by Mary Balogh
Gabriel lowered the cover over the keys, got to his feet, and looked around before moving toward the closest group. Strangely, he had not even been thinking of romance when he had caressed the back of her finger.
He had only been feeling it.
Ten
There was a letter among the usual invitations beside Gabriel’s plate when he sat down to breakfast the following morning. It was a report from Simon Norton at Brierley. Gabriel read it while he sipped his coffee.
Manley Rochford was spending lavishly on new furniture and draperies inside the house and on new arbors and follies and other new ventures in the park. These included a wilderness walk over the hills behind the house and a lake in the southwest corner of the park.
Gabriel’s eyes paused there. The southwest corner was where Mary had her cottage.
Manley and his wife were entertaining on a grand scale—teas and dinners and evening parties. There were plans in the making for a grand outdoor fete and evening ball during the summer, after their return from London as the Earl and Countess of Lyndale.
All the money that was being spent, Norton had discovered, had been borrowed on the expectation of the fortune Mr. Rochford was about to inherit. That was something, at least, Gabriel thought. Manley had obviously not been able to get his hands on the fortune that was not yet officially his.
The next section of the letter was more disturbing, especially to a man who had made a bit of a name for himself in Boston for treating every last one of his employees well. There was some distress in the neighborhood affecting those servants who had lost their positions to the men Manley had brought with him to Brierley. In some instances their homes had also been confiscated and given to the new staff. Some of the dismissed servants had families, a fact that multiplied the suffering.
A few had been hired and accommodated elsewhere in the neighborhood. Others, notably those who were young and unattached, had moved away to look for work elsewhere. A few had been rehired at Brierley as farm laborers—at a wage not only below what they had earned in their previous positions but also below what the other farm laborers doing comparable work were earning. Some had found no work at all. Rumor had it, though Norton had not been able to substantiate it, that all wages were to go down once Manley became the earl. And, incidentally, Norton’s own wages were lower than those of any of the other gardeners, though he was not complaining, he had added, since Mr. Thorne paid him well indeed for the steward’s job he was not yet doing.
Norton had discovered that the newly installed steward, the one Manley had brought with him, had paid a call upon Miss Beck and, without a by-your-leave, had tramped through her cottage, upstairs and down, in muddy boots, peering into every room and cupboard and nook and cranny while ignoring her completely and kicking one of her cats out of his way and cuffing one of her dogs, which had been yapping at his heels. He had informed Miss Beck that she must clear out all her junk and get rid of all the strays without further delay. The cottage was to be converted into a rustic shelter to add a picturesque touch to an island that would stand in the middle of the new lake.
Mary.
Gabriel slammed one hand down on the report, closed his eyes, and concentrated upon breathing through the fury that tempted him to sweep all the unoffending dishes off the table around him for the mere satisfaction of hearing them smash on the floor.
And not just Mary. Innocent servants and their families had lost their employment for no just cause. Some of them were now homeless. Yet they were his. His people. Good God, they were his responsibility. For perhaps the first time he understood the selfishness of his own behavior in remaining in America for six years after learning that he had inherited the title, just because he was happy there and did not wish to upend his own life by returning to England. Yet sometimes duty ought to outweigh inclination. He should have known—and surely he had deep down—that Mary was not the only one who had suffered from his absence.
He was greatly to blame for the way things were.
There was one more section in the report. It contained information Norton had gathered while imbibing pints of ale at the village tavern during the evenings—painfully slowly, sir, because I did not want to be too obvious with my questions and arouse suspicion.
Mr. and Mrs. Ginsberg, once tenants on a farm owned by the late Earl of Lyndale, had moved away with their daughter, Miss Penelope Ginsberg, soon after the death of their son.
It was said by someone who knew someone who knew someone else . . . You know how gossip works, sir, Norton had written, that Mrs. Ginsberg died of grief not long after and that Miss Ginsberg has since married a man by the name of Clark. The couple is said to be living with her father and Mrs. Clark’s son, now twelve years old, to whom she gave birth before her marriage.
Norton could not vouch for the truth of the story, he admitted, since he had not yet had a chance to check it out for himself. He was a new employee at Brierley and could hardly ask for a three-day leave so soon. It would probably take him that long to get to Lilyvale, where they supposedly lived, do his investigation, and get back. The village was at least thirty miles from Brierley.
It is generally, though not universally, believed by those who drink regularly at the tavern, Norton had gone on to report, that Gabriel Rochford—you, sir—is the father of the twelve-year-old boy. You were believed to be stepping out with the mother at the relevant time. There is much less agreement among the locals upon how Orson Ginsberg, the young lady’s brother, came to his death. A duel gone wrong? Accident? They all have their proponents. The only thing everyone seems agreed upon is that young Ginsberg was shot in the back the same day Miss Ginsberg confessed to her parents that she was with child. There is also disagreement about who fired the fatal shot even though two men claimed to have witnessed you doing it, sir. Everyone I talked to, without exception, was adamant in his belief that if it was you, it was an accident and not murder. You just did not have it in you, one old-timer assured me, and there were plenty of other assenting voices. It is believed by almost all, sir, that you fled Brierley in order to avoid the hangman’s noose, but opinion is divided upon whether it was an act of cowardice or prudence. There are a few—pardon me for mentioning it, sir, but you did direct me to give you the full truth—who say you fled more to avoid taking responsibility for what you had done to Miss Ginsberg than out of fear of a noose.
Gabriel folded the pages and set them aside. They left him with much to think about and a far greater sense of urgency than he had felt thus far. Also a new sense of guilt. How could he possibly have assumed that Mary was the only one who faced hardship and suffering from Manley Rochford?
He glanced through the small pile of invitations—another ball, a concert featuring a famed contralto, a garden party, an evening at Vauxhall with a party being put together by the Marquess and Marchioness of Dorchester. He paused over that last one. Dorchester was Lady Estelle Lamarr’s father. Was there still a push on, then, to match her with him? It was surprising, if it was true, since she had made it clear she was not interested in him—or in any other man. Who else would be in the Vauxhall party? Lady Jessica Archer? It seemed a distinct possibility.
He thought about the evening before, particularly about the half hour or so he had spent virtually alone with her at the pianoforte. Something had happened in that short time. Something had changed. He was still determined to marry her, and still for the same reasons. But he had been thrown a bit off balance by the glimpses of humanity she had shown him—her flashing smiles, her laughter, her helpless giggles when she completely bungled their duet. And he had been oddly disturbed by that finger-touching incident. It was absurd enough to be embarrassing that that incident alone had kept him awake for at least an hour after he lay down last night. It was not, after all, as though he had stolen a kiss or fondled her in inappropriate places.
He had touched her finger, and for a few moments—not even long enough to allow hi
m to catch the thought that had flitted into his mind and on out again—he had come close to understanding what romance was.
And perhaps what lay beyond romance.
Would she be at Vauxhall? Would Rochford? Gabriel’s jaw tightened. That man, his second cousin once removed, was ambitious as well as conceited. His behavior was larded with false charm. Conceited men were often merely shallow, with nothing specifically vicious about them. Anthony Rochford was a malicious liar. And like a true coward, last night he had directed his malice at a man he supposed dead and unable to speak up for himself.
Well enough, he had said when Lady Estelle had asked him if he had known Gabriel Rochford. He was a likable boy. I was fond of him. It grieved me to see his wildness turn into vice.
Yet Anthony Rochford had never met him until very recently. Gabriel Rochford’s behavior had always been as far from wild as north is from south. Any hard edges he had now were acquired in America. He remembered his boyhood self as quiet, studious, rather dull, too plagued by conscience and concern for the feelings of others to get into any real mischief. He had been his father’s son, in other words. His first nine years had shaped his character and sensibilities.
He was a likable boy. Not only had Anthony Rochford never come to Brierley with his father while Gabriel was there, but he was also eight or nine years younger than Gabriel. He would have been only ten or eleven years old when Gabriel went to America.
There were two things he must do without further delay, Gabriel decided. He must marry Lady Jessica Archer—if she would have him. But first he must make a journey. It was time to take some action—almost seven years later than he ought.
He would accept the invitation to Vauxhall. It would probably be an enjoyable evening even if Lady Jessica was not of the party. He had heard that Vauxhall was a place one must see when one was in London. But he hoped she would be there. He could no longer indulge in social activities for the mere pleasure of them—not that he had done so from the beginning, of course. But he must develop a stronger sense of purpose.
He had arranged to spend the morning with Bertie Vickers. They were going to spar at Jackson’s boxing saloon. Bertie was not an early riser, however. The breakfast things having been removed from the table, Gabriel sat down to write a letter to Simon Norton with instructions not to leave the estate. He would take care of further investigation himself. He wrote also to Miles Perrott, his partner in Boston, thrusting aside the wave of homesickness that threatened to engulf him as he did so. Boston was no longer home. It was regrettable, but he might as well grow accustomed to the new reality. He informed Miles that he would not be returning, at least not in the foreseeable future. He also wrote an acceptance of the invitation to Vauxhall.
This afternoon there was a garden party to which he had promised to escort Lady Vickers since both Sir Trevor and Bertie had other commitments. He would keep his promise.
Would Lady Jessica be there?
* * *
* * *
There was a long-stemmed pink rose beside Jessica’s breakfast plate again. Beneath it, resting on her linen napkin, was a card that was a little different from usual. It had two words instead of one. Gabriel Thorne, he had written in the bold black handwriting she had come to recognize as his. The rose too was a little different. It was a darker shade of pink, very like the color of the ball gown she had worn to the Parley ball. She picked it up and held it to her nose for a few moments before taking her seat and nodding to the butler when he came to pour her coffee.
“Good morning, Jess,” Avery said, lowering his paper far enough that he could see her over the top of it. “I had almost given up hope of seeing you this side of luncheon.”
“I slept late,” she told him, smiling at her mother as she spread her napkin across her lap. It was not a lie, but she had slept late only because she had been late going to sleep. Dawn had already been graying her room. Both Avery and her mother had finished their breakfast, she could see, but were reading over a final cup of coffee. Her mother was looking through the morning post. She set it all aside, however, after Jessica had sat down.
“Mr. Thorne plays the pianoforte extremely well,” she said. “Where did he learn to play, Jessica? In America? Did he say?”
“He did not learn at all,” Jessica said. “He plays by ear.”
“Astonishing,” her mother said. She nodded toward the rose. “I wonder if he sends a rose each day to other young ladies too. To Estelle, for example. Or is it just you?”
“I have no idea, Mama.” Jessica laughed. “I could hardly ask him, could I? And I could hardly ask Estelle.”
“Do you . . . like him?” her mother asked, half frowning. “He has certainly caught the imagination of the ton for some largely inexplicable reason. He is invited everywhere. But it is a bit puzzling, considering how little is known about him. Yes, he is Lady Vickers’s kinsman and godson. But all families have a few ramshackle members one would not wish to see one’s daughters marrying. How do we even know he has a fortune or where it comes from? Do we have any evidence but his word? And do we have even that? I have not heard that he has boasted of being wealthy. Which is to his credit, of course.”
“I know no more about him than you do, Mama,” Jessica said, not quite truthfully. “But does it matter? I am not about to elope to Gretna Green with him.”
Avery set down his paper. “What a very tedious waste of time and effort that would be,” he said, “when you are twenty-five years old, Jess, and could merely toddle along to the nearest church with a special license anytime you chose—just as Anna and I did once upon a time.”
Jessica laughed again. “You must not worry, Mama,” she said. “I have no intention of toddling along to the nearest church with Mr. Thorne any more than I have of running off to Scotland with him.”
Anna came into the breakfast parlor at that moment. She was holding Beatrice, whose head was burrowed into the hollow between her shoulder and neck while she sucked loudly on one fist and cried with soft grizzling sounds. Her only visible cheek was bright red.
“I do apologize for being so late,” Anna said. “Poor Bea really is cutting four teeth at once. We were quite right, Mother. And she will not let go of me, though Nurse tried several times to take her. Bea would only scream.”
Avery had got to his feet, but it was Jessica’s mother who was first to move around the table. “You are spoiling her, Anna,” she said. “Let us see if she will allow her grandmother to spoil her instead so that you can eat. I have finished already. Come, chicken. Come and tell Grandmama what is wrong. Yes, I know. The whole world is against you, is it not?”
She eased the baby from Anna’s arms into her own as she spoke, and miraculously Bea snuggled into her and even stopped grizzling for a moment.
“The magic touch,” Anna said. “You have had it with all four of the children, Mother. Thank you.”
“On behalf of my valet,” Avery added, “a million thanks, Mother. He has a way of not complaining when I arrive in my room with one half of my neckcloth limp and soggy that I find quite unnerving.”
Jessica’s mother remained on her feet and rocked the baby against her shoulder, murmuring nonsense as she did so. Beatrice, still sucking on her fist, seemed to be falling asleep.
“Ah,” Anna said. “Another rose. I do like Mr. Thorne’s style. I assume the rose is from him? A bouquet was being delivered as I was coming through the hall just now. A very large one. I am guessing it is for you, Jessica, and that it is from Mr. Rochford again. He is paying quite determined court to you. He scarcely left your side last evening except when you were at the pianoforte with Mr. Thorne.”
“It was very gratifying,” Jessica’s mother murmured. “And he was very deferential to Mama and Aunt Edith.”
“A little too deferential?” Jessica said, and her eyes met her brother’s across the table. He raised his eyebrows. “What do you know of his c
ousin, Avery?”
“His cousin?” he said. “The missing earl, do you mean? Next to nothing except that he is missing and presumed dead.”
“His name was Gabriel,” Jessica said—and, when his eyebrows remained aloft, “It is Mr. Thorne’s name too.”
“Ah,” he said. “Are you seeing some intrigue at work, Jess? Are they one and the same, do you suppose?” He waggled his eyebrows at her.
“I do not suppose it for a single moment,” she said. “Gabriel is hardly a unique name.”
“Quite so,” he said, but his eyes remained thoughtfully upon her while Anna talked of Mr. Thorne’s playing last night.
“I could listen to him for a whole evening without growing weary,” she said. “Did you notice, Jessica, that his eyes were closed much of the time while he played Bach and there was a slight frown between his brows? It was clear he felt the music right down to the depths of his soul.”
“I did notice,” Jessica said. “I was very glad I had played first.”
“Until now,” Anna said, “you have resisted all attempts to pay you serious court, Jessica. Is this year to change all that? With Mr. Rochford and his charm and his lavish compliments and large bouquets, perhaps? Or with Mr. Thorne and his mysterious silences and single roses and heavenly music? With both?”
“Or perhaps with neither,” Jessica said. “Are you tired of having me forever underfoot, then, Anna?”
“Oh heavens,” Anna cried, reaching across the distance between them to squeeze Jessica’s hand. “Never. Oh, absolutely not, Jessica. I could never have too much family. Nor could I love the one I have more deeply than I do. That was not my meaning at all.”
“I know it was not,” Jessica assured her, squeezing her hand back.