by Amelia Grey
Brent remained calm. “No. And why would I?”
“If this is true,” Matson said, “Why did she tell you and not us?”
“Isn’t it obvious? She didn’t want you to ever know. That one son had found out about her indiscretion was enough of a blow to her. She wanted to spare herself the shame and you two the shock of finding out, as well.”
“Sit down, Iverson,” Matson said. “This needs an explanation and, obviously, Brent’s the only one who can give it.”
Brent sucked in a deep breath. It wasn’t natural for a son to talk with his mother about her affair, and he’d hated every moment of it, but so had she. And it wasn’t any easier telling his brothers about it.
“The summer Papa took you to Baltimore to set up the business, I went to London. While there, I went to a ball, and that is where I saw the man. His name is Sir Randolph Gibson. I was stunned at how much you two look like him. Naturally, I came home and told Mama I had seen him. She admitted to a brief affair with the man one spring while she was in London for the Season. She had no way of knowing until years later, when you grew up, that you had been fathered by Sir Randolph. She admitted the affair to our father, and that’s when he went to Baltimore to set up the shipping business for you there. His hope was you would never have reason to set foot in London. He never wanted you to hear about or to meet Sir Randolph.”
“We’re almost thirty, blast it, we should have been told before now,” Iverson said.
“No, I’m almost thirty, and you are almost twenty-nine. And I should have never had to live with this knowledge these past ten years, but I have. Take my word for it, if I could have persuaded you to stay away from London, I would have, but I couldn’t let you go and not be aware of your connection to Sir Randolph. If you two weren’t insisting on going to London tomorrow, I would have kept my bloody mouth shut until doomsday rather than have you find this out.”
Matson looked at Iverson. “So what do you have to say about all this?”
Iverson shrugged, picked up the decanter, and refilled the three glasses. He looked from Matson to Brent. “I say we’re going to London, and to hell with whoever this man is or the fact that we might look like him.”
Matson looked at Brent and smiled. “Well, then, Brother, we’re going to London.”
And they had.
Brent looked at the two strapping men and said, “Please don’t stand on polite ceremony, Brothers, when you can barge in with such tantalizing fanfare.”
Iverson placed his forearms on top of the chair back and looked directly at Brent with his dark blue eyes. “From what we’re hearing, you are the one creating fanfare.”
“Me?” Brent said, pulling his shirt out from under Matson’s boot. He threw a disgruntled glance toward Iverson and then pulled the shirt over his head. “You are the one causing a stir by leaving your mark on that coxcomb Lord Waldo Rockcliffe as if you thought it would go unnoticed.”
Iverson shrugged. “I’ve not heard of him telling anyone what happened to him, have you, Matson?”
“Not a word,” his twin answered.
Brent knew Iverson had a cocksure way about him that intimidated most men, and he seldom had to resort to fisticuffs to settle anything. Lord Waldo must have been blind not to have known he was pushing Iverson too far.
“Did you happen to think that might be because he doesn’t have to tell anyone? Most people are smart enough to know it was either you or Matson who blessed him with the black eye, because all he’s been talking about for the past week is how much you two resemble Sir Randolph. Now he’s quiet as a church mouse on Sunday morning. Of course, I know you both too well to think it was Matson who left his mark on the poor bloke.”
“Really?” Matson smiled. “I’m pained to know you don’t think I did it. But has it ever once entered that thick brain of yours that it’s quite possible some Londoners might think you were the vile creature that was crass enough, or perhaps I should say you were the one courageous enough, to knock a duke’s youngest brother on his arse?”
“That might be especially believable now that we see you are also sporting a fat lip and a nasty scratch of your own,” Iverson added.
Matson chuckled. “Yes, no doubt you met with someone who didn’t like what you had to say, much like Lord Waldo did.”
“Are you two through?” Brent grumbled as he swiped his neckcloth off the edge of the bed and slung the long strip around his neck. He walked over to the tall bureau where his shaving mirror sat and started the process of tying the blasted thing.
“Not quite, big Brother, tell us what happened.”
Iverson laughed and said, “But then again, maybe he doesn’t want to tell us what happened.”
“Just as well, because that wasn’t the fanfare we were talking about anyway, was it?”
“No, but I still want to know how he got that nasty cut on his lip and shiner under his eye.”
Brent tuned out his brothers as he struggled with his neckcloth. He’d never learned how to do a decent job of tying a perfect bow. No matter how hard he tried, his neckcloth always came out looking like he hurried through it. He wasn’t in a mood to make the bow look respectable today, and wouldn’t except for the fact that he had to see the Duke of Windergreen, and for some reason, felt he needed to look his best.
“So, are you going to tell us, or am I going to have to beat it out of you?” Iverson asked.
He watched his brothers behind him in the mirror. “I don’t know what fanfare you two are talking about, but I suppose it has something to do with the fact that I plan to ask Sir Randolph Gibson to meet with me.”
His brothers’ banter ceased, and they looked at each other and then back to him. “No, we hadn’t heard that,” Matson said.
Iverson’s eyes narrowed, and his lips set in a grim line before he said, “Our resemblance to Sir Randolph has nothing to do with you, Brent. Stay out of it.”
Brent had to quell his instinct to give Iverson and Matson orders and expect to be obeyed as he had when they were boys. “Of course it has something to do with me. You’re my brothers. I simply want to know where the man stands concerning this.”
“He stands where he’s always stood,” Iverson said. “We don’t expect our coming to London to change him or his behavior, and we sure as hell won’t let him change us or what we plan to do.”
Matson added, “As far as we can tell, he’s never said a word about us, and as long as he stays quiet and doesn’t bother us, we won’t bother him.”
“If he starts talking,” Iverson added, “I’ll pay him a visit.”
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” Matson said, and then in an unusual tone of warning, added, “and it’s not necessary for you to meet with him, Brent. If it comes to the point that something needs to be done, we will do it. Now, let’s talk about something other than Sir Randolph.”
Brent was happy to do that since his brothers didn’t know he had already been to Bow Street and had hired a runner to gather information on Sir Randolph Gibson. Once Brent knew more about the fellow, he’d arrange for a time to meet with him, whether his brothers wanted him to or not. As his mother once said, “What they don’t know can’t hurt them.”
“Tell us about this more pressing matter of what happened in the park this morning,” Matson urged.
“Yes,” Iverson added. “We’ve been getting bits and pieces of this outlandish story everyone insists you are involved in.”
“Though, to me, it doesn’t sound like anything you would be caught up in.”
“Right,” Matson said. “I would believe it of Iverson but not you, Brent. What’s going on?”
Brent made the last loop of the bow in his neckcloth and turned to face his brothers. “Damnation, I have no idea. She’s with me one moment, and the next thing I know she’s crying for help. I knew something was wrong, but I couldn’t get to her.” Brent noticed Iverson’s eyes getting bigger, and Matson rose up and swung his feet off the bed. Brent kept talking. “I searched all over t
hat damn park and tried to find her, but I haven’t seen any sign of her yet. It’s dreadful to even think about it, but I can only hope a wild animal didn’t get to her.”
“Damnation, Brent,” Matson said, “what the devil did you do to Lady Gabrielle?”
“You think a wild animal attacked her?” Iverson said. “Hell’s gates, Brent, what is the matter with you? Why did you leave a defenseless woman alone in the park?”
“And what were you doing in the park with her in the first place?” Matson asked.
“I think we know the answer to that,” Iverson said. “From what I heard at White’s an hour ago, Brent was the wild animal who got hold of her.”
“What? No, no, stop.” Brent blew out a breathy laugh. “We are talking about two different females here, Brothers.”
“What’s gotten into you?” Matson asked. “You met with more than one woman in the park?”
“That’s so unlike you,” Iverson said with a wicked grin. “London must be having some kind of strange effect on you and, whatever it is, I hope I catch it.”
“But what happened to your vow never to touch a betrothed or married woman?” Matson asked.
Iverson chuckled. “I guess that oath is out the window now.”
Matson rose from the bed. “Brent, you know better. She’s a duke’s daughter and engaged to an earl’s son.”
Brent shook his head. His brothers could make the biggest mountain out of the smallest amount of dirt. He was determined not to let them frustrate him. He’d already been there today with Prissy and Lady Gabrielle, and he wasn’t going there for his brothers. He picked up his light brown waistcoat with fabric-covered buttons and put it on over his crisp white shirt. Thankfully, the waistcoat hid the black heel mark on the front of the shirt made by Matson’s boot.
“My hope is that Lady Gabrielle is still engaged to the earl’s son, and my vow has not changed. At the time, I had no idea Lady Gabrielle was betrothed.”
“How you talked her into meeting you in the park is what I want to know.” Iverson said. “I never seem to be quite that lucky with ladies of quality.”
“And who is this other woman who was crying for help and might have been attacked by a wild animal?” Matson said. “That’s rather gruesome, isn’t it?”
Brent sighed. Why couldn’t they ask their questions one at a time? “I didn’t arrange to meet Lady Gabrielle. It was quite by accident. And the other female is not a woman but a dog. Prissy was with me, but when I was—” Brent suddenly found himself reluctant to say more, so he stopped.
“When you were what?” Matson urged with a grin and sat back down on the bed again.
“When he was in the middle of the best part,” Iverson said with another wicked gleam in his eyes.
“I mean no such thing, you beast. Damnation, Iverson, contrary to whatever lewd and scandalous comments you may have heard in the boisterous backrooms at White’s, nothing happened between me and Lady Gabrielle this morning. And as a gentleman I’ll say no more on the matter.”
“Forget Lady Gabrielle for the moment,” Matson said, “because obviously she is safe at her home by now. What I want to know is where Prissy is at the moment.”
Brent felt as if his stomach twisted. “I don’t know where she is. Unfortunately, she ran off somewhere in the park, and I couldn’t find her. I have to go to the Duke of Windergreen’s house right now, and after I’m through there, I plan to take another look through the park. Somehow, I’ve missed finding her.”
“So you are telling us you managed not only to compromise the duke’s engaged daughter, you lost Prissy, as well?”
Brent picked up his dark brown coat and shoved his arms into the sleeves. “That is exactly what I’m telling you, Brothers. I sent my footman and his son out looking for her as soon as I returned. Right now would be a good time for the two of you to speak up and say you’ll take a ride through the park to see if you can find her.”
“Absolutely, we will,” Matson said, and then looked at his twin. “If it’s a good time for you. If not, I can go alone.”
Iverson rose from the slipper chair. “No, I’m ready.”
“Good,” Brent said. “If you find the little devil, bring her back here and make yourselves at home for as long as you want. You know where the wine is kept. I go to discover my fate.”
Brent turned and walked out the door.
Five
Pick battles big enough to matter, small enough to win.
—Jonathan Kozol
Gabrielle waited impatiently as late afternoon sunshine slashed across her bedroom window. Since leaving her father, aunt, and sister downstairs, she had tried reading and working on her embroidery, but neither pastime could take her mind off the fact that Lord Brentwood was coming to talk with her father about their marriage.
Auntie Bethie had taken charge of the house and had insisted she handle everything concerning canceling all plans for the wedding. She never once asked Gabrielle to tell her what had happened, for which Gabrielle was grateful.
The afternoon wore on, and in a fit of unrelenting frustration over her inability to control her own destiny, Gabrielle set up her easel and a small canvas by her window. She pulled her oils and brushes from their drawer and started painting a blue, blue sky. But not even the solitude of her work soothed her troubled mind as it usually did. She couldn’t stop thinking about ways she might be able to persuade the duke from wanting to force a marriage between her and the viscount.
Considering the way Lord Brentwood had looked at her with such disdain when he found out she was betrothed, she had a little hope he simply would not agree to marry her. But if he acquiesced to pressure from her father, she had to come up with a plan of her own to present to Lord Brentwood.
From the loud knock and chatter downstairs, she knew when the viscount had arrived. She kept painting, adding a dark blue tumultuous ocean with crashing waves, and a lone ship with tattered and battered sails sitting in the middle of it. Though her hand continued its creation as the minutes passed, her thoughts kept wandering to what Lord Brentwood and her father were saying to each other about her future.
Would Lord Brentwood be strong enough to stand up to her formidable father? Or would he be like most people who had dealings with the duke and finally agree with everything he wanted?
A knock sounded on her door, and Gabrielle jumped. Her brush smeared a dark brown streak across the canvas, marring the hull of the ship she was working on.
“Good heavens!” she exclaimed under her breath. She had never been skittish in her life, and she didn’t like feeling that way. She remained quiet and hoped whoever was there would go away.
The knock came again.
“I’m painting,” she called, trying to fade the streak into the canvas. Everyone in the house knew Gabrielle didn’t want to be disturbed when she was painting. Because the house was always filled with servants and family, it was the one time she insisted she be left totally alone.
The door opened, and her maid, Petra, peeked inside. “So you are in here, my lady. It was so quiet at first, I wasn’t sure.” She stopped just inside the room and put her hands on her slender hips. “You usually let me know when you want to paint, so I can get everything ready for you. And what’s this? No apron covering that pretty pink dress you have on? What am I going to do with you?”
Gabrielle found herself smiling at Petra’s softly spoken reprimand. She absolutely adored her maid. Petra was a few years older than Gabrielle and much shorter, with a thin, narrow face and huge smile. One of the things Gabrielle had liked about Petra in her first interview was she was always smiling, even as she talked.
Looking down at her dress, Gabrielle said, “Yes, you’re right. It was careless of me to forget to put on my apron, but I really want to be by myself right now, Pet. So whatever it is you thought to do here in my room, could you come back later?”
Petra gave her a sad smile. “Mrs. Potter told me about your wedding being canceled and that I shouldn’
t disturb you this afternoon.”
“And I appreciate that.”
“I’m very sorry for you, my lady.”
“Please, Pet, it isn’t the canceled wedding that is bothering me. You know better than anyone it was not a love match between me and Staunton. It’s what’s taking place downstairs right now that has me in a dither, and Auntie Bethie was right, I’m not good company for anyone, so shoo!”
Petra walked over to Gabrielle’s wardrobe and pulled out a drawer. “Can’t do that for you. Your papa sent me up here to fetch you.”
Gabrielle tensed and laid her brush down on the paint-smeared palette. “Papa wants to see me?”
“Not exactly,” Petra said, pulling out a dark wine-colored shawl trimmed with gold fringe. “I think this one will go nicely with what you have on, don’t you?”
Gabrielle pursed her lips in frustration. “I’m not cold, Pet.”
Petra walked over and wrapped the shawl around Gabrielle’s shoulders. “You will be.”
“Whatever do you mean by that?”
“I’m following His Grace’s orders. He said for me to tell you Lord Brentwood is in the garden waiting to speak to you and you may have a few minutes alone with him before he leaves.”
Gabrielle’s shoulders sagged a little. Though she knew what that meant, she didn’t want to believe it. If her father was allowing her a few minutes alone with the viscount, then another marriage contract was in the works for her.
“The sun is about to set, and the wind has whipped up,” Petra said, “and it’s bone-chilling out there, but this shawl should be enough to keep you warm for no longer than you will be in the garden.”
Gabrielle’s stomach lurched. What would she say to Lord Brentwood? Should she apologize to him again for getting him mixed up in this debacle?
No, she was through with apologies, worries, and concern.
Perhaps if her aunt had already been here, Gabrielle would have gone to her this morning instead of the park… but there was no use thinking about what might have been. She had to think about the future. No matter what her father and Lord Brentwood had decided, she had plans of her own, and she was prepared to go forward with them.