It was Gabriel who deserved the truth, of course. But as the afternoon shadows lengthened, it occurred to Alethea that her dark knight seemed to have disappeared. Perhaps he did not want to intrude on feminine chitchat. Perhaps he was talking to her brother.
Her intuition whispered otherwise.
And when shortly afterward Lord Drake approached the ladies’ circle, now enlivened by the presence of Jane, the Marchioness of Sedgecroft, and Alethea’s own cousin, Lady Pontsby, she acknowledged the cold breath of foreboding. It chilled her bones.
Lord Drake’s eyes bespoke unwelcome, but not unexpected, news. “Alethea,” he began, giving his wife, Eloise, an intimate smile before he bent to kiss Alethea’s hand, “I have been asked to deliver a message to you.”
For several moments she did not hear for the disconcerting surge of blood to her temples. There was a touch of embarrassment in Drake’s eyes that she could not misinterpret.
She knew.
Gabriel had abandoned her, and his own cousin, a reformed rakehell himself, had been sent to make excuses. How many times had he done this? To how many other heartsick young ladies?
“Where did he go?” she asked softly.
“He met up with some friends who reminded him of a prior obligation.”
She felt a flush of unpleasant heat suffuse her face. Gambling, she decided. Or another woman. Perhaps both. She suddenly remembered why she had always preferred the quiet life to the masquerade of London society. At least her horses and country neighbors did not abandon her at the first temptation.
“I see,” she said after an uncomfortable lapse of silence.
“Well, I don’t,” Lady Pontsby said, studying Alethea in concern. “I understood he wished to speak with our mutual families in private later this evening. This must have been a pressing obligation, indeed, that he did not make a proper farewell.”
“Perhaps he plans to return before the party is over?” Jane asked, her gaze upon Drake’s face.
He coughed. “I couldn’t say. I didn’t think to inquire. The reminder of this prior duty came upon him as rather a surprise.”
Jane glanced up at Alethea with a comforting smile. She was the daughter of an earl herself, a woman who might have become notorious had she not married her scoundrel marquess. “Did it? Well, we shall enjoy ourselves without him. London has been deprived of Alethea’s company for far too long to waste a minute missing Gabriel. Do you remember, Alethea, the dance you and I attended at which a certain countess dressed as a man and challenged her husband to a duel because he did not recognize her?”
Alethea dredged up a smile. “I couldn’t forget.”
It seemed difficult to believe that not long ago in actual years, Alethea had enjoyed a certain popularity in the ton. True, she had not visited London as often as a fashionable young lady should to make a decent show. But then, she’d had no need to hunt a husband or to parade up and down Rotten Row with her chaperone at a certain hour. She had been engaged to the perfect gentleman. She had cantered across the country hills of her home at her leisure and had taken sincere comfort in the fellowship of her neighbors. Her life had been planned by her parents.
It was at once disconcerting and interesting to fling herself back into London’s social arena, unarmed and out of practice as she was. She expected the comments she received on the loss of not only her betrothed but of a stable place in Society. Her well-wishers would have gasped in shock to learn how inured she was to both these genuine and perfunctory expressions of sympathy.
She did not expect, however, to be summarily abandoned by the man who had contrived to place her in this vulnerable position. Nor did the attention his various family members paid her do anything but emphasize the fact that Gabriel had gone off to sins unknown without a word. They knew. What could they say?
“I have every confidence that Sir Gabriel will return before we leave,” Lady Pontsby murmured, sharing a tight smile with Gabriel’s vivacious raven-haired cousin Chloe, who was less adept at hiding her annoyance than Jane.
Chloe lifted her half-empty lemonade glass to the attendant footman. “I don’t care if he doesn’t. I say we find another rogue to take his place. Come with me, Alethea. We shall not sit here and take root like wallflowers while there is fun to be had. It goes against the grain.”
Lady Pontsby rose. “Lead the way, Lady Stratfield.”
Alethea laughed reluctantly. Her heart physically hurt. Why had he done this? An hour ago he had been so playful—but then, he had won. Perhaps that was all he had wanted from the start. “Sir Gabriel does not owe me his attendance. We are merely old friends and recent neighbors.”
“Then let us make new friends,” Chloe said in contagious mischief. “You were a wonderful flirt once, Alethea. I did envy how easily you flitted in and out of Society without a misstep.”
“Yes, but—”
“But now I am a married woman who is possibly carrying a child. I shall live vicariously through my friends. Not that I am complaining about Dominic.”
Gasps arose from the other ladies present. Chloe had miscarried her first child and had taken the loss deeply. Always radiant, she did have an exceptional glow and energy about her.
“I knew it,” Jane said with a jubilant grin. “I told Grayson only this morning.”
“Does your husband know?” Alethea asked, smiling despite her own disappointment. If Gabriel had disappeared, had decided he was not a man meant for marriage, there would not be a betrothal announcement or joyful christenings of their children together. And if Alethea did bear a child, she would raise it alone.
Chloe smiled. “He is in heaven at the thought of the baby.”
“I’m happy for you,” Alethea said, trying not to feel wistful.
“So, you will accompany me?” Chloe said, taking her by the hand. “I’ve told you my secret. Now tell me one of yours, and remember, it is bad luck to deny a lady in my condition.”
In the end, as she had already learned to her detriment, there was really no denying a Boscastle at all. And even though Chloe meant only to atone for Gabriel’s abandonment, Alethea felt the sting all the deeper. He had warned her he wasn’t any good.
It was her own fault if she’d chosen not to believe him.
Chapter Thirty-one
He was back on his familiar playground, plunged into the demimonde’s pleasures, and yet he felt himself to be a stranger. How could that be? He had always been drawn to the darker dens, the danger of London’s secret life, the uncertainty. If he could survive these streets, he could survive anything. He drank little as he and his companions visited a few old haunts. Once he had found the city night world emboldening, the edge he needed to stay alive.
None of it tempted him tonight. Not the assignations conducted in Vauxhall, the affairs in theatre boxes, plots hatched in West End lanes. When had he changed? At Waterloo? The night he’d crossed that bedamned bridge and fallen into something far deeper than a riverbed?
He wanted to go back and undo everything. Perhaps his entire life. He had nothing to show for it except a modest military pension and a country house as shabby as he felt. And what of the woman he had wanted for as long as he could remember?
And he still did, damn his obsession with her. He wished he hadn’t heard, wished her softly spoken words had not driven a knife through his heart. What if she had had a good reason for associating with Audrey Watson?
He walked past the two prize pugilists who guarded the door of the high-class hell. The heavily shuttered establishment catered to noblemen who preferred to gamble in a more dangerous atmosphere than the usual gentlemen’s clubs.
He approached the hazard table and welcomed the rush of anticipation that raced through his veins. A game of dice with a good profit. His pigeon, a young gentleman who’d turned his silk-lined coat inside out for luck, was flushed with porter and false bravado.
Gabriel smiled bitterly over his shoulder at the Mortlock brothers. “I can’t fleece that fool. He’s an infant. Hi
s mama will flay me. I cannot believe I left my cousin’s birthday celebration for this.”
Not to mention the woman whose deceptive sweetness invaded his mind at every moment. Hell. He’d lived without her most of his life. How difficult would it be to pretend he did not need her now?
“Look, if you play, you’ll have something to give him,” Erwin Mortlock said from behind.
Gabriel looked up in irritation. “Who are you talking about?”
“Your cousin, the marquess. You can buy him a pretty birthday present now with what you’ll win here. We’ll all go back to the party later.”
“You can buy me a gift, too,” his brother added with a grin.
A waiter wearing a black apron approached the three men and bowed. “Sir Gabriel, I have been asked to invite you downstairs for a private game.”
Gabriel straightened his cuffs. “By whom?”
“Baron Gosfield, sir.”
Gabriel hesitated. The downstairs room of the hell was reserved for more intense wagers of chance. He knew Gosfield only casually, and disliked him.
“What is his request?” he asked.
“Ombre, sir.”
“Go on, Boscastle,” Erwin urged him. “It’s your game.”
Lucky at cards, unlucky at love. He’d never thought to prove or disprove the maxim. The concept of love had meant little. He had always gambled to lose at love affairs. Emotional intimacy had been a door upon which he had refused to knock.
He descended the winding stairs into the murky depths of the private hell. For the first time since he’d approached a green baize table and sized up an opponent, he knew a moment of uncertainty. It passed. Another chance to prove himself.
Lucky at cards, unlucky at love.
He sat in a chair pulled out for him, his posture relaxed. Gosfield glanced up and appraised him. Gabriel’s blood quickened. He recognized the rivalry masked behind those pleasant features.
“It’s your game,” Erwin said again, sensing the tension between the two players. “You always win.”
He’d thought so too until he’d gambled on another game of chance. He had never bet on battles between dogs or gamecocks, believing that to risk a helpless animal’s life was a coward’s cheat. Concerning his own mortality and welfare, he had always been a bit more careless.
Tonight he didn’t give a damn at all.
Alethea was packing her bags to go home only three hours later in the upstairs suite of her brother’s town house. He and Lady Pontsby had stayed at Grayson’s party and did not expect to leave until the small hours.
Pleading a headache, an excuse that was not an entire fabrication, she had returned to the Cavendish Square address so that she would not have to pretend to be enjoying herself. She saw no point in ruining her family’s pleasure of London because of her private dilemma.
The Boscastle family had done everything to atone for Gabriel’s behavior until she could not bear their kindness another moment. Nor was she particularly heartened by the promise of her gregarious host, Grayson, the Marquess of Sedgecroft, to take Gabriel to task when he got his hands on him.
Alethea would take care of Gabriel herself, if the blackguard ever had the courage to face her again. She was decent with a pistol. Perhaps she would shoot him in the arm or leg should he ever return to the country.
It did not seem likely, however, that she would be given this gratifying chance. If Gabriel could run out on both his own family’s celebration and his promise to her, she doubted she would ever see him again.
Once before in London she had been disenchanted, wounded too deeply for words. But not like this. Gabriel had made her laugh, made her again believe in love. She was too numb to cry. She did not understand. Had everything been a game? She could not believe it.
At least now she would not have to reveal her secret to anyone. How grateful she was to have learned what Gabriel was before she had confessed what Jeremy had done to her.
Chapter Thirty-two
The places to which his jaded imagination led were possibly far worse than the unrevealed truth. For all he knew Alethea had applied for a position as a maid at Mrs. Watson’s seraglio.
But in the scenes his mind conjured up as he flung himself into his town carriage, and throughout the short ride to Grayson’s house and hence to Cavendish Square, he was envisioning Alethea subjecting herself to every manner of degradation and depravity. When he finally reached his destination, he was all but expelling smoke from his nostrils and leaving a trail of brimstone and singed trust in his shadow. And when he instructed his stone-faced coachman to stay, vowing that he would not be long, the fellow merely cracked his whip in the air and urged the horses to the curb.
After he recovered from the initial blow at finding out that Alethea was truly acquainted with Audrey Watson, he had tried to reason with his anger. How much did it matter that Alethea had slept with other men? That she’d considered soliciting her charms to survive? He assumed that that had been her motive. Could he blame Audrey? No, unfortunately. In fact, he’d have to be a damned arsehole of a hypocrite to snub a woman like Audrey, who had befriended his family on more occasions then he could list. But that didn’t mean he wanted her to befriend Alethea.
And while most gentlemen would prefer to bring a maiden home to meet the family’s approval for marriage, Gabriel didn’t have any parents living to impress. His brothers, who had never bothered to keep in touch with him anyway, and who might as well be dead, certainly couldn’t complain of his choice of a bride when he had no bloody idea how to inform them that he was getting married.
He felt the shock she’d dealt him to the marrow of his bones as he ran up the steps of her brother’s London residence. The servants of the household had not bothered to lock the door through which he fairly flew, his black cloak trailing in his wake.
He wagered that after tonight their mistress would stand better guard against the evils that nightfall brought. She would throw all her bolts from this evening on.
He stormed the stairs, his angry strides carrying him past the moonlit gallery to the drawing room without a single soul opening a door, or even an eyelid, in question.
He had no idea what he expected to find—his beloved entertaining seven lovers in seven lurid positions? He was prepared for anything. He doubted she could hurt him more.
The source of Alethea’s misery was banging through the house like a marauder. She gritted her teeth and marched to the top of the stairs. The skeleton staff of household servants in charge of Robin’s London lodgings had ventured from their quarters to stare up at her in bewilderment. She imagined they were terrified that she had brought her unrefined country friends to their door.
One of the footmen raised his voice in distress. “My lady, shall I go for the constable?”
She hurried down the stairs, her shoulders set for a confrontation. “No. I shall deal with this myself.”
“But—”
“Go, please.”
The six of them—two footmen, a butler, the young Scottish housekeeper, and a pair of housemaids—backed away in a collective silence that seemed to scream that Alethea would not survive an encounter with whoever had burst into the house like a beast unleashed.
But strangely, Gabriel’s ill-mannered entry made her all the more determined to stay calm. She was furious at him, all right. And if he had truly lost his mind, it would explain why he’d run out on her today. Not that she would forgive him. She might, however, make an effort to visit him once a month in the asylum. Perhaps she would end up in a cell next to his.
She glanced around to make certain the servants had disappeared, strode down the hall to confront him, and said, “Get into the drawing room this minute, Gabriel, before the night watchman or my brother arrives.”
Her bravado faltered as their gazes locked. He stared at her in bewildering defiance. His black jacket, coat, and cambric shirt, his buttoned waistcoat, appeared rumpled and smelled of brandy and smoke.
“What do you have to
say for yourself?” she demanded, angry at how he’d treated her today, and even more so that he could still make her ache with desire afterward. It was unthinkable. How could she care for a man who had disappointed both her and his family? After what she had suffered at another man’s hand? Was she the one who’d gone mad? Was love a poison that made logic impossible?
He walked right past her toward the drawing room without answering. His gait was languid, insolent perhaps, the graceful stroll of a cavalry officer. When he turned at last, she gasped in dismay. He had a black eye.
“What happened to you?” she whispered. “What have you been doing?”
“I broke up a fight between the Mortlock brothers,” he said curtly. “I should have let them kill themselves. Or me.”
She lifted her head at the clatter of coach wheels that came from the street. “Dear God. That sounds like Robin.”
He put his hand on her shoulder and forced her back to him. “I don’t care if Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves arrive with the Archbishop of Canterbury.”
“Do you care about anything?” she demanded, her eyes locked with his.
“I should think that was obvious.”
“Your ill breeding is all that was obvious today.”
“You’ve known that for years,” he returned with a ruthless smile. “And yet you slept with me and agreed to be my wife.”
She flinched. “I have cared about you for years, but don’t ask me to explain why at this current moment.”
“Yes. I don’t deserve you. I want you anyway.”
He wanted her. She wanted him. There was little solace in realizing these truths. Nor in admitting to herself that his mere presence comforted and threatened at once. She had given herself to Gabriel of her own free choice. The only other man in her life had stolen her love.
Gabriel was at least the devil of her own choosing, and if he had dragged her into his decadent world, she had followed willingly and could only blame herself for the descent.
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