How to Catch an Errant Earl

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How to Catch an Errant Earl Page 20

by Amy Rose Bennett


  Although that might mean little under the terms of the Hardwicke Marriage Act if Timothy pressed his claim.

  Christ. Gabriel removed his beaver hat and ran a hand down his face. He was suddenly gripped by a smothering sense of desperation unlike anything he’d ever felt before. Because it wasn’t just his own future he needed to consider. So much more was at stake now that he had Arabella in his life. It was vital that he secured his right to the earldom for the sake of their future children.

  And at the moment, he didn’t have a hope in Hades of Arabella sharing his bed again unless and until he succeeded.

  But standing about in a hallway quietly panicking about the situation wasn’t going to help matters. And Timothy might turn up at any moment and attempt to have him ousted. He drew another bracing breath and opened the door.

  Even though the bedroom was dimly lit—the heavy velvet curtains were still drawn, blocking out the morning sun—Gabriel could see the bed was occupied. However, the slight figure huddled beneath the covers barely resembled the man he remembered. His uncle had always been a tall, vigorous man with an athletic physique, and to see that he had withered away to almost nothing was shocking indeed.

  Also shocking was the realization that no one else was in the room—not a nurse, not a valet, not even a housemaid. The room was stuffy and smelled of unwashed male and unemptied chamber pots.

  Gabriel swore beneath his breath, and his gloved hands curled into fists. How dare Timothy leave his father alone when he was in such a state. If his cousin were here right now, Gabriel would be hard-pressed not to beat the sniveling, drug-addled swine to a pulp.

  He twitched the curtains open to let in a little more light, then cracked the window to let in some fresh air. “Uncle Stephen?” he said softly as he approached the bed. “It’s me, Gabriel. Your nephew.”

  His uncle didn’t stir, and for one blood-freezing moment, Gabriel feared the worst. But then the covers moved and his uncle inhaled a rattling breath.

  Moving to the side of the bed nearest to the window, Gabriel took a seat in the bedside armchair. He tugged off his gloves and placed them, along with his hat, on the bedside table. Now that he was closer, he could see how rail-thin his uncle was; his cheeks were hollow and his eyes had all but sunken into their sockets. Except for the dark bruise-like shadows beneath his eyes, his skin had a waxy pallor. If Gabriel hadn’t heard his uncle draw breath, he might have believed he’d already passed from this world.

  “Uncle Stephen?” Gabriel reached out a hand and gently squeezed his uncle’s shoulder; he was nothing but skin and bone. The belly canker seemed to be devouring him alive. He suddenly wished Arabella were here with him, to offer advice. To hold his hand.

  He brushed a tear from his cheek and tried again. “Uncle, can you hear me? I’m so sorry I haven’t come to see you sooner . . . I’ve been away. On the Continent. I pray you can forgive me.”

  His uncle inhaled another shaky breath and coughed a little. His eyes flickered beneath blue-tinged eyelids, but then he grew still again. Gabriel knew his uncle hadn’t much time left, yet here he lay, all alone. Forgotten and unloved.

  Stephen’s wife, Susanna, had passed away a decade ago. Gabriel hadn’t been particularly close to her—she’d always been a quiet, prim woman who kept to herself. Although his uncle Stephen was also a man of subdued character, he possessed a strong will and a deep sense of moral decency. He seemed to understand Gabriel . . . unlike Michael, his own father, who’d resented the fact that his adolescent son would rather read, draw, and paint than drink and fuck morning, noon, and night. During Gabriel’s adolescence, his uncle had been his champion on more than one occasion, removing him from his father’s immediate sphere when he was in the throes of his worst drunken excesses.

  Gabriel thrust away the dark memories crouching at the back of his mind, waiting to spring forth if he let them. He’d always be grateful for his uncle’s intervention; it had given him a much-needed respite from the riotous storm his life had become after his mother left. Indeed, for many years, Eton and his uncle’s home were the only safe havens he’d had.

  He suddenly realized that he craved his own safe haven—a true home—and that a better man could create that with Arabella. But his soul had been corrupted long ago. Arabella was too good for him, and he would surely destroy her if he pretended to be something he could never be—a faithful, loving husband.

  Perhaps it was best that she kept her distance.

  His uncle coughed again, the sound weak and wet. Gabriel rose and adjusted the pillows so he was propped up a little more. Horror lanced through his gut when he lifted his uncle’s shoulders and discovered he weighed little more than a child.

  “Thank you.” The thread of sound escaping Uncle Stephen’s lips was so soft, Gabriel almost missed it.

  “That’s quite all right, Uncle.” Gabriel sat carefully on the side of the bed. His uncle studied him from beneath veined, paper-thin lids. His eyes were pain-glazed but he seemed lucid enough. Gabriel fought to keep his voice steady as he added, “Is there anything else I can do? Would you like a sip of water?” There was a china jug and a tumbler on the bedside table.

  Uncle Stephen moved his head a little—the shake was almost imperceptible. His Adam’s apple rose and fell in an ineffectual swallow before he coughed again. “No . . . it’s . . . it’s good to see you, Gabriel.”

  “It’s good to see you too, Uncle . . . I have some news.” He forced himself to smile, to keep the tone of the conversation light. “I’m married.”

  Uncle Stephen’s lips twitched. Was that an attempt to return his smile? “Wonders . . . wonders will never cease,” he whispered, his voice little more than a harsh rasp. “Who’s the unlucky woman?”

  “Her name is Arabella.”

  “Pretty name. Knowing you, I’m sure she’s pretty as well.”

  “Very. I cannot keep my eyes off her. Clever too.”

  “I wish you well.”

  “Thank you.”

  All of a sudden, his uncle’s expression changed—his thin chapped lips turned down at the corners. “I’ve recently heard . . . I know what Timothy is trying to do . . . to you. How he’s planning to steal your title . . . He thinks I don’t listen . . . but I do. . . . You need to know . . .” He clutched at Gabriel’s arm, his bony fingers hooking into the sleeve of his superfine coat like a bird of prey’s talons. “You need to know he hasn’t a leg to stand on . . .”

  Uncle Stephen’s eyelids fluttered closed. His chest rose and fell weakly as he sucked in air, his gasps rapid and shallow, and his lips were tinged with an alarming shade of blue. Speaking this much was clearly sapping what little strength he had left.

  Gabriel patted his shoulder. “It’s all right, Uncle. You don’t need to talk any—”

  “I was there . . .”

  What? Gabriel stared at his uncle, not daring to believe what he’d just heard. “Uncle Stephen, are you saying you were present at my parents’ wedding? In Springfield, Scotland?”

  “No . . .” His uncle gave a great shuddering sigh and sank into the pillows. His mouth grew slack, and his breath began to rattle in and out of his chest again.

  God damn it. What did he mean? He was either in Springfield or he wasn’t. Gabriel squeezed his uncle’s hand and shoulder and called his name but it was to no avail. His uncle had slipped back into unconsciousness again and couldn’t be roused. He recalled Timothy’s visit to Langdale House in April and how he’d laughed about the fact that his father was addicted to laudanum. Gabriel couldn’t blame his uncle for wanting to relieve his pain, but the drug could knock one out if a large enough dose was taken.

  Gabriel scrubbed a hand through his hair as acute frustration and disintegrating hope ripped through him like shards of glass. If his uncle was under the influence of laudanum, anything he said couldn’t be relied upon anyway. Stephen Holmes-Fitzgerald was not one o
f the names on the marriage certificate. He clearly hadn’t been a witness at the wedding ceremony.

  Gabriel’s gaze shifted to the bedside table and he swore. Fuck. He hadn’t noticed it before because it was in deep shadow, but there, behind the porcelain water jug, sat a dark bottle of Kendal’s Black Drop. Gabriel’s hands curled into fists so tight his knuckles cracked and his breath came in short, sharp spurts. Acute need clawed its way up his throat and he grappled with the overwhelming urge to snatch up the bottle and down its potent contents when he really should hurl it against the wall.

  He couldn’t stay. He was standing so close to the edge of the precipice of no return, he couldn’t even afford to farewell his uncle. His hands shaking, Gabriel grabbed his hat and gloves and quit the room as if the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels.

  Time was fast running out for both him and his uncle, and in both cases, it seemed there was nothing he could do to prevent the worst from happening.

  Chapter 14

  The new Countess of L. was once a Disreputable Debutante!

  Loyal readers of our most esteemed publication may recall a certain scandal at a young ladies’ academy three years ago . . .

  The question on the tips of everyone’s tongues is: Will Lady L. turn out to be as errant as her husband?

  Time will surely tell . . .

  The Beau Monde Mirror: The Society Page

  Berkeley Square, London

  July 27, 1818

  Arabella sighed with contentment as she finished the last spoonful of her elderflower-and-lemon-flavored ice. Settling back against the red leather seat of the barouche, she addressed her magnanimous hostess, Charlie’s aunt Tabitha, a dowager marchioness, no less. “Lady Chelmsford, I cannot begin to thank you and Charlie enough for this excursion. It’s just what I needed.”

  “Yes, thank you so much,” agreed Sophie, Lady Malverne. Her eyes were as blue as the summer sky that could be glimpsed through the branches of the plane trees above their heads. “It’s such a warm day and Gunter’s ices are just the thing.”

  Lady Chelmsford’s mouth curved into a smile beneath her plump cheeks. The jaunty peacock feathers in her silk capote bonnet nodded in the gentle breeze crossing the square. “It is my absolute pleasure, my dear gels. When Charlotte mentioned this morning that you were both in town, I thought a trip to Gunter’s was definitely in order. There is much to celebrate.”

  “Yes indeed,” said Charlie with a bright smile. “Two of my dearest friends have found the men of their dreams and are happily wed.” The sparkle in her topaz brown eyes dimmed a little. “It’s a shame Olivia can’t be here with us though. But I’m sure she’s having a delightful time in Brighton. The sea air is sure to do her a world of good.”

  Sophie nodded. “Yes. Being cooped up in a London town house, no matter how grand, cannot be good for one’s constitution. I was more than a little surprised her pernickety aunt and uncle let her attend my wedding at Nate’s country estate. I do believe I have you to thank for making that happen, Lady Chelmsford.”

  The marchioness waved a dismissive hand. “It was nothing in the end. The promise of a few Almack’s vouchers for her daughters and Olivia next Season was all it took. When I met with her, I got the distinct impression that she hopes her own daughters will climb the rungs of society’s ladder all the way to the very top.” Her expression grew grim. “Although I gather she wants Olivia to remain firmly under her thumb.”

  “Aye,” agreed Arabella. “I suspect she sees Olivia as a threat to her own daughters’ success in the marriage market so she keeps her hidden away.”

  Charlie’s eyes sparked with indignation. “I firmly believe the only thing Olivia’s family cares about is her money. I cannot wait for the day she’s free of them. At least she’ll be turning twenty-one soon so she won’t need her uncle’s permission to wed. If she finds herself a suitable husband, that is. It won’t be easy, but I think it is incumbent upon us, as the Society for Enlightened Young Women, to continue to help her gain her independence and find fulfillment, in whatever way we can.”

  Arabella, Sophie, and Lady Chelmsford—Charlie had made her an honorary member—agreed wholeheartedly. A waiter from Gunter’s appeared at the side of the barouche, and as he removed all their empty dessert dishes, the conversation turned to Arabella’s upcoming nuptials at Langdale House.

  “I still cannot believe that you are already married, Arabella. And to Gabriel, Lord Langdale, no less,” said Charlie. “I’m so thrilled for you. And the way you met is beyond romantic. Indeed, your match was clearly fated.”

  Arabella forced herself to smile. “I’m not sure if a dungeon is actually all that romantic a setting, and I think it was happenstance rather than fate that caused our paths to cross.”

  “Oh pooh, Arabella,” said Charlie with a mock frown, “you can be far too practical sometimes. But whether it was your destiny to meet or pure chance, it’s wonderful you are now wed. I’m sure Gabriel is as head over heels in love with you as my brother is with Sophie.”

  Keeping her smile in place was one of the hardest things Arabella had ever done. Heat stung her cheeks and her mouth suddenly felt as if it were full of sand. She had no idea what to say. Should she tell her friends the truth—that Gabriel didn’t love her and never would? That she was no better than a mercenary because she wanted to use her husband’s wealth to advance her own charitable causes? That she didn’t love him either?

  But that wasn’t entirely true . . . Deep down, Arabella knew she was falling in love with her husband, despite her best efforts not to.

  Thankfully, Lady Chelmsford spoke. “I do think it’s very sensible of your Lord Langdale to arrange a second ceremony here in London. Heavens, I remember the enormous to-do over the Earl of Westmorland’s marriage to the banking heiress Sarah Anne Child. The pair eloped to Gretna Green, but then Sarah’s father demanded they also be wed in an Anglican ceremony when they returned to England. And quite rightly so.”

  “Yes,” agreed Sophie. “Even though a Presbyterian minister married you and Gabriel, Arabella, Nate says it’s best to repeat the ceremony to avoid any difficulty in the future.”

  Arabella suddenly wondered if Sophie knew about Gabriel’s looming troubles. Gabriel had shared his situation with Nate some time ago, so Sophie might be aware of what was going on. However, if she did, she gave no indication of it now. Sophie’s smile was guileless as she added, “You must be excited about tomorrow. I can’t wait to see your wedding gown.”

  “Which reminds me,” said Lady Chelmsford, “we really should be on our way to Madame Boucher’s. She’s one of the best modistes in London, Arabella. As the Countess of Langdale, you are going to need a whole new wardrobe. And there’s no time like the present to begin filling it.”

  Charlie grinned. “Yes, you will indeed need a suitable wardrobe, Arabella. I remember when Aunt Tabitha and I took Sophie to Madame Boucher’s at the beginning of the Season. I made Nate come too. It was such torture for him, poor boy, to see Sophie all dressed up to the nines. He couldn’t stop staring at her, yet he was determined to pretend he wasn’t smitten. He was such a stubborn clodpoll for weeks—it was probably his rakish pride that blinkered his vision—but he saw the light in the end.”

  “Yes, my nephew is definitely besotted with Sophie,” agreed Lady Chelmsford. “As I’ve always said to Charlie, reformed rakehells often make the best husbands.”

  Oh. Arabella blinked. She had no idea Lord Malverne had taken so long to realize he was in love with Sophie. But it would be foolish of her to think all rakehells were cast in the same mold. Gabriel had warned her what he was truly like, and she would be a fool not to believe him.

  Lady Chelmsford had just begun to instruct her driver to take them all to the modiste’s boutique on Conduit Street, when Sophie gave a little gasp.

  “Is anything wrong?” asked Arabella. She followed the directio
n of Sophie’s gaze but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Just the usual traffic—hackney coaches, other barouches, town coaches, the occasional phaeton or curricle—as well as pedestrians making their way around the square. Although, there was a very beautiful, stylishly attired woman with pale blond hair standing in the doorway of Gunter’s as she wrestled with her pastel blue parasol.

  When Arabella returned her attention to Sophie, she caught her trading a glance with Charlie. She narrowed her eyes. “What is it, you two?” she asked as the barouche moved off. “What are you both so worried about? And don’t tell me it’s nothing. I can see by your expressions it’s not.”

  Sophie sighed and looked contrite. “I’m sorry, Arabella. It is nothing really. I simply caught a glimpse of the Countess of Astley across the street. She was leaving Gunter’s.”

  Arabella’s brow knit with confusion. “The blond woman in the doorway? I don’t understand. Aside from the fact that she’s very attractive, Lady Astley seemed perfectly ordinary to me.”

  The look of sincere sympathy in Lady Chelmsford’s eyes made Arabella’s nape prickle. “I suppose we should tell Arabella about Lady Astley, my gels,” she said to Charlie and Sophie. “Because she’s bound to find out.”

  “Find out what?” The prickle turned into a frisson of panic that tripped its way down the entire length of Arabella’s spine. “I wish someone would speak plainly.”

  Charlie met her gaze directly. “At the beginning of the Season, Gabriel began an affair with Lady Astley.”

  Oh. Arabella pressed her lips together. She tried to maintain a calm expression even though the knowledge stung her like she’d just been cut.

 

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