Notorious

by Minerva Spencer

  “I assure you, I can. And I will.”

  She sputtered. “He is not my lover.”

  “I am pleased to hear it.”

  “This is draconian! You think you can control whom I see and whom I befriend?”

  “Yes.” The hard glint in his eye sent a shiver of fear up her spine.

  “And what about you?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. Do I get a say about whom you see?”

  He chuckled, appearing genuinely amused.

  “Why are you laughing? That was a serious question.”

  He leaned toward her, his face as hard and pitiless as the falcon he so resembled. “Then here is a serious answer: no.”

  “So you may keep as many lovers as you want and I can do—”

  “Nothing.” The glint in his eyes was mean—hurtful. “And you had better accustom yourself to that fact.”

  Her hands were shaking, and she clasped them tightly together. “Why are you acting like this?” she said, disgusted by the pleading in her voice. “I have done nothing wrong. Why are you behaving this way? I thought you said you wished to—”

  He shot to his feet and shoved back his chair so hard it skittered across the smooth marble and clattered against the sideboard. She sprang to her feet, her mouth hanging open.

  “What did you think, tell me? You thought I wished to make something of this marriage? Whatever gave you that idea? A single evening of sex? A pot of tea in your bedchamber?”

  Drusilla’s head spun. Had it only been yesterday when he’d been so kind to her?

  “Yes, only yesterday,” he said, making her realize she’d spoken out loud. His lips became thin, his expression one of barely repressed fury. “Before I saw Rowland leaving through our garden gate last night.”

  Drusilla grabbed the back of the chair to steady herself.

  “Ah, yes. Now I believe you understand.”

  “It is not what you think, Gabriel.” Even to her ears, the words sounded weak.

  He strode toward her, not stopping until he loomed over her. “You know what I think?”

  She could imagine. “No,” she whispered.

  “I think you could have come to me last night and told me of his visit—or even this morning. Or perhaps you could have sent him away in the first place, told him you refused to see him at any time, but most especially at two o’clock in the morning. You wouldn’t even need to speak to him to tell him that—we keep servants for that purpose. But what did I see?” He did not wait for an answer. “The moment I am out of the house, the two of you come rushing to each other—lurking together in the dead of night. Two conspirators—two lovers—meeting in the dark.” He leaned even closer, until she could clearly see the shards of green and gold, his pupils mere pinpricks.

  Drusilla saw no trace of the man she’d flirted with at the Renwick ball, the man who’d defended her against the sharp claws of Lucinda Kittridge, the man who’d said such lovely words and done such intimate things to her.

  The knowledge that much of this was her fault came crashing down on her. She had rejected his kindness yesterday and last night had met a man he believed to be her lover in his garden. That at least she could straighten out.

  She laid a hand on his arm, which was as hard as steel beneath the fine wool of his coat. “Please, Gabriel.”

  His lips tightened, but he did not snatch his arm away.

  “I am not—”

  “I had hoped we could make something of our lives together. I had hoped we might build something out of the mess Visel created for us. But now I see I was just a fool.” His eyes brimmed with disgust, disappointment, and something else—regret?

  “I will not be made a cuckold, Drusilla. I will kill Rowland before I allow that to happen.” He turned from her and strode toward the door.

  Drusilla could only stare in mute horror as he swung open the door and slammed it shut behind him. Leaving her alone with the mess she had made.

  * * *

  Gabriel kept seeing her white, shocked face. Her huge, terror-stricken eyes.

  “So what?” he said aloud, although there was only himself to answer. He turned to the grimy hack window and stared out onto the street, trying to block the image from his mind. He’d only done and said what she deserved. He felt like a fool for having tried to make an effort to salvage their faux marriage. He had ended his relationship with two women he liked very much; he had forgiven her incessant slights; he’d swallowed his regret at being forced into a lifelong union with a woman not of his choosing and had entered into their marriage with an open mind even after she picked at him and picked at him and looked at him as if he were lower than the dirt on her shoes. Even when he had caught her holding hands with her lover after they were betrothed.

  And this was what he received in return: his wife meeting with a man who clearly held intentions toward her—in his very own garden!

  He’d gritted his teeth until his jaw ached. The hackney slowed and then stopped. A glance out the window told him he was nowhere near Rowland’s lodgings. The vent opened.

  “Sorry, gov, but there’s a bleedin’ mess in the road.”

  Gabriel opened the door and looked ahead. A wagon filled with barrels appeared to have collided with a mail coach.

  Gabriel hopped out and flipped a coin up to the driver. “I shall walk.”

  “Aye,” the bent old man muttered, “I might join ye.”

  He decided to leave the main street, which was rapidly devolving into chaos. It would take a little longer and he would come out a few streets behind the square where Rowland kept lodgings, but, to be honest, Gabriel was in no hurry.

  He was in a devil of a mood and didn’t trust himself with the other man. Not only did he not wish to kill anyone, but he’d look a terrible fool getting into another duel less than a week after his last one.

  Another image of his wife’s stricken face flickered through his head.

  “Dammit to hell,” he muttered, ignoring the startled look of a pair of young men who just happened to be passing.

  Perhaps she’d not been doing anything improper with Rowland. In the garden. At two o’clock in the morning.

  Gabriel gave a brief, scathing laugh and stopped at a busy street to wait for a coach to pass.

  What if the only thing she’d felt guilty about was being caught? a caustic inner voice demanded. What if she had an explanation but you wouldn’t stop long enough to hear it?

  Gabriel handed a penny to a young street sweeper, who scampered off, and gestured for an older woman dressed in the clothing of a governess to precede him. She nodded primly and followed the urchin.

  Once across, he took a right and then an immediate left into a mews that led to the square. He was stopped at an unexpected split in the narrow alley, wondering which way to turn, when a voice he recognized came from up ahead.

  “Dammit, Theo, what the devil could you have been thinking?”

  Gabriel experienced a distinct déjà vu: Hadn’t the same thing happened to him less than twelve hours ago?

  Not exactly the same: this time two men stepped out of a doorway onto the cobbles. Once again Gabriel sidestepped back into the other alley, peering around the corner.

  Visel had stopped and was looking down at his boot, which he was cleaning on a metal scraper embedded between cobblestones for that very purpose.

  Gabriel couldn’t see the other man’s face as he appeared to be locking the door.

  “I’ve told you to put an end to whatever it was you’ve been scheming with the woman,” Visel said, his tone that of a man who was delivering a familiar lecture. “You were just to go there, be seen by him, and leave. Trust me, I will pay you enough to make it worth your while.”

  The second man turned to the first, and Gabriel wasn’t surprised to see it was Theodore Rowland.

  “But I merely need two more signatures, Godric.” Rowland was speaking in a whiny, snively voice that made Gabriel’s foot twitch to kick him.

  Vis
el gave his boot one last scrape and frowned down at it before turning back to the other man. “I don’t give a damn what you need. Just do what I bloody tell you.” He set off down the alley without waiting for an answer. “Don’t get in the middle of this, Theo. This is about more than just money.”

  “I know, I know,” Rowland said in a placatory tone, his voice becoming fainter. “There is Marlington. I understand. But I don’t understand why—”

  Gabriel couldn’t hear the rest of what he said and there was no chance of following the two men without being seen. He watched until they turned onto the square and disappeared from sight. No doubt they were headed to Rowland’s rooms. Gabriel went to the door Rowland had locked and saw through the cutout that it led to some stalls and a small covered courtyard; a shared mews.

  He turned to stare at the empty alleyway, as if that might give him some answers to the questions whirling around in his head.

  Just what the devil was Visel up to now and how did it involve Gabriel?

  He took a deep breath and released it slowly while staring down the empty alley. He knew one thing: he could not go to the man and tell him to stay away from Drusilla—at least not until he knew what it was Rowland and Visel were up to.

  He couldn’t confront him, but he’d damned well keep an eye on both of them.

  Gabriel’s head had begun to ache. Just what was going on?

  Nothing came to mind—nothing at all.

  The only thing he knew for certain was that Visel and Rowland were up to something and, whatever it was, it involved Gabriel’s wife.

  Chapter 17

  Drusilla paced the three rooms that comprised her domain, back and forth. Back and forth. She’d had Fletcher dress her for dinner and then dismissed her. The last thing she wanted was a witness to her mood.

  Her mood: That was inaccurate. The truth was she was having moods. Her moods were swinging from one extreme to another every few minutes. She had been as taut as a spring since breakfast, and the day had been a miserable blur.

  She could not bear it.

  One minute she was making plans for escaping Gabriel. She could run away—to Europe, now that the war was over, or even to America, where nobody would know her. She certainly had enough money to do such a thing.

  But there was her Aunt Vi.

  The older lady was too ill to travel and Drusilla knew she wouldn’t wish to leave England even if she could. Her aunt was visibly excited about moving to Bath at the end of the Season. So that would mean Drusilla would need to leave alone. It was not ideal, but the option was available—if things became too unbearable.

  Thanks to Gabriel’s generosity with their marriage contract, she was in full control of all but a portion of her money—the money set aside for any children.

  Children.

  Even if she remained in England, it was likely they would never have children. At least not together.

  She pressed her cool hands to her hot cheeks but did not slow her pacing.

  Was she jealous he had an illegitimate child? Drusilla had examined her conscience on the question at least a hundred times. The answer, she was sure, was no. That had relieved her—it would have been unbearable if she’d been petty enough to blame an innocent little boy for his situation. She was, however, angry at Gabriel and the irresponsibility of his action. His son would have to bear the stigma of illegitimacy his entire life.

  Drusilla knew how Gabriel struggled with the label in England. Of course, he’d been something of a prince in his own country—surely where this child had been conceived—so probably the specter of illegitimacy had not been an issue. Besides, his father had been a sultan—the ruler of his people. No doubt it was like England, where it was prestigious to be the bastard child of a king.

  She could never be happy that Gabriel had had many other lovers and had even had a child by one. But the fact that he could believe she would take out her anger on an innocent child? That she would believe the boy should be raised anywhere but with his father? What kind of monster did he think she was?

  Drusilla stopped in front of her dressing room mirror and stared at her reflection, searching for whatever it was in her face that would make him believe she could act so cruelly toward a child.

  All she saw was a woman with purple circles beneath her eyes from lack of sleep. Her pale skin—skin he had praised as beautiful—broadcast her exhaustion as plainly as a torch on a moonless night.

  But that wasn’t all.

  Nasty thoughts pushed up like weeds between cobbles: What about the rest of what he said, Drusilla? What about that? What about those two mistresses who must have the boy right now? What does a man do with two women at one time . . .

  “Oh, stop!” she cried, slumping onto the padded bench in front of her dressing table and dropping her head into her hands. It ate at her that he would not introduce her to his son, that he would keep the child with . . . Drusilla could not say the words out loud even though the women were indelibly etched in her mind after the play she’d been forced to watch. Jealousy and anger surged again at the thought of being forced to watch his mistresses. She told herself it was not his fault—he’d not been the one to arrange the evening. It had been the Duke of Tyndale. The thought should have calmed her, but her anger was joined by hurt, and that was much harder to forget or ignore.

  She could not live this way. If he planned on flaunting his multitudinous affairs, she would—

  “Drusilla?”

  She looked up to find Gabriel standing in the opening, dressed for dinner. She must have been so distracted she’d not even heard him come in.

  “I knocked, but there was no answer.” He sounded as emotionless as he looked. “Are you ready?”

  She stood, her legs watery. “Could we take just a moment?”

  He hesitated, but then stepped back and gestured to his room. Drusilla followed him though the dressing room, bedchamber, and into his study. It was very similar to hers, but decorated in soothing shades of brown and forest green. Two overstuffed leather chairs faced each other in front of the dormant fireplace.

  “Please, sit.”

  Her pulse was pounding in her throat and she hoped he did not see it. “I wanted to explain something to you.”

  He raised his eyebrows and crossed one black pantaloon-sheathed leg over the other.

  “It is about Mr. Rowland.”

  His lips tightened, but he did not speak.

  “I did not know he was coming last night.” She chewed her bottom lip. “I had forgotten all about the message he sent the night of our”—she broke off—“well, the message he sent the night we were married. I’m afraid that with everything else, it slipped my mind.” She ignored his skeptical look and rushed on. “The message was still in my dressing gown.” Drusilla held the paper, which she’d folded into a tiny rectangle, in her palm and offered it to him. “Please, read it.”

  While he unfolded and read the letter, Drusilla smoothed her skirt. The gown was one of her favorites, although it was nothing particularly special. The color, a pearly off-white, was accented with a navy-blue sash that ran beneath her breasts, somehow managing to make them look far less conspicuous. It was probably old-fashioned and too modestly cut, but she believed it suited her generous figure.

  She heard paper rustling and looked up to see him refolding the letter.

  “When I found and read the letter, I sent him one in return—a letter saying I forgave him, but that he should no longer send me messages or attempt to meet me in private.” She swallowed, needing to prepare for this next part. “Apparently he was anxious that he’d not received a response. So he came here last night and delivered a note to Thomas and then waited in the garden.” She took a deep breath and exhaled. “I told him the same thing I said in my letter. Additionally, I told him it would be better if he left the group entirely. He asked to attend one more meeting and then agreed he would leave.”

  Gabriel handed her the letter, his face still shuttered.

  Dru
silla could not tolerate the silence, the suspicion, no matter that she might deserve it.

  “Do you believe me?” She held her breath while he stared at her—into her.

  “Yes, I believe you.”

  Drusilla dropped her head and closed her eyes, concentrating on breathing. She thought she might faint she was so relieved.

  “I am glad you told me this, but I am also curious.” She looked up. “Would you have done so if I had not confronted you?”

  Her face heated, but she wanted to be honest. “I would not have spoken of the matter.”

  To her surprise, he gave a dry chuckle. “Well, at least you are truthful.”

  “The reason I would not have told you is that I couldn’t believe you would credit such a story as true.” She laced her hands together and then unlaced them. “I hope you don’t mind that I’ve allowed him to come to one last meeting.”

  He shook his head, his eyes dark and serious, but his expression was no longer as hard as granite.

  “And I want you to know that I have done as you said and have written a letter to Jenkins to explain about the work Mr. Rowland began in Birmingham and Leeds. He responded to say he would put one of his men on it immediately.” She exhaled a gusty sigh. “I should have done this from the beginning. But I was so excited about the notion of setting up more houses.”

  He stood, closing the distance between them, holding out his hand and helping her to her feet.

  “There is one more thing.”

  “Oh?” He went still, as if he were girding himself.

  “It is not more bad news. I just wanted to say I am pleased you will bring your son to live with us.”

  His hand tightened almost painfully on hers, and she winced.

  “I’m sorry.” He released her.

  “You didn’t hurt me.” She forced herself to meet his eyes for her next words. “I told myself not to be insulted by what you said at breakfast—that you believed I would protest the fact you wished to be near your own child. I told myself you were thinking I possessed the sensibilities of a lady of the ton. But the truth is, you married a hardheaded woman of the merchant class. And also a woman who is concerned about the plight of the weak and dispossessed. What kind of a person would I be if I wished my husband to abandon his own flesh and blood?”