by Nicole Byrd
The silence seemed heavy with suspense. But their hostess considered for a moment before she went on. “You may have heard that when our esteemed Prince Regent was a young man, he took a lady to be his wife, even though the law of the land forbade a prince and heir to do such a thing, considering certain facts about her situation.”
Tactful, indeed, Gemma thought. She had heard of the young prince’s love of an older woman, who was considered unsuitable to be a future queen of England.
“The connection had to be kept secret, except from his close friends, and so—despite a lot of whispering among the rest of Society—did his adoration of the lady. But in defiance of his critics and the prohibitions that prevented him from making the lady his queen, the prince had a broach painted with her eye in its center. He could wear it as an unobtrusive declaration of his love, but one that would still shield her identity. For a few years it was quite the rage for others in the Ton to do the same. Later, he had to put the lady aside and marry a suitable—by class and lineage, at least!—queen, and the fashion died. I doubt you would find any of these worn nowadays.” She paused and looked up at them, too well-bred to ask the obvious question.
Psyche sighed. “No, you’re right. It is a mystery as to what it signifies, but you may have helped us unravel it.”
Lady Sealey touched the surface of the broach with the tip of her finger. “Whoever wore this was most likely declaring a private and perhaps forbidden love, just as the prince once did.” She glanced at Psyche, then toward Gemma. “And since the eye painted here is the same unusual shade as that of your husband’s eyes, and, I must note, of this lovely young lady—”
Shrewd, indeed! Gemma blinked, not sure what to say.
Psyche answered for her. “Yes, we think there is a connection here that we had not known about earlier. We are trying to make out what is true and which has also been hidden from us.”
“What does Lord Gabriel think?” Lady Sealey asked, raising her silvery brows.
“He is . . . torn,” Psyche admitted. “He was deeply devoted to his mother.”
“You must remind him that his mother had a most unhappy life with her husband, and despite the late marquess’s violent and unkind nature, it would have been well nigh impossible for her to leave him. I know it is difficult for Gabriel to consider that Lady Gillingham might have had another man in her life. Men, especially, often wish to envision their mothers as saintly. But in the end, she was not a saint, you know, only a person who desired love just as most of us do.” The countess’s tone was gentle but firm.
Psyche nodded. “I shall tell him. What he will decide, I do not know. I do wish that his mother had left us a more definite explanation.”
“If she had outlived her husband, perhaps she would have,” Lady Sealey pointed out. “She died first, did she not? Perhaps she felt it was not safe to leave a clear detailing while her husband still lived and might yet have discovered her secrets.”
“That’s true,” Psyche said slowly.
Feeling the heat in her cheeks, Gemma stared down at the hands she clenched tightly together in her lap. They were discussing her fate, her origins, and it was hard not to be self-conscious. Was she, after all, born of a union not sanctified by marriage? And would Gabriel ever consider acknowledging that she might be his relative? Her mother was dead, her father unknown and seemingly likely to stay that way. Lord Gabriel was perhaps the only chance she had left to have a family to claim her, certainly the only connection she knew about for certain. The old loneliness swept back over her, the sense of separation she had lived with for years, and she blinked hard against betraying tears.
Then she realized that Lady Sealey was speaking to her.
“Do not be distressed, Miss Smith. I am sure this must be very trying for you. If your mother was Lady Gillingham, she was a gentle and loving woman and a parent who would have cherished you if she could. Remember, in the end, you are what you make yourself, no matter what your origins.”
Many in the Ton would never agree with that! Including Arnold, Gemma suspected. She remembered that Psyche had described the countess as forward thinking. Yes, indeed. But the lady was still speaking.
“The people who know you best will accept you, and you must accept yourself. With such secrets in your family history, you may have a more difficult time than those more fortunately situated, but the extra trials will make you strong, and you must not allow yourself to become bitter. Cultivate the same loving nature that your mother possessed, and be proud of the added strength that your ordeals have given you, a firmness which she may not have been able to find inside herself. In the end, we all do the best we can.” Her tone was kind, and the blue eyes, faded with age, seemed very wise.
Swallowing incipient tears, Gemma said, “Thank you.”
“I shall be happy to receive you at anytime in my salon, my dear,” Lady Sealey told her. “And I get about quite a bit. If you decide to go into Society, you will find friends there.”
“Thank you,” Gemma repeated, her voice husky.
The ladies chatted for a few more minutes on less serious topics. Then Psyche rose, and the rest of their party followed suit as they made their farewells. When they were back in the carriage, Psyche reached to press Gemma’s hand.
“I will speak to Gabriel and tell him what we have learned.”
She said no more, but she could hardly promise what her husband would decide, Gemma knew.
“I appreciate what you have done,” Gemma answered.
When Psyche and her sister had left them at Louisa’s home and departed, Miss Pomshack was eager to gossip.
“What an honor to meet Lady Sealey, and such a gracious lady she is! You really must not repine, my dear Miss Smith. With such a patron ready to offer you credence, not to mention the goodwill of Lady Gabriel, even if Lord Gabriel himself does not formally acknowledge you—and it is understandable if he does not wish to, no slight intended toward you, but it is his mother’s reputation at stake here, after all—you will not be totally ignored. It is a great pity that the sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the children, but the Good Book says—”
“Yes,” Gemma interrupted. “Thank you, I am familiar with the quotation, and it is always good to reflect upon Holy Writ. But just now, my head is aching.” And she was not in a mind to endure platitudes, no matter how well meant, she thought ruefully.
“You poor child,” the other woman said. “Would you like me to make up one of my special tisanes?”
“That would be most kind of you,” Gemma told her, reflecting that she could always pour the noxious mixture into the slop jar. “If you would have Lily bring it up to my bedroom, I will drink it there and take a short rest.”
“Of course, just what you need after such an eventful day,” Miss Pomshack agreed.
Feeling a little guilty, but only a little, Gemma went up to her room and did indeed lie down upon her bed. As kindhearted as Lady Sealey had been, Gemma still felt overcome with trepidation. In the end, she always returned to the same question. Who was she, who was Gemma Smith, really? It seemed now there would never be a definite answer. . . .
To make up for her slight subterfuge, she forced herself to drink Miss Pomshack’s herbal concoction when the maid brought it up, then she tried to shut her eyes. She was short of sleep from several turbulent nights. And she thought of the countess’s suggestion that those who cared for her would not mind what her origins might be. Would Arnold agree?
Then she thought of Captain Fallon, still in the west of England occupied with the search for his sister. She admired him so much for his unswerving loyalty to his sibling. She could have been Clarissa, could have shared Clarissa’s peril. Gemma so wanted the young woman to be found, to be safe, and to be reunited with her family.
Family. It always came back to that. This time she did weep, a little, from overwrought nerves and the old sadness. But then she rose and washed her face and resolved that she must be calm and resolute—she would not give u
p. With that thought in mind, she dressed for dinner and resolved to present a serene face to Miss Pomshack.
The other lady was happy to take credit, through her tisane, for Gemma’s improved state of mind, and they shared a quiet dinner together. Gemma thought a bit uneasily of Louisa. She hoped her friend would send word, soon, if she did not plan to return to London. Gemma would like to know that all was well. But Louisa was of age, and Gemma did not think that Lieutenant McGregor would abuse her. In fact, thinking briefly of just what the two newlyweds might be doing this evening brought a slight blush to her cheek. To change the highly improper direction of her thoughts, Gemma inquired of Miss Pomshack about the book the lady had been reading.
She was then forced to listen politely to a discussion of weighty theologic topics, which was more than enough to take anyone’s mind off the possibility of riotous lovemaking.
The next day, they had another unexpected visitor.
“Mrs. Andrew Forsythe,” Smelters announced from the doorway.
Gemma looked up in surprise. Miss Pomshack put away her book, and they both stood to receive their visitor, who was a fashionably clad matron with brown hair and merry brown eyes, who was shorter and more rounded than her friend Psyche.
“I thought I should pay a call and get acquainted before the ball tomorrow night, so that we will all be at ease,” she explained.
“I am delighted to meet you. Your invitations were so generous,” Gemma said. “I know I can speak for my friend. Louisa is out of town, but she will be so sorry to have missed you.” Gemma realized she had a new worry. Would Louisa return in time for the ball? And if she did, could she bear to face the possibly censorious Ton with rumors of the veiled lady at the brothel perhaps already circulating?
A rumble of wheels outside the opened window made her turn her head, and Miss Pomshack hurried over to look. “Oh, how fortunate. I believe Miss Crookshank—that is, Mrs. McGregor—has returned.”
Mrs. Forsythe raised her brows, but Gemma hesitated, not sure she could even begin to explain. Fortunately, she heard the bustle of the new arrivals, and within a short time, Louisa herself appeared in the doorway.
“Colin has gone back to the hotel to collect his things—” she began, untying the ribbons of her hat, then halted. “Oh, hello.”
“Mrs. Forsythe has kindly paid us a call,” Gemma hurried to explain. “Mrs. Forsythe, this is my friend Louisa—”
Then she hesitated.
Louisa dipped a curtsy and came forward. “Mrs. Forsythe, it was exceedingly kind of you to invite us. I have been anticipating the ball with great delight. But I fear I must tell you—” She paused and seemed to gather her courage. “I am not sure if I should presume upon your benevolence when my appearance at your home may cause talk. I have just recently—I have ended my engagement to Sir Lucas Englewood and formed a new attachment. Although it may seem sudden, I was married two days ago in Brighton. My husband is Lieutenant Colin McGregor.”
Gemma held her breath, and Louisa seemed to brace herself.
But instead of looking shocked or affronted, Mrs. Forsythe gave a peal of laughter. “You mean there might be a touch of scandal about your sudden marriage? How delightful, just the thing to make my party the talk of the Ton. My dear, you must come! And I wish to hear all the particulars. I love a good romantic tale.”
Louisa looked surprised for a moment, then she sat down on a chair across from them. “You are very good, Mrs. Forsythe.”
“Oh, call me Sally,” the lady told them. “And now, tell me all.”
Louisa glanced at Gemma, and Gemma bit back a smile, glad that this time it would be Louisa who had to pick careful steps among the true and the not-so-true details about her quick marriage, deciding what to share and what not to reveal.
So they were still going to the ball? Louisa was being very brave, risking the frowns of Society. And Gemma . . . like Cinderella, Gemma would go dogged by fear, waiting for the clock to strike midnight and her assumption of gentlewoman’s status to melt away like the fairy-tale heroine’s magical gown. She still felt unsure, an impostor, vulnerable to exposure and ridicule.
Almost, almost she would have wished that they could decline the invitation. But if Sally Forsythe was being so generous, and if Louisa was ready to face the Ton, how could Gemma say no? She had to back up her friend.
Mrs. Forsythe had taken her leave by the time Lieutenant McGregor returned from the hotel with his clothing and other personal items. But he was entirely in favor of going ahead with their plans.
“Of course you should go,” he agreed. “Look your enemy in the eye, and force him to blink first. No McGregor ever turned tail and ran from a confrontation!”
Louisa smiled at the reminder that she was now a McGregor, too, and the pair exchanged a quick kiss.
Gemma thought that Louisa seemed to glow with happiness. Louisa had always possessed a merry spirit, but Gemma had never seen her friend look this joyful before. Watching the newlyweds, Gemma felt a slight sense of wistfulness. If only . . .
She shook away her own doldrums and went upstairs to change for dinner. But while she slipped into her same old dinner dress, and then when she stared absently in the looking glass while Lily brushed out her dark hair and arranged it becomingly, she still thought about Louisa and the lieutenant’s obvious devotion to each other. It must be lovely to be so sure of your heart. Thank goodness Louisa had not married Sir Lucas, even though it had seemed the more appropriate marriage.
And if, after dinner, Louisa seemed ready to retire to bed very early, Gemma was determined not to think about the reasons for her hostess’s declared weariness and somewhat unconvincing yawns. Gemma said good night to the newlyweds and pretended not to see the look the two exchanged as they climbed the stairs hand in hand. Yet it left her feeling, somehow, very lonely. She certainly could not recall Mr. Cuthbertson ever gazing at her in just that way. . . .
Gemma was about to ascend to her own chamber when she heard a knock at the door. Who on earth, at this hour? She paused, waiting for the footman to appear.
“Captain Fallon, miss,” he announced. “Shall I tell him that the household has retired for the night?”
“No!” she said quickly. “I’m sure he has good reason for a late call, and anyhow, it’s only nine o’clock. Show him into the drawing room, if you please.”
Ignoring his disapproving expression, Gemma went back into the room and sank onto the settee, trying to compose her expression. Oh, was it possible the captain had at last located his sister?
But when he appeared in the doorway, his bleak expression revealed—before he uttered a word—that his quest had been unsuccessful.
“I apologize for calling at this late hour,” he said.
She hurried to him and, without thinking, held out her hands. She had seldom seen him look so discouraged. “There was no sign of her?”
He held both her hands between his and shook his head.
“Oh, Matthew—I mean Captain Fallon—I’m so sorry.”
He didn’t seem to notice her slip. “I am so full of fear for her, fear that I will fail her. When I returned to the hotel, I couldn’t bear to sit alone in my rooms, and there was a note from McGregor, with a rather strange tale, which I have barely deciphered. Then, too, I thought you would be waiting to hear about my trip.” She explained quickly about the trip to the brothel, their fear of scandal, and Louisa and Colin’s elopement.
He frowned. “I will check out this place again, just in case. You should not have taken such a risk, but thank you. And again, forgive me for coming so late. I just wanted to see—”
He paused, and for a moment, something besides his frustration and constant anxiety glinted in his dark eyes.
Still hurting for him, Gemma said quickly, “Of course. I was anxious—we are anxious—for the latest news. I only wish it had been more happy.”
She became aware that he still gripped her hands, and that they were standing very close. She was acutely aware of hi
s male presence, the virile strength that he projected without any conscious effort . . . and of how her body responded to it. Why had Arnold never made her feel this way?
She should step back, put a respectable distance between them. Captain Fallon had every excuse for not thinking rationally, but she should be more circumspect. She should, Gemma thought, but she didn’t move.
“I wanted to see you,” he finished at last, and now he seemed to be looking at her, not at the unhappy fears that haunted his thoughts, looking at Gemma, seeing Gemma.
Gemma felt her heart beat faster. It was only that she reminded him of his sister, she told herself. No doubt because of their similarities in circumstance.
Yet when he bent even closer to her, his expression was not in the least brotherly. “Gemma, Miss Smith—”
“Yes?” she whispered. For a heartbeat their faces were only inches apart, then—she felt as if the whole world had stopped its spinning, and time itself seemed to slow—he bent to kiss her lips.
She gave herself to the embrace, and he pulled her closer. His mouth was hungry. She kissed him back just as eagerly, her whole body tingling with awareness, with need, with pure delight. . . .
When at last he pulled back, the room seemed to whirl about her for an instant, and she had to draw a deep, shaky breath. For another long minute he simply held her, gazing at her as if he had never seen her before.
Finally, when he spoke, it was only to softly speak her name. “Oh, Gemma.” He released her with apparent reluctance. “Duty is a harsh taskmaster. I learned it at sea, and even now—”
“Yes?” Her mouth was dry. Did emotion leap inside his dark eyes?
But he seemed to conquer his feelings, and now he dropped his arms. “That was—that was—”
“Wonderful!” she finished for him, and to hell with being ladylike.
He smiled, and she was glad to see his expression lighten. “More than wonderful,” he agreed. “Enough to shake any man’s resolve. But it is late, and I should not have come at all. It was just, I had to see you. Somehow, you always give me new hope. And someday . . .”