An Improper Arrangement

CHAPTER THREE

GABRIEL WAS WAITING for the duchess when she at last exited the duke’s suite of rooms. “Don’t run off, Your Grace,” he said, taking her arm before she even noticed his presence. “I believe you and I need to adjourn somewhere private. We have a few things to discuss, don’t we?”

The duchess smiled up at him. “Aren’t you at least going to ask how Basil is doing today?”

“You mean since Rigby and I arrived yesterday, now that the old boy’s another step closer to the grave?”

“We’re all mortal, Sunny,” she pointed out, wagging her finger at him. “Something to remember.”

“But nothing to fixate on, not if you plan to enjoy life while you’re here.”

The duchess sighed, nodding her head. “I’ll grant you that, yes. I think he’s becoming bored with his own doomsday predictions, or at least lonely. He missed me terribly you understand, and when I told him I’m off to London, not to return until after his birthday? Well, I’ve already got him half into the traveling coach. Once we’re in London, I’m counting on you to divert his mind from his dreary thoughts.”

“Me? Why me?”

“Why not, for goodness’ sake? Love him as I do, which is immensely, he’s become a sad drain on my usually cheerful nature these past few years, so much so that I must occasionally abandon him or else be sucked down into his pit of despair with him. Sucked down, Sunny.”

“Into the pit, yes. A fate not to be contemplated,” Gabriel agreed. He loved his aunt; he really did. But there were times…

The duchess sighed heavily. “I really didn’t know what else to do. He was once such fun, Sunny. Oh, how we laughed, how we loved! Did I ever tell you about the night we sneaked into one of the pyramids, spread out a blanket and—”

“Twice. You’ve told me twice. Once when I was young enough to believe it a marvelous adventure, and again when I blushed red as any beet and wanted to stop up my ears.”

“Oh,” the duchess said quietly, but then her happy nature returned. “We traveled everywhere, enjoying new foods, new sights, grand experiences—do you still have those copper singing bowls we brought you from Tibet?”

Gabriel rubbed at the back of his neck. His aunt knew him well enough to know why he’d been waiting for her and where he wanted to go, so she was taking the longest possible route to get there.

“I’m sure they’re stuffed in a cupboard somewhere, yes. One of my tutors confiscated them when I became a bit too enthusiastic about striking them with their wooden mallet. He informed me Big Ben isn’t nearly that loud or discordant.”

“They’re made to be melodious.”

“Then they shouldn’t come provided with a heavy wooden mallet.” He escorted his aunt into a small sitting room. “I’ll have to find them, won’t I? Rigby would probably enjoy giving them a knock or two.”

“You don’t give singing bowls a knock or two. They’re for meditation, centering oneself, for—Yes, why don’t you do that, give the boy the bowls. We probably didn’t bring you presents suitable for a young boy, did we?”

“The lemur was a nice touch,” Gabriel offered helpfully. “Although I don’t think I slept without a lit candle in my room until I was at least ten. But let’s discuss your most recent surprise, shall we?”

“Dorothea. Dreadful name. Makes her sound as if she’s already a sad old maid, destined to lead apes in hell.”

“At two and twenty, if she’s not on the shelf, she’s already pulled over the stool and is about to climb up there.”

“How cruel you men can be. Just don’t go prancing about Mayfair ringing a bell and telling everyone how long in the tooth she is, for pity’s sake, and we should be fine. She’s pretty enough. Thank you, dear,” the duchess said as Gabriel handed her a glass of sherry. The look in her eyes was the sort one more closely associates with that of a wounded puppy who’d thought its owner would enjoy deer guts on his front doorstep. “In any case, I suppose you want to speak about Dorothea.”

He’d rather poke sharp slivers beneath his fingernails. It had been months since he’d seriously thought about the Nevilles, both father and son. He’d already forgiven the son, daft boy that he’d been, but coming to grips with what the earl had done, the good men whose lives he put in jeopardy, hadn’t been so simple. Hearing the name Neville today proved that he still hadn’t quite conquered his anger or his unacceptable wish for some sort of revenge on the man.

And now his aunt had brought him a Neville, as a “surprise.” Why?

“Dorothea Neville. Yes, let’s chat about Miss Neville. Or are the name and quite possibly your return trip to Virginia both the result of mere coincidence?”

“Basil and I were forced to leave America, remember, with war being declared between our two countries. Why shouldn’t I have returned once we cried peace?”

It was becoming more difficult for Gabriel to maintain his pose of curious nonchalance, but if he pushed too hard, his aunt would probably stop talking about Miss Neville altogether and he’d have to go back to letting her ramble until she was once again ready to come to the point. “That peace was cried well before you set sail. And after I returned from my unpleasant months in captivity before Bonaparte abdicated.”

“Yes, dear, that terrible, terrible ordeal, those headaches you suffered so stoically. But we noticed—how could we not? You returned to us hardly the same sweet boy we remembered, and it broke our hearts. And it only became more unbearable when you finally confided in Basil and me about the earl and his son. I didn’t tell you, but I was in London and found myself attending a rout in the son’s honor, where his father beamed and strutted about with his pouter pigeon chest puffed up, as if the silly award had been strung around his neck. Basil would have been so upset to see him. Entirely too full of himself, the earl, and always has been. Have you met him?”

Gabriel had certainly seen the man on his few short visits to London since his return from the war, but he’d never approached him. What was he supposed to do—call him out for the rotter he was, challenge a much older man to a duel? If there was a revenge to be gotten, a justice to be served, it wouldn’t be on the dueling field.

“No,” he said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, “I’ve never had the pleasure.”

“Pleasure has very little to do with Henry Neville. He was always quite mean to Basil, ever since their school days together, always finding reasons to poke fun at him. Not that he’s kind to anyone who isn’t of some purpose to him, but poor Basil has always been, I suppose, such a ready target. I recall when Broxley dubbed him Sinclair the Slowtop when my poor dear misnamed one of the sights we saw in Athens. He corrected him quite meanly, and then put forth the question that, if Basil could not even remember where he’d been, why did he keep going places? Your uncle has never set himself up as an expert, you understand. He was simply happy to share his memories of some of the interesting sights we’d seen.”

“You’ve never told me about any of this.”

The duchess dismissed Gabriel’s comment with a wave of her hand. “And what good would that have done any of us, other than to upset you? The Sinclair the Slowtop humiliation came shortly after the fourth duke died, by the way, and Basil was already showing signs of becoming fairly fragile. Fifty people must have heard the Earl of Broxley be so condescending and hurtful, so you can only imagine how quickly his words spread through the ton. Sinclair the Slowtop, Sinclair the Slowtop. Nasty—men are no more than taller nasty boys. There followed no end of jabs from others of his ilk—for weeks, Sunny, as men are so easily amused—constantly coming up to Basil to ask if he knew where he was. And remember, this was far from the first time he’d laid your uncle bare to ridicule of some sort. I was furious. There was no need for the earl to say what he did, now was there?”

“None whatsoever. The man’s clearly a rotter,” Gabriel said, his mind busy elsewhere, attempting to add Neville and Neville together to come up to some sort of coherent total. Dearest Vivien wasn’t the sharpest pencil in the tin, but she was, after all, a woman, and women’s minds could be quite dangerous once applied to investigating revenges.

The duchess sat forward on her seat.

Gabriel did the same. Clearly, they were about to get cozy and, hopefully, down to business.

Her voice lowered, she looked to her right, to her left, before whispering, “I believe I’ve hit upon a way to make us both happy.”

Good God, had they suddenly become coconspirators?

“I wasn’t aware I was unhappy,” he whispered back, holding up his hands as he ran a curious glance over his body. “Does it show?”

She sat back again, patting at her small mountain of silver curls. “Don’t attempt to fob me off with some notion that you aren’t as interested in revenge as I am, because it won’t fadge, Sunny. You or your friends, like that nice young man downstairs. You all had a dreadful time of it.”

“We might still have had a dreadful time of it if Myles had done what he was told to do. I’ve had enough time to realize that.” More than enough time, damn it all to hell. Enough time to face facts for what they are, and find sufficient room to shift some of the blame onto his own shoulders.

“Oh, piffle! That wet-behind-the-ears infant was never sent there to fight, as had been the case for you and your friends. He was there only because the war was as good as over—save for that ugliness at Waterloo—and then safely installed with the Russians, where the most egregious thing he could do would be not being able to hold his wine every night as he dined with the general. The moment he realized he could be in some danger, he ran like a rabbit back to the safety of the command, leaving you to fend for yourselves.”

“And all the troops, English and Russian, to be caught completely unprepared,” Gabriel added, beginning to relocate some of his old anger. “Go on.”

“Do bring me that shawl over there, Sunny, and drape it around my shoulders. I’m beginning to feel a chill.”

Again, Gabriel complied, probably with more haste than grace. His aunt did have a way of dragging things out until she was ready. He’d once been forced to travel a full hour of twisting verbal paths touching on a dozen topics before she got to the point of one of her stories (which was, sadly, “And then we went home.”).

She began this story with her first journey to America—lovely place, although not a patch on England—some of the sights they’d seen, including that insulting bell they call Liberty. She and Basil had stayed mostly to the coast, having heard dreadful things about the wild interior of the country (although it might have been jolly to see some of the Indians they’d heard so much about), beginning in Boston, making their way to New York—so many of their cities and towns borrowing names from us and then simply sticking the word new in front of them, as if that made them better or some such rot. Still, a lovely journey, peopled by some truly welcoming citizens, as they call themselves. Did he think that was in imitation of the French citoyen of their revolution?

“Aunt…?”

“Yes, Sunny?”

He’d made the fatal mistake, interrupting her train of thought. “Nothing. Carry on.”

“I believe I was doing that. You probably want me to talk about Virginia. That was our ultimate destination, my cousin’s humble home along the James River—so named in honor of our own James the First. There has to be no more than fifteen bedchambers, a paltry sum, but Basil and I did enjoy sitting outside of an evening, watching the river go by.”

Gabriel began counting to ten.

“And that’s where I was seated—I remember it most distinctly—when Mrs. Rutherford and her oldest daughter, Dorothea Neville, were first introduced to me. Still in the schoolroom, the child, and not very talkative. I didn’t pursue getting to know her. You know I’m not fond of cultivating children in any case, finding them singularly uninteresting and prone to be forced to recite insipid poems for their elders. But back to my visit.”

“Ah, progress.”

“Pardon me, dear?”

“She didn’t carry the same surname as her mother?” he amended quickly.

“How brilliant of you to pick up on that, Sunny. Although I must confess I didn’t pay the difference much mind until the evening Theodora and I—her mother’s name, also a unfortunate choice—had a chance for a lovely coze. Such a sad tale.”

“Miss Neville mentioned something about it over tea.”

“She did? Oh, yes, I remember. She talks much more now. How fortunate. Then I’ll make this brief.”

And we pause a moment to thank God and all his minions…

“I had to go back, of course, see them again, see the tall, gawky child now grown, hear more about this departing of England and sad death of dear, beloved Harry. Harry, Sunny. A common enough derivative of Henry. Of course, all a hum. Not that one could blame Theodora, poor soul, abandoned by her lover. I should have drummed up some sort of plausible explanation myself, if forced by circumstances. And at least her allowance still shows up every quarter, as her husband did arrange for that before he, ahem, died.”

“And you somehow managed to pry the truth from the woman?” Gabriel wasn’t sure he liked where this story was going.

“If you had been successful with your deception for so long, had found yourself a new husband, had borne him two children, were accepted in what passes for society in America—would you spill the soup to a near stranger?”

No, he wouldn’t. “So what you’re saying, Your Grace, is that you’ve deducted on your own that Miss Neville is…is a—”

“By-blow. Illegitimate love child. Sweet enough, but unfortunately conceived on the wrong side of the blanket. Oh, don’t sit there with your jaw gaping, Sunny. It happens all the time. I’ve seen the world, remember, and I know.”

She’d seen her version of the world; he’d give her that. “That’s an intriguing theory, um, speculation, I suppose. Are you quite certain?”

“I won’t ask you bring me a Bible so that I might swear on it, but yes, really. Or haven’t you noticed her rather unique height and coloring? And then there’s her eyebrows. Those will be exceedingly interesting to a certain party when she first goes into society.”

That put a quick halt to whatever Gabriel was going to say next—although he’d be damned if he knew what that would have been. “Her eyebrows?”

“You can’t say you haven’t noticed them. Lovely on her, quite singular, you’d agree? Strong but not oppressively so. Combined with her height and that raven’s wing black hair, she will certainly stand out among the many pathetically small milk-and-water blonde pusses giggling their way about the Little Season. Although I will have to do something about those freckles.”

“No!” Gabriel realized what he’d done and struggled to save himself. All the duchess needed to think was that he’d seen the freckles, admired them, and she’d be considering a spring wedding. Or would she, considering she’d just pronounced Miss Neville as illegitimate? Then again, the third duke had married his mother’s dresser. From lady’s maid to duchess. Stranger things had happened in the Sinclair family.

To be safe, Gabriel quickly clarified his objection. “That is, she’s a grown woman, Aunt, and it would appear you plan to use her—you and me both—in getting some of our own back on the earl. She’s not our protégé, Aunt. She’s our victim. Your victim. I don’t want any part of it, thank you, even as I know your intentions were good. I mean, the part that included me. Take your revenge if you want, but as of now, I’m no longer involved. I’m sorry.”

Oh, but he was tempted…

“Do strive to control your righteousness, Sunny, as I’m not impressed. Contrary to what you so obviously believe as you climb up on your lofty perch of perfection, the only reason Basil is considering a trip to London is to watch as we take the earl down a peg or two in his cocksure attitude.”

Gabriel felt the noose tightening. “You’ve already told him I’ve agreed to the plan, haven’t you?”

“He wouldn’t allow me to take on such a…such a project on my own, no.”

“And you really think this project of yours will be enough to make him stop thinking about his imminent death until he’s past his birthday?”

She pulled the shawl more closely around her shoulders, managing to look coquettish somehow. “I want my husband back the way he was, in all ways. Miss Neville is not the beginning and the end of my plans, Sunny. I don’t wish to put you to the blush, but I’m much too old to consider taking on a lover, yet I’m also not in my dotage. What with Basil constantly interrupting things to have me measure his pulse until I could no longer feel anything for him save frustration, I had nearly given up hope of being a wife in anything but name. You let me take care of Basil. I just need you to help me boost him out of his doldrums and get him back to business—in every way, if you take my meaning. I’ll take it from there.”

Since the floor didn’t conveniently open up so that he could drop out of sight, Gabriel asked, “And Miss Neville? What happens to her?”

The duchess blinked in confusion. “Why, nothing. You don’t really believe I’d announce her sad circumstances to all and sundry, do you? It’s why the Little Season is so much safer. She’ll be presented, capture someone’s eye—I’ll trust you to vet her suitors—marry fairly well with the dowry your uncle will give her, and that will be that. I only want the earl to see her, to know who she is, and worry himself sick that we also know. I want him to feel as uncomfortable as he made my poor Basil.”

“You’re forgetting something. She’ll recognize him, as well, by name. Harry Neville. Henry Neville? What happens then?”

The duchess sighed. “Yes, she is rather quick. I came to that realization myself. Unfortunately, the ship was halfway to England, dear Thea in tow, by the time that particular revelation struck me. It will have to remain our secret until we’re safely installed in Grosvenor Square and then, so there are no awkward scenes, you shall tell her.”

“Who shall tell her?”

“Well, you certainly don’t think I’m going to, do you? Otherwise, I will come off looking quite the horrid person, even scheming and conniving, and you wouldn’t do that to me. It has to be that you’re the one who discerned her resemblance to the earl and thought about the similarities of the surname, your sweet but silly aunt never realizing the thing as more than coincidence. Don’t you wonder why he didn’t pick another name when he was mounting Theodora as his mistress? Odd, that, even sloppy.”

Gabriel sat back in his chair, one elbow propped on the arm, his hand squeezing his lower jaw so that he wouldn’t speak until he managed to get himself back under control. He was to sit down Miss Neville and tell her she was a bastard? Wonderful. He’d rather have another half-dozen stuffed lemurs.

“Yes, odd,” he finally managed. “Even sloppy.”

“Yes, but then, some people don’t have the sense they were born with, especially in matters of seduction and such, if you but consider our own prince regent and that Mrs. Fitzherbert of his, and what a mess that might have caused. Why, a simple Smith, or Jones, and we wouldn’t be sitting here, would we, having this conversation.”

Gabriel looked into his empty glass. “I believe I need another drink.”

“Not too much, Sunny. Remember the third duke? Nearly drank himself into the grave. Here, give me a kiss,” she said as she rose, offering her powdery cheek. “I’m off to see Basil again. We’re still discussing a departure date to London. I think two weeks should be enough time, don’t you? Really, Thea isn’t that bad. America’s not precisely backward, but she does need some polish concerning the ways of our less seasoned London gentlemen, who can be rather—well, aggressive in their courtship may be too strong a word. You’ll handle that, won’t you, as I’ll be cudgeling my brain to think up things to occupy Basil’s mind, something other than his absurd notion that he’s about to shuffle off this mortal coil. Yes, of course you will.”

She patted his cheek. “You’re such a good boy, Sunny. You always were my favorite grandnephew.”

“I’m your only grandnephew. I’m your only nephew of any kind,” he said to her departing back as she and her draperies floated out of the room.

Once alone, he looked toward the drinks table and considered his options.

Drink alone and get sloppily drunk so that he either slept on one of the couches or some kind servant found him and hauled him off to bed.

Or search out Rigby so that they could get sloppily drunk together. But if he did that, he’d end up telling his friend about Miss Neville and that wrong sides of the blanket business, about the duchess’s plan. It was bad enough Rigby had already voiced some suspicion about the coincidence of surnames.

Disclosing the circumstances of the young woman’s birth would take him beyond the pale, into the land of the unforgivable. He was already despicable to even consider becoming a part of his aunt’s plan. He was also, he realized with a jolt, fairly well trapped. If Basil refused to go to London and died, it would all be Gabriel’s fault. If Basil went to London and died, he couldn’t be held responsible. For—and in all charity to the woman—an air-witted flutterbudget, the duchess certainly possessed a fine way with backing her men into corners.

Gabriel grabbed up the wine decanter and brought it with him back to his chair. He’d drink alone; it was safer that way.

For the first hour, he attempted to think up ways he could get out of the briars into which his aunt had so neatly dropped him.

For the second hour, with all the concentration an intoxicated man believing he’s still sober can muster, he considered ways to extract himself and substitute Rigby into his aunt’s plans.

But by the time he managed to stagger to his bedchamber he had faced the truth. There was nothing else for it.

When this was all over, honor decreed he would have to marry the eyebrows.

Odd his aunt hadn’t figured that one out…

CHAPTER FOUR

GABRIEL WOKE TO what could reasonably be considered the taste of furry deceased mouse on his tongue, forcing him to stumble to the window embrasure and the tray his valet, Horton, had just placed on the round dining table.

Memory came slowly wandering back into his head, pointing out that said head could be in real danger of bursting open like an overripe melon. The duchess and the eyebrows had compelled him to dive into the bottle. More than one bottle. He hadn’t felt this miserable since the last time he and his trio of friends had gone out on a spree to celebrate…to celebrate…well, it had to have been something leagues more jolly than the reason he now felt as if he’d been ridden hard and put away wet.