Marriage Made In Shame (The Penniless Lords Book 2)

by Sophia James

  ‘Lady Christine. Miss Ashfield.’ The glass he carried with him was empty and he nodded to the servant behind him to fill it up again.

  The skin on his left cheek had been broken by the force of the altercation in the ballroom and Adelaide determined it must hurt a lot for the swelling was still most noticeable.

  She glanced away in uncertainty. The earl was plainly not looking for sympathy and neither was he seeking conversation. The silence from him was absolute and solid as he turned to look down the table, three fingers of his left hand beating out a rhythm on the cloth. Marking time. This close she could see that the embossed silver ring he wore was inlaid with a cross of gold. Unusual. Different.

  ‘Do you see many people in your clinic, Miss Ashfield?’ Lady Christine leaned forward as she asked the question.

  ‘Many, my lady.’

  She knew Gabriel Hughes was listening by the slight tip of his shoulders and the way his hand stilled. ‘I have various people from the village who come and buy my potions, though I find just as many want words of reassurance on a particular condition or ailment.’

  ‘Mama is rather depressed with her life at the moment, a result of our failing finances, I think, and Lucien’s injuries on the Continent. She now believes we are all fragile and that chaos is crouching around a very close corner. Do you make medicines for those suffering in this way?’

  ‘Indeed I do. My aunt Eloise used to say emotion always has its roots in the unconscious and manifests itself in the body, so I make concoctions to jolt the mind into an alignment with the flesh for those who want to make the change.’

  Gabriel Hughes turned at that and addressed her directly, his voice low and a marked crease across his brow. ‘Philosophers since Locke have struggled to comprehend the definition and connection of mind and body, Miss Ashfield. Are you implying that you have found the answer?’

  A challenge; direct and forceful. Eloise and Jean had been the masters of such discourse and a shiver of anticipation rushed through her. ‘I believe every part of our bodies is linked, Lord Wesley, the cerebral and the physical.’

  ‘Is that right? For the life of me and after copious reading I simply fail to see how a mental state can causally interact with the physical body.’

  ‘Belief in one’s mind is a powerful force for change, my lord.’ Adelaide was mindful that conversations all around the table had ceased in order to listen in to this one. ‘And while I agree that the conscious experience is on the one hand the most familiar aspect of our lives and on the other the most mysterious, I also sincerely believe that only together can mind and body form a whole to heal.’

  ‘Any living body?’ His glance swept the room to stop at the sight of a bumblebee hovering over by the window’s glass. ‘Does every living thing employ its own consciousness of being?’

  ‘I for one would not discount it.’ Clenching her fingers in her lap, she carried on. ‘Religion, law and culture have their hands in moulding our thoughts to be...moderated, but I am not so certain that they should be.’

  Daniel Wylde at the head of the table laughed and raised his glass. ‘I would like to make a toast to the tenets of free discussion and liberal conjecture. Intelligence is a far underrated attribute and it is always welcome here, Miss Ashfield.’

  Amethyst Wylde used the following silence to inject her own observation. ‘You would like my papa, Miss Ashfield. He is most interested in these sorts of discussions. His heart is his problem, you see, and his mind refuses to accept the poor prognosis of every doctor he visits. With happiness he has far outlived his naysayers and is that not a triumph for mind over matter?’

  ‘I want it to be true and therefore it is?’ Gabriel Hughes’s words were flat and yet when she looked at him there was a flash of gold in his eyes that surprised her. Hurt and hope had a certain entreaty to them that was easily recognisable for she had seen the same in so very many of her patients.

  Was it for himself that he asked these questions? A malady that was non-physical was the only diagnosis that made sense here. Oh, granted, he had cuts all over his face and hands and bruises probably in the small of his back where the bully Murray had lashed out hard, but she knew there was more to it.

  The other day in the park when he had placed his hands across her own she had felt his withdrawal.

  Panic. Fright. Disbelief.

  The Earl of Wesley had bolted for safety and had been running ever since; even tonight placed next to her in close confinement with no chance of an escape he had been wary, the distinctive echo of a personal battle within that was costing him much.

  She wished they might talk again quietly and away from the notice of others. She wished he might inadvertently touch her so that the spark of notice she seemed consumed with might again burn and she could relish the mystery of it.

  Aunt Eloise and Aunt Jean would not recognise her here, quivering with the want of a man she hardly knew. Lord Wesley was a rake and a womaniser, an earl who wore his clothes in that particular and precise way of a dandy and one who had admitted to having as much of an issue with commitment as she did.

  There would be nothing at all to gain by his company and yet here she was in the quiet lull of other conversations turning to him again.

  ‘The philosophy of mesmerism is gaining in traction as a most useful tool in the healing of the mind. I do have some skill in the area, my lord.’

  * * *

  Hell. Was she suggesting that he place his secrets in her trust? Gabriel could not believe it.

  ‘I think I shall pass up such an offer, Miss Ashfield. Even an enlightened healer such as yourself might have some trouble in knowing what is in my mind.’

  She nodded. ‘Well, if it is any consolation to you it is also my belief that most people can find the solution in themselves if they are honest.’

  ‘Then that is heartening.’ He tried to inject as much lightness in the reply as he could manage, but even to his ears the humour sounded cold.

  ‘Reliving a point of memory sometimes helps, Lord Wesley. It opens the mind to further possibility.’

  The flash of fire. The slow burn of skin. Henrietta’s last quiet words seared into guilt. Her hands holding something just out of the reach of comprehension.

  His stomach turned and he thought for one wild moment that he would be sick all over the table, but as Adelaide smiled at him he regained equilibrium, the warmth of her concern and the goodness in it bringing back a balance. His heart might be thundering in his chest, but he remembered again how to breathe. Around them the chatter of others flowed on unhindered as the food was delivered to the table in a succession of dishes.

  Chicken, beef and duck trussed in fruit and heavy sauces and elegantly presented on their silver platters.

  He knew she could see him shaking and knew also that he should turn away to try at least to stop her seeing his fear. But he couldn’t. Miss Adelaide Ashfield was his lifeline even in the cosy private salon of old friends.

  ‘The food is lovely.’ Her words and closeness gave him time to return to the mundane. ‘I should not have imagined putting chicken with flowers of nasturtium. My uncle employs a French chef at Sherborne and we are more than used to eating well, but this, well, it is just lovely and I was pleased to get an invitation.’

  He made himself smile at her through the haze.

  ‘I am certain you are about as interested in the presentation of food as I am, Miss Ashfield, but I thank you for your effort in distracting me.’

  Deep dimples graced both her cheeks and the blue of her eyes was lightened. ‘Gratitude suits you, my lord. It makes you look younger.’

  At that he laughed and for the first time in a long while felt the tight band of loneliness shift. When the footman came forward with the express purpose of refilling his empty glass he shook him away and took up the jug of lemonade instead.

>   * * *

  ‘I thought Gabriel and Adelaide Ashfield looked good together, Daniel.’

  Much later Amethyst Wylde lay curled up against the warmth of her husband and watched the way the moonlight filtered across the strong lines of his shoulders.

  ‘Miss Ashfield was a surprise, I will say that.’

  ‘In what way?’ Raising herself on her elbow, Amethyst caught his glance.

  ‘She is clever enough to understand Wesley has secrets and brave enough to try to learn them.’

  ‘She was holding her breath when he looked as though he might very well faint away. I am certain of it.’

  Daniel sat up, rearranging the pillows behind him. ‘Gabriel thinks the death of Mrs Henrietta Clements was entirely his fault.’

  Amethyst heard the worry in his tone. ‘He told you this?’

  ‘He has always been complex and I think he has been mixed up somehow in working for the British Service. A few years ago he was easier to read, but now...’ His words tailed off.

  ‘Now he hides everything. Like you used to?’

  His lips turned upwards.

  ‘He needs a good woman, Daniel, and I think he has just found one. But he does not quite know it yet.’

  ‘Because we men are too...slow to understand exactly what is good for us?’ His hand crossed to her cheek and he tipped her head towards him.

  ‘Slow in some ways, but much faster in others.’ Amethyst felt his interest quicken as she pressed against him and when he brought her in closer she forgot the conversation completely.

  Chapter Nine

  Gabriel kept to the shadows as he walked, tucked in against the tall walls of the garden mews. The moon was barely there and for that he was pleased.

  A long time ago he had been afraid of the dark, when his father had come home to the family at night screaming and yelling, his fists raised against anyone who might annoy him.

  But that was before he had learnt how to use it and make it his own. Now the dark held only freedom and ease. Slipping between the gates, he moved over to one of the downstairs windows.

  Friar was inside and talking, for Gabriel could hear the quiet burr of his words. There was a woman present, too, and she did not sound happy.

  ‘No. It cannot be done. He is not a patron of my establishment any more and I have no way to see to it that he might turn up again.’

  ‘You are a force to be reckoned with, Mrs Bryant. Surely there could be some pleasurable persuasions you could use...’

  The sound of notes and coins had its own music. A substantial inducement to comply. Her voice was quieter now, but underlined with the sound of cajoling.

  ‘No.’ Friar’s shout almost made Gabriel jump and he waited—a single curse and then retreating footsteps. Others had come from further within the house, bringing a light with them, the shadows of movement sweeping across the curtains. Then silence.

  Gabriel breathed in deeply and held his body against stone. Immobile. Sensing danger before he saw it as three men with a lantern scoured the yard thirty feet away. The woman had left in the midst of an argument. Mrs Bryant. The voice sounded familiar to him, though he could not immediately have placed the name.

  Shuffling along to a small door, he brought out his knife and slid the blade between the fastening and timber. He needed to be out of sight before the men were upon him. When the portal opened he simply slipped inside and sank down beneath the level of the glass at the windows. The flare of light hit an opposite wall and then was gone, returning before fading again into the distance.

  Safe for this moment at least. The chamber he sat in was a lobby of sorts, small and rectangular, with a number of doors leading from it. Three pairs of boots sat beside him under a heavy oilskin coat. He wondered whose house this was and why they should be meeting here. Friar’s rooms were further west in a far less salubrious area of London.

  A long sword in its sheath caught his attention for propped up against the lintel of a door the weapon was patently in the wrong place. He was careful to keep his back against the timber panel as he looked out into the night, glad for black and quiet. He knew he had to get out of here before they came back, but from habit his hands delved into the pockets of the oilskin and came up with a twist of paper. When he heard the returning feet on the wooden floor he left, using the darkness to slip away into shadow and safety.

  * * *

  The note was in French and written on part of a torn map. Alan Wolfe, the head of the British Service, stood beside him as he flattened out the sheet to try to determine exactly what geography it showed.

  ‘Maisy is in the Baie de la Seine. Halfway between Cherbourg and La Havre, the town boasts direct access to the English Channel. We have people in Caen so I will get them up there to look. The writing gives two names: Christian and Le Rougeaud.’

  ‘Napoleon’s Marshall, Michel Ney, was named Le Rougeaud for the colour of his hair.’ Gabriel frowned. ‘Though last I heard he was with Soult in the south of France.’

  ‘Could it be a street, then? Or a description of a place?’

  ‘The name of a boat would make sense, too, bringing things or people to England. Perhaps Christian is the captain?’

  And so it went on for an hour or more as they gathered the possibilities of the intelligence and turned it this way and that.

  ‘No one is there at the address you went to last night. The place is spotless and empty.’

  ‘Then they cleaned up.’

  ‘Which indicates they did not want us to know anything. Did they see you?

  ‘No. But I jimmied the door. Perhaps they found it had been tampered with.’

  ‘You are certain it was George Friar?’

  ‘I am. His accent is hard to miss.’

  ‘And the others?’

  ‘English and French. I would recognise the voices if I heard them again. There was also a Mrs Bryant and hers was a familiar voice.’ The Temple of Aphrodite came to mind and he made a mental note to go back and check. Trying to remember the words between them, he tipped his head and then went on. ‘A brothel owner, perhaps? She said she had an establishment and Friar said something of pleasurable entertainments.’

  ‘I will get someone to look into that.’ Wolfe took a pen and wrote the names on some paper before laying them on the table.

  ‘Clements has French ancestry and so does Friar by way of marriage. He is also an American and likely to hate the English. Goode is the son of a squire in Leicester, but he is married to a French woman, Lilliana de la Tour. Frank Richardson has written a treatise on the place of free speech and the rights of men.’

  ‘Henrietta Clements swore there were six of them. Clements. Friar. Goode and his wife and Richardson and Mrs Bryant perhaps?’

  ‘Then we need to find proof of what it is this group is trying to accomplish and we need it soon. I will get more men on to the task and hopefully we will be able to round them all up before too long. You look done in, Gabe, perhaps by the numerous social occasions you are at almost every evening. I have heard it said that Mr George Friar is rather enamoured by Miss Ashfield.’

  Wolfe looked at him directly as he said it, but Gabriel, with his years of practice, easily hid emotion. He knew the director had heard of his own involvement with the niece of Penbury, for very little of the everyday happenings of London’s society seemed to escape him. Wariness made Gabriel swallow. He didn’t want Adelaide mixed up in any of this. He needed all the compartments of his life kept separate.

  For years he had built up a reputation that was shallow and dissolute. A dandy and a lover was not on anyone’s list of needing to be watched and the rumours of a prowess in sexual conquests had kept him apart from those who would discuss politics, government or anarchy.

  Hiding in plain sight was rewarding. A certain smile, some well-chosen words, the
cut of his cloth and the tie of his cravat. These were his tools now. Innocuous. Harmless. And ready to listen.

  The war against France was not always won on the battlefields of valour, glory and blood. It was also fought well in the quiet comfort of bedchambers and in the presence of whispered secrets and willing bodies suspended in the last thrusts of ecstasy when all the walls were let down.

  Daniel had called him kind and so had Cressida. But Gabriel knew that he had not been such for a very long time.

  He had lived down to his reputation all of his adult life. Gabriel Hughes, the Prince of Passion. He’d heard the name in various places, spoken quiet with a hint of disbelief. Such rumour had helped him squeeze between the cracks of the polite and mannered world and on to the warm mattresses of confession.

  A gun killed one man at a time, but words smote many. Anarchy and rebellion had shades of truth and honour, too, but as he passed on the names of those whom his paramours had mentioned, Gabriel could not dwell on that.

  Sometimes he wondered though. Sometimes he heard the tales of men who were good and true killed by unnamed others, their blood running into the gutters of martyrdom and innocence. The hidden cost of his subterfuge. Yet still he had not wavered.

  Until Henrietta Clements. She was just another mark at first, a way to listen in to the nefarious truths of her husband, but she had been lonely and he had been, too, pneumonia laying him low for many months of winter. With his guard down he had let her in, past the point of simply business. They had met on numerous occasions and by then she was dangerous: to the British Service and to him.

  At the time of the fire he had even thought Wolfe had had a hand in it, a way of dealing efficiently with every problem, but he had found out later that Randolph Clements had been camped out in the woods near Ravenshill with a group of his men.

  Revenge. Retribution.

  The strong emotions left little space for caution and Gabriel had been flung from that life into this one.