He felt her body quake with a giggle as he pulled the bed linens over their prone bodies. Warmth immediately enveloped them both.
Closing his eyes as a grin appeared on his face, James fell asleep.
Meanwhile, Emily’s thoughts and questions whirled about inside her head, not the least of which was why were there two identical rings atop the dressing table?
Chapter 28
A Truth is Revealed
The guest bedchamber at Trenton House
Wearing the night rail she had shed the night before and drying her hair by the fire, Frances pondered her future. So much had happened in only a day.
Less than a day.
Her thoughts on a marriage to Gabe banged about in her head. There was so much she didn’t know about him. That fear of the unknown was quickly countered with what she did know.
He was honorable.
Mostly.
He had, after all, been about to come into the guest bedchamber at the very moment she had opened the door to go to his.
Or perhaps he had merely been on his way to the kitchens, too. She had been the one to pull him into her room. She groaned at the thought of what she had done.
Did he think her a wanton? If he did, would he ask for her hand in marriage? Or had he only done so because they had spent the night together, and he felt honor-bound to wed her?
While most men rarely seemed interested in their children, Gabe was certainly good with her son. She had never seen David so happy. Never heard him giggle in such delight as he had that morning.
And most important of all, Gabe was gainfully employed. If they married and lived in this house, she knew David would have the very best care. And an education.
But just who was the master of the house? The mistress? What would life be like if she had to answer to another woman? Did Gabe merely have a room here? Or the run of the house?
The immediate alternative—returning to the boarding house and leaving her son in the care of the horrible Mrs. Hough—was more unsettling. If she could afford a better place to live, and the salary of a live-in nanny who could see to David, then life in London would be so much easier.
A knock at the door brought her out of her reverie. “Come,” she called out.
A young housemaid appeared, her arms laden with several gowns. She curtsied and said, “Good morning, miss. Name’s Thompson. I’m here to dress you—and your hair, if you’d like.”
Frances blinked. “On a Sunday?” she asked in surprise. She had always thought servants had the Lord’s day off.
Thompson shrugged. “Oh, I don’t mind, miss. Mr. Wellingham asked if I might bring some gowns for you to try.”
“I have my own,” Frances replied, indicating the one she had worn the day before. “The rest will...” She paused, not sure when or how she would retrieve her things from the boarding house.
Or even if she would.
“Mr. Wellingham has already seen to arranging for your things to be brought from the hotel where you were staying. Barclay has sent a maid and a footman to fetch them. You must be so relieved to be finally moving into a real house, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
Frances gave a start at hearing the young girl’s words.
Hotel? Whatever had Gabe told the staff?
“I am,” Frances acknowledged, deciding to play along. “It was very kind of Mr. Wellingham to invite me to stay,” she murmured as Thompson held up each gown in turn. Frances nodded at every one.
How could she not? Every one was beautiful. Every one looked as if it were fresh from a modiste’s shop. “Who do these belong to?”
“Well, you, if you like them,” Thompson replied.
Her eyes darting to one side, Frances wondered how it could be Gabe would have women’s gowns—very nice gowns—available on a moment’s notice. “Does Mr. Wellingham employ a modiste? Here at the house?” A sensation of dread filled her just then. She was probably just one more in a long line of women Gabe Wellingham had invited home for dinner and then seduced.
What else could explain the gowns?
“These did belong to the countess, but the earl prefers she wear gowns more suited to her... title. He has to remind her she’s a countess on occasion. Which is probably why the staff here all like her so much.”
Frances blinked again. “The countess?”
Thompson nodded. “The Countess of Trenton.”
Her eyes darting to one side, Frances recognized the name. The urn and vases downstairs had been commissioned by the Earl of Trenton on behalf of his countess. “She... lives here?”
Thompson angled her head to one side. “Sometimes. When she is not at the manor house near Wolverhampton... or at the coaching inn in Stretton... or in Italy. That’s where she is now,” the maid explained, her smile broad. “I hear it’s warm there this time of the year.”
But Frances was thinking of the maid’s reference to Stretton.
A coaching inn? In Stretton? Why would the countess go there if she usually lived in Wolverhampton? Stretton was northeast of Wolverhampton—not on the way to London at all.
Frances thought back to that day she had received word she had the position at the museum. The day she had hastily packed, left a note of apology at Etruria saying she would no longer be available to work there, and climbed aboard a crowded coach bound for Peterborough. She would have taken the mail coach to Wolverhampton and then changed to a coach bound for London, but it was too late in the day.
She had made it as far as Stretton that first day and then spent the night in a tidy inn.
“A coaching inn?” Frances prompted.
Thompson smiled. “The Spread Eagle. I’ve not been there, but I hear it’s quite popular. Clean, it is, with a taproom and good food, but I would expect nothin’ less given her ladyship sees to the place. Have you heard of it?”
Frances managed to hide her surprise at hearing this last bit of news and nodded at Thompson’s reflection in the mirror. “I stayed there once, and you are right when you say it is clean.”
Beaming, the maid said, “I hear that’s where the earl met the countess.”
“Indeed?” Frances was about to imagine under what circumstances that event might have happened when she realized she had best get dressed.
She moved to take the nearest gown from the maid, a sprigged muslin in bright yellow, along with her own stays and chemise. She moved to the corner dressing screen. “Will she be... returning any time soon?”
Thompson took the other gowns into the dressing room and hung them on hooks. “I don’t think so, miss. They just left a few weeks ago, just after Lady Anne married.”
Pulling on the gown, Frances sighed at seeing the expert stitching and styling that had gone into making the bodice. She couldn’t fasten the buttons on her own, but she was certain it would fit fine. She stepped from behind the screen and the maid grinned.
“I’ll do up the buttons for you,” Thompson offered, making quick work of the fabric-covered fastenings. She stepped around to face Frances, checking the fit and the length. “The countess is tall, but then, so are you. I thought I might have to take up the hem, but...” She shook her head and went to collect Frances’ shoes from near the fireplace.
“Who is Lady Anne?”
Thompson brought the shoes and knelt down. “Why, she’s the only daughter, but she married a future earl, so his lordship was quite pleased with the match.”
An earl’s daughter marrying a future earl seemed like a perfect match, Frances thought as she stepped into the shoes. She allowed a grimace at seeing her serviceable shoes with such a beautiful gown. Although she owned a pair of slippers, even they would detract from the gown should her feet show whilst she walked. “And what of the... heir?”
“That would be William,” Thompson said as she straightened. “He still has a year or two of university, I think, but he’s with the rest of the family in Italy.”
“And the spare?”
Thompson shook her head. “The count
ess hasn’t yet conceived another boy,” she said sadly as she indicated Frances should take a seat at the dressing table. She picked up the comb and began pulling out the tangles that surrounded Frances’ face.
“So... how is it Mr. Wellingham has come to live here?” Frances asked as she watched the maid’s reflection in the mirror.
“Well, seeing as how he’s the oldest son, he hasn’t had much of a choice in the matter, I suppose.”
Frances blinked. “The son of the earl?” She blinked again. Gabe Wellingham was the son of the Earl of Trenton?
The bastard son.
He had said he was illegitimate.
Frances held her breath as she struggled to think. Think of everything she knew about the young man that had kissed her quite thoroughly at the museum. The man who had asked her to share his dinner, rescued her son, and then made love to her.
Proposed marriage.
They had only known one another for a fortnight!
Thompson nodded, unaware of how Frances stared at her own reflection in the mirror. “And the countess. ‘Gabe the Younger,’ many call him, because he looks just like his father.”
“Indeed?” Frances managed to answer.
“Seein’ as how he has a position here in town, I expect the countess would prefer he stay here at the townhouse when she and his lordship return to Trenton Manor. That’s their manor house near Wolverhampton,” she clarified. “Her ladyship isn’t fond of living in London, you see, and besides, she sees to the coaching inn.”
“I see,” Frances murmured. “One of the earl’s businesses, perhaps?”
“Hmm,” Thompson nodded. “He bought it for her. Sort of an odd gift, if you ask me, but she was running the place when he married her, and she’s determined to keep it going.”
“I suppose that’s where Mr. Wellingham was born,” Frances murmured.
And probably conceived.
“Why, I suppose you’re right,” Thompson agreed as she twisted Frances’ hair into a loose bun atop her head. She used the pins that Frances had left on the table the night before to secure the bun in place, but then used the comb to pull some tendrils down at her temples. Although they weren’t curly in the fashion of ringlets, they were wavy.
Frances regarded her reflection in surprise. She usually did her own hair in a tight bun at the back of her neck, but the higher, looser style was much more flattering. “It’s beautiful,” she breathed.
Thompson stabbed a few more pins into the bun and then stepped back to survey her work. “That should do for now, but I’ll do it up more fancy for dinner this evening.”
Not having thought beyond breakfast, Frances gave a start. Dinner? “Thank you. I’ll just head downstairs now,” she said as she stood up.
“Would you like to wear your earbobs, miss?”
Her hands going to her earlobes to discover she wasn’t wearing any, Frances turned and noticed a pair of emeralds lay on the dressing table. “I don’t even remember removing them,” she murmured, her words more of a means to cover her surprise. She was sure those weren’t there when she had prepared for bed the night before, which meant Gabe had left them.
She glanced at the emerald ring he had slid on her finger earlier that morning. The stones were an exact match, of course.
“Probably took ‘em off when you bathed and just don’t remember,” Thompson said as she helped secure the earbobs into place. “They’re quite lovely with the gown. Picks up the bit of green in the embroidered leaves perfectly,” she said as she regarded Frances for a moment. “If that will be all?”
Frances was still staring at her reflection, though, barely recognizing the woman who stared back at her. She had youthened, her eyes now a bright green and her cheeks pinked, no doubt from what she’d been doing with the bastard earlier that morning. She finally managed a nod. “Yes, thank you, Thompson,” she murmured.
The maid bobbed a curtsy and took her leave of the bedchamber.
Frances stared after her. Whatever have I gotten myself into?
Chapter 29
Breakfast for Two
In the breakfast parlor at Trenton House
Although an ironed copy of The Times sat next to his place setting at the round table, Gabe hadn’t yet opened it. He was pacing the breakfast parlor, his gaze occasionally going to the sideboard and then to the door.
The usual array of breakfast foods were set out in covered salvers, the china dishes bearing the Trenton crest. A coffee set was arranged on one silver salver to the left, and a tea set was set up on the right. Had Gabe even noticed the display, he might have asked Barclay why the offerings were more elaborate than usual. Despite his hunger, none of those items had Gabe’s attention on this day.
Never before had he noticed the porcelain statues that decorated the top shelf of the sideboard. Each figurine was delicate, painted in muted colors and depicting a scene from the prior century. He stopped and lifted one, turning it upside down in an effort to see if there were any manufacturer’s markings. Although he could make out a primitive indentation in the clay, he couldn’t read the signature.
“They are not my designs,” Frances said quietly, joining him at the sideboard. “I only ever made vases and urns. Bowls and vessels that could be turned on a potter’s wheel.”
Gabe gave a start. “I apologize. I didn’t hear you come in,” he murmured. Then his gaze took in her appearance. She looked so young, her face glowing in the light from the room’s gas chandelier.
He leaned over and bussed her on the cheek. “The yellow is very fetching on you, as is your new hairstyle,” he whispered as he returned the figurine to the shelf.
“I cannot believe the Earl of Trenton would find fault with this gown,” she replied, her breath held in anticipation of his reaction. “Or any of the others the maid brought me this morning.”
Gabe allowed a one-shouldered shrug. “He prefers that my mother wear more... elaborate gowns,” he replied. “Practically forces her to order a new wardrobe every Season even though they only spend a few months here. So he can attend Parliament.” Then his eyes widened. “Who said my father didn’t like this gown?”
Not wanting Thompson to suffer for having told her about the Earl and Countess of Trenton, Frances asked, “When were you going to tell me you’re the son of an earl?”
Gabe allowed an audible sigh, and he led her to a chair next to his at the table. “After you agreed to marry me.”
Frances jerked back as if she’d been slapped. “Why not... last night, or... or when I first met you?”
Returning to the sideboard, Gabe dished up a plate for her, selecting one of everything—coddled eggs, ham, a rasher of bacon, roasted tomato—and then adding a slice of toast from the rack. Her eyes rounded as he set the feast before her, and she was about to put voice to a protest when he said, “I didn’t want you to know.”
He returned to the sideboard and dished up a plate for himself. “Would you like tea? Or coffee?”
But Frances had already moved to his side. “What would you like?”
“You, to be my wife.”
“I meant coffee or tea?”
He sighed, resisting the urge to be cross with her. If he just gave her some time, she would tell him why she hadn’t yet given him an answer to his earlier proposal. Even better, she might accept the offer. “Coffee. With a lump of sugar.”
Gabe half-watched as she prepared his coffee and then made a cup of tea for herself. She set the cups on the table and retook her seat. “Are you ashamed of them?”
“What? No!” Gabe sat down—hard—and then shook his head. “Of course not. They are two of the very best people I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.”
“Then... why ever would you keep them a secret?”
“They are not a secret,” he argued. “At least, not to those who know me well.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, and he caught Frances’ wince. “I meant the other offsprings of aristocrats, of course,” he amended. “I
merely...” He sighed again. “I don’t wish to be judged because I come from a life of privilege,” he finally explained.
Frances sipped her tea, his words reminding her of comments she had made with respect to those who were her betters in Society. “Is that why you took a position?”
He shook his head. “I wanted to work. I have seen what a life of leisure does to some of those who do not have to work, and I do not wish that for myself. Besides, I like being an archivist. I find it interesting, and it’s a perfect use of my education. In fact, someday I think I would like Mr. Harris’ job.”
Frances regarded him with a grin. “I think you would be better at it than he is,” she murmured.
Gabe’s eyes widened. “Really?”
She nodded. “I don’t believe he has the same sort of passion you do for antiquities.”
“Would you believe it if I told you that I feel even more passion for you?”
She shook her head. “No.”
But a smile teased at her lips, and Gabe merely rolled his eyes as he tucked into his breakfast. He considered how he might frame the question that had him most concerned. When he swallowed, he finally asked, “If you had known I was the son of an earl, would you have come for dinner last night?”
Frances set down her teacup and said, “No.”
Surprised by her quick response, Gabe stared at her. “Here I feared that if you did know, then I would never know if you married me because you felt affection for me or... or because I am the son of an earl.”
“You don’t think it could have been a bit of both?”
Gabe eyed her with suspicion. “You just said you wouldn’t have come to dinner if you’d known I was the son of an earl,” he argued. “How will we ever end up married if you do not allow me to court you?”
Frances struggled to keep a straight face. His earnestness was on fine display this morning. “Just as you feared being judged because you come from privilege, I feared being judged because... because I do not, and because I have a bastard son,” she added in a hoarse whisper.
The Puzzle of a Bastard Page 21