by Mary Balogh
That last letter from Mary had turned out to be life altering. He had realized it from the moment he had broken the seal and read it. It had forced him to make the choice between the life he had built in America and the life he had left behind in England. The choice ought to have been ridiculously easy to make.
But there was Mary.
He had reluctantly put the business in the hands of Miles Perrott, his assistant and close friend, whom he would trust with his own life—and with the running of the business. He had made him a partner, leased out his house for two years, made numerous other arrangements, all within a couple of months, and sailed for home with no more than a few months to go before he was officially dead.
A strange choice of word, that—home. His home was in Boston. Once he had established his authority in England and made some sort of arrangements for the smooth running of all he owned there, he could return, he had told himself as he watched America disappear over the horizon, to be replaced by endless expanses of ocean. But making arrangements, he had admitted to himself during the endless days and nights of the voyage, was going to entail far more than he wanted to believe. For though even in Boston he would wish for an heir to inherit the business and the fortune he had amassed, here the need was of far more urgency. For in England he would not have the option of making a will and leaving everything to anyone he chose. In England there were rules and laws, at least for the aristocracy. If as the Earl of Lyndale he died without male issue—and both his father and Cyrus had died suddenly and early, not to mention his uncle and cousin—then the title and entailed properties and any fortune that went with them would go after all to Manley Rochford and his descendants: specifically that son who was already lording it over all who lived in the vicinity of Brierley.
Gabriel had not known Manley well when he was a boy—he had always kept his distance. But what he had known he had abhorred. The feeling had been mutual. The son sounded like a conceited ass. Gabriel did not know him. He had been a mere boy when Gabriel sailed for America.
His need to marry was an urgent one, and he had come to realize it long before the voyage was at an end and he set foot again upon English soil. It was not a happy thought. Nothing about this whole business was happy. But he no longer had the leisure to look about him for as long as it would take to find that one woman who would suit him and offer the expectation of a life of contentment. He needed to marry—and soon.
And his bride must be someone unexceptionable. An earl was not at liberty to marry a scullery maid or a shopkeeper’s daughter or . . . Well. He must choose someone who could fulfill the duties of Countess of Lyndale as though born to the role. She must be someone wellborn, well connected, refined; able to deal with difficult relatives, difficult servants, difficult neighbors . . . difficult everything.
As far as Gabriel knew, his name had not been cleared all those years ago, though he had never asked Mary outright. He might be facing hostility at Brierley, to say the least. He certainly needed a woman who was no timid mouse, one who would command respect by the mere expectation that it would be accorded her. It would help too, and not just for his personal gratification, if she had some beauty, grace, and elegance. And a few more years of age and experience than a young girl fresh from the schoolroom would have.
More important than anything else, he needed someone who could give him sons. Though that was the one thing that could never be guaranteed, of course.
And now it had struck him, as though as a joke, that Lady Jessica Archer might well be the perfect candidate.
Was it a joke?
He really had not taken a liking to her. But he would admit that his hasty judgment might not be a fair one. He knew that from his professional life.
She was almost certainly on her way to London.
And so was he.
Perhaps he would have the chance to get a second look at her.
Three
Jessica rather enjoyed being back in London now that she was here. The weather had warmed even though it was not officially summer yet, and so far there had been more sunny days than wet ones. There had been shopping to do, since fashions changed with dizzying regularity, and last year’s gowns would look sad if worn to this year’s most glittering ton events and last year’s bonnets would stand out like a sore thumb if worn to the daily parade in Hyde Park. There were friends to be called upon and a winter’s worth of news to be caught up on.
There was family to visit and be visited by. Some of the Westcotts had been in Gloucestershire for Seth’s christening, of course, but others had not. Either way, it did feel lovely, as it did every year, to be surrounded by so many family members in close proximity to one another.
This Season would be more special than any other, if everything went according to plan. She would marry and be settled at last. But . . . Well, what she had so sensibly planned while she was at Rose Cottage seemed a little cheerless now that she was about to put her plan into action.
Lady Parley’s ball in honor of the coming out of her eldest daughter was to be the first truly grand entertainment of the Season, and Jessica was pleased that she had arrived in time to attend it. There had even been time to have the first of her new ball gowns finished and delivered to Archer House, Avery’s home on Hanover Square. It was also her favorite, its narrow yet flowing lines both elegant and flattering to her figure, she believed, its color a deep shade of rose pink she had been looking for in vain for years. Her hand had already been engaged for three sets of dances—the opening set with Mr. Gladdley, who could always be relied upon to make her laugh; the second with Sir Bevin Romley, who for all his large girth and creaking corsets was light on his feet; and the first waltz with Lord Jennings, who despite having no conversation whatsoever beyond his horses always performed the steps with flair.
Jessica had kept all other sets free. There was always the hope, after all, that a new Season would bring new people to town—specifically new gentlemen. And there was always the chance that one of them would be tall, dark, and handsome. And eligible. And interested in her. This year in particular he would be very welcome indeed, this mythical man who would sweep her off her feet and rescue her from sensible plans.
Besides, if she did not keep at least a few sets free until the ball was already in progress, she would never hear the end of it from her disgruntled group of admirers, who would collectively feign heartbreak and heartache and any number of other silly woes. She derived great amusement from them all. It was impossible to take them seriously when they tried so hard to outdo one another in their ardor—most of it deliberately theatrical and not really meant to be taken seriously anyway. Which left the question: Were any of them serious about her? Was she in danger of being left on the shelf after all? But she would not believe that any such ghastly fate awaited her.
She looked forward to the Parley ball with some eagerness, just as she always did at the start of a new Season.
* * *
* * *
Gabriel arrived in London two days after disembarking from one of his own ships in Bristol. He was unfamiliar with England’s capital, having spent a total of perhaps two weeks there during his growing years. He expected, moreover, that he would know absolutely no one, though there was Sir Trevor Vickers, his father’s friend and his own godfather, who had been a member of Parliament at one time and might still be. Regardless of any reluctance on his part, however, he had chosen to come to London rather than set out immediately for Derbyshire and Brierley Hall. There was business to be done here.
He took a suite of rooms at a decent hotel and spent a busy week interviewing and engaging a good lawyer and a land agent. He was obliged to be frank with them about his identity, of course, though he did not want it generally known yet. He wanted first to get a feel for the situation he might find himself in when he was no longer merely Mr. Gabriel Thorne. He spent many more hours transforming himself into a respectable-looking English gentle
man. He endured a tedious time with a reputable tailor and a barber the tailor recommended, along with a boot maker and a haberdasher and a jeweler. He interviewed a number of men sent him by an agency and chose a superior sort of individual named Horbath—no first name was provided—to be his valet. He acquired a horse after being directed to Tattersalls. And he discovered that Sir Trevor Vickers was not only still a member of Parliament but was also a senior member of the cabinet now.
Gabriel called upon him and Lady Vickers one morning and was fortunate enough to find them both at home.
“Rochford?” Sir Trevor said when he and his wife joined Gabriel in the salon where he had been put to wait. The baronet gazed at his visitor in open astonishment. “Gabriel Rochford? But bless my soul, you must be he. You look just like your father.”
“I go by my mother’s name of Thorne now,” Gabriel explained as he submitted to a very firm and prolonged handshake, though it was the name Rochford he had sent up with Sir Trevor’s butler. “But yes, sir. I am Gabriel.” He bowed to Lady Vickers, who had also looked astonished at first, though now she was beaming at him, her hands clasped to her bosom.
“Everyone has long assumed you are dead,” Sir Trevor said bluntly. “It is about to be made official. But bless my soul, here you are, looking very much alive. Where the devil have you been hiding all these years? Ah, I beg your pardon, my dear. It seemed after the death of Lyndale and his son that you had fallen off the face of the earth. No one has been able to find any trace of you.”
“I have been in America, sir,” Gabriel told him.
“America. As bold as can be,” Sir Trevor said, shaking his head slowly. “Yet no one found you there. You are going by your mother’s name, you say? I suppose no one thought to search America for a Gabriel Thorne. But whyever would you do a thing like that?”
“My name has been legally changed,” Gabriel told him, and explained how it had come about. He did not say that he had been using the name even before Cyrus adopted him and even on his passage to America.
“Good God,” Sir Trevor said, suddenly struck by a thought. “Young Rochford has recently arrived in town—the son of the man who is expecting to be the Earl of Lyndale by the end of the summer. Manley Rochford, is it? Or Manford? No, Manley. His son is busy introducing himself to society as the prospective heir, and it is my understanding that society is opening its arms to him. I believe he is a personable young man. The father is expected to join him here soon. I understand grand celebrations are being planned for later in the Season, are they not, Doris?”
“Indeed they are,” his wife said, “premature as it may seem. I have not met Mr. Anthony Rochford yet, but he is said to be very handsome and charming. He is being invited everywhere. But, goodness me, Mr.— My lord— Oh, may I call you Gabriel since I remember you well as a small boy? Goodness me, that young man is about to have the shock of his life. He is going to be overjoyed when he discovers that you are alive after all.”
Gabriel very much doubted it. So, from the look on his face, did Sir Trevor. Well, but this was interesting. Manley Rochford’s son was actually in London, and he was waiting for the arrival of his father and getting ready to celebrate his accession as the new Earl of Lyndale? He should, Gabriel supposed, save them some embarrassment, not to mention expense, and take steps without further delay to disabuse them of that notion and make his identity generally known. But he had hoped first to discover for himself if the prospective new earl and his heir were as bad as Mary had made them out to be. Not that Mary was prone to either exaggeration or spite.
“I would rather he not be told,” he said. “For a short while, at least.”
They both looked at him in surprise.
“But—” Sir Trevor began.
Gabriel held up a hand. “If the mere arrival of my cousin in town is causing a stir,” he said, “one can only imagine what my sudden appearance here will cause, as though I had risen from the dead. Have mercy on me, sir, ma’am. I have only recently arrived from America, where I have spent the past thirteen years. I am already bewildered at the strangeness of being here. I need some time to find my land legs.”
And perhaps . . . Well, was there a chance, however remote, that what Mary had told him really was distorted, exaggerated, a bit biased? Could even the Manley he remembered be cruel enough to evict her from her precious cottage when she had nowhere else to go? Her nieces, her sister’s children, had never had anything to do with her, as far as Gabriel remembered. Now it seemed he had an unexpected opportunity to observe Anthony Rochford for himself, the young man who had supposedly been throwing his weight about and making himself obnoxious at Brierley. A charming, personable young man, according to what Sir Trevor and Lady Vickers had heard. Was it possible that before winter came on he would be able to return home to Boston and forget about this whole unwanted distraction?
He was very willing to grasp at any frail straws.
“I do, however,” he added, “need some entrée into society. It seems unlikely the ton would afford even a passing glance at Mr. Gabriel Thorne, merchant trader from Boston.”
“Is that who you have been all these years?” Sir Trevor asked, frowning and shaking his head again. “When you ought to have been here for almost seven years past as the Earl of Lyndale? There is clearly something I do not understand about your way of thinking. I suppose we can introduce you to the ton as our godson. My name carries some weight in this town.”
“You forget, Trevor,” Lady Vickers said, “that I had some family connection to Gabriel’s mother. I never did understand quite what it was and neither did she. We had a good laugh about it once, I remember. Third cousin twice removed, I believe it was, or something absurd like that. But without having to resort to any outright lie, Gabriel, we can present you to society as our godson and my kinsman. And I do boast a viscount as a second cousin. Trevor, of course, has his own credentials—a baronetcy and an influential position in the government. Leave it to us. You will be accepted by even the highest sticklers before we are done with you.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Gabriel said, grinning at her. “I would much appreciate your help.”
“It will not hurt that you are also a handsome figure of a man,” Lady Vickers said. “But why are we standing here in the visitors’ parlor, Trevor, just as though Gabriel were a passing stranger instead of our godson and my kinsman? Your arm, if you please, Gabriel. We will go up to the drawing room. Albert is still at home, I believe—our son, that is. I will send up and ask that he join us. You were three years old when he was born, I remember. It was not long after the death of your poor mother. He is a dear boy, but he has a large circle of friends and acquaintances and I think it will be safer if we introduce you to him just as our godson and my distant cousin. Do you not agree, Trevor?”
“Whatever you say, my dear,” Sir Trevor said as he followed them up the stairs.
Albert Vickers—Bertie to my friends and long-lost relatives, he told Gabriel with a hearty laugh as he shook his hand—was delighted to make Gabriel’s acquaintance. Even before his mother could ask it of him, he insisted upon taking Gabriel about town and showing him what was what and introducing him to a few capital fellows.
During the coming days Bertie did just as he had promised, with the result that Gabriel visited White’s Club and Tattersalls again and Jackson’s boxing saloon and a fencing school among other places and made a number of male acquaintances, none of whom questioned his right to be one of their number.
And the ladies had not been excluded. Lady Vickers enjoyed herself enormously—or so she informed Gabriel—spreading word of the arrival in town of her handsome young kinsman and godson, who had recently returned from America with a sizable fortune. Gabriel began to receive invitations to ton events, most notably a ball being given by Lady Parley in honor of the coming out of her eldest daughter.
“The first grand ball of the Season,” Bertie explai
ned to him when Gabriel told him of the invitation. “It is gratifying that you have been invited, Gabe. Everyone who is anyone will be there. You can count on it. It is bound to be a dreadful squeeze. But once you have put in an appearance there, you will be invited everywhere. Wait and see.”
Gabriel accepted the invitation. And if Anthony Rochford was in truth the darling of the ton, which was one term by which Lady Vickers had described him, then it was altogether probable that he too would be in attendance at this grand squeeze Bertie predicted. He must put himself in the way of meeting the man, Gabriel thought. He had no fear of being recognized. They had never met.
But the knowledge that Rochford was in town had been a mere distraction from Gabriel’s real reason for wanting an in with the ton and a chance to attend the more select social events of the Season. His primary focus while he was here in London during the Season must be to find himself a wife—assuming, that was, that he would not really find it possible to slip off back home to America and put this all behind him like a bad dream.
He found himself wondering if Lady Jessica Archer was indeed in London and if she would also be at the Parley ball. On the whole he hoped she would not be. He had not liked her at all.
* * *
* * *
At last Jessica was at the first grand ball of the Season, standing at one side of the ballroom close to her mother, who was in conversation with a couple of older ladies, waiting for the dancing to begin. It would not be just yet. Sir Richard and Lady Parley and their daughter still stood in the receiving line, welcoming more and more new arrivals. Some gentlemen had begun to gather about Jessica, all of them familiar members of what it amused Avery to call her court. The ballroom was filling, and looking and smelling very festive indeed with the myriad colors of ball gowns and banks of flowers and one mirrored wall to multiply them all to infinity. Crystal candelabra overhead, each holding dozens of candles, cast a rainbow of light over the newly polished wooden floor and the gathering guests. Conversations were growing louder and more animated. The orchestra members were tuning their instruments.