by Nicole Byrd
His guests did not comment on the dinner’s deficiencies, of course, good manners forbade any obvious criticism, but no one ate very much, and John was afraid even to look at his brother, sure that any expression of scorn would spark an instant argument. He would not spar with his brother, verbally or otherwise, with the ladies present.
It did not help his temper to hear, beneath the constant chatter of Louisa, who was seated on his right hand, that Gabriel was regaling Marianne with stories from his travels abroad, making her laugh with anecdotes of Trinidad markets and Greek islands, making her eyes brighten with tales of beautiful lands that John had never seen. Anger curled inside his belly and tightened his shoulders.
Damn his brother with his beguiling charm and his angelic—or devilish—good looks. What business did he have making Marianne looked so entranced? Who could compete with him for a lady’s affection? Not John, not now, not ever.
The footmen entered with the last course, an array of sweets whose taste and texture were best not remarked upon. John took one bite of the peach tart and almost choked on a pit. What the hell—he put down his spoon.
The cook would have to go, as soon as it could be arranged. This was intolerable.
When Marianne collected Louisa’s attention with a glance and then stood, he saw that the ladies, as was the usual custom, were going to withdraw and leave the gentlemen to their stronger after-dinner drink and male conversation.
A prospect neither he nor—he would wager—his brother relished.
When the door shut behind the women, the silence in the room seemed to echo.
“I shall be leaving with the first light,” Gabriel said at last. “If I do not see you in the morning, my thanks for your hospitality.”
“Judging by this abysmal dinner, not much to be thankful for,” John answered, his tone just as gruff. “I owe you much more, for caring for me after my injury.”
Gabriel waved away any expression of gratitude, no matter how tersely expressed. “Have you any idea yet who fired the gun?”
John shook his head. He had promised Marianne not to mention their theory that the gunman’s true victim had been Louisa. The girl did not need to incur further gossip.
“I have had enemies, sometimes lethal enemies, in my time, but I always knew who they were,” Gabriel remarked. “Have you harmed someone recently?”
John shrugged. “The trip to London was my first foray off my own land in years, and I hardly had a chance to do anyone any disservice there, other than trodding on a few ladies’ toes, perhaps.”
“Close to home, then. Turned a tenant off his farm?”
“After which he would follow me to London in order to attack me?” John couldn’t help sounding skeptical. “No, I have not. I am about to fire my cook, but he’s drunk too often to shoot me, especially before the fact of his dismissal.”
Gabriel shook his head. “I don’t know, then. I shall bid you good night and retire to my chamber.”
It was early for bed, but John knew his brother had no wish to enjoy his company any longer than necessary, and he felt the same.
“Good night to you,” he said.
But in the hallway Gabriel hesitated. “Do you still have grandfather’s books? I might borrow one to peruse before I sleep.”
John motioned down the hallway. “You know where to find the library.”
Gabriel accepted the tacit invitation and walked down the hall. For no particular reason, John followed. A footman hurried ahead of them to light candles.
Inside the room the air felt cold and a little damp. Could his servants not care for the house for a few days without his supervision? This was not good for the collection of books that lined the walls. Still, he would have to show the library to Marianne tomorrow, John thought absently. She might find some new titles she would enjoy.
Gabriel stood with his back to him and surveyed the shelves. “I see you have added some of your own volumes to our grandfather’s collection,” he said, his tone polite.
John grunted; the answer was obvious. He knew that Gabriel was making an effort, but beneath the surface politeness, he suspected his brother’s temper was growing as short as his own. Pick a damn book and go to bed, he thought, but he kept his mouth firmly shut.
And perhaps they would have ended the day with the same brittle politeness, except that his brother pulled open the glass door to reach for a volume on an upper shelf and hesitated.
Then he picked up, instead of the book he had intended, a small oval frame lying facedown on the shelf. His face went dark.
John tensed.
“I know this miniature . . . I remember sitting for this, although I must have been no older than three,” Gabriel said as to himself. “My mother bribed me with sugar drops to be still enough for the artist to paint us. How very odd that the glass is broken and the frame cracked!”
He turned, and John braced himself. “It was an accident,” he lied, remembering with a tinge of guilt the day he had knocked the small frame across the shelf.
Gabriel’s lips curled. “I’m sure,” he said dryly. “I am only surprised you did not throw it out.”
John saw, uneasily, that his brother’s grip on the small portrait did not relax. “I have few pictures of my mother,” John said. “My father cut up most of them after she died. Mother kept this one—” he found the words hard to get out, but he persisted “—beside her bed. Her lady’s maid hid it from my father’s attention when he was destroying so much of her things. The woman gave it to me later.”
Gabriel nodded, but he regarded the miniature with an expression in which both grief and anger mixed.
John remembered how his brother had brought a gleam to Marianne’s eyes over dinner, and his indignation rose again, mixed with other, even darker emotions. He found his fists had clenched. He took one step closer to his brother, who regarded him with wary hostility.
“Take it, damn you,” John blurted. “She would have wanted you to have it.”
Gabriel walked to the door without answering, but once he had started, John could not seem to be still. “You had her heart,” he muttered, “as you do with any female you glance upon, with your damned beautiful face and charming ways.”
In the wide doorway, Gabriel paused and looked back, raising his brows. “I have no control over the face I was born with. Why should you hate me for that?”
“Because I could not compete with it!” John was too angry, perhaps too anguished, to control his words. “Because she loved you!” He followed his brother into the hall, and then paused, his feelings raw as an open wound, certain he had revealed too much.
“She loved you, as well,” Gabriel said, his voice quiet. “I remember her sadness when our father would stalk in and take you away when she had gathered us inside her arms in the nursery ready to read to us both, or sing us to sleep at night. ‘You shan’t pamper my heir,’ he yelled at her once, ‘You shan’t make him weak.’ ”
John felt a strange conflict inside him. “I don’t remember that,” he said slowly. “No, perhaps I do. Mostly I only recall that you were always at her knee, and I seemed to be kept at a distance. And yes, I hated you for that.” He drew a deep breath.
“She loved you,” Gabriel repeated. “And so did our father, and he could not abide me, as you well know. You had the affection of both—why should you resent me?”
“But she was the loving one. Father might have required me to stay near him, but he was more apt to give out blows than hugs. I think you had the best end of the bargain . . .”
Gabriel looked scornful. “As I did when he threw me out, denied me my birthright, ordered me never to set foot in this house again? My only satisfaction at making this trip is that he must be tossing in his elegant crypt.”
John looked away from the searing glance. “I did not know that he had turned you out till later,” he said, though he knew it was a weak excuse.
“And then you tried so hard to find me?”
“No, and I should h
ave done so, I should have made sure you were not starving and alone.” For a moment guilt stirred inside him, then it was replaced by a darker emotion. “Though you seemed to have done well enough,” John pointed out, his tone hard again, “judging from your colorful tales at the dinner table.”
Gabriel eyed him with a too searching gaze. “So it’s like that, is it? I suspected as much. When you look at Mrs. Hughes, your heart is in your eyes. So why did you propose to the other one?”
“I didn’t, exactly,” John said bitterly. “She thinks, however, that I did.”
Gabriel gave a short laugh, and John took a step closer.
“I wouldn’t,” his brother warned. “You have only one good hand, and you made little progress with two, the last time.”
“I almost caused your last breath!” John retorted. “And I should be happy to take up where I left off, one hand or not!”
There was a slight sound from the other end of the hallway, and he glanced around to see Marianne Hughes regarding them both with a reproachful gaze.
They paused, although it was impossible to disguise their antagonistic stance. John lowered his good hand, and Gabriel, still holding the miniature, bowed to the lady.
“Good night, Mrs. Hughes. I hope you have a pleasant stay.” Then with no further word to his brother, he headed for the stairwell and ascended out of sight.
“I came because I was worried what might happen when the two of you were left alone,” she said to John as she came closer. She looked at him anxiously.
“It’s that obvious?” he asked. Anger lingered inside him, but he felt the draw of her presence, and his morose mood eased a little.
“Oh yes,” she said. “Dare I ask what has renewed your quarrel?”
It was impossible to tell her the truth, of course, so John was astonished to hear himself saying, “He found a portrait of my mother and himself as a babe . . .”
“And you argued over that?”
“I—the glass was broken. He thought I had done it deliberately, out of spite.”
“Why would you do such a thing?” Her quiet tone was not accusing, but he winced, anyhow.
“Out of jealousy, I suppose. Gabriel was her favorite, and we both knew it. It was natural enough, he made a beautiful child.” John tried to sound offhand, but was not sure he had succeeded. He braced himself against pity.
To his astonishment, she moved closer and lifted her hand to cup his cheek. He flinched, afraid she would feel his scars and draw back in disgust. But Marianne’s touch lingered, and his blood leaped at her nearness, at the soft touch of her hand.
“And you felt unloved?” she suggested. “Gabriel spoke a little of your mother at dinner. I think she must have been a warm and affectionate woman . . . I am quite sure that she loved you, John. You were her first child, her first son. How could you not have been special?”
He could not answer. His throat seemed to have closed, and the rush of emotion inside him dissolved a few layers of icy despair. He put his hand over hers, wishing he could hold it there forever, hold her so close for all time.
To his infinite regret, she stepped back, although her voice sounded husky when she spoke. “Louisa will wonder if I do not return to the drawing room. But, my lord, please do not quarrel with your brother. Your mother would be grieved by it. Family ties are precious, you know, and should not be easily squandered.”
She walked swiftly to the staircase and was gone before he could answer.
But he felt compelled to do her bidding. He would apologize, even if the words choked him. So he followed his brother’s path up the stairs toward the guest wing. To John’s relief, he did not have to knock on the bedchamber door; his brother was still standing on the landing, looking up at a large portrait of their father, the late marquess.
“He was a brute, you know,” Gabriel said, as if their conversation had not ended minutes before. “He made my—our—mother’s life hell.”
“I know,” John admitted. “He made everyone’s life hell. In some ways, you had the better bargain, even if it came at a price. I had to stay and deal with him.”
“I heard you had taken up residence in one of the smaller properties, keeping away as much as possible in the last years,” Gabriel pointed out.
John nodded. “But I had to come by now and then, if only to try to keep the estate from falling totally apart. I had responsibilities.”
“Oh, yes, the elder brother.”
“And his heir. At least he had one. Mind you, I do not blame our mother, you understand—”
Gabriel turned suddenly. “For what?”
“For giving birth to another man’s child.”
Fourteen
The silence seemed edged with ice, and Gabriel looked just as frozen.
“You knew that,” John protested. “You had to know that.”
“Not being present at the conception, in any conscious form, how would I have known that?” Gabriel’s voice was tight with the self-control it took to maintain an even tone. But his face seemed turned to stone.
“But I had thought that Mother would have told you . . .” John’s voice faded.
“You should not give credence to our father’s rants,” Gabriel snapped. “He was livid with jealousy, mad with it. Why else did he keep our mother a virtual prisoner through most of their marriage? Why did he spend his last years alone, holed up here and rejecting any company?”
“He didn’t care for society,” John pointed out. “And he suffered from occasional bouts of gout, which didn’t help his temper.”
“His ill temper needed no aggravation!”
“Perhaps,” John agreed. “I admit that his soul was twisted—that is one reason I do not blame Mother for seeking comfort elsewhere. And as for the other—well, no matter.”
Gabriel took a step closer, and this time he was the one who reached out his hand. John took an instinctive step backward and almost slid down the staircase. Gabriel caught him by the lapel and halted his fall, but his brother’s grip was savage.
“What? Tell me what you are inferring!”
“I came into her parlor once, and she tucked a letter away, out of sight beneath the cushion of her chair.”
Silence. Gabriel’s blue eyes met his own darker ones, both gazes intense with repressed emotion.
“How can you slight our mother’s honor over such a trifle? That means nothing!”
“In itself, no. But after she died, after our father died, one of the maids, while cleaning, found a secret hiding place in a wall panel of her bedchamber. When I came to investigate, I found letters and a few other trifles hidden away.”
“Letters? From whom?”
“A man. A gentleman, and he signed them with his ‘eternal love.’ ”
“And you read them?” Gabriel’s face contorted with anger and disgust.
“I did not! I burned them. She had the right to her private feelings.”
Gabriel’s face flamed. “I still do not believe it.”
It was hardly surprising that his brother refused to credit the truth of their mother’s affair. It made him a bastard, destroying in one blow what he thought he knew about himself, John thought. He should have rejoiced to see his normally urbane brother distraught, should have enjoyed witnessing Gabriel’s always controlled and polished demeanor shattered by one secret from the past.
Instead he found that his own anger, nourished with bitter resolve over the years, fed with embers of childish jealousy, seemed to weaken, as if the fuel for its flame had been scattered. Only the dying coals were left, and he had been admonished to beat them into cold ashes, as well. And because it was Marianne who advised it, he would try, although he was not sure if he could find the words. He drew a deep breath and surprised himself.
“Perhaps I was wrong,” John said.
Gabriel’s gaze was suspicious. “You do not believe that.”
He was new at reconciliation. Lying was not his strong suit, either. “No, I do not,” he admitted, his tone
even. “But you may believe it if you wish, and I shall not argue the point. She is dead. She was our mother, the bond that joins us. She loved you . . . I hope she loved me. Let her rest.”
Gabriel released him and put one hand to his face, as if to hide the emotions that flitted across those perfect features. John felt himself almost wishing to put out an arm to offer solace, but he made no such move. Gabriel would likely knock him down the stairs.
Yet, was that not what big brothers were supposed to be? Mentors, protectors, comforters if need be? He had been miserably lacking on all accounts.
“I am sorry I failed you as a brother,” he said.
Gabriel’s eyes widened, but John felt almost as amazed. He had not willed the words to come; they had slipped out from some place deep inside him.
“You admit it?” Gabriel spoke slowly.
“Yes.” He could have tried to explain that at first he was too young to understand his own behavior, and later he had been influenced by their father’s bitterness and resentment. But none of it excused what he had done, and what he had failed to do, to protect his younger brother.
John would not have been surprised to have his apology, years overdue though it was, thrown back into his face. Silence stretched between them, heavy with emotions never before drawn into the light.
Then Gabriel nodded slowly. “Very well.”
It was more than John could have expected, more than he deserved. He watched his brother turn and ascend the steps, but Gabriel paused at the top of the flight to look back. “I have another miniature of our mother, of herself alone, which the housekeeper kept for me and gave me after her death. Circe has made me a larger copy in watercolors, very nicely done. I will send the original to you, since you have—ah—allowed me to take the other portrait.”
“Thank you,” John said gruffly, glad that his brother turned away. He would not wish Gabriel to see the moisture that flooded his eyes.
Perhaps he had had his mother restored to him, today. It was a fanciful thought, and yet, he thought he might now gaze at her portrait without remembering the pain of the slights he had long imagined. Slights his father had encouraged him to feel, John realized. He would not allow his father’s hand to reach out of the grave and control him still! If his mother had loved him, it meant—it meant he was not, after all, unlovable.