The mocking tone singed his ears. Gabriel had never heard such spite from Brightwell. “If you are concerned for your new cousin-in-law’s reputation, you needn’t be.”
“I’ve seen the way you look at her.” Brightwell lowered the telescope and replaced it on the table. “The way you’ve always looked at her.”
He’d known all these years? Did Brightwell still have feelings for Calliope, even though he’d married Pamela? The idea left him uneasy and wary.
Gabriel’s pulse accelerated, as if preparing for a physical attack. Yet he knew Brightwell would never cross the distance to challenge him. That hard glare was the only blow he would strike. “There is no point in speaking of the past. We are friends. That is all that matters.”
Brightwell scoffed. “Yes, and I have been most fortunate to have your friendship.”
If Brightwell knew everything—even about the letter—then Gabriel supposed he’d earned such censure. He had to admit that their friendship had been more about Gabriel’s needs and then his guilt, than about any true bond. “The truth is, you deserved a better friend in the beginning, but I have tried to make amends.” If everything progressed as Gabriel imagined, they would become family.
Brightwell gave a stiff nod.
Valentine cleared his throat from the doorway. “My lord, Miss Croft’s carriage and driver have arrived.”
Her carriage? Damn! It was here too soon. He had much to tell Calliope before she left. First, he needed to confess to her about the letters. “Make the driver comfortable for the remainder of the day.”
The butler inclined his head. “In addition, my lord, when the tea concluded, there were two slices of lemon missing from the dish and nothing more.”
A breath rushed out of Gabriel’s lungs. “Thank you, Valentine. That will be all.”
When the butler departed, Gabriel turned back toward the window so that Brightwell would not see the undoubtedly sappy grin spreading across his face.
“Two slices of lemon missing,” Brightwell said, his curiosity evident. “What an odd event to report.”
Gabriel shrugged. “Who knows why Valentine says the things he does? Perhaps there is madness at Fallow Hall.”
Right that instant, Gabriel felt a fierce sort of madness swimming in his veins at the thought of Calliope’s choosing lemon for her tea. That simple choice meant a great deal.
It meant that she was choosing him.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The carriage had arrived.
Calliope spent the afternoon discussing her gown for the evening and her traveling clothes for tomorrow with Meg, while everything else being was packed away. She visited with Mrs. Merkel, who professed a desire for Calliope to return to Fallow Hall very soon. Mrs. Swan said that she was preparing a special syllabub for Calliope’s last dinner here. And since the cold weather in Lincolnshire did not agree with the dowager duchess, she wanted to enjoy one more tour of the hothouse. Unfortunately, she did not want to stop by the map room on her way.
During the tour, nothing of great import was mentioned. There was no more talk of the dowager duchess’s desire for Everhart to have a large family. Instead, they spoke at length of flowers and the differences of native species in England as opposed to those of South America.
At dinner, the dowager rearranged the seating so that Calliope was to her right, while Gabriel sat at the opposite end beside his father. Not wanting to appear rude, Calliope tried not to let her gaze drift down the table any more than six or eight times. Certainly no more than a dozen glances in all. And he looked down the table at her just as often.
She wanted to speak with him. Privately. Not having the chance to do so filled her with anxiety. She wasn’t about to reveal her epiphany at tea with the dowager duchess and proclaim her love for him. However, she would like to know if she would see him again. Perhaps in one year, when the wager was over.
Shortly after dinner, everyone gathered in the parlor. Everhart, his father, and his grandmother sat among the chairs and sofa, facing one another. Montwood and Danvers were at a smaller table, playing cards. Pamela and Brightwell had retired immediately after dinner, as had Alistair Ridgeway.
Calliope hoped to steal away for a moment to speak with Everhart, but the dowager duchess requested that she read passages from the journal she’d mentioned during the tour of Fallow Hall.
“I should like to understand the appeal of such explorations,” the dowager duchess said.
It wasn’t long before a discussion ensued, and even the Duke of Heathcoat had an opinion on South America. Throughout this, whenever Calliope’s gaze met Gabriel’s—which she had to admit was quite often—he appeared equally frustrated.
They hadn’t had a single moment alone to say good-bye. Or to shed light on what was happening between them.
“Miss Croft,” Everhart said abruptly when she paused to turn the page. “I have heard that you are leaving on the morrow.”
At his uncharacteristically earnest expression, she swallowed. “So it would seem, Lord Everhart.” Had it really only been hours ago that she was whispering his name in ecstasy? She blushed at the thought and hoped no one noticed. “Preparing for the journey has been quite the whirlwind.”
“I can well imagine.” His lips quirked in a grin, as if he’d read her every thought. “So much can change in so short a time. Wouldn’t you agree?”
She searched his face, wondering if there was a chance that he reciprocated her feelings. “I would.”
He offered an imperceptible nod and was about to speak again, but instead his grandmother interrupted.
“You must forgive me, Miss Croft. I have kept you up late to read for my enjoyment.” She rose from her chair, and everyone in the room followed suit.
“It has been my pleasure, Your Grace,” Calliope said.
“I must lay the blame at your feet, however, because of your exceedingly pleasant tone. It brings to mind your namesake, the muse that inspired Homer.” The dowager duchess tapped her cane once on the floor. “Wouldn’t you agree that our Calliope is a veritable muse, Gabriel?”
Our Calliope. She could scarcely breathe. Had the Dowager Duchess of Heathcoat just granted her approval?
A veritable muse? Gabriel studied his grandmother carefully before responding. “I would.”
How much did she know?
“You have nearly completed your own odyssey, I’d say.” A gleam flashed in the dowager duchess’s eyes. “And many years away from home.”
Without a doubt, the dear old dragon knew everything. Gabriel grinned. Then he leaned forward and bussed his grandmother’s cheek. “You still manage to surprise me.”
“Age brings with it certain advantages, young man. Not to mention a sense of urgency.” She patted his cheek. “Since you are fond of early mornings, I expect you to be ready to see off your guests. Your father and I will be leaving in the morning as well.”
Gabriel looked from the dowager to his father before resting on Calliope. “Perhaps I would prefer a large snowfall overnight that would keep all the guests here. If a blizzard fell over Fallow Hall tonight, it would be most welcome.”
Calliope blushed.
“What nonsense,” the dowager duchess said, her gruff tone belied by the fact that she wore a grin. “Miss Croft, we would do well to leave this charmer’s company before he has each of us wishing for snow.”
Later that night, Calliope stood alone in her room. Staring out her bedchamber window, she did indeed wish for snow. Unfortunately, not a single flake appeared in the sky. In fact, this close to spring, there wouldn’t likely be another snowfall.
Before dinner, she’d told Meg to retire early and that she would ready herself for bed. They had a long day ahead of them tomorrow. However, instead of preparing for bed as she ought, her restless thoughts took her to the writing desk. She couldn’t leave without telling Gabriel how she felt.
Unfortunately, the first letter she wrote did not convey the depth of feeling she intended. The second l
etter contained too much. And the third was entirely too stilted and forced. While it was easy for her to write a list of characteristics of the gentlemen she’d studied, putting an overwhelming sea of emotions on the page proved impossible.
Frustrated, she stood and walked to the hearth to warm her hands. The mantel clock read midnight.
Instantly, the memory of kissing Everhart in the map room warmed more than her hands. She glanced at the crumpled pages on the desk and then to the door. The others would be abed by now. In Lincolnshire, people did not keep London hours. Therefore, it was entirely possible that she could speak directly to Everhart with no one the wiser.
Calliope was ashamed at how quickly her hand found the doorknob.
Then, like her first night here, Duke was there in the hallway. This time, instead of ignoring her, he began to wag his tail immediately, as if he’d been expecting her. Without delay, he led her down the hall to the stairs. At the bottom, he stopped and turned, as if to make sure she followed.
“Why, you sly matchmaker. You know exactly what you’re doing, don’t you?”
Duke gave a woof in answer.
She quickly bent down to scratch him behind the ears. “Shh . . . We mustn’t draw attention.”
He licked her hand, his tail wagging with exuberance. So much so, in fact, that he bumped a guéridon table and sent it tilting onto two of its three legs. Reaching out, she saved it just in time, catching the silver salver on top of it as well. Unfortunately, a stack of letters yet to be posted scattered to the floor.
After a quick peek over her shoulder to make sure none of the servants had heard, she kneeled down and picked up the letters. Duke’s enormous paws covered two of them. She tried to shoo him away, but his tongue lolled to the side, and his tail started wagging again as if this were a game.
Calliope couldn’t budge his paw. “If you could just”—she tried to lift it—“step off to the side.” She grunted and received a cold, wet nose to her ear as he sniffed her. With a huff, she sat back and shook her finger at him. Finally, his paw lifted, and she picked up the first letter and then the second.
However, just as she was prepared to return them to the salver with the others, something familiar caught her gaze. She looked closely at the letter addressed to Kinross. Kinross . . .
“The K,” she whispered, staring down at the script. The slant. The flourish on the top. The tail on the bottom. She’d seen this K hundreds of times. Perhaps thousands.
Only one person wrote a K like this. Casanova was here after all. But how could that be? She’d read the Anagram clues in the parlor, and none of them had matched.
Slowly, as if she feared waking from a dream, she turned the letter over to examine the seal on the back.
In that same instant, it fell from her fingertips.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
From the loft in the map room, Gabriel stared out the window. The moon shone so brightly that the stars were all but blotted from the sky. There was nothing in that dark expanse other than the bright white orb, hovering above the tree line.
Right now, he was waiting out the moon, listening to the low melody Montwood played, rooms away, on the piano and counting the hours until dawn.
He needed to see Calliope. A need that tempted him to traverse the darkened halls. There was so much to say. He needed to tell her about the letter and . . .
An unmistakable click of the map-room doors closing downstairs pulled him away from his thoughts. He was certain he’d closed the doors already before venturing up to the loft.
Stocking-footed, he made his way past the shelves and to the railing. The fire in the hearth burned brightly, illuminating the empty room below. The doors were still closed. Yet there was an unmistakable shadow rising along the wall, undulating in the light of the crackling fire. Someone was coming up the stairs.
Before he could call out to question who it was, his answer emerged from the circular staircase, beneath a fall of dark honey tresses.
His heart gave a jolt of longing. “Calliope, what are you doing here?”
“I needed to speak to you.” Without a glance, she skirted past him, making her way to the open room beyond the bookcases.
“I need to speak to you as well, but perhaps we should wait until morning.” Even he knew the temptation of having her here alone with him was too great. His gaze lingered on the tendrils spilling from her combs to brush against her bare shoulders and on those six pearl buttons. She had not changed after dinner and still wore her burgundy evening gown with white trim.
Still with her back to him, she shook her head. “This cannot wait.”
Her cool tone pricked an alarm within him.
“You don’t know my parents, Everhart,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper, “but they have this connection with each other that’s as elusive as it is tangible. I spent all of my life hoping to be as fortunate. I feared I’d never find it. The closest thing I came to feeling anything that powerful was when I immersed myself in a book. In those pages, I felt everything—love, fear, anguish, joy. It was all there. Only there. Until one day, I received a letter.”
It wasn’t until he heard the unmistakable crinkle of paper that he looked down to her hands. Every ounce of blood in his veins froze.
Turning slowly, she faced him. Her eyes reflected the shifting firelight from below, making them unreadable. She lifted a well-worn, yellowed page with a familiar tear at the bottom corner. “This letter.”
“Calliope, I—”
“When I read it,” she continued as if she hadn’t heard him, “something inside me altered. I felt as if the cover of my book had opened for the first time and the story of my heart was exposed. I read the longing in each word—a yearning so potent that it seemed to mirror my own. I thought I’d found the one who felt the same burgeoning passion that I did.” Her voice trembled. “I thought I’d found my soul mate.”
The firelight in her eyes turned liquid. The sight held Gabriel immobile. Seeing her pain, and knowing that he was the sole cause, was utter agony. Regret and anguish tore through him, ripping into his heart. “I was going to tell you.”
She lowered her chin, and her brows lifted in doubt. “And confess that it was only a lark for you?”
Gabriel shook his head, the only part of him he seemed able to command. “It wasn’t a lark.”
“Do you know what it felt like when the next letter was revealed?” She closed her eyes briefly as if she couldn’t bear to look at him. “Of course, no one knew it was the next letter, because I’d never revealed the first. Oh, but I knew. My only consolation was that her letter didn’t stir any souls. It was a simple rhyme that had no depth of feeling. At least”—her breathing hitched—“that’s what I’d told myself. Until the next letter arrived, and then the next. Six in all. Six chances for my heart to break a little more.”
He reached for her, but she shrank back two—three—steps. “I’m sorry, Calliope.”
A single tear caught the light as it swept down her cheek. “The worst part of all was the fact that I gave up on that dream. I decided love and marriage weren’t worth the pain. I didn’t need to marry. I would just read my books and take care of my parents and that would be my life.”
“No,” he commanded, but she went on, not hearing him.
“Then I grew bitter. I set about getting revenge. I was determined to unmask the love-letter Casanova and expose him to ridicule for playing with my heart. I kept a journal on every gentleman who showed possibility. I’d even had a few pages about you. I’m certain they would entertain you.”
When he shook his head again, she issued a short laugh, the sound hollow and dark.
“As time went on, and my anger gave way to disbelief, I convinced myself that the letter meant nothing. And I would do better to forget all about it. So, I gave my journal to my younger sisters and thought that my heart would mend.”
She searched his face, as if seeking an answer for the cruelty he’d wrought on her heart. “What I
learned instead—what you helped me understand—is that a person might be able to mend the spine of a book, but a broken heart never heals. It remains splintered around the edges and breaks a little easier after the first time. I have proof of that in my hand. I never got rid of the letter. I’ve read it thousands of times until it’s worn and nearly transparent. I know every word, every letter, every flourish.”
“Calliope, I never intended to—”
“That’s why, when I saw this, I stopped in my tracks.” She held the sealed missive aloft in front of the letter in the same hand. “A letter to Kinross. A perfectly innocent letter, and yet there was a single thing that stood out.” The tip of her index finger traced the address. “You pen a very distinct K, Lord Everhart. A flourish on the top and a tail on the bottom.”
He’d hurt her. He’d let her down. It was killing him. He’d gone over every possible way to confess to her but had come up with nothing, time and again. For him, revealing her brother’s threat would be unconscionable. Croft had only been protecting his sister, after all. Gabriel should have protected Calliope too. He should have risked everything for her. He should have been worthy of her love from the beginning. Instead, he’d broken her heart.
He was going to lose her forever if he didn’t say something. “I love you.”
Her eyes narrowed. “That is how you choose to explain your actions?” She released an exhale, her shoulders sagging as the letters drifted to the floor. “Forgive me if I choose not to believe any more of your lies.”
“I’ve always loved you. Since that first night we met at Almack’s.” He stepped forward and took her hands before she could leave. “You’ve told me your story, and now it is my turn.”
“Wouldn’t you rather run away? Plan your next expedition?” She jerked her hands free. Even though her words came out harsh, her eyes told him how weary she felt. “We need not see each other again.”
The Elusive Lord Everhart: The Rakes of Fallow Hall Series Page 18