Realm 04 - A Touch of Grace (21 page)

Gabriel’s heart lurched with possibilities. Could the man he had seen in the garden at Foresthill with Miss Nelson have been the “toff” his attacker had described? “Is that all?”

Shepherd paused before adding, “There was a woman in the carriage with the gentleman, and she seemed most anxious her companion find you and soon.”

Trying to pretend that he had no cares but those of a man seeking a wife had been more difficult than Gabriel had expected. Despite considering it an effort based in futility, the Roses had insisted he continue his survey of former lovers. Uncharacteristically, Lady Sarah Underwood had refused to see him. She had managed to bring a wealthy merchant to toe the line, and the lady sent word Mr. Terrell knew nothing of her past. With good manners, Gabriel accepted her dismissal. If by marrying the shipping entrepreneur, Lady Sarah had found the security she required, then he would wish her well. Her husband had died unexpectedly and had left Lady Underwood with no means of support. With her new marriage, Lady Sarah would live on Society’s fringes, but the woman would know a new kind of acceptance.

Margaret Early’s temper had surprised him. Gabriel had thought the opera dancer had understood he would provide her with a certain income, but he had no intention of making the lady his mistress. He had always told Margaret to choose a protector–that he would hold no objections. Yet, when he attempted to ask her the type of questions he had asked Clarrissa, Maggie had exploded. She called him every vile name her street education had added to her vocabulary. Then she proceeded to lob several heavy crystal cylinders at his head. He managed to escape without injury; however, Mr. Sanders threatened to burn Gabriel’s jacket. It reeked of several cheap perfumes.

Finally, on the third day, he had made his way to Mrs. Winslow’s small home on Mayfair’s outskirts. Before he arrived, he knew the lady could not be carrying his child. Mrs. Winslow was, at least, a decade older than he. However, he had always found her elegantly beautiful: Deborah Winslow was one of those women who aged slowly.

“Oh, Gabriel,” she said with that slight Irish accent she had worked so hard to conceal. Mrs. Winslow had lost her husband some twenty years prior. A bit of a bluestocking, the lady had sponsored numerous excavations of ancient ruins, and Gabriel had found peace in just listening to her speak on the world’s wonders. “Have you come to say your farewells?” She handed Gabriel a glass of champagne.

“Something along those lines.” He sipped the liquid as he reclined against the cushions of an overstuffed chaise. “I have promised my aunts I will do my duty.”

The widow chuckled lightly. “Some woman shall be counting herself very fortunate.” She sat at the other end of the chaise and draped his booted feet over her lap. Gabriel liked that easiness about her. Mrs. Winslow never turned away from a man. A bit of boot black might stain her gown, but the lady made no fuss. “I would wish to be twenty years younger. Then you might consider a too thin, budding intellect worthy of the Marquis of Godown.”

“We would make a good match,” he said evenly.

Her chuckle became more pronounced. “We might at that,” she said diplomatically. “Then again, twenty years ago, I was not so astute. I am not certain I could overlook your obsessive moodiness.”

“Obsessive moodiness?” he said incredulously.

“Well, perhaps, that is not the correct phrase,” Mrs. Winslow said with a bit of amusement.

Gabriel abruptly sat up. His attention fully engaged. “Then what is the correct phrase?”

The lady set his feet on the floor. She stood to refill her glass. “Are you certain you want to hear this?”

Gabriel forced his countenance not to display the turmoil filling his chest. “Am I such an ogre, Deborah?”

“An ogre? No. Never that. A man unable to forgive himself. Most definitely.”

Irritated, Gabriel accused, “You know nothing of my life.”

“See, I was accurate. A young woman would never understand such a complicated man. Would never see beyond those handsome features.” She sat across from him. “Gabriel, you have such capacity for love; yet, you have kept love at a distance. You have permitted a venomous relationship to ruin any opportunity for happiness. Despite the fact you have never uttered the woman’s Christian name since the day you walked away from her, you have given Gardenia Templeton domain over your past, your present, and your future.”

“Bloody hell, Deborah. I assure you I have left Miss Templeton’s duplicity behind,” he insisted.

“Have you?” she said sagely. “I certainly pray your assertion is true. Otherwise, you have doomed not only yourself but also the woman you choose as your wife. You may wish to wallow in your grief, but the future marquise deserves better. She deserves to know the depth of your love.”

“People of my rank do not marry for love. Convenience is the name of the marriage game. Surely you understand the concept.”

Deborah Winslow shook her head in denial. “Mr. Winslow died too soon, but the five short years we had together were the most exquisite I have ever known. I would take one day with Henry over all the others I have lived. One day to feel his arms about me again. If your marriage does not leave you feeling the same about your new marquise, then you have wasted your gift.”

Her words stayed with him. A bit later, and totally out of sorts, Gabriel had returned to Fugol Hall. The whole idea of discovering how others saw him had set his nerves on edge, and when the Roses presented him with a list of potential brides, it took all his willpower not to rip it in small pieces and toss it in the fire.

“Miss Haverty appears the most logical choice. Her stepfather is an earl and her mother can trace her line back to the early Saxons,” Bel said triumphantly as they handed him the list. “This is her second Season so she is not just from the schoolroom.”

Gabriel glanced at the other names on the list. Suddenly, he felt very old. He did not recognize any of those his aunts had chosen for his wife. For a man still two years short of his thirtieth birthday, should he not still be sowing fresh grass? “Meaning Miss Haverty may not find my lusty advances repugnant?” he said sarcastically.

Bel sat daintily on the edge of a straight-backed chair. “I have been considering how we might preface the need for an heir with the girl’s mother prior to your proposal.”

“Should I not, at least, have the pleasure of a proper introduction before I pronounce my plight? It might prove prudent if I could pick my wife from a crowd,” he said tersely.

“None of us enjoy this situation,” she reprimanded. “Your aunts are simply attempting to smooth the transitions.”

Gabriel felt a guilty twinge. His aunts had always placed him above their own families, but his irritation won out. The way he viewed it, he was the one making the sacrifice–although if he accepted Deborah Winslow’s opinion, his future wife was the sacrificial lamb.

Before he could respond, a light knock at the door brought his attention to his butler, Mr. Zachary. “Pardon me, Sir. This just arrived for you.”

*

Grace had spent her first three days in London enjoying all the things she would never experience as a governess: She had her first lemon ice at Gunters. Although it had not been during the social hour, she had walked twice in Hyde Park. And she had explored every level of the Royal Academy.

But this morning, she had read the Society pages and had found Lord Godown’s name among those in attendance at Lord and Lady Robeson’s musicale. It had taken all her willpower to read the entire entry. She was not certain she wanted to know who had accompanied him for the evening. “So, he has come to London to find a wife,” she said as she sipped her morning tea in the one-room bedchamber she had let in a private home. The Gleesons appeared pleased to have the extra funds, and she had even tended the youngest of the Gleeson children twice while Mrs. Gleeson had run her errands. “Lady Hyatt. I wonder if she is pretty? More likely, the lady is beautiful,” she chastised herself. “I am happy to know His Lordship has returned safely to his friends,” she said bravely.

Then Grace thought of Lord Spectre. “Will His Lordship every be truly safe with Lord Spectre lurking about?” Unconsciously, she shivered. Death’s hand loomed in the near distance. “I vowed if I had the opportunity I would share Lord Spectre’s existence with Lord Godown.”

Accepting the fact she must do the honest thing, Grace retrieved her sketchbook and began to draw her brother’s companion. She chose the last of the paper Mr. Bradshaw had provided her. She made two renderings–one close appraisal of the man’s countenance and a second showing Lord Spectre dressed as a gentleman. “Dressed thusly, will Lord Godown understand this is the man who attacked him in Scotland?” To be certain, she wrote a quick note, indicating Jonah Wright and Lord Spectre were one and the same.

Satisfied with her efforts, Grace dressed in her best gown and cloak. She did not expect to see Lord Godown, but if she encountered His Lordship, she did not wish to appear dowdy. Well, more dowdy than necessary. Using a bit of candle wax to convert the drawing into a letter, she placed Lord Godown’s name on the outside. Then she set out for Mayfair.

The walk had taken longer than Grace had anticipated, and with each step, she had to convince herself this was what she wanted. To warn Lord Godown of possible danger and then disappear from his life. But fools will be fools. And her heart leapt with the appearance of each gentleman to step to the sidewalk. She had dreamed of seeing him again and of Lord Godown’s sweeping her into his arms and declaring his love. “A dream,” she chastised herself as she stood across the busy street staring up at his majestic townhouse.

Grace had had to stop half dozen strangers to ask for directions, but now she stood mesmerized by the possibilities. Although it was still early, the street had grown crowded, and she wondered if His Lordship stood at one of the many windows staring out at her. “What if he is?” she murmured. “Even if His Lordship wanted you, his title and his position would forbid it. He will never come for you.”

Swallowing her tears, Grace shifted her shoulders to show her determination. Crossing between two riders and a sporty carriage, she made her way up the front entrance steps of his home and released the knocker.

Within a minute, a handsomely livered butler opened the door. “Yes, may I be of service, Miss?”

Grace noted the slight snarl of the man’s nose. Instinctively, she glanced down at her cloak. Its plainness announced her station in life, and this upper servant thought himself above her. Reluctantly, she removed the folded page from her reticule. “My mistress sent Lord Godown a message,” she lied. He certainly would not accept a message for his master from the likes of her.

“Why did your mistress not send a footman?” the man accused.

Grace’s eyes dropped in a subservient manner, reminiscent of how she responded to Geoffrey. She shrugged noncommittally. “My mistress does not tell me her secrets.”

His Lordship’s servant eyed her carefully before extending his hand to accept her message. “Be off with you,” he said gruffly. “If Lord Godown deems a response appropriate, he will send one of his men to your mistress’s home.”

“Yes, Sir,” Grace said in disappointment. She would have liked a glimpse of Gabriel Crowden, but she had known from the beginning she would not see him again. Turning on her heels, she walked away. Into a cold autumn sun. Across the street and through the park. If she had come all this way, she may as well enjoy the sights of Mayfair.

*

“Pardon me, Sir. This just arrived for you.” Mr. Zachary presented a folded letter on a silver salver.

Gabriel reached for the single page. “Could this not have waited, Mr. Zachary?”

His butler, a man who had served the previous marquis for as long as Gabriel could recall, did not even flinch when Gabriel’s tone betrayed his exasperation. “I considered it, my Lord, but the young lady who delivered the message caused me to think it important.”

Gabriel broke the wax seal that held no symbol. “A young lady?”

“Yes, Sir.” Zachary remained stone faced.

“Did the young woman have a name?” Bel asked suspiciously.

“None that she appeared willing to share, Your Grace.” Zachary made his bow to exit.

Gabriel unfolded the page. Immediately, he knew the woman’s identity. “Mr. Zachary, where did this woman go?”

“I cannot say, my Lord.” His butler stumbled to a halt. “I suppose toward the park, Sir.”

Gabriel was on the move. “What did she wear?” he demanded as he rushed toward the main door.

“Something nondescript, my Lord.” Zachary scurried to keep up with Gabriel.

A footman pulled the door open just as Gabriel reached it. He spun on his servant. “Tell me something to help identify the woman.”

“Black cloak. A simple bonnet with black ribbons.” His butler appeared bewildered.

Gabriel bit back his first retort. Instead, he said, “Does no one else see this woman except me?” He rushed from his home. Sending one footman to the east and the other to the west, Gabriel darted between several riders to race toward the park.

“Where in the bloody hell is she?” he grumbled as he stood on the rise of one of the rolling hills to survey the area. Turning slowly in a circle, Gabriel finally spotted her. At least, he thought it was Grace. A woman in a dark cloak striding purposely toward the tree line. He set off at a run. It did not matter what his neighbors or the park goers thought. All that mattered was he catch up with Grace. That he discover why she had done the unspeakable: Why she had wanted him dead?

She must have heard his approach because Grace glanced over her shoulder before quickening her pace. Practically running, she rushed toward the safety of the parallel streets.

Instinctively, Gabriel called to her. “Grace! Miss Nelson, please wait!”

For a moment, he thought she might comply, but another glance in his direction told Gabriel Grace would make a run for safety.

Spotting his footman’s return to the area, Gabriel motioned Jasper toward an intersecting path. However, Grace did the unthinkable: She hitched her skirt’s hem and sprinted toward a hedgerow.