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That mention of friendship had been too much like a plea for forgiveness, a pathetic, craven hope that perhaps what she had done was not so dreadful, after all, and he would turn from his contemplation of the street with a smile, with a hand held out, with a reassurance that he understood.
Gray did turn then, his hands by his sides, his face blank of expression. ‘I had best return the key.’ He went to the door, held it open for her, then locked it behind them before preceding Gaby down the stairs. She remembered to lower her veil before the landlady came to the door and took the key and then they were out on the street again. Gray’s hand was steady and impersonal as he helped her mount on to the seat and he remembered to toss the crossing sweeper the promised sixpenny piece as the lad released the reins.
It seemed that she was the only one with shaking hands and an inability to think straight.
‘I will have Hotchkiss deal with you directly in relation to the house in Half Moon Street,’ Gray said as the phaeton swept out into Old Bond Street, across into Grafton Street and down Albemarle Street. She had not realised how mercifully close they were to the hotel.
‘Thank you.’ Her voice sounded scratchy, but at least she was not weeping, which was a miracle because she felt as though she had lost something precious and h
ad only herself to blame. ‘I fear this will make things difficult if my aunt asks you to escort us anywhere.’
Gray managed to shrug while simultaneously guiding his team around a wagon, unloading crates outside the Royal Institution. ‘I will simply refuse on the grounds of prior engagements.’
‘Of course.’
When they drew up in front of Grillon’s, Gray gestured to the doorman, who hurried forward to help Gaby down. ‘Without my groom I fear I cannot escort you inside, Miss Frost.’
‘I quite understand, Lord Leybourne. Thank you for your assistance. And understanding.’
She glanced up to catch an expression on his face that she could not read. It was gone as soon as she glimpsed it, a starkness that went beyond frustrated desire or anger at her foolishness.
‘You are welcome to the assistance, Miss Frost. I fear you may have to manage without the understanding. My regards to Miss Moseley.’
She stood there watching his broad shoulders as he drove towards Piccadilly.
‘Ma’am?’ It was the doorman. ‘Are you entering the hotel?’
‘Oh. Yes, I am sorry. I was wool-gathering,’ she murmured. Gray’s words had been too low to have reached the man’s ears, she hoped, thankful for her veil. ‘Thank you.’
Somehow she gained the suite and found it empty. On the table in the sitting room was a note from Jane informing her that she had gone to investigate Earle’s Circulating Library at Number Forty-Seven and might be gone for some time. As it was meticulously timed, it was clear that Jane had been gone only a few minutes. Gaby went into her room, locked the door, took off her bonnet, gloves and pelisse and repressed a sniff. Weeping was not going to help matters. On the other hand, she rather thought it was that or ring for a decanter of brandy and attempt to drown her sorrows.
Tears won. It was such a long time since she had allowed herself to weep—not since she received the locket and the news of Laurent’s death—that it was hard, almost painful. Afterwards she did not feel any better. Gaby looked bleakly at her reflection in the mirror. All she had achieved was a stuffed-up nose, reddened eyes and a headache. And she was going to have to find some explanation for Jane, who might often be preoccupied, but was bound to notice something wrong, even after Gaby had bathed her face and done her best with the rice powder.
She would tell her that an argument with Gray had meant the end of his visits, but that they now had a house of their own, Gaby decided as she whisked powder over her cheeks and pinned back her hair. And then, somehow, she had to decide what she was going to do next. The idea of trying to find a father for her baby now seemed not only difficult but, emotionally, impossible, she thought as the sound of a key in the outer door warned her that Jane had returned.
Deep breath, chin up, she told herself as she opened her bedchamber door. You did the right thing, telling him no. You did it too late, but it was right. Somehow that was going to have to suffice.
* * *
Gray turned the phaeton into the mews without conscious thought. Somehow he had arrived home and it might have been through a riot or a snowstorm for all he had noticed. He snapped back to attention as one of the grooms ran out and, behind him, Henry. There was a post-chaise standing by the stable, unhorsed, and a pair of postilions lounging against the mounting block.
‘Thank God,’ Henry said as he reached the phaeton. His face was screwed up with anxiety. ‘I had no idea where to find you or how long you’d be.’
‘What’s wrong?’ Gray tossed the reins to the groom and got down.
‘A message from Winfell. Little James fell from a tree and they can’t get him to regain consciousness. Your mother sounds frantic.’
‘When?’ Gray demanded. ‘Is the man still here?’
‘The day before yesterday. Your mother sent the message down by the post-chaise so there would be no delay getting back with reliable changes. Forgive me for opening it, but it was so obviously a crisis.’ Henry gestured towards the vehicle. ‘The horses will be rested for the first stage back, they came in just after you left this morning.’
‘Hitch up,’ Gray shouted at the postilions. ‘I will leave within the hour. You did right,’ he added to Henry as they strode inside. ‘Find Tomkins,’ he snapped at the butler, who was in the hall.
‘He is already packing, my lord. Cook is assembling a hamper so you will not need to stop to eat.’
Gray was already halfway up the stairs, Henry at his heels. He wanted to stop, to howl at his own impotence. He was almost two hundred and fifty miles away from his five-year-old son, who might already be dead, and his little daughter, who would be terrified. And his mother, still in mourning for her husband. And he could do nothing except leave as fast as possible and not stop until he got to Winfell. And then comfort and grieve? Or... He shook his head, angry at himself. Speculation and false hope were weakening. In twenty-four hours, accidents aside, he could be there.
‘Hotchkiss came round, said he had a message from you.’
