“Yes. Yes he will.” Camilla’s whole face brightened. “Eleven o’clock is a good time. He’ll be in his study, going through his accounts.”
Gabriel knocked on the carriage’s front window and it drew to a halt. They were on Bond Street.
“I’d appreciate it if you could ensure your husband’s dueling pistols aren’t loaded and that there aren’t any sharp objects in the room,” he said as he jumped out of the carriage onto the street.
“Of course.” Camilla raised a hand in farewell. A grateful smile hovered on her lips. “Until tomorrow.”
Gabriel gave a curt nod and shut the door. Putting his beaver hat on, he strode down the street in the direction of home where his beautiful, adorable, and fascinating wife waited for him. He didn’t want to visit Astley House, but now that he had Arabella in his life, the sooner he permanently slammed the door on this whole sorry chapter involving Camilla, the better.
Chapter 19
Has the newly wedded Errant Earl taken up with a former paramour already?
There have been reports that Lord L. was seen entering the carriage of Lady A. late yesterday, not far from a well-known gentlemen’s club on St. James’s Street.
Once a filthy libertine always a filthy libertine, it would seem . . .
The Beau Monde Mirror: The Society Page
Langdale House, St. James’s Square, London
August 5, 1818
More hot chocolate, my lady?” asked Soames politely. “I can ask Cook to make another pot.”
Arabella inclined her head. “Yes, thank you. And the morning papers if they’ve arrived.”
“Of course, my lady. I’ll check with Jervis.” As the young footman bowed and quit the terrace, Arabella smiled after him.
She was enjoying a lazy breakfast in the warm August sunshine. The sky was a blazing, glorious blue, the bees buzzed about the summer roses, and a light breeze stirred the leaves of the horse chestnut. After another wonderful night spent in Gabriel’s arms, she was as content as a cat who’d just lapped up a whole bowl of cream. Her husband was the most magnificent, attentive lover she could ever wish for, and this morning she refused to entertain thoughts about whether or not he would tire of her. It was useless to speculate about what-ifs. She’d given up guarding her heart long ago, so for now, she would just have to trust him or go mad.
Last night over dinner, Gabriel had also discussed traveling to Hawksfell with her in a few days’ time. Arabella would miss her friends and the opportunity to put more of her charity plans into action straightaway, but as Olivia had declared yesterday, October wasn’t that far off.
Of course, because they were quitting London so soon, Gabriel was inordinately busy. He’d risen early, gone riding in Hyde Park, and after returning and changing, he’d left again to attend to his business affairs before Arabella had even woken up. But to her delight, he’d placed a rose upon the pillow beside her with a small note informing her that he’d be back by early afternoon.
Arabella finished the last of her hot chocolate. She supposed she should get changed out of her simple day gown and don something smart and fashionable, as there were a number of matters she had to attend to as well. She should to speak to Mrs. Mayberry as she still hadn’t secured a lady’s maid. And after yesterday’s meeting, she needed to write to Dr. Radcliff about a few things. The Mayfair Bluestocking Society was keen on establishing dispensaries in other areas of London such as Southwark and St. Giles, and they also wished to invite the physician to one of their meetings. And Lady Chelmsford had offered to liaise with the board members of the Foundling Hospital, but she wished to meet with Dr. Radcliff first.
Such meetings and introductions would need to wait until the autumn, but there was no time like the present to set the wheels in motion. Arabella sighed. It would be much easier to arrange everything if she could see Dr. Radcliff in person at the Seven Dials Dispensary before she left London. But because Gabriel had been so upset, she was reluctant to create discord between them when things seemed to be going so very well.
One of Gabriel’s footmen had already retrieved all her belongings from the clinic the day before so she didn’t even have that excuse to justify a visit.
Soames returned with the papers and hot chocolate, and after slipping on her glasses, Arabella perused the front pages of the Times, the Morning Post, and the Morning Herald. And then at the bottom of the pile, she saw the Beau Monde Mirror.
She pulled a face as she withdrew it and flicked it open. She knew Gabriel subscribed to the high-society scandal rag that purported to be a newspaper, but she tended to eschew it given the editors had dubbed her, Sophie, Olivia, and Charlie “Disreputable Debutantes” on more than one occasion.
There was bound to be something about Gabriel in here. During dinner last night, he told her all about his altercation with Timothy in White’s yesterday. Curious as to what had been said about her husband, she skimmed through the newspaper until she reached the Society page.
And then her world disintegrated as one of the articles leapt out at her:
Has the newly wedded Errant Earl taken up with a former paramour already?
There have been reports that Lord L. was seen entering the carriage of Lady A. late yesterday . . .
Oh, God. Arabella’s breath caught on a sob as horror lanced through her body, almost cleaving her heart in two. Please, please, dear Lord above, let this be false. Just nasty, unfounded gossip without a speck of truth to it.
With shaking hands, Arabella put down the newspaper and closed her eyes against a wave of hot, stinging tears.
But what if it was true? As much as she hated to admit it, the story about the Disreputable Debutantes’ expulsion from Mrs. Rathbone’s Academy three years ago had not been false at all. What if Gabriel had spent part of the afternoon with Lady Astley after he’d quit his club? Was he truly capable of bedding the countess and then coming home and lying with her, his wife, but a few hours later? Of making love to her all night long? Of whispering all kinds of wicked yet wonderfully sweet words in her ear until she’d begun to believe she was beautiful in his eyes?
Could he really be that two-faced and cruel?
Arabella pushed a tightly clenched fist against her mouth to stop another sob escaping.
Her husband had been a libertine. He’d admitted he possessed a large appetite for all things carnal. Lady Astley was beautiful, and by all accounts, the pair had clearly shared a grand passion. Arabella wanted to trust her husband, but how could she when he didn’t love her?
Her mind reeling, Arabella rose shakily to her feet. She was torn between the desire to confront Gabriel and the impulse to run far, far away. To curl up and hide somewhere like a wounded animal that needed to lick its wounds.
One thing was clear, she wouldn’t be able to sit here, waiting for him to come home. It was only ten o’clock, and he might not be back for hours. She’d learned long ago that keeping busy was best when one had been dealt a blow of such magnitude.
Brushing away her tears so the servants wouldn’t see she’d been crying, Arabella quit the terrace and made her way to her room. She’d don her brand new leaf green walking gown with black frogging and then call for Gabriel’s town coach to be brought around. There was no way she’d be able to concentrate on writing letters to Dr. Radcliff, so she was better off going to see him in Seven Dials instead. But she wouldn’t deliberately provoke Gabriel’s ire—she’d take several footmen with her, and she’d ask them to stay posted outside the dispensary the entire time she was there, which wouldn’t be long. And then she’d go and visit Charlie at Hastings House in Berkeley Square. Even though her friend would be busy getting ready to leave for Gloucestershire on the morrow, she was sure to lend a sympathetic shoulder to cry on.
She rather hoped Charlie had an oilskin coat handy, as she had a storm cloud’s worth of tears to shed.
A
stley House, Cavendish Square, London
Drawing a deep breath, Gabriel raised his gloved hand and rapped sharply on the polished front door of Astley House. He still hadn’t worked out why he was doing this for Camilla. No, that was a lie. Deep down, he supposed he felt a tiny bit sorry for her. And yes, somewhere in his heart, there was a smidgeon of reluctant guilt.
He sighed. He must be going soft at the ripe old age of eight-and-twenty.
But then another thought occurred to him, one that startled him from the top of his head to the tips of his Hessian-booted toes. Perhaps Arabella had exerted a hitherto unrecognized but nonetheless powerful influence over him. Could it be that his sweet, noble, kindhearted wife had somehow altered the very fabric of his misbegotten being so that a thread of honor now ran through him?
It was an intriguing, if not altogether perplexing notion.
He just hoped to God that Astley didn’t try to put a bullet in him as soon as he set foot in the house.
After half a minute, the door opened to reveal a vaguely familiar footman who looked suitably dispassionate . . . until he took a good look at Gabriel’s face; the way his eyes widened, it was clear he recalled Gabriel’s brazen visits to Astley House earlier in the year.
The young man’s Adam’s apple bobbed nervously above his starched cravat—no doubt he’d been warned by his master not to admit the Earl of Langdale—but as he opened his mouth to speak, a pale-faced Camilla appeared behind his shoulder. “I’ll look after his lordship from here, thank you, Mathers,” she said quietly.
The footman blushed, and Gabriel cocked a sardonic brow as he handed over his beaver hat and gloves. The lad had clearly misinterpreted Camilla’s use of the phrase look after. Good Lord, even the servants thought he was here to swive their mistress again. This didn’t auger well for what lay ahead.
Camilla, looking for all the world like a slender wraith in a gown of filmy white muslin, ushered him through the vestibule, past the marble staircase that led up to her bedchamber, and toward the hall that would take them to her husband’s study.
“Does he know I’m coming?” asked Gabriel in a low voice.
Camilla shook her head. “No, I thought he might bar you from entering the house altogether if he knew.”
Wonderful. Astley would be mightily impressed when Gabriel ambushed him in his own den. He really hoped the man didn’t keep his dueling pistols in his desk, or he was a dead man.
They paused before a set of polished walnut doors, and Camilla exhaled a shaky sigh. Her blue eyes were filled with apprehension. “I’m afraid he’s been in a foul mood all this morning. I’m not sure why. He’s barely said two words to me. But thank you for doing this.” She laid a slender hand on his arm. “I do think it will help my cause immensely if you unequivocally deny we’re still having an affair.”
“For my sake as well as yours, I sincerely hope so,” murmured Gabriel. Sending up a silent prayer to heaven that he’d soon be walking out of here and returning home to Arabella, he squared his shoulders, lifted his chin, and pushed through the door.
As soon as Lord Astley saw him, he shot to his feet. “What in the devil’s name are you doing here in my house, you filthy dog?” he roared. “How dare you set foot in here?”
Gabriel hovered by the door, prepared to bolt if Astley made a move to grab a pistol or even throw a letter opener or penknife at him. Even though the man was of middling age and developing a paunch, he was in high dudgeon. No doubt he could do some damage if Gabriel wasn’t ready to dodge anything headed his way. He raised his hands in a placatory gesture. “I’m just here to talk, Astley. Nothing else. It’s come to my attention that you seem to be laboring under the misapprehension that your wife and I—”
“Oh, there’s no misunderstanding,” bit out the scarlet-faced earl. He lifted a newspaper in the air and snapped it open. “As soon as you returned to town, I suspected you were fucking my wife again. And now I read this.” He jabbed his finger at the paper, and Gabriel realized with mounting horror that it was a copy of the Beau Monde Mirror.
“Astley, you know that paper contains nothing but utter rubbish—”
“Do you deny that you hopped into my wife’s carriage yesterday afternoon? Don’t try to tell me you were both off to do a spot of shopping on Bond Street.” His voice dripped with sarcasm.
Camilla, who’d been quivering just outside the open door, stepped into the room. “George,” she began. “It’s not what you think. It’s true I saw Lord Langdale yesterday, but it was only to—”
“You. Shut it,” he growled. He threw the paper down on his desk, and his blistering gaze landed on Gabriel again. “And you, get out before I put a shot through your unscrupulous black heart.”
Gabriel crossed his arms over his chest to indicate he wasn’t budging and leveled a cool stare at the irate earl. His gut told him Astley had more bark in him than bite, but all the same, he couldn’t afford to let down his guard, even for a second. “Your wife and I are not having an affair, Astley. That’s what I came here to tell you.”
The earl leaned forward, his hands splayed on the oxblood red leather blotter. It was the stance of a bull ready to charge. “All evidence to the contrary,” he snarled.
“Yesterday, Lady Astley entreated me to speak with you. To tell you that we have not picked up where we left off. That’s all. Nothing else. If you hadn’t heard, I’m newly married and very happily so. I wouldn’t jeopardize what I have with Arabella, my wife, for the world.”
Astley made a scoffing sound in his throat. “Why should I believe a word you say, Langdale?”
“Because . . .” Gabriel paused as the most astounding realization struck him. He knew exactly why, and idiot that he was, it had taken him far too long to see something that should have been blindingly obvious for days, if not weeks. Firming his gaze and his voice, he said, “Because I love my wife with my entire heart, and I would never, ever betray her. That’s why. And if you don’t believe me, I don’t really care a jot.” He stepped back toward the door, then stopped on the threshold. “And maybe, just maybe,” he added over his shoulder, “if you stopped screwing other women and paid some attention to your own wife for once, perhaps you might be happy too. Good day to you.”
When Gabriel reached the street, he couldn’t keep the spring from his step or the grin from his face. While it was indeed fortunate that Lord Astley hadn’t tried to castrate or murder him, that wasn’t the main reason for the pure elation suffusing his heart and his soul.
He was in love. Undeniably, completely, not-a-doubt-in-his-mind in love.
He wanted to carve it in stone and shout it from the rooftops. From the spires of Westminster Abbey and St. Paul’s and St. George’s. From the Tower of London and in the halls of Parliament. He was in love with Arabella, his wife. And he couldn’t wait to tell her.
The Seven Dials Dispensary, Covent Garden, London
The dispensary was far less crowded than the first time Arabella visited; there were only about a dozen patients gathered in the front room, so she didn’t need to push her way through to Dr. Radcliff’s assistant at the back. Dressed as she was in her couture walking gown, Arabella certainly received her fair share of curious, if not outright hostile looks. In hindsight, it had been silly of her to don attire that marked her as an outsider. But then she’d also arrived in a grand town coach with the Langdale coat of arms emblazoned on the door, and Soames, in his emerald satin waistcoat, black livery jacket with gold frogging, and a powdered peruke, stood out like a sore thumb as he waited by the front door.
The assistant indicated Arabella should take a seat as Dr. Radcliff was presently busy with a patient. As she waited, the pain of Gabriel’s apparent betrayal throbbed like a deep wound inside her. She wanted to remain impartial rather than assume the worst of her husband, but the old, familiar voice in her head that whispered she was far too plain and practical and dull to hold Gabr
iel’s interest kept intruding into her thoughts.
To try to distract herself, she began to examine the waiting room’s other occupants. There were several young mothers with children on their hips or clinging to their skirts. An older woman with a bruised, swollen eye sat near the door, and a man nursing his arm in a makeshift sling slouched by the front window. A tall man in a long dark coat and a felt hat pulled low over his brow pushed past Soames and limped across the room to claim a vacant seat in the far corner.
Arabella frowned when she noticed he wore breeches of a decent quality and superior cut rather than workaday trousers, and his top boots were highly polished rather than dusty and scuffed. How odd. As her wary gaze sought his face—the wide brim of his hat cast his features into shadow—she sensed rather than saw the man was staring directly at her. Indeed, his regard was so intense, his manner completely still yet somehow agitated, the hairs on the back of her neck began to rise. She was about to attract Soames’s attention when the assistant called her name.
Chiding herself for being fanciful, Arabella gathered up her reticule and followed the woman into the dispensary’s treatment room.
“Lady Langdale, I did not expect to see you so soon,” said Dr. Radcliff as soon as she walked through the door. He smiled as he gestured toward a slender woman standing to one side of his desk. “You remember Miss Helen Reid, don’t you? She was the matron at the Foundling Hospital.”
Arabella blinked in surprise. “Oh, yes. Yes I do,” she said as the dark-haired woman dipped a small curtsy. “Good morning to you, Miss Reid. I take it you no longer work at the hospital?”
“No, I don’t, Lady Langdale,” she replied, and a bright blush pinkened her cheeks. “When Dr. Radcliff opened the dispensary and asked if I would like to work alongside him, I couldn’t refuse. He’s such a wonderful doctor.”
“Miss Reid and I are engaged,” said Dr. Radcliff as he cast Miss Reid a fond look. “We are to be married at the end of the month.”
How to Catch an Errant Earl Page 30