A Curse of the Heart

by Adele Clee

  Wellford fell quiet for a moment. “Alexander is in Italy. He dreams of being a great painter and has been away for months. Freddie was probably so inebriated he slept in his clothes. I will speak with him this evening.”

  “Rebecca will not take kindly to your involvement, so it is best if you refrain from charging over there making ridiculous demands.”

  “Well, you can’t expect me just to sit back and do nothing.”

  Gabriel winced, knowing Wellford would be furious with his next suggestion. “Then you are going to have to trust me because if I cannot persuade Rebecca to leave the museum, I will be forced to stay there with her.”

  Wellford did shoot out of his seat. “Like hell you will.”

  “Sit down. You’ll make yourself ill if you keep jumping up like that.”

  Wellford flopped back down in the chair. “It occurs to me that this is all very convenient. Maybe you slashed the painting yourself, as a ploy to get close to her.”

  Gabriel tried to suppress a look of guilt as he recalled how deliciously close they had been. “I shall pretend I didn’t hear that. Rebecca doesn’t trust anyone. My only concern is keeping her safe, her reputation unblemished. She lives in an Egyptian museum for heaven’s sake. A hundred people must pass through there every day. No one will notice me entering.”

  Wellford stared at him, his gaze intrusive, assessing.

  “It was my idea to seek you out,” Gabriel added. “I wanted to be honest with you, to ask for your support.”

  A faint smile touched the corners of Wellford’s mouth. “What choice do I have? Rebecca will refuse to see me, and I cannot leave her alone. So I am forced to concede. I concede because I believe you’re in love with her. And because your involvement has dragged you out of your Egyptian tomb, out into the daylight. I am hoping your influence will encourage her to do the same. Perhaps you could take her to Vauxhall or riding in the park. My father trusted you, Stone, and so I am trusting you.”

  The words cut deep as Gabriel had already abused his trust, already fallen foul to temptation, to the weaknesses of the flesh and so all he could manage in reply was, “Thank you.”

  “However, I do ask one thing in return.” Wellford’s tone had grown more solemn now.

  “I can hardly wait to hear it.”

  “Should anything untoward happen. I want your assurance, as a gentleman, that you’ll marry her.”

  All the air suddenly escaped from Gabriel’s lungs. “Marry her?” he repeated as the words family, home and marriage pecked away at him like the crow of death.

  How could he make such an oath when he’d sworn he would never marry? How could he agree to marriage when he believed it to be an institution for deception?

  He was overreacting. Nothing would go wrong. As a partner in the museum, his presence could be easily explained. “I give you my word. I will make her an offer, but I cannot guarantee Rebecca will agree.”

  Wellford chucked. “I am astounded that a man of your intelligence cannot see what is right in front of his nose. I trust you to protect Rebecca and in the meantime, I will go in search of Freddie and will inform you should anything arise.”

  Gabriel stood and offered a respectful bow.

  “At least stay and finish your coffee.”

  Gabriel shook his head. He would feel safer in a cage of starving lions. “If my uncle finds me here I will be bombarded with invitations for the next six months. He will hound me until I am forced to bury myself away in my tomb and scratch a curse on the door.”

  Wellford laughed. “Then I suggest you run. I have it on good authority that there is no such thing as a curse.”

  Chapter 18

  Gabriel sat behind his desk, flipped open the ledger and checked the columns for the fifth time. If only he could stumble upon a mistake, a grave error to occupy his mind and reinforce the feeling that his house was nothing but an institute, an emotionless vessel for his studies.

  He heard Higson’s heavy gait trudge along the hallway and his thoughts flew back to Rebecca, his stomach performing somersaults at the prospect of seeing her again.

  Pushing his hand through his hair, he took a deep breath, mentally preparing himself for the tears that would inevitably accompany any conversation involving the painting.

  Higson rapped on the open door and stepped over the threshold. “I’m all done at the museum. The basement door’s been fixed and is secure like you asked.”

  Gabriel’s gaze drifted beyond the man’s shoulder to the empty space behind him, to where he expected to see his flame-haired temptress with her luscious lips and sultry smile. Disappointment flared in his chest.

  “How is Miss Linwood?” he said batting down the need to ask why the hell she was still at the museum.

  Higson shrugged. “I think she’s bearing up under the circumstances.”

  The man was as free with his information as he was his emotion.

  “I assume she’s upset.”

  Thankfully, Higson’s answer amounted to more than a few words, although the cryptic response proved just as frustrating. “The problem is, she looks on her possessions as though they are living things. She said it feels like her mother has died all over again.”

  Guilt twisted its knife into Gabriel’s heart. He should not have let her go alone. He should have been there to offer support, to offer a shoulder to lean on.

  “I left her in the storeroom, sorting through some wooden crates,” Higson continued, “sending that curator of hers running here, there and everywhere doing her bidding.”

  A sense of relief should have swamped him; at least she’d not taken to her bed consumed with grief. Yet he could not help but be plagued by thoughts of his own inadequacy, by the uncomfortable feeling that she didn’t need him.

  “Did she not ask to return here with you?”

  “She never mentioned it, and I never asked. She seemed right enough to me.”

  Gabriel struggled to hide his frustration. “Thank you, Higson. You may return to your duties. I won’t need the carriage again today.”

  What was he supposed to do now?

  Should he just sit and wait for her to knock on his door in the dead of night? Should he try to push aside the image of a mysterious intruder attacking her in her bed?

  Forcing himself from the chair, he paced the room, waiting for the answer to pop into his head. He could not leave her there alone, and so had no option but to visit her in Coventry Street.

  The clock on the mantel chimed three.

  If he left now, no one would question him entering her house. He would just be another visitor to the museum. If he took one or two small antiquities, he could continue with the charade of being a partner in the business. At the museum, they were less at risk of causing a scandal — and no scandal meant no marriage.

  Some thirty minutes later with his parcel in hand, he made his way on foot, walking down through Swallow Street and onto Piccadilly as that was the quickest route.

  By the time he arrived at the museum, there were still a dozen people perusing the exhibits.

  Gabriel spotted Mr. Pearce explaining the history of the stone tablets to a few who had gathered around to listen. He waited for the group to depart before calling out to the curator. “Mr. Pearce, a moment of your time, if you please.”

  The man scurried over to meet him, his eyes flitting about in their sockets, moving left and right, up and down before settling on Gabriel’s chin.

  “I have brought a few antiquities to display,” Gabriel said gesturing to the parcel. “Is Miss Linwood home?” It was not really a question, as he presumed to know the answer.

  “No, Mr. Stone. Miss Linwood has gone out.”

  “Out?” He had not thought to say the word aloud but supposed it was better than saying — where the hell has she gone?

  “Yes,” Mr. Pearce nodded, wringing his hands as he struggled to make eye contact. “She went shopping about an hour ago.”

  “Shopping? On her own?”

  Mr
. Pearce looked confused. “Miss Linwood always goes out unaccompanied.”

  Gabriel shook his head. The woman’s logic confounded him at every turn. Was she not the least bit worried about the men who had broken into her home? Those same men could be trailing behind her while she ran her errands.

  Then a sudden feeling of apprehension flashed through him.

  Perhaps she had gone to see George Wellford, to berate him over the damaged painting. What if Wellford told her about their earlier discussion, where he had said he would act as chaperone, where he said he would marry her should any problems arise?

  Pushing the thoughts aside and with a frustrated sigh, he said, “Very well, I shall wait for her in the office.”

  Mr. Pearce bowed, and as he moved to walk away, Gabriel called him back. “Despite Miss Linwood’s leniency with regard to your disgraceful conduct, I want you to know I am not so forgiving.”

  Mr. Pearce’s thin lips disappeared even further into his mouth.

  “Your personal opinion, or Lord Wellford’s for that matter, is of no concern,” Gabriel continued. “In future, I expect you to treat Miss Linwood with the respect she deserves.”

  Mr. Pearce offered no excuse for his crime. “I understand, sir,” he said with a solemn bow before walking away.

  Gabriel wandered down to the office, feeling awkward entering Rebecca’s private space, uninvited. His gaze drifted beyond the crude wooden chair, to the small sofa. The red damask covers were worn and threadbare in places, but it looked comfortable enough. So he unbuttoned his coat, brushed the seat to remove the fine layer of dust and settled down to wait.

  When the clock chimed four, Gabriel closed his eyes. Suffering from a distinct lack of sleep, thanks to the passionate Miss Linwood, he decided to take a nap.

  But peace eluded him, driven away by the recurring ding dong ringing out every fifteen minutes. He thought he would grow accustomed to the sound, yet found himself glancing up at the clock, counting each slow revolution until it chimed five. By the time the hands approached six, he was restless and impatient, anger brimming beneath the surface.

  Indeed, if the hollow clang mocked him one more time, he would throw his damn boot at it.

  Where the hell had she got to?

  This was the reason he preferred to be alone: the endless worry, the vivid images painting one distressing picture after another. He hated the thinking, the guessing, the waiting — the fear that gripped his heart with its sharp talons and refused to let go.

  “That’s it,” he shouted to no one other than himself. What was he supposed to do, sit there until midnight? He would be fit for Bedlam if he waited a moment longer. The sound of ticking clocks haunting him in his dreams, the repetitive ringing like a death knell.

  Jumping to his feet, he made for the door and decided to peruse the displays, to hound Mr. Pearce, to rip the place apart if only to satisfy the torment raging within. Then he heard the echo of footsteps moving along the hallway, the light, yet purposeful strides no doubt belonging to the lady in question.

  With a disgruntled huff, he yanked open the door to find her happy countenance peering over a mound of parcels as she smiled back at him.

  “Mr. Stone,” she said with some surprise as the packages wobbled in her arms. “I was not expecting to see you today.”

  Not expecting to see him?

  Not expecting to see him!

  Mere hours ago she had fled his house in a state of terror. She had sought comfort in his arms; lay naked in his bed, run home with her emotions in tatters. What the hell was she expecting?

  “Where have you been?” The words came out exactly as he intended: dark, menacing and resentful. They were the words of a cuckold, of a jealous lover, of an over-bearing parent.

  She ignored the question completely. “Well, are you going to help me with my parcels or are you going to stand there like a bear forced from hibernation?”

  With a huff and a noise resembling a growl, he scooped the parcels from her arms and plonked them on the desk.

  “Be careful with those,” she said and then her face lit up into one of her illuminating smiles. “Wait until I show you what I’ve bought.” The smile turned coy, sultry. “I think you will like them all.”

  His head threatened to explode with anger, his body threatened to explode with lust. If he carried on like this, he would be the first person ever to volunteer for Bedlam.

  “I have been waiting for hours. I had no idea what had happened to you.”

  She stopped abruptly and stared at him. Closing the gap between them, she placed a gloved hand on his cheek, traced the line of his jaw. “I did not know you were here, Gabriel.”

  Damn.

  Her sensual tone managed to penetrate his ire, and so he did the only thing he knew would placate his pounding head and racing heart. He drew her into an embrace and devoured her mouth until she gasped and moaned in his arms. Leaning back against the desk, he pulled her between his legs, letting her feel the evidence of his passion, his pain. Heavens above, he would take her right now if he could. He would take her right there on the desk, her naked body writhing amongst the parcels, papers and ink while his loud roar of satisfaction rumbled through the museum.

  Then the blasted clock chimed six.

  Gabriel tore his lips from hers, his irate gaze boring holes into the grandfather clock behind her.

  “I think I will take the key to that thing and throw it in the Thames,” he said.

  Rebecca considered his mood, which despite the noisy clock, was calmer than when she first arrived. “It is not as loud as some I have heard.”

  “Trust me. It is loud enough.” With a deep sigh, he turned his attention to her. “You seem happier than you did this morning. I had visions of finding you weeping inconsolably, as I know how much the painting means to you. I know how I would feel given the circumstances.”

  It’s the same with Mr. Stone … he needs you, miss.

  Higson’s words drifted through her mind.

  Wedged between Gabriel’s muscular thighs, she placed her hand on his chest and felt the wild beat of his heart pulsating beneath her fingers. “I thought so, too, but your man Higson is very wise. He made me see that the important memories are locked away safely in my mind. The painting is just an object and can be repaired or replaced.”

  “Higson?” he asked, his brow raised in a look of utter disbelief. “Higson offered council in matters of the heart? Higson talked about his emotions?”

  Rebecca nodded, feeling somewhat privileged to have been party to such an enlightening conversation. “He did. I have never met anyone so perceptive. Well, at least not a coachman.”

  “Could the day possibly be more surprising?”

  She stepped out from between his legs and rifled through the packages. “I think I can answer that as there are three more surprises here. This one is for you,” she said handing him a rectangular one. “It is just a little something.”

  Gabriel turned it over in his hand. “What is it?”

  “You will need to open it to find out,” she beamed, watching him untie the string.

  When his hesitant fingers pulled off the paper, a tickling sensation formed in her stomach. With excited curiosity, he turned the leather-bound book over to examine the writing on the spine before meeting her gaze with a look that was difficult to define.

  He swallowed visibly. “I do not know what to say.”

  “Please tell me it is not one you have already?”

  “No,” he whispered.

  “There are only three chapters covering Egypt, I know, but the plate engravings are truly remarkable, particularly the ones of Alexandria and Aswan.” She leaned across him and flicked to the relevant page. “See.”

  When she looked up at him, he was not looking at the engraving; he was looking at her with a level of intensity that warmed her to her core.

  “I … I am speechless.”

  Rebecca smiled. “Don’t worry. When you see the next item, you truly wil
l be lost for words.”

  Well, probably not lost for words, she thought, probably so angry he would struggle to get the words out. She hoped the third item would also render him speechless but for an entirely different reason.

  The second parcel was square and much larger than the first, deeper too. Under his watchful gaze, Rebecca opened it to reveal an oak box.

  “Can you guess what it is?” she asked, enjoying herself immensely.

  Gabriel glanced down at the inlaid box, his brows drawn together. His face grew solemn as he mouthed the words John Brown and London. “I hope it’s not what I think it is.”

  Rebecca flicked the brass catch and opened the lid to reveal the plush burgundy lining. “Only the finest pair of over and under flintlock pistols you will ever see,” she said running her fingers over the cold metal stock in admiration. “They’re made small enough to fit into a pocket or a reticule. What do you think?”

  Gabriel’s mouth opened and closed a few times before he finally said, “I think you have completely lost your mind. Do you even know how to use them?”

  “Of course,” she chuckled. “Mr. Cutter was very attentive and gave me a thorough demonstration.”

  “Indeed. I’m sure he did.”

  “Would you like me to show you?”

  “No!” he cried. “Rebecca, please tell me you do not intend to carry one of those things around with you?”

  “Of course not,” she groaned. “I will keep one under my pillow at night in case of intruders and the other one in the top drawer of this desk.”

  Gabriel placed his book on the wooden counter and rested the weight of his body on his knuckles. With his head bent low, he whispered, “Heaven help me.”

  “Surely you did not expect me just to sit here like a pheasant waiting to be plucked. I should think you’d be pleased I am able to protect myself. You’ve been neglecting your work, and it is all my fault. This way you won’t have to worry.”

  “Lately, all I seem to do is worry,” he said straightening. “Now, I can add murder to the list of things to fret over. Without a steady aim, it is impossible to hit the intended target.”