A Gentleman Never Tells (14 page)

“What? That’s almost a week away, Gabby. I can’t wait that long. I won’t wait that long.” Rosabelle snatched the note from Gabrielle’s hand. “I should have known you wouldn’t understand, and you wouldn’t want me to see him.”

Her belligerence startled Gabrielle. “Rosa—”

“No, don’t say it,” Rosa demanded. “You always say you understand, but you never do, Gabby. You have always been jealous of me, and now you are jealous of Staunton’s love for me.”

Gabrielle was speechless for a moment. “That is simply not true. I’m happy you have found true love.”

“Then why don’t you want me to see him?” she asked petulantly.

Gabrielle was trying to hold on to her patience. “I don’t care if you see him. I want you to see him. Just not in secret. I asked that you go with us to Lady Windham’s last night. Staunton was there, and you could have seen him the proper way.”

Rosabelle’s eyes widened, and her face instantly changed from peevish resentment to eager delight. She grabbed Gabrielle’s hands in hers and asked, “What did he say, Gabby? Did he ask about me? I know he did. Oh, I could just scream at myself! Why didn’t I go?”

“Rosa, settle down. I saw him only from a distance as he was leaving. I didn’t speak to him.”

“Did the poor dear look absolutely miserable, like me? He’s probably pining away for me. I must see him soon or I shall die.”

“And you shall see him, Rosa, but it has to be under the proper circumstances. You cannot meet him in secret.”

“Of course I can.” She dropped Gabrielle’s hands as if they were a hot poker. “You’ve done it. You met with Lord Brentwood in the park while you were still engaged to Staunton, so I don’t think I need any lectures from you.”

Gabrielle’s shoulders stiffened. “I told you that was a chance meeting and not by design.”

“But no one believes you, including me.”

Her words angered Gabrielle. “That’s not true, Rosa.”

“Of course it is, but it’s all right. I’ve met with Staunton in secret before and no one caught us. I will do it again if I so desire. It’s time you realize, Gabby, that you are not my mother. I don’t need you telling me what I can or cannot do. Furthermore, I’m old enough to make my own decisions without your help.”

Rosabelle turned and started to run from the room, but stopped short and looked back at Gabrielle. “And if you dare tell Papa about me and Staunton,” she said, “I will never speak to you again as long as I live.”

Gabrielle gasped again as Rosa stomped from the room.

What was she going to do? The last thing Gabrielle wanted was for Rosabelle to have to endure rude comments and outrageous rumors from stuffy old ladies. Was it finally time for her to confess everything to her father? No, her father would not understand Rosabelle’s behavior at all.

But it was time for Gabrielle to have a talk with Staunton. He was older and wiser than Rosa, and he would have to make her see that they could not continue to meet in secret. If he truly loved her, he had to know how impetuous she was and how dangerous it was for the two of them to have an affair. Since he didn’t seem to know what the sensible thing was for them to do, she would tell him. He must stand up to his father and hers and demand that the two of them be allowed to go ahead and be married, or at the very least be engaged.

But when to talk to him was the problem.

Should she wait until the Cuddlebury’s party next week and try to talk to him there? No, even if he attended there would be too many opportunities for interruptions, prying ears, and more gossip. And it might be too late. Rosabelle had a bee in her bonnet, and there was no time to waste.

Gabrielle would send her own letter to Staunton, but unlike Rosa, she would sign her letter. She left her needlework on the table, went to the secretary in the drawing room, and sat down. She opened a drawer and took out a quill, ink jar, and a sheet of vellum, and wrote:

Staunton,

I find it is necessary that I should talk to you about an important matter as soon as possible. I would be most grateful if you would please respond with a date and time that would be good for you so we might meet in Hyde or St. James Park. I await your answer.

With all regards,
Gabby

***

Brent stepped out of the pouring rain and into the warmth of the Harbor Lights Club. A stiff-looking attendant approached him, staring at the swelling on the side of Brent’s mouth. No doubt he wasn’t used to seeing many gentlemen coming into the establishment with a fat lip. Brent ignored his scrutiny and handed the man his wet coat, hat, umbrella, and gloves, and explained who he was and that he wasn’t a member of the club but was to meet Sir Randolph Gibson in the taproom. When Brent said he was Viscount Brentwood, the man’s attitude changed immediately, and at the mention of Sir Randolph’s name, the attendant’s face lighted with a smile.

The man handed Brent’s soggy garments off to another person, and then he led Brent down a dimly lit corridor. They passed more than one room where he heard loud talking, laughter, and billiard balls smacking together. For a small club, it seemed to have a lively atmosphere. The man stopped in the doorway of the taproom and pointed to a finely dressed gentleman who was seated at a table by the front window that opened to the busy street.

He’d seen Sir Randolph at a couple of different parties over the past month, and there was no way Brent wouldn’t have known the man. Matson and Iverson’s resemblance to him was stunning. Sir Randolph had been presented to Brent at a party, though they hadn’t really spoken, other than the perfunctory greetings that civility required. Unlike his meeting with Mr. Alfred Staunton, both Brent and Sir Randolph had behaved as gentlemen, and neither had said a word about what was really on their minds. The man had readily accepted when Brent sent him a note suggesting they meet.

Brent could understand his brothers’ wanting to ignore the fact they looked just like the man and simply get on with their lives. That’s what Brent wanted for them, but he also wanted more. He wanted to see where Sir Randolph stood with the twins. It wasn’t that Brent didn’t think his brothers could handle any situation that might come up; it was mainly his vow to his mother that he would keep up with them and, if need be, help them.

Sir Randolph Gibson was staring out the window, though Brent had no idea what he might be looking at. The rain was now pouring down in torrential sheets, and no one was on the walkways. When Brent had been out, it was too gloomy and murky even to see the coaches as they passed him on the streets.

Brent remained where he was for a moment, watching the man. From what he’d learned from the runner he’d hired from Bow Street, Sir Randolph was in his sixties, though he hardly looked a day over fifty. He was a tall, robust, handsome fellow, with a thatch of silver hair that most men his age would envy.

Apparently there were three gentlemen, cousins in fact—a duke, a marquis, and an earl—who watched after the old man and had saved him from losing his wealth to such risky ventures as a hot air balloon travel business and a time machine. Earlier in the year, the old man had even been involved in some kind of boxing match over a spinster’s honor. The runner couldn’t find out much about that, but said shortly after the fight—which somehow the old man had won—the lady and her brother had left London.

The runner said Sir Randolph inherited his considerable wealth. His father had struck it rich in the shipping business when England was still trying to maintain control of its colonies across the sea. The war that followed made the old sea merchant a wealthy man, and it all went to Sir Randolph when his father died.

Brent didn’t know any of the three gentlemen who watched over Sir Randolph. No doubt the man’s substantial estate and no legitimate heirs were the main reasons the cousins, who had no blood relation to him, were so eager to step in and take care of him when needed.

The most interesting thing he’d been told was that over the years, Sir Randolph Gibson had been constantly sought after by ladies young and old, widows, innocents, and spinsters, too, all wanting to better their station in life by becoming his wife. But according to the runner, no one had ever caught his fancy enough for him to propose matrimony. According to rumor, Sir Randolph held solidly to the fact that the deceased Lady Elder, who was married four times but never to Sir Randolph, was the only woman he’d ever loved. But obviously she wasn’t the only lady he’d ever made love to. Matson and Iverson were testament to that.

With that thought, Brent entered the room and headed toward the table by the window.

Sir Randolph rose from the table and bowed. “My lord.”

“Sir Randolph,” Brent said, pulled out the chair opposite the man, and sat down.

“What are you drinking?” Sir Randolph asked as a server approached.

“Ale will do,” Brent said and waited for the server to walk away before adding, “I suppose you are wondering why I wanted you to meet me today.”

Sir Randolph shook his head as he folded his arms across his chest. “No, I didn’t wonder at all. I figured I knew.”

“My brothers,” Brent said.

Sir Randolph nodded.

“I’m afraid they are not as worried as I am by the fact they look so much like you.”

A sparkle lit in his brown gaze and he quipped, “Would it help if I shaved my head and grew a beard?”

Liking the twinkle of humor in the old man’s eyes, Brent smiled. Only a few words out of his mouth and already he had disarmed Brent. It was no wonder Sir Randolph had caught his mother’s attention. Brent would have to be careful around the distinguished-looking dandy. Clearly, the sly old goat was cunning and clever enough to know how to win over his enemies.

Trying not to let Sir Randolph know that, so far, he was impressed with him, Brent said, “I think it’s a little late for that, don’t you?”

“I suppose it is,” Sir Randolph answered, some of the sheen fading from his eyes. “I guess that would have worked only if I had known the twins were coming to Town.”

“So you knew about my brothers?”

Remaining unflustered, Sir Randolph nodded again and said, “Of course. I knew your parents had three sons.”

“Did you know two of them look like you?”

“I had never seen them until they arrived in Town a few weeks ago.”

Brent shifted in his chair and said, “Have you kept up with my brothers over the years?”

Sir Randolph’s gaze stayed steady on Brent’s. “That wasn’t my place to do, my lord.”

He was cagey, answering every question but giving little information. Brent started to ask,
But did you know they were your sons? Did you and my mother or my father ever talk about the fact that they are your sons?
But Brent held his tongue, not knowing if he really wanted to know that much about what went on with his parents and Sir Randolph.

The server approached, and Brent waited until he’d placed his drink on the table and turned away, before saying, “What I really want to know, Sir Randolph, is if there will be more scandal coming.”

A genuine look of puzzlement wrinkled the dandy’s forehead, narrowed his eyes, and tightened his lips. “I’m not sure I know what you mean by that comment.”

Brent picked up his ale and took a sip. The tankard hit his bruised lip, and he stifled a wince. Every time it pained him, he thought about how good it would feel to pummel Mr. Alfred Staunton’s face into the ground.

“Then let me be forthright with you, Sir Randolph,” Brent said, placing his ale back on the table. He looked the man coldly and directly in the eyes, wanting to make sure there would be no misunderstanding as to what he had to say. “I do not want to wake one morning and find you have blabbed to every scandal sheet and gossipmonger in the ton about your clandestine affair with my mother almost thirty years ago, because if you do, I will pay you a visit.”

Sir Randolph jerked back as if Brent had struck him. Wide-eyed surprise quickly turned to a deadly glare. It didn’t surprise Brent that the man wasn’t cowed by his strong words.

Sir Randolph’s hands jerked to the table, and his fingers white-knuckled the edge as he leaned in closer to Brent. “By your words, my lord, it’s clear you don’t know me, so I’ll forgive you this once for questioning my honor and not take offense at what you just said. I have only one and will always have only one thing to say about your mother to you, Society, or anyone else in London. She was a fine and virtuous lady, and I’ll take up my sword, my pistols, or my fists against any nobleman, gentry, or servant who dares to say differently about her. And, my lord, that includes her sons.”

Brent sat back in his chair and slowly nodded. He couldn’t have said that better himself. “Then we’re in agreement, Sir Randolph.”

Has fortune dealt you some bad cards? Then let wisdom make you a good gamester.

—Francis Quarles

Gabrielle was treading on unfamiliar ground. She hated to be late for anything. It went against her nature. It worried her if anyone had to wait for her, no matter for how short a time. She had fought the urge to race downstairs to meet Lord Brentwood the moment he was announced. Instead, she had paced in her room, making him wait for over an hour before gathering up her pelisse, bonnet, and gloves to make her way below stairs. From what she could tell, stepping on his toes and making him step on hers hadn’t seemed to do much to deter his desire to marry her. He took her bungling of the waltz in stride the way a perfect gentleman should. If she hadn’t been so stunned by his calm acceptance, she would have laughed when he said all she needed was a few more lessons. That was not what she’d wanted to hear. But since that little episode hadn’t worked at all, she had been thinking up new ways to annoy the viscount.

From her father, she knew that few gentlemen could abide a lady who was habitually late. She was hoping her tardiness would add another unacceptable trait to the list he must now be forming about her. But just in case, Gabrielle had more than one card up her sleeve. She wasn’t leaving anything to chance. She was going to add as many uncomplimentary things about herself as she could while they waited for her betrothal to Staunton to be dissolved.

It wasn’t easy for her to play the part of a twit, but she had to believe if she annoyed Lord Brentwood enough, he was sure to give her up as unredeemable and insist to her father that he couldn’t marry a young lady who was so inept at so many things.

She smiled as she slipped her velvet drawstring reticule over her hand. She had written some dreadfully long and uninspired poetry and had it tucked in her purse, ready to pull it out at the most inopportune time and read it to him. Considering the extreme look of anguish she saw on Lord Brentwood’s face when he’d heard Lord Snellingly recite his poetry, her attempt at verse should have the viscount running for the country to get away from her.

Much to her surprise and puzzlement, when she made it to the bottom of the stairs, she heard talking and laughter coming from the drawing room. She had expected to find him extremely annoyed or, at the very least, to hear Lord Brentwood pacing from sheer boredom as she had been doing in her room. She hurried down the corridor and, when she rounded the doorway, she saw Lord Brentwood and her aunt in delightful humor, playing a game of cards across the small table that sat between the two settees.

He certainly wasn’t in the dither she’d hoped to find him. Far from it. He looked as if he was actually enjoying himself with her aunt. Gabrielle was the one who felt flushed, out of breath, and annoyed that he wasn’t. Obviously, being late wasn’t going to provoke him as long as Auntie Bethie was around to amuse him.

“I beg your pardon, Lord Brentwood, for taking so long,” she said, walking into the room.

Lord Brentwood laid his cards on the table, rose, and let his gaze linger on her face, causing a shiver of awareness. She saw appreciation in his eyes for the way she looked, and she liked that he let her know. She wore a dark beige carriage dress with a dark brown velvet pelisse covering most of it. She held a matching bonnet in her hand, and her brown velvet reticule dangled from her gloved wrist.

The viscount looked amazingly handsome in a dark blue jacket over a pale blue waistcoat adorned with ivory-colored buttons. His slim-cut, fawn-colored trousers were stuffed into shiny black boots that had decorative silver buckles at the ankles and emphasized his long, powerful legs. She swallowed hard when she noticed the jagged cut and swelling at the corner of his mouth where Staunton had hit him. The injury made him look all the more handsome, roguish, and unattainable. But she was most captivated by how relaxed and casual he seemed in her home, playing cards and conversing with her aunt.

Gabrielle had the unusual urge to stomp her foot in frustration. Why wasn’t he upset and irritated that she was so late? Her father would have been red-faced with anger and pacing at the bottom of the stairs, shouting for her to hurry. Obviously, she was going to have to try harder in order to displease the very likable Lord Brentwood.

“Your tardiness wasn’t a problem for me, but the wait was made better when fortune smiled on me. Mrs. Potter came along and saw me sitting here alone. We started talking about cards.”

“Yes,” Auntie Bethie said, picking up the story. “And Lord Brentwood was kind enough to show me a few pointers.”

“Nonsense, Auntie,” Gabrielle said with a smile and then reached down and kissed her aunt on the cheek. “You may have fooled Lord Brentwood for a time with your cunning ways, but you know you cannot fool me. You are an excellent card player and need no instruction from anyone.”

“I can always learn a thing or two from a handsome gentleman.”

“Not at cards.” Gabrielle smiled. “No doubt you were trying to win some blunt off him, and if you did, you must give it back right now.”

“Never, my darling. The money I won is all mine.” Her aunt laughed, reached up, and patted Gabrielle’s cheek affectionately. “And if that is the kind of disrespect you are going to show your favorite aunt, you can put on your bonnet and leave for the park straightaway.”

“Perhaps we should, before you have the viscount thinking you are a helpless lady in need of rescuing.” Gabrielle turned to Lord Brentwood. “Shall we go?”

“I’m ready,” he said to Gabrielle and then turned to her aunt. “Thank you for a lovely visit, Mrs. Potter.”

“Remember, if you’re not back in two hours, I’ll come looking for you,” her aunt called in a friendly tone as they left the room.

“We certainly don’t want that, Auntie,” Gabrielle threw over her shoulder.

Lord Brentwood paused at the doorway and said, “Don’t worry, Mrs. Potter, we won’t be late.”

“See that you aren’t. I’m growing quite fond of you and I don’t want that to change.”

Gabrielle and Lord Brentwood stopped in the vestibule to pick up her parasol, cape, and gloves, and his coat, hat, and gloves. While he donned his outer clothing, Brutus came walking down the corridor. Her heart went out to the lumbering old dog as she tied the ribbon of her rush-brimmed bonnet under her chin.

On impulse, she turned to Lord Brentwood and asked, “Would you mind terribly if Brutus came with us?”

Lord Brentwood looked at Brutus and then back to Gabrielle. She saw the corner of his lips twitch just a bit as he hesitated before answering. She held her breath.

She could see it was on the tip of his tongue to deny her request, but instead he put a smile on his face, looked down at the dog, and said, “Of course not. Brutus and I are old friends now, aren’t we?”

Gabrielle let out her breath and gave him a grateful smile. “Thank you, my lord. He won’t be any trouble at all.”

When they reached the carriage, which was parked on the street in front of her house, he helped her step up and into the curricle. While she seated herself, he looked down at Brutus and said, “Come on, boy, you’re next. Up you go.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, my lord,” Gabrielle said with concern. “Brutus is too old to climb steps without a boost. I’ll go get Muggs to help him into the carriage for us.” She started to rise.

“No, no,” he said, holding up his hand to stop her. “Sit back down, Lady Gabrielle. No need to disturb your footman. I’m perfectly capable of helping Brutus get into the carriage.”

As if knowing exactly what to do, Brutus immediately put his front paws on the first step of the curricle, looked back at Lord Brentwood, and gave a short woof. The viscount reached down and gently grasped him under the stomach with one arm and, with the other, cupped the back of his hind legs and carefully lifted the dog. A passing phaeton slowed and the driver asked if Lord Brentwood needed help, but he shook his head and called out, “I’ve got it handled.”

It was a bit of a struggle for him at first, but he managed to get Brutus onto the floor of the small carriage, where he slowly lay down.

With a teasing smile, Lord Brentwood brushed dog hair from his coat and said, “Did I mention that you have a big dog?”

When the viscount was so charming, she had to remind herself he was being forced to marry her, and she didn’t want that for him or for herself. She must remember her plan and do all she could to convince him she would not be a good wife. But looking at him now, she knew that would be hard to do.

Gabrielle laughed lightly to cover the good feeling that washed over her from simply looking at him. She smiled and patted the panting dog on the head.

“But he is such a darling, and I know it pains him to be so much trouble to everyone.”

“You are obviously a good master,” Lord Brentwood said as he carefully climbed into the carriage, trying not to step on the dog’s large paws. “But I don’t think darling is the word I would use for the mastiff, Lady Gabrielle. He cares not for trouble. He’s just happy to be going along for the ride.”

The viscount sat down beside her on the padded bench. She immediately felt the heat of his body as his thigh settled brazenly against hers. She knew she should move away and give him more space on the seat, but there was something intimately comforting about the slight touch from him, and she didn’t want to deny herself his warmth.

“You know you can’t keep doing this.”

His eyes narrowed, and he seemed puzzled for a moment. “What’s that?”

“You said I had promised you a dance when I hadn’t, and you said we had planned to go for a ride today in the park, yet you had never asked me to go with you this afternoon.”

His eyes narrowed further. His gaze settled gently on her face and he questioned, “Really?”

Gabrielle watched as Lord Brentwood reached for a wool blanket from underneath the seat. All his hand found was dog. The small curricle was not the carriage he needed if Brutus was going to join them. He finally caught an edge of the blanket, pulled it out, and laid it over her lap.

“Yes, and you know it,” she admonished with a soft smile. “You cannot continue to just assume we have made plans and I will go along with whatever you say.”

He smiled, and she noticed it was a little crooked from the swollen corner. “It’s worked for me so far. Why mess up a good plan?”

Gabrielle suddenly felt wistful and said, “Because I would like to have a say about my life, about what I do. I want to be in on making the decisions that affect me, the decisions as simple as where we go together.”

“All right, it’s your turn. Tell me what you would like for us to do after this outing.”

Though he sounded genuine, Gabrielle wasn’t sure she trusted him. “You will let me decide?”

He gave her a curious look, as if he wondered why she questioned his sincerity. “Yes, of course. What do you want to do?”

His insistence that she could choose surprised her. “Well, I don’t know yet. I will have to think about it.”

He clicked the ribbons on the horses’ rumps and the carriage took off with a jerk, rattle of harness, and clopping of hooves.

After he had safely maneuvered them into the street behind a hackney, he threw a smiling glance her way, and said, “Fine. You can let me know when you’ve decided. You have approximately two hours to think about it.”

Gabrielle settled comfortably into her seat and opened her brown ruffled parasol. The rain and dreary weather of the past few days had lifted. A light blue afternoon sky was filled with puffy white clouds. The air felt cold and breezy, but with the bright sunshine and Lord Brentwood’s thigh next to hers, Gabrielle felt very warm. She wasn’t sure why, but an exciting sense of awareness bubbled up inside her. Something told her it was going to be a splendid afternoon.

She looked down to see if Brutus was settled, and her breath stalled in her lungs. The dog’s mouth was poised over Lord Brentwood’s feet. Brutus’s drool and slobber from his exertion of getting into the carriage was dripping onto the toe of one of Lord Brentwood’s highly polished boots.

As she tried to decide if she should tell the viscount to move his feet, or simply try to shift the big body of the dog, Lord Brentwood asked, “Is everything all right?”

Gabrielle turned and looked up at the same time Lord Brentwood bent his head to glance down. The edge of her parasol hit the brim of his hat and knocked it off his head. The strong wind caught the top hat and sent it flying like a kite through the air and over the curricle behind them. He pulled hard on the ribbons to stop the horses. She and Lord Brentwood looked back in time to see his hat land crown-up in a wide mud puddle on the other side of the road. He set the brake and turned to jump down but stopped as a shiny painted barouche passed by, the wheels splashing black muddy water all over the hat.

“Oh, no!” Gabrielle gasped. “I’m so sorry, my lord.”

She expected him to start yelling at her how it was his favorite hat, or how expensive it would be to replace it, as her father would have done, but that didn’t happen. Instead of anger, Lord Brentwood was merely looking with detachment at the soiled hat floating in the puddle.

“I’ll get it for you,” she said, starting to remove the blanket covering her legs.

“No,” he said, placing his hand on top of hers to still her.

She looked down at his black gloved hand lying over hers. There was no shake or quiver of fury in his touch. No anger. Her father would have been furious at her.

“But, my lord, I can see it was an exceptional hat. Perhaps I can have it cleaned.”

“It’s no matter, Lady Gabrielle. Look over there.” He pointed to a street urchin not far away who was wistfully eyeing the hat. “Let him have it. Maybe he can salvage it and make a shilling or two off it. I have others.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

Lord Brentwood turned away and released the brake, picked up the ribbons, and started the horses to moving again. She hadn’t wanted to ruin his hat, but with any luck, he’d add it to the growing list of things that would one day make him realize she was not the wife for him.

They were both quiet the rest of the short ride to the park. She had no idea what the viscount was thinking, but she knew she was quickly counting up all the things that made Lord Brentwood different from her father.