by Isobel Carr
‘Well, Brimstone?’ His cousin looked at him reprovingly. ‘You could at least say good morning.’
‘Is it a good morning?’ He sank into a chair across from them, his banyan and slippers loudly proclaiming his irritation with their invasion. He’d be damned if he dressed for them to rake him over the coals.
‘A very good morning,’ George assured him, a mischievous smile, which he instantly mistrusted, on her lips.
‘And why is that?’ he asked, his voice dripping with irritation. ‘Because I’ve been rousted from bed when I had just managed to fall asleep? Or because I’m now confronted by two hoydens with unknown—but certainly dangerous—intentions? Wild women, who have further encroached by undermining my staff I might add.’
‘It’s a good morning because we’re here to help you, you dolt,’ Victoria said with asperity. She clinked her spoon in her cup as she stirred her tea.
‘That is, if you deserve it,’ George qualified, refilling her own tea cup.
Gabriel eyed them both with misgivings, but refused to be drawn. They’d tell him exactly what was afoot when they had finished roasting him to their satisfaction, and not a minute sooner. If only Torrie would stop making that infernal racket with her spoon. She knew how it irritated him, and she was far too well bred to be making such a rude noise by accident.
His coffee arrived and he sat back to wait for their pronouncement. Whatever it was, their presence couldn’t bode well for him. They were darlings, both of them, but interfering, social queens at the same time. Always so sure they knew what was best for everyone else.
After a few minutes of silence, he glared at them and set his cup down with a thump. If it was about his nymph, George was far more likely to play the avenging angel than the Good Samaritan. Something was certainly in the works, and he couldn’t imagine any other topic that would bring them down upon him at such an hour, but he also couldn’t imagine why George was looking so pleased with herself.
‘So are you going to tell me why you’re here, or do I have to guess?’
Bad enough that Imogen had rejected him yet again, now he had these two meddling. He was a fool for wanting her, and a fool for having proposed, and thrice times a fool for continuing his pursuit in the face of her rejection. But there was no way he was going to give up. He’d get her by hook or by crook, fairly or unfairly. He’d get her any way he could, and the sooner she realized it, and gave in, the better off they would both be.
George eyed him coolly while his cousin glared right back at him, as though he were one of her recalcitrant offspring.
‘Don’t come the matriarch with me, Torrie. I’m not one of your sons, and I’m not your husband. Save that look for someone it works on.’
‘It doesn’t work on Rupert,’ she replied haughtily.
‘Or Hay,’ George put in, still wearing her mischievous smile, an odd contrast to his cousin’s serious expression.
‘Or Hay,’ the countess agreed, clinking her spoon again. ‘And I’ll look at you anyway I please, idiot.’
Gabriel narrowed his eyes but held his peace. If he got her wound up, he’d never find out what was afoot.
‘Help me with what?’ he drawled, trying to sound as bored as possible.
‘Help you with Imogen,’ George replied in her straightforward manner, taking the wind out of his sails.
‘If we think you deserve help that is,’ Victoria added waspishly, echoing George’s earlier pronouncement.
Gabriel shot her a scathing glance and turned his attention back to George. ‘And what makes you think I want your help? Or need help for that matter?’ he asked, doing his best imitation of his cousin when she was trying to be condescending.
Both women stared at him, eyes slightly enlarged with surprise, and then burst into raucous, unladylike laughter. George laughed until she cried, tears streaming down her face, which did nothing to improve his mood.
‘Don’t be stupid, Gabriel. I’ve never seen a man in need of help so badly,’ she asserted wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand.
‘Except perhaps your poor husband when he was courting you,’ he snapped, his colour mounting as he got angrier and angrier.
‘Exactly,’ George responded with enthusiasm, her eyes sparking.
Trapped by her sudden twisting of his taunt, Gabriel shifted uncomfortably in his chair, glowering at them both. He didn’t want or need their help. Imogen would come around on her own, he was sure of it. He just had to keep working on her. He’d be damned if he won her consent because of any strong arming from these two.
That would be unbearable.
‘Poor Ivo didn’t have the slightest idea how to handle me. Any more than you have about my poor Imogen.’
‘If you’re implying that I’m as clueless as your befuddled earl, I’ll—I’ll—I’ll—’ He gritted his teeth, unable to think of anything awful enough to threaten her with.
‘Ivo is not befuddled.’ George glared at him, eyes snapping with a very familiar anger.
If he could push her further she’d lose her temper entirely. ‘Confounded? Clueless?’ Gabriel offered, his tone taunting. ‘What about lackwit?’
‘We’re not here to talk about George and her husband,’ Victoria interrupted them. ‘We’re here out of concern for you.’ She held up a hand when he started to protest. ‘You can’t go on the way you are now. And you can’t continue to carry-on with Miss Mowbray in such a brash, obvious fashion. Her reputation won’t stand it. And quite frankly, neither will yours.’
‘Why are you pursuing her?’ George blinked at him innocently, as though he couldn’t smell a trap.
‘Yes, why can’t you simply leave her alone?’ his cousin asked, looking at him almost mockingly. ‘She doesn’t seem to want you.’ She jabbed the final prompt in, her expectant gaze flicking momentarily to George.
Exasperated, Gabriel hooked one hand under the low table between them, sending it flying. The tea things scattered and smashed against the fireplace, the table crashing with a loud thump against the marble façade.
‘Because I want her.’ He leaned forward in his chair, staring both women down. ‘It’s that simple, I want her.’
Gabriel’s butler burst into the room, followed by his housekeeper, the first footman, and two of the maids. Gabriel glared at them. ‘You can clean it up when I’m done here,’ he shouted at their retreating backs.
George’s smile grew, cocking up on one side, while his cousin settled back into her chair as though nothing at all had just occurred.
‘Then you’d better figure out how to get her, hadn’t you?’ George said, her expression suddenly benevolent. ‘And I’d advise you start with the brother.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The sight of the Angelstone Turk ape drunk in the street has become an all too common one. One would think the cause would have been driven to take pity by now…
Tête-à-Tête, 19 November 1789
Imogen ruthlessly jammed the gown she was holding into the trunk, hopelessly crushing it. She didn’t pause when George entered, but continued to shove it down.
George eyed her thoughtfully and dropped into a chair a few feet away. ‘Going somewhere?’ the countess inquired, as if what was going on wasn’t perfectly obvious.
Imogen stiffened. She stopped what she was doing momentarily, leaving the train of the gown dangling out of the trunk like a waterfall of calico. She was behaving badly, and she knew it, but she had to escape. To get away from Gabriel, from Town, from everything; to return to someplace quieter, somewhere she could think logically again. Someplace her brother wouldn’t find her…
‘You and the earl have always made it clear that I am welcome to the use of your carriage whenever I might want it. To date I never have.’ She paused to pull the crumpled gown from the trunk and fold it neatly before putting it back in, rearranging the crushed dress in her trunk. ‘I’d like to return to Barton Court to get my things, and then I have to leave. Edinburgh, maybe even Dublin. I don’t know…�
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‘Of course,’ George replied, her tone as conciliatory. ‘I sincerely hope you’re not taking such a step because of Gabriel. I assure you, there’s no need for such drastic action.’
Imogen goggled at her, her brows drawn together in a frown. ‘There’s every need,’ she insisted passionately, aghast that the countess truly didn’t understand the position she was in.
She was on the brink of causing yet another scandal. A scandal which would forever cement the image of her as little better than a Cyprian in the eyes of the world. And she was going to drag the countess’s friend down with her.
If he continued to badger her—to propose to her, to kiss her—she was going to falter, and then their marriage would be the talk of the town. The infamous Brimstone and the Portrait Divorcée. She’d make a laughing stock of him, and he’d ruin her.
Her brother would cause all the trouble he could, too. And knowing Richard, the trouble would be considerable. He hated her, and he loathed Gabriel. He’d delight in torturing them.
All she’d wanted was a quiet place to live, a few friends, and perhaps to make herself useful. Why did he have to go and complicate things? Rakes were not supposed to propose marriage. They were supposed to avoid it like the plague. But Gabriel—damn him—wasn’t playing by the established rules.
He’d been the very pattern card of the charming, dissolute man-about-town. The perfect choice for a simple, quiet affair. The kind of thing Helen had been recommending to her for ages. Why did he have to break character and ruin everything?
The countess’s brow puckered, and she held out her hand. ‘Come and explain it to me then. I didn’t press you the last time this came up, but I do know Gabriel rather well. Perhaps I could help?’
He was going to kill Richard Mowbray.
Wrap his hands around the little toad’s neck and squeeze until it popped right off. Gabriel raised his walking stick and knocked on the door of No. Twenty-Six Queen Street with enough force that the silver head dented the wood.
She’d said no because some underhanded threat Mowbray had cooked up. Water spilt off his greatcoat, pooling on the small porch. He raised his cane and knocked again.
The door cracked open and he brushed past the startled footman hard enough that the man’s wig was knocked askew. She’d said no, and she hadn’t told him the reason. Damn her. Why hadn’t she told him?
‘Mr Mowbray’s not at home, sir.’ The footman adjusted his wig, attempting to reassert his dignity and his authority.
‘Of course he is. Saw him come in myself. He’s just damn lucky I value my membership at White’s too highly to have cornered him there. Mowbray!’ His shout echoed off the wainscoting.
Several doors opened all at once. A wisp of a maid ducked back into whatever room she was cleaning, like a mouse scurrying to hide. A second footman appeared from below stairs, clambering down the hall with a loud, graceless tread.
‘Mowbray, in private, or in public. It’s your choice.’
His quarry appeared at the top of the stairs, red-faced and quivering with the impotent anger of a King Charles Spaniel cornered by the butcher’s dog. ‘I have nothing to say to you Angelstone. Get out of my house.’
‘But I have several things to say to you, Mowbray.’ Gabriel stalked up the stairs, taking each step with deliberation, his eyes never leaving Imogen’s brother.
Mowbray held his position until Gabriel reached out and grabbed him by the lapel. ‘Come along, then.’ He dragged him down the corridor.
Gabriel propelled his prisoner through the first door, sending him sprawling onto the floor. ‘Clumsy oaf, aren’t you?’
He turned his back and crossed the room. Above the mantel a barefoot goatherd wooed a blushing shepherdess under a canopy of linden trees. ‘A Boucher? Really?’ He turned around in time to see Mowbray heave himself to his feet. ‘I wouldn’t have thought it of you. I’d have put you down as more of a Cozen’s man. Maybe a Jones?’
‘I’ll kill you. I’ll—I’ll have you arrested for house-breaking. I’ll—’
‘You’ll shut up, and perhaps by doing so you’ll live long enough to sire a dynasty of little Mowbrays on that cow of a coal heiress you’ve married.’
‘My wife, sir, is none of your business.’
‘A fact for which I am eternally grateful. My hat’s off to you on that account. I don’t know how you can bring yourself to the point.’ Gabriel allowed himself a faint shudder.
Mowbray’s mouth opened and closed like that of a clockwork toy. The vein in his forehead stood out, throbbing.
‘Suffering an apoplexy?’ When Mowbray didn’t fall to the floor in a twitching heap, Gabriel smiled. ‘I suppose that was too much to hope for.’ He sighed and removed his gloves slowly. ‘I understand your mother’s pearls have gone missing?’
Mowbray eyed him warily.
‘I would suggest you check with her dresser. Perhaps they were sent out for repair? Or maybe they were simply left behind when you came to Town? At any rate, there’ll be no more mentioning them—or anything else but your deepest felicitations—to your sister. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Or what?’ Mowbray attempted to brazen it out, raising his chin so that he only had one, rather than his normal two.
Gabriel spun his walking stick in a lazy circle. ‘You seem to forget that while I may be, how did you put it—‘the Angelstone mongrel’ was it?—that I’m still an Angelstone. I’m the great-grandson of a duke. The brother-in-law of an earl.’
Gabriel allowed that to sink in. ‘And I’m one of three men in England who can touch Angelo. I’m more than happy to give you a personal demonstration if you’d like?’
Mowbray’s face twitched as though he were having a fit.
‘I thought not.’ He pulled his gloves back on. ‘It’s been a pleasure, sir. I’ll make sure and send you an invitation to the wedding. Your sister had best receive a contrite apology via the post by the time I see her next.’
Gabriel slouched down in his chair and blew out an irritated breath. He’d endured another helpful visit from George this afternoon, in which he’d been told in no uncertain terms to leave Imogen alone. To allow her to come around to the idea slowly before he pressed his case. Mowbray had sent a damned insufficient letter in his opinion, but his Nymph was assured, in writing, that their mother’s pearls had been found.
Damn all helpful, interfering women. Damn them especially for being right. At least he’d been able to relate his interview with Mowbray. That had pleased George to no end.
He got up and poured himself a drink and stood staring at the portrait of Imogen that hung over the mantel. He set his glass down hard enough to break it, amber liquid streaming down the marble.
There she was, the teasing smile he’d come to know so well just peeping out, the shoulder which had been her downfall revealed in all its glory. He retreated to the centre of the room from which he could better study the larger than life rendition of his nymph. She hadn’t changed much since it had been painted. Perhaps she was a little thinner, a little more serious, but not one jot less beautiful.
It really was an amazing portrait. It captured Imogen perfectly, from her wildly spiralling curls, to her elegantly shod feet. Firth had even managed to show the subtle sparkle of her eyes, and the enigmatic smile that lurked in the corner of her mouth.
There didn’t seem to be anything so terribly provocative about it. But people saw what they wanted to see, and it only took one society tabby with a wagging tongue to have started the rumour, and then people would have wanted to believe it; to watch the downfall of such a beautiful young political hostess.
That prospect would have been titillating and extremely satisfying to those members of the ton who revelled in the downfall of others. Irresistible, in fact. Lord knew they’d dug their claws into him often enough for him to sympathize.
And it was clear from the painting that whether she’d been guilty or not, the artist had been in love with his subject. She’d have been better of
f going to Gainsborough or Reynolds rather than to the young rising star.
With a groan Gabriel threw himself back into his chair. This was not how he’d planned things. Not how things should be. He should not be trapped here alone with nothing but a facsimile of his nymph. Even one as enchanting as this one.
By all rights he should be sitting across from the flesh and blood woman—or better yet—making love to her in the bed behind him.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
We can only speculate as to what the Angelstone Turk could possibly have to discuss with the Portrait Divorcée’s brother…and speculate we shall.
Tête-à-Tête, 3 December 1789
The night of the Morpeth’s ball, Imogen realized she hadn’t seen Gabriel in weeks. A long collection of days in which she’d been hauled around the city, to musicals, dinner parties, boating parties, the theatre, the opera, even to a cricket match played on a cold, frozen pitch; if it was a social event of any significance, she’d attended.
She had been, if not deluged, then at least slightly flooded with invitations. Everyone wanted her at their parties; if for no other reason, than that they were hoping the hinted at liaison with Gabriel would come to a head there, burning their event permanently into the memories of all the attendees.
To date she had been happy to disappoint them.
Tonight she had been included in the pre-ball dinner, along with all of the Morpeth’s family and closest friends. Including not only Gabriel, but the prime minister, Mr Pitt. He had not been the prime minister when she had been active as a political hostess, but he was well-known to her all the same. Perrin was one of his supporters.
She was extremely grateful that he was seated at the far end of the table near the earl. It was bad enough to have been on the receiving end of one of his condescending glares earlier as they had all assembled in the drawing room. To have been forced to make polite conversation with him throughout dinner—or worse, to have been publicly snubbed by him—would have been awful.