Charity sighed and leaned toward him, keeping her voice low as she said, “I know a bit about what happened … in Parliament, at least,” she spoke quietly, as if she thought she might be overheard.
A red flush colored her son’s face. “And?” he replied, surprised by her words.
“You’re young, Gabriel,” she stated with a shake of her head. “Young and headstrong and full of new ideas. The old lords in Parliament were probably quite offended by your enthusiasm. They have probably forgotten they were the same way when they were your age,” she added with a hint of mischief.
Gabriel regarded his mother with an arched brow. How would his mother know how the old men in Parliament behaved? Before he could even ask, Charity shrugged. “Your father was quite like you when he was your age,” she claimed quietly.
Despite their disagreement, Gabriel smiled and nodded, finally appreciating his mother’s words. “But he probably didn’t father a bastard before he married you,” he countered, his hands going to his knees. When he glanced back at Charity, he couldn’t miss how her face bloomed with a pretty pink that made her appear ten years younger. “Did he?” he added carefully. A sudden thought of half-brothers or sisters had him wondering how many others there might be besides the three his investigator had discovered.
Closing her eyes and pinching her lips tightly, Charity shrugged. “You would have been, had he not married me,” she whispered. When she glanced up to look at her son, she found Gabriel staring at her in disbelief.
Had his father been forced to marry Charity Fitzsimmons because he had taken her virtue and been held accountable? Or had he married her because they were betrothed, and he intended to marry her all along?
“He claimed he wanted to marry me,” Charity said quickly, as if she could read her son’s mind. “But, I have thought many times that he would have preferred my cousin, Temperance,” she added, her eyes suddenly closing against another round of tears.
Cousin Temperance, Gabriel thought quickly. Temperance Fitzsimmons, who had married Stanley Harrington and was now the Countess of Mayfield. She lived in London – in Park Lane, in fact, and would be hosting a ball at the end of the following week.
Alistair Comber was a groom at Mayfield House, Gabriel remembered just then. He briefly wondered how his friend from school was doing. Probably better than me, he thought with a bit of jealousy. Probably bedding every willing maid in the Mayfield household. They probably go to the stables in search of him, he reasoned before realizing his mother was staring at him. “I do not think father felt affection for her,” Gabriel said, knowing he spoke the truth. “But, I think he believed you were too … too good for him,” he managed to get out.
Charity Wellingham stared at her son for a very long time. “Thank you,” she finally replied, unfolding her arms from around her middle and reaching for one of his with her good hand. “So, tell me what your … your Sarah expects of you,” she urged, her bright eyes coming up to meet his.
Sighing, Gabriel shrugged. “She wants Gabe to be educated,” he replied simply.
Her eyebrows rising in surprise, Charity stared at her son. “And?”
“And, nothing,” Gabriel replied with a shake of his head.
“She has not asked for … for money?” she clarified. “An allowance. A house?”
“No.”
“A town coach and matched horses? With a tiger and a groom?” she suggested, thinking that would be a reasonable request.
“No,” Gabriel answered, shaking his head, surprised by his mother’s suggestion. He couldn’t imagine Sarah asking for a coach-and-four.
“She has not asked that you wed her?” Charity wondered, her eyes widening in disbelief.
Gabriel sighed then. “No,” he replied sadly. “I would, though,” he whispered. “If she had broached the subject, I do think we could have come to an agreement in that regard,” he said uncertainly. “I mean, I think I could have convinced her to be my wife,” he clarified, nodding as if he had to convince himself.
Stunned that her son didn’t think himself worthy of a woman employed at a coaching inn, Charity stared at her son intently. When had this sudden lack of confidence developed? Gabriel Wellingham had never lacked confidence, at least, not in matters concerning the ton or in running the earldom. He was quite sure of himself – cocky, even – so it was a bit surprising to find he was unsure in matters of … in matters of the heart.
Perhaps he really did feel affection for this Sarah Cumberbatch.
But did the chit feel any affection for Gabriel? Was Gabriel really the father of her babe? Charity glanced at the miniature her son still held in his palm and realized he truly believed the baby to be his child. If that was truly the case, then did Sarah see him as a source of funds – for the rest of her life and maybe her son’s? Or was she desperate to receive his funds and use them for something other than her son’s education? Or were Gabriel’s claims that she wanted nothing for herself true?
Despite Gabriel’s assurances that Sarah expected nothing for herself, Charity decided she should discover the chit’s true motives. “I will take my leave of Trenton Manor tomorrow,” Charity said then. “Just a short trip. I expect I’ll be back the day after tomorrow,” she added when her son gave her a startled look. His face suddenly brightened.
“Arranging a liaison, no doubt?” he accused, one eyebrow waggling with mischief as he felt relief that she seemed to believe his claims about Sarah.
Her mouth opening in a large ’O’, Charity gave her son a light slap on his hand. “I think not,” she replied with a grin. “I am just paying calls,” she claimed with a nod.
Gabriel nodded. “If I do not see you at breakfast, then safe travels,” he offered, his attention once more on the miniature he held in the palm off his hand.
Charity nodded and excused herself from the salon. “Do try to stay out of trouble, dear,” she replied, realizing she meant every word of the comment.
Chapter 22
A Letter to Mother
Alistair stared at the closed door for several moments after Lady Mayfield took her leave of the parlor. Quite a lady, he thought before turning to regard the blank sheet of parchment she had left on the escritoire.
He realized he had only written one other missive to his mother during his twenty-eight years. That one had been scratched with a poor excuse for charcoal onto paper found in an abandoned hunting lodge somewhere in Belgium. Alistair had discovered the small building whilst making his escape from the group of French soldiers who had captured him and two others while they were on a reconnaissance mission near Merxem.
In an effort to get to the border, the other two had headed north from the enemy encampment near Antwerp while he crept away and followed a path to the south toward Burgerhout. The January air was so cold, his breaths formed white clouds he was sure would be spotted by the enemy. Within an hour of their escape, Alistair heard the pops of distant gunfire and wondered if his comrades had been shot.
Knowing the lodge would be found by his captors if they searched for him, Alistair wrote the quick note to his mother, stuffed it into his uniform pocket, and foraged what he could from the nearly bare cupboards in the lodge. Donning two shirts and a pair of oversized trousers from a heap he found on a cot provided another layer of warmth and a disguise that allowed him to return to his unit with what little information he had obtained.
Although he was technically an officer, his undercover identity didn’t allow him the luxury of the accoutrements afforded most officers in the army. To the others in the unit to which he had been assigned, he was merely another soldier.
It had been just after that mission that his true identity had been discovered by his commanding officer, courtesy the second son of the Duke of Wellsham. The rake had arrived to begin his commission and was rather vocal in his greeting, claiming his surprise that a second son of an earl would be allowed to serve in the British Army as anything other than an officer. His cover blown, the commanding officer
immediately dismissed Alistair, ordering him to return to England.
Alistair never again saw the two men who had been with him in Antwerp.
He gave a start as he realized he’d been wool gathering. Staring at the parchment and then at the nub of the quill he held, he wondered for a moment what to write as a salutation. Dear Lady Aimsley? Madam? My dearest mother, of course, he realized with a shake of his head. It has come to my attention you are concerned for my well-being. Let me assure you I am in good health and spending my days working in service. As to my continued absence from Aimsley Park, his lordship, my father, made it quite clear I was no longer welcome there. My mistakes have been numerous. My current position doesn’t allow me to make mistakes, so I should be in good stead when and if I am ever called to service as an earl. I think of you often. Your son, A.
He lifted his head and wondered how his mother would react when she read the note. Would she be happy? Or would his comments send her running to brow-beat his father? Alistair suppressed a smile at the thought of her poking a perfectly manicured finger into his father’s chest while she accused him of being – he remembered Lady Mayfield’s word for it – irrational.
That thought had him remembering the dance lesson that had ended so badly. At the very least, he owed Lady Julia an apology. How could he have allowed himself to become so upset over something as silly as a dance lesson? Dipping his pen into the inkwell, he added to the note, Postscriptum. I am learning to dance. Apparently, the dance master you employed in my youth taught me how to do it all wrong.
Alistair smiled as he imagined his mother reading the last line. Would she admit to having employed a dance master on his behalf? If he had one, he couldn’t remember much about him. I might be eight-and-twenty, but it’s never too late to learn the right way, I suppose, he considered.
Once the ink was dry, he folded the parchment and tucked the corners so it made its own envelope. On the outside, he wrote The Rt Hon Countess Aimsley before dripping a pool of wax onto the seam. Satisfied with his missive, Alistair covered the inkwell and made his way to the salon door, wondering if Lady Mayfield was still in the vicinity.
A quick glance down the hall showed no one about, so he made his way to the large table near the front door. He added his note to a silver salver that already held a large pile of notes. The stack was far larger than a lady of the house could write in a day, Alistair considered.
And then it dawned on him.
These were the invitations for the ball that Lord and Lady Mayfield would be hosting in less than a fortnight! The ball where Lady Julia intended for him to make his come-out, of sorts. The ball where he would be expected to bow and dance as if he was born to it. As if he was one of the sons of the aristocracy.
As if! he chided himself.
He would have to improve his dancing skills or risk disappointing Lady Julia, he realized. There would be no spending time in the card room, or hiding behind a potted palm, or kissing pretty chits in the gardens. He gave that last thought more consideration.
Maybe just one or two kisses.
Damnation! Two weeks!
Chapter 23
Lady Trenton Takes a Trip
Although a ride to Stretton might have been accomplished in a barouche, Charity Wellingham asked the butler to have the coach-and-four readied for her excursion. She knew staying overnight in the Spread Eagle would require she bring along a maid as well as a driver and a tiger, perhaps even a groom. But the clear skies portended fine weather for the trip, and it had been an age since Charity had been farther than ten miles from Trenton Manor.
She regarded her image in the cheval mirror in her dressing room. The gown she wore was not of the latest fashion, nor was it from the last century. At first, she thought to wear her very finest traveling clothes, intending to intimidate the woman that seemed to have captured her son’s heart – and his purse. But rather than make her identity immediately known, she thought instead to bring the girl into her confidence, learn what she could of her motives, and then introduce herself using her full title. Charity imagined the girl’s frightened reaction, thinking she would have the chit begging forgiveness for leaving the earl with the impression he had fathered the babe she claimed was his.
That last thought had her remembering how Gabriel’s face had lit up when he talked about the baby he was sure was his son. It had been an age since she’d seen him happy like that, sporting a look of contentment that softened his features so he looked more like the boy he had been only a few years ago. Before his father had hardened him with his harsh words and harsher punishments.
Charity shook herself from her reverie when she noticed the reflection of her maid, Fuller, in the mirror. She was standing behind her with an armful of gowns. “Yes, Fuller?” Charity spoke as she turned around and regarded the woman who was probably a few years older than her mistress.
“I was wondering which of these gowns you’d like me to pack for this trip, milady,” the maid replied, indicating the ones she had draped over her arms.
Angling her head to one side, Charity wondered if she should have Fuller fill an entire trunk with gowns and slippers or merely pack a valise with the few items she would need for an overnight trip. But what if she decided to stay longer? Or extend the trip by continuing on to Stafford? “I am thinking four sets of traveling clothes, four dinner gowns, a couple of morning gowns, a walking ensemble and .. a riding habit,” she added at the last moment, thinking there might be a chance – a remote one, she admitted to herself – that she would be allowed to ride a horse.
Fuller’s eyes widened as Lady Trenton put voice to her list of clothing for the trip. “Yes, milady,” she replied as she curtsied and hurried to summon a footman so that a Vuitton trunk could be brought into the room.
“You’ll need the smaller Louis Vuitton,” Charity stated, deciding the trunk would be appropriate just in case she decided to visit Stafford. “And let’s see if we can’t be on the road before noon. I’d rather not attract the attention of highwaymen,” she added with enough impatience that Fuller was quite aware she needed to enlist the help of another maid and more footmen. Fuller headed for the door, her manner still rather guarded as she leaned out and motioned to a nearby footman.
“You seem … concerned, Fuller. What is it?” Charity wondered as she moved to her vanity and began stuffing a small bag with toiletries and the few cosmetics she sometimes used.
Having just summoned the footman, Fuller turned from the bedchamber’s door. “It’s nothing, milady,” she replied with a shake of her head. She moved the gowns she carried to the bed and spread them out before carefully folding them. When she felt her ladyship’s gaze harden, Fuller straightened. “I am concerned, actually. Your son has just returned home and you are … leaving. Has he ..?” She paused, a blush coloring her face.
“Has he, what, Fuller. Out with it!” Charity replied, her grin at odds with her words. “You have been my maid since … since Gabriel was born. What has you so worried?”
Fuller’s shoulders sagged. “Has he asked you to take your leave of this house?” she finally asked, her eyes bright with unshed tears.
Charity shook her head, her grin widening into a bright smile. “No, of course not. He’s on his way to Wolverhampton for a day or two, and I thought it was time I take a small trip. That’s all there is to it,” she explained simply. “Now, I do believe I’ve done all I can,” she said as she placed her small bag on the bed and moved to the door. “I’ll be in the breakfast parlor until we depart.”
Charity made her way down the grand staircase in the central hall of Trenton Manor, her fingers lightly skimming the carved wood railing as she descended. Of all the Trenton properties, this house was her favorite. She hadn’t given thought to one day having to leave the house, but Fuller had a point in thinking she might have to move out. When Gabriel took a wife – if he ever found a woman willing to marry him – she might have to take her leave of this place, she realized.
Her goo
d mood replaced with one of melancholy, Charity made her way to the breakfast parlor, expecting to find her son already reading The Times and drinking the last of his coffee. But his seat was empty. “Smithson, where’s my son?” she asked of the footman who stood next to the sideboard, ready to fill a plate for the lady of the house.
The footman straightened. “He finished his meal over an hour ago, milady,” he answered stiffly. “Made mention of making a trip to Wolverhampton today, seeing as how the weather was good.” He paused a moment. “May I serve you, milady?” Smithson wondered, his eyes still held at attention.
Lady Trenton smiled, glad that her son would be headed in a different direction from the one she intended to travel. “Yes, you may,” she replied, taking her usual seat at the table. “And, please, let Cook know I won’t be in residence after this meal. I’m not sure if I’ll be back tomorrow night, or the night after, or maybe not even the night after that,” she murmured, a mischievous smile appearing as the footman set down her plate of toast, ham and eggs.
“Very good, milady,” he replied.
At precisely eleven o’clock, the Trenton coach-and-four pulled away from the front of Trenton Manor and headed north for Stretton.
Gabriel allowed his Thoroughbred to pick his way along the littered path toward Wolverhampton. Given the number of tree branches and twigs that were scattered about on this part of the road west, a storm had obviously done some damage. He considered how riding in a carriage might have been easier, at least for him, but the driver and tiger would have had to stop frequently to clear the road.
His horse, Jupiter, tossed his head, obviously displeased at his inability to just run over the mess. “Easy, boy. After this stretch, it will be clear, and you can run to your heart’s content,” Gabriel murmured. As if he understood his rider’s comment, Jupiter suddenly picked up the pace, trotting where the road allowed him the space. “I was hoping for a bit of time to think, though,” he cautioned, pulling back on the reins a bit.
My Fair Groom (The Sons of the Aristocracy) Page 17