A Gentleman Never Tells

by Amelia Grey

  Her belligerence startled Gabrielle. “Rosa—”

  “No, don’t say it,” Rosa demanded. “You always say you understand, but you never do, Gabby. You have always been jealous of me, and now you are jealous of Staunton’s love for me.”

  Gabrielle was speechless for a moment. “That is simply not true. I’m happy you have found true love.”

  “Then why don’t you want me to see him?” she asked petulantly.

  Gabrielle was trying to hold on to her patience. “I don’t care if you see him. I want you to see him. Just not in secret. I asked that you go with us to Lady Windham’s last night. Staunton was there, and you could have seen him the proper way.”

  Rosabelle’s eyes widened, and her face instantly changed from peevish resentment to eager delight. She grabbed Gabrielle’s hands in hers and asked, “What did he say, Gabby? Did he ask about me? I know he did. Oh, I could just scream at myself! Why didn’t I go?”

  “Rosa, settle down. I saw him only from a distance as he was leaving. I didn’t speak to him.”

  “Did the poor dear look absolutely miserable, like me? He’s probably pining away for me. I must see him soon or I shall die.”

  “And you shall see him, Rosa, but it has to be under the proper circumstances. You cannot meet him in secret.”

  “Of course I can.” She dropped Gabrielle’s hands as if they were a hot poker. “You’ve done it. You met with Lord Brentwood in the park while you were still engaged to Staunton, so I don’t think I need any lectures from you.”

  Gabrielle’s shoulders stiffened. “I told you that was a chance meeting and not by design.”

  “But no one believes you, including me.”

  Her words angered Gabrielle. “That’s not true, Rosa.”

  “Of course it is, but it’s all right. I’ve met with Staunton in secret before and no one caught us. I will do it again if I so desire. It’s time you realize, Gabby, that you are not my mother. I don’t need you telling me what I can or cannot do. Furthermore, I’m old enough to make my own decisions without your help.”

  Rosabelle turned and started to run from the room, but stopped short and looked back at Gabrielle. “And if you dare tell Papa about me and Staunton,” she said, “I will never speak to you again as long as I live.”

  Gabrielle gasped again as Rosa stomped from the room.

  What was she going to do? The last thing Gabrielle wanted was for Rosabelle to have to endure rude comments and outrageous rumors from stuffy old ladies. Was it finally time for her to confess everything to her father? No, her father would not understand Rosabelle’s behavior at all.

  But it was time for Gabrielle to have a talk with Staunton. He was older and wiser than Rosa, and he would have to make her see that they could not continue to meet in secret. If he truly loved her, he had to know how impetuous she was and how dangerous it was for the two of them to have an affair. Since he didn’t seem to know what the sensible thing was for them to do, she would tell him. He must stand up to his father and hers and demand that the two of them be allowed to go ahead and be married, or at the very least be engaged.

  But when to talk to him was the problem.

  Should she wait until the Cuddlebury’s party next week and try to talk to him there? No, even if he attended there would be too many opportunities for interruptions, prying ears, and more gossip. And it might be too late. Rosabelle had a bee in her bonnet, and there was no time to waste.

  Gabrielle would send her own letter to Staunton, but unlike Rosa, she would sign her letter. She left her needlework on the table, went to the secretary in the drawing room, and sat down. She opened a drawer and took out a quill, ink jar, and a sheet of vellum, and wrote:

  Staunton,

  I find it is necessary that I should talk to you about an important matter as soon as possible. I would be most grateful if you would please respond with a date and time that would be good for you so we might meet in Hyde or St. James Park. I await your answer.

  With all regards,

  Gabby

  ***

  Brent stepped out of the pouring rain and into the warmth of the Harbor Lights Club. A stiff-looking attendant approached him, staring at the swelling on the side of Brent’s mouth. No doubt he wasn’t used to seeing many gentlemen coming into the establishment with a fat lip. Brent ignored his scrutiny and handed the man his wet coat, hat, umbrella, and gloves, and explained who he was and that he wasn’t a member of the club but was to meet Sir Randolph Gibson in the taproom. When Brent said he was Viscount Brentwood, the man’s attitude changed immediately, and at the mention of Sir Randolph’s name, the attendant’s face lighted with a smile.

  The man handed Brent’s soggy garments off to another person, and then he led Brent down a dimly lit corridor. They passed more than one room where he heard loud talking, laughter, and billiard balls smacking together. For a small club, it seemed to have a lively atmosphere. The man stopped in the doorway of the taproom and pointed to a finely dressed gentleman who was seated at a table by the front window that opened to the busy street.

  He’d seen Sir Randolph at a couple of different parties over the past month, and there was no way Brent wouldn’t have known the man. Matson and Iverson’s resemblance to him was stunning. Sir Randolph had been presented to Brent at a party, though they hadn’t really spoken, other than the perfunctory greetings that civility required. Unlike his meeting with Mr. Alfred Staunton, both Brent and Sir Randolph had behaved as gentlemen, and neither had said a word about what was really on their minds. The man had readily accepted when Brent sent him a note suggesting they meet.

  Brent could understand his brothers’ wanting to ignore the fact they looked just like the man and simply get on with their lives. That’s what Brent wanted for them, but he also wanted more. He wanted to see where Sir Randolph stood with the twins. It wasn’t that Brent didn’t think his brothers could handle any situation that might come up; it was mainly his vow to his mother that he would keep up with them and, if need be, help them.

  Sir Randolph Gibson was staring out the window, though Brent had no idea what he might be looking at. The rain was now pouring down in torrential sheets, and no one was on the walkways. When Brent had been out, it was too gloomy and murky even to see the coaches as they passed him on the streets.

  Brent remained where he was for a moment, watching the man. From what he’d learned from the runner he’d hired from Bow Street, Sir Randolph was in his sixties, though he hardly looked a day over fifty. He was a tall, robust, handsome fellow, with a thatch of silver hair that most men his age would envy.

  Apparently there were three gentlemen, cousins in fact—a duke, a marquis, and an earl—who watched after the old man and had saved him from losing his wealth to such risky ventures as a hot air balloon travel business and a time machine. Earlier in the year, the old man had even been involved in some kind of boxing match over a spinster’s honor. The runner couldn’t find out much about that, but said shortly after the fight—which somehow the old man had won—the lady and her brother had left London.

  The runner said Sir Randolph inherited his considerable wealth. His father had struck it rich in the shipping business when England was still trying to maintain control of its colonies across the sea. The war that followed made the old sea merchant a wealthy man, and it all went to Sir Randolph when his father died.

  Brent didn’t know any of the three gentlemen who watched over Sir Randolph. No doubt the man’s substantial estate and no legitimate heirs were the main reasons the cousins, who had no blood relation to him, were so eager to step in and take care of him when needed.

  The most interesting thing he’d been told was that over the years, Sir Randolph Gibson had been constantly sought after by ladies young and old, widows, innocents, and spinsters, too, all wanting to better their station in life by becoming his wife. But according to the runner, no one had ever caught his fancy enough for him to propose matrimony. According to rumor, Sir Randolph held solidly to
the fact that the deceased Lady Elder, who was married four times but never to Sir Randolph, was the only woman he’d ever loved. But obviously she wasn’t the only lady he’d ever made love to. Matson and Iverson were testament to that.

  With that thought, Brent entered the room and headed toward the table by the window.

  Sir Randolph rose from the table and bowed. “My lord.”

  “Sir Randolph,” Brent said, pulled out the chair opposite the man, and sat down.

  “What are you drinking?” Sir Randolph asked as a server approached.

  “Ale will do,” Brent said and waited for the server to walk away before adding, “I suppose you are wondering why I wanted you to meet me today.”

  Sir Randolph shook his head as he folded his arms across his chest. “No, I didn’t wonder at all. I figured I knew.”

  “My brothers,” Brent said.

  Sir Randolph nodded.

  “I’m afraid they are not as worried as I am by the fact they look so much like you.”

  A sparkle lit in his brown gaze and he quipped, “Would it help if I shaved my head and grew a beard?”

  Liking the twinkle of humor in the old man’s eyes, Brent smiled. Only a few words out of his mouth and already he had disarmed Brent. It was no wonder Sir Randolph had caught his mother’s attention. Brent would have to be careful around the distinguished-looking dandy. Clearly, the sly old goat was cunning and clever enough to know how to win over his enemies.

  Trying not to let Sir Randolph know that, so far, he was impressed with him, Brent said, “I think it’s a little late for that, don’t you?”

  “I suppose it is,” Sir Randolph answered, some of the sheen fading from his eyes. “I guess that would have worked only if I had known the twins were coming to Town.”

  “So you knew about my brothers?”

  Remaining unflustered, Sir Randolph nodded again and said, “Of course. I knew your parents had three sons.”

  “Did you know two of them look like you?”

  “I had never seen them until they arrived in Town a few weeks ago.”

  Brent shifted in his chair and said, “Have you kept up with my brothers over the years?”

  Sir Randolph’s gaze stayed steady on Brent’s. “That wasn’t my place to do, my lord.”

  He was cagey, answering every question but giving little information. Brent started to ask, But did you know they were your sons? Did you and my mother or my father ever talk about the fact that they are your sons? But Brent held his tongue, not knowing if he really wanted to know that much about what went on with his parents and Sir Randolph.

  The server approached, and Brent waited until he’d placed his drink on the table and turned away, before saying, “What I really want to know, Sir Randolph, is if there will be more scandal coming.”

  A genuine look of puzzlement wrinkled the dandy’s forehead, narrowed his eyes, and tightened his lips. “I’m not sure I know what you mean by that comment.”

  Brent picked up his ale and took a sip. The tankard hit his bruised lip, and he stifled a wince. Every time it pained him, he thought about how good it would feel to pummel Mr. Alfred Staunton’s face into the ground.

  “Then let me be forthright with you, Sir Randolph,” Brent said, placing his ale back on the table. He looked the man coldly and directly in the eyes, wanting to make sure there would be no misunderstanding as to what he had to say. “I do not want to wake one morning and find you have blabbed to every scandal sheet and gossipmonger in the ton about your clandestine affair with my mother almost thirty years ago, because if you do, I will pay you a visit.”

  Sir Randolph jerked back as if Brent had struck him. Wide-eyed surprise quickly turned to a deadly glare. It didn’t surprise Brent that the man wasn’t cowed by his strong words.

  Sir Randolph’s hands jerked to the table, and his fingers white-knuckled the edge as he leaned in closer to Brent. “By your words, my lord, it’s clear you don’t know me, so I’ll forgive you this once for questioning my honor and not take offense at what you just said. I have only one and will always have only one thing to say about your mother to you, Society, or anyone else in London. She was a fine and virtuous lady, and I’ll take up my sword, my pistols, or my fists against any nobleman, gentry, or servant who dares to say differently about her. And, my lord, that includes her sons.”

  Brent sat back in his chair and slowly nodded. He couldn’t have said that better himself. “Then we’re in agreement, Sir Randolph.”

  Eleven

  Has fortune dealt you some bad cards? Then let wisdom make you a good gamester.

  —Francis Quarles

  Gabrielle was treading on unfamiliar ground. She hated to be late for anything. It went against her nature. It worried her if anyone had to wait for her, no matter for how short a time. She had fought the urge to race downstairs to meet Lord Brentwood the moment he was announced. Instead, she had paced in her room, making him wait for over an hour before gathering up her pelisse, bonnet, and gloves to make her way below stairs. From what she could tell, stepping on his toes and making him step on hers hadn’t seemed to do much to deter his desire to marry her. He took her bungling of the waltz in stride the way a perfect gentleman should. If she hadn’t been so stunned by his calm acceptance, she would have laughed when he said all she needed was a few more lessons. That was not what she’d wanted to hear. But since that little episode hadn’t worked at all, she had been thinking up new ways to annoy the viscount.

  From her father, she knew that few gentlemen could abide a lady who was habitually late. She was hoping her tardiness would add another unacceptable trait to the list he must now be forming about her. But just in case, Gabrielle had more than one card up her sleeve. She wasn’t leaving anything to chance. She was going to add as many uncomplimentary things about herself as she could while they waited for her betrothal to Staunton to be dissolved.

  It wasn’t easy for her to play the part of a twit, but she had to believe if she annoyed Lord Brentwood enough, he was sure to give her up as unredeemable and insist to her father that he couldn’t marry a young lady who was so inept at so many things.

  She smiled as she slipped her velvet drawstring reticule over her hand. She had written some dreadfully long and uninspired poetry and had it tucked in her purse, ready to pull it out at the most inopportune time and read it to him. Considering the extreme look of anguish she saw on Lord Brentwood’s face when he’d heard Lord Snellingly recite his poetry, her attempt at verse should have the viscount running for the country to get away from her.

  Much to her surprise and puzzlement, when she made it to the bottom of the stairs, she heard talking and laughter coming from the drawing room. She had expected to find him extremely annoyed or, at the very least, to hear Lord Brentwood pacing from sheer boredom as she had been doing in her room. She hurried down the corridor and, when she rounded the doorway, she saw Lord Brentwood and her aunt in delightful humor, playing a game of cards across the small table that sat between the two settees.

  He certainly wasn’t in the dither she’d hoped to find him. Far from it. He looked as if he was actually enjoying himself with her aunt. Gabrielle was the one who felt flushed, out of breath, and annoyed that he wasn’t. Obviously, being late wasn’t going to provoke him as long as Auntie Bethie was around to amuse him.

  “I beg your pardon, Lord Brentwood, for taking so long,” she said, walking into the room.

  Lord Brentwood laid his cards on the table, rose, and let his gaze linger on her face, causing a shiver of awareness. She saw appreciation in his eyes for the way she looked, and she liked that he let her know. She wore a dark beige carriage dress with a dark brown velvet pelisse covering most of it. She held a matching bonnet in her hand, and her brown velvet reticule dangled from her gloved wrist.

  The viscount looked amazingly handsome in a dark blue jacket over a pale blue waistcoat adorned with ivory-colored buttons. His slim-cut, fawn-colored trousers were stuffed into shiny black boots t
hat had decorative silver buckles at the ankles and emphasized his long, powerful legs. She swallowed hard when she noticed the jagged cut and swelling at the corner of his mouth where Staunton had hit him. The injury made him look all the more handsome, roguish, and unattainable. But she was most captivated by how relaxed and casual he seemed in her home, playing cards and conversing with her aunt.

  Gabrielle had the unusual urge to stomp her foot in frustration. Why wasn’t he upset and irritated that she was so late? Her father would have been red-faced with anger and pacing at the bottom of the stairs, shouting for her to hurry. Obviously, she was going to have to try harder in order to displease the very likable Lord Brentwood.

  “Your tardiness wasn’t a problem for me, but the wait was made better when fortune smiled on me. Mrs. Potter came along and saw me sitting here alone. We started talking about cards.”

  “Yes,” Auntie Bethie said, picking up the story. “And Lord Brentwood was kind enough to show me a few pointers.”

  “Nonsense, Auntie,” Gabrielle said with a smile and then reached down and kissed her aunt on the cheek. “You may have fooled Lord Brentwood for a time with your cunning ways, but you know you cannot fool me. You are an excellent card player and need no instruction from anyone.”

  “I can always learn a thing or two from a handsome gentleman.”

  “Not at cards.” Gabrielle smiled. “No doubt you were trying to win some blunt off him, and if you did, you must give it back right now.”

  “Never, my darling. The money I won is all mine.” Her aunt laughed, reached up, and patted Gabrielle’s cheek affectionately. “And if that is the kind of disrespect you are going to show your favorite aunt, you can put on your bonnet and leave for the park straightaway.”

  “Perhaps we should, before you have the viscount thinking you are a helpless lady in need of rescuing.” Gabrielle turned to Lord Brentwood. “Shall we go?”