Page 54 of Lord Gabriel’s Undoing

Bravery was being frightened but still doing something. And by that measure she was more than brave. The scowl was replaced by a quick, rueful smile. Look at how she’d dealt with an intruder in her bedroom. She’d won that little altercation fair and square. His throbbing arm and bruised face was proof of that.

Not just brave, but pretty, too. Beautiful, in fact. Not that pretty mattered, nor beauty. Although it had been part of what had drawn him to her in the first place. Along with her tempting pearls, of course, and the ferocity he’d had such a brief glimpse of. Then, when she’d caught him, and he’d explained what he was about, she’d firstly believed him and secondly surprised him by giving him some of her jewels. That showed a trust and strength of character he admired.

He shook his head to try to clear it. Perhaps all he was feeling was admiration. He’d never been in love before, so how was he to tell if this was indeed love? He’d had a variety of liaisons with ladies, despite his lack of years, and probably because of his own good looks. Women liked him. They found him charming. Both debutantes and their mothers fawned over him. But did Phoebe, with her determined concern for the newfound poor, like him in the way he wanted her to like him? Or was she only interested in his altruistic intentions? But if that were true, would she have offered marriage?

He thought back to her hurried words. The more he did so, the more they sounded like a business arrangement. She’d said she had to marry someone and it might as well be him. This only made him more convinced that wasn’t what he wanted. He’d liked women before, wanted them, even kept an actress as his mistress for a few months, but he’d never felt about any of them how he had to acknowledge he felt about Phoebe.

And the most annoying thing was he couldn’t put his finger on exactly how he felt. Frustration at his own inadequacies might have a part in it.

He ducked down Sun Court towards Shepherd’s Market, the crowds growing thicker, full of those who were after a different shopping experience to Bond Street and Oxford Street. Ignoring the colorful bazaar, he took the small alley on the left that looked as if it went nowhere but would lead him to the back entrance to number 28 Half Moon Street, the house he shared with Ambrose when his brother was in Town. Which of course he was at the moment.

The door led into a corridor off which the kitchens opened. To the right lay the butler’s parlor and Mrs. Jackson, the housekeeper’s rooms, but their doors were closed. The tempting smell of roasting meat wafted through the partly open kitchen door, so Gabriel pushed it open and went inside.

Mrs. Watts, the cook, one of the many servants Ambrose paid for, was standing by the spit just in front of the hearth fire where a large joint was turning, its juices dripping into a pan underneath. She straightened up when she heard him come in, and her round, doughy face, not unlike the buns she’d made him since he was a child, split into a wide smile. She had no difficulty in recognizing him even with his disguise.

“Why, Master Gabriel, what a surprise to see you down here togged up like that again.” She set her hands on her wide back as though it ached, which it probably did as she must by now be approaching seventy. She’d once been head cook at Wentworth, but when Ambrose had wanted to set up his own London establishment twelve years since, and she’d been feeling her age, the duchess had decreed that she should move to London. This had been due more to a desire to employ a more fashionable cook than concern for her servant’s welfare. Not that the work in London was any less onerous, but Mrs. Watts preferred working for the first duchess’s two sons, “Her Ladyship’s boys” as she liked to call them.

Gabriel took off his hat and ran his hand through his hair to remove the feel of it. He hadn’t said anything to Phoebe, who’d been disgusted enough by her own not so clean disguise, but he wasn’t fond of wearing this greasy, faded head covering. He’d checked it a number of times for inhabitants and found none, but nevertheless, it made his head itch, and that always engendered suspicion.

“But I’m not surprised to find you here,” he said. “Slaving over a hot stove as usual. What have you done with Ellen? Isn’t she supposed to be helping you?”

Mrs. Watts wrinkled her snub nose. “That girl came over all faint a while back, so I gave her a sweet tea and had to send her up to her room to lie down for a bit. If I didn’t know better I’d say the foolish creature’s got herself in the family way. She’s no more sense than a chicken, that girl. You can bet she don’t know how a girl ends up like that. And she’s far too pretty for her own good, even when she’s sweaty from workin’ with her head in the bread oven.”

Gabriel laughed. Ellen was indeed pretty in a rather vacuous way, with wide brown eyes and the full lips he knew all too well that Ambrose liked. And Ambrose’s own wife was very much out of action with only a short time to go until she provided him with the longed-for heir. Hopefully. Of course, it could turn out to be a girl. The fact that Ambrose still had his latest mistress here in London with him, a woman he’d been carrying on with well before his marriage to the unfortunate Isabel Huntsville, would make no difference. Ambrose had always had an eye for a pretty girl from even before he’d gone off to Eton at thirteen. Marriage had in no way curtailed his inclinations, and a willing servant girl with wool for brains would still be his ideal prey.

“I sincerely hope she is not enceinte,” Gabriel said, meaning it. There were already one or two small children about the Wentworth estate who somewhat resembled his brother. Maybe Ambrose was aiming for a cricket team. “I hope Mrs. Jackson doesn’t share your suspicions or poor Ellen will be out on her ear without a reference.” And her child could end up being a candidate for entry to his orphanage if Ellen fell on hard times.

Mrs. Watts, tutting to herself in disapproval, but who probably hadn’t passed on her misgivings to the housekeeper, pushed the large cast iron kettle onto the hot plate and fetched the teapot from a shelf. “You’ll be wanting tea then, I expect? And something to eat? I’ve never known you not hungry.”

Gabriel sat down. “Tea would be lovely, dear Mrs. Watts, but for once I’m not hungry at all.” Was that because of the turmoil in his stomach every time he thought of Phoebe or was he just still full of bread and jam? He had a feeling Phoebe was the one responsible.

He’d push her out of his mind for half an hour or so and listen to Mrs. Watts’s gossip and maybe his appetite would return. It never ceased to amaze him how much more servants knew than their masters.

*

A full hour later, and after several cups of tea, Gabriel was running lightly up the main staircase when Ambrose, dressed in the epitome of elegance and good taste, appeared on the first-floor landing and caught him.

He was used to seeing Gabriel in the apparel of a working man, and no surprise registered on his darkly handsome face. He and Gabriel were as unalike as two brothers could be, for reasons only Gabriel knew, but they’d been firm friends since childhood, as Ambrose had taken to having a baby brother with gusto. And Gabriel adored his older brother even though he disapproved of his rather rakish lifestyle. It was all part and parcel of what made him Ambrose. Not that his brother would have condoned his own life choices. Burglary was not something most gentlemen undertook as a sideline.

“Gabriel.” Ambrose smiled in greeting. “I was just coming looking for you. I’ve procured us both an invitation to Lady Radnor’s ball on Friday night.” He leaned closer and sniffed. “I must say you take realism a little too far, my boy. You need a bath before you do anything else.” He put his mouth to Gabriel’s ear. “I particularly wanted to go because Dora will be in attendance.” He kept his voice suspiciously low, probably because Dora was his mistress, the widow of the Earl of Matcham. Although why he needed to do that with Isabel miles away at Wentworth, Gabriel had no idea.

Ambrose retreated a step and threw a meaningful glance towards Gabriel’s right arm, where his hand was still tucked into the front of his shabby waistcoat. “Will you be able to attend? Like that? Although, I’m assuming that as you’ve been up to your old tricks today it isn’t troubling you too much.” He grinned. “I do have to say that with your face bruised like that, you rather resemble a pirate. The ladies will love you if you can think of a more romantic story about how you came by your injuries other than a fall from your horse. Makes you look a little silly. I should tell them you fought off footpads with your bare hands, if I were you. They’ll be fawning upon you if you do. Ladies love a pugilist.”

Gabriel mounted the last few steps to bring him level with Ambrose. He was an inch or so taller than his brother, and of a lighter build. “Perhaps you’re right. I’ll think about it. But since when do you need me to hold your hand? You don’t require me to go with you, surely?”

Ambrose, looking slightly furtive, moved closer again. “I’m afraid I do. Isabel is here.”

That explained his muttered conversation.

Gabriel glanced up and down the landing out of instinct, but no one was in view and all the doors were firmly closed. “Here? Where precisely?” He kept his voice down, too, well aware of the horrors Ambrose’s wife could bring.

Ambrose nodded glumly. “Turned up not an hour ago. Looking like she’s swallowed the elephant from the Exeter ’change. I said was she sure such a journey had been wise, but she gave me one of her looks, so I shut up. She’s taking a nap, or so she said. Probably got her ear to the door.” This last was a mere whisper.

Gabriel took another look along the landing towards the door he knew she’d be behind and nodded. “Bad luck, old fellow.”

Isabel was not his favorite person. Indeed, she was not anyone’s favorite person. Why Ambrose had married her he couldn’t quite fathom, although it might have been something to do with the fact that she was her father’s only surviving child and heir to a substantial fortune. Which made him think of Phoebe again, and her fortune, and brought heat to his cheeks.

“What’s wrong?” Ambrose, from whom it was difficult to keep a secret, asked. “And while we’re talking, shall we go to your room to continue our conversation? Less chance of being overheard, and in case Isabel suddenly appears from nowhere and spots you dressed like this. She’d have a fit and think we’d been invaded by a shabbaroon. Come on. And don’t think you can avoid telling me what’s troubling you, because you can’t.”