“Well, the land wasn’t really doing anything,” Danvers answered, slightly perplexed, “The trees were planted when you were an infant, and it’s only now they show any prospect of making you money that I mention them. Before now they were simply…growing.”
Gabriel harrumphed loudly, indicating his displeasure, though how was Danvers to know that since meeting Lydia he had acquired a new-found interest in the small island?
“Anything else?” he asked, trying to mask the restlessness he felt whilst Danvers went through his assets, as he did every quarter. There were other things he could be doing, like trading witty barbs with Lydia, not listening to the sour faced Danvers read his accounts like they were the obituary pages.
“No, we’re quite done, my Lord,” Danvers said, standing as the Marquess rose to leave.
“Thank you for your hard work, as usual Danvers,” Gabriel politely said, before exiting, attempting not to break out into an outright run now that the meeting was over. The relief he felt once outside the stuffy office, was the same as the feeling one gets when finally exhaling after holding your breath for an extended period of time. Which then made him feel guilty, for the meeting had been tedious because his assets were so many - though he would gladly have traded them all for another chance to have Lydia in his arms.
Chancery Lane was busy, as serious faced men passed by, clutching papers, and looking important. Gabriel’s stroll toward St. James’ took him past the imposing, brown stone gates of Lincoln’s Inns, where London’s barristers learned their trade. His eyes cast upward to admire the dark brickwork of the imposing stone building, and as such he was quite at fault when he slammed into a smaller man, exiting the wicket gate.
“Oh, I do apologize,” Gabe said, automatically reaching out to grab his victim by the shoulders to prevent him from hitting the footpath face-first.
“Amberford!”
The slight barrister blinked rapidly behind his bottle-top glasses as he struggled to register who it was that had knocked him over.
“Oh, it’s you Sutherland,” Amberford said, peering up at the Marquess, who towered above him, whilst adjusting his cravat, which had come askew in their accidental tussle.
“Sorry about that, old chap,” Gabe apologized, embarrassed at his clumsiness, “Was admiring the architecture.”
Both men looked up to admire the red brick three-story gatehouse that led to the enclosed square and grand buildings within.
“Sometimes I think the architecture is the only admirable thing about the place,” Amberford replied absently, then seemed to remember that he had an audience and gave a little start. “Not that I’m denigrating the hallowed halls - they just become less glorious when you’ve spent nearly a decade within them. Fancy a pint?”
The hour had just struck noon, and while Gabriel was not in the habit of taking libations so early in the day, his stomach grumbled and he decided that a pint of ale might quiet it. Besides, his bump with Amberford had reminded him of Zitelli, who had completely slipped from his thoughts after holding Lydia in his arms. He obviously was not designed for life as a spy, if a nearly kiss could distract him so.
“Smashing,” Gabe said cheerfully, for who could not be cheered by the thought of a wet, amber ale after his dry morning with Danvers?
The two men repaired to a quiet tavern on Gate Street, whose dimmed bar was filled with men of their ilk, stealing a quiet moment from a busy day.
“Any news on Zitelli?” Gabe asked with a whisper, once the busty bar wench had sloshed two tankards in front of them.
“Yes,” Amberford took a deep swill, as though he had spent a year in the desert and not a morning drinking tea in the Inns. “I have it on good authority that he’s meeting with some of his accomplices this very evening, under the guise of attending the theatre.”
Gabe’s ears pricked at the news; obviously Amberford had remembered his role in hunting down the would-be assassin, when he had clear forgotten.
“Jolly good work, Amberford,” he whispered, rubbing his hands together with delight. “What do you think we should do?”
“Well unfortunately,” Amberford looked embarrassed, “The play they will be attending is completely sold out. A man can’t get a ticket for love nor money…”
But a Marquess could.
“What theatre?” Gabe asked quickly, “What play?”
“The Theatre Royal,” Amberford informed him, “Cymbeline.”
Gabriel groaned; he ruddy hated Shakespeare.
“Mrs. Sarah Siddons is coming out of retirement to play the role of the Queen,” Amberford said, trying to cheer the Marquess.
“She’s always coming out of retirement,” Gabriel grumbled, thinking darkly on the legendary actress. “One has to actually stop working to be classed as retired. Someone ought to file a suit against her.”
“We’ll work on the Italians first my Lord,” Amberford smiled wickedly, “Then perhaps we’ll settle your grievance with Mrs Siddons.
Gabriel harrumphed, but his mind was working on how he could procure a ticket for that night’s event, and so expose Zitelli for the fiend he was.
Amberford took out his pocket watch, and glanced at it forlornly.
“Is that the time,” he said, the dark circles under his eyes magnified by his glasses. “I’d best be getting back to Whitehall, your brother in law despises tardiness.”
“He can hardly reprimand you all the way from Vienna,” Sutherland chortled, waving to the wench that he wished to have his tankard refilled.
Amberford cleared his throat awkwardly and looked at the table, looked at his hands, looked anywhere rather than at the Marquess, who was sure that any observers would have thought he’d been struck with lightning once he realized the meaning of Amberford’s avoidant gaze.
“He’s back?” Gabe asked, incredulous. How could Bernard Gives be back in London without him hearing of it? Caroline had not mentioned a word that her errant husband had returned.
“Nearly a week, my Lord,” Amberford replied, mortification on his young face. “I thought that you would know…”
“Well I didn’t,” Gabe snarled, throwing a few coins down on the table for the ale he had ordered and the two that they had finished. “And now I have two villains to deal with, not one.”
His mood was black and he reckoned that as he stalked across the streets of London he probably resembled a bank of thunder clouds rolling across the sky.
Caroline was in her drawing room, concentrating on the intricate stitches she was sewing into her sampler.
“I hope you don’t mind sister,” Gabe drawled as he entered, “But I’m just going to fetch my pistol, before I go down to Whitehall to call your no-good, dissolute husband out.”
Caroline laid her sampler down on the velvet settee and gave a sigh.
“No, you’re not,” she said, and pointed to the chair opposite, so that the pacing, agitated Gabriel would sit.
He did as instructed, but the energy that burned within had him coiled like a spring, ready to pounce or snap at any provocation.
“The blaggard has been back in England a week, and hasn’t set foot near you,” Gabriel seethed, kneeling forward in his chair.
“, he called here the morning that he arrived,” Caroline picked up her sampler and resumed stitching, refusing to meet her brother’s eye.
“Oh,” Gabriel’s sense of anger deflated briefly, but came back to life as he decided that Bernard must have behaved like a brute, if his sister hadn’t mentioned his visit. It was abominable behaviour.
“No, he was perfectly reasonable,” Caroline said primly, “And he apologized for his actions, but I cannot forgive him Gabriel. And that is the last I’ll say on that matter.”
Gabe fell silent, his sister’s cheeks were tinged pink with anger and while he could understand her anger, he failed to see why Caroline would not forgive her husband his past indiscretions. If Bernard had fathered a child recently it would be a different story, but the way Amberford told it the young lad was
in his teens. Caroline’s lovely face was closed and angry, and the Marquess could sense her steely determination to keep her resolve. He almost pitied Bernard - almost - for once Caroline made up her mind, she was as stubborn as he was, and would not be moved.
“Do you think you shall divorce?” Gabriel ventured, he could see no resolution in sight for his sister and her husband.
The mention of the D word caused Caroline’s head to snap up from her embroidery, and she threw her brother a startled glance. Divorce would mean the end of her, no more balls, no more reigning as one of society’s queens; she would be a social pariah.
“Don’t be so absurd, Gabriel,” Caroline clucked, before tossing her sampler on the settee in annoyance. “Besides, even if I wanted to, Bernard wouldn’t consent. A divorce would be bad for his precious career.”
Caroline gave a sardonic laugh, and rose to stand, her movements agitated.
“Excuse me, please,” she said carefully, “But I seem to have come down with a headache.”
She left the room, and Gabriel, in silence. His head ached as he took in the enormity of the situation his older sister had found herself in. He could not reconcile the sweet and loving Caroline with this hard-hearted woman who seemed so unforgiving. Idly he strode to the settee and picked up the sampler that Caroline had been working on. In between the intricate stitches, which depicted a rather masculine pattern of leaves, was the name “Edward”.
“Who the deuce is Edward?” Gabriel asked aloud. It seemed there was more to her separation than Caroline was letting on, and this Edward chap had something to do with it.
Italians, divorces, mysterious men called Edward; Gabe had had a busy afternoon dealing with what seemed like everything else, bar Lydia who was the only thing he had wanted to do that day. Thinking that he would call on her tomorrow, Gabe went upstairs to change for the theatre, determined to catch the wicked Count Zitelli doing something suspicious.
Chapter Twelve
Lydia awoke the morning after Lady Jersey’s ball, feeling as though she had slept on a soft, fluffy cloud. Her step was light, and even Marguerite - who was not known for her cheerful countenance in the mornings - was cheered by her ebullient joy.
“You are too ‘appy for zis time of ze morning, what ees making you so cheerful?” the French girl asked, as she tightened the laces of Lydia’s stays. Lydia remained tactfully silent; what had happened between her and the Marquess was, for now, to remain a secret. The memory of his handsome face, hovering just above her own as he had leaned in for a kiss, was one of the most exciting memories that she had collected in her four and twenty years, and for now she didn’t want to share it with anyone. She wanted to keep it safe from outside comment, lest anyone taint it, or sully it in any kind of way.
“Where to today?” Marguerite asked, after Lydia had breakfasted on hot Turkish coffee and slices of brioche.
“I think I shall stay in,” Lydia said delicately, not wanting to raise the suspicions of the lady’s maid; Marguerite was about as skilled at keeping a secret as Lydia was at charming the ton. If the lady’s maid had any inclination that there was a hint of romance between her and the Marquess, then everyone from her Aunt to the vegetable man who called on a Friday would know about it.
“Stay in?” Marguerite’s cornflower blue eyes looked ready to pop from her head in shock. “You never stay in. You make me walk ‘undreds of miles every morning because you ‘ate to stay at ‘om in case anyone calls on you…”
Marguerite’s voice trailed off, her mouth open in an “O” of realization.
“You are waiting for a man!”
“I am not,” Lydia replied mulishly, feeling her face redden with embarrassment. Had she been that obvious?
“Ooo ees eet?” Marguerite asked, ignoring her mistress’ look of chagrin. “Ees eet the Italian?”
“Oh goodness, no,” Lydia wrinkled her nose in distaste. After Sutherland had disappeared she had spent the rest of the evening dodging the Count, but fate - and her aunt - had conspired to throw them together. For the last hour of Lady Jersey’s ball, she had been forced to listen to Zitelli recount his many heroic adventures on his travels to England. From fisticuffs in Bruges, to nearly being stabbed in Paris - it was amazing that Zitelli had made it to London alive, as he seemed so prone to leaping into mortal danger.
“Then oo?”
Marguerite stood before her mistress, her hands on her hips, her beautiful face wreathed in a frown of concentration as she tried to think who it was that had Lydia in such a dreamy daze.
“Oh,” Marguerite’s plump mouth once again formed an “O” shape, and her expression was one of a person who had undergone an Epiphany.
“Ze Marquess!”
“Non.” Lydia shook her head, staring stubbornly at the table, rather than meet the French girl’s eyes and confirm her suspicions.
“Oui,” Marguerite’s eyes danced, “Oo else could it be? You can’t stand to speak with any other man. Oh - ooh!”
Marguerite became so over-swept by emotion that she had to sit down, a happy smile playing upon her lips, while Lydia remained stubbornly silent.
“’As he kissed you?”
Lydia felt her face flush, and though she valiantly tried to quell it, a tiny, cat-like grin of contentment spread over her face, which made Marguerite howl with pleasure.
“You shall be a Marchioness!”
“No,” Lydia begged, “Please stop Marguerite. Nothing happened. Truly. We talked, we danced, we did not kiss…”
But they almost had, Lydia’s toes curled with pleasure at the memory but she still did not want to say aloud all that had occurred between her and Sutherland. Because she was afraid; afraid of jinxing the new and exciting, and desperately afraid of losing her friend.
“Of course, you did not mademoiselle,” Marguerite gave her an alarmingly saucy wink, and rose from her seat at the table, humming to herself.
The overly happy Marguerite continued to hum throughout the morning, as Lydia sat reading a novel on the plush settee in the drawing room. Every time there was a sound on the road outside, Marguerite went running to the window, to peer out for the Marquess’ arrival.
“Zat was not ‘im either,” Marguerite said sadly, at three o’clock, “Zat was ze family next door, ze one’s with ze silly name.”
“The Allerdyces?” Lydia asked, suppressing a smile, for Marguerite with her loose grasp of English pronunciation had never been able to master the many consonants of the Allerdyce’s family name, and as such had taken a passionate dislike to them. A dislike that she nursed daily.
“Oui,” Marguerite whispered, standing near to the wall so her enemies would not see her spying, “I do not know what ze woman is wearing. It looks like she killed a sheep and put it on ‘er ‘ead.”
Lydia tried to raise a smile, but her spirits, so buoyant at the start of the day had begun to sink miserably with every passing hour that the Marquess failed to arrive. Did the rules of courtship not dictate that he call on her after having danced together at Lady Jersey’s? True, no one had seen them waltz, but Lydia had thought that after what had happened last night the Marquess would want to clarify where they stood.
Perhaps this is his way of telling me, she thought with alarm. Was it possible that the Marquess, having broken down her reserve, had decided that, actually, he did not want Lydia at all? It was true that he was much more experienced in the way of love than she, but she had never heard him accused of being a rake. His manners were too impeccable. And yet…
A seed of doubt was sown in Lydia’s mind, which was then watered by Marguerite’s alarming show of pity which manifested itself as niceness. Marguerite was never nice, and it was most worrying. The French maid spent an inordinate amount of time dressing Lydia’s hair, while chattering inanely about the misadventures that might have befallen the Marquess on his way to visit.
“Perhaps his ‘orse lost his shoe?” Marguerite mused, as she finished pinning Lydia’s hair into a braided knot.
>
Lydia did not reply, she had thought of that too, but Sutherland had scores of horses; if one lost a shoe he could simply ride another.
“Or maybe eet was ze vision of ze woman next door, with ze dead sheep on her ‘ead,” Marguerite suggest gaily, as she surveyed her work in the mirror. “I would not blame ‘im. Silly Aller…aller - alors! What a stupid name she ‘as.”
Lydia tried to smile at Marguerite’s prattling, which was evidently designed to distract her, but her heart felt weary. She had placed too much hope in her encounter with Sutherland, when for him it had probably just been one romantic interlude of many.
Still, she squared her shoulders, she had the theatre to look forward to. It wasn’t until she arrived at Drury Lane, with her Aunt, that she realized her evening of entertainment was going to involve Count Zitelli.
“Ah,” the Italian stood as Lydia and Tibby entered the box, his dark eyes dancing, “How happy I am that you could make it!”
“Oh, we wouldn’t have missed this for the world,” Tabitha breathed, her face looking flustered and girlish. “And Lydia so loves the theatre.”
“Oh, I know,” Zitelli beamed at Lydia, who rather than feeling charmed, wondered how he knew this fact. The few times they had conversed, he had spoken almost exclusively about himself; it was a wonder he even knew her name.
“Allow me to introduce my friends,” Zitelli finally remembered his manners and turned to the glamorous couple, seated beside him. The couple, a distinguished looking foreigner and his very beautiful wife, smiled as they said hello in very broken English.
“My friends from home,” Zitelli said, sliding into the seat beside Lydia, who had hoped to sit as far away from him as possible. “I bought a subscription for this box just yesterday.”
Lydia tried not to raise her eyebrows, a yearly subscription for the Theatre Royal was quite a handsome sum.
“Ah I love the written word,” Zitelli said, as the gas-lights dimmed to indicate that the play was about to start. “I think, if I had stayed in Italy, I should have been as great a playwright as this Sha-sha…”
A Lady Like No Other: A Regency Romance (Regency Black Hearts Book 3) Page 9