Fallen Angel (19 page)

“One always has a choice, you see,” she said. “And you are correct in saying that it is wiser to choose kindness. But surely you are aware that no matter how shortsighted it is, the majority of people in this world choose to coerce rather than to cajole.”

“The majority of people have no choices to make,” he said harshly, “because they are powerless.”

“There is always a choice,” she repeated. “Even in my situation, where, as you have rightly pointed out, I am nothing but a poor relation who is used as a household drudge, I can choose to shirk or I can choose to do my tasks to the best of my ability. Likewise, you have chosen to deal with your servants kindly, and by doing so, you have shown that you are a good man.”

Her logic was impeccable, and he had to admire her analysis of the situation. But despite her skillful reasoning, he knew himself to be a ruthless man rather than an altruistic one, because motive was everything.

At this very moment he had in his pocket a small, leather-bound volume, whose contents he knew would give her much pleasure. But his reason for giving it to her had nothing to do with kindness and everything to do with self-interest.

And it was a measure of just how ruthless he could be that he had no intention of abandoning his efforts to make her fall in love with him, nor did he feel the slightest compulsion to warn her about the trap he was luring her into.

Deviousness, dishonesty, deceit—he would use whatever was necessary to succeed, and he would feel not the slightest twinge of conscience. All was fair in love and war, as the saying went.

Not that he believed in such trite
clichés
. He had learned long ago that nothing was fair. Success went to those strong enough to seize power and ruthless enough to use it, and self-sacrifice was for fools and saints.

Without feeling the slightest guilt, he took the little book from his pocket and gave it to his companion, who opened it and began to peruse its contents.

“Oh,” she said, as much rapture in her voice as if he had given her a king’s ransom in jewels, “wherever did you find this?”

“I happened to come across it in the library at Sherington House,” he said, once again finding himself in the unaccustomed position of deriving pleasure from her unfeigned enthusiasm for his present.

“Could I borrow it for a few days?” she asked. “I would dearly love to copy some of these recipes, and I promise I shall take the best care of it.”

Gabriel was torn between anger and amusement—between wanting to shake her and wanting to embrace her—between wanting to curse her for her naivety and wanting to protect her from any disillusionment.

“I intended it as a gift,” he said flatly.

As he had anticipated, she did not bat her eyelashes up at him and praise him for having chosen such a perfect gift
...
nor, of course, did she profess her undying love and devotion. But then he had known for quite some time that she was not cast in the same mold as other women.

Instead, she said with more emotion and passion than he had ever before heard in her voice, “Oh, how can you bear to part with it?”

Her remark was not, of course, even vaguely close to any of the responses he had thought it possible she might make.

11

Gabriel looked down a
t the column of figures he had just added up. The total was impressively large, but he felt frustration rather than satisfaction.

This latest enterprise was turning out to be successful beyond his expectations. Like every business venture he had ever embarked upon, it was going to give him a good return on his investment.

Due to judicious assessment of the risks involved in his various projects, followed by careful planning—and, he had to admit, with more than his share of good luck— he had managed over the years to make his fortune while avoiding all the disasters and catastrophes that had destroyed many a man in his position.

So why was he having so much difficulty in the matter of Miss Jolliffe?

Although not at all ready to admit defeat where she was concerned, he had to acknowledge that he was, at least for the moment, completely stymied. In a word, he could not think of a single strategy that he had not already tried
...
and that had not already failed him.

One turn around the park with him and any other woman would be confiding in her friends that he was about to propose marriage. One dance with him and her friends would be congratulating her on her conquest.

And yet, even though he was practically sitting in Miss Jolliffe’s pocket, she was still treating him as if ... as if he were her brother.

No, he corrected himself, she readily professed to love her brother, which meant he could not even claim that much.

He was about to vent his spleen on a particularly ugly vase that had been irritating him ever since he had moved into Sherington House, when his butler tapped on the door and entered the study, bearing on a silver salver a letter from Mr. Parkins, who had started out long ago as his accountant, and who had over the years become in effect a trusted financial advisor.

Breaking the seal, Gabriel quickly scanned its contents. It was a simple request to meet with him at his earliest convenience. Simple, but not at all usual in the normal course of events.

“Will there be a reply?” Exeter asked.

“Yes, send a message to Mr. Parkins that I can see him at three o’clock this afternoon,” Gabriel said, and
his
butler bowed briefly and departed.

Left alone once more, Gabriel wondered if perhaps his luck had, after all these years, finally deserted him. Why else would Mr. Parkins have requested an unscheduled meeting?

In the mood he was in, Gabriel did not particularly care if his accountant was bringing him news that he was bankrupt. Money was only money, but Miss Jolliffe
...

He cursed, and the vase shattered when it hit the wall, cracking the plaster in the process.

“So you see, my lord,” Mr. Parkins concluded, “although there is nothing specific that I can put my finger on, the rents and other income from your primary estate in Suffolk are considerably below what one might justifiably expect them to be.”

Gabriel studied the papers his accountant had brought him, for the first time in his life finding it difficult to see meaning in the numbers.

“I must admit,” Mr. Parkins continued, “that my field of expertise lies in trade rather than in agriculture, but I have made discreet inquiries, and I am forced to the unpalatable conclusion that your estate is being”—he cleared his throat—“grossly mismanaged, shall we say?”

“Or there is also the possibility that I am being robbed blind,” Gabriel said, looking up and meeting his accountant’s eye.

“That is also a possibility,” Mr. Parkins admitted with a smile. “Although it is hard to imagine anyone having sufficient courage and resolution to cheat you.”

“But Suffolk is a considerable distance from London, and it is possible that my reputation has not yet reached the provinces,” Gabriel said. Sherington Close was not only many miles, but also many years away from him. He had never been back there since the day he had been sent to sea as a very small and helpless child.

Gabriel knew what Mr. Parkins was expecting him to say—that he would go himself to Suffolk and investigate matters. It was, after all, what he invariably insisted upon doing when trouble threatened any of his investments.

But in this case, it was not only his memories he would be forced to confront, but there was also Miss Jolliffe, whom he would of necessity have to leave behind.

“Tell me, Mr. Parkins, you are married, are you not?”

“Twenty-three years come July.”

“And I believe you have a daughter, do you not?”

“I have three, as a matter of fact, and two sons,” the accountant admitted with an undisguised look of pride.

“Which means you should have some understanding of females,” Gabriel said.

“Well, they do say, my lord, as how absence makes the heart grow fonder,” Mr. Parkins replied with a smile.

“And is that your advice, or are you merely trying to coerce me into going to Suffolk so that you will not be obliged to make a journey during January?”

“I should say, it is a little of both, my lord.”

As much as Verity had anticipated it, the end, when it came, left her feeling numb, as if she were no longer completely alive. Sitting huddled in her chair in the corner of the drawing room, she inspected the innocent-seeming piece of vellum that Otterwall had just carried in to her.

“I have been called away on business,” she managed to decipher. That was all the note said—except, of course, for a scrawl at the bottom of the sheet that was apparently Lord Sherington’s signature.

No indication where he was going—no hint as to when he would return.

He would not come back to her, of course. She was amazed that she had held his interest for as long as she had, but she had no delusions about the future.

Folding the note carefully, she tucked it between the pages of the leather-bound book he had given her. The little volume had been a farewell present, but fool that she was, she had not recognized its significance.

“Ah, there you are,” her sister’s voice sounded behind her, and Verity quickly slipped the little book under the pillowcase that she was supposed to be embroidering.

“Antoinette’s new sprigged muslin is not at all satisfactory,” Petronella said crossly, “And I want you to return it to Mademoiselle Beaufrere and inform her that we shall not be paying for it.”

“In what way is it unsatisfactory?” Verity said, her voice sounding very weak and tinny to her own ears. “Perhaps it could be altered?”

“Altered? That is out of the question. The wretched gown is totally out of style, and I shall not be giving that incompetent woman any more of our business. With our standing in society, we can certainly do better than a wretched little
émigré
who pretends to have some mysterious connection to the French nobility. Bah! She calls herself a modiste, but she is a barely adequate seamstress. I would not be at all surprised to discover she is nothing more than some wealthy merchant’s by-blow.” Verity knew she should inform Petronella of the social disaster that was bound to overtake them now that Lord Sherington had withdrawn his sponsorship, but she could not say a word.

“Well, why are you sitting there?” Petronella said even more crossly. “You shall have to hurry to be back in time to act as Antoinette’s chaperone when the dancing master comes to give her instruction.”

Verity laid aside her needlework, and keeping the leather-bound book carefully hidden in the folds of her skirt, she went upstairs as quickly as possible to change into a walking dress and half boots.

Once she was safely in her own room, however, she made no more pretense of hurrying. Instead, she crossed to her dressing table and took out a sandalwood box that some long-forgotten sea captain had brought back from India years ago.

Taking a fine gold chain from her neck, Verity used the tiny key that was suspended from it to unlock the box. Inside lay a chamois pouch containing the string of pearls she had inherited from her grandmother.

On top of the pouch she carefully laid the book Lord Sherington had given her. Although she had not yet had time to read every word, she had looked through it and had identified seven different handwritings. Seven women had owned the book before her and had inscribed within it the things they had learned from their own experiences.

And she would be the eighth one.

That knowledge brought her the same comfort that she suspected Lord Sherington found when he was near a large body of water.

She did not doubt that the pain of his departure would be a long time in passing, nor that there would be untold nights when her pillow would be damp with her own tears. Likewise she knew there would be days when it would seem impossible for her to continue.

But life would go on, and she would survive, and someday, when she was an old woman, she would pass this little book on to another young woman, who would likewise write down her favorite recipes.

Touching it gently one last time, Verity closed the lid of the sandalwood box, locked it again with the little key, and then replaced the chain around her neck.

One other thing she knew: even if she never saw his face again or rode beside him in a carriage or heard the sound of his voice, she would never forget Lord Sherington, and she would love him to the end of her days and even, God willing, beyond the grave.

As a young lad on board ship, Gabriel had always dreamed of making his return to Suffolk in state, with coachman and groom, valet and luggage, and several liveried outriders to give him consequence.

But now that he was a man, he found such pretensions mattered to him not at all, which was fortunate considering the physical condition of his new servants and the state of their wardrobes.

Traveling alone in his phaeton, Gabriel found he felt no enthusiasm, no curiosity to see the place of his birth. He had expected to feel some satisfaction that he had, in the end, become the owner of the house and estate that his mother’s husband had tried so hard to deprive him of.

His memories of the years he had spent within the walls of Sherington Close were so few and so nebulous that he felt not the slightest sense of homecoming when the Elizabethan mansion came into view.