Kerr drove off with your mother over twenty minutes ago. And Arabella and I will leave, too, if you don’t hurry. You have one more minute.” He pulled his silver watch from the pocket of his navy blue tailcoat and flipped it open. “Starting from now.”
“Oh, Bertie. Why must you always be so impatient? I’m going as fast as I can.”
“You’ve just wasted five seconds.”
“That’s not fair.”
“And another three.”
“Bertie!”
Arabella released a sigh of exasperation as she finished tying the spring green ribbons on her straw bonnet. After putting up with Lilias and Bertie’s constant squabbling for three months, she was ready to throttle both of them. For a married couple who wanted for nothing in a material sense—Bertie was the second son of a very wealthy Scots merchant banker—Arabella didn’t understand how they could always be so discontented.
She wandered through the front door of the villa onto the gravel forecourt into the bright summer morning, and her pique began to ebb away almost immediately. The vista of Lake Geneva and the towering Alps with their snow-dusted peaks beyond was simply breathtaking. A bad mood couldn’t possibly last long in a setting as enchanting as this. Not when the sunlight danced upon the deep blue waters and a light breeze caressed her face.
They had originally planned to stay at the Hôtel d’Angleterre in Montreux. But then a Scots couple they’d become acquainted with in Lausanne—Dr. Kerr, a middle-aged minister in the Presbyterian Church and h
is wife Eleanor, the sister of the Countess of Cheviot—had extended an invitation to share their well-appointed villa in the village of Clarens, just outside Montreux.
Skirting the dogcart that had been readied to take them to Chillon Castle, Arabella took up a position beneath a large chestnut tree on the edge of the drive and glanced up at the house. Maison du Lac was quite a grand affair with an even grander backdrop of the Savoy mountains. A whitewashed stone house, it consisted of three stories with large airy rooms and sumptuous furnishings within. There was even a small conservatory attached to the morning room in the east-facing wing. After sharing a bedchamber with her aunt Flora for weeks on end, Arabella was more than happy to have her very own bedroom complete with a marvelous view. Every morning when she awoke, it was like glimpsing heaven when she pulled back the floral chintz curtains from the wide sash window.
Of all the places they’d visited so far during the last three months, Switzerland was by far her favorite. They’d sojourned in Paris for a month, traveled at a leisurely pace to Geneva, and had then made their way about the lake in the same relatively desultory fashion. If Charlie, Sophie, and Olivia could have shared this journey with her instead of her irksome family, it would have been perfect. Oh, how she missed them.
Or dare she think it, Dr. Radcliff? She’d sent a letter to Charlie and one to the doctor just before she left Paris eight weeks ago, informing them of all her news. She’d also provided them both with the Hôtel d’Angleterre’s address if they wished to reply. She’d been in the area a week now, and the proprietor of the hotel had kindly agreed to forward any correspondence that arrived for her to the Maison du Lac, but so far, nothing had been sent on. Arabella yearned to hear how Charlie, Sophie, and Olivia’s husband hunting was progressing given the Season was drawing to a close. And if Dr. Radcliff had opened his dispensary at Seven Dials. If at all possible, she’d love to pay a visit to the clinic on her return to London at the end of the month. And before she headed north to Edinburgh once more. Away from everyone she held so near and dear.
Arabella sighed. She really shouldn’t be so maudlin. Not on such a glorious day. Perhaps she could borrow the Kerrs’ hired dogcart later today and make a trip to the Hôtel d’Angleterre to check if there was any mail waiting for her. The two gray ponies strapped into the traces looked docile enough to handle.
Lilias appeared in the villa’s open doorway in a flurry of white muslin, her pale blond curls bouncing about flushed cheeks, Bertie following in her wake. She pouted as she pushed open her matching silk and lace-edged parasol. “Oh, Mama and the Kerrs took our landau, Bertie? That is most unsatisfactory. I don’t like the dogcart. It’s not sprung properly.”
Bertie took her arm. “If you’d been ready sooner, you could have gone with them,” he muttered as he handed her into the cart. Picking up her sprigged muslin skirts, Arabella climbed in on her own, then took a seat beside her cousin, who was now complaining about the grubbiness of the cart floor. Ignoring his wife, Bertie leapt with ease into the driver’s seat in front, and with a flick of the reins, they were off at a spanking pace.
Praying her glasses or her bonnet wouldn’t fly off—or that she wouldn’t get poked in the eye by Lilias’s parasol—Arabella clutched her buttercup yellow silk shawl to her chest with one hand and gripped the side of the dogcart with the other. Lilias had been right—the cart was poorly sprung, and Arabella felt every bump and rut in the winding dirt road as they barreled along, following the curves of the lake. But she really couldn’t complain when around every corner appeared another eye-dazzling vista.
Sitting on a rocky islet on the very edge of Lake Geneva, the medieval fortress of Château de Chillon was apparently a perennial favorite with tourists. Indeed, Arabella had read all about Mary Shelley’s visit to the picturesque castle in her book detailing her tour through Europe with her husband, Percy, in 1814 and 1816. Of course, Arabella had also read Lord Byron’s haunting poem “The Prisoner of Chillon,” which detailed the trials of a monk, François Bonivard, who had been chained to one of the pillars in Chillon’s dungeon for six long years in the sixteenth century. The poem had certainly brought a tear to her eye—she couldn’t even conceive of such suffering. It appeared darkness could lurk in the hearts of men, driving them to do cruel and unspeakable things, even when the world about them was so beautiful.
Arabella was also dying to know if the rumors were true—that the very wicked Byron had carved his name into one of the dungeon’s pillars. She hoped a visit to the infamous chamber was part of the tour.
By the time they reached Chillon, Lilias was as sullen as a storm cloud because her arm was bruised from being bumped against the side of the cart, there was dirt on her hem, and her curls were windblown. To escape the scolding she was presently giving Bertie, Arabella slipped from the dogcart and followed a tree-lined path leading to the entrance of the castle. Pausing by a low stone wall, she took a moment to admire the château’s gray squat stone towers and circular turrets. All was peaceful save for the sound of the lake gently lapping at the ancient castle’s foundations and the soft rustle of the oak canopy above her head . . . And then Lilias and Bertie caught up. Only now it was Bertie who was nagging Lilias to quicken her pace while Lilias complained her slippers were pinching her toes.
As she’d done on many other occasions during this holiday, Arabella decided she would steal away at the first opportunity. Aunt Flora frequently berated Arabella that she would get lost one day—and then she’d be sorry for being so foolish and irresponsible—but Arabella never paid heed. Even in a crowd, she could pick out the sound of Lilias’s piping voice. And as Bertie was so tall, his coppery head stood out like a bright beacon. It was well-nigh impossible to lose track of her family.
She fell into step behind the Arbuthnotts and within a minute they’d reached the castle’s front entrance, where a uniformed gendarme waited with the Kerrs and a prune-mouthed Aunt Flora. After Bertie had finished apologizing to Dr. and Mrs. Kerr and his mother-in-law for being so tardy, they all crossed the small moat via a covered bridge into a cobbled courtyard.
Aunt Flora accosted Arabella as soon as they were out of the Kerrs’ earshot. Laying a silk-gloved hand on Arabella’s arm, she tugged her into the shade of the arched gateway. “What were you doing this time, Arabella, to make Bertie and Lilias so late?” her aunt demanded in a harsh whisper. The frost in her pale blue glare could turn Lake Geneva to ice in midsummer. “Did you wander off as you so often do, or did you have your nose stuck in some wholly inappropriate book? We were left to swelter in the hot sun for nearly half an hour. What will the Kerrs think?”
“I’m guilty of both charges I’m afraid,” replied Arabella. As much as it rankled, she’d learned it was easier to just agree with her aunt. Lilias could do no wrong in her mother’s eyes, so there was no point in arguing that it was her fault. “And I’m sorry the Kerrs were inconvenienced.”
“As well you should be, Arabella. I won’t have you upsetting such an esteemed and well-connected Scots minister and his wife. What if Mrs. Kerr tells her sister, Lady Cheviot, that we’re nothing but inconsiderate and uncultivated bumpkins? Because of the academy scandal—and your thoroughly unhealthy interest in all things medical—your reputation is already sullied, my lass. Surely you don’t wish the rest of the family to suffer because of your thoughtlessness bordering on recklessness. I pray daily you will not follow in your mother’s footsteps and bring us all to the brink of social ruin.”
Arabella bit her tongue to stop herself from flinging a retort after her aunt as she sailed over to Lilias, Bertie, and the Kerrs, head held high with a false smile plastered on her face. How dare Aunt Flora bring up her mother’s past? While Arabella fully acknowledged her own transgression three years ago, it wasn’t fair her aunt should castigate her own sister—a woman who’d disappeared twenty years ago in tragic circumstances and was now presumed dead. At least, that was the heartbreaking conclusion Arabella�
�s grandfather had been forced to draw after his search for his missing daughter Mary proved fruitless.
Arabella dipped her head and closed her eyes against the prick of hot, angry tears. It seemed all the frustration and resentment she’d been tamping down for so long was bubbling to the surface, ready to boil over. She needed to be alone. Away from her aunt.
If she had brought one of her “wholly inappropriate books,” she would turn on her heel and walk out of the courtyard, across the castle’s bridge, and find a shady spot on the soft grassy bank of the lake. But she didn’t have a book with her. And she had been looking forward to the tour—well, at least until her aunt had unfairly rebuked her and slighted her poor mother. As usual, she’d just have to make the best of it.
At the first opportunity, she would slip away and explore the castle by herself as she had planned.
Arabella began to slowly skirt the edge of the courtyard. The gendarme was presently sharing shocking facts and figures about the fate of some of Chillon’s prisoners in centuries past—how heretics and women accused of witchcraft had been gruesomely tortured and burned at the stake in this very courtyard. Even children had been murdered. Dr. Kerr nodded gravely, whereas Mrs. Kerr, Aunt Flora, and Lilias were all gaping in abject horror.
Bertie’s red brows bristled with anger. When Lilias put a hand to her forehead and swooned against her husband’s side, he interrupted the gendarme with a wave of his hand. “Excuse me, monsieur. I think you should choose another topic. Something that won’t offend the ladies of the party.”
Despite the fact that she had a strong stomach, Arabella was inclined to agree.
The Swiss guard gave a puzzled frown and pulled at the curled end of his oiled mustache. “But, Monsieur Arbuthnott,” he said, clearly mystified by the appalled expressions of those surrounding him. “This is what we tell everyone who visits Château de Chillon for a private tour. But if you prefer, perhaps we can move down to the dungeon.” Waggling his eyebrows, he gestured toward an open doorway at Arabella’s left. “The ladies might like to see the signature your naughty Lord Byron etched into a pillar, non?”
How to Catch an Errant Earl Page 4