by Kalen Hughes
There was no answer from Imogen’s room, so she tried the handle, only to find it locked. “Imogen?” she called, knocking again. “It’s George. Open up.”
After a moment she heard the lock snick, and when she tried the door again it swung open. Imogen, still in her wrapper, was shuffling back towards the bed. George watched as her friend climbed into bed and pulled the covers up over her ears.
“Imogen?”
“Go away,” Imogen said, her voice muffled by the blankets.
“You and Gabriel have a fight?” George sat down on the bed.
“Not a fight,” Imogen mumbled, pulling the blankets over her head.
“You’re lying in bed like you’re dying of consumption, and he left in a pelter at an ungodly hour, and you expect me to believe you didn’t have a fight?”
Imogen peeked out and George could see that her friend’s eyes were swollen and bloodshot. “Not a fight. He—He…” She sniffed and wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. “He asked me to marry him.”
“Marry him?”
She’d thought he’d come around to it eventually, but not this soon. In any case, it certainly did not seem like something to cause such havoc and consternation. George patted Imogen on the back like she were a child, her brain whirling.
Gabriel had proposed, and Imogen had obviously turned him down. Interesting. Very, very interesting. This would take some sorting.
Chapter 24
St. A——missing entirely and the Angelstone Turk departing early…Lady S——must be losing her allure.
Tête-à-Tête, 17 November 1789
“Going to purchase a new set of dueling pistols?”
“I’m not sure yet.” Gabriel ignored the sudden arrival of St. Audley and Layton. He’d been testing pistols for the better part of three hours, and he had no intention of stopping just because George’s hounds had tracked him down.
He fired again, breathing in the acrid smoke, enjoying the foul smell of sulfur and salt-peter. The way it blocked everything out, if only for a moment.
“Well, why don’t you think about it over breakfast?” St. Audley picked up one of the pistols he’d been trying and examined it more closely. “I’m famished, and the air in here smells like hell itself.”
“I rather like it,” Gabriel replied, firing again. “Besides, I’m not hungry.”
“Well I am,” Layton said. “And I could use a drink.”
“I do need a drink,” Gabriel agreed, laying the pistol he’d just fired aside.
He needed a lot of drinks. He’d done his best not to be sober since he’d left Winsham Court, and he’d been fairly successful. In his more lucid moments he recognized he was making a cake of himself, so he tried to make sure such episodes of clarity occurred as infrequently as possible.
When he was drunk, he was blissfully numb. When he was sober, he was painfully aware of his nymph’s absence, stung by her rejection; unable to stop turning it over and over in his head.
No woman had ever had the power to hurt him, and he was finding that escape was the only answer. He couldn’t sleep because she haunted his dreams. He couldn’t eat because food turned to ash in his mouth and was impossible to swallow. Couldn’t whore, because they were a pale shadow of the woman he wanted. All he could do was drink. Drink and gamble. God only knew how much money he’d lost in the last month. He certainly didn’t; nor did he care.
Gabriel allowed his friends to steer him out of the gallery. They hit the sidewalk outside and Gabriel flinched and squinted as his eyes adjusted to the bright light. “So, George set you two on me?”
“Don’t be an ass, Brimstone.” Layton gave him a shove and started walking.
“My cousin then?”
“I believe Lady Morpeth did give me a message for you.” St. Audley fell into step beside him. “She told me to tell you to quit making such a spectacle of yourself.”
Gabriel glared, and stumbled over a loose cobble in the street as they crossed Piccadilly. The dandy-trap spurted muck and water up onto his hose. He cursed and shook his foot. “You can tell my lovely cousin to mind her own bloody business.”
“I shall tell her no such thing,” St. Audley protested. “Come on, let’s get that drink, you could obviously use a bit of the hair of the dog, not to mention a shave and a clean shirt.”
Gabriel went along tame enough. A drink was exactly what he wanted, and while he’d rather have it on his own, at one of the numerous gaming hells that enjoyed his patronage, he’d settle for White’s. It was easier than fighting. Layton and St. Audley might be two of the more easygoing members of their circle, but they were as tenacious as terriers with a rat cornered in a wall.
George watched her friend as she intently applied herself to her needlework. Imogen was working on a christening gown. She’d begun the day they’d returned from Winsham Court, and she was nearly done now. The fine white cambric was almost completely covered in complicated white on white tambor work, based on the jacket one of Ivo’s great-grandfathers wore in a portrait. Imogen didn’t seem to do anything but sew, play the pianoforte, and go for fast rides across the countryside.
She had refused to discuss what had transpired between her and Gabriel, telling George nothing further than she had the morning Gabriel had fled the Court. George hated it that her friends were making each other miserable, and her mind had been busy trying to find a way to bring about a reconciliation. But if she couldn’t get Imogen to confide in her, her only option was to corner Gabriel, and that was a slightly more complicated undertaking. Especially if what Victoria had written was true, and Gabriel was busy drinking himself to death and gambling away his fortune as quickly as he could roll a die or turn a card.
He was going to respond like a wounded bear.
Perhaps a trip to town was in order? But first she should write Helen Perripoint. A soiree at Helen’s would be the perfect excuse for them all to take a trip to town, and unlike a larger function, Imogen could hardly decline to attend an event being held by one of her oldest friends.
Leaving Imogen to enjoy the company of her tambor frame, George took herself off to the library and penned a quick note to Helen and another to Victoria. She was going to need all the help she could get if she was going to bring this matter to a satisfactory conclusion.
Chapter 25
Whatever has put the Angelstone Turk’s nose out of joint? Pry as we may, no answer has been forthcoming…
Tête-à-Tête, 18 November 1789
Mrs. Perripoint’s soiree was in full swing when Gabriel made his belated appearance. It had taken him half the night and several glasses of brandy to decide that he was attending.
Helen had not mentioned that his nymph would be there, but it was obvious that she was likely to be present. And he wanted to see her, desperately; almost as much as he dreaded seeing her.
He’d convinced himself that he wouldn’t go; wouldn’t give himself the chance to make a fool of himself again. But as the night had worn on, he had found himself wandering aimlessly towards Mrs. Perripoint’s on more than one occasion. And when the brightly lit house had appeared in front of him, he’d gone up the stairs and entered the house, unable not to.
Gabriel snatched a glass of champagne from a passing footman and ran an eye over the crowd, searching for Imogen. When he spotted George off to one side, chatting with Helen and Lord Carr, he was sure his nymph was hidden somewhere in the merry horde that had invaded Helen’s house.
He worked his way carefully around the room, eyes busily searching out a particular head of curly dark hair. When he finally located her, he almost wished that he hadn’t. She was moving through a set, partnered by Drake.
His hand clenched involuntarily, breaking the stem of his glass. He batted at his sleeve, brushing off the droplets of champagne. A footman appeared and took away the broken glass, while a maid wiped the floor with a towel. Several of the guests were staring, but Gabriel didn’t give a damn. Let them stare.
Thankful only that
Imogen had not seen him, Gabriel cursed under his breath and worked his way through the milling guests, steering wide of the dancers. He found an unoccupied spot along the wall, and leaned his shoulders back against the papered surface. He really should leave, but he wasn’t going to. Not until he’d seen Imogen. Privately.
Drake spun her through the steps of the dance, touching her far more than was necessary. Gabriel forced himself to watch. To stand calmly on the sidelines instead of wading out into the dancers and dragging her away from Drake.
The music finally came to a halt and Imogen escaped from the viscount. With a determined stride Gabriel crossed the room, trailing her from a distance, waiting for a chance to pounce.
Exhausted from forcing herself to participate and be merry, Imogen slipped away in search of a drink. She could feel a headache coming on, the tightness starting around her temple; throbbing behind her left eye. Ignoring the circling footmen with their glasses of champagne, she went directly to the buffet in the drawing room and poured herself a brandy.
Life with George and her circle was ruining her for polite company. Brandy, in mixed company no less. She’d discovered she liked brandy, far more than she did champagne, which would only worsen her aching head.
Drink in hand she wandered through the party. Almost everyone present was well-known to her, either from her earlier days, her infrequent visits to Helen’s, or her recent absorption into the countess’s set. She skirted her way around the room, looking for George.
As she passed through the hall on her way to the supper room she found herself being suddenly manhandled from behind, and hauled into Helen’s small study. She tripped on her skirts and sloshed her drink all over her assailant.
“Damn it, Imogen!” Gabriel closed the door behind him and shook out his sleeve, sending a spray of liquid onto the floor. “I’ve already spilt champagne on this coat tonight. I’m going to smell like a tap room.”
“A very expensive tap room,” she protested, her head spinning. She’d been petrified he was going to be here tonight, but the night had grown late without his putting in an appearance. Just when she’d relaxed he’d not only shown up, but had whisked her away from the party and the rest of the guests, trapping her in a private tete-a-tete, which she by no means had the energy for.
He was appropriately dressed, but rumpled around the edges, his cravat knot crooked, his hair slipping from his queue, long tendrels handing about the sides of his face. He looked angry, dark eyes hooded, lips grimly pressed together. Angry, unhappy, and frustrated. All of which were feelings she was more than familiar with herself.
He stared at her for a moment, clearly unsure what he intended now that he had her cornered, then he removed her glass from her hand and tossed back the dregs of the brandy.
“A very expensive tap room,” he agreed, setting the glass aside.
“We should go back.” Imogen twisted her fan in her hands until several of the spokes broke with an audible snap.
“Agreed,” Gabriel replied, continuing to block the door. “We should.”
She looked up at him expectantly, but instead of moving aside he pulled her close and lowered his head to kiss her, his lips molding to hers in a now familiar caress. Imogen put her hands out, shoving against his chest. If she let herself kiss him back, she wouldn’t stop.
He broke off the kiss and stepped back from her, leaning back against the door with a thunk. He looked broken. She was on the verge of relenting when he stepped aside and held the door open for her.
Sick to her stomach Imogen hurried past him and out into the melee. She found George as quickly as possible, and pleaded her now very real headache. She wanted to be gone before Gabriel could corner her a second time, before she could regret her refusal and go in search of him herself.
George was well pleased with the evening. She’d thrown Brimstone and Imogen together, and the results had been exactly what she’d hoped for: Gabriel had been possessive and disturbed, and Imogen was obviously far from indifferent. All in all, a good night’s work. Now all she and Victoria had to do was figure out exactly what made Imogen reluctant to accept Gabriel’s proposal, and then convince Imogen that she was wrong. A task which would have cowed her, had she not been so amply provided with evidence of both her friends’ desire for such assistance. Gabriel may not have known he needed a woman’s meddling in his life, but he was going to be grateful that she knew it.
The first thing her plan required was a trip to see Brimstone himself. And since he’d ignored her summons the day before, she’d have to beard the lion in its den.
Chapter 26
Society’s most scandalous Divorcée has returned to Town, causing a near riot at a certain widow’s soirée. What a wonderful time it is to be alive and in London…
Tête-à-Tête, 19 November 1789
Decidedly grumpy, head pounding from the previous night’s drink, Gabriel made his way downstairs. He’d been awoken without ceremony, the covers stripped from him by his valet. The man had then forced him to rise with threats of a pending invasion of females, and not of the Cyprian variety he assured him.
Rodgers had hurriedly shaved him and sent him down to his doom without so much as a cup of coffee or an apologetic word—though the man’s eyes had been full of compassionate understanding. That look might or might not be enough to keep him in Gabriel’s service. He had yet to decide if a look was apology enough for such rough and ready tactics.
He found George and his cousin cozily ensconced—just as threatened—in the main saloon, a pot of tea on the table and a plate of biscuits between them. He barked for coffee and stomped into the room, glaring at them both.
“Well, Brimstone?” His cousin looked at him reprovingly. “You could at least say good morning.”
“Is it a good morning?” He sank into a chair across from them, his banyan and slippers loudly proclaiming his irritation with their invasion. He’d be damned if he dressed for them to rake him over the coals.
“A very good morning,” George assured him, a mischievous smile, which he instantly mistrusted, on her lips.
“And why is that?” he asked, his voice dripping with irritation. “Because I’ve been rousted from bed when I had just managed to fall asleep? Or because I’m now confronted by two hoydens with unknown—but certainly dangerous—intentions? Wild women, who have further encroached by undermining my staff I might add.”
“It’s a good morning because we’re here to help you, you dolt,” Victoria said with asperity. She clinked her spoon in her cup as she stirred her tea.
“That is, if you deserve it,” George qualified, refilling her own tea cup.
Gabriel eyed them both with misgivings, but refused to be drawn. They’d tell him exactly what was afoot when they had finished roasting him to their satisfaction, and not a minute sooner. If only Torrie would stop making that infernal racket with her spoon. She knew how it irritated him, and she was far too well bred to be making such a rude noise by accident.
His coffee arrived and he sat back to wait for their pronouncement. Whatever it was, their presence couldn’t bode well for him. They were darlings, both of them, but interfering, social queens at the same time. Always so sure they knew what was best for everyone else.
After a few minutes of silence, he glared at them and set his cup down with a thump. If it was about his nymph, George was far more likely to play the avenging angel than the Good Samaritan. Something was certainly in the works, and he couldn’t imagine any other topic that would bring them down upon him at such an hour, but he also couldn’t imagine why George was looking so pleased with herself.
“So are you going to tell me why you’re here, or do I have to guess?”
Bad enough that Imogen had rejected him yet again, now he had these two meddling. He was a fool for wanting her, and a fool for having proposed, and thrice times a fool for continuing his pursuit in the face of her rejection. But there was no way he was going to give up. He’d get her by hook or by crook, fairly o
r unfairly. He’d get her any way he could, and the sooner she realized it, and gave in, the better off they would both be.
George eyed him coolly while his cousin glared right back at him, as though he were one of her recalcitrant offspring.
“Don’t come the matriarch with me, Torrie. I’m not one of your sons, and I’m not your husband. Save that look for someone it works on.”
“It doesn’t work on Rupert,” she replied haughtily.
“Or Hay,” George put in, still wearing her mischievous smile, an odd contrast to his cousin’s serious expression.
“Or Hay,” the countess agreed, clinking her spoon again. “And I’ll look at you anyway I please, idiot.”
Gabriel narrowed his eyes but held his peace. If he got her wound up, he’d never find out what was afoot.
“Help me with what?” he drawled, trying to sound as bored as possible.
“Help you with Imogen,” George replied in her straightforward manner, taking the wind out of his sails.
“If we think you deserve help that is,” Victoria added waspishly, echoing George’s earlier pronouncement.
Gabriel shot her a scathing glance and turned his attention back to George. “And what makes you think I want your help? Or need help for that matter?” he asked, doing his best imitation of his cousin when she was trying to be condescending.
Both women stared at him, eyes slightly enlarged with surprise, and then burst into raucous, unladylike laughter. George laughed until she cried, tears streaming down her face, which did nothing to improve his mood.
“Don’t be stupid, Gabriel. I’ve never seen a man in need of help so badly,” she asserted wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand.
“Except perhaps your poor husband when he was courting you,” he snapped, his color mounting as he got angrier and angrier.