by Mary Balogh
The English aristocracy was a remarkable breed, Gabriel discovered over the next half hour while they partook of a sumptuous breakfast—the hotel cooks and kitchen staff had probably been up half the night preparing it, he guessed with a twinge of guilt. They conversed easily and with apparent interest on a number of topics, which ranged from politics to foreign affairs, from the newest books and pamphlets to the opera, from the state of the crops on their various estates to—yes—the weather. Anyone listening in, as the manager and waiters no doubt did as they carried in an endless supply of food and removed plates and dishes and poured coffee, would have assumed that this was a mere social gathering.
It was not until the table had been cleared of all except their coffee cups and the cream and sugar and a large pot of fresh coffee that they got down to business.
“First things first,” Riverdale said. “Those papers are locked up in the safe in your study, Netherby?”
“I can safely report,” Netherby said, “that they are quite perfectly safe in the safe.”
Bertie smirked and Dirkson chuckled.
“And Miss Beck and the groom from Brierley—Ned Higgins, I believe?—are prepared to testify in a court of law if necessary, Lyndale?” Riverdale asked. “And Mrs. Clark?”
“I would not allow Mrs. Clark to be called in person as a witness,” Gabriel said. “Her letter, witnessed by her father and her husband, will have to do.”
“Yes,” Jessica said. “I agree.”
“Oh,” Anna said. “And so do I. One knows very well what would happen if she were dragged into court. Soon everything that happened would be her fault.”
Netherby’s well-manicured, beringed hand covered hers briefly on the table, Gabriel noticed.
“Mrs. Clark’s letter—in her own handwriting, I assume, Lyndale?” the Marquess of Dorchester began, and paused, eyebrows raised.
Gabriel nodded.
“And witnessed by her male relatives,” Dorchester continued, “is surely proof enough first that Lyndale did not ravish her or father her child, and second that Manley Rochford did—by overpowering her and proceeding without her consent. You are safe on that charge. On the second you are safe too since you have an alibi, to which two witnesses are prepared to testify. But—is there any proof that Manley Rochford committed the murder?”
“It was almost certainly either Manley or Philip Rochford, my cousin,” Gabriel said. “He died seven years ago. Hence my title and my return to England. His version of events died with him, though both he and Manley swore to my uncle that they had seen me commit the crime. Both joined him in urging me to flee. Perhaps they were afraid their story would not hold up in court. But I am afraid probability would not bring a conviction in court. There were no other witnesses that I know of and therefore there is no proof beyond all reasonable doubt that one or the other of them shot Orson Ginsberg in the back.”
“And so,” Wren said, “even if he can be convicted on the one charge, on the other he cannot be. Which is exactly why we all came here this morning, Gabriel. If justice is to be meted out, or an approximation of justice, then it must be done in a different way.”
“A bloodthirsty wife you have there, Alexander,” Molenor said, but he was nodding approvingly at her.
“I like to see justice done, Uncle Thomas,” she told him. “Not only is Mr. Manley Rochford a—a ravisher and a murderer, but he is also willing to commit a second, judicial, murder by framing Gabriel and sending him to the gallows. He must not be allowed to creep home, his only punishment being his disappointment over not gaining the earldom. And he is still the heir to that earldom. You had better watch your back, Gabriel.”
“You are so very right about everything, Wren,” Anna said.
“Hear, hear,” Bertie said. “Will he creep back home?”
“He had not made any move to do so up to the time we came here,” Netherby said. “My man outside his house and the one outside his carriage house had a tedious night. So did the mysterious stranger who also had an eye on the house.”
“Stranger?” Gabriel frowned.
“Alas,” Netherby said. “My man was unable to identify him when he spotted him. And then he disappeared—or seemed to.”
“We are on it,” Riverdale assured Gabriel.
“What I would like to do at the very least, with apologies to the ladies,” Gabriel said, “is pound Manley Rochford to a pulp. Bertie, will you serve as my second?”
Jessica, he noticed without actually turning his head in her direction, clapped both hands over her mouth.
“It would be my pleasure, Gabe,” Bertie assured him.
“You are right about this not being appropriate for the hearing of ladies,” Dirkson said. “Remember that Rochford would have the choice of weapons if you were the challenger, Lyndale.”
“Women, Charles,” Anna said, “are not such delicate creatures as men believe. But . . . surely there is an alternative? Duels are not the answer to everything.”
“They are not, Anna,” Dorchester agreed. “Unfortunately they are the only answer to some things.”
“How good are you with a pistol, Lyndale?” Molenor asked.
That was when Jessica’s forehead thumped onto the table, narrowly missing her coffee cup. She had fainted.
* * *
* * *
By the time Jessica returned to full consciousness and convinced Ruth that she had no intention of being an invalid for the rest of the day or even for one more minute, Gabriel was no longer in their suite of rooms. Apparently the breakfast meeting was over and everyone had dispersed.
It seemed a little suspicious to her that neither Anna nor Wren at the very least had insisted upon coming with her when Gabriel apparently had carried her unconscious form upstairs. It was also very suspicious that he had not remained himself to hover at her bedside. Instead he had disappeared the moment she stirred but before her mind was clear enough to allow her to do anything constructive with her consciousness—like make him swear upon his most sacred honor that he would not be fighting any duels.
When Ruth had finished tidying her dress and repairing the damage to her hair, Jessica stepped into the sitting room and found Mary waiting quietly for her there.
“Mary! Do you know what’s happening? Gabriel has gone out to find Manley Rochford and challenge him to a duel and shoot him,” Jessica cried in a voice that sounded frantic even to her own ears. “But instead, he is the one who will end up shot. I have to go out and find—”
“Now, dear, calm down. Gabriel had to go out on some quick business,” Mary told her, sounding infuriatingly calm. “Just some very tedious business of the sort men always have to see about. He will be back here before we are, I daresay.”
“Before we are?” Jessica asked, determinedly ignoring the buzzing in her ears. She was not going to faint again. How very humiliating that she had done so earlier, and in front of half her family, who would by now have carried the delightful news home to the other half. Anna and Wren had behaved like warriors during that meeting, while she had . . . fainted. But it was not their husbands who were about to have their brains blown out.
“Well, Jessica,” Mary was saying, smiling, “your dear grandmama and her sister are taking me out to show me the Tower of London and Westminster Abbey, and then we are going to a tea shop, which is apparently very fashionable. And you are to come with us. This is such a treat for me. Who would have thought I would ever be in London and attending a masquerade ball and visiting the Tower of London with the Dowager Countess of Riverdale? All my animals will be very impressed indeed when I tell them about it.”
“Mary,” Jessica said, sitting down on a sofa before she could fall down. She knew just what was going on, of course. There was no way on earth Mary could be this insensitive while smiling so very placidly at her. “I cannot go.”
“Yes,” Mary said. “You can and y
ou will, my dear. You are the Countess of Lyndale. You are the sister of the Duke of Netherby—and what a very formidable gentleman he is, by the way. I like him exceedingly well. Gabriel wishes you to accompany us. And my dear Jessica, there will be no pistols. No bullets. He assured me of that, and he asked me to assure you. He advised me to tell you that I do not lie. And he is right. I do not.”
Jessica sucked in a breath and let it out slowly.
She was the Countess of Lyndale, Mary had reminded her. More to the point and from long experience, she was Lady Jessica Archer. Mary did not tell lies. But perhaps Gabriel had lied to Mary. No. Surely, surely he would not have done that if there was any risk that someone—Avery? Alexander? Anna?—might have to come here later to tell her he had been shot through the heart in a duel.
But he was without any doubt up to something. Something he did not want her to know about, or he would not have dashed away in such a hurry before she could question him. But it was not that. He would not be so rash anyway, for it must have occurred to him—and to all her family members who had been here for breakfast, and even to Mr. Vickers—that if he died in a duel, Manley Rochford would become the Earl of Lyndale after all. It would have occurred to Gabriel that it was his duty to remain alive at least long enough to beget a son.
She would kill him anyway with her bare hands the next time she saw him.
Unconsciously she adjusted her posture and raised her chin.
“You will love the Tower of London, Mary,” she said. “And Westminster Abbey. So will I. I have not made a visit to either for at least a year or two.”
As for the tearoom . . . Well, she would think of that when the time came. At the moment the very thought of food or even a cup of tea made her want to vomit.
“You are a very dear and brave young lady,” Mary said. “Gabriel is a fortunate man.”
* * *
* * *
Gabriel had spent a busy few hours, though it was not easy to keep his mind off Jessica. He had tried to keep her from attending that meeting, but of course she had insisted. The last thing he had expected her to do, however, was faint. And she had been out cold. Some chafing of the wrists by Anna while one of her uncles had fanned her face with a napkin had done nothing to bring her around. Gabriel had scooped her up in his arms and carried her back to their suite.
His first instinct had been to send for her mother. When Horbath had gone to fetch Ruth, however, Mary had come with her. Leaving her with Mary was leaving her in very safe hands indeed. And leave he must, before Jessica had recovered enough to interrogate him on his intentions. He waited just until she was stirring back to consciousness and both Ruth and Mary assured him that she would be perfectly fine after a little rest. Mary had come out to the sitting room with him and told him that the Dowager Countess of Riverdale and her sister had very kindly offered to show her some of London today.
“I could cancel the outing without suffering any great disappointment,” she said. “But I believe it would be better, Gabriel, to go and to take Jessica with us.”
“An excellent idea,” he said after a moment’s thought. “I will call upon the dowager and inform her of the slight change in plan and the reason for it.”
“Gabriel,” she said as he took his hat and gloves from Horbath, “you will remember, will you not, that all life is sacred, even that of a miscreant?”
“I will remember,” he told her, looking steadily at her. “He will not die at my hands, Mary, and I cannot take the risk of dying at his. Much depends upon my staying alive, at least for a while.”
No, he could not challenge Manley to a duel. As had been pointed out at breakfast, that would give Manley the advantage of having choice of weapons. And Manley had grown up with a gun in his hands. Gabriel, on the other hand, had not. Anyway, a duel was an affair of honor between two gentlemen. Manley did not deserve a duel. Gabriel regretted even mentioning it now, but it had been in the heat of anger.
He called upon Jessica’s grandmother and great-aunt and gave them a brief summary of the morning’s meeting. He discovered from them exactly where they planned to go with Mary and at approximately what time they expected to arrive at each place. And he told them he would be obliged to them if they would stay away from Hyde Park.
“We will certainly do so,” the dowager assured him, giving him a hard look. “But do remember, Gabriel, that in a duel it is just as likely that the aggrieved party will be shot dead as the offender. I would not wish to see my granddaughter widowed so soon after she has become a bride.”
“There will be no guns, ma’am,” he assured her, “and no shootings. No deaths.”
“I am almost sorry to hear it,” she told him. “But go now. Edith and I need to get ready for a day of pleasure.”
He went to Sir Trevor Vickers’s house next. Bertie had told him at breakfast that his mother was going to call upon Mrs. Rochford this morning.
She had indeed gone and was already back home.
“She received me, Gabriel,” Lady Vickers told him after she had asked about Jessica and been assured that she was recovering from her swoon and was in very good hands. “I sympathized with her over the ordeal she suffered last evening. My sympathy was genuine. She thanked me profusely for calling on her. No one else has. Not yet, anyway. Perhaps later. But that may be too late. I went mainly because I felt dreadfully sorry for the woman last evening. But I went also because both Trevor and Bertie felt that you needed to know if Mr. Rochford plans to leave London in a hurry to avoid any further inquiry into his own behavior all those years ago. And yes, Gabriel. Although there was nothing in the hall downstairs to suggest an imminent departure, upstairs in Mrs. Rochford’s sitting room, where she received me, there was a pile of packed trunks and bandboxes outside what must have been her dressing room. And I could hear activity inside there all the time we spoke. I do believe they are planning to leave tomorrow or even perhaps today.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, taking both her hands in his and squeezing them.
She sighed. “Why is it,” she asked him, “that it is always the women who suffer? Do not make your wife suffer, Gabriel. She is far too young to be a widow.”
“I do not know what Bertie has told you,” he said, “but there will be no pistols at dawn, I assure you, ma’am. Or at any other time of day either.”
“Just remember,” she told him, “that only you stand between him and the earldom he has so craved, Gabriel. Watch yourself. Please.”
“I will.” He kissed the back of one of her hands.
Bertie went with him when he left the house. They proceeded to Archer House, as planned hastily when Gabriel was carrying Jessica from the private parlor at the hotel. While Bertie was shown into Netherby’s study, however, Gabriel was asked to step up to the drawing room, where Anna and Jessica’s mother were awaiting him.
“Jessica will be fine,” Gabriel assured them before they could even ask. “She was conscious before I left, and she is in excellent hands. Her maid is very competent, as I am sure you know. And Mary has healing powers that extend to all living beings.”
“Jessica is not a deer or a horse,” the dowager duchess said tartly. “But Ruth I know I can depend upon. I have never known Jessica to faint. I daresay the prospect of your being shot dead in a duel was too much for her sensibilities. I suppose she cares for you.”
She was on the verge of tears, Gabriel could see, but like her daughter—on most occasions—she had herself well under control and looked every inch the duchess.
“And I care for her,” he said. “There will be no duel. No pistols. No deaths.”
“There is a veritable army of Westcotts downstairs in Avery’s study,” Anna told him. “We have been excluded, of course. We are mere women.”
“One woman fainted this morning, Anna,” her mother-in-law reminded her, “because she was included and realized there was a possibility
that her husband of less than a week could have his brains blown out before today ends.”
“But as Avery pointed out to us when we got home, Mother,” her daughter-in-law said, “Gabriel cannot afford to die just yet. If Mr. Manley Rochford could avoid prosecution, he would become the Earl of Lyndale after all, and that is unthinkable.”
“Hmph,” the dowager said. “You had better go down and join them, Gabriel. They are all doubtless bristling with ideas. But I will tell you this. That man deserves to be strung up by his thumbs.”
“I will keep it in mind,” Gabriel said, and he grinned at them—Jessica’s mother and her sister-in-law—before he left the room and went downstairs.
Good God! Every man who either was a Westcott or had some familial connection to them must be in the study. Plus Bertie. In addition to those who had been at the breakfast meeting, there were Colin, Lord Hodges; Molenor’s sons, Boris and Peter Wayne; Dorchester’s son, Bertrand Lamarr; and Dirkson’s son, Adrian Sawyer. All of them grim faced.
“They are packed and ready to leave,” Gabriel told them after nodding his greeting to the group.
“My men on the morning shift are keeping a close eye,” Netherby said. “No actual movement yet.”
“He has been thoroughly humiliated,” Hodges said. “And masterful choreography there, may I add, Lyndale. But he has probably concluded that it is unlikely he is facing imminent arrest. He is not likely to be convicted upon a thirteen-year-old rape charge, after all. As Elizabeth pointed out to me last night, it rarely happens. Enough doubt will be cast by any defense lawyer worth his salt to suggest that the encounter was consensual or that the woman lied about the identity of her assailant. As to murder, well, all the evidence is purely circumstantial. Unfortunately. There were no witnesses.”
“Proving Lyndale innocent is the easy part,” Dorchester said in full agreement. “Proving Rochford guilty is virtually impossible. Even his false claim to have seen Lyndale commit the murder can be explained by the fact that he was observing from a distance and was simply mistaken. His urging of Lyndale to flee can be explained by familial fondness.”